Much Ado About Magic by Patricia Rice

Author:Patricia Rice
Language: ron
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Sinda rolled up on the pallet to alleviate her cramps and wished she were home with a hot brick. She hadn't thought things could get worse until her flow had started this morning. Now she was not only humiliated and ruined, but in pain. If things deteriorated from here, she'd simply have to kill Trevelyan and hope his grandfather offered a reward for the deed.

She could hear her captor harnessing the horses and whistling. Maybe she would kill him simply to stifle his unrelenting energy. That would teach her to paint laughing scoundrels. From now on, she would paint only dignified gentlemen who would know a lady in distress when they saw one.

No, she wouldn't. She intended never to paint another portrait in her life, especially if they were going to come alive and step out of the canvas like this one had.

The big-wheeled cart rocked into motion as she huddled beneath the blankets. At least the bedding was clean. It had been drying in the sun when Trev had come upon the Gypsy encampment. He must have offered his weight in gold to persuade them to part so easily with the sturdy caravan and its contents.

She should be grateful she didn't have to sit upright on a wagon seat beside him. Just because she liked his mellow baritone and appreciated his acute observations didn't mean she enjoyed his company. How had her cousins arranged to find such agreeable men when all she had come across was a pirate who thought her a silly, snobby liar?

Gradually, the rocking motion of the cart eased her into sleep.

To dream ...

* * * * *

Sinda jerked awake when the cart halted. Cold, with an agony in her belly as well as in her head, she was too miserable to weep. She huddled under the covers and willed herself back to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come.

She needed something hot in her stomach, and she needed to find clean rags. Perhaps she could tear up the pink dimity with the red dancing figures that Trevelyan had bought for her. If she were to dress as a Gypsy from now on, she wouldn't be needing a decent gown.

Grumbling bitterly as a means of ignoring her pain, she eased to a sitting position. But as she tried to stand, her bare toes encountered a loose pencil, and she stumbled and had to grab the wall to keep from falling.

Pencil. Her pencils had been in the pocket of the gown she'd removed. Had she made another sketch while she'd been asleep?

The inside of the wagon was too dark to see. Stumbling across unfamiliar territory, she ran her fingers along the wall where she remembered noticing a small opening that must serve as a window or vent. Finding the latch, she drew it open and pushed on the panel.

The sun had almost set. A breeze carried the scent of the sea, and in the distance, she thought she heard the pounding of waves against rocks. Of course, the pirate would take them to the coast.

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