A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  “No doubt you could tempt the devil to take confession.”

  “I could but try.” Throbbing fingers forced her to touch his skin, to massage the spot just above the collar of his coat, up into his hair.

  A pleasurable hum resonated in his chest as he relaxed his head into her hands. “What is it you want me to do, Juliet? For I doubt our thoughts are aligned.”

  He was wrong. The spicy scent of his cologne teased her nostrils. Touching him stoked the fire within. But while her body craved this man, her mind was determined to ensure he did not meet Biggs alone.

  “A comment my father made leads me to wonder if he wants something else besides Hannah’s letters.” Juliet rubbed his temples in a circular motion. “And so I think we should test the theory out on Mr Biggs.”

  One coherent word cut through Devlin’s relaxed breathing. “We?”

  Juliet bent her head and whispered in his ear, “I shall forge a letter from Hannah and hand it to Mr Biggs. It will give us an opportunity—”

  “Like hell you will.” In three swift moves her husband shot out of the chair, gripped both her hands and swung her around until her bottom perched on the edge of the table.

  “At least give me a chance to explain.”

  He towered above her, so dark, so menacing, and yet she was more aroused than frightened. “I’ll not let that rogue lay a hand on you again.” His mouth came crushing down on hers, so urgent, so possessive. Blazing lips locked her in a scorching embrace.

  Juliet relished the taste. Perhaps it was the potent essence of the wine that made her dizzy. Delirious. Perhaps it was the sizzling energy in the air that robbed her of all rational thought. She clutched his shoulders as their tongues fought a wild and intense battle for control.

  Pure, unadulterated lust rendered them both incapable of forming a word.

  He delved deeper into her mouth as he pushed her farther back onto the table. Cutlery clattered on the china plate. A crystal goblet toppled over, splashing wine on her dress. A cool breeze drifted over her legs as Devlin bunched her skirts up past her thighs.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he said, tearing his mouth from hers. “Tell me now while I still have a grip on the last thread of control.”

  Gasping for breath, Juliet placed her hand on his heart. The organ thudded against her palm. Taking him into her body brought comfort as well as immense pleasure.

  “My mother told me relations always took place in bed. I cannot recall her ever mentioning a piano, a ballroom floor or a dining table.”

  Guilt flashed in his eyes. “Forgive me. Sometimes the savage part of my character overrules all else.”

  She could sense his retreat. Oh, she had said the wrong thing. “No, you misunderstand.” Juliet reached for the buttons securing the fall of his breeches. “It excites me that you lack the control to wait. It makes me feel that you desire me.”

  A sinful smile replaced the brief look of shame. Hot hands slid up under her skirts to cup her buttocks. “Oh, I desire you more than you know. Say you want to redefine what it means to take dessert.”

  Despite trembling fingers, she undid a button. “When I think of tasting anything rich and moorish, I shall think of your mouth. But promise me, when we settle down for a glass of port, that you will listen to my proposal.”

  Devlin bent his head and traced her lips with the tip of his tongue before thrusting inside. The kiss lasted seconds though it tugged at the muscles deep in her core.

  “I promise to give your plan my full consideration,” he said in a rich, husky voice that never failed to heat her blood. “I promise that once we have dealt with Biggs, I shall do whatever is necessary to ease your fears.”

  His words were like an aphrodisiac. One minute they were kissing, the next he was filling her full, sliding in and out of her hungry body in a slow, seductive rhythm. The maddening ache for him grew in intensity. Wrapping her legs more firmly about his waist, she urged him to hurry. It was not her pleasure she sought. But she would see the look of satisfaction banish the darkness from his eyes. She would see every flicker of emotion on his face, feel the power in every sleek stroke.

  The clatter of crockery behind only inflamed her desire. They were wild, reckless, bound together by the hand of fate. Never had she felt so ravenous. Never had she experienced emotions so profound.

  “God, Juliet,” he panted. “You drive me insane.”

