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said. ‘What would you have done?’
    The answering shout of laughter was harsh. Full of derision. And clearly male.
    Two voices. The feminine one low, almost musical. The other, the derisive one, was different somehow. A difference not only in tone and volume.
    Rhys tried to piece together the clues that had led him to that conclusion. Only when he realized the argument he was eavesdropping on concerned him, did he give up that frustrating process.
    â€˜What would I have done? I should have wondered briefly at his motives,’ the masculine voice mocked, ‘and then forgotten him.’
    â€˜I don’t believe even you are that cynical.’
    â€˜Cynical enough to know that no gadje means us well.’
    â€˜He saved my daughter’s life.’
    â€˜Angel isn’t your daughter.’
    â€˜In every way that matters. Don’t judge me by their standards.’
    The masculine laughter this time was softer. No longer derisive. ‘You’re right. You aren’t one of them. But he is. The sooner he’s gone, the better for all of us.’
    â€˜What if I tell you he’s my guest?’ In their culture guests were treated with great courtesy, given the finest food and drink, even if that might be a hardship for the host.
    â€˜I’d say that he’s been your guest long enough. I want him away from here.’
    â€˜He isn’t well enough—’
    â€˜Then let his own care for him. Get rid of him, Nadya. I mean it.’
    â€˜Yes, my lord . Of course, my lord .’ The feminine voice had now adopted the ripe sarcasm of the other. Her assumed humility dripped with it. ‘What else can I, a poor Gypsy girl, do to please his lordship?’
    â€˜Stop it.’ Anger this time, rather than mockery.
    â€˜I don’t tell you what you should do, Stephano. You do what you feel you must. I understand that. So remember, please, that I’m not yours to command.’
    â€˜Get rid of him.’ The man’s voice was deadly quiet. Whatever raillery had been between the two had faded into animosity. ‘Or had you rather I arrange that myself before I leave?’ he asked silkily.
    â€˜If you do,’ the woman said, ‘you’ll be sorry.’
    â€˜Is that a threat, jel’enedra ?’
    â€˜I don’t make threats. You of all people should know that .’
    The silence that followed lasted long enough that Rhys had time to wonder if the quarrelling pair had moved out of earshot.
    â€˜Get rid of him, Nadya,’ the man said. ‘Or I’ll do it when I return. I don’t want that gaujo here. And I still have the authority here to see to it that what I want happens. You of all people should know that .’
    Â 
    A slight movement of the surface on which Rhys rested awakened him. Somewhere a door creaked open—a sound he knew he’d heard before. No light came into the room, but a whiff of wood smoke drifted inside before it closed.
    Rhys’s eyes strained against the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of the person who’d entered. The sound of a flint being struck across the room preceded the faint glow of a candle.
    He lay perfectly still, waiting for the person who’d lit it to move into his field of vision. As the light came closer, his heart rate increased slightly, driven by curiosity about the owner of the feminine voice he’d heard outside.
    Her back to the bed, the woman set the candlestick down on the table where it had rested earlier. Curling black hair, held back by a kerchief, cascaded down her spine. The shawl around her shoulders was intricately patterned, its rich colours glowing faintly in the candlelight.
    Finally she turned, reaching out to touch his forehead. Her hand hesitated in mid-air when she realized his eyes were open. As the long seconds ticked by, silently they regarded one another.
    The mocking phrase ‘poor Gypsy girl’ had preparedRhys for much of what he now saw.