Through Gypsy Eyes
Killarney Sheffield
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Killarney Sheffield ISBN 10: 1-4405-6666-6
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6666-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6667-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-44056667-7
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © iStockPhoto.com/RetroAtelier, GlobalP; 123rf.com
To all the faithful companions out there. Whether they are canine, feline, or equine, they enrich our lives with companionship and unbiased love.
“A guide dog is almost equal in many ways to giving a blind man sight itself.”
~Britain’s first recipient of a seeing eye dog, 1931.
“Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.”
~Helen Keller
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Also Available
Chapter One
English countryside, fall 1803.
Lightning forked across the sky. A lone tree on the incline exploded. Static sparks crackled through the air. His mount shied and almost unseated him, but the squire pulled the frightened animal up and steadied it. A deafening wave of thunder drowned out all other sounds and the horse lost its nerve, rearing to paw at the heavens. The rider struggled to stay in the saddle and reined in his mount. He settled the gelding with a few unintelligible words and a hand along its neck. The sky opened, dosing him with torrents of icy water. He hunched against the weather and swiped his face with a shaky hand. Giving the horse its head he urged it on, its feet slipping and scrabbling for purchase in the muck. The animal stumbled, almost launching him from the saddle before regaining its footing and lurching the rest of the way up the slope.
The squire sawed on the reins as a dark figure separated from the shadows. He leaped from the gelding’s back, great coat flapping in the wind, gray hair plastered to his head. Another flash of lightning lit the sky, followed by booming thunder. The animal shied, almost jerking him off his feet. Despite the skittish horse’s reluctance he made his way to the man. “We must talk, for your pursuit of my daughter will end here and now.”
The shadowed figure advanced toward him. “Old man, I have had enough of your refusals to see reason.”
“You do not understand, boy.”
The unidentified figure shoved him, causing the squire to lose his precarious stance. He landed spread-eagled, face up in the mud. With a groan he scrambled to one knee in the greasy slop. “Please — ”
“You will not keep me from what is rightfully mine, noddy old man,” The younger aggressor raised his fist.
The squire reached up a hand to fend him off. “I must! Let me explain — ” He tried in vain to stagger to his feet, but a second blow toppled him to the edge of the cliff. Again he struggled to rise. “Listen — ” His second plea fell on deaf ears as the attacker's foot landed squarely on his chest. In desperation he flailed with grasping fingers, only to meet air as he tumbled over and over down the steep slope.
Delilah sat up with a jolt, her heart pounding against her breastbone. The mugginess of the stale air and the silken sheets beneath confirmed her rightful place in bed. She took a deep breath knowing she was safe, despite the fear the dream instilled looming as dark and endless as her future. Why this nightmare every night since her father’s death? Was it some sick sense of need that made her unwilling to believe his fall an accident? There was no proof to the contrary. Her fingers curled around the hem of the sweat-dampened sheets as her heart protested. One day she would prove it wasn’t an accident. Somehow.
Pushing the morbid dream out of mind, she donned her slippers. She tossed a simple peasant gown over her head and then tiptoed from her bedchamber. Sweat dampened her brow and the undersides of her breasts straining against the thin fabric. After easing the door closed behind, she paused to be sure there was no hint of movement in the hall. The mansion was silent as always at this time of night. With a grin of expectant pleasure she made her way along the corridor and then down the stairs when the familiar smooth banister met her fingertips. So far so good. It seemed a fool’s errand to worry over discovery, for there was no one to question her mission except the servants, and they were easy to fool.
When she reached the main floor she trailed her fingers along the wall until they met the junction marking the servants’ hallway and the way to the cook’s garden door. It is as easy as that. She’d slipped from the house in the dark of night so many times over the last few years it was almost mundane, though each time still carried a little flutter of nervous anticipation. Once out the kitchen door she gave a low whistle. By the time she reached the garden gate he was there. The almost uncanny connection they shared told her.
She lifted the latch, stepped through, and held out her hand. A soft nose nudged her, a rumbled nicker confirming what she already knew. “Good eve, Jester.” Sliding her hands up along the docile pony's face she reached for the headstall. After patting him she groped for the special harness he always wore, finding it with little difficulty. “It is far too hot for slumber, old friend.”
Jester shook his head as if disagreeing with her when she shimmed onto his back. A gentle squeeze sent him down the path they both knew so well. The soft clip clop of his hooves resonated above the singsong of the crickets, and the breeze teased the hair from her clammy neck.
