World of De Wolfe Pack_Tall, Dark & De Wolfe

by Barbara Devlin

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Kathryn Le Veque. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque, or their affiliates or licensors.

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  TALL, DARK & DE WOLFE

  BARBARA DEVLIN

  TITLES BY BARBARA DEVLIN

  BRETHREN OF THE COAST SERIES

  Loving Lieutenant Douglas

  Enter the Brethren

  My Lady, the Spy

  The Most Unlikely Lady

  One-Knight Stand

  Captain of Her Heart

  The Lucky One

  Love with an Improper Stranger

  To Catch a Fallen Spy

  Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me

  The Duke Wears Nada

  BRETHREN ORIGINS

  Arucard

  Demetrius

  Aristide

  Morgan

  PIRATES OF THE COAST

  The Black Morass

  The Iron Corsair

  The Buccaneer

  The Stablemaster’s Daughter

  The Marooner

  Once Upon a Christmas Knight

  KATHRYN LE VEQUE’S KINDLE WORLD OF DE WOLFE PACK

  Lone Wolfe

  The Big Bad De Wolfe

  Tall, Dark & De Wolfe

  OTHER WORKS

  Magick, Straight Up

  A Taste of Magick

  DEDICATION

  For Kathryn.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TALL, DARK & DE WOLFE

  TITLES BY BARBARA DEVLIN

  DEDICATION

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT BARBARA DEVLIN

  _________________

  CHAPTER ONE

  London

  June 17

  The Year of Our Lord, 1497

  A melancholy audial tapestry of death rose above the din of war, as vicious fighting reduced grown men to groveling babes, crying for their mothers or for mercy, neither of which would be found on the battlefield. In the midst of the conflict, Titus de Wolfe, son of Atticus, the Lion of the North and the patriarch of the estimable family descended of the great William de Wolfe, and Isobeau, savored the thrill of combat, heeled the flanks of his mighty destrier, and charged the fray borne of misplaced rebellion against the Crown.

  In defiance of King Henry VII, the Cornish advanced on the Deptford Strand Bridge, to protest a tax imposed to pay for the war against the Scots. The sad thing was Titus agreed with the Cornish, because they shouldered an inordinate share of the debt, when the border incursions did not affect Cornwall. The tariff, unfairly levied, all but penalized those who had no stake in the game. Yet, no one asked his opinion on the matter, and he welcomed the chance to display his abilities and make a name for himself, because no one knew anything about him, beyond his legendary sire.

  At center, the line broke, as the enemy, Cornish soldiers comprised of a piteous group of perfumed noblemen and clumsy farmers unaccustomed to such brutal work, offered no real opposition to the trained professional warriors deployed by His Majesty, and that dampened his enjoyment of the action. Then again, the great Wars of the Roses, during which his father rose to prominence, were no more, leaving Titus to carve out a place in the great De Wolfe dynasty, on his own.

  After beheading one unfortunate soul, and dispatching another to the hereafter, he scanned the area, glimpsed the familiar De Wolfe ailette attached to a pauldron, smiled, and flicked the reins. “Yaa!”

  A mountainous knight, an imposing figure in his armor, sitting tall atop an equally arresting stallion, waved to his armiger, as he led a forward assault flanked by the royal compliments of Lords Suffolk, Oxford, and Essex. When he noted Titus neared, the sad sack of ignorance drew to a halt and slid from his mount.

  “Must you always make such a grand entrance?” The eldest son of Titus—yes, another Titus de Wolfe named for their ancestor, and Desiderata, Arsenius de Wolfe snickered and unsheathed his weapon. “As you appear better suited for the stage, cousin.”

  “You are one to talk.” Leaping to the ground, so he could assist his closest relation, more a brother, given their years, Titus snorted and drew forth his two lightweight blades forged of Damascus steel. “And wherefore do you not bare your face, as that alone would scare off half of them?”

