Deeper Than Roses Read online

  TORN BETWEEN DARK REVENGE AND SWEET DESIRE, THE ROOTS OF THEIR LOVE WERE…

  DEEPER THAN ROSES

  Emerald eyes wide with terror, auburn hair streaming, exquisite Kristiana Harcourt fled into the night. Her noble father lay dead. With his murderer, Edward MacHugh, in hot pursuit, she galloped wildly to freedom only to fall into the arms of a golden-eyed Gypsy. Born of a Gypsy mother, Logan Chandler, true Earl of Muircairn, wore many disguises. Committed to a desperate plan, he was amazed to find that his love for this proud beauty ran even deeper than his lust for vengeance.

  Safe yet reviled as an alien among his people, Kristiana’s trust in her virile protector would be sorely tested. Only in the face of certain death would she discover that they shared one heart…and be forced to betray him. Returning to Castle Muircairn—a woman wed to two men; one beloved, one abhorred—her hope lay in the slender chance that Logan still lived. For only he could triumph over MacHugh’s black treachery…to reclaim the land and the love that was their radiant birthright.

  PRAISE FOR THE ROMANTIC NOVELS OF CHARLENE CROSS

  MASQUE OF ENCHANTMENT

  Winner of the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best Historical Romance by a New Author

  “Dust off a spot on your keeper shelf for this flawless gem of a romance tale…. This is a ‘can’t put it down’ story to be read and reread.” —Rendezvous

  A HEART SO INNOCENT

  “Charlene Cross is an immensely talented new author. She captivated readers with her first novel, Masque of Enchantment.… Tightly written, carefully plotted, and populated with delightful characters, A Heart so Innocent is a tale to be savored.” —Romantic Times

  Available from Pocket Books

  “I’LL NOT GO WITH YOU,” KRISTIANA STATED. “YOU HAD HOPED TO BETRAY ME… SELL ME TO EDWARD. I ORDER YOU TO SET ME FREE!”

  Logan held her fast. “Sell you to Edward?” he questioned. “Tell me, Kristiana, if I wanted to sell you to the bastard, do you think I would have kept you with me this long? Would I have protected you while seeing to your care? Tell me, why am I here now?” He released her wrist. “Go! You’re free. I no longer wish to be burdened with you.”

  “Wait!” she called, her feet scrambling after him. “Please don’t leave me! My life will be worth nothing without you!” she cried, knowing it was true. “Please don’t leave me,” she beseeched on a sob.

  The fear of being left to Edward’s mercy shone in her gaze, and the wall Logan had erected around his heart crumbled. A sigh rolled through his lips. “Goddess, I fear someday, you will cause me much grief… far more than I will be able to endure.”

  Books by Charlene Cross

  Masque of Enchantment

  A Heart So Innocent

  Deeper than Roses

  Published by POCKET BOOKS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1992 by Charlene Cross

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-73824-0

  ISBN: 978-1-45168-279-3 (eBook)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  For my father and mother,

  Melville and Cecilia—

  Until we meet again at Heaven’s Gate, I’ll hold fast to my memories of you. My love always.

  Thank you for purchasing this Pocket Books eBook.

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  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary of Terms

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  To my first editor, Kathy Bradley Sullivan—My heartfelt appreciation for having given me the opportunity to spin my tales of love and humor via the written word. I am indebted to you always.

  To my agent, Joyce Flaherty—Thanks for the many pats on the head you gave when I was down. Thanks for the kind words of encouragement you offered. Most of all, thanks for believing in me. You are not only my agent, but also my friend.

  To John Scognamiglio—No words can express my gratitude for all you have done. No matter what I asked, large or small, be it under boulder or pebble, you always sought the answer and found it. Bright, efficient, polite, a true gentleman, you are—in reviewer jargon—“a real keeper.” My best always.

  To my editor, Caroline Tolley—Like Solomon, your wisdom far exceeds your years. Your support and encouragement is met with sincerest appreciation. Remember, our next lunch is on me.

  and

  To my dearest friend and mentor, Joan Bramsch—With great patience, you taught me much. I love you.

  Glossary of Terms

  familia: Three or four generations of one Gypsy family. This includes aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. They do not necessarily travel together.

  Gajo: Singular—defined as “peasant.” Refers to a person who is non-Gypsy.

  Gaje: Plural—refers to the general populace who are non-Gypsy.

  Kris: The Gypsy court of law.

  kumpania: The group that travels together—not necessarily related by blood.

  marhime: Polluted, unclean. In reference to the Kris, when a person is banned from the tribe he becomes marhime—a non-person.

  mulo: An evil spirit or vampire.

  Romani: Gypsy language

  Romany: The people; Gypsy culture

  Romoro: Means “a little man.” Refers to a married male, who is now considered a man.

  Shav: An unmarried male from the age of puberty on upward. The Gypsies believe a man is not a man until he marries, no matter what his age.

  vurma: Messages consisting of cloth, bits of broken glass, twigs, stones, etc., that appear to be aimlessly left along the wayside, or draped above eye level in trees. Only the Gypsies know the vurma’s meaning.

