Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor

by Rue Allyn

  The maid hurried in with an armload of towels and a basin of water. She didn’t look surprised to see him perched there on the edge of the bed. “I brought some things to care for Miss Daysland, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Teresa.” He nodded as she set the items on the bedside table. “I will take care of your mistress until the physician arrives.”

  She glanced at Delilah and opened her mouth as if to protest but wisely nodded instead. “Yes, my lord.”

  After the woman left Tyrone dipped a cloth in the warm water, wrung it out, and washed the soot and dirt from Delilah’s face. She sighed and turned into the washcloth’s caress, yet didn’t wake. He rinsed the cloth and washed down her neck and along the burnt neckline of her soiled white blouse.

  No other woman stirred him the way she did. Her lithe, white body squirming atop him while her hands stroked until he could take the pressure no longer haunted his dreams. Stifling a groan he returned his attention to washing. Angry red welts appeared along her arms where he wiped away the soot and bits of burned flesh. He hated the idea of causing her pain, but consoled himself with the thought that she wouldn’t feel it in her sleep, and her blindness would prevent her from seeing the scars remaining from her ordeal. By the time he cleansed her face, throat, and arms the water was black and grimy. For lack of anything else to do he rang for more while he waited for the physician.

  The maid returned with another basin of steaming water.

  He did his best to smile with reassurance when she set the water beside him with a sniffle. “Is there a change of clean clothing about?”

  Teresa stared at him wide eyed. “No, my lord.”

  “Ask my valet to fetch one of my night shirts then.”

  Her lips pressed into a disapproving frown no doubt thinking she was thinking he would attempt to undress the injured woman himself.

  Tyrone suppressed a chuckle. “You may return here to change Miss Daysland after you dispose of the dirty water.”

  With a relieved look she took the basin of used water and left.

  He soaked the clean cloth, wrung it out, and moved to the foot of the bed. He washed the grime from Delilah’s feet and then made his way up along her legs until he reached the scorched hem just above her knees. Propriety halted his task, and he returned the cloth to the basin as the door opened again. When the maid entered with one of his soft, white nightshirts in hand, he excused himself and headed downstairs in search of the cook.

  He found the woman stoking the fire in the kitchen, her long gray braid hanging over her shoulder. One look at her bleary eyed gaze was enough to convince him she was roused from her bed at Delilah’s arrival. “Could you boil some tea, please, and send a thin porridge above stairs for Miss Daysland, in case she should wake hungry?”

  “Yes, my lord.” She wrung her hands, leaving him to believe her concern for her mistress was genuine. “Will Miss Daysland be all right?”

  “I hope so. Who discovered her?”

  “The gardener, my lord.”

  He frowned. “He was let go with the staff last week. What was he doing wandering the estate at four in the morning?”

  She shrugged and turned to add more wood to the fire, over which a kettle of water hung. “I’ve no idea, my lord.” When he cleared his throat she glanced back at him, guilt twisting her expression. “I risk my life, my lord, if I tell you what I heard and suspect.”

  “Who uttered such a threat?”

  After looking around as if the walls sported ears she leaned close. “The butler suspected the gardener and stable boy of plotting against the mistress, but they were not working alone,” she whispered.

  “Who were they working with?”

  “They were working for someone, I don’t know who, but I suspect it might have been the baron, my lord.”

  Her words didn’t come as a surprise to him, as more and more of late he suspected the baron was behind many of the suspicious incidents around the estate. He pondered her statement as she ladled hot water from the kettle over the fire into a delicate china teapot. The aroma of herbal tea leaves filled the room, reminding him of the gypsy encampment. What happened to the gypsies? Why did they fail to protect Delilah? Did something terrible happen to Deagan? He took the tray on which the cook set the teapot, cup, and bowl of heated broth and headed back upstairs, unanswered questions rattling about in his head.

