Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (204 page)

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The night at the gypsy camp nagged Tyrone’s mind as he trotted along the road from Winningham to the neighboring village of Four Corners. Was there any truth to the old woman’s prophecy? She claimed Delilah was nearby. Where would he find the gypsies now? In exasperation he thumped his fist against his leg. His gelding skittered to one side in protest. Without thinking, he tightened the reins and patted the animal. He’d spent the last week looking for Delilah without a single sign of her to be seen. How could she have just disappeared without a trace like a gypsy?
Like a gypsy …
His mind returned to the fortune teller’s prophecy. Who better to ask than the nomads themselves? Perhaps in their journey they came across a blind woman and a fuzzy guide pony.

At a crossroad he turned his mount east to the place the gypsies camped a mere week ago. Would they follow the road to the next town, or keep to the fields where they could poach livestock to feed themselves? Urging his horse on, he cantered down the wheel-rutted trail.

The sun was dipping below the horizon when he came to the outskirts of Four Corners. He rode down the dusty street of the little village in search of the local tavern. If gypsies were about, someone there would know. A narrow band of light shone across his path, the disjointed sounds of peasant music filling the air. He reined in his horse and dismounted, tying the trusty animal to a hitching post beyond the fringe of light. Wisdom warned him to check the pistol at his hip before arranging his great coat to cover it. One never knew what could befall him in a small town tavern.

He stepped into the establishment and scanned the dim room through the haze of smoke. Voices hushed when the handful of merchants and townsmen inside turned to stare. With a curt nod Tyrone made his way to the bar and ordered a tankard of ale. The patrons resumed their merrymaking and he turned to the tavern keeper as the man set a foaming tankard of amber liquid in front of him. “It is not busy in here tonight, I see.”

The man nodded, the ends of his thick mustache bobbing where they curled toward his nostrils. “Thanks t’ them crooked gypsies camped out by the brook. Thieving varmints! I had t’ drop the price of me ale jus’ t’ be sure I have customers. Gettin’ so a man can’t make an honest livin’ these days.”

Tyrone nodded in pretend sympathy. “Yes, a scourge to be sure. The gypsies are down by the creek, you say?”

The tavern owner nodded before moving off to pour another round for a group of men plying cards at a far table. Tyrone finished his ale, tossed a couple coins on the counter, a tad more than the cost of the drink, and left. Mounting his horse, he turned it in the direction of the bridge leading out of town. He crossed over it, almost missing the little used trail off to the right on the other side. Wagon tracks marred the grass following a path that wound around a grove of oak trees along the creek. The smoke from the campfires reached him before the wild music floating on the cooling night air. The customary rope picket was strung across a row of walnut and oaks, waiting for visitors to secure their horses.

A smile stirred his lips when he spied a young gypsy boy sneaking between the handful of mounts tied there, searching any saddle bags for loot he could abscond with. No one could say the vagabonds didn’t earn their reputations as cheats and thieves. When the boy spied him, he leaned up against a tree as if he were staring at the stars.

Tyrone dismounted and crooked a finger. “Water and secure my horse, boy, and there will be a shilling in it for you when I return.”

A greedy smile spread across the boy’s face as he hurried forward and took the reins to Tyrone’s horse. “Yes, mi’ lord.”

With a glance over his shoulder to be sure the boy was doing as he bid, Tyrone stepped through the grove of trees and into the gypsy encampment. A violin wailed through the night, accompanied by the jingle of a tambourine and the soft tones of a pianoforte. The painted wagons were circled around a large fire pit wherein blazed crackling flames, bathing the clearing in a soft golden glow. A few gypsies in colorful costumes lounged around it, waiting for customers he supposed. As he stepped into the circle of light his attention was drawn to the group of musicians who huddled beyond in the shadows of the trees. The veiled woman he recalled from his last visit was again perched on the pianoforte bench, swaying in time to the notes dancing from beneath her fingertips. Turning away he sought the elder woman who granted his fortune the last time, but didn’t see her among the reclining vagabonds.

A young woman sauntered up, pressed herself against him, and stroked the lapels of his coat. “Have you come for an evening’s entertainment, my lord?”

