Through Gypsy Eyes (2 page)

Is his intent to take advantage of a lone woman and defile me? What am I to do?
Summoning her little remaining courage, she tried to reason with him. “I say again, release me good sir, for my presence will be missed at the manor even as we speak.” She grimaced at the tremor in her voice betraying her fear. He shifted, his mouth brushing her ear, and she gasped at the intimate contact.

“Ah, even so I would take a moment to test your lips to see if they are as soft and sweet as your voice,” he whispered.

His lips claimed hers, causing her thoughts to scatter as he licked and nibbled her bottom one. The teasing, sensual sensation was so shocking and pleasurable she sighed, opening for him, forgetting her fear for a moment. When his tongue made contact with hers, she was jolted back to the seriousness of the situation.

She wrenched from his grasp with a soft cry and floundered to the pool’s edge, his deep chuckles chasing her up the bank. For the briefest second she contemplated not pausing to find her gown, but the thought of giving him an unexposed view of her derriere stifled the thought. In haste she tapped the ground until her fingers found the edge of the material and then snatched it up, yanking it over her head. Her attempt to whistle for Jester resulted in a loud, puffing sound as air passed over her damp lips. A splash in the water drew her attention. She cocked her head to listen. Strong, rhythmic strokes moved away from the bank. Relief made her lightheaded with the knowledge he was not in pursuit. Was she safe? Was his intent only to flirt and nothing more?

Jester’s fuzzy coat slipped beneath her trembling fingertips, drawing her back to the present. She pulled herself onto his back with the aid of the special harness he wore. “Home, Jester.”

“Good-bye, sweet wood nymph,” the man called from the pool.

With a jab of her heels she urged Jester homeward, ignoring the stranger’s taunt. Sticks stabbed and scratched her bare legs as the pony pushed through the brambles to the path. With a groan she realized her slippers remained behind on the stream bank. She bit her lip.
Well, I am not going to go back for them now, with him there. Who is he? What is he doing in my secret place?

She arrived home sooner than she expected in her preoccupied state. After leaving Jester at the garden gate she hurried to her bedchamber. Once there she sat on the bed, drawing her knees to her chest, fingering the smooth stone wound with a lock of Jester’s baby hair. The piece hung around her neck on a thin leather strap ever since she could remember. Rolling it between her fingers was comforting somehow. Her lips tingled with the memory of the stranger’s kiss, and she traced her tongue along them seeking his minty flavor.
Why did he kiss me? Because he could? Because I let him?
Upon reflection she decided the kiss was intriguing
. If only he knew.
No one ever kissed her before and it seemed improbable anyone would ever again. There was no reason any man would desire her. After all, who wanted a woman locked in darkness?

The desire to stay in the cool pool wilted after the mysterious maiden’s retreat. Tyrone waded from the water and pulled his clothes on over his damp body. Perhaps he would take a detour into town, slake his lust with some ample-busted tavern girl, and arrive at the manor at a more civilized time. What would it matter if he delayed his arrival at Westpoint Manor by another hour or so? After all, his before-dawn arrival was bound to put the estate into turmoil. He grimaced. They were not the only ones who did not expect his appointment.

Tingling with annoyance he remounted his horse and turned it toward the main road.
Imagine, me, in charge of some spoiled miss.
He forced a deep breath through his pursed lips, the loud huffing sound causing his horse to shake its head and prance. He soothed it with his hand along its neck. Why did the king decide on him? Did the girl not have a living relative somewhere who could see her wed to some worthy lord right and proper?

This delay could cost him more than he wanted, for Miss Deval wouldn’t wait forever. The thought of some young buck wooing away his prize grated on Tyrone’s nerves. Then again, months spent courting the wealthy Miss Deval strained his temper. His hold on her affections was delicate at best. What if she fancied herself in love with someone younger or more handsome in his absence? A woman’s affections were fickle and easy to sway with pretty words. Niceties were not his forte either. If he were to admit it, he harbored no feelings of love for the simpering beauty. Her shallowness in personality and temperament left him cold as ice. He pushed the bitter thought aside. Her money and social position were all he needed from the marriage … and an heir of course.

