World of De Wolfe Pack_Tall, Dark & De Wolfe

by Barbara Devlin

“We should have a bath readied, as your father will want to groom himself, before he addresses our people. Wherefore he insisted on joining the fight, I will never understand, as he is no warrior. He is a nobleman.” Mama turned toward the immense residence, constructed of a combination of Cornish granite and greenstone, with tin accents from the streaming mines that supported Tharnham and its surrounding communities. “Indeed, I should air his clothes, as you know how particular he can be, in regard to his appearance.”

  “Perchance, I should change into my blue giornea, as I would honor those who lament.” Just as Rosenwyn passed through the double doorway, a summons came from the barbican, and she glanced over her shoulder, just as a lone horseman galloped into the bailey. She would have known the black stallion, anywhere, and she spun on a heel. “It is Petroc.”

  “My beloved son.” Mama pressed a fist to her mouth and ran to the growing throng. As she waved with both hands, Petroc slid from the saddle, pushed through the crowd of well wishers, and hugged her.

  It was then he met Rosenwyn’s stare, and what she spied in his brown eyes brought her to a halt.

  “No,” she said to no one, and her plaintive cry echoed in her ears, as she neared. “Brother, we prayed for your safe return.”

  “Sister, you should have saved your prayers.” As he always did, he pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her plaited coif. “As your pleas fell on deaf ears, and we were routed.”

  “Whither is your father?” With sniff, Mama wiped a stray tear and smiled. “Do not tell me he diverted to Bellesea.”

  “I am sorry, Mama, but I failed you.” Petroc released