He disengaged her fingers and held her aloof. “No, I have come to see the fortune teller.”

She smiled. “Delinka is busy. Perhaps you would like your fortune told by fresh eyes, yes?”

He frowned. “I would prefer the same seer I saw last.”

“I understand, my lord, but perhaps try this one, and if you are not happy you may see Delinka tomorrow eve for no charge.”

One seer was as good as another he supposed, as long as he was tempted to believe in such things. “Fine, lead me to this new seeing one.”

She affected a pretty pout. “First you must have a drink and a dance with me until she is ready for you.”

Without bothering to ask why the fortune teller needed to be ready for him, he followed the girl to the fire. As the song faded she handed him a skin of wine. He lifted it to his lips and drank his fill of the potent concoction as a new song began, this time without a pianoforte accompaniment. Instead of dancing with the gypsy, he flipped her a shilling to perform for him in the light of the fire and sat on the grass. The song seemed to go on and on. His eyes grew heavy and his limbs relaxed. The effects of the drink, he concluded when the song ended.

“Did you enjoy my dance, my lord?”

He got to his feet. “Very much, but all the same I am ready to meet this new seer of yours now.”

Disappointment creased her features, but she led him away from the fire toward one of the wagons.

• • •

Delilah seated herself behind the small table and sought the orb of glass, her eyes into the past, present, and future. It warmed and tingled as it did each time she touched it. Before it could show her something of herself, she dropped her hands to the silky tablecloth to rest on either side of it. Tonight would be the first night she would see the future for a paying customer. The idea both thrilled and terrified her. She was careful to ensure the wagon remained shrouded in darkness, with only a meager candle illuminating the room. Her blindness was not something she was prepared for her customers to see, not yet anyway. What if something terrible showed itself to her? What if she detected nothing at all of the person? When the door to the wagon opened with a squeak and cool draft, she took a deep breath to still her nerves. She was grateful for the veil concealing her face as someone sat down across from her. A fresh minty scent mixed with horse sweat tickled her nose making her sneeze.

The stool across from her creaked under her guest’s weight. “Bless you.”

She froze, hands pressed to the table top
. It cannot be. What is he doing here?
Should she run? No, it was improbable she would escape because he sat between her and the door. Her only hope was to try and disguise her voice to fool him until she could get rid of him. She licked her lips and held out her hands. His warm fingers slid across her smooth palms. A sense of foreboding filled her as she placed his digits on the crystal ball.
Why did the orb not show him coming? A warning would have been nice. Will he seek to have me returned to Augustus if he discovers my identity?
Tingling spread into her hands and she was distracted by a cloudy image overtaking her thoughts.

Tyrone loitered in a crowded ballroom, talking to a beautiful woman. She turned away and held out her hand to another, younger man who tarried by her side. His face tightened with anger before he stalked away
. Tyrone’s suit was rejected.
She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or saddened by the outcome. He was free to marry her now, if he wanted to. She bit her lip.
I am not free.

“You are quiet. What do you see?”

“Shh,” she whispered. The scene faded and formed a picture of him mounted on a horse, searching the ground as he rode, as if looking for something.
Me. He is searching for me.
Hope flamed to life in her breast.

A soft nicker broke the tension. Delilah groaned. Why did the pony pick now, of all times, to wait at the wagon door for her? She was never ready to head back to the dancing fire before the lute sounded. He knew the new routine by now.

“Where did you get this animal?”

Panic surged through her and she clutched the cloth draping the table. If she answered him her identity in the darkened room would be given away. If she remained silent would he leave?

“I demand to know how you came by this pony, madame.”

A chill crawled down her spine at his lethal tone.
I am trapped.
There was no way to get past him and slip out the door. Uncle Deagan coming to her rescue would be her single hope to keep the earl from dragging her back to the baron. She groped for the flint, struck it, and then patted the table until her fingers touched the rim of the second candle holder. A tiny sizzle, a flicker of warmth, and the mild sweet smell of the beeswax candle filled the room. She removed her veil. “He is mine, my lord.”

