Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor

by Rue Allyn

  Tyrone pushed the ledger toward Aims and opened it to the last reference to the baron. “Explain this entry to me.”

  Aims took the book and read the page, his brows bunching. When he was done he set it down on the desk. “I have no idea what you want from me, my lord.”

  “I want you to find out from the baron’s servants who his sire is and what request the squire would have turned down.”

  • • •

  Delilah moaned and snuggled closer to the furry mass beside her. Her whole body shook with cold in the dampness of the barn, yet her head was burning and heavy. When footsteps approached her resting place she tried to force her stiff body to move, but failed.

  “What the … Mum, Pater, come quick! There’s a girl sleepin’ in the barn!”

  The pony scrambled to his feet as Delilah reached for the harness. She lurched to her feet and staggered over the lumpy straw away from the strange voice.

  “Bloody hell, ‘tis a girl!”

  She swung toward the second voice, sleepy, disoriented, and afraid. “Please forgive me. I did not mean to trespass. I only sought shelter from the storm last night.”

  “Who are ye and why were ye traveling out on such a night?”

  “I am Delilah Daysland. I was trying to return to my home, Westpoint Manor, when I got lost in the storm.”

  Delilah flinched at a woman’s sharp intake of breath and whisper, “She tells the truth. See her eyes? She’s the squire’s daughter all right.” For once perhaps her affliction might help her out of trouble, for surely they would help a blind woman find her home.

  “Matt, John, see to Miss Daysland’s pony while I take ‘er to the house for a bite to eat and a cup of tea.” A small work-roughened hand clasped hers and drew her forward. “Just come with me, miss, I’ll see ye put to rights, I will.” The woman patted Delilah’s hand. “Why ye did not knock on the door, miss, is beyond me.”

  Grimacing at the woman’s lack of grasp of the obvious, Delilah found herself propelled from the barn, mud squelching beneath her shoes. She coughed, the simple action making her chest hurt and her head throb. Moaning she raised a hand to her temple.

  “Oh dear, I fear you’ve caught yerself a ditty of a cold, miss. A good hot cup of tea ‘ll help.” A door opened and she was drawn into the warmth of a house. The smell of fresh, yeasty bread filled her nostrils, making her stomach growl loud enough she was sure the woman heard it. “Ye jus’ sit yerself down here by the fire. I’ll get the tea heatin’ and some biscuits.”

  Delilah was settled on a hard chair by a crackling fire and a hot cup of strong tea pressed into her hands. “Thank you, Mrs.?”

  “Call me Mary. Tell me, Miss Daysland, why were ye headin’ back to Westpoint when I hear tell ye married Baron March yesterday?”

  Taking a sip of the tea, Delilah struggled to find an explanation that didn’t sound silly in light of the situation. In the end she sighed, set the cup on the table, and decided to go with the truth, at least in part. “I was offended when my new husband came to my bed foxed.”

  “Oh dear, disparaging to be sure. Even so, was it wise to flee by yerself in the middle of a storm?” Mary tut-tutted.

  Voices announced the men entering the room so Delilah bite back her reply. There was no sense in telling the entire sordid tale. The easiest thing to do was send someone for the earl to come fetch her home. The door opened and two sets of footsteps approached. “Please kind sir, I ask you go to Westpoint and inform Lord Frost I am here so he may come posthaste and escort me home.” A fit of coughing doubled her over. When she regained her composure the three were whispering among themselves in a corner.

  “ … baron.”

  “No … ”

  “ … reward for her return.”

  “Merryweather … ”

  The swish of shirts and a gentle hand on her shoulder heralded the woman. “Here, miss, let me put ye to bed. Ye can rest until the earl is brought round to fetch ye.”

  The hairs on the back of Delilah’s neck prickled. Could she trust these people? She wanted to believe she could, but the little voice in her head shouted something was wrong. “No, just point me in the direction of the main road and Jester will see me home.”