  Delilah was wearing the nightshirt and tucked under the covers. He set the tray with care on the bedside table lest he wake her and pulled a chair up to await the physician. The bedclothes rose and fell with her shallow, steady breathing. He focused on it for a moment to quiet his thoughts. Though her hair was still matted, he was glad to note some of the color returning to her face, at least as far as he could tell beneath the spotty burns. Guilt pricked his conscience. He’d failed to protect her. She stirred and moaned in her sleep. He brushed the hair from her forehead and mumbled soft words of comfort to her.

  Her eyelids fluttered and then opened. Though sightless, her violet orbs locked on his. “Jester?”

  Tyrone poured a cup of tea, sweetened it with a spoonful of honey, and leaned over her. “Jester is fine and resting in the stables, Delilah. Here, have some tea the cook sent up for you.” He eased his arm around behind her head for support so she could sip the hot liquid. When she drank half of it and turned her head away he set the cup aside.

  “He saved my life.”

  Jealousy reared its hideous head at the thought of a mere pony doing what he failed to. He pushed it back down into the dark recesses it came from. “I suppose he did. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Her singed brows bunched and her pealing lips pursed for a moment before she answered. “We arrived at the lake and I told Uncle Deagan I could not go through with the ceremony. He was angry with me and locked me in the wagon. The next thing I remember were gunshots and screaming. The wagon caught fire.” Her voice hitched with emotion and he stroked her hair, fearing his touch anywhere else would cause her physical pain. “I heard Jester whinny and followed the sound through the fire to him. He carried me away. I do not remember the journey here … ” A sob bubbled from her despite her biting her lip to keep it in.

  “You are safe now.” He returned the cup to her mouth and she sipped the tea. When it was drained he set it on the tray. “What kind of ceremony did you refuse to take part in?”

  A sigh, heavy with emotion escaped her. “Uncle Deagan said I was to marry the Romo boro’s son during the harvest moon ceremony, to free the gypsies from their years of persecution. I could not though.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am no longer pure.”

  Once again guilt stabbed him. “So your uncle tried to burn you alive?”

  “No, at least I do not think it was his intention. I heard gunshots and women screaming.”

  Something disastrous had happened and he was inclined to believe Delilah was right in thinking it was not her uncle’s revenge. Someone tapped on the door and he bid them enter.

  Teresa opened it and a young man carrying a black bag stepped into the room. He pushed up his spectacles and cleared his throat. “I was summoned to see to Miss Daysland, my lord.”

  Tyrone stood. “I will wait in my study for your diagnosis, sir.”

  When the doctor nodded, Tyrone left the room and headed downstairs. In the study he rang for something stronger than his usual mint tea.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Two days later a flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder drew Tyrone’s attention out the window of the study. The last few days of rain and cool temperatures began to change the leaves on the trees to golden and orange hues, proclaiming the late start of fall. A gust of wind shook the window panes as the first heavy drops of rain splattered the glass. He supposed today was as good as any day to tell Delilah the fate of her gypsy family. Heavy hearted he left the study.

  As he strolled down the hall he noticed the door to the library stood ajar. Pausing, he peeked inside. Delilah sat,
legs curled under her on the window seat, bandaged hands in her lap and forehead pressed to the window panes. The deep rose colored gown she wore set off her dark hair, now cut to shoulder length and styled in ringlets to hide the few singed bits remaining. She turned from the window, and he knew she sensed his presence.

  He stepped into the room. “Why are you sitting in here all alone?”

  “I grew bored of being abed and wanted to play my pianoforte, but … ” she trailed off.

  He glanced at the bulky bandages smothering her fingers. “I see.” He grimaced at his own choice of words and crossed the room to stand before her. “I came to speak with you about your family.”

  She tilted her head. “Have you found them? Is Uncle Deagan angry with me?”

  He’d give anything to change the answer. “They are all dead, Delilah. I am sorry.”

  Her face paled and tears glistened in her eyes. “What happened?”