  “Are we not the witty sort? And your lady declared otherwise when I rode her this morrow.” Ah, it was an old insult, neither facetious nor serious, because they often competed for various women, but no one came between De Wolfes, and especially not the cousins. Adopting a familiar stance, Arsenius turned his back to Titus, in a display of trust that never failed to humble him, but such was the way of family, and together they prepared to fight. “How many would you estimate?”

  “Perchance, two to three hundred souls in our immediate vicinity. Hardly seems fair.” With his shoulder, Titus prodded Arsenius. “Are you ready?”

  “Aye.” As did Titus, Arsenius hunkered, in anticipation of an attack. “Let us play, cousin.”

  Enacting a graceful dance, of a sort, the two towering De Wolfes launched a lethal campaign so perfectly in tune as to render the distinctions between them invisible. As Arsenius, an expert lancer like his father, moved, Titus employed his signature skills, which he learned in Cypress, when he served le Dauphin. Two by two, the enemy fell, because no one could defeat the fierce De Wolfe duo. Thus Titus defended his family legacy but did little to establish his own prestige.

  Therein manifested his weakness.

  For as long as he could remember, he fought not a single adversary but, rather, the ghost of his incomparable uncle, an unrivaled warrior for whom Titus was named but could never equal. Betrayed by those who should have defended him, the first Titus de Wolfe was murdered at the great Battle of Towton, forever enshrining him as a legend in De Wolfe lore. It seemed no matter how hard the younger Titus tried, he could not match his long-dead uncle’s prowess, and the failure haunted him.

  The anger and frustration found a convenient outlet in the unfortunate Cornish soldiers, as Titus felled untold numbers. Ignoring pleas for mercy, he spilled the blood of countless men, until a sea of torn and tattered corpses blanketed the earth, and the Cornish surrendered.

  “This was no battle.” With a scowl, Arsenius shook his head and choked. “It was a massacre.”

  “I agree.” Even his cousin unwittingly diminished the most meager achievement, thereby undermining Titus’s short-lived moment of triumph and destroying any hope for glory. After yanking off his helm, Titus wiped his forehead and spat. As he assessed the enemy, a pathetic collective of boys and men with soft hands, he realized Arsenius was right. “There is no honor in such foul work.”

  “Sirs Arsenius and Titus, His Majesty summons you.” Arsenius’s armiger motioned toward the verge. “The King bade you appear with haste.”

  “Now what have you done?” Arsenius chucked Titus’s chin, in a familiar affectation of familial camaraderie.

  “I have been with you the entire time.” As he sheathed his swords, Titus pondered the situation, snorted in disgust, and shifted his weight. “How do you know the fault is mine?”

  “Past experience.” As he stowed his weapon, Arseni
us arched a brow and snickered. “Were you not the one who seduced the Queen’s favored consort on Shrove Tuesday, no less, which almost landed us a date with His Majesty’s executioner?”

  “You neglect to mention Lady Margaret, in the heat of passion, confessed a nefarious plot to overthrow the Crown, for which you and I were later knighted. How did the King put it?” Recalling the somewhat risky but pleasurable endeavor, which resulted in an unforeseen but beneficial outcome, Titus narrowed his stare and snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes. We are most right and true men in dedicated service to England, and who am I to argue the Sovereign’s assessment?”

  Despite Titus’s glowing summation of what could have been a fatal event, Arsenius grimaced. “And when it came to Lady Margaret, you were quite dedicated to service.”

  Now that was putting it mildly, because he rode Lady Margaret like an unbroken mare, and he pondered his new target at court, a delicate woman with a smoldering gaze that told him she was not so fragile as she appeared, and he would test that assumption, that night. Winking, Titus climbed into the saddle of his destrier. “Indeed, I was, as I pursued her for months, but you are one to talk, after your bare-arsed jaunt through the royal stables, whither Lord Tabarant caught you grinding his wife’s corn.”