  He pounded harder, faster, again and again and again. His hand edged under her skirt, the soft pad of his thumb circling the one place desperate for his touch.

  She came apart in seconds. “Devlin … yes …” Violent tremors shook her body, the shudders reaching her toes. “Devlin. I …” The word love clung to the tip of her tongue, but she chose to hold on to it for a while longer.

  Three slow, measured strokes and her husband’s head fell back. His guttural growl filled the room. He thrust inside her one last time, clutched her hip and held her there while he gasped for breath.

  “This is the only place I belong.” Devlin’s muttered words were barely coherent.

  His muscular arm snaked around her back, held her firmly in position as he collapsed back into the chair, taking her with him. Their bodies remained joined even when he softened inside her.

  Juliet placed her head on his shoulder while still straddling his body. “I keep expecting to wake from this dream and find myself staggering down Bond Street overladen with Hannah’s parcels.”

  “I share your sense of relief that we’ve both been spared such a cruel fate.”

  “Yet I cannot help but think the worst.” An uncomfortable sense of foreboding refused to be tempered. “My father will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”

  Devlin sighed. “Then our next move must be strategic.”

  “Strategy involves having some knowledge of the game. In this instance, it would help if we understood my father’s motive for making such demands.”

  Devlin fell silent for a moment before offering a curious hum. “Then tell me again of your plan for Mr Biggs.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Black clouds crept across the night sky to obscure the waning moon. With the absence of any natural light to illuminate her way, Juliet relied only on the small lantern to guide her through the garden. Gusts of wind attacked the flickering flame, making it impossible to hold the lamp aloft. The sound of trickling water drew her down the three stone steps leading to the lower tier and the ornate fountain—the place of her midnight assignation.

  A frisson of fear rippled across her shoulders. She glanced back at the sprawling mansion, thought she saw someone watching from her bedchamber window, but Devlin had left the house thirty minutes earlier on a quest to find the perfect place to hide.

  Juliet shook her head in a bid to focus on the task at hand and continued her journey towards the strange shadows she knew to be the trimmed topiary. Like soldiers on sentry duty, the cone-shaped trees flanked all sides of the magnificent water feature, and yet she knew her husband would not hide in such an obvious place.

  But Devlin was out there somewhere, lurking in the depths of the darkness. She could feel the intense heat of his gaze following her every movement.

  Mr Biggs was not waiting at the fountain.

  Minutes passed.

  The hoot of an owl and an odd scurrying sound forced her to squint at the eerie silhouettes in the distance. The sharp autumnal wind whipped her cheeks. Dead leaves blustered about her feet. The snap of a twig drew her frantic gaze to the path leading down to the brook.

  A figure appeared—an ominous black shape that swayed in time with the trees.

  The mass moved ever closer.

  Oh, she should have brought Rufus, but she couldn’t trust the dog to obey her commands, hadn’t the strength to hold him on a leash. And the last thing they needed was to send Biggs fleeing in fright.

  “The baron will be pleased to hear you’ve finally proved your worth,” Biggs’ gritty voice cut through the crisp night air. He cam
e to a halt a few feet away.

  “Family loyalty is everything, is it not?” Juliet kept the sarcasm from her tone. It would not do to aggravate a man who thought nothing of beating a woman. If Biggs put a grubby hand on her, it would be the end of all conversation. Devlin had made that clear.

  “You have the letters then?”

  “I have one letter. Despite an endless search that is all I could find.”

  Biggs bared his gritted teeth. “One? One! Wait till the baron hears about this.” He closed the gap between them, looming large. “Happen I’ll need to give you a reminder of what’s expected.”

  Juliet flinched. Her pulse thumped hard in her throat. “Don’t you want to see the letter first?” she said, trying to buy more time before Devlin charged out from his hideaway and beat Biggs to a pulp. “It might prove to be exactly what my father seeks.”

  “Let me see it.” The rogue beckoned her to hand over the letter. “For your sake, you better hope you’re right.”

