“Go on, my child. You have the gift of sight.”
Warmth spread through her fingertips. “I am afraid, Delinka, afraid of what I will see.”
“The truth cannot hurt you.”
Tiny pinpricks of light danced before her sightless eyes until they converged to form a picture of a man, astride a horse, leading a pony. Her instincts told her it was Tyrone with Jester. He is searching for me. The image blurred and a farmer leading Jester replaced it. The man watched the ground as if following tracks. Who has Jester and where is he taking him? Thick forest closed in on the man and pony until they faded from view. Out of the dim a new scene took shape. A man smoking a pipe lay naked on a cot, great clouds of filmy white circling his head, making it impossible to see his face. A dark-haired woman leaned forward and kissed him. The smoke dissipated and Tyrone favored her with a lazy grin. An overwhelming sense of abandonment filled Delilah. He loves another. He was not for her, nor her for him. Her place was here. She let her fingers slip from the orb. I am home.
“Have you seen enough for now, chosen one?”
With firm resolve she nodded. “Yes, Delinka. What else are you to show me today?”
“There is much for you to process. First you will learn to see without the crystal ball.” Rough, wrinkled hands took Delilah’s and dropped a number of small articles in her palm.
Delilah rolled the smooth objects between her fingers, puzzling them. Nine beans? “What do I do with beans?”
“Have you a coin?”
She fished in her pocket and pulled out a shilling.
“Good, put it in your hand with the beans. Shake them gently and then let them fall as they will on the table.”
Delilah closed her fingers around the objects, shook her fist, and dropped them to the table in a series of clicks.
“Ah, very interesting.”
“What is it?” Delilah leaned forward, wishing she could see what the drabardi could.
“Your path is not as simple as Deagan thinks it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I see a curved line and four beans in a square.”
“What does it mean?”
Delinka took a deep breath, letting the air hiss from her lips. “It means your path connects with one of a man. The curve means there is a problem with the path Deagan believes you are to take.”
A man. Tyrone or Augustus? Perhaps both. Delilah sighed. “As I told my uncle, I am already married to the baron by the earl’s, or rather the king’s, command.”
“Not to be. Deagan is wrong. You belong to this other man. Your paths were chosen when you were reincarnated.”
“No!” Delilah shook her head. “I will not go back to the baron, he is ill.”
“It is not the baron I’ve seen in my crystal ball, but a tall, dark-haired man. He is searching for you. He is the one with whom you belong.”
Delilah held the tears welling up in check. “Lord Frost wants to do his duty to the king, nothing more. He does not want me.”
The seer grunted. “Things are not always as they appear.”
“Maybe not, but to one who is blind they are usually as they sound.”
Delinka sighed. “Delilah, you must free yourself of all your bitterness if you seek to see your true potential.”
Pressing her lips together, Delilah refrained from telling the elder woman just what she thought of this potential. Warm fingers curled over hers.
“Come, today I will begin to teach you the secrets of our magic.”
Delilah rose and followed the drabardi from the wagon with a hand on the shorter woman’s shoulder. “Do our people really possess magical powers?”
The woman chuckled. “Of a sort we do, for we know the magic of the land and mysteries of the water that help us tread this world. Others could harness the powers as we have but are too limited of sight to see it.”
The idea of a blind woman being able to see better than one with perfect vision amused Delilah. They walked for a few short minutes before the woman stopped and knocked on what she assumed by the sound was another vardos, as the gypsies called their wagon homes. The door opened with a creak. The heavy musk of flowers, herbs, and other musty plants drifted from within, and she wrinkled her nose at their pungent odor.
“Is this her?” a man with a gruff voice inquired.
“Yes, this is Delilah.”
“Huh.” The step creaked. “She does not look like anyone special. I pictured someone more mysterious of stature, not a simple blind girl.”
Before Delilah could defend herself the old woman hissed, “That is because you do not possess the gift of sight, Belcher. We all have talents, just stick to yours and teach her the healing things she needs to know.”
“Do not chastise me, old woman, or I’ll put a hex on your head.”
