Gypsy Moon by Becky Lee Weyrich

got the better of his cousin. He sat astride the downed Petronovich, daring him to make another move.
    “This is none of your affair, Mateo,” Petronovich snarled. “She is mine! I took her!”
    “Took her?” Mateo repeated, glancing quickly toward the sobbing girl.
    What he saw made him want to take her in his arms and soothe away her tears and her grief. Her shining hair, loosened from its pins, tumbled in wild abandon about her face. Her great eyes, the color of aged brandy, stared up at him, pleading for his protection. She wore only a thin nightgown, torn open at the neck. Her heavy breathing caused her breasts to rise and fall, offering a glimpse of pale rosettes from time to time.
    God help me, Mateo thought, she arouses far more than my sympathy!
    But no! She was not one of his kind. He shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts about her. She would have to be returned to her own people. Then he looked down at Petronovich and saw the malicious smile twisting his cousin’s lips. Perhaps it was already too late to take her back.
    “What is this?” demanded a low, female voice.
    Charlotte looked up at the old woman. Her face was brown and lined, but aristocratic. Though she wore nightclothes, huge hoops of gold dangled from her ears, and her neck and arms were elaborately adorned. Obviously she was a leader of the clan. She ignored Charlotte for the moment and glared down at her son and nephew.
    “Does the phuri dai, the ruler of you and all your kin, not deserve some explanation? Mateo? Petronovich?”
    “I am sorry. Mother, that we disturbed you.” Mateo stood up, allowing his cousin to rise, also. “It seems the moon madness did double duty tonight. Petronovich left camp and stole a woman—a gajo.”
    The old queen’s gnarled hands flew to her lips. “In the holy name of Sara-la-Kali!” she swore. “I should have known it would come to this someday. How many times in your youth, Petronovich, did I have to cross some farmer’s palm with gold after you stole his chicken? But a woman! How do I repay that debt?”
    Queen Zolande stood directly in front of Petronovich, her glittering black eyes seeming to pierce him through. Her voice quivered with rage.
    “It may be worse than you know, Mother,” Mateo said quietly. “Look at her.”
    Zolande swung around. Her lips drew back in a tight line as she took in Charlotte’s disheveled appearance and torn gown.
    Feeling self-conscious under the woman’s blazing stare, Charlotte tried to smooth the wild tangle of her hair from her face.
    “So, it was not enough to steal her; you have used her as well?” the queen said to Petronovich while still gazing at his victim.
    When Petronovich made no answer, Zolande demanded of Charlotte, “Well, has he bedded you?”
    Still stunned and not fully understanding what the woman meant, but wanting her attacker punished, Charlotte cried, “Yes! He sneaked in through my window while I slept and climbed right into my bed! When I tried to fight him off, he tore my gown. My arms and mouth are all bruised, he held me so tight and used me so savagely!”
    “She lies!” Petronovich snarled. “That may have been my plan, but I haven’t touched her. Mateo saw to that!”
    “You did!” Charlotte yelled at Petronovich. “You forced me to…”
    Zolande watched dispassionately as Charlotte lapsed into angry tears.
    “So, we see as well as hear what you have done to this woman, Petronovich. I now have choices to consider. I could return her to the town and have you jailed.”
    “Please, no!” Petronovich cried. “You know that I would die in jail as quickly as any other Gypsy. I must have my freedom, Queen Zolande!”
    “Allow me to finish,” she said, a cold edge to her voice. “I cannot have you jailed, for fear it would bring trouble to all of us. As I have heard the gajos say, ‘One rotten apple spoils the barrel.’ I am afraid they believe that, and you may be the rottenest fruit to taint our family tree since