She wasn’t at the campfire where he had left her last night. The old woman was there, though. He tethered his horse near her. No one came to question what he was doing there, probably because they didn’t want to know if he was there to evict them again.

“I’m looking for your granddaughter, madame,” he said without preamble.

She looked up at him, her eyes crinkling as she smiled. “Of course you are. Here, sit, and give me your hand,” she said, patting the pillow next to her.

He sat, but he wasn’t sure why he gave her his hand. She held it loosely in her gnarled fingers; there was no strength in her grip. Her eyes closed briefly, then opened to stare into his. It was the strangest sensation, feeling as if your soul were being touched.

Fanciful. He shouldn’t have drunk so much today, shouldn’t have brought a full bottle of rum with him either, as if he needed extra courage to ask the Gypsy to be his mistress. Actually, he wasn’t at all sure what her answer would be, and really just wanted his senses deadened somewhat, in case she turned him down.

“You are a very fortunate man,” the old woman said to him at last. “What I give to you will bring you happiness for the rest of your life.”

“And what is that?”

She was smiling at him again. “You will know when the time is right.”

More nonsense. These people thrived on being mysterious. He supposed it was part of their allure. But he was impatient to see the girl again.

“Where is your granddaughter?”

“She has been asked to dance. She is preparing herself now. It won’t be long.”

Even another minute was too long as far as he was concerned. His impatience was incredible. After forcing himself to stay away all day, he refused to be put off, now that he was here.

“Yes, but where is she preparing? I merely wish to speak with her.”

The old Gypsy chuckled. “And so you shall, but after she dances. She doesn’t need the distraction you present, when the dance requires her full concentration. Patience, Gajo, you will get what you want.”

“Will I? When what I want is her?”

He shouldn’t have said that to her grandmother, of all people. It was beyond tactless. The one pitfall of too much drink was a loose tongue, and he’d just stumbled over it. But it was too late to take it back now. Fortunately, she didn’t appear offended.

She merely nodded and asked in her heavily accented English, “You have one of your religious men ready to give his blessing, then?”

That nonsense again? “Preposterous. I’m an English lord, madame.”

“So? She’s a Romany princess, as noble in her birth-land as you are in yours. And if you want her, you will have to marry her.”

“I have come up with an acceptable alternative,” he told her stiffly.

“Have you indeed? One she will find more favorable than marrying that Gypsy there, whose father is our barossan and has already paid her bride-price?”