  “No one is sure. It appears they were slaughtered by a group on horseback. No one seems to know who or why.”

  A single tear slipped from her eye, trickled down her pale cheek, and dripped onto the bandaged hands in her lap. “It is all because of me. I wanted what I could not have, what I was never meant to have, and because of it they all died. I should have heeded the gypsy magic.”

  He sat down beside her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I wanted you. I did not want to marry anyone else. I purposely plied you with wine so you would lay with me and make my marriage to another impossible. Had I done as my uncle wanted, none of this would have happened.” A strangled cry erupted from her lips and she covered her face with her hands.

  He encircled her in his arms to comfort her as she sobbed. “Shh, Delilah. None of it was your fault. This gypsy magic you speak of does not exist.”

  “It does. I saw you in the crystal ball. I have seen a great many things in it from my past I know are true and real.”

  “I am sure you have.” He soothed her with a hand stroking her back. “Even so, no supposed magical union could have prevented what happened. You are not a gypsy and none of their fight was yours to bear.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I believe the baron is behind it all.”

  “What do you mean?” She wiped the tears with her bandages.

  Tyrone settled back against the window seat and cradled her in his arms, knowing how inappropriate it would look to a passing servant, yet wanting to comfort her. “I believe it was the baron all along. At first he tried to frighten you into marrying him. When you resisted, he planted the idea it was I you needed to be afraid of. He intended to kill you shortly after your marriage to him and stage it as an accident. It would have been easy to make it look as if his blind bride simply fell down the stairs in an unfamiliar home.” He squeezed her when she stiffened at his unintended slight.

  “When you fought him off and ran away he was beside himself with anger. I thought you would be safe with the gypsies until I could prove what he was up to, but he must have found out where you were. I think he raided the encampment with the intention of killing you in the scuffle, but because you were locked in the wagon he did not find you. He burned the caravan to be sure there would be no one left alive to tell what he did.”

  At her sharp intake of breath he squeezed her again, wishing he didn’t have to burden her with more terrible thoughts. “The baron was here today.” She trembled beneath his hands. “He thought to take you back, except I let slip what I knew in hopes he would reconsider his position. I think he is noddy enough to push it to trial, Delilah. I have no desire to put you through such a farce, but I see no other way to keep you safe from him.”

  “A trial? A room full of strangers to hear all the sordid details of my life, of my father’s indiscretions?” She shook her head, making her curls dance with mock cheeriness. “I cannot do it. I cannot.”

  He attempted to calm her fears with a light stroke of his hand across her hair. “Yes, you can. I will be there with you. For you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Are you ready?”

  Delilah squared her shoulders and nodded as the carriage rolled to a stop.

  The footman opened the door and Tyrone took her hand in his, squeezing it for reassurance. “I wish there was another way.”

  “I know.” Taking a deep breath she favored him with a tight smile and submitted to him helping her down from the conveyance. Voices carried, whispering too low for her to hear the words, but she knew they were talking about her. Head held high she placed her hand on the earl’s arm and he led the way. The voices seemed to follow them as a door opened on squeaky hinges and they entered a building. Despite the whispers, their footsteps echoed across what Delilah took to be a tile floor.

  Tyrone paused. “I am Lord Tyrone Frost, the Earl of Merryweather, and this is my ward, Miss Delilah Daysland.”

  “Right this way, my lord, the council is waiting for you.”

  Covering her hand with his where it rested on the sleeve of his soft velvet coat, he moved forward down a long corridor. It was not long before they paused again and a soft whoosh of air indicated a set of double doors opened. The muffled conversations coming from within hushed when they stepped across the threshold. This time their footsteps were muffled by a thick carpet.

  Delilah tried to quiet the rapid beat of her heart as she became the focus of dozens of eyes. She didn’t need to see to know the room was full of people, their breathing and whispers were enough evidence. Her chest tightened, the breath squeezing from her lungs. Dozens of scents assaulted her sensitive nostrils. Strong cologne, flowered perfume, and musty cigar smoke made the room stale and warm. She struggled for air as dizziness over took her. Faltering, she clutched the earl’s arm to keep from falling.

