Through Gypsy Eyes

by Killarney Sheffield

  He groaned. Arms shaking, he buried his head against her neck, licking and nuzzling her heated skin. “I want you so much, to feel you, taste you, and make you cry out my name.”

  She sighed as his lips brought forth the most delicious sensations while he cupped her breast and teased the sensitive nipple through the thin fabric of her dress.

  The simple gesture took her breath away. For many moments she was unable to string together any coherent words. Then he slipped his hand beneath her skirt and replaced his teasing fingers with his lips at her breast. “Oh, good Lord!”

  He chuckled against her moist nipple and she arched against him with a primal howl of desire. “Make me your gypsy lover this night, Tyrone, for I can wait no longer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The steady pounding of his head and paper dry mouth was a rude awakening. Even more annoying was the cheerful prattle of a bevy of birds somewhere in the trees above. Tyrone rolled over on the soft blanket with a groan and reached for Delilah. He patted the emptiness once harboring a warm, sensual body. Frowning he opened his eyes and sat up. A whiff of smoke curled from the charred remains of the bonfire. Where is everyone? Alarm quickened his pulse. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he scrambled to his feet. Did he dream it all? He sorted through the hazy moments of the night before. Delilah, a seductive temptress, rousing my body into a state of almost painful eagerness. Groaning he willed his manhood, already rising at the thought, to be still. How could he have permitted her to have her way with him? Disgust turned his stomach worse than the over indulgence of wine. How could I have seduced such an innocent? He frowned. Did he seduce her or had she seduced him? Oh, what does it matter? Either way the king will have my head for it. What kind of cad have I become? When he would have stomped across the clearing in search of his horse, his abused noggin protested. Putting a hand to his head, he took care to move slowly and carefully.

  The animal was as he left him, dozing in the shade of the row of trees. After tightening the cinch, he stepped aboard and turned it back onto the path along the creek to the road. He needed to catch up with the gypsies. They couldn’t have gone far. First he must see Delilah’s marriage to the baron annulled, and then he could marry her. It was the right thing to do whether she saw it or not. If she refused him he could at least see she returned to her rightful place at Westpoint Manor until he could court and woo her properly. If she desired romantic gestures then that is exactly what he would give her.

  Half slumped over the saddle in misery, he caught up with the slower moving wagon train a little over an hour later. Delilah rode on Jester next to her Uncle Deagan. At Tyrone’s approach the older man excused himself and kicked his heavy horse into a lumbering trot.

  “Delilah, what are you doing?”

  She jumped, but kept her sightless gaze fixed above her pony’s head. “I am traveling to the next town, my lord. It is what gypsies do.”

  He slowed his horse to keep step with her shorter legged pony. “You are not a gypsy.”

  A light snort escaped and her lips thinned. “I choose to be now.”

  Tyrone resisted the urge to sigh. Her mind was set; he could tell by her ramrod stiffness and determined expression. How was he to change it? It occurred to him he didn’t have to change her mind. She was obligated to do as he commanded by the king’s order. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps attempting to force compliance out of her was not the way to go, at least not if he wanted her to marry him.

  “Delilah, we need to talk about last eve.”

  Her jaw tightened. “There is nothing to talk about, my lord.”

  “I beg to differ. And please, could we drop the formality?”

  “I see no reason for informality, my lord.”

  With growing frustration, he tempered his reply. “After sharing our bodies with each other last eve, formality seems fairly hypocritical, do you not think?” He reached down and grabbed Jester’s headstall, yanking the pony to a halt.

  Her sightless scowl unnerved him as no other able one could. “Why am I suddenly good enough to warrant such a display of gallantry now? Is it because your betrothed jilted you? Am I just a consolation prize?”

  His breath hitched in his chest. “How did you know?”

  “I am a seer, remember?”

  “For God’s sake, Delilah, you are not a gypsy and possess no such fictional powers.”

  “Did you not seek a seer last eve? If so, then how can you claim not to believe? Besides, I saw her jilt you in a ballroom.”

