Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (199 page)

“Yes, my lord.” The stable master disappeared into the recesses of the barn to do as he was bid while Tyrone paced the muddy yard. Barefoot prints meant Delilah left in such haste she didn’t have time to even don her slippers. What happened to make her flee in such panic? Riding out in a storm on Jester was foolhardy. In her distress did she meet with an accident, or foul play attempting to make her way back to Westpoint Manor?

Within moments he and the stable master were mounted. Tyrone slipped the lead off the pony and then followed as Jester trotted from the stable yard and headed across the fields. Would the pony take the same route he had in the storm? He prayed they would find Delilah safe and no worse for wear somewhere along the way.

Chapter Eighteen

Delilah rolled over when the door opened. Footsteps of more than one person crossed to the bed.

“Aye, ‘ere she is. Take ‘er quickly and be gone ‘afore the baron comes lookin’ fer ‘er then.”

Without warning she was lifted up, blankets and all, and slung over a broad shoulder. Her breath caught in her heavy chest and then released in a fit of uncontrolled coughing. By the time she could inhale again she was settled in a wagon box. The conveyance rumbled into motion. How could she have doubted the farmer’s kindness? He arranged for her to be returned to Westpoint Manor after all. She must remember to send the family a lamb in thanks for their service.

The wagon rolled on, bumping and bouncing over ruts and rocks for what seemed like hours. She began to worry all was not right. Perhaps it was taking so long to get to the manor because they were going slow. She strained to pick up the hoof beats over the harness jingle. The rhythmic clip clop told her they were going at a steady trot. Her inner voice told her they should have reached Westpoint long ago. Despite the rocking she managed to pull herself into a sitting position against the wooden box of the wagon. “Good sirs, have we crossed onto Westpoint land yet?”

“Nay, my lady. Soon now, soon,” came the gruff reply.

He was lying, she was sure of it. “Surely we should have arrived by now. Have you taken the wrong turn?”

“Nay, my lady. We have taken the long way out of concern for your comfort. Rest assured we shall be at our destination in due time.” There was a quiet murmur of voices and then someone settled beside her in the wagon box. The smell of herbs and wine tickled her nose.

“Here, you must be thirsty. Drink this.”

A skin was held to her lips. Her dry throat welcomed the sweet elderberry wine and she drank her fill, wrinkling her nose at the pulpy dregs in the last couple mouthfuls. When she finished the skin was removed. “To whom do I owe my thanks, sir?”

“Jal, my lady, and the other is my cousin, Ker.”

“Very uncommon names.”

“Not among my people.”

Delilah frowned trying to place the thick, accented speech. “Your dialect is familiar to me. Where are you from?”

“I’m from the land, my lady, from everywhere any man can call home.”

She caught her breath. “You are a gypsy?”

“Many call us that.”

“Forgive me my rudeness, sir, for I have heard many a wild tale of such people.”

He chortled. “I have no doubt. Many of which are true, some of which I’m sure are purely imagination.”

“My father once allowed your people to camp on Westpoint land and entertain the townsfolk, at my mother’s insistence.”

“And now?”

Sorrow griped her at the mention of her mother. “My father refused to allow them there after my mother’s death. In truth she begged to have them stay. I sensed my father did not approve of them, nor they of him.”

“Your mother must have been a fun-loving lady, if you’ve no mind me saying.”

“She was.” Delilah sighed. “I am told I have her looks. She used to call me her little gypsy doll.”

The man’s tone warmed. “I can see why, for you look like a gypsy for sure.”

Delilah giggled and then sobered when she became aware of other voices and the smoky musk of a campfire. “Where are we?”

“We have arrived at my camp,” he said, moving away from her when the wagon lurched to a stop.

“Your camp? You are supposed to be returning me to Westpoint Manor.” She struggled when someone picked her up.

“Be still,” the gruff voice from earlier admonished. “You are safe here.”

She ceased her weak efforts. “But, why have you brought me here?”

“Deagan wished it so.”

“Deagan? Who is he?”

“He is our voivode, or chief as you call him.” The man paused, and the rustle of canvas and creak of a wagon step alerted her to another presence.

“You’ve found her. Has the bastard hurt her?”