Delilah didn't need to see to know the route to take. Each step Jester took over stone and root and around turns was imprinted upon the map in her head. Somewhere above an owl hooted. She smiled. The sound was as predictable as the path she rode. The dark didn't frighten her. How could she be frightened of something she was so familiar with? Besides, any creature large enough to do her harm would avoid the pony, who was known to be protective. The rush of the small waterfall and odor of fresh, wet vegetation reached her before she noticed the tiny spray of mist the gentle cascade p
roduced. It was much cooler and comfortable here in her secret place.
When the pony came to a halt she slid to her feet. He pressed against her legs to warn her of the stream bank and she patted him. “Thank you, Jester.” He blew through his nostrils in response. Sometimes she swore he understood every word she uttered. It was a special bond they shared from being so close for so long.
Jester moved off a few steps when she pulled the dress over her head and dropped it to the grassy bank. She loved swimming naked in the water, finding it freeing somehow. Crouching, she felt for the edge of the bank with her toe before slipping into the cool water. With sure, even strokes she swam out into the middle of the deep pool and rolled over to float on her back. Her sigh carried on the whisper of a breeze as she relished the cool water against her flushed skin. If only I could stay here in this pool forever. The Indian summer couldn’t continue much longer, however, and the crisp autumn season would soon begin in earnest.
The pony snorted and then nickered. She strained to hear anything beyond her own movement as she kept herself afloat. Was there a slight rustle in the brush? Stilling her movement, she paid closer attention. After detecting no further sound she closed her eyes, allowing herself to relax and float in the blissful rocking motion of the current. It must be a small woodland creature out to parch its thirst on such a stuffy night. There was nothing to fear from such creatures, she was sure. A soft splash gave her pause and she rolled over. Treading water she turned to face the opposite bank. Ripples rose, slapping her chest as if something waded in the shallows. She listened again. A rhythmic sloshing made its way toward her. Alarm quickened her pulse as she concentrated on the sound. “Jester?”
An answering nicker came from the bank behind her. She worried her damp lower lip between her teeth. If Jester is yet on the bank, then what is in the water with me? The unknown visitor slowed, treading water a few yards from her. By the noise it made she surmised it was large. Intuition told her it was not a mink or beaver come to fish. The fine hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle. Crossing one arm over her breasts and paddling with the other to keep afloat she inquired, “Is someone there?”
“I thought my eyes deceived me when I spied a fair maiden floating in this pool.”
The unexpected baritone froze her movement. Delilah gasped, almost going under the surface of the water when she forgot in surprise to paddle for an instant. She scrambled for something appropriate to say under the circumstances. “I beg your pardon, sir? ‘Tis most unseemly to disrupt a lady’s swim.”
He chuckled, a low, husky sound making her picture a large, muscular physique. “Ah, you are right; however, I have yet to determine whether you are a lady or merely a figment of my overtaxed imagination.”
Heart thudding against her ribcage, she swam backward toward the opposite bank, struggling to appear calm and collected. The stranger could accost her here and no one would know to come to her rescue. How senseless I have been. Surely Jester will be no match for a man intent on harming me. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her courage. “I assure you sir, I am not a figment of anyone’s imaginings, least of all yours.”
“Hmm … ” the preponderance followed her. “Perhaps then you are a woodland nymph out to temp any man who passes by to try your nectar?”
Her feet touched bottom, sinking into the sand. Before she could turn and make for the bank his hands were on her waist. To her horror he cradled it in a firm, yet gentle grip. “Release me sir, for you do offend a lady, not a nymph.” She fought a growing sense of panic as he drew her to him.
His minty breath tickled her damp cheek. “You have flesh as any maiden. Do you taste as sweet as one, too?”
Anger and shock at his boldness brought her hand down with force to slap the surface of the water. He sputtered in response to the spray splattering his face. Perhaps I might have the upper hand. “Release me this instant or I shall scream and alert my maid who sleeps on the bank,” she bluffed.
Despite the warning, he chuckled. “There is no maid, wood nymph, for I walked the whole perimeter when I spied you here.”
Is his intent to take advantage of a lone woman and defile me? What am I to do? Summoning her little remaining courage, she tried to reason with him. “I say again, release me good sir, for my presence will be missed at the manor even as we speak.” She grimaced at the tremor in her voice betraying her fear. He shifted, his mouth brushing her ear, and she gasped at the intimate contact.
“Ah, even so I would take a moment to test your lips to see if they are as soft and sweet as your voice,” he whispered.
His lips claimed hers, causing her thoughts to scatter as he licked and nibbled her bottom one. The teasing, sensual sensation was so shocking and pleasurable she sighed, opening for him, forgetting her fear for a moment. When his tongue made contact with hers, she was jolted back to the seriousness of the situation.