  Against her will she was taken to a bed and forced to sit. “Oh dear no. What kind of people would we be to let the squire’s daughter wander the roads alone and unprotected?” With gentle prodding she was encouraged to lie down on the thick straw-filled tick. The woman washed her cold, muddy feet with warm water and tucked her into a thick downy quilt. “Rest now.”

  Despite her unease Delilah drifted in and out of a restless doze. Each time she awoke she listened for any sign of the earl, but the only sound was Mary moving about the cottage. Huddled in the cocoon of warm blankets she pondered the situation. The men have been gone a long time. Did Tyrone already return to London? Perhaps I did not sleep very long … Yawning, she closed her heavy eyelids. Tyrone would come for her soon. He would know what to do.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tyrone exited the house, shutting and locking the door behind him. The last of the servants wandered down the road in the direction of town as he climbed into the waiting coach and four. He glanced out the window as the conveyance pulled away. Why did he feel the urge to stay? He was not the type to take to country life. Back in London his large townhouse and favorite clubs awaited him. Country life was too simple and quiet for the likes of a notorious bachelor like himself. A slight smile curved his lips when he thought of his mistress ensconced in her townhouse awaiting his attentions. He tried to picture the last time he saw her, but the only image coming to mind was Delilah’s laughing face. With a grunt he shook her from his mind. They passed the forlorn looking group of servants and picked up speed. He had done what the king commanded and saw the wench married. Guilt thinned his lips. Maybe not happy, but at least complacent with her lot in life.

  The carriage rolled through a puddle from the previous night’s storm, the resulting muddy spray drenching the windows and obscuring his view. Without warning the coach slowed. He braced himself for the unexpected stop. One of the horses whinnied, answered by a softer nicker. When the coach’s movement stopped Tyrone eased from his seat and pushed open the door. Jester stood on the side of the road, muddy and wet, his copper-brown coat matted with burrs.

  “What the devil?” Tyrone stepped from the carriage and looked both ways down the road. There was not a coach or person in sight. “How did you come to be out here by yourself?”

  The pony shook his head, splattering bits of muck onto Tyrone’s trousers and waistcoat. He grasped the pony’s harness as the coachman climbed down from his perch atop the driver’s seat. “Secure Jester to the back of the carriage. We will return him to the baron’s on the way to London.”

  They resumed their journey at a slower pace to accommodate the pony’s shorter stride. What was the pony doing out here on his own, so far from his new home? Did the animal escape from his enclosure and head for his former home, like a lost dog or homing pigeon? No matter. He would see the animal back to Delilah’s side and have a chance to be sure she was content with her position at the baron’s.

  His heart constricted at the thought she might be as unhappy as he was at the moment. Did he make a terrible mistake allowing her accept the baron’s suit? He didn’t fit in her quiet, controlled world any more than she would fit into his busy London one. Besides, she didn’t want to marry him or any other man. He shook his head. She did marry though, because he left her no choice. Did he rush her into a marriage filled with misery just because he longed to return to his own empty life? It was possible; nevertheless, there was naught he could do about the situation now.

  Settling back against the plush cushions he contemplated his own life. He would be expected to offer for his current intended’s hand upon returning to London. The girl would make a brilliant political match and a suitable wife from among the debutantes circulating the many ballrooms this past season. He frowned trying
to remember Miss Deval’s face yet failed to picture the lass he’d spent so much time wooing. His thoughts wandered back to Delilah, curled beside him on the sofa, guiding her slender fingers along the words of a poem. Those strange, haunting violet eyes lay her soul open to his heart like a book to an information hungry reader. The sweet melodies she played still rang in his ears when his head touched the pillow each night. He loved every slight touch, word, and movement she made. The reality of his blunder sunk in. He forced her into the arms of another to protect his connection with a woman of higher standing.

  He was roused from his regrets when the carriage turned onto the path to the baron’s manor on the bare hilltop. The estate appeared to be flourishing; however, a closer inspection drew attention to the little bits of neglect and disrepair here and there. A sagging hinge, a barren field, an empty paddock where livestock should graze gave hint to the need for further funds. Delilah’s dowry and estate holdings would give the baron the capital to expand and solidify his fortune, ensuring her well-being for many years to come. True, it seemed the baron was a fortune hunter, but could Tyrone blame the young man for marrying the income he needed? Wasn’t he guilty wooing his London debutante for political gain? Ambition was something to revere not frown upon.

