Free Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) by Diane J. Reed Page B

here—their sturdy piebald horses with legs as large as tree trunks appear to pull everything. I can hear the horses stomping and nickering already for breakfast. But so far, I’m the only soul who’s up.
    Except for that strange gypsy woman.
    I spy her from the corner of my eye, and it makes me jump.
    Her back is to me, her raven hair delicately highlighted by the rising sun, and she’s picking tender shoots in a glen in the woods and placing them in a suede pouch. Each time she plucks one, she whispers
gestena
to it as if to say “thank you.”
    Then she turns around to face me, as though she could feel my eyes on her back.
    And smiles.
    A light breeze brushes her wild hair from her face, revealing dark eyes as large as chips of coal. She pulls her coat tighter around herself, and for the first time I realize it has brass buttons that match the gold in her teeth. As the shy sun begins to warm her high cheekbones, strong nose, and full lips, I feel my breath catch.
    Honest to God, she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
    Her features are smoothly carved—even regal—yet she seems so strong with her earthy, wide hips and straight back that funnel into a narrow waist. She reminds me of a bohemian Sophia Loren, the actress I saw in that dorky
Houseboat
movie with Cary Grant, one of the few films they let us watch at my old boarding school because it’s rated G.
    But something in this woman’s eyes tells me she isn’t rated G at all . . .
    She narrows her eyes, her gaze intense as black beads, and lifts her chin.
    “Do you want to be a girl—or a woman?” she challenges me.
    I have no idea what she’s talking about. But I glance back at Creek, still as a stone with scruffy bed hair on our faded blanket, and I feel unbearably naked near this woman. Something about her seems like she can see right through me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m actually 18. And all of a sudden I remember—so is Creek! Today’s his birthday, and we’re both . . . adults . . . now.
    “I already am a woman,” I reply defiantly, standing up and thrusting my fists into my pockets. Second guessing myself, I realize that must look childish, so I leave the ruby in my front pocket and fold my arms. “What’s it to you?”
    She smiles, flashing gold teeth.
    “Everything,” she calls back.
    Her voice rings across a nearby field and I hear birds sing in reply. She swings her pouch from her hand, back and forth like a ticking clock, as if pondering my future, then waves me over to her.
    “Now come with me.”
    I forget to breathe.
    This woman scares the daylights out of me. And I don’t know if she’s after the ruby in my pocket, or if she has darker intentions. How’d she know it was there? I blush, recalling it’s not like I hid the bulge or anything. Swiftly, I transfer the stone to my cleavage inside my bra while she’s not looking, where it feels icy against my skin. The woman is walking ahead of me deeper into the woods, taking long, swinging strides.
    I feel an irresistible pull to follow her, even without Creek for protection, the same way Alice must have tumbled after that rabbit and down a hole to Wonderland. What does this woman want to show me? There’s something magnetic about her—as if she stands at the gateway between my horrible and lonely teenage years and what I hope for in adulthood. And despite any logic, I feel my feet stepping after her in a way that sends violin chords screeching through my brain.
    What the hell are you doing?
Some rational part of me scolds.
This woman might want to kill you
for the ruby
. . .
    But I can’t seem to get my brain to tell my feet that. My heart is racing, yet my soul is heading like a moth to a flame—her flame. And whether my brain wants to admit it or not, my soul suspects she might lead the way to Alessia.
    With that thought, I feel the stone warm against my breast, pulsing to the rhythm of my strides. Cautiously, I follow this woman