  His senses reeled at the idea she could have seen what she claimed. “I was not seeking a vision last eve, I was searching for you.”

  She turned her face away. “Why?”

  The words he wanted to say clogged his mouth, choking him into silence. He cleared his throat. “I did wrong by you and wanted to make it right. I was concerned for your welfare.”

  “You can see I am fine, now unhand me.”

  “You call this fine? You are living the life of a penniless beggar.”

  She leaned forward, seeking his hand, and then snatched it from Jester’s head stall. “Just because I choose a path different from yours does not make my life any less.”

  “I did not say it does — ”

  “I will never be like the rest of the ton; I never fit in their world and I never will. Now leave me be!” she kicked Jester into a rough lope, but not before he noted the tears in her eyes.

  “Delilah!” He groaned as pain stabbed his liquor muddled head.

  Helpless, he allowed her to go. What could he say? She believed she didn’t fit into his world, nor he in her new one. Was she right? Perhaps he should just annul the marriage and leave her be with her own people. It seemed the kindest thing to do … for her anyway.

  • • •

  “To what do I owe this unpleasant visit, Lord Frost?”

  Tyrone kept his face void of emotion and seated himself in the chair across from the baron’s desk. “I have come to bring you the papers requesting an annulment of your marriage.”

  The baron scowled. “Now why would I want to do that?”

  “Trust me, you want to.” Tyrone fixed him with an unwavering stare.

  “You cannot dissolve my marriage, Frost. Only I or my wife can.”

  “I know, March, which is precisely why you are going to be a gentleman and sign the paper.” He placed it on the desk.

  The baron leaned back in his chair with a smug expression. “Again, why would I want to do that?”

  Tyrone sighed. “I know your secret, March, and I am sure the king would frown on incest.” The slight tick starting in the baron’s right eye was not lost on him.

  “What nonsense are you uttering now?”

  “Deagan told Delilah and I everything.”

  “You think the king will take the word of a lowlife heathen over me? You must be jesting.”

  Tyrone leaned forward. “Think you the king will doubt my word?”

  Augustus blanched. “You have no proof.”

  “Would you like to wager on it?”

  The silence hung in the air so hot and heavy, Tyrone couldn’t breathe as he waited for the baron to call his bluff.

  “Take your so-called proof to the magistrate, Frost, and leave me be. Be forewarned if you do though, for I think the king would not like you taking advantage of your vulnerable ward.” The smug look returned to the baron’s face.

  How was it possible the baron could know what happened between him and Delilah the night before? Tyrone pinned the baron with a venomous glare. “To what are you referring to, March?”

  The baron shrugged. “Since you arrived to look after the welfare of Miss Daysland, it has been rumored she has been repeatedly harmed and her estate pilfered away.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?” Tyrone leaned forward until he was scant inches from the baron. Only the desk checked his urge to throttle the man.

  The baron met his gaze with a dangerous one of his own. “I am sa
ying the king might find it a disturbing coincidence, do you not think?”

  “The thefts began long before I arrived on the scene.”

  “According to you. How do you explain the attempts on my wife’s life since you arrived?” The baron’s gaze narrowed, his lips twisting into a grotesque sneer.

  “How do you explain them, March? Which of the Westpoint staff is in your employ?”

  With a smirk the baron stared him down. “Why, they all are, or are you forgetting all my wife’s possessions are now mine?” His smirk broadened. “All of her possessions.”

  The urge to strike him was almost overpowering. He drew back his fist and then let it fall at his side, knowing no good would come of it. Oh hell, it will feel good. Before he could talk himself out of it, he punched the baron in the face. Blood spurted red and warm onto the desk before the baron covered his nose with his hand. Ignoring the baron’s howl of indignation, Tyrone stalked from the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  There was an unmistakable feeling of festiveness in the night air as they made camp beside a shallow lake. According to Delinka, many other tribes were there, including the Romo baro and his son. Tonight she would meet the man everyone expected her to marry — and her mother. She both dreaded and looked forward to it. There were so many questions she wanted to ask Kata. But first Delilah would have to weather the anger directed at her once the gypsies discovered the truth of her betrayal. The door to her vardos opened, the light scent of smoke, herbs, and elderberry wine filling her senses. The smells were warm and comforting somehow, perhaps because it was part of her world these days.