  Juliet placed the lantern on the ground, reached into her pelisse and withdrew the missive she had written an hour earlier. The ink was too dark, the paper not nearly creased enough. It lacked the potent smell of neroli that clung to everything Hannah touched, a scent that lingered for months if not years.

  Biggs snatched the letter but did not peel back the folds to scan the contents. He turned it over in his hand, examined the name on the front and the broken wax seal, then brought the paper to his nose.

  “This isn’t it.” Strong fingers scrunched the letter until it was a ball in his fist. He threw it to the ground, rubbed his hand over his bristled chin and cursed.

  “How do you know when you haven’t read it?” Juliet clenched her hands at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she waited for his violent outburst. She had to press him for more information. “That was a letter written by Miss Bromfield and sent to Ambrose Drake. It details her ugly threats, her attempt at blackmail. Is that not exactly the thing my father seeks? Or is there something else he considers more valuable?”

  Tell me, tell me something.

  “You ask too many questions.” Biggs snarled and stabbed his finger at the mansion behind. “Are you tellin’ me that’s the only letter you could find in a house that size?”

  So this had nothing to do with the disparaging gossip hurled at Ambrose Drake.

  Did it have something to do with him breaking the betrothal?

  “You’re welcome to search the house yourself once you’ve explained the nature of your enquiry to my husband. Though I doubt he will permit you to set foot over the threshold.”

  Biggs seemed undeterred by the warning. “And while I’m there, happen I’ll tell him his wife is a spy.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. Mr Drake has quite a temper.” Or so he had led her to believe. “He can kill a man with a simple flick of the wrist.”

  “Not with a broken neck he can’t. Now get back to the house and bring me what I need else you’ll feel the flick of my wrist across that pretty face of yours.” Biggs offered a menacing grin as he raised his hand in warning.

  The moment you feel threatened call out.

  Devlin’s instructions flitted through her mind, but she needed more information from Biggs.

  “Dare lay a hand on me, and it will be the last thing you do.” How she found the confidence to challenge him, she would never know.

  “We’ll see about that.” Biggs curled his fingers into a fist just as a loud, ear-piercing howl rent the air. The thug froze as his frantic gaze scoured the gardens. “Wh-where’s that blasted dog?”

  “Rufus? He’s about somewhere. But he is trained to wait for my signal.” If only that were true, but the hound lacked discipline and refused to bow to authority.

  Biggs shook his head and trained his beady eyes on her. “You’ve until tomorrow to bring me what I ask. I suggest you search amongst her ladyship’s trinkets.”

  Her ladyship?

  “And let this be a warnin’ to you.”

  The backhanded slap took her by surprise. The power of it caused her to stumble back.

  A thunderous roar echoed all around them. Bloodthirsty. Savage.

  In a sudden panic, Biggs swung around and around, searching for the source of the brutal battle cry.

  Juliet could see nothing but a host of shadows. And then, like a devil in the darkness, she saw her husband’s hulking form appear behind Mr Biggs. A brief sliver of moonlight illuminated a section of Devlin’s face to reveal a menacing mask of rage. His large, muscular arm slipped around the scoundrel’s throat. “One wrong move and I shall snap your bloody neck.”

  Anger burst through Devlin’s veins—hot and molten. Fury almost blinded him. The need to extinguish all sign of life from the bastard who had the audacity to strike his wife vibrated through every taut, tense muscle.

  He couldn’t look at Juliet. To do so would render him helpless, would serve to bury the blade deeper into his heart. He should never have agreed to her plan, but the woman held him captive with her honest eyes and beguiling smile.

  Biggs’ strangled croak encouraged Devlin to tighten his hold. The man would know how close he’d come to losing his life. Devlin squeezed until Biggs punched and slapped his arm, begged for mercy, until he choked and spluttered.

  “You have five seconds to tell me what the hell the baron wants from my house.” Devlin relaxed his grip but kept hold of his prisoner.