With a grunt he shifted in the saddle, his buttocks sore and legs stiff from two days spent aboard his horse. He should have taken a coach; it would have been more comfortable though much slower. The king, however, insisted Tyrone get here post haste. He shook his head. Was the king fueling Tyrone’s personal desire to carve a niche for himself in government, to further a royal agenda? Was Tyrone being used to attend an unwanted domestic problem? That was more likely he decided. Dealing with a modest squire’s daughter would, after all, be beneath the monarch.

He flexed his jaw, which tightened with his vexation. The damsel managed these two months since her father’s passing, or so he assumed, so what was the rush? Besides, from what he heard the wench was a veritable recluse. No one he questioned could recall seeing the girl since she was a small child. He pushed aside a heavy branch as his mount walked under it. Perhaps the girl was hideous or deformed. It would account for the former squire hiding his daughter away from the eyes of his peers. A man as rich as the squire shouldn’t have struggled to find a match for the girl. A large enough dowry could buy any woman a husband. He frowned. Almost any woman.

His mind wandered back to the luscious vixen in the sheltered pool. He couldn’t resist the seductive call of the gurgling water, its promise of relief from itchy sweat and trail dust much like a siren’s song. Pushing through the surrounding brush as quietly as possible, he hoped to catch a glimpse of some tasty prey to take with him to the manor. A fresh kill might have appeased the stir his predawn arrival would cause. He had not expected to find a feminine shape floating atop the water just beyond the waterfall’s cascade.

What was a woman doing bathing alone in a forested pool in the middle of the night? Perhaps awaiting someone, involved in some kind of forbidden lover’s tryst? He recalled the waver in her voice when she called out to the pony on the bank. No doubt his presence frightened the lady, which he did regret. He chuckled.
Lady?
No lady he ever met would dare swim naked in a pool in the middle of the night. She was like as not a humble maid from the manor, affecting pretty speech for his benefit.

He drew a deep breath, remembering her subtle fragrance of honey melded with a tangy citrus overtone. The corners of his lips twitched into a ready grin. Her courage, slapping the water to splash him, both flabbergasted and intrigued him. No woman he knew would hold her ground in such a defiant manner. Despite her show of bravery though, her rapid breathing beneath his hands proved her nervousness.
Without question she is a very intriguing wood nymph.

His tongue slipped from between his lips to recall her taste on them.
As sweet as her smell.
No, he couldn’t have interrupted a rendezvous — her gasp of surprise was too pure and innocent to be an experienced seductress. He couldn’t help but chuckle. In the minimal moonlight he caught a brief flash of her white, rounded derriere before a dark fall of hair concealed it and she faded into the shadows. His manhood throbbed and he tried to ignore it. Even if she was a simple maid, he could have not lowered himself to use force to slake his desire. Besides, it would bode ill for him if he were to misuse one of his new charge’s servants.

The lights of the little town came in sight and he urged his horse on. The tavern was easy to find, for at this late hour it was the only building still lit against the dark. After dismounting in front, he tethered his horse to the hitching rail and headed inside.

A rowdy card game occupied the biggest table. The other three contained men either passed out face down or well enough into their cups they soon would be. He crossed to the bar and pulled out a stool to sit. “A pint of your best ale,” he told the stoop-shouldered barkeep.

Without hesitation the man filled a glass and thrust it across the scarred counter.

Tyrone flipped him a coin. “Is there any entertainment to be had here?”

The barkeep tested the coin with his teeth before dropping it in the pouch around his waist. “I only got two girls, and one is taken fer the night.”

“And the other? What of her?” Tyrone took a sip of the ale, rolling its smooth and rich flavor on his tongue.

“‘Tis her night off.” The man ran an appraising eye over Tyrone’s well-made clothing. “But, I think she’ll cut ‘er bathin’ short for the likes of you, my lord.”

Bathing.
Tyrone wondered if perhaps it was the same woman he encountered in the pool but then thought the better of it. No, the woman did not have the body language of a common whore. Still, not convinced, he asked, “Is she petite and dark haired?”

