Chapter Thirty
An insistent pounding permeated his slumber. Annoyed, Tyrone rolled over and opened his eyes. “Bloody hell, what is so urgent this early in the morn?”
“Come quick, my lord! The pony has shown up at Westpoint Manor with Miss Daysland aboard,” came the valet’s response from the other side of the door.
Tyrone sat up and flung off the bed covers. “Get in here. What is that you say?”
The connecting door to the valet’s room flew open and banged against the wall. The valet rushed in and began yanking articles of clothing from various drawers. “Hurry, my lord. The mistress is in a bad way.”
Tyrone scrambled to his feet and snatched a pair of breeches from the servant’s hands. Shoving his legs into them, he hopped to the door. “Never mind the trappings, show me where she is!”
The servant darted out the door with Tyrone’s boots, a shirt, waistcoat and great coat clutched in his hands. He led the way down to the lower floor of the inn while Tyrone hurried along behind buttoning his trousers. “How did you hear of this?”
“The maid, Teresa, sent the cook’s husband here post haste, my lord.” The butler crossed the public room that was empty of customers at such an early hour and rapped on the door to the innkeeper’s private quarters.
“Why were the maid, the cook, and her husband in residence at Westpoint when they were let go?” Tyrone snatched his shirt from his valet as a sleepy eyed innkeeper opened the door.
The valet passed him his vest, coat and boots. “They refused to leave until they knew of Miss Daysland’s fate, my lord.” He turned to the innkeeper. “Lord Frost needs a fast horse saddled immediately.”
With a nod the innkeeper scurried in the direction of the stables.
• • •
Upon entering Westpoint Manor Tyrone spotted Jester standing in the foyer. Miss Daysland was slumped across his back, filthy and tattered. He ran to the animal’s side where the maid kneeled.
“Delilah?” When she moaned he reached for her and chastised the maid. “Why hasn’t your mistress been taken above stairs?”
Tears streaked Teresa’s cheeks. “She refuses to let go of the pony, my lord. I’m not sure she realizes where she is or who we are in her state.”
With effort Tyrone steadied his voice and spoke with gentle persuasion. “Delilah, it is me, Tyrone. You are safe now at Westpoint. Jester has brought you home.” The scent of smoke and burned flesh invaded his nostrils.
“Ty … rone?” Delilah moaned. “I’m not dead?”
“No, my little wood nymph, you are not dead.”
Her lips quivered. “Jester … he brought me … home.”
“Yes, he did. You are safe now, Delilah, I promise you.”
“You never lie.” A sob escaped her and her grip on the pony relaxed.
Despite the seriousness of the situation Tyrone could not help but smile. “Never.” The smile slipped from his lips when he eased her fingers from around Jester’s neck to lift her down and she cried out in pain. He scooped her up in his arms and looked over his shoulder at the butler. “Send for a physician.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Tyrone hurried upstairs to Delilah’s former room. The light scent of flowers still lingered in the bedchamber, doing little to cover the stench of her burned flesh, hair and clothing. He placed her on top of the blankets. Her once shiny black locks hung limp and dirty, singed in some spots right to her scalp. Soot smudged the bridge of her nose and peppered her cheeks.
He leaned over her. “Delilah? Can you hear me?”
Her eyelids fluttered and then opened. The tip of her tongue slipped between her lips to moisten the cracked flesh before she mustered a hoarse whisper. “Ty … rone?”
“Yes.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
She grimaced as if in pain and raised her hand to her face.
For the first time he noticed the bits of burned flesh hanging from the swollen, red appendages. “Your hands! What happened?”
“I’m … not sure. There were … screams. Gunshots. The fire … it burned … everything. I could not get out. Then … Jester came for me.” She paused to cough, the sound raspy and dry. “Why are you here?”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “Teresa summoned me when Jester brought you home.”
“Of course. Jester … ” Her chapped lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “He was my mate … in another life.”
“What?”
Her lids fluttered and then closed. A soft sigh drifted from her lips as they parted and went slack. Concerned, he lay his head close to her mouth, relieved when her breath brushed his cheek. With great care he turned her hands palms up. Wet, painful looking blisters formed on the skin, oozing and seeping into the grime coating them. He recalled her reading to him in the library with her fingers and wondered if she would ever be able to do such amazing things again. The door opened and he turned.
The butler peered into the room. “The stable lad has taken your horse to fetch the physician.”
“Good.” Tyrone glanced back at Delilah and realized there was no household staff in attendance other than the maid, cook, butler, and stable lad. “When the lad returns send him to fetch back the rest of the servants but caution him and the rest of the staff to keep quiet about Miss Daysland’s presence here, at least until I find out what happened.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The door closed with an abrupt click before he could ask if faithful Jester was taken care of. It occurred to him perhaps the stable lad couldn’t be trusted. Who of the former staff could he trust? Teresa he believed was loyal and the butler, Aims, but the rest of them? A soft knock sounded on the door and he looked up.
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 retu
rned 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 th
e 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.”
Through Gypsy Eyes Page 17