  The carriage rolled to a stop in the turnaround in front of the main steps. Without waiting he exited before his groom could set the step for him. Marching to the door he nodded to a footman lounging on the bottom step, and then peered closer. The young man looked familiar to him. He scowled, realizing it was the lad he banished from the stables a few weeks prior. Still practicing his slacker ways it appeared. Before he could lift his hand to knock a sour-faced butler opened the door.

  “Please tell Miss Daysland — I mean the baroness, Lord Frost has come to ask after her and return her companion, Jester,” Tyrone said at the butler’s inquiring look.

  “I am afraid the baroness is indisposed at the moment, my lord, but your groom may take the pony around back to the stables. Leave him with the barn master.” The butler shut the door in his face with a sharp click.

  Tyrone loitered there for a moment, taken aback by the servant’s rudeness. Delilah probably was indisposed this morning due to the excitement of her nuptials the afternoon before; however, the butler’s attitude was quite inexcusable. Annoyed, he turned on his heel and stalked to his coachman, who waited with the pony in hand. Taking Jester’s lead he headed around back of the manor to the barns to find the stable master himself. He found the man grooming a tall, gray gelding.

  “I have come to return Jester. He was on the road headed for Westpoint Manor.”

  The groom put down his brush and frowned. “He must be quite the escape artist, my lord, for this morning I did find the gate unlatched and the creature gone.” He glanced about and then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I fear something is amiss, my lord, for there were tracks in the mud by the gate.”

  “Tracks?”

  The groom nodded. “Tracks made by someone with small, bare feet. The baron and a couple men left shortly after daybreak. I did think it strange on the morn after his wedding and with his head bandaged too.”

  A bad feeling welled up in the pit of Tyrone’s stomach. Did something terrible happen to Delilah? He handed the pony’s lead to the groom. “Put Jester in a secure stall while I ask after the baroness at the manor.” Turning on his heel he headed back to the house.

  “My lord?”

  Pausing he cast an inquiring look over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  The groom glanced at the manor. “I hate to ask, but could you keep what I said between us? I would not like to incur the baron’s wrath. All the same, I worry for the lady and should not like to think I may unwittingly hide some information of value, if something devilish is at foot.”

  “Rest assured I will keep our conversation secret. Thank you for speaking your mind.” Tyrone nodded and hurried to the house. He pounded on the doors, noting the lazy stable boy was no longer hovering on the steps.

  The butler opened the door within moments, scowling when he spied Tyrone standing there. “May I be of service, again, my lord?”

  Tyrone drew himself up tall and fixed the servant with a no-nonsense stare. “I wish to speak with the baroness immediately. It is a matter of utmost importance.”

  “As I said, the lady in question is still asleep and asked not to be disturbed for any reason.”

  The butler made to slam the door in his face, but Tyrone wedged his foot against the jam. “As Miss Daysland’s guardian, I insist on seeing her. I suggest you summon a maid to wake her.”

  “Perhaps you should wait in the parlor until the baron returns, my lord.” The man looked over his shoulder as if hoping the baron would appear.

  “Miss Daysland is not here, is she? Where is she?”

  The butler swallowed. “I don’t know, my lord. There was a commotion last night and upon investigation, his lordship was found on the floor of her bedchamber, bleeding and unconscious. Once revived, the baron was in a state and swore to bring her back.”

  Alarm surged through Tyrone. His chest tightened and his heart lurched. “Were they accosted in their marriage bed, and the lady kidnapped?”

  “I think not, my lord, for the baron seemed more shocked and angered than concerned for the lady’s welfare.”

  Tyrone ran down the stairs and back to the stable to summon the groom. “Saddle a couple of horses and turn Jester loose.”

  “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?”