Stefan Barony, the reigning King of Cardinia
The camp was at its most boisterous at night, naked children wrestling at the feet of their dancing mothers, singing and storytelling at each campfire, pilfered fowl and rabbits steaming in cauldrons.
This particular tribe specialized in horse trading.
Other bands might offer repair services and blacksmithing, and still others strictly provided entertainment with their Carpathian bear trainers, snake charmers, fine musicians, and dancers.
Most of the tribes that passed through Cardinia, however, were cattle breeders who traveled with their large herds of water buffalo or regular cattle.
But all the tribes offered their women for a price, and had their old ones who could heal with their herbs what town doctors had given up on, and of course they had their fortune-tellers and charmsellers.
“Didn’t I tell you we’d find him here?” said Lazar, who was on Stefan’s right. “He still craves the wildness.”
On Stefan’s left, Serge snorted before giving his own opinion. “It’s an abundance of women that he craves, and the Gypsies never fail to supply that.”
Stefan couldn’t argue with that statement, since he’d spent a fair amount of time in Gypsy camps himself.
At least he had when he had been only the Crown Prince of Cardinia with few responsibilities, rather than the king.
Now, there was simply something not quite dignified about a king cavorting with Gypsy wenches and dancing by firelight.
Not that he wanted to any longer. The only cavorting he did these days was with his queen.
But the sight of the camp brought back fond memories.
“I suppose you two will want to remain here with Vasili,” Stefan said to his friends in a humorous tone. For all their derogatory remarks, they both held equally fond memories of Gypsy camps.
“You mean we aren’t dragging him back to the city?” Lazar asked.
“My aunt merely requested that I locate Vasili, not deliver him. As long as he makes an appearance sometime tonight, that will suit her well enough.”
Serge was grinning now. “It’s a good thing old Max won’t let just the three of us protect you anymore, or we would be forced to escort you back to the city.”
Old Max was Maximilian Daneff, Cardinia’s prime minister, who was like a second father to Stefan. And Max took his duties quite seriously, including insisting that a full complement of soldiers accompany Stefan whenever he left the palace.
Those soldiers were waiting on the outskirts of the Gypsy camp so as not to cause alarm.
But Stefan’s appearance was still creating a stir, for the Gypsies recognized him.
Although he hadn’t been king the last time this tribe had passed through his country, its members would have found out immediately upon their arrival about any changes in government and whether they were still welcome.
Such knowledge was pertinent to the Gypsies’ continuing good health.
The bulubasha had been summoned and was waiting warily in front of his tent with a number of elders.
But Stefan didn’t care to be delayed by the time-consuming ritual of greetings and honor-bestowings which could last several hours, not when his Tanya, who was waiting for him back at the palace, had teased him with the promise that she might dance for him tonight.
He turned toward Serge and said, “Assure their leader that this is not an official visit, merely a family errand.” And with a respectful nod to acknowledge the bulubasha and put the man at ease, he headed toward his cousin.
That single nod had put the whole camp at ease, and the singing and dancing resumed.
More than a dozen women, young and old, immediately converged on Stefan.
They would actually fight, to the death if necessary, for the opportunity to perform a service for him, any service, because his generosity was so well known and so prodigious that even a family of ten on whom it had been bestowed wouldn’t have to work or steal for a year.
Stefan was only vaguely aware that Lazar was keeping him from being bothered by tossing out handfuls of coins and waving the women off.
What held his fascination was his cousin Vasili’s valiant effort to divide his attention among three women.
And Stefan was close to laughing outright because as far as he could tell, Vasili was actually managing it, kissing first one eager wench, then another, while his hands roamed over all three.
But the women weren’t competing with one another as one might expect; they had probably already been assured that Vasili would see to each of them before the night was over, if not all three of them at the same time, which seemed to be the case at the moment.
Each of those women probably had a husband somewhere in the camp, but Vasili wasn’t in danger of getting a knife in his back before he departed.
Giving their bodies to men for payment was business and an accepted practice for the women—as long as those men weren’t Gypsies.