Delilah turned her head toward the deep voice and the man who held her set her on her feet. “She has caught a chill, though I can’t vouch for her treatment at the baron’s hands.”

She steadied herself against Jal. “Are you the one they call Deagan?”

“Yes, it has been many years since I’ve seen you, Delilah. You’ve grown into a most impressive young woman.”

Curiosity made her forget her demands to be taken to Westpoint. “How is it you know me?”

“Come, we’ll have a meal by the fire. I shall tell you all you forgot, or have not been told these long years, of you, the one you call mother, the squire, and Kata.”

A warm, calloused hand grasped hers in a gentle grip and led her to the heat of the campfire. She was pressed to sit on a sturdy bench and someone handed her a warm wooden bowl. Delilah sniffed the inviting scent of rich vegetable stew and warm rye bread, her stomach gurgling in appreciation. After running a finger along the edge of the bowl for the spoon, she scooped up some of the stew, blew on it, and then savored the spicy taste as Deagan began to talk.

“I first met Isabella, the one you call your mother, the year before you were born. We were camped at this very spot when she and the squire slipped into our camp one night. Oh, she was a beautiful woman and a suburb dancer. None but a true gypsy heart could dance as free as she did. I was taken by her delicate golden beauty straight off.”

Delilah caught her breath in wonder. She always thought she took after the dark-haired woman who came in her dreams. “My mother was blond? You have made a mistake, for the woman I remember was dark like me.”

“I have made no mistake. The woman you remember was my sister Kata, your mother who served as your nursemaid for many years.”

“A lie!”

“No, listen and all will become clear.” The fire shifted, crackling as if he stirred it with a stick. “After the dancing wound down that first night she sat beside me and told me of her shattered dreams. Two years she was married to the squire and though he visited her bed each night, she didn’t have a child to show for it. She asked me to cast a spell or give her some sort of fertility potion to change the situation.”

Delilah leaned forward teaming with curiosity, her meal forgotten. “And did you?”

He chuckled. “Ah, my child, there are many things a gypsy can do, but conceiving a child is not magic, simply the act of love. Kata and the squire made love beneath a gypsy moon and you were conceived. It seemed the perfect solution for your mother to claim you as her own, since the squire could not marry my sister and could give you the life you should have. Eventually we moved on, but I never forgot her. The next time we happened by this way was almost a year later. One night Isabella and Kata slipped into our camp and brought you with them.”

Delilah interrupted the tale right there. “It is not true. I am my mother’s daughter.”

“Nay, that is what you have been told and assumed was true. I begged Kata to return to her gypsy roots, yet she refused. She still loved the squire you see, and did not regret doing what she did to keep his love. I did not have the heart to take you away from her, so I made her promise to bring you to see me each time I happened by.”

She leaped from her seat in denial. “Nay! You are a gypsy and therefore nothing but a trickster. Why should I believe your tale?”

He took her hand in his. “I loved Kata, still I let you be, for your destiny was the life of a titled princess, not a penniless wanderer.”

Anger at their betrayal pricked her words. “I am no princess, but the unwanted daughter of a squire. My affliction is a curse for my illegitimate birth, and my punishment a life worth less than yours.”

“No. You have been gifted with a sight beyond your eyes. It is not a gypsy curse, it is a special gift.” He smoothed her locks from her cheek with a tender caress. “You were your mother’s greatest joy and it nearly broke her heart when you went blind. Like you, she thought it her evil deed that caused the sickness, and she came to me for a spell to reverse your fortune. But we have no such powers. We have nothing more than a few healing potions, nothing to help in a case like yours.” His voice took on a deep sadness. “All I could do was gift you with a wise guide and a talisman of protection to help you through life.”

“Jester?”

“Yes, I could only hope he would see you through the dangers coming your way. Then Isabella died. Kata and the rest of the gypsies were banished from the squire’s land.”

Delilah sank down on the bench in shock, and for some strange reason a sense of well-being. If the tale was to be believed, she was free from any decree to marry the baron. Even though her sightless eyes didn’t deter him, her less than noble heritage would. What was to stop her from following the gypsies?

