Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (197 page)

Delilah sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a delicate lace handkerchief from her reticule. “Who are you?”

The girl’s voice softened. “Just a maid, my lady. May I see you above stairs to your bedchamber?”

“Thank you. I have endured enough humiliation this night.”

• • •

Delilah stumbled, banging her shin against a chair in the bedchamber. Clenching her teeth she rubbed the bruised limb. If she must stay at the baron’s for a day or so it would be best to have the maid remove most of the furniture. Hands outstretched, she made her way past another chair, end table, and dressing screen to the window. She followed the grainy textured wall to the corner and then made her way along the next until her hip bumped a larger object. Leaning forward she investigated it. A soft bedspread smoothed beneath her fingertips.
At last. S
he perched on the edge and then climbed between the covers.

It was strange to be in a room not her own. She rolled over on the lumpy mattress. Between the unfamiliar surroundings and uncomfortable cushioning, it was doubtful she would sleep much this night. It would have been easier to have the baron stay at Westpoint, and she wondered why neither of them thought of it. Yawning, she rolled over onto her side and listened to the peculiar noises around her. Footsteps passed by the door. Laughter carried from the entrance way, a guest departing in all likelihood, and a door closed. Outside the window the wind moaned and howled, rattling branches against the windowpane. A lone cow bellowed, its forlorn call lending an eerie air to the place.
I hope Jester is safe and snug in the baron’s stable.
Somewhere downstairs a clock chimed. “Bong … bong.”
Two past midnight.
She yawned again. Though her body was weary, her mind churned with restless energy. Too bad she couldn’t brave a trip downstairs to the kitchen for a bite to eat.

The click of the door latch made her sit up. At the soft squeak of the hinges and the creak of a loose floor board, she tilted her head toward the door. “Who is there?”

The swish of a cautious tread and the scent of liquor made her recoil against the headboard. Clutching the covers to her chest she inquired again, “Who is there?”

“‘Tis jus me, wife, come t’ take my rights by marriage.” The bed dipped under the baron’s weight.

Was the man drunk? “We had an agreement, Augustus.”

He snatched the covers from her grip with an evil chortle. “Did you really believe I would s-tick t’ s-such a ridic … ridic-ulous agreement,” he slurred. “I’ll ‘ave no reason for you t’ take the property mine by marriage away.”

Panic rose in her chest and she tried to slide from the bed only to find herself imprisoned between his arms braced on either side of her torso. “You are drunk, sir.”

“Of course I am. Why else w-would I s-sleep with such a pathetic creature as you?”

Her mind raced for a way out of the situation. “I thought you possessed some honor at least.”

He laughed. “You daft wench. When I t-tire of your wares it’ll be a s-swift tumble down the stairs for you. My plan t’ get you t’ accept my s-suit worked. ‘Twas too easy t’ get you t’ believe the earl meant you harm.”

Terror fueled her courage. She braced her feet against his chest as his liquor-saturated breath came closer. With all her strength she shoved. Augustus grunted, and then tumbled off the bed, landing with a loud crash. Something clattered on the bedside table before coming to rest on the floor with a dull clunk. On her hands and knees she crawled to the opposite side of the bed. Augustus moaned.
It was him all along. How could I have been so gullible?
Listening for his pursuit, she scrambled from the bed and darted in the direction she thought the door should be. The same bruised shin caught the chair, toppling her to the floor. She staggered to her feet to the sound of her nightdress tearing. It dawned on her Augustus was silent. Was he passed out from too much drink or had she inadvertently killed him? Suppressing the urge to find out, she groped her way to the door, one ear tuned for his approach.