Yet let one of those women look at another Gypsy male with allure in her eyes, and her husband was more than likely to kill her.
But Gypsies lived and died by their own peculiar rules, which were enforced by each tribe’s bulubasha.
Vasili was so involved in his lovemaking that he hadn’t even noticed the earlier quieting of the camp or the resumption of noise.
He didn’t hear his friends’ approaching horses either, so Stefan and Lazar just sat there for a while, mere feet away, enjoying the performance.
Stefan was still fascinated, since he had never watched his cousin work his sensual magic before, at least not to this degree.
He’d always been busy with some wench of his own whenever he and these three closest friends of his had pursued their pleasures together.
But Vasili was so far advanced in his endeavors—clothes were being rapidly discarded—that it was quite possible he had forgotten that he usually did this sort of thing with a little more privacy. Or perhaps he’d reached the point where it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.
Only one of the women had noticed that they had an audience, and she didn’t seem to care, as she was too busy caressing the wide male chest that another of the women had just bared.
Of course, Vasili did tend to have that kind of effect on women.
He made them forget morals, modesty, and the strictures of a lifetime.
Wherever he went, whatever he was doing, women clamored to meet him, and, upon meeting him, clamored to get into his bed.
Whereas other men had to work long and hard at seduction, Vasili merely had to walk into a room and crook a finger.
Actually, he had to do nothing at all but be there, and women were drawn to him.
His handsomeness had always been the lure, and his friends benefited from his effect on women, so they hardly begrudged him his good fortune or his exceptional good looks.
And although it might appear otherwise at the moment, Vasili didn’t devote his life to the pursuit of sexual gratification—at least not the greater part of it.
He was well honed in the military arts—all four of them were—and he had been given numerous official duties upon Stefan’s coronation.
But the duty he took most seriously was being a member of the royal guard, Stefan’s personal guard, and Vasili wouldn’t be here tonight if he’d known Stefan was going to leave the palace.
That Stefan wouldn’t be here if Vasili weren’t was a moot point.
Vasili always made sure he wouldn’t be needed before he pursued his own interests.
At the moment, there were three young women in differing stages of need who were about to be satisfied.
For the sake of future peace—Lazar wouldn’t be able to resist ribbing Vasili about his sudden lack of modesty, which would lead to blows before the two of them would laugh together over it—Stefan cleared his throat.
It didn’t work. It still didn’t work when he tried again.
So Lazar remarked quite loudly, “The Gypsies would be rich if they had thought to sell tickets.”
And Serge had ridden up by then to add, “It doesn’t look like Vasili would mind, and this sure as hell beats the new play that opened last week at the Grand.”
Vasili had rolled over and now glared up at them, his groan caused not by embarrassment, but by being interrupted. “How the devil did you find me?”
“You told Fatima where you were going,” Stefan explained, then added with a glance at the women, who made no effort to correct their varying states of undress and were still curled all around Vasili, “She doesn’t mind?”
“Fatima doesn’t own me any more than I own her. I gave her her freedom. What more can I do?”
“Find her a husband.”
“She cries every time I suggest it.”
Vasili sounded so disgusted, all three men laughed, not the least bit sympathetic.
The concubine had been a gift to Vasili from the Turkish Grand Vezir, and she was a lovely, sensual creature trained in every aspect of pleasing a man.
Vasili might have freed her, but they doubted that he made the offer to find her a husband very often.
Vasili didn’t mind their humor, but in his present physical condition, which wasn’t subsiding with more than one pair of naked breasts pressed against him, he still minded like hell their sudden appearance.
“Just what are you doing here, Stefan, and why wasn’t I informed that you intended to leave the palace tonight? ”
Stefan grinned at him. “If you had bothered to receive your mother’s messenger these past three days, instead of having him informed that you weren’t home when you were, she wouldn’t have found it necessary to come to me to demand to know where I had sent you.
How did you avoid her at the palace, by the way? ”
Vasili ran an agitated hand through his golden mane. “It wasn’t easy. I suppose you told her you hadn’t sent me anywhere.”