The
Savage Nobles
(Part Two)
Stolen Justice
SHAWN WICKERSHEIM
Copyright © 2018 Shawn Wickersheim
Digital Edition, License Notes
Published by Shawn Wickersheim
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Covert Art Design: J Caleb Clark
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
For my family,
but especially for my wife,
Tracy
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to again thank the many writer-friends who have provided their guidance, encouragement, critiques and the occasional caffeinated beverage during the creation of this novel, specifically Lorijo Metz, Hal Shepherd, and Tina P. Schwartz. I’d also like to thank Kimberly Pauley for providing me with the original ‘Rush of Betrayal’ book cover art. Thank you all so very much for everything you’ve done.
Also, because of the strange order of events in which I’ve written these novels, I’d like to thank my two young children, Alex and Anna, first for being wonderfully behaved babies so I had the opportunity to write the first couple of drafts of The Rush of Betrayal (the original title) while they napped and now for being wonderfully behaved kids who allow me the time to write every day after we’ve gone for a bike ride or played a game or two or simply just hung out. Thank you both for being really great kids!
Thanks also to my mom and dad and my immediate family for their love and support and for listening to me talk about this strange fantasy world I’ve created.
Many thanks to author, Dyrk Ashton for providing me with an awesome book blurb and to the talented J Caleb Clark for the incredible design work on the new cover art.
I’d also like to say thank you to all of my wonderful fans for your kind reviews and for helping to spread the word about me and my books on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads and on your personal blogs and websites. I am so happy you’ve enjoyed my books and I will do my best to continue to entertain you and to publish quality work. That is my promise to you.
And last, but definitely not least, a special thank you to my wife, Tracy, for her unconditional love and for her continued support of my writing dream. I would not be the man I am today without her, and definitely not the writer I am without her firm but gentle prodding from time to time to ‘just get the book done already’. I love her beyond words. Thank you, Tracy, for your love, your patience, your kindness and for always being there for me. I will be eternally grateful for having you in my life.
.
Chapter 1
Princess Cecily woke to the rumbling sound of the gods throwing boulders at each other. It was a strenuous activity, but if the gods were pleased with their followers, they would play and work up a healthy sweat. Their precious moisture fell from the heavens in the form of rain which in turn watered the crops and fed their faithful. However, if the gods were unhappy, if they had to spend their time punishing the faithless, then they had no time to play and draught conditions spread across the land. She had learned this as a child, and it had calmed her fears regarding the boisterously loud thunderclaps that shook the heavens from time to time. When she had explained this truth to Tyran one rainy afternoon a few years back, he had crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.
“Father says there is only one God and He alone rules the heavens.”
He’d said it so simply, so plainly and with such conviction that she didn’t know what to say. His faith in his father and his father’s foreign god was so unwavering. So absolute.
So damn frustrating!
She’d slapped him.
The deed was done before she could stop herself and after it was done, they both stood and stared at each other. She expected him to cry. He didn’t. He just looked at her in the same cold way Ian looked at her and without a word he’d turned and walked away. The matter was never discussed, but ever since, any time it rained, Tyran would seclude himself in the small chapel on the grounds and pray to his father’s god.
What a delusional waste of time! No singular god was listening, and frankly, she didn’t care.
The low rumble continued as she opened her eyes and found Lord Devin’s bedroom cast in shadows. Was it just after dusk or closer to dawn? She closed her eyes again and smiled. Time didn’t matter here. There was no rigid schedule to keep, no responsibilities to maintain, no Tyran to care for, no Ian to harass . . . and after the old healer had tended to Lord Devin’s wound earlier, no worries of any kind to be concerned about. Devin had made certain of that.
“I promise you Cecily, from that distance, there is no way Ian could have recognized you.” Devin was lying on a blanket hastily tossed over the blue velvet settee in the first floor sitting room and she was holding his outstretched hand. The old healer knelt on the other side of him. His gnarled fingers wove intricate patterns in the air above the nasty gash stretching across Devin’s broad chest. The room suddenly smelled of mud and grass and leafy vegetation. Cecily wrinkled her nose. She preferred the exotic scents of foreign spices, particularly those from Bel’yowlye and Euclacia or the musky perfumes of distant Sepeccare and Old Liana. This intolerable stench reminded her of a recently fertilized garden. She was about to express her displeasure when Devin inhaled sharply and squeezed her hand. She tried not to wince, but his grip was strong, and he was mashing her fingers together rather indelicately.
“Though perhaps the next time your husband visits,” Devin added between gritted teeth, “if there is a next time, you should refrain from standing at a window and drawing attention to yourself.”
Devin was right of course, but curiosity had gotten the better of her. She had only intended on a simple peek, but then the two had started dueling out by the willow tree, and she couldn’t look away. Both had been injured during the fight, but her shout from the estate’s upper floor window had stayed Devin’s hand and spared Ian’s life. Why had she done that? Surely not out of love! No, not that. No, she reminded herself, she had stopped Devin’s lethal strike because killing Ian now was not part of their grand plan.
