Ian shook his head. “She’s his sister. And your fortune-teller is his aunt, ‘Mother’ Betty, once the owner of a London bawdy house until gambling did her in.”
“That’s a lie!” a female voice called out to him. “The house was stolen from me!”
“Is that the truth, Betty?” Ian challenged. “Come out of hiding and we’ll discuss the matter.”
There was no answer.
The color had drained from Miss Harrell’s face, but still she held on to her convictions. “I don’t believe you. I’ve been traveling with these people and they are exactly what they say they are—Gypsies. They even speak Romany.”
“Charley,” Ian said. “Get out here.”
A beat of silence and then sheepishly, Charley appeared at the edge of the woods. He was slight of frame, and with a scarf around his head Ian supposed he could pass for a Gypsy. “Tell Miss Harrell the truth,” Ian said with exaggerated patience.
“We didn’t mean no harm,” Charley said, his “Gypsy” accent gone. “And we got her to Scotland. We were going to take her where she wanted to go. She paid us—you can’t be angry at us, Campion.”
“It’s her father you need to fear, not me,” Ian answered. “And I’ll warn you right now, Pirate Harrell wanted me to bring back your head on a pike. Head west, Charley, don’t show your face around London for a year, and we’ll call ourselves even.”
Miss Harrell took a step forward. “Youliedto me?” she accused Charley in round tones, as if she couldn’t believe the truth.
Charley shrugged. “Not really. Mother Betty has a drop of Gypsy blood in her. Her talent with the cards is real.”
But Miss Harrell was not placated. Her anger was swift and sharp. “I should have known. Gypsies don’t drink gin.”
“Some do,” Charley hedged and started backing away.
“Don’t you dare leave!” Miss Harrell ordered. “I’vepaidyou to take me to Amleth Hall and so you shall—this, this”—she sputtered for words before deciding on one—“ox of an Irishman notwithstanding.”
Ian had been called worse. “Well, it was money wasted, Miss Harrell,” he replied philosophically, “because you are returning to London with me. And, by the by, my name is Campion, Ian Campion…but you may call me Mr. Ox if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
The look she shot him could have fried bacon.
He couldn’t give a care. “Go on, Charley. She’s in my hands now.”
“Well, I’d like the wagon, Campion,” Charley answered, taking another timid step forward.
“You can have it—” Ian started but Miss Harrell contradicted him, moving to confront Charley.
“This ismywagon. I paid for it and it is full ofmybelongings. What did you think you were going to do? Steal everything I brought with me?”
“Ah, now, Miss Harrell, Duci, Betty and I were good to you,” Charley reminded her.
“The three of you lied to me! I trusted you.”
“We were only being what you wanted us to be,” Charley said sympathetically. “And you had a good time. But now, Campion’s right. You should go home and marry that viscount your papa wants you to marry. If you’d been in the hands of less honest folk, you could have been in real danger.”
Her answer was to turn to Ian and, cool as you please, say, “I will pay youtwicewhat my father offered to take me to Amleth Hall on the Firth of Lorne. In fact, we are not very far from there now.”
“Twice?” Ian questioned with amusement. “You don’t have the blunt.”
“I assure you, sir, I do.”
“And what of proprieties? What will your relatives say when you appear on their doorstep with an Irishman by your side?”
She made an impatient sound. “We can go to the inn and pick up the maid you brought along if you wish…although I would prefer not wasting the time.”
Ian was taken aback by her boldness. She was no milk toast debutante, nor was she as smart as she thought she was. He was both intrigued and put off. If she’d been one of his sisters, he’d be tempted to lock her up.
“I’m taking you home,” he said. “You’ve already been more than foolish, Miss Harrell, and you’ve been fortunate not to have had your throat slit, or worse.”