  “Delilah? Are you all right?”

  Though Tyrone voiced the question in a mere whisper, she recognized the concern in his tone. “Yes … no. Oh lord, I think I am going to faint.”

  “A couple more steps and you can sit.”

  True to his word after two more steps a chair pressed against the side of her leg. He helped her sit and forced her head down between her legs. A most undignified position she knew, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “Lord Frost, is there a problem?”

  Tyrone placed his hand on her shoulder. “Yes, honorable sir. My charge gets ill in the company of a large group of people.”

  “Is she slow of wit?”

  “Oh no, sir.” He smoothed a hand on her shoulder when she tensed at the insult. “She is very quick-witted; it is only crowds make her uncomfortable. You see, she has spent most of her life sequestered in the quiet of her country estate due to her condition.”

  “And just what is this condition she suffers from that makes her so nervous amongst her peers?”

  “She is blind, sir.”

  Delilah wanted to retch. She wished she could run and hide somewhere, anywhere to escape the pitying stares she knew were being directed at her.

  “Would it be a kindness on my part to remove the bystanders?”

  Relief flooded her when the earl answered, “Yes, honorable sir.”

  “Very well. Guards please remove everyone from my courtroom except for the defendants, the accuser, and their counsel.”

  Murmurs of discontent accompanied the shuffling of dozens of pairs of feet. Delilah’s heart slowed as a set of doors closed behind the retreating bystanders with a dull thud. She took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself and clear her mind.

  “Can we proceed now, Lord Frost?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I have been called today to hear a claim by Baron Augustus March, to the effect you have refused to return his bride to his residence upon her recovery from a despicable lot of thieving gypsies.”

  “Nay, they are a more scrupulous bunch than the baron is, sir!” Delilah clapped a hand over her mouth in dismay at her outburst.

  “See here now, Miss Daysland, such outburst
s will not be tolerated in my courtroom.”

  “Please forgive me, honorable sir, I was offended by the color with which you paint my heritage.”

  “You are a gypsy?”

  She smiled at the note of astonishment in his question. “In part, sir.”

  “Do explain.”

  Knees knocking, she forced herself to stand and address him. “It began a long time ago, sir, and is a tale I myself just heard, though I believe Baron March was well aware of it and might have killed my father because of it.”

  “Murder and deception? This is a story I must hear for sure, Miss Daysland.”

  Delilah cringed at the high-pitched whine of protest from the baron.

  “All bull cocky, honorable sir. We are here because Lord Frost refuses to return my wife, not to hear sordid lies said by people no longer alive to attest to their truths.”

  A gavel banged twice against a solid surface. “Enough! This is my court, and as such I will decide what to hear and what to dismiss as foolishness. Miss Daysland, please continue.”

  She launched into her story, beginning with her childhood memories and her father’s death. By the time she finished her head throbbed and her mouth was dry.

  “Here.” As if sensing her thirst, Tyrone pressed a cool glass into her hand.

  Raising it to her lips, she sipped the blackberry wine. The silence was deafening. Her hand shook as she held out the half empty glass. Tyrone took it from her, his warm fingers brushing hers in a way both unnerving and comforting. “You did just fine,” he whispered. She tried to smile, but her nerves got the better of her.

  The judge cleared his throat. “Well, that was quite a tale, Miss Daysland. If it is to be believed, then this baron is indeed quite the no-account scoundrel. Baron March, what say you to these accusations?”

  “Pure hornswaggle, honorable sir. My wife has quite a vivid imagination you see, as she has nothing else to do but sit and think. Perhaps I should make a serious effort to rein in her ridiculous nature. Rest assured she will settle down once she is safely locked away in her room where she cannot injure herself, thinking of babes.”