Page 21 of Midnight Conquest

The elder Romani’s vardo was smaller than most but rich with character—carved vines and stars etched into its wooden panels, the scent of rosemary and lavender always clinging to the air around it. Beside it stood their canvas tent with its flap tied open, revealing a table strewn with Amice’s fortune telling tablets, polished stones, and two extinguished oil lamps.

As Broderick approached, a soft, lilting hum floated to himacross the camp. Veronique. She perched on the vardo’s steps, golden hair spilling over her shoulder as she loosely braided it with languid grace. Her lips curved into a slow smile when her gaze met his.

“Broderick,” she purred, voice rich as spiced wine. She stood with fluid ease, letting her braid fall and smoothing her skirts in a motion that was more performance than habit. “Bienvenue, mon amour.”

He stiffened, though he masked it with a nod. “Merci,ma petite sœur.”

Her smile thinned, irritation flashing behind her eyes. She hated when he called her that now. The title of “little sister” had once comforted her. Now, it stung, a boundary she longed to cross.

Since she’d grown into womanhood, Veronique had made her interest clear. But Broderick’s feelings remained unchanged. She would always be the girl he’d carried on his shoulders through the markets. Sweet. Bright. Off limits.

She moved closer, the scent of jasmine and warm blood rising from her. The firelight caught the tilt of her head and the soft parting of her lips.

“So,” she lifted her chin, “judging by the look on your face, she did not satisfy you?”

Broderick glared. “Veronique…”

“Veronique, enough of your foolishness,” Amice barked in rapid French. She shuffled from the tent, arms full of bundled herbs. Her eyes, sharp as flint, fixed on her granddaughter. “Tend the fire. Or better yet—your manners.”

Veronique’s scowl deepened. “I was doing nothing wrong.”

“You were making a spectacle,” Amice snapped. “Go. Inside.”

Veronique’s expression darkened, and her cheeks flushed ashot as her temper. With a dramatic toss of her braid, she stormed up the steps and slammed the vardo door behind her. The whole wagon shuddered.

Amice sighed and muttered in French, “That girl will be the death of me.” She tossed her bundle of herbs onto the nearby table and set to work sorting them.

Broderick leaned against the vardo, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “She’s young. She’ll learn.”

Amice shot him a look, her eyes piercing under her gray brows. “Not with your gentle reprimands.” But her tone softened as she shifted topics. “So, what news of Davina?”

“She’s in Stewart Glen,” Broderick confirmed, pushing off the wagon and straightening.

“And Nicabar?” Amice separated the dried buds and stems. “How did he take the news?”

Broderick sighed. “He agreed. I promised the trip would bring good trade—and tempted him with Rosselyn. The lass he couldn’t keep his eyes off the last time we passed through here.”

Amice gave a knowing grunt but said nothing.

Broderick folded his arms. “Once I put this unfinished business behind me, I can move on.”

Amice stopped fussing with the herbs and turned, brows drawn tight. “You speak of Davina like she is some conquest. An inconvenience. An itch that needs to be scratched.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “She’s a distraction. That’s all. I need her out of my head so I can focus on findin’ Angus.”

Amice stepped closer, whispering under the crackle of fire, “She’s more than that, and you know it. You have tried to forget her, tried to drown her in other women, other towns, other fights. And still she lingers. Why do you think that is?”

“Because I’m cursed,” he muttered, bitter. “Ye’d know aboutthat better than most.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her touch was gentle as she placed a hand on his arm. “You are hurt. I see that. But building your walls will not heal the past. And if you keep denying what your soul already knows…”

He pulled back. “Ye worry for nothin’, ol’ friend. I dinnae need to talk o’ fate or soul mates. This trip will help the caravan’s purse. That’s all that matters.”

Amice’s expression tightened, but she didn’t argue. “And after Stewart Glen?”

“We head south. I’ve already told Nicabar. By next week, ye’ll be on the road to Edinburgh. Nica wants to leave at first light for Stewart Glen.”

“And you?”

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