The drabardi snorted. “As if you could. Get on with your teachings for we are running out of time before the harvest moon.” She removed Delilah’s hand from her shoulder and placed it on a smooth wooden rail. “Belcher will take care with you, or he’ll answer to Deagan and Galer.”
Delilah smiled, liking the woman despite her rough demeanor. “Who is Galer?”
“He is your betrothed.”
She stood there stunned as a whisper of fabric and the tinkle of bracelets heralded the drabardi’s retreat. “My betrothed?”
“I see the old woman did not tell you everything. How like her.” The man grunted. “Well, come in. I have much to teach you in little time it appears.” The door creaked and the wooden rail under her hand quivered. Without much enthusiasm, she made her way up the steps.
It was stuffy in the little wagon, almost too warm. The room lingered with dozens of different smells to tease her senses. Her hip bummed against a table, and she reached for a corresponding stool when Belcher commanded her to sit. “What is it you are to teach me?” she asked, seating herself and resting her hands on the rough tablecloth.
“Our people are mostly lautaris and drabardis, or as others call them, musicians and seers. However, I am a chivihani.”
“What is that?”
“According to the rest of the world, a witch.”
She fought to keep from showing any alarm. “You cast spells and hexes then?”
He laughed, the sound malevolent and heavy in the closeness of the room. “When need be. Mostly however, I am an herbalist. I have studied the land and its plants. There is nothing I cannot cure with Mother Nature’s supplies. Well … almost nothing.”
She removed her hands from the table and clenched her fingers in her lap, lest he see them shake. “Why must I learn these things from you?”
“You and your betrothed will be the great Romo baros of our clans. To be a great leader one must know all of our ways.”
Exasperation rose unbidden in her. Once again, someone was deciding the path of her life for her. Nothing changed. “What if I do not want to be this Romo baro’s wife?”
He snorted. “As if you have a choice.”
“I thought a gypsy’s life was free and simple.”
“Nothing is truly free, except nature itself. Now pay attention, for you have much to learn. We will start with teas. There are many teas for different ailments such as coltsfoot, red clover, dandelion, and liquorice root … ”
Delilah sniffed the plants and herbs he held under her nose and concentrated on learning as much as she could, since it appeared she was left little choice in the matter.
• • •
“Oh, Uncle Deagan, the material is of the finest quality my fingers have ever felt.” Delilah smoothed the cool silk beneath her hands. She smiled, trying to imagine the color and cut of the splendid gypsy sash she now wore pinned with a crescent moon-shaped broach. The scoop necked peasant blouse was light against her skin and the flared cotton skirt soft against her naked legs. It was freeing and comfortable, much like the simple servant’s dress she wore the nights she slipped from Westpoint manor.
Her uncle chuckled. “It pales in compa
rison to your beauty, my dear.”
Delilah rose on her tiptoes to press a kiss upon his whiskered cheek. “Thank you. I shall truly feel a gypsy now.”
“Nothing makes me happier than to hear you say that.” He patted her hand. “Come now, the festivities will begin soon, and I want you to render every London buck senseless with your dancing. In those violet and pink hues I’m sure there will be no man who can resist you.”
With a soft giggle she accompanied him outside to the raised platform he built just for her. The pianoforte he’d traded his wealth of silver and gold for would be the stage for her musical numbers and dances popular with all the men who happened into their camp, in search of an evening of entertainment and trade. A sense of peace filled her as she pulled down the veil to conceal her face and settled her fingers on the keys. Never could she remember feeling so free, happy, and alive. Perhaps she was the gypsy future.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Trust me, Tyrone. There are far more lively entertainments to be had tonight at the festival than you have ever seen in any London club.”
“I am not interested in such pursuits, Perry, and I promised to call upon Miss Deval this evening.”
Perry shook his head, tutt-tutting his friend’s lack of interest. “You are getting far too serious over that filly, Ty. If you are not careful, you will find yourself trussed up and delivered to the altar like a Yule log at Candlemas, my friend.”