“Take me with you.” It was obvious her request took Deagan by surprise by the moments of silence ticking by.

At long last he cleared his throat. “You have a life, and I promised your mother I would not take you from it.”

“Then why did you bring me here?”

His sigh hung heavy in the air between them. “I am selfish, I suppose. I wanted to know you and for you to know the truth about your heritage before I die.”

“Do I not get a choice in my own life? Am I so disabled I cannot make the decision whom to marry and where to live?”

“Ah, my little jewel, you have the true gypsy spirit. What about Baron March?”

Repulsion filled her at the mention of the man’s name and she tried to hide it, yet she suspected her uncle would see her true feelings. “He was a choice between the lesser of two evils, or so I thought.”

“I suspected as much when I heard. You are right, however; the marriage cannot be.”

Startled she lifted a brow. “How would you know? Have you met the baron?”

“He has dealt a few crooked blows to our people before. But no, I have not met him myself. I do know where he came from and his blood must not mix with yours. I feel your heart, my little jewel, and have seen your plight in Delinka’s crystal ball. I had only to meet you and discern your heart to make my decision.”

“I do not understand.”

“Come, I will introduce you to Delinka and she will explain it to you, for she has the power to see things in the orb.” Taking her hand he led her away from the heat of the fire. They walked a few short feet before he placed her hand on a smooth wooden rail and helped her climb two steps. “This is Delinka’s wagon, come inside and sit.”

Delilah allowed him to lead her through a narrow door and then took a seat on a low wooden stool. Her hands came to rest upon a table before her covered in a rough fabric.

A deep, feminine voice greeted her from across the table. “Greetings lost one. I am Delinka, drabardi of our tribe.”

She jumped when cool, wrinkled fingers grasped hers in a light grip. “Drabardi?”

“Teller of the past, present, and future.”

Delilah squirmed in her chair, unsure why the person behind the kind voice made her uneasy. “I do not know you.”

“I have seen you many times, Delilah, in my dreams and in the fog swirling in the crystal ball.”

“I do not understand.”

“I know. Here, let me show you.” The fingers moved her hand to rest upon a smooth, cold, rounded surface and then covered hers to keep it there.

Delilah gasped when the surface began to warm as if heated by a flame. “I am blind and cannot see what you seek to show me.”

“Shh, you’ve no need for your eyes; open your mind to see.”

A strange sensation spread from her hand upward. The tingling raised the tiny hairs on her arm and her head became foggy. A picture of a little dark-haired girl playing with a tawny colt swam before her mind’s eye.
No, not playing, dancing together around a large flickering fire.
Her long, curly locks flowed around her to the beat of a drum and the singsong of a violin. A beautiful golden-haired woman danced with the child and the colt, laughing and twirling to the music.
It’s her. My mother. The one I called mother, anyway.
A smaller, dark woman smiled from the shadows where she sat cross-legged on a colorful blanket clapping
. Kata, the nursemaid. My real mother.

The image faded and before Delilah could withdraw her hand another took its place. This time she saw the fair woman lying still on a bed. A man sat beside her, clutching her hands in his. She knew without being told this was her father. The dark-haired woman hovered in the background. The man turned, anger and grief hardening his stare. He pointed to the door and then pushed Kata from the room.

Again the image faded, this time replaced by one of the baron arguing with her father on a stormy cliff top. She gasped, recognizing the nightmare that came to her each evening. The rain poured down drowning their words, distorting her sight. Without warning the baron leaped forward, tackling the squire about the knees. He went down and the two rolled over and over, until a blow left her father prone. He reached up as if pleading. The baron stumbled to his feet, lifted his fist to the sky in defiance and then kicked the squire over the edge of the cliff. Delilah couldn’t help the cry of horror escaping her lips, echoing in the confines of the wagon. The image blurred as if the rain became harder, and then cleared to show two figures dancing around the flames of a roaring fire. A woman with flowing black hair, loose about her shoulders and violet eyes, half closed in pleasure, and a tall, clean shaven man. She knew in an instant it was her and the earl. They danced with wild abandon, caressing each other in a way that was sensual and provocative. The cold fingers lifted her hand from the surface of the crystal ball, causing the images to come to an abrupt halt.