The stool scraped and then clattered to the floor as the wagon rocked. The idea of Tyrone now towering over her, gave her pause. She fell silent under the force of his rapid questions.

“Delilah? What are you doing here? What kind of game are you playing? I have been scouring the country for you.”

“I have been here, with my family, the whole time.” She swallowed and forced a smile to her lips. “Jester, fetch Uncle Deagan.”

“Uncle Deagan?”

She nodded and listened for the soft tread to confirm the pony left on his errand before answering. “My Uncle Deagan’s command brought me here.”

“I thought you have no family? Why would your uncle bring you to live among the gypsies?”

“Sit down, my lord.” Delilah waited until the stool creaked under his weight before continuing. “I am guilty of deceiving you but not for the reasons you think. I thought Augustus would help me. I was wrong … ”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Delilah rubbed her temples. “Why not just arrest Augustus?”

There was a slight pause before Tyrone answered. “It would simply be your word against his. We have no evidence of his treachery. There is a possibility of having the marriage annulled however, as long as he … as long as you remain … ”

Face burning, she said the word he seemed unable to. “As long as I am still a virgin?”

He cleared his throat before answering, and she grinned. “Yes, a virgin; however, I do not believe it will stop the baron from trying to get what he wants.”

“If the marriage is annulled, he has no grounds to take control of my inheritance or estate.”

“That is not exactly true, according to Deagan.”

She pursed her lips. It seemed clear to her, but why did he hesitate? “What do you mean?”

Deagan shifted across from her. “I should tell her, my lord, not you.”

“Tell me what?”

Her uncle’s rough fingers cradled hers. “The night you were conceived was also the night the baron was.”

“I do not understand.”

Deagan sighed. “The night was crystal clear and warm. The wine, music, and opium flowed free and plentiful the night of the harvest moon. Your father and adoptive mother were not the only visitors to the encampment that night. The former baron and his wife were there, too. Your father and the baroness had been in love many years before and they indulged themselves freely, as did many couples.”

Delilah gasped. “Are you saying my father slept with the baroness and Kata, and they both conceived that night?”

“Yes.”

The world she constructed around her shattered and fell in jagged shards before her beliefs.
Augustus is my half-brother.
Disgust rolled in her stomach, pressing a wave of nausea to the back of her mouth. With effort she forced it back down, gulping great mouthfuls of air.

“Delilah, I am sorry. I did not know, or I would not have forced his suit on you. I was only trying to do what the king asked of me … I am sorry,” Tyrone repeated.

She shook her head and turned away. “I … I do not know what to think, say, or … who I am.”

“Delilah — ”

“Please, Tyrone, just leave me alone. Please.”

Deagan squeezed her hand. The stool beside him creaked. A draft of heavy air brushed the loose tendrils of hair about her cheeks as the door closed behind the earl.

“My little jewel, I did not mean to shock you. I wanted you to know your heritage. Perhaps I was wrong to tell you. Perhaps I am just a selfish old man. Please forgive me.”

“I forgive you. Please, Uncle Deagan, leave me be. I need to be alone.”

“I understand.” After a soft kiss on her forehead he was gone.

A weaker woman might have cried, wailed, and uttered vengeful curses down on all their heads; instead Delilah examined the bits of her past with a calm detachment.
I am a gypsy’s daughter, wild and free. I no longer have to conform to a normal life.
In exchange for annulling the marriage, she would give it all to Augustus with her blessings.
Let him be known as the bastard child of the squire. Let him face the shame of their pasts.
No longer would she be Delilah Daysland — she would just be Delilah, the seer. She could disappear into a world of music and lightness with no cares. There was nothing stopping her from walking away
. Except Tyrone.
No, not even he would want to stop her, for she was a bastard, illegitimate and impure. An earl didn’t marry the likes of her or fit into her new world.

Light strains of music carried through the open window. She was a gypsy and it was time she started living as one. Determined to embrace her heritage, she dressed in the dancing outfit trimmed by tiny jingling bells, pulling the soft blouse down to rest just across the tops of her breasts.
Time to live life to the fullest.