Luck was with her when her hand closed around the smooth knob. It twisted with ease beneath her hand and she crept into the hallway. Biting her lip, she tried to remember which way the stairs were. A little more than a dozen steps to the right, she concluded, perhaps two without someone’s sure steps to guide her. She placed the palm of her right hand against the wall and shuffled forward as fast as she dared. Before she thought it possible, her hand slipped from the wall into emptiness. Teetering on the edge of the top step, she flailed for the railing, heaving a sigh of relief when her hand closed around its sturdy wooden arm. Step by step she descended the carpeted steps until her feet reached the hallway below. All was quiet, for which she was glad. If someone happened along, how would she explain what happened to her husband? Surely she would be held at fault for any injury or death of the man she wed. Panic resurfaced when she realized she didn’t know which way to go.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed her fear aside.
Think, Delilah, think.
A vague recollection of walking forward and then turning left came to her. Arms outstretched, she turned right and walked forward. After a few moments she bumped into a door jam. She eased her way around it and kept walking until her palms came in contact with a solid wooden surface, and she slid her hand down it until she found the knob to open the door. A gust of wind whipped her hair about her head as she stepped outside. Not bothering to close the door behind, she made her way down the steps to the drive before pausing to consider which direction to go. How was she to find her way home? A whinny carried above the wind. Pivoting to the left she followed the sound until she walked into a rail fence. It stood to reason she would be black and blue by the time she made her way home, if she managed to get there at all.

“Jester?” A welcoming nicker made her sigh with relief. “Thank God I found you, my friend.” Crawling between the rails she ran her palms along his side, searching for the harness. “The fiend left you out in such horrid weather, too,” she crooned. The pony nuzzled her arm as her fingers closed on the hand strap. She patted him. “Now all we have to do is find the gate.” She urged him on, trailing one hand along the rough top rail, unmindful of the splinters that pierced her tender flesh. On and on they trudged parallel to the enclosure fence. When she began to think she somehow missed the gate, her hand snagged the latch. “Whoa, Jester.”

The pony halted, waiting with his usual patience as she fumbled with the braided rope loop. Eventually it popped loose and the gate creaked open. After leading Jester through, Delilah scrambled aboard and urged him forward with her heels. All she could do was hope he could find his way home in the midst of the growing storm.

The wind howled, flapping her tattered nightdress and unbound hair around her. Delilah shivered, her teeth chattering when an icy gust cut through the flimsy material. True to his character Jester plodded on unaffected. The moan of the rising wind drowned out the sound of the pony’s hooves. A couple drops of water against her wind-chapped cheeks were the only warning before the downpour began. Frigid rain pelted her mercilessly, turning her nightdress into a soggy second skin. The chill was unbearable. She let go of the harness to lean forward and wrap her arms around Jester’s neck, pressing her body to him to savor the little warmth his furry coat could give.

How far was it from the baron’s to her own estate? On the road it took almost an hour by coach going at a smart clip. She grimaced as brush scraped her leg, snagging her nightdress. Going cross country as it appeared they were should be quicker, provided Jester was heading in the right direction. The groom led him over after the ceremony, but would Jester recognize the route to take? The seeds of doubt began to grow in her weary mind.
We are going much slower and Jester’s legs are a lot shorter than the carriage horses … What if we get lost? Anything could happen to me out here alone … Was there a better way to handle Augustus? I cannot go back …

A lone wolf howled nearby. Apprehension tightened her grip around the pony’s neck as his steps faltered. His head swung in the direction of the daunting sound. Did he see the creature lurking in the bushes? Was it watching and waiting for its chance to pounce?
Noise. I need to make noise to scare it away.
She opened her mouth to holler at the beast but then thought better of it. She didn’t want to alert the wrong creatures of her presence here, alone in the dark with no protection.

Do not think about the cold. Think about getting home, to my room, to my warm bed.
She coughed into Jester’s wet fur.
I am still cold.
A sound in rhythm with the wind caught her attention. “Bang … bang … bang.” The noise grew louder until it was right in front of them. The rain ceased as Jester clip clopped across a wooden floor. The smell of fresh hay, dust, and straw tickled her nostrils making her sneeze. The sound echoed.
Jester must have brought me to an empty barn.

