Through Gypsy Eyes

by Killarney Sheffield

  What was a woman doing bathing alone in a forested pool in the middle of the night? Perhaps awaiting someone, involved in some kind of forbidden lover’s tryst? He recalled the waver in her voice when she called out to the pony on the bank. No doubt his presence frightened the lady, which he did regret. He chuckled. Lady? No lady he ever met would dare swim naked in a pool in the middle of the night. She was like as not a humble maid from the manor, affecting pretty speech for his benefit.

  He drew a deep breath, remembering her subtle fragrance of honey melded with a tangy citrus overtone. The corners of his lips twitched into a ready grin. Her courage, slapping the water to splash him, both flabbergasted and intrigued him. No woman he knew would hold her ground in such a defiant manner. Despite her show of bravery though, her rapid breathing beneath his hands proved her nervousness. Without question she is a very intriguing wood nymph.

  His tongue slipped from between his lips to recall her taste on them. As sweet as her smell. No, he couldn’t have interrupted a rendezvous — her gasp of surprise was too pure and innocent to be an experienced seductress. He couldn’t help but chuckle. In the minimal moonlight he caught a brief flash of her white, rounded derriere before a dark fall of hair concealed it and she faded into the shadows. His manhood throbbed and he tried to ignore it. Even if she was a simple maid, he could have not lowered himself to use force to slake his desire. Besides, it would bode ill for him if he were to misuse one of his new charge’s servants.

  The lights of the little town came in sight and he urged his horse on. The tavern was easy to find, for at this late hour it was the only building still lit against the dark. After dismounting in front, he tethered his horse to the hitching rail and headed inside.

  A rowdy card game occupied the biggest table. The other three contained men either passed out face down or well enough into their cups they soon would be. He crossed to the bar and pulled out a stool to sit. “A pint of your best ale,” he told the stoop-shouldered barkeep.

  Without hesitation the man filled a glass and thrust it across the scarred counter.

  Tyrone flipped him a coin. “Is there any entertainment to be had here?”

  The barkeep tested the coin with his teeth before dropping it in the pouch around his waist. “I only got two girls, and one is taken fer the night.”

  “And the other? What of her?” Tyrone took a sip of the ale, rolling its smooth and rich flavor on his tongue.

  “‘Tis her night off.” The man ran an appraising eye over Tyrone’s well-made clothing. “But, I think she’ll cut ‘er bathin’ short for the likes of you, my lord.”

  Bathing. Tyrone wondered if perhaps it was the same woman he encountered in the pool but then thought the better of it. No, the woman did not have the body language of a common whore. Still, not convinced, he asked, “Is she petite and dark haired?”

  The barkeep frowned. “No, she’s tall and fair haired, with breasts that’ll make a grown man cry, my lord.”

  The pool was gloomy, but even so he was sure the wood nymph’s breasts were small, though his inability to see more than her shape and the dark cascade of her hair might impede his judgment. The memory of her pert breasts as they brushed his chest made him shift on the stool. Shaking his head to dislodge the image, he picked up his glass and drained the contents before setting it down with a thump. It was assured he would never discover her name or see her again. “Maybe another time.” His desire to bed a woman this night deflated, so he set out for Westpoint Manor. It would seem there was time to hunt for game to appease the estate’s cook before he arrived after all.

  Chapter Three

  “Miss Daysland?”

  Delilah turned from the piano. With effort she kept her expression neutral despite the maid’s unwanted interruption of her music devotions. “Yes, Teresa?”

  “There’s a Lord Frost here to see you.”

  “Who?” Delilah frowned, trying to place the unfamiliar name.

  “A Lord Frost, says he’s the Earl of Merryweather.”

  It was customary for gentlemen to drop by to speak with her father on occasion; however, none ever requested to see her. Perhaps it was someone who only recently learned of her sire’s death and wished to offer condolences. She turned back to the piano, settling her fingers on the smooth keys. “Tell him I am indisposed and send him on his way.”