  Deeper

  than Roses

  Prologue

  Scotland—1526

  Black-winged scavengers wove a relentless pattern through the clear azure sky. The constant flight eclipsed the sun’s harsh rays, casting eerie shadows on the quarry below. Patiently the legion circled, awaiting the moment of descent.

  Trapped beneath his father’s lifeless form, ten-year-old Logan Chandler watched the ruthless host as it ringed the heavens. Desiring to be relieved of his mortal pain, wanting to join the spirit of the man whom he dearly loved, Logan pleaded time and again for his deliverance, but his soulful prayers remained unanswered.

  An anguished groan trembled in the boy’s parched throat. Heavy, long-lashed lids briefly closed over amber eyes, and the third Earl of Muircairn—a ti
tle thrust upon Logan by his treacherous stepbrother, Edward, and the rapid blade of the man’s traitorous sword—wondered again why the mercy of death persisted in escaping him.

  For nearly a day he had lain under the crushing yet protective weight of his sire. Blood still seeped from the deep gash in his side, its sickening sweet odor filling his nostrils. The red stain, which spread over the hard mosscovered ground, had become one with his father’s, linking them together forever. The young Earl of Muircairn vowed that if by some miracle he should live, he would avenge the monstrous act that had brought the late Henry Chandler to his unnatural end. Yet, at the moment, Logan hoped his pledge of revenge would soon die with him.

  Becoming eager for the taste of carrion, the girding ravens escalated in number; their circuitous flight grew more frenzied. Suddenly one swooped from the heavens; its starved companions followed. Pointed talons latched onto the meaty corpse as giant wings flapped loudly, then finally settled, forming a silent arc over their prey. Sharp beaks hungrily tore at the feast set before them. Competitors all, they fought among themselves, vying for the most succulent flesh to be had.

  An angry cry erupted from between Logan’s cracked and swollen lips. His slim arm struck out at the covey in a weak attempt to keep the foragers from his father’s face and neck. Startled, several feathered marauders took to the sky, their guttural croaking filling the air. Yet the greater portion stood fast.

  Hostile pecks greeted the defender’s deeply bronzed skin; angry bites scored his tender flesh, drawing new blood. A tortured scream filled the air as the young earl valiantly continued to duel with his merciless foes. What little strength he possessed was quickly consumed, and the crushing certainty of doom instantly vanquished the boy. His injured arm fell to the hard earth in defeat, his enemy triumphant.

  A great sob racked the young earl’s body as the victorious birds renewed their brutal attack on his dead sire’s face and neck. As Logan prayed again for his own death an everlasting blackness seemed to settle slowly around him. Mercifully it blotted out the horror of the moment, and the ghastly reality of the here and now grew ever narrower in scope. Caught in the welcome void, Logan was unaware of the loud shouts that sent the winged pillagers into the air. Nor was he aware of the beat of many feet as they traveled swiftly to his side.

  Strangely, as his weary young mind drifted between the realm of the living and the eternal sleep for which he had so longed, Logan thought he felt far lighter. A great weight had been lifted from him. He was floating now, being borne away. On the wings of angels? he wondered.

  The ministering spirits spoke to him, but he could not understand their words. Their language seemed foreign, yet familiar, as though he had heard its lyrical sound somewhere before. The voices faded as the inviting darkness drew him into its core; Logan surrendered fully.

  Gentle hands lowered the unconscious boy to the ground, and a solemn pair of obsidian eyes looked at the men circled around the injured youth. “Our blood is his blood; his blood is ours,” their leader said. “We, the Rom, will care for him and protect him. He is now one of us.”

  Agreeing nods met the leader’s dark eyes; then, together, the angels of mercy lifted the lad and carried him to their small encampment, hidden deep in the wood.

  1

  Scotland—May 1540

  Great thundering hooves tore into the rich earth, riving large clumps of squat moss from their tenuous moorings. The heavy rhythm lost itself in the swirling mist, which blanketed the forest flats as horse and rider urgently bounded across the short open stretch, galloping toward the safety of the dense copse beyond. In that instant a dark cloud parted from the silvery globe peaking in the inky night sky to illuminate the slight form of a young woman.

  Driven by sheer panic, Kristiana Harcourt clung to the huge steed’s back. Long, flowing auburn tresses mantled her ivory-skinned beauty, a torn shift the only protection she wore. Impatient shouts erupted in the heavy wood behind her. At the sound, bare heels struck the black beast’s flanks, driving it to its limits. Her heart hammered wildly, its rapid beat mimicking the large steed’s ground-eating strides. By all that is holy! her mind screamed in silent appeal. Please, oh please, someone help me!

  Emerald eyes frantically searched for an opening in the thick forest wall. Certain she’d spotted one, Kristiana steered the winded stallion toward the dark hole. Quickly she urged him over a low shrub; the pair vanished into the compact growth. Blinded by the sudden blackness, she jerked the stallion’s leads. Sure hooves skidded to a halt. Eyes adjusting, Kristiana scoured the area, then carefully routed her steed down the steep incline.

