Free For Love of a Gypsy Lass by Juliet Chastain Page A

to go with it. To say nothing of your handsome countenance, your dark hair, and those blue eyes you have. As for myself, my fortune is small, I have no title, and only my Jane thinks me handsome.” John shrugged his bony shoulders. “One day my parents will be gone and I will be free to scandalize my siblings by marrying whomever I choose.”
    “Jane.”
    “Yes, I will make an honest woman of my Jane.”
    The two men were silent for a few seconds until Harry cleared his throat. “Shall we go to see the Gypsies?”
    “No harm in watching a pretty woman dance or sing.”
    Harry shuddered. “I am always pleased to see a pretty woman, but I prefer she not sing.”
    “I fear you are too particular about music. Perhaps, if she is pretty enough and does not hit too many false notes, you will be satisfied.”
    “I will endure for your sake.” Harry slapped his friend on the back.
     
    ***
     
    The ancient Gypsy, wrapped in a faded flowered shawl, studied Harry’s hand.
    “You’ll live long,” she said, “and happily.”
    “What about boredom?” He cocked his head—a guitar had begun to play—and play well, he thought.
    She shook her head. “That is your past, not your future.”
    She is more inventive than most. How I wish it were true .
    “I’ll marry a rich and titled woman, will I not?” he asked. Perhaps she’d come up with something different—not that he’d believe a word of it. He looked up at John, who stood patiently beside the Gypsy, and winked.
    She bent over his palm, frowning.
    “You will not,” she said, sitting upright and dropping his hand as though it had burned her. She scowled at him. Probably, he thought, as bored with fortune telling as he was. Suddenly a woman’s voice filled the night air.
    “’ When Rosy May Comes In Wi’ Flower’ ,” he murmured to himself. He tilted his head and listened intently. “Lovely.”
    He absent-mindedly dropped a coin in the old woman’s lap, stood, and walked slowly toward the sound, with John trailing behind. They joined the small group of farmers and laborers, some with their wives and children, who stood around the low wooden platform on which the singer and the guitar player stood. Lit only by a couple of pole-mounted lanterns on either side of the stage, the singer’s deep yellow dress flared against the dark of the night and the guitar player’s black attire.
    When the song came to an end, Harry clapped enthusiastically and cried, “Brava.”
    The singer took a step forward into the light and nodded gravely at Harry. By God , he thought, she is as pretty as her voice . Her black hair curled loose about her shoulders and the yellow dress, so unlike the pale, high-waisted dresses of the ladies of the ton, revealed a fine bosom and tiny waist above a full skirt.
    She began to sing again.
    “Exquisite,” Harry muttered to his friend. “She sings like an angel, but she looks as though she has a good bit of the devil in her.”
    When she finished he called out, “Never have I heard ‘Robin Adair’ more sweetly sung.”
    The singer smiled and her dark, heavily lashed gaze met his and held it for half a minute, setting his blood pumping thickly through his veins, making the muscles in his belly tighten.
    She closed her eyes and stepped back into the shadow and sang “The Slaves Lament . ” When she stepped forward and looked directly at him again, he knew he wanted to have her in his arms. And those lips from which such sweet sounds issued—he wanted to kiss them. To explore, to tangle his tongue with hers. He saw that her face turned serious and a blush crept up her cheeks as though she knew his thoughts, as though she wanted the same.
    She sang “Sweet Afton” and then Haydn’s “The Spirit’s Song . ” Her gaze turned often to his, and then away. Every time she looked at him, he saw the blush come to her pretty cheeks again. And every time his desire for her increased.
    He took a gold guinea from his purse and held the coin to