  “Very well, miss, but I’ve the notion he’ll not be pleased at being dismissed. If you’ll pardon my saying so, he looks rather used to getting his way.”

  Delilah shrugged. “Then have Aims take care of him.” The beefy butler could always be counted on to deal with an unwanted guest.

  “As you wish, miss.”

  She waited until the door closed signaling the maid’s retreat before beginning to play her favorite soft, haunting melody. Swaying in time to the piece, she lost herself in the passion and sadness it incited. After so little sleep the night before she needed something to soothe her restless mind. A smile curved her lips as she skipped her fingers across the keyboard, picking out each note with a sure feel. Though yet cool in the room, experience told her by afternoon it would be hot and sticky, unless of course the rain chose to spare them for a day. She sniffed. Pity, it does not smell like rain. She inhaled again, hoping she missed the damp smell forewarning a delightful storm. No, everything still smells of dryness and dust.

  Someone knocked on the door, but she ignored it. A slight draft of heavy air brushed the back of her neck laid bare by her braid coiled on top of her head. Another servant no doubt, seeking her attention. They could wait. She had nothing but time these days.

  “Miss? The lord, he refuses to leave. He says he’s your guardian.”

  Guardian? She scowled when her fingers fumbled and played the wrong note, leaving a sharp echo in the room. “I have no guardian and certainly no need of one, Teresa.” She picked up the tune where she left off. “Send him away.”

  Another draft tickled the back of her neck, confirming the maid left to follow her directive. Again she focused on the notes, losing herself in their purity. Ah yes, softer now, like feathers brushing the air …

  Crash!

  Delilah mashed the chord beneath her hands, her startled gasp covered by the mismatched moan of the piano. To compose herself, she took a deep breath and repositioned her hands. Seething with anger at the interruption, she rebuked, “Teresa, how many times have I requested to be left undisturbed during my morning practice? Honestly, if you cannot handle removing one simple man from my parlor, then I shall have to hire someone else who can.”

  “I am not a simple man, nor am I accustomed to being removed against my wishes.”

  Delilah froze at the unexpected baritone, laced with anger. Good Lord, does the uncouth man think I will invite him for tea if he barges into my music room like a rampaging bull? She resisted the urge to turn around and berate him, thus allowing him to see her weakness. “Please remove yourself from my music room.”

  Footsteps crossed the carpet, much lighter than she would have expected a man’s to be. “I will not. I have been sent by the king and, as your better, demand you show me proper respect.”

  He stood right behind her, most probably staring at her, the unwelcome heat of his breath irritating the back of her neck. Anger radiated from his pores in a way that made her fingers curl on the piano keys. “Respect? You interrupt my morning in such a rude manner and yet demand respect?” She gave a hollow laugh to cover the nervousness his close proximity caused.

  “I am Lord Frost, the Earl of Merryweather.”

  “So I have already been informed.” She flexed her fingers before settling them back in their place on the keys.

  The butler cleared his throat in the vicinity of the door. She grinned, the tension easing from her limbs. Ah, Aims will take care of him. “Aims, please see Lord Frostbite out, will you?”

  The heat from the stranger’s low growl brushed the back of her neck. “Of all the gall. Have you no sense of propriety?”

&nb
sp; This overbearing man is getting very tiresome. Her fingers shook when she returned to the chorus of the song. He would leave if she ignored him, or when Aims retrieved a pistol and forced him out. Either way, sooner or later he would get tired of standing there, being snubbed.

  “Stop!”

  She disregarded his protest and switched to a dark and ominous tune, attempting to drown out his obnoxiousness.

  “I said stop it!” A pair of large, warm hands covered hers. The chords faded as he held her fingers imprisoned against the smooth ivory.

  She gasped. Her anger and fear began to make her lightheaded. “Release me this instant. Aims!”

  The fingers on hers tightened. “Aims, if you move I shall break your mistress’s fingers.” The sinister threat was enough to elicit a yelp from herself and Aims.