  “That was a momentary lapse in judgment for which I have endeavored to atone.” In that moment, Arsenius cast a half-smile, and his cheeks boasted a telltale shade of red, as he chuckled and reclaimed his steed. “Who knew that old, gotch-gutted, cream-faced loon could run so fast?”

  “Well, in all fairness, you had your breeches and chausses gathered about your knees, which slowed your escape.” Slapping his thighs, Titus howled with laughter, as he revisited the memory. “That was a sight I shall never forget, and I must say I feared for your future heirs, when you fled through the topiary garden with the thorny hedgerows.”

  “Cousin, believe me, I scared myself.” Wincing, Arsenius drew rein, and they heeled the flanks of their stallions, in unison. “Yet we always manage to survive, because we support each other in our adventures.”

  “And just what manner of adventure do you have in mind?” As they galloped toward the royal tent, Titus glanced at Arsenius. “Ah, but I know you too well. What is her name?”

  “Does it matter?” Arsenius shrugged, as they soared up the hillside. “What say we celebrate our victory with some of our favorite ale and fare?”

  “Blonde, brown, raven, or redhead?” Hungry for the spoils of victory, and there was nothing that inspired a woman more than a decorated champion, Titus urged his mount faster. “Or does it matter?”

  “One should never rush such an important decision.” The King’s guards stood at attention, as Arsenius and Titus neared, and that gave him pause. “But I believe I shall let Fate make that decision for me.”

  “Ah, a gambling man.” Mid-chuckle, Titus sobered, when he spied Uncle Titus, who was, in truth, Titus’s cousin. Owing to the difference in their ages, he referred to the son of the esteemed De Wolfe as uncle.

  Born Titus Saint-Germain, it was on his mother’s deathbed that he learned of his parentage. Later, in an eerie battlefield scene at Barnet, reminiscent of the betrayal that took the first Titus’s life, Atticus rescued what he would later discover was his nephew. After a generous contribution to the local parish, and wielding considerable power and a will that would not be denied, Solomon de Wolfe formally recognized the onetime illegitimate issue, who assumed the family name and his rightful place among the celebrated warriors, earning a dukedom, in the process.

  “Look yonder.” A shiver of unease traipsed Titus’s spine. “Your father awaits.”

  “That is not good.” Arsenius waved to his sire, as he slowed his destrier. “Papa, we bested the rebels and won the battle.”

  “I would not be too sure about that.” Uncle Titus frowned. “Come to my tent, as we have much to discuss.”

  Just then, His Majesty clapped his hands and admonished an attendant, which only compounded Titus’s unrest. “We are not pleased that several thousand rebels marched to our doorstep, unimpeded, and we would have blood in recompense.”

  “Hurry.” Uncle Titus flicked his fingers, and Arsenius, with Titus in tow, led his horse to the back of the line. “Step inside my temporary accommodation, as I require privacy.”

  “What is wrong?” Furrowing his brow, Arsenius glanced at Titus, and he shrugged. “We successfully defended London against the Cornish attackers. Why is the Crown angry?”

  “Do you really need me to answer that question?” On a table, Uncle Titus rolled up a map, tossed it aside, grabbed a chair, sat, and indicated Arsenius and Titus follow suit. “I suggest you take your ease, my son, as what I have to say will, no doubt, shock you.”

  The term of endearment evidenced all that Arsenius enjoyed with his father, and Titus envied the close relationship. Often, he wished Atticus treated Titus with the same affinity, but his sire remained distant, at best, and critical, at worst.

  “Aye, sir.” Arsenius paled, as he leaned forward and rested elbows to knees. “Am I in trouble?”

  “That is putting it mildly.” Uncle Titus rolled his eyes. “And when your mother finds out what happened, my neck will be in peril.”

  “I do not understand.” Again, Arsenius met Titus’s stare, but he was at a loss to comprehend their misstep. In silence, he promised to defend his cousin, if necessary, and they would face the executioner as they did everything—together. “If I offended His Majesty, in any way, I will apologize.”