“At most,” Devin continued in her silence, “he might have noticed your blonde hair, but that doesn’t really tell him anything more than a Yordician woman called out. Trust me.”
Did she? “I do,” she told him.
“There,” the old healer declared. He climbed to his feet and removed a pair of round spectacles from his beaked nose. The earthy stench of his spent magic dissipated quickly. “Good as new.”
“Thank you, Hoggins.”
The old man bowed and left the room. Devin didn’t wait for the door to finish closing. He pulled her into an embrace which led to a kiss which led to . . .
“Let’s make love again.”
Her heart was already racing. “Are you sure?” She glanced down at the new strip of pink flesh running across his muscular chest. Sh
e still couldn’t believe Ian had wounded him during their abbreviated duel. She’d always thought of her husband as being rather inept when it came to sword work.
“Yes!” he replied with lust in his violet eyes.
Thoughts of the duel fled her mind as Devin scooped her up in his powerful arms and ran to the stairs. She giggled. This was what she had missed being married to Ian. The spontaneity. The unbound passion. He carried her the entire way up to his bedroom, stopping only to kiss her. Gods! His desire gave her wings.
In the bedroom, he had behaved wildly, like an untamed animal. His energy fueled hers and his insatiable desire spurred her on toward multiple, screaming-at-the-top-of-her-lungs, climaxes. She hadn’t known such ecstasy was possible. After their frenetic lovemaking earlier that morning, in the foyer, on the stairs and out on the balcony she couldn’t imagine anything more passionate and yet, he had surprised her again. He was like some grand musician and she his instrument. Each time he played her body a masterpiece of orgasmic sounds issued from her lips. She couldn’t wait to be played again and again and again.
Cecily rolled over onto her back and lay amidst the tangle of Devin’s sheets lost in her erotic reminiscence. Although she thought she had preferred his tender touch from years ago, this new and exciting . . . she struggled to put into words exactly what they had done . . . roughness, had thrilled her to her very core. Her knees lifted, and she parted her legs in remembrance. Her fingers slid down past her flat belly . . .
She stopped short of touching herself. Her pouty swollen lips were still tender. Hours of repeated attention earlier that afternoon as the storm had moved in had left her more than a bit sore and utterly exhausted. Still Devin’s lust had not been fully sated.
“I must sleep,” she had panted into his ear as he had tried to enter her yet again. “Just for a little while, but when I wake you can . . .” She had let the promise of more hang in the air as she drifted to sleep.
Cecily reached over to wake Devin and found his side of the bed empty and cold. She propped herself up on an elbow.
“Devin?”
She was answered by more thunder and the sound of rain striking the balcony. Had he gone outside and left the door open?
Kicking the blankets off, she climbed out of bed. The chill air hardened her nipples and sent a wave of goose bumps down her arms and back.
“Devin?” she tried again, louder.
Holding her hands out in front of herself, she padded naked across the dark room toward what she thought was the balcony. Lightning crackled across the sky showing her the way and for a moment, she saw him, silhouetted in the open doorway. His body shook, as if he were crying.
“Devin? What is it?” She reached out to touch him. The muscles in his back flexed and tightened into hard cords. “What’s wrong?”
He stepped out onto the balcony without answering her. Rain plastered his blond hair to his scalp and poured off his naked body in long rivulets. Slowly, he stretched his clenched fists skyward, threw his head back, and released a primal howl directed at the heavens.
Cecily shrank away, suddenly aware of her nudity. His howl came to a strangled, sobbing end and he lowered his arms. Gradually, his fists unclenched and the muscles in his back loosened.
“Devin?”
He whirled around. His handsome face looked so harsh and threatening she almost didn’t recognize him. She staggered backwards, a cry of fear caught in her throat.
“Cecily?” He stepped toward her. All the hard edges on his face melted. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“What was . . . what was all that?”
“Forgive me my dear, but I . . . I just can’t explain what you do to me.”
“What I do to you?” Cecily frowned. She gestured toward the balcony. “I . . . I made you do . . . that? That howling? And that . . . horrible pained expression?”
Devin’s face molded into an embarrassed, lopsided grin. “You make me feel.” He grasped her trembling hands. “You make me feel the most wonderful emotions.”
“But, you were crying.”
“Haven’t you ever wept for joy?” He caressed the side of her face. “I have ached for your return for so long.” He moved in close and kissed her tenderly, all hint of the earlier wild beast gone now. “I thought you were lost forever.”
She blushed. Her face, her neck, her breasts, she wondered if her whole body could blush.
“But now that you have returned to me, I will never let you go.” He kissed her again. This time, his tongue pressed against her lips and when she opened her mouth, it darted inside. Though still sore from their earlier sex, her body began to respond. She moaned softly, sucked on his tongue and melted into his arms.