  “Now, see here, you cannot just go about threatening people in their own homes,” she spat with false bravado.

  Grunting, he released his grip. “By the king’s own hand I have permission to speak with you on a matter of utmost importance.” The rustle of paper proved his claim was probable.

  She groaned. Perhaps if she allowed him have his say he would be more willing to leave when Aims showed him the door. “Very well. State your business and be quick about it.”

  The paper crinkled and his footsteps retreated to the settee. “Perhaps you should read the missive from the king yourself.”

  How was she to get around this one with any dignity left intact? “Aims can read it for me.”

  “You cannot read.”

  Delilah frowned at the statement. Of course she couldn’t, not in the manner he expected; however, she was not about to tell him. Why didn’t he just go away? She slid along the piano bench to the opposite end, griped the sturdy corner of the instrument and got to her feet. Turning, she directed a bright smile in his direction. “State your business, my lord, then be gone with you, for I have many things to do this day.” Any hopes of his retreat faded at the creak of the chair and approach of his whispered tread on the carpet. Lowering her head she attempted to avoid his direct gaze.

  “Is something amiss?”

  She caught the edge of concern in his query. He’s going to see my short-coming. “There is naught wrong but your refusal to come to the point, my lord.” She bit her lip. He was standing there, staring at her; she could sense his demanding gaze. His scent tickled her nostrils. Frowning she tried to place the odd, yet familiar odor. Minty and … fresh grass? She shook her head to redirect her thoughts. If I do not move away from him, he will discover my secret. In her haste to flee she forgot about the edge of the bench beside her, and her knee caught the brunt of the impact. In desperation she struck out for something to grab hold of to retain her balance.

  A firm hand steadied her. “You are blind.”

  Anger resurfaced at his shocked utterance. Why must I face more humiliation at another man’s hand? “Yes, my lord, I am naught but a helpless invalid you have come accosting.”

  “I am sorry. I did not know.”

  His voice carried the oh-too-familiar trace of pity, and bile rose to the back of her throat. Delilah shoved him away and braced herself against the piano leg. “Just state your business and leave.”

  He stepped back, clearing his throat. “I have been appointed as your guardian by the king.”

  She scowled at him. “I have no need for a guardian. I am perfectly safe and content to stay as I am.”

  “You cannot mean that.”

  “Why? Because I am blind?” she snapped.

  “No,” he answered, too quick for it to not have crossed his mind. “You must want to make a match and get married — every young woman does, so I am told. You would make a lovely addition to any man’s life.”

  “Are you proposing marriage to me, my lord?”

  He coughed and then cleared his throat again.

  She smirked. I have put him on the spot now. Time to watch him tuck his tail between his legs and run. If I could see.

  “No, that is to say, the king has put me in charge of settling your father’s affairs … and seeing you wed to a suitable gentleman.”

  He does not get it. She turned on him with undisguised fury. “And just whom do you suppose would want a blind wife?”

  “I … well, I am sure there would be many a gentleman who would find you acceptable. Your father has left you a considerable dowry by even a duke’s standards.”

  Her hands shook with the force of her contempt. “If you think to buy me a husband, my lord, then I suggest you leave now. I am no one’s charity case.” She stomped in the direction of the door, realizing too late she forget to count the steps in her distress. Her shoulder glanced off the door jamb when she turned too early to navigate the opening. When the butler came to her rescue she shook off his hands with a hiss. Face aflame and appendage throbbing, she hurried across the foyer and marched up the stairs to her bedchamber. Letting her anger get the better of her, she slammed the door.

  Chapter Four

  Tyrone stared at the empty doorway with a frown. Well, that could have gone better. Why the devil didn’t the king, or even the damned butler, warn me of the girl’s affliction? A lump settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew well the hopelessness of the blind. Did the king think his personal connection an asset in this situation? I will not stand by helpless and watch another life wither and die on the vine.

  The servant in question cleared his throat. “I will show you out, my lord.”

  Tyrone fixed Aims with a hard stare. Did the butler think a mere woman would make him turn tail and run? “You most certainly will not. I have orders from the king, and I mean to perform them to the letter. Show me to the study so I may go over the estate ledger.”

  The butler gave him a dirty look and glanced at the stairs. “Miss Daysland will be most upset, my lord.”

  “Are you arguing with the king’s command?”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “However, I would not want to be the one to further prick Miss Daysland’s ire.”

  Tyrone crossed his arms. “Further?”

  The butler looked down at the carpet. “She is a might sensitive about her condition, my lord, and we have seen fit to protect her from others’ cruel jests.”

  “We?” Tyrone raised an eyebrow.

  A slight flush colored the servant’s cheeks. “Yes, my lord, the servants and I have watched over her since she was a small child. The squire would not have it any other way.”

  “I see.” Tyrone shook his head. “She is naught but a spoiled wench then, used to getting her own way.”

  “Nay!” The butler met Tyrone’s stare. “She is a kind-hearted lass, not spoiled in the least. She has a hard road in life, and we seek to make it easier for her.” He glanced at the stairs again. “Without her knowing, that is, for it stings her pride to be seen as weak.”

  “Prideful is she then? Too good to be married off to any man? Well, I shall see to the detail post haste.” Tyrone stalked from the room and went in search of the study himself.

  What kind of damnable situation did he get himself into? A house where the mistress had the servants wrapped around her little finger and coddling her every move was not what he bargained on. The sooner he straightened out the squire’s affairs the sooner he could marry the wench off. Lord, he was already sorry for any man who must endure her barbed tongue. He might have used a little more tact considering the situation if she’d met with him instead of trying to send him away.

  He found the study and stepped inside. The room looked like it was unused since well before the squire’s death. Dust collected on every available surface, even the charred remains of the last fire. He crossed to the desk and wiped a hand across the grimy surface. With a sigh he brushed it off on his trousers and sat behind the desk. It wasn’t hard to imagine what shape the squire’s ledger would be in. With reluctance he opened it. Sporadic entries proved the former owner did not put much stock in keeping accurate records. Tyrone groaned. So much for wrap
ping up his business here quickly and being on his way. It would take weeks to sort out the estate and ride around to check each fact and figure himself with the local villagers. Plucking the book from the desk he headed for the storeroom. It seemed the logical place to start.

  • • •

  Two hours later he dusted off his pants and frowned at the cook. “There are only fifty pounds of flour here.”

  The woman looked away, busying herself sweeping up the spillage from his inspection. “Yes, my lord.”

  Tyrone glowered at her. “According to the ledger, some fifty bushels were ground just a month ago. My calculations say there should be at least three thousand pounds.”

  She shrugged and kept sweeping.

  “Where have the rest gone?”

  “No idea, my lord. Perhaps your figures are wrong.”

  He pondered her as she poured the sweepings back into the sack at her feet. “What explanation do you have for the missing meat?”

  The woman shrugged again, refusing to meet his gaze.

  Something is amiss. Turning on his heel he exited the storeroom, making his way to the estate farm yard. Grimacing, he picked his way through the rotting; feces covered the great yard to the main barn, which leaned in a precarious state weathered by the elements. Everywhere Tyrone looked were signs of neglect, from the pealing white wash to the rusty pitchfork propped against the wall. He pushed open the door sagging on one remaining hinge. It flopped open to rest in drunken fashion against the wall. Perhaps the squire was not as rich as he was rumored to be. Blinking, Tyrone let his eyes adjust to the meager light before scanning the deserted aisle way. Why were there no workers toiling away? He peered over the side of a stall. Dust coated the empty box, the straw bedding molding as if unoccupied in ages. Perhaps the livestock were kept out on pasture unless needed. He strolled through the barn to the doors at the far end, pausing when a giggle broke the silence. Following the sound he crossed to a large foaling stall and looked inside.