Free Taken by the Wicked Rake by Christine Merrill

than the piece of bread she had been given, when the old woman appeared with a small bowl of stew and a bent fork. She thanked her, and tasted. It was a truly delicious hodgepodge of strange meats and vegetables that she suspected varied greatly ac cording to what could be shot or scavenged in the vicinity of camp.
    Stephen Hebden, or Stephano as he preferred to be called, ate in silence on the opposite side of the fire. And when she offered an impersonal thanks to their cook, he muttered, “Magda.”
    She looked up at him. “I am sorry. Were you speaking to me?”
    “Her name is Magda. She is my mother’s mother.”
    Verity nodded, for it explained much. “If she lost your mother, she must have been glad to have you back.”
    “Not really,” he said, forking up another bite of stew. She called me half caste. Not a true Rom, be cause of my father.” He continued, without looking up. “And my gadje family thought much the same of me.” He used a bit of bread to wipe the gravy out of the bottom of his bowl.
    Without his asking, Magda rose to refill it for him. She did not smile, and her ladle rapped sharply against the side of the bowl in disapproval.
    But Verity suspected that the woman’s stubborn indifference masked a genuine affection for him. Despite his thoughts on the subject, the women in his life had loved him more than he knew. “It was not always thus,” she reminded him. “Imogen said that Amanda Hebden treated you as her own son, while you were in her house. And it broke her heart to lose you.”
    “So I have been told,” he said, without emotion. “But she did not – she sent her own son to the foundling home when his father was gone. She buried her true son when he died, and she mourned over the grave. But when the place they sent me burned to the ground, she did not even come to claim my body.” The look in his eyes grew distant. “I remember the flames licking the walls, and the thick, black smoke. I could not see. I could not breathe. And all around me, the crying of children. And then, the screaming.” And for a moment, it was fear Verity saw on his face, as he stared into the campfire.
    Without thinking, she reached out a hand to comfort him, for the picture was so vivid that she could imagine the screams of the dying children.
    He ignored her gesture and gave a short, sharp laugh, as though to break the spell. “I called, and no one came. Death was all around. I crawled along the wall until I came to a window, and then I climbed out of it and dropped to the ground. My night shirt was on fire, so I rolled in the muck until the flame died. People were running about, crying and wringing their hands, but none was doing a bit of good.”
    It was an amazing tale, and every bit as exciting as she had expected from the well-travelled Lord Salterton. “Perhaps they did come for you. But they arrived too late.”
    He looked at her as though he thought her the world’s greatest fool. “My family did not look for me after the fire, because it was easier not to. It was easier for me to die tragically, than to admit their mistake. But no matter. I was not alone for long. There are always those who have a use for hungry strays.”
    If she had been harbouring an illusion about a happy ending to the story, he quickly put it to rest. “Children are easier to boost through the back windows of closed stores, when one wishes to steal. They can run unnoticed through crowds, picking pockets and cutting purses, because they are small. If they are kept underfed, all the better. It is harder to run with a full belly. If they are caught? What does it matter to the thief master? If the child returns, beat him, and he will run faster next time. And if he does not? Then there are always other children.”
    This was even worse than the last. To have escaped from the fire, only to be starved and beaten and forced to steal. She leaned closer, eager to hear more. “But you got away, did you not? And came to live