  “You mistake my meaning.” With a heavy sigh, Uncle Titus opened his trunk and retrieved a bottle, and Titus braced for the news, because his uncle rarely indulged in such habits. “Given your heroic performance on the battlefield, in defense of the realm, the Crown has bestowed upon you an earldom and a prosperous seigneury in Cornwall.”

  As usual, Titus’s feats were overlooked, but that did not surprise him, as he was often relegated to naught more than a mention that he was Atticus de Wolfe’s son.

  “What of my deeds, which were equally courageous?” he inquired, with more than a little grousing. “Is my sacrifice to be ignored?”

  Uncle Titus took a vast deal more than generous gulp and wiped his mouth. “The King also bequeaths a wife.”

  At the singular pronouncement, Arsenius appeared on the verge of swooning.

  “Great abyss of misery.” Relieved to have been slighted, Titus burst into uncontrolled mirth. “But you may take your reward, as I covet it not.”

  “I would not be too quick to delight in Arsenius’s difficulty.” Uncle Titus scratched his jaw. “As the King bequeathed the same to you.”

  “What?” Gasping for breath, as the world seemed to pitch and roll beneath him, Titus flinched.

  “Now who is laughing?” Arsenius frowned. “But Mama will never support a union in which she had no say in the selection.”

  “Trust me, between your mother and His Majesty, I would rather confront the King, as naught scares me more than Desi’s temper.” Uncle Titus slumped his shoulders. “And Atticus may kill me, when we apprise him of the not so felicitous developments, given he and Isobeau are to host the weddings at the Lair.”

  “Well that should be interesting.” Arsenius slapped his thighs. “There could be violence.”

  “No, that will not happen.” Uncle Titus snapped to attention. “Whatever their station, our future in-laws will be De Wolfes.”

  “I understand, father.” Arsenius glanced at Titus, and he feared he might vomit. “But at present they remain the enemy.”

  For Titus, that was putting it lightly.

  ~

  A warm breeze kissed Lady Rosenwyn Burville’s cheeks, as she stood in the bailey of Tharnham Castle, her childhood home, which sat near the confluence of the Kenwyn and the Allen rivers, and a gem amid the untamed moorlands of Truro, in Cornwall, lifted her chin, and basked in the sun’s rays. For the first time in a long time, she coveted hope, as she anticipated the return of her father and he
r brother.

  After a rider brought word of men returning from London, and the battle no one wanted, because it pitted the Stanneries against His Majesty, she awaited a much prayed for reunion, given her mother’s delicate state, in Papa’s absence. The first familiar face to pass through the gate brought shouts of joy from the kitchen, as he was the son of the cook. But the mood quickly turned disconsolate, when he related details of the momentous loss and how the Crown’s professional troops decimated the Cornish gentry. A sad chorus of weeping women dropped to the ground, while others offered support and consolation.

  “What is it, Rosenwyn?” Mama ran from the main entry and shielded her eyes from the bright light. “Is there news of your father or Petroc?”

  “No, Mama.” Rosenwyn clutched her mother’s hand, and they approached the gathering of servants. “But I am certain they will arrive, soon. We need only be patient. I wager Petroc and Papa will be road weary but naught more, you will see.”

  “I hope you are right, my child.” Mama squeezed Rosenwyn’s fingers. “I miss your father, as he has been gone too long. In our two and twenty years of marriage, we have never been apart for more than a sennight.”

  “Vennor.” Fearing for her relations, she tamped her anxiety, put duty first, and signaled the steward. “Send a messenger to notify those about the estate that we will gather in the great hall, and have the cook serve a warm repast, that we might mourn our brave dead, as a family. And we must reassure everyone who sacrificed and grieves a loved one that the Burvilles will not let them go hungry or homeless.”

  “Aye, my lady.” Vennor dipped his chin. “I shall have the master of the horse dispatch a soldier from the garrison, at once.”

  “Gramercy.” With that, she put her arm about Mama’s shoulders. “Come, let us go inside, and prepare to comfort our guests.”