Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (200 page)

“Wait,” she cried out.

“That is enough, little jewel, for you are unused to seeing.”

Delilah clutched her still tingling hand to her chest. “Why? How is this possible? Is it some sort of gypsy trick?”

“Drink this.” Delinka pressed a wooden tankard into her hands. She raised it to her lips and drank the warm mulled elderberry wine. When she finished, the drabardi took the cup away and led Delilah to a low, narrow cot. “Sleep now, let your mind rest, and all will be clear when you wake.”

The idea of sleep overtaking the confusion in her mind didn’t seem possible. Nevertheless, she slipped beneath the rough wool blanket and drifted off into an exhausted slumber almost before her head hit the pillow.

Chapter Nineteen

Tyrone rode the baron’s horse, following the pony’s odd track. Jester kept going in the same direction, jogging along as if he knew the way. There was not much else to do but continue following the pony. Eventually they came to a barn an hour ride from Westpoint land. A young man looked up and paused where he pitched straw from a stall into an unhitched wagon by the door.

“You there,” Tyrone addressed the fellow. “Have you seen a blind woman with this pony or on foot last eve or this morn?”

The young fellow glanced at the pony and the stable master before shifting his sleepy gaze back to Tyrone. “No, my lord. I’d remember seeing such a sight fer sure.” He swatted at Jester when the pony made to push past him into the barn.

“Are you sure?” Tyrone dismounted, handed his reins to his companion, and followed Jester to the doorway of the rough lumber building. He peered inside. It looked like every other barn, littered with straw and smelling of manure.

“Quite sure, my lord.” The young man shooed away the pony and turned back to forking dirty straw.

Tyrone stepped away. “If you should come across Miss Daysland, send word to Westpoint immediately.”

The boy nodded and continued with his chores.

Tyrone remounted his horse and directed it to the main road. “Come, Jester.”

The pony hesitated, but then trotted ahead until he came to the cottage. With a shake of his head and a defiant nicker he stopped at the door. At the sound it swung open, a middle-aged woman framed in the doorway. Her eyes grew round at the sight greeting her, a frail hand going to the shawl cast about her thin shoulders.

“Good day, mistress.” Tyrone tipped his hat. “I am searching for a missing woman. Have you by any chance seen a blind woman in these parts today?”

Her eyes darted to the young man, now leaning on his pitch fork scowling, before swinging back to the pony. “No, my lord. I’m jus’ a washer woman, see. I wouldn’t know of any noble woman wandering the forest in a storm.”

Tyrone pondered her for a moment and then looked to the sky. He didn’t mention Miss Daysland was out in the storm. “The weather is fine this morning, mistress.” When she blanched and looked at her feet, prickles of wariness rode his neck. Something was not right, he could feel it.

A thin, tight lipped man rode into the yard on a sorry nag, leading a sturdy workhorse. His eyes narrowed before he stepped from the swaybacked mount and snapped his fingers to the lad. “Can I be of service, my lord?” he asked, handing the reins of his horse and the work animal’s lead to the boy.

“I have come in search of a young woman who is missing.” Tyrone took note of the red ribbon entwined in the mane of the feather-footed draft horse. The ribbon was the trade mark of a gypsy bred animal.

“I’ve not seen any such girl, my lord. I’ve been gone these past days to purchase a new plow horse.” The man shrugged.

“A fine specimen to be sure. Where did you purchase such a sturdy beast?”

The man darted a look at the woman. “At the market in Wyatt Town east of ‘ere, my lord.”

“Really? The beast has the look of fine gypsy stock.”

“Could be.” The man shrugged again. “There were some traders there. I’ve no qualms buying from the gypsies, long as I don’t get cheated out of my coin.”

Tyrone leaned forward. “Did he cost you a goodly sum?”

“Enough. ‘Twas a good harvest this year and time to retire Samson there.” He jerked his head toward the shaggy, brown mount. The animal, little more than bones and skin now, wandered in the rickety corral beside the barn.

“Indeed.” Tyrone tipped his hat and called to the pony, “Jester, come.”

The pony whinnied again and shook his head. The woman shrank back from the door and flapped her shawl to encourage the animal from her doorstep.