The barkeep frowned. “No, she’s tall and fair haired, with breasts that’ll make a grown man cry, my lord.”

The pool was gloomy, but even so he was sure the wood nymph’s breasts were small, though his inability to see more than her shape and the dark cascade of her hair might impede his judgment. The memory of her pert breasts as they brushed his chest made him shift on the stool. Shaking his head to dislodge the image, he picked up his glass and drained the contents before setting it down with a thump. It was assured he would never discover her name or see her again. “Maybe another time.” His desire to bed a woman this night deflated, so he set out for Westpoint Manor. It would seem there was time to hunt for game to appease the estate’s cook before he arrived after all.

“Miss Daysland?”

Delilah turned from the piano. With effort she kept her expression neutral despite the maid’s unwanted interruption of her music devotions. “Yes, Teresa?”

“There’s a Lord Frost here to see you.”

“Who?” Delilah frowned, trying to place the unfamiliar name.

“A Lord Frost, says he’s the Earl of Merryweather.”

It was customary for gentlemen to drop by to speak with her father on occasion; however, none ever requested to see her. Perhaps it was someone who only recently learned of her sire’s death and wished to offer condolences. She turned back to the piano, settling her fingers on the smooth keys. “Tell him I am indisposed and send him on his way.”

“Very well, miss, but I’ve the notion he’ll not be pleased at being dismissed. If you’ll pardon my saying so, he looks rather used to getting his way.”

Delilah shrugged. “Then have Aims take care of him.” The beefy butler could always be counted on to deal with an unwanted guest.

“As you wish, miss.”

She waited until the door closed signaling the maid’s retreat before beginning to play her favorite soft, haunting melody. Swaying in time to the piece, she lost herself in the passion and sadness it incited. After so little sleep the night before she needed something to soothe her restless mind. A smile curved her lips as she skipped her fingers across the keyboard, picking out each note with a sure feel. Though yet cool in the room, experience told her by afternoon it would be hot and sticky, unless of course the rain chose to spare them for a day. She sniffed.
Pity, it does not smell like rain.
She inhaled again, hoping she missed the damp smell forewarning a delightful storm.
No, everything still smells of dryness and dust.

Someone knocked on the door, but she ignored it. A slight draft of heavy air brushed the back of her neck laid bare by her braid coiled on top of her head. Another servant no doubt, seeking her attention. They could wait. She had nothing but time these days.

“Miss? The lord, he refuses to leave. He says he’s your guardian.”

Guardian?
She scowled when her fingers fumbled and played the wrong note, leaving a sharp echo in the room. “I have no guardian and certainly no need of one, Teresa.” She picked up the tune where she left off. “Send him away.”

Another draft tickled the back of her neck, confirming the maid left to follow her directive. Again she focused on the notes, losing herself in their purity.
Ah yes, softer now, like feathers brushing the air …

Crash!

Delilah mashed the chord beneath her hands, her startled gasp covered by the mismatched moan of the piano. To compose herself, she took a deep breath and repositioned her hands. Seething with anger at the interruption, she rebuked, “Teresa, how many times have I requested to be left undisturbed during my morning practice? Honestly, if you cannot handle removing one simple man from my parlor, then I shall have to hire someone else who can.”

“I am not a
simple
man, nor am I accustomed to being removed against my wishes.”

Delilah froze at the unexpected baritone, laced with anger.
Good Lord, does the uncouth man think I will invite him for tea if he barges into my music room like a rampaging bull?
She resisted the urge to turn around and berate him, thus allowing him to see her weakness. “Please remove yourself from my music room.”

Footsteps crossed the carpet, much lighter than she would have expected a man’s to be. “I will not. I have been sent by the king and, as your better, demand you show me proper respect.”

He stood right behind her, most probably staring at her, the unwelcome heat of his breath irritating the back of her neck. Anger radiated from his pores in a way that made her fingers curl on the piano keys. “
Respect?
You interrupt my morning in such a rude manner and yet demand respect?” She gave a hollow laugh to cover the nervousness his close proximity caused.

“I am Lord Frost, the Earl of Merryweather.”