Tyrone shrugged. “Perhaps it is time I settled down. Mayhap it will keep the king from sending me out on any more fool’s errands.”
“Are you still pining away over the blind recluse you married off?” Perry shook his head. “She is happily wed and out of your hair. Forget about her with a comely lass under the stars tonight. I assure you it will be an experience you will never forget.” Perry leaned closer. “Those wenches can do the most wondrous things you can imagine with their bodies.”
“I am sure they can, but I am to call on Miss Deval, as I said.” Tyrone waved him away. “It is time I press her for a nuptial date. She has been leading me on for the last year. I will insist she accept my suit, if she will have me. Though damned if I can understand her parents insisting she make up her own mind.”
“What is not to like, my dear boy?” Perry slapped him on the back. “The little chit’s parents will be overjoyed at the prospect of their daughter marrying into the Merryweather name, even without a fortune. I dare say you are going to be a very popular man in the political field before long and what woman would not want that kind of prestige? I say ignore the chit’s wants and go directly to her parents like any normal beau would do.”
“Yes, yes, so I have been told.” Tyrone grimaced and then downed the last mouthful of sherry in his glass. “I suppose I better be going; no time like the present.”
“You do not sound very thrilled about the prospect, for a man going down on bended knee and proposing to the woman of his dreams.”
“Is there such a thing?”
Perry raised an eyebrow. “A woman of dreams? I am told there is. Why are you entertaining the idea of marrying the woman if you do not want her?”
Tyrone sighed and pushed his glass across the table. “Do not get me wrong, Miss Deval is pretty and schooled in the arts as any well-bred lady should be, but … ”
“But?” Perry signaled for the waiter to refill both their glasses.
“She just does not … I suppose I am fond of her. I am just not in love with her, you see.” Tyrone sipped a second glass of sherry a passing serving wench set before him, trying to stall the inevitable.
Perry snorted. “Love is for mistresses my friend. Show me a man in love with his wife and I will show you a heap of misery underneath it all. If Miss Deval is a true lady, she will kindly turn a blind eye to any affairs you have. It is the best of both worlds: a lady to grace your parlor and a willing whore to warm your bed.”
“I suppose you are right.” Tyrone finished his drink and got to his feet. “Perhaps I will join you after I press my suit tonight. Maybe a night of revelry will be just the celebration I need to bolster my courage before I talk to Lord Deval on the morrow.”
“‘Atta boy.” Perry stood and slapped his friend’s back again. “I am on my way then. Go past the park to the green down the main road and you will find the caravan.” Tipping his hat at a jaunty angle, he grinned and strolled out of the gentleman’s club, whistling a bawdy tune.
Tyrone shook his head, dropped a couple coins on the table for the drinks, and then headed for Lord Petagrin’s ball, where he was sure to meet up with the young Miss Deval.
• • •
Milling couples crowded the ballroom. Laughter tinkled with the clink of crystal and the light strains of an orchestra. Tyrone lifted a glass of golden champagne off a passing serving man’s tray and pushed his way through the heated bodies. A glimpse of shimmering black hair caught his eye through the swirling crush of bodies and he turned in that direction. Miss Simone Deval was surrounded by an impressive array of London’s young swains. In the flickering candlelight her hazel eyes looked almost violet as she simpered and smiled at those vying for her attention. As Tyrone paused to watch, he was struck by the sudden realization his continued fascination with the young miss might have more to do with her startling resemblance to Miss Delilah Daysland than with her own charms. He studied her. Perhaps it was the opposite and his former charge looked so much like Miss Deval he was attracted to her. No, Miss Deval’s abundant breasts, aristocratic nose, and limpid glances were unlike Delilah’s subtle curves and witty persona. How could he have been so blind? What was he doing here? Oh hell and damnation! Why not marry the chit? So she was a substitute for Delilah; what did it matter when the one he loved was married to another?
Screwing his courage to the sticking point, he made his way to Miss Deval’s side. “Good evening, my dear.”