Abruptly, he pulled free. Before she could voice her complaint, he looked her in the eye. “I will never let you go,” he repeated. “Ever!”
Cecily allowed a smile to spread across her face, but something about his last word, perhaps it was the chilling tone, sent a prickling sensation creeping up her spine. The spark of desire fizzled, and she shivered.
“Are you cold, my dear?” Without waiting for an answer, he led her away from the open balcony door and toward the bed. “You should get more sleep. It’s not yet midnight.”
“Are you joining me?” she asked, stifling a yawn.
“Soon.” He grabbed a discarded towel and began drying himself off.
She crawled back into the still warm side of the bed and allowed herself to be tucked under the blankets. He kissed her again, this time lightly on the cheek. “I’m just too restless,” he added.
“What’s troubling you?”
He shook his head.
“Tell me.”
He stroked the side of her face and played with one of her blonde curls, twirling it absent-mindedly around his finger. “To be completely honest, I’m concerned about the king.”
“The king? Why?”
“I don’t want to worry you.”
“Devin, just tell me.”
He sighed deeply. “Ian was going to see him tonight.”
Cecily sat up. “He will know I lied! I told him I was going to the castle.”
“Don’t worry, I . . .”
A pounding knock rattled the bedroom door. Cecily lay back and pulled the blankets up to cover her nakedness. Her mind raced. Ian must know by now she hadn’t gone to the castle. Would he search for her? Would he care she was missing? Would he wonder if she too were having an affair?
Let him wonder!
According to Devin, Ian had been whoring around on the docks for the past few months without giving her a second thought. It seemed only fair that she refused to give him a second thought now!
A faint glow from the hall lamp spilled into the room when Devin opened the door. Cecily thought she caught a glimpse of Amarias towering outside. Gods, that scrawny stable boy had grown into a true giant of a man! The two spoke in hushed tones. Devin gave a startled gasp and slammed his fist against the doorframe.
“What is it?” she asked.
Devin closed the door and muttered something under his breath. The lamps scattered around the room flickered to life, casting aside the velvety darkness. Cecily blinked and shielded her eyes with her hand.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Devin tossed his towel aside, picked up his scattered clothes and hastily dressed. Cecily slid over to the edge of the bed. “Devin . . . Tell me what happened?”
The look he gave her made her skin grow clammy. His face was too pale, his violet eyes too wide.
“The king . . .” His voice was grave. “The king is dead.” He pulled on his last boot. “Ian killed him.”
Terror welled inside her as the truth of those words sank in. She felt both hot and cold and altogether violently ill. She blinked, but the dark ring around her vision constricted. She twisted the roll of blankets in her lap and fought the urge to vomit. Devin said something more, but his words were incomprehensible. An odd discordant clanging noise intruded upon her m
angled thoughts and she cringed each time she heard it. Clang. She tried to stand, to cover her ears. Her stomach churned. She tasted bile in her throat. Clang.
Ian killed him! Clang. The words repeated over and over in her mind. Ian killed him . . . and now his life would be forfeited. Clang. And if she didn’t find a way to distance herself from Ian, from the king’s murderer, and soon, her life would be forfeited too! Such was the law!
Clang!
Devin reached for her, but she was falling. Falling. Tilting into darkness.
Clang!
Chapter 2
Josephine sat in a wooden chair and stared at her battered reflection in the vanity mirror. Though she didn’t look it now, she was once a beautiful, innocent woman on the verge of making a name for herself in the Belyne theater circles. A few days ago, that had seemed so important, but now . . . She sighed. Now, it barely seemed to matter at all. So much had happened recently. So much had changed. She leaned forward and looked at herself in the mirror. Really looked. Past the bruises, past the guilt. Just looked. Looked until her eyes grew weary and the image staring back at her grew fuzzy and took on the appearance of a stranger. She had changed, and yet . . . and yet, would anyone notice? Would anyone look past the superficial damage and see the real hurt done to her inside?
She shook her head and sank back in the wooden chair. A worn blue pillow with a lone golden tassel bunched against the small of her back. Her gaze drifted around the small green room tucked backstage beneath the stairs of the Rose Theater. Worn playbills hung on rusty nails. Cobwebs dangled from ancient pipes. A bouquet of dead flowers sat in a dry vase. The musty air was still. The theater which at times could feel so alive and crackling with energy was silent now, quiet, sleeping. Even Al, the kindly old stagehand with the forked black beard that always shot her a smile and gave her a wink and swept up after the shows was snoring softly, stretched out across a couple of chairs at the back of the theater. Josephine sighed. She had never felt so alone. And lost. The rest of the ‘Alegar and Sylvia’ cast would not start showing up for at least another hour. But she had nowhere else to be. Nowhere else to go. Before, she might have spent some time watching Edgar work. When he wasn’t stealing or trying to get her into bed, he painted. Murals, portraits, her . . . He always loved painting her, but now he was dead and . . . and . . .
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