  “Belcher and I have come to ready you for your night, Delilah.”

  She shook her head as Delinka entered with the gruff herbalist. “There is no need, drabardi, for I am not the pure one required to fulfill the gypsy prophecy.”

  “Nonsense, I saw it in my visions. I have brought your ceremonial dress to wear.”

  A silky material was placed in her hands. “Your vision was wrong, Delinka, for I did lie with a man just this week under the stars. There will be no ceremony.”

  The woman gasped. “It is not true. You are afraid of the future and making up reasons to avoid your path.”

  “No!” Delilah dropped the material and turned away. “I laid with the earl the night he found me here.”

  Belcher released a groan filled with frustration. “Why, Delilah, why?”

  “I do not want to be this leader of the gypsies. I want to be free.”

  Disappointment and disapproval colored Delinka’s rebuke. “Your only hope of freedom laid within the circle of power. You have doomed yourself and our people.”

  Delilah’s shoulders slumped. “I saw no other way. I do not love this Romo baro’s son.”

  Delinka’s heavy sigh hung in the air. “I should have seen the truth. It was the man in my vision, wasn’t it?”

  Without turning around, Delilah nodded. How angry would Uncle Deagan be when he learned of her betrayal? Would he cast her from the gypsy camp? Where would she go then? What would she do?

  “Belcher, fetch Deagan.”

  Cringing, Delilah tried to ignore the finality in Delinka’s command as the door closed. “I would like to see my mother.”

  “First you must say your piece to your uncle.”

  Delilah sat down on the narrow cot with a groan. She dreaded the meeting to come; there was nothing she could do except explain her position and hope her uncle would have mercy on her. In the tense silence she waited, washing each hand with the other. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand the drabardi’s quiet accusation any longer, the door opened. A heavy tread climbed the steps and stopped in front of her.

  “What have you done, Delilah? Why have you forsaken your people?”

  The heated anger sizzled from his censure, singeing her emotions. “I am sorry, uncle, but I saw no other way. You are wrong about my path in this life, for I have seen it for myself in the crystal ball.”

  “No! You see what you want to see!”

  “Nay! I see with my heart, uncle, not with my useless eyes. I cannot be what you want and need. I am Delilah, not the great drabardi.”

  He slammed his fist down on the table, the vibrations covering the tremble of her hands as she flattened them against the surface. “You are right. You are no drabardi. You are nothing but a chuvihani!”

  Hurt at his accusation of witchcraft tightened her chest. She had alienated the only family left in her world for what? For a man who didn’t love her? Would her mother forgive her? The mother she never met.

  “There must be a way to make things right.” The desperation in Deagan’s voice carried in the little room. “Belcher, lock Delilah in her wagon while I gather the Romo baro, drabardi, and counsel to decide what is to be done.”

  Delilah lowered her head to her arms as they shuffled out and the door closed behind them. A key scraped in the lock to confirm Deagan’s order and then all was quiet. Have I made a grave mistake? There seemed nothing to do except wait and see what her punishment would be. Would their decision be swift and harsh or would they make her wallow in this discomfort for hours? It seemed the latter was the most promising as she cradled her head and waited. Yawning, she closed her eyes. Sleep eluded her of late, due to her own guilt she supposed. Though now was not the best time to slumber, she gave in to her body’s need for rest.

  • • •

  Through her dream foggy mind a haze of noise began to register. Screams and the pop-pop of gunshots roused her to attention. What is happening? The thunder of hooves shook the little wagon as horses passed. The shrieks of women and children intensified until it was all she could hear. Terrified, she lurched to her feet and stumbled to the door. Jerking on the latch she found it still locked. “Deagan? Blecher? Delinka? Someone please let me out!”