Her gaze slid away from the gallant young buck spewing prose to her loveliness. When it settled on him he was struck by the cattiness in her gaze, so unlike Delilah’s honest stare. “Why, good eve, Lord Frost, how delightful to see you here.” She turned to the tall man beside her. “Have you met Lord White?”
Tyrone nodded to the young man beside her. “Nice to see you again.”
“Lord Frost,” the young man returned. “I trust there are no hard feelings between us.”
“No, should there be?” Tyrone lifted a brow, puzzled.
Miss Deval laid a possessive hand on the young man’s arm. “Oh dear. You have not heard the news?”
Lord White cleared his throat. “Terribly inconvenient, Frost. Perhaps a private conversation on the veranda is in order, old chap.”
Old chap? Tyrone fought to keep his expression neutral. The fellow is a few years younger than I, but really … “Anything you care to say to me can be said where I stand, White.”
“Well, I would prefer any ah … confrontation and challenges to a duel be kept — ” he glanced around the room with a slight smile, “confidential, as it were.”
“For God’s sake, White, what is it you think will so incense me to such violence?” Tyrone glowered at the man, his ire already pricked.
Miss Deval placed her hand on his sleeve and favored him with a coy smile. “What Lord White is trying so tactfully to tell you, my lord, is I have agreed to a match between he and I.”
Tyrone blinked. Instead of anger or disappointment at such news, he was unaffected. In fact it was if an unseen weight was lifted from his shoulders. “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order then.” He bowed. “May you be happy as the Duchess of Berkley, Miss Deval.” With a shake of his head he turned on his heel and marched through the crowd.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tyrone followed the path to the gypsy camp. He should be angry at Miss Deval’s betrayal. At the very least he should have wanted to fight for her. Now her fortune was out of his grasp, and he found he couldn’t care less although it seemed he would have to start the long process of finding another
wealthy heiress to woo. He grimaced. He didn’t want another wealthy, well bred, boring woman. He wanted Delilah. It was too late now, he’d thrown away his chance … or did she? No matter. It was not as if he could go back and change what was done. Music floated on the light breeze as he dismounted and tied his horse to the rope picket strung between the trees as a courtesy to the evening’s guests. Tucking the sack of coins into the inside pocket of his fox coat where it would be harder for sticky fingers to lift, he followed the sounds of revelry. Rounding the bushes he paused, surveying the scene of wild abandon before him. Men of all classes lounged with gypsy women, many engrossed in various stages of lovemaking right there on the grass. Others danced in the moonlight or found other delights among the brightly painted caravans holding potions and elixirs of all kinds. His attention swung to a raised platform where a veiled figure played a pianoforte, shrouded in mist and smoke. The haunting passage carried a familiar tune, with an unquestionable gypsy flare that made him want to tap his toes.
A buxom beauty sidled up to him and ran her fingers in a coy gesture down his shirt front. “Come looking for some entertainment this eve, my lord?”
Perhaps a diversion was needed to rid his mind of Delilah and Miss Deval. He nodded. “How much will it cost me?”
She smiled. “It depends on what you desire. A dance would cost you little, but an evening would be most enjoyable for the both of us, I assure you.”
“Perhaps we should start with a dance then, to help me decide.”
“I am Nadia.” She lowered her gaze and held out her hand. When he pulled a coin from his pocket and placed it in her open palm she stepped back. After testing it with her teeth she grinned and tucked it into the pouch hanging around her neck on a silver chain. “Sit down on the pillow, my lord, and make yourself comfortable.”
Tyrone lowered himself to a small pile of cushions and reclined, propping on one elbow to enjoy the show. His gaze fixed on the gypsy as she began to sway in time to the music. Her lithe limbs waved and stroked the air in a rhythm all her own as she undulated in a most provocative way. To any other man her dance would have been enticing enough to warrant a paid evening under the full moon, but not for Tyrone. Though he found the practiced movements entertaining, his manhood stood down. By the time her dance was done Nadia was clothed in a beaded half chemise of sorts, showing off her sensual naval and silk drawers jingling with tiny silver bells sewn to the fringes.
Through Gypsy Eyes Page 13