  Biggs coughed, the wracking sound like music to Devlin’s ears. “Go … go to hell.”

  “Very well.” Devlin tightened his grip, this time lifting the blackguard clean off the ground. Biggs kicked and thrashed for freedom but to no avail. “I shall ask you again. If you’re not looking for the letters from Miss Bromfield, what are you looking for?”

  He gave Biggs another opportunity to speak.

  “I don’t know what the baron … what the baron wants.”

  Frustration only enraged Devlin further.

  “Then let me see if I can be a little more persuasive.”

  Juliet stepped forward, drawing his attention. “What do you intend to do with him?” The sight of the red mark on her face brought bile bubbling to his throat.

  “I intend to throttle the bloody life out of him until he spills his guts.” And then he would partake in a form of self-flagellation, penance for permitting his wife to meet with the blackguard.

  Juliet blinked rapidly. “Oh, and if he refuses?”

  “He won’t.”

  Desperate to try a different tactic, Devlin grabbed Biggs by the back of his collar and dragged him backwards across the lawn. Arms flailing, the fiend staggered. He slipped on the dew-soaked grass and hit the ground hard, but Devlin continued to haul him to the brook.

  “Get the hell off me,” Biggs complained. “Let me stand, and I’ll walk.”

  “Did you show my wife the same courtesy when you struck her so viciously?” The memory of the incident flamed the fires of vengeance.

  “I’m only following the baron’s orders.”

  Devlin cursed. “And in a moment you’ll be following mine.”

  Having played in the brook many times as a boy, Devlin was well aware of its depth. He pulled Biggs down the bank and into the water. The man splashed and spluttered when his head went under.

  Juliet stopped on the grass verge, watching him intently. “You mean to drown him?”

  “I do.” The water lapped around Devlin’s thighs as he wrestled Biggs onto his front. He grabbed the scoundrel by the hair and forced his head beneath the murky depths.

  Biggs thrashed.

  Devlin gritted his teeth, the muscles in his arm bulging as he used his strength to keep Biggs down.

  “Release him!” Juliet cried. “He’s been under for far too long.”

  Not wanting to cause his wife any more distress, Devlin hauled the sopping wet figure up. “Tell me what the baron really wants.”

  Rivulets of water ran down Biggs’ face. Droplets clung to his lashes. “
The letters,” he said, gasping for breath. “The baron wants the letters. That’s all I know.”

  “The letters written to Ambrose Drake?”

  “No … not those.”

  “What other letters would be of interest to him?” Had it something to do with business dealings? Had Ambrose taken the baron’s investment and died before legal proof could be established?

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Devlin thrust Biggs’ head under the water once again and held him until the air in his lungs had surely diminished, until the burning pain in his chest proved excruciating.

  “Devlin,” Juliet called. “Enough of this. He doesn’t know.”

  “He knows something.”

  Juliet gasped suddenly. She hurried down the bank and rushed into the brook despite crying out in shock as she hit the cold water. “Let … let me speak to him.”

  “Good God, woman. You’ll catch your death.”

  Eager to get his wife out of the water, Devlin yanked Biggs to the surface. This time, the man retched and heaved.

  Juliet grabbed Biggs by the arm. “You were looking for something when you examined the letter I gave you. What was it? Tell me, and I shall beg my husband to set you free.”

  Devlin was about to argue, there were two possible outcomes his conscience would allow, but he bit his tongue when Biggs nodded.

  “The baron … he’s lookin’ for old … for old letters.”

  “Old letters?” Juliet glanced at Devlin and frowned. She turned back to Biggs. “How old?”

  “F-fifty years.” Biggs coughed and spewed a mouthful of dirty water.

  Fifty years?

  “What else can you tell me?” Juliet persisted. “You examined the wax seal, and the name scrawled on the front. To whom are these letters addressed?”

  “I don’t—”

  Devlin gripped a clump of Biggs’ hair, ready to force him under.

  “Wait! The baron will kill me if he knows I’ve told you anything.”