Tyrone rode forward, casting a curious glance inside the one room hovel. Nothing inside seemed out of the ordinary, he noted, leaning down and clipping a lead on the disobedient pony. “I bid you good day. If you come across the miss in question, please send word to Westpoint. There will be a handsome reward for her safe return.” He rode off down the narrow, weed-filled lane, with the pony and stable master.

The stable master leaned forward in his saddle to peer at the ground. “Fresh wagon wheel ruts with the tracks of a large-footed horse between them. Someone else besides us also visited the farmer since the night’s rains.”

Had the baron been here? Tyrone studied the tracks. It was possible, yet he didn’t think the baron would come looking for Delilah in a farm wagon. A saddle horse, too, it appeared had followed the wagon.

He glanced over his shoulder before they rounded the bend. The farmer was standing there, watching him. Did the man steal the workhorse? It was possible, he supposed, however sure-fingered gypsies would be more apt to pilfer an animal. It was more likely the horse was of gypsy stock since it did display ribbons of the wanderers brand in its mane. He turned to the stable master. “Have you heard of any roving bands of gypsies in this part of late?”

“Not around Wyatt, my lord, though they do pass through this way each planting and harvest I hear tell.”

When they reached the main road the wagon tracks turned right. On a hunch Tyrone followed them to the junction of a field. The tracks crossed the open grass and entered the forest beyond. It couldn’t hurt to see just who visited the farmer this morning.

The coolness of the shaded forest path was an inviting shelter against the early heat of the sun. The groom reined in his horse and pointed at the tracks in the soft dirt. “Look here, my lord. There are two sets of wagon tracks, one coming out of the wood and one going back in, followed by a single horse. A top of them, as if at a later time, are the tracks of a single horse, this time leading a heavier one behind. It is clear the farmer lied. The workhorse was not purchased at Wyatt, but most likely at the gypsy camp itself. Why did the farmer lie?”

Tyrone’s gut told him it was something to do with Delilah.

In time the trail led to an open clearing where it appeared a number of wagons had been circled around the smoldering remains of a campfire. The gypsies were here as little as two hours ago, he was sure.

The groom looked to the sky. “It is getting late, my lord. Perhaps we should go back to the baron’s to see if he has yet to return. Mayhap he has found her, or can shed some light upon the situation.”

Tyrone nodded. He could follow the gypsy tracks all day, but what was the point if they didn’t have Delilah? He wasn’t even sure they saw her at all. The stable master did have a point. They were better off returning to the baron’s to seek information. He pivoted his horse and returned the way they came.

Chapter Twenty

Delilah rolled over on the narrow cot, accustoming herself to the sounds and movement of the wagon. Could she believe the visions from the crystal ball? If they were true, Augustus was a murderer. Now that she was married to him, it stood to reason he would do her harm if he discovered she knew the truth, though he already attempted to, either deliberately or otherwise, in his drunken state. Tyrone was back in London, and no longer in charge of her well-being either, so who else could she turn for help? No one would believe her. They already thought she was noddy. On the other hand, Augustus wouldn’t find her here. She would be safe with the gypsies.

The gentle sway and jingle jangle of the horse’s harness lulled her into a sense of peace. Or was it the answers she found in the crystal ball? No matter, she was a gypsy. Her place was the earth, sun, and the stars above. She wouldn’t be shunned by these people, her people, unlike the nobility that looked upon her with pity. She was safe here for the moment, until she could figure out how to foil the baron’s plans.

The wagon slowed, turning in a wide arc before coming to a halt. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor as the door opened.

“Ah, my niece, you are awake.” Deagan’s voice carried a hint of a smile to it.

She smiled back. “I feel refreshed. Different somehow.”

“The visions will do that to you. Here, Delinka has asked me to give you some clean clothing. When you are changed we will talk.”

A bundle of soft cloth was pressed into her hands. When the door shut with a click and her uncle’s footsteps retreated down the steps Delilah hurried to change. When she was dressed in the clean garments she followed the edge of the bed to the wall and then the door. She opened the door and hesitated.