  As the pair wended their way through the tight undergrowth sharp thistles scraped against Kristiana’s bare legs, slicing into her flesh; but she was unaware of their stinging bites, for all her thoughts had been seized by the recent past. A jagged sob ascended in her throat as the terrifying scene she’d witnessed less than an hour ago filled her mind. Once more the huge sword cut downward, her beloved father, Robert Harcourt, falling under its blow. His bloodied body quivered, then the life drained from it, and he was forever still.

  At the memory of it raw hysteria bubbled upward; Kristiana nearly screamed. Knowing she had to keep her wits about her, she swept the hideous image away. Again the need for escape reigned foremost in her thoughts.

  An angry curse burst forth from directly above her. “Spread out and search the wood,” a menacing voice ordered; Kristiana recognized it as her despised enemy, Edward MacHugh. “The sharp-toothed vixen cannot be far. Find her!”

  “Ho!” a male voice countered, and she knew it to be Richard Black’s. His ribald laughter followed. “She bit you, did she?”

  “Aye,” MacHugh responded in a cold utterance to his liege man, “and she’ll pay dearly for each mark she left on my flesh. Now move—all of you—before we lose her.”

  The sound of men on horseback breaking into the wood met Kristiana’s ears. Fear teemed in her breast anew, and she set her heels to her mount’s sides. As she blindly urged the stallion fully down the steep slope, then up the opposite grade, a host of unrelenting branches angrily tormented her slim body, tearing at her unbound tresses, rending a handful of silken hair from its roots. One unyielding limb nearly tumbled Kristiana from the stallion’s back, but somehow she managed to keep herself astride.

  By the time horse and rider finally topped the knoll Kristiana’s entire body was tortured with pain. Convinced she could go no farther, she was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to release her pent-up tears, yet she fought to keep them from spilling forth; a steadying breath filled her lungs.

  Her pursuers were not far behind, she knew, and through shimmering jade eyes she hurriedly surveyed the virgin territory surrounding her. All hope of escape seemed to have abandoned her when suddenly she caught sight of a small light flickering in the near distance, not far beyond the shielding trees. A campfire? she wondered, praying it was. Without hesitation she set the blowing steed toward the small beacon, her only hope of salvation.

  Golden irises flecked with chips of green and ringed in ebony stared into the dancing flames, mirroring their warm brilliance. Dressed in Gypsy garb, a broad-shouldered man hunched down by the campfire, his muscular thighs stretching the tattered material of his tight-fitting black trousers. A light breeze ruffled his rough linen tunic, carrying the wood smoke away from his shadow-cut face. His long, darkly tanned fingers gripped one end of a sturdy stick, poking at the burning mountain of dead limbs to send a shower of sparks into the air. Rising like fireflies into the night, they were instantly swallowed by the darkness.

  Thick black hair brushed against the hidden sinew of his upper back; a stray lock, having fallen forward, waved over his troubled forehead. The sharp vertical line etched between his raven-winged eyebrows stated he was deep in thought. He’d followed, watched, making careful assessment of what he’d seen. With his month-long mission now completed, he would set off on the morrow to find the encampment of his people, whom he k
new were only a day’s ride ahead of him. Then, after a brief respite, he would be on his way to find his compatriot and friend. He hoped Sebastian had been able to enlist the needed number of men, the whole being skilled and eager. Soon, he thought, trusting that all would be made right in a very short time.

  Suddenly the sound of crashing hooves bounding from the forest jerked the Gypsy to his feet. As though he were trapped in some macabre dream, he watched in disbelief as a huge black steed bore down on him, a half-nude slip of a girl, her wild length of hair sailing around her, mounted on its back. For one brief moment he considered whether the strange vision might be the dreaded mulo—the living dead—that his people so often spoke of in hushed whispers, for the evil being was feared greatly. But just as fast he discounted the thought, the same as he did most of their beliefs.

  Swift of foot, the Gypsy leapt from the stallion’s path just as the black beast skidded to a bone-crushing stop; it reared, great hooves wildly pelting the air. The wraith tumbled from its back straight into the Gypsy’s arms.

  The force of her fall almost drove him to the ground, but his powerful thighs locked, keeping him upright. She was no specter, he decided, gauging her weight to be nearly seven stone.

  Kristiana moaned, a feeling of lightheadedness overtaking her; then she gazed up into the most exotic pair of eyes she had ever seen. Like a cat’s, she thought, noting how they shone golden in the firelight. Oddly, she felt protected in this man’s strong embrace. Truly he was her savior.

  “Help me,” she implored, her voice naught but a weak whisper. Her hand rose; shaky fingers lightly brushed the handsome stranger’s smooth-shaven cheek. Her head spun crazily, her desperate flight having taken its toll. “Do not let them find me. Please hide me… please…”

  Kristiana’s words perished on her lips as a wave of blackness mercifully enshrouded her.