With difficulty she eased her cold, stiff limbs from Jester’s back and leaned against him, shivering. The pony shuffled ahead, leading her into a deep pile of soft straw. With a violent shake, he sent droplets of water flying in all directions, further soaking her. “Jester!” With a sigh she copied his primitive movement for lack of a towel, attempting to rid herself of her own excess moisture. The pony snuffled in the straw, pawed once, and then settled down for the night. Delilah followed suite and covered herself with straw for a blanket. Curling up beside her pony in the dry, makeshift bed comforted her. Despite the banging, or perhaps because of its steady rhythm in the storm, her eyes became heavy. She drifted into an exhausted slumber afraid of what tomorrow might bring.

Chapter Sixteen

Tyrone heaved an exasperated groan, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and glancing at the timepiece on the table. It was well past two in the morning, yet he couldn’t sleep. Delilah’s sudden change of heart regarding the baron’s proposal, and marriage in general, still didn’t sit well with him. Something wasn’t right, though nothing sinister had happened since Delilah agreed to the baron’s courtship. Everything was as it should be … or was it? The livestock, crops, and supplies were still missing. In light of his ward’s recent marriage there was nothing more for him to do here, yet he hesitated to leave. Why? Was it because of his desire to never leave an untied end or fear he failed in his duties? Perhaps it was more. He did have feelings for Delilah Daysland. Why didn’t he act on those feelings? He shook his head and lurched to his feet.
Act on what?
The tenderness he felt for her was based on admiration of what she could do and accomplish, not on love for her … wasn’t it? Though his heart screamed the truth, he refused to permit the idea to settle in his mind. It didn’t matter anyhow, for she was a married woman now. Her new husband would see to her welfare and finances. She and the theft of her property was no longer his concern.

After glancing out the window at the rain beating against the pane, he headed downstairs to the study. He’d missed something, some vital part of information somewhere that would clear up the matter of Delilah’s missing stock and supplies. The question was, what? His footsteps echoed as he crossed the tile foyer, reminding him of the emptiness of the house. Most of the servants left not long after the wedding festivities to take up or find positions elsewhere. Only a handful of servants were in attendance to see to the upkeep of the great house. His mind wandered back to the night he found Delilah sprawled on the floor. She looked so frail and helpless lying there with blood oozing from a gash on her scalp. Did someone hit her as she claimed? If so, could it be the same person responsible for the thefts? It made no sense. Why would someone want to hurt her? He shook his head and seated himself behind the study desk, fairly sure murder was not the intention. Who would gain from murdering an heiress other than someone who stood to inherit in her absence? There was no one in line to the squire’s fortune but Delilah. Still, someone wanted to scare her. The question was who and why?

After lighting the lamp he flipped through the file he compiled on Delilah and the servants. The sole claim to his former ward’s fortune would be through marriage.
Marriage.
Her union with the baron. Nothing specific troubled him about the man, which made it all the more strange the alliance should bother him. He frowned. His feelings for Delilah made him suspicious of the man, nothing more. Rummaging through the desk, he pulled out the squire’s old ledger containing more personal notes than financial recordings. Something about the baron mentioned within its pages nudged his memory, but just what it was he couldn’t recall.

Tyrone went through the book page by page from the beginning, scanning the entries until he found the one he was seeking.

Met the new baron. Boy is a remarkable resemblance to his parentage. Wonder if the former baroness has confided the truth to her son? He seems very taken with Delilah, which causes concern.

Tyrone leaned back in the chair and pondered the entry. What truth? Why would the squire be concerned with his daughter catching the young baron’s eye? He skimmed the entries until he came to the day of the squire’s death.

The young man is getting bolder with his questions. Surely he knows why I turned down his request. It is time to put an end to this.

He closed the ledger. Put an end to what? Well, if Tyrone wanted to know a family secret, then he would need to turn to someone indebted to the household. A devoted servant. He jerked the bell pull to summon the butler, who was still in residence. While he waited he flipped through the ledger for any further reference to the baron.

It was many minutes later before a sleepy eyed Aims appeared. The butler yawned, rubbing a hand through his tousled gray hair. “You rang, my lord?”

Tyrone gestured to the chair across the desk. “Have a seat, Aims.”

The butler blinked and then took a seat. “Is there something you need at such a late hour, my lord?”