She wrenched from his grasp with a soft cry and floundered to the pool’s edge, his deep chuckles chasing her up the bank. For the briefest second she contemplated not pausing to find her gown, but the thought of giving him an unexposed view of her derriere stifled the thought. In haste she tapped the ground until her fingers found the edge of the material and then snatched it up, yanking it over her head. Her attempt to whistle for Jester resulted in a loud, puffing sound as air passed over her damp lips. A splash in the water drew her attention. She cocked her head to listen. Strong, rhythmic strokes moved away from the bank. Relief made her lightheaded with the knowledge he was not in pursuit. Was she safe? Was his intent only to flirt and nothing more?
Jester’s fuzzy coat slipped beneath her trembling fingertips, drawing her back to the present. She pulled herself onto his back with the aid of the special harness he wore. “Home, Jester.”
“Good-bye, sweet wood nymph,” the man called from the pool.
With a jab of her heels she urged Jester homeward, ignoring the stranger’s taunt. Sticks stabbed and scratched her bare legs as the pony pushed through the brambles to the path. With a groan she realized her slippers remained behind on the stream bank. She bit her lip. Well, I am not going to go back for them now, with him there. Who is he? What is he doing in my secret place?
She arrived home sooner than she expected in her preoccupied state. After leaving Jester at the garden gate she hurried to her bedchamber. Once there she sat on the bed, drawing her knees to her chest, fingering the smooth stone wound with a lock of Jester’s baby hair. The piece hung around her neck on a thin leather strap ever since she could remember. Rolling it between her fingers was comforting somehow. Her lips tingled with the memory of the stranger’s kiss, and she traced her tongue along them seeking his minty flavor. Why did he kiss me? Because he could? Because I let him? Upon reflection she decided the kiss was intriguing. If only he knew. No one ever kissed her before and it seemed improbable anyone would ever again. There was no reason any man would desire her. After all, who wanted a woman locked in darkness?
Chapter Two
The desire to stay in the cool pool wilted after the mysterious maiden’s retreat. Tyrone waded from the water and pulled his clothes on over his damp body. Perhaps he would take a detour into town, slake his lust with some ample-busted tavern girl, and arrive at the manor at a more civilized time. What would it matter if he delayed his arrival at Westpoint Manor by another hour or so? After all, his before-dawn arrival was bound to put the estate into turmoil. He grimaced. They were not the only ones who did not expect his appointment.
Tingling with annoyance he remounted his horse and turned it toward the main road. Imagine, me, in charge of some spoiled miss. He forced a deep breath through his pursed lips, the loud huffing sound causing his horse to shake its head and prance. He soothed it with his hand along its neck. Why did the king decide on him? Did the girl not have a living relative somewhere who could see her wed to some worthy lord right and proper?
This delay could cost him more than he wanted, for Miss Deval wouldn’t wait forever. The th
ought of some young buck wooing away his prize grated on Tyrone’s nerves. Then again, months spent courting the wealthy Miss Deval strained his temper. His hold on her affections was delicate at best. What if she fancied herself in love with someone younger or more handsome in his absence? A woman’s affections were fickle and easy to sway with pretty words. Niceties were not his forte either. If he were to admit it, he harbored no feelings of love for the simpering beauty. Her shallowness in personality and temperament left him cold as ice. He pushed the bitter thought aside. Her money and social position were all he needed from the marriage … and an heir of course.
With a grunt he shifted in the saddle, his buttocks sore and legs stiff from two days spent aboard his horse. He should have taken a coach; it would have been more comfortable though much slower. The king, however, insisted Tyrone get here post haste. He shook his head. Was the king fueling Tyrone’s personal desire to carve a niche for himself in government, to further a royal agenda? Was Tyrone being used to attend an unwanted domestic problem? That was more likely he decided. Dealing with a modest squire’s daughter would, after all, be beneath the monarch.
He flexed his jaw, which tightened with his vexation. The damsel managed these two months since her father’s passing, or so he assumed, so what was the rush? Besides, from what he heard the wench was a veritable recluse. No one he questioned could recall seeing the girl since she was a small child. He pushed aside a heavy branch as his mount walked under it. Perhaps the girl was hideous or deformed. It would account for the former squire hiding his daughter away from the eyes of his peers. A man as rich as the squire shouldn’t have struggled to find a match for the girl. A large enough dowry could buy any woman a husband. He frowned. Almost any woman.
His mind wandered back to the luscious vixen in the sheltered pool. He couldn’t resist the seductive call of the gurgling water, its promise of relief from itchy sweat and trail dust much like a siren’s song. Pushing through the surrounding brush as quietly as possible, he hoped to catch a glimpse of some tasty prey to take with him to the manor. A fresh kill might have appeased the stir his predawn arrival would cause. He had not expected to find a feminine shape floating atop the water just beyond the waterfall’s cascade.
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