  A woman’s scream, more blood curdling than the rest, echoed just outside the closed door. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Were the tribes at war over her betrayal? “Uncle Deagan!” Frantic, she pounded on the rough door with her fists, not caring when they bruised and became embedded with slivers. Her mind conjured all manner of evil outside happening to her family. After what seemed like hours the screams and gunshots faded. A strange roar took their place. Something snapped, crackled, and popped. The sounds grew louder and louder. Delilah sank to her knees in front of the door, exhausted. Cradling her injured hands in her lap, she leaned her head against it. Tears trickled down her face. The room grew warmer. The scent of smoke tickled her nose and she sneezed. Sneezing turned to coughing as the smoke grew thicker, until it choked her lungs. She drew back as the door against her cheek grew hot. Fire! Was the whole encampment on fire? A roaring filled her ears as flames devoured timbers. Sweat trickled from her brow and she wiped it away.

  “Someone help me!” Scrambling back from the door, she huddled in the front of the wagon. No one is coming. I am going to burn to death! Her fingers skimmed the heated walls until they touched the water skin hung by the herb shelf. She jerked it down from the hook and rummaged through a basket by her feet for a piece of thick cloth. Snatching up a square of material, she held it to the mouth of the water skin to dampen it. After re-corking the skin, she pressed the cloth against her mouth and nose. Gagging and gasping she breathed through the material to minimize the smoke. Her eyes began to burn and water as the heat and smoke grew. Beads of sweat trickled down between her breasts, causing her clothing to stick to her like a second skin. The heat was almost unbearable now, even the coolness of the damp cloth was now warm and uncomfortable against her face. Hot sparks landed on the exposed flesh of her arms. Crying out in terror, she slapped at the sharp pricks burning her skin. The smell of singed hair and flesh rose above the smoke. There was nothing she could do but huddle there, afraid to move without knowing which direction to go to avoid the worst of the flames.

  Above the roar of the blaze she thought a voice called. No, not a voice, but the whinny of a horse. She strained
to hear it again over the fire consuming all around her. Again the faint sound reached her ears. Was it Jester calling her, or some other horse burning to death in its harness? The whinny came again, closer this time. Clutching the belief it was her guide, she called out, “Jester! Jester, come!”

  A timber above her head creaked and then groaned. In a shower of hot sparks it collapsed. A fiery whoosh of air giving evidence it missed the corner she crouched in by scant inches. Another whinny, this time louder and unquestionably Jester’s, claimed her attention. Summoning all the courage she possessed, Delilah crawled toward the sound. She let out a yelp when her hand landed on a burning splinter of wood and seared her palm. Skirting the wood she carried on and tried to block the sizzling pain from her mind. A gust of cooler air brushed her face before the floor disappeared beneath her searching hand. Screaming, she tumbled into nothing, coming to rest seconds later in a heap of smoldering timbers. The smell of burning cloth, hair, and the sizzle of her skin against heated coals made her scramble to her feet. Stumbling over debris she made her way from the worst of the heat. Something brushed her leg and then Jester’s nicker greeted her.

  “Jester, my friend.” With tears of relief coursing down her flushed face, she flung her arms around her trusted guide’s neck. He nickered again and rubbed her hip with his nose before he strained to move away. The crash of another falling timber encouraged her to scramble aboard the pony and urge him onward.

  The sounds and heat died away as they wandered. Delilah couldn’t fathom where they were headed and truth be told, she wasn’t sure she even cared. Did the Romo baro defeat her own clan and leave her to burn as punishment for her betrayal? She was homeless, a lost soul. Did it matter where she ended up?

  Her gritty eyes grew heavy and she closed them, leaning forward and wrapping her scorched hands around Jester’s neck. The pain from hanging on was so great she smothered a sob. Despite it, she forced herself to hold tight lest she fall and get separated from the single thing anchoring her in the world. Delinka said Jester was her mate in another life. Was this true? Was his mission to see she was safe in her world of darkness because he sinned in his last life? If so, did it bother him she couldn’t remember and was in love with another? She slid into a haze of pain and exhaustion, thoughts of Tyrone swirling about in her head.