“Let me help you,” Deagan’s dry, leathery hand grasped hers and guided her down the narrow steps to the ground. A light breeze tickled her cheek, the cool dampness of the air giving tell it was evening. Crickets chirped and people talked and laughed in hushed tones, as if afraid to disturb the creatures of the night. A nearby owl hooted as Deagan led her to a wide stump to sit. She arranged her skirt and paid attention to the sounds of the people setting up camp, unharnessing horses, and striking the flint to start a fire.

“Tonight we will rest, for tomorrow people will come from miles around to trade, buy potions from us, and be entertained.”

Delilah sighed with wonder. “How I wish I could see the festivities.”

“Tonight you shall feel it.”

As if on cue a drum began to beat, accompanied by a tambourine and the soft whine of a violin. The music began slow and sensual, increasing in tempo until Delilah couldn’t resist tapping her foot to the rhythm. “I wish my pianoforte was here.”

Deagan clasped her hand and drew her to her feet. “Nay, my little jewel, feel the music in your veins and let your body play the way your fingers once did.” Spinning her around, he put his hands on her hips in a most unsettling way, and despite her protests moved them to sway to the music. His breath tickled her cheeks when he whispered in her ear, “Feel the music, allow your body and soul finally be free, my little jewel.”

Delilah relaxed and moved to the music. The beat invoked a flurry of movement, and when Deagan’s hands slipped away she lost herself in the visions her mind conjured. Bright skirts, flowing blouses, and unbound hair swirled across her mind’s memories. Yes, this she saw before and could remember. Abandoning all pretenses, she pulled her hair from its remaining pins, unmindful of where they scattered, and lost herself in the music, twirling and gyrating as free will took her.

The heat from the fire warmed her flesh, the snapping and popping of the sparks igniting her passion. With reckless abandon, she threw back her head, raised her hands to the heavens, and twirled around and around. A fever took hold of her body as the skirts of her gypsy dress flapped and waved in the heat of the fire. Never would she view music, dancing, or even her own body in the same light as before. She danced until her breathing came in labored gasps and then made her way to the stump just outside the circle of warmth, glad for the coolness of the night bathing her heated flesh.

“You did well, Delilah.”

She couldn’t contain her smile. “It felt wonderful, uncle.”

He patted her hand in understanding. “You will fulfill your destiny soon, under the waxing moon.”

“My destiny?”

“Ah, yes, my little jewel. You see, each one of us dies and comes back in another form, but keeps ties to that familiar to them during their last life.”

“Are you referring to this thing called reincarnation?”

“Yes, some call it that. Each one of us is re-birthed many times during our soul’s journey. Did you never wonder about your connection to Jester and the mark you both bear?”

Try as she might Delilah couldn’t recall a mark. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

“Have you never wondered about the stone around your neck?”

She touched the stone, now warm from the heat of her body. “What about it?”

His fingers brushed hers and fumbled with the stone lying between her breasts. “I have removed the lock of Jester’s hair, now feel it.”

Returning her fingers to the stone she rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. A deep groove she never knew was there before made a ridge under her thumb. Brows bunched in concentration, she traced the lines until she thought she could make out the pattern. “A quarter moon?”

“Yes. It is the same mark Jester carries on his head and the same as the birthmark on your hip.”

Pursing her lips she tried to recall Jester the last time she saw him many years before. A vague remembrance of a white crescent came to mind. Yes, it did look like a moon. “What does it mean?”

“Ah, Delilah, you have so much to learn about who you truly are.” His sigh was heavy. “He bears the mark of the quarter moon, the phase to which you were both born. He was created to be your guide, protector, and anchor to this world. He is also a part of your past.”

“I do not understand.”

“The moon is your talisman. Jester and you were mates in your last lives.”

Confusion and disbelief made her wary of his words. “I do not believe in such nonsense.”

“Never say you do not believe in fate, for fate is what brought you here to me.”

Delilah snorted. “If Jester and I were mates in our last life, then why have I come back as a human and he an animal?”

“It is not for us to understand but rather to accept. I believe he came back in his animal form to atone for his sins in the past life.”

“Then my blindness is a punishment for some sin I, too, committed in a former life?”