Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (201 page)

“No. Your blindness is a gift, not a punishment. Jester was given to you as a guide to protect you until you could fulfill your destiny as a drabardi and marry the son of the great Romo baro. Delinka showed this to me just this morning in her crystal ball. I knew it was true when you asked to come with us.”

“Who is this Romo baro?”

“The Romo baro is the leader of all the gypsies. You are destined to be the greatest drabardi of all time. The one who will guide our people into a time of power and freedom.”

What was he saying? Was she supposed to be some kind of witch? “I am afraid you are too late, uncle, for I am already married to Baron March.”

“That is no marriage. It was not done under the harvest moon and no bride price was paid to me. Besides, it is a sacrilege and can never be.”

Delilah stood, her hands shaking with anger. “I have no wish to marry or become something of your fantasies.”

“Are you still pure?”

Heat flushed her cheeks. “I … yes, but it makes no difference.”

“It does; one must be pure to marry under the harvest moon, for when the moon waxes comes a time of great fertility. The harvest moon will be upon us in five days. After which you will be who you were recreated to be. You will carry the future great leader of the gypsy people in your womb.”

The man is noddier than a wet goose. Does he truly think I am some gypsy form of Mary, a vessel to birth the great gypsy messiah? It is impossible. I am a blind woman of illegitimate birth, nothing more. Nothing less.

Chapter Twenty-One

“I want answers!” Tyrone elbowed past the startled butler into the baron’s study.

Augustus looked up from his paperwork with a scowl. “I say, Lord Frost, a very undignified way you have to come calling on another gentleman.”

“Spare me the pomp and ceremony. Where is she?”

The baron paled and then blinked. “Who is it you are referring to, sir?”

Tyrone fixed him with a withering stare. “You know damned well whom I am referring to. Where is Miss Daysland?”

Baron March’s gaze slid away from Tyrone’s. “If you are speaking of the baroness, she is right here where she belongs, of course.”

“A lie. I came this morning to return Jester to her and she was nowhere to be found, nor were you. Care to explain?” Tyrone leaned across the desk itching to throttle the man.

“A minor misunderstanding I assure you, Frost. My lady wife is back above stairs safe and sound where she belongs. Why I only just returned home from begging her forgiveness after a small faux pas this morning.” He poured a glass of brandy from the decanter at his elbow and offered it to Tyrone, who refused with a shake of his head.

“What kind of insult did you give her?”

“Ah, I simply refused to allow the smelly beast … uh, pony, of hers admittance to the house. I cannot have the creature soiling my expensive Turkish rugs now, can I?” The baron downed the glass of spirits himself.

Tyrone grunted. “The animal is housebroken.”

The baron waved a hand. “Yes, yes, so the lady did explain after I went and apologized on bended knee. A rather touchy girl it appears, and I shall be most careful not to wound her pride again.”

“What happened to your head?” Tyrone sat and gestured to the thick white bandage encircling the baron’s head.

“Oh that.” Augustus touched the wrapping with a cautious finger. “I admit to getting a little foxed last eve, sir, you know how it is. All the excitement over the wedding. Tripped over my own feet like a clumsy ox and banged my head on the corner of the Chippendale table over there.”

Tyrone followed his motion, glancing at the table by the door. A plausible story he supposed, yet one which didn’t sit right with him in the least. “Send for her so I may inquire after her satisfaction over her new marriage and inform her of Jester’s return.”

The baron fidgeted with his limp neck cloth. “I am afraid she is resting at present. All the excitement of our nuptials and the um … lack of sleep last night.” He winked.

Tyrone grimaced at the man’s poor taste in his reference to the marriage bed. “Indeed. Well, tell her I have returned Jester and am anxious to remove to London this day.” He stood to go but paused. “Oh, be sure to keep a sharp eye on your livestock; gypsies are afoot again. I found evidence of their camp in Westpoint woods this afternoon. It seems the farmer down in the hollow purchased a new workhorse of gypsy stock, though he refused to say the truth about where he purchased it.”

“Dually noted, Frost, thank you and be assured I will keep my new lady wife close at hand for her protection.”

“See that you do.” Tyrone nodded and saw himself out. He was in no hurry to return to London. Maybe he should avail himself of some gypsy hospitality. Some spirits and a bonny vixen in his bed for a night might help him forget he allowed Delilah Daysland to slip through his fingers. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought and returned to the baron’s stables. After commanding his coachman to continue on to London alone, he checked once more on Jester. The pony paced and kicked at his stall door. The animal’s restlessness concerned him, until it occurred to him Jester was not used to being confined. With a final pat he mounted his borrowed horse and headed for the town of Wyatt to find lodging for the night. Tomorrow he would return to London, gypsies forgotten, and resume his boring, predictable life. It was time he asked Miss Deval for her hand.

• • •

Augustus rang for the butler as soon as he spied Lord Frost riding down the driveway. By the time the sour faced man appeared, March had already formed a plan. “Benton, take that wretched pony from my stables at once. Go find the farmer in the hollow and pay him to deliver the beast to the gypsies for whatever they will pay for it. He is always willing to do a discreet favor. Be sure to be skimpy on pay for I’ll not share more than a pittance of the profit.”

The butler nodded and left.

“A mess. A terrible mess it all is,” Augustus mumbled, pouring himself a glass of spirits. “Blasted gypsy wench. She will cost me everything rightfully mine with her antics. I will squeeze the life from her neck before the week is out.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Delilah touched the smooth orb with caution.

“Go on, my child. You have the gift of sight.”

Warmth spread through her fingertips. “I am afraid, Delinka, afraid of what I will see.”

“The truth cannot hurt you.”

Tiny pinpricks of light danced before her sightless eyes until they converged to form a picture of a man, astride a horse, leading a pony. Her instincts told her it was Tyrone with Jester
. He is searching for me.
The image blurred and a farmer leading Jester replaced it. The man watched the ground as if following tracks.
Who has Jester and where is he taking him?
Thick forest closed in on the man and pony until they faded from view. Out of the dim a new scene took shape. A man smoking a pipe lay naked on a cot, great clouds of filmy white circling his head, making it impossible to see his face. A dark-haired woman leaned forward and kissed him. The smoke dissipated and Tyrone favored her with a lazy grin. An overwhelming sense of abandonment filled Delilah.
He loves another.
He was not for her, nor her for him. Her place was here. She let her fingers slip from the orb.
I am home.

“Have you seen enough for now, chosen one?”

With firm resolve she nodded. “Yes, Delinka. What else are you to show me today?”

“There is much for you to process. First you will learn to see without the crystal ball.” Rough, wrinkled hands took Delilah’s and dropped a number of small articles in her palm.

Delilah rolled the smooth objects between her fingers, puzzling them.
Nine beans?
“What do I do with beans?”

“Have you a coin?”

She fished in her pocket and pulled out a shilling.

“Good, put it in your hand with the beans. Shake them gently and then let them fall as they will on the table.”

Delilah closed her fingers around the objects, shook her fist, and dropped them to the table in a series of clicks.

“Ah, very interesting.”

“What is it?” Delilah leaned forward, wishing she could see what the drabardi could.

“Your path is not as simple as Deagan thinks it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see a curved line and four beans in a square.”

“What does it mean?”

Delinka took a deep breath, letting the air hiss from her lips. “It means your path connects with one of a man. The curve means there is a problem with the path Deagan believes you are to take.”

A man. Tyrone or Augustus? Perhaps both.
Delilah sighed. “As I told my uncle, I am already married to the baron by the earl’s, or rather the king’s, command.”

“Not to be. Deagan is wrong. You belong to this other man. Your paths were chosen when you were reincarnated.”

“No!” Delilah shook her head. “I will not go back to the baron, he is ill.”

“It is not the baron I’ve seen in my crystal ball, but a tall, dark-haired man. He is searching for you. He is the one with whom you belong.”

Delilah held the tears welling up in check. “Lord Frost wants to do his duty to the king, nothing more. He does not want me.”

The seer grunted. “Things are not always as they appear.”

“Maybe not, but to one who is blind they are usually as they sound.”

Delinka sighed. “Delilah, you must free yourself of all your bitterness if you seek to see your true potential.”

Pressing her lips together, Delilah refrained from telling the elder woman just what she thought of this potential. Warm fingers curled over hers.

“Come, today I will begin to teach you the secrets of our magic.”

Delilah rose and followed the drabardi from the wagon with a hand on the shorter woman’s shoulder. “Do our people really possess magical powers?”

The woman chuckled. “Of a sort we do, for we know the magic of the land and mysteries of the water that help us tread this world. Others could harness the powers as we have but are too limited of sight to see it.”

The idea of a blind woman being able to see better than one with perfect vision amused Delilah. They walked for a few short minutes before the woman stopped and knocked on what she assumed by the sound was another vardos, as the gypsies called their wagon homes. The door opened with a creak. The heavy musk of flowers, herbs, and other musty plants drifted from within, and she wrinkled her nose at their pungent odor.

“Is this her?” a man with a gruff voice inquired.

“Yes, this is Delilah.”

“Huh.” The step creaked. “She does not look like anyone special. I pictured someone more mysterious of stature, not a simple blind girl.”

Before Delilah could defend herself the old woman hissed, “That is because you do not possess the gift of sight, Belcher. We all have talents, just stick to yours and teach her the healing things she needs to know.”

“Do not chastise me, old woman, or I’ll put a hex on your head.”

The drabardi snorted. “As if you could. Get on with your teachings for we are running out of time before the harvest moon.” She removed Delilah’s hand from her shoulder and placed it on a smooth wooden rail. “Belcher will take care with you, or he’ll answer to Deagan and Galer.”

Delilah smiled, liking the woman despite her rough demeanor. “Who is Galer?”

“He is your betrothed.”

She stood there stunned as a whisper of fabric and the tinkle of bracelets heralded the drabardi’s retreat. “My betrothed?”

“I see the old woman did not tell you everything. How like her.” The man grunted. “Well, come in. I have much to teach you in little time it appears.” The door creaked and the wooden rail under her hand quivered. Without much enthusiasm, she made her way up the steps.

It was stuffy in the little wagon, almost too warm. The room lingered with dozens of different smells to tease her senses. Her hip bummed against a table, and she reached for a corresponding stool when Belcher commanded her to sit. “What is it you are to teach me?” she asked, seating herself and resting her hands on the rough tablecloth.

“Our people are mostly lautaris and drabardis, or as others call them, musicians and seers. However, I am a chivihani.”

“What is that?”

“According to the rest of the world, a witch.”

She fought to keep from showing any alarm. “You cast spells and hexes then?”

He laughed, the sound malevolent and heavy in the closeness of the room. “When need be. Mostly however, I am an herbalist. I have studied the land and its plants. There is nothing I cannot cure with Mother Nature’s supplies. Well … almost nothing.”

She removed her hands from the table and clenched her fingers in her lap, lest he see them shake. “Why must I learn these things from you?”

“You and your betrothed will be the great Romo baros of our clans. To be a great leader one must know all of our ways.”

Exasperation rose unbidden in her. Once again, someone was deciding the path of her life for her. Nothing changed. “What if I do not want to be this Romo baro’s wife?”

He snorted. “As if you have a choice.”

“I thought a gypsy’s life was free and simple.”

“Nothing is truly free, except nature itself. Now pay attention, for you have much to learn. We will start with teas. There are many teas for different ailments such as coltsfoot, red clover, dandelion, and liquorice root … ”

Delilah sniffed the plants and herbs he held under her nose and concentrated on learning as much as she could, since it appeared she was left little choice in the matter.

• • •

“Oh, Uncle Deagan, the material is of the finest quality my fingers have ever felt.” Delilah smoothed the cool silk beneath her hands. She smiled, trying to imagine the color and cut of the splendid gypsy sash she now wore pinned with a crescent moon-shaped broach. The scoop necked peasant blouse was light against her skin and the flared cotton skirt soft against her naked legs. It was freeing and comfortable, much like the simple servant’s dress she wore the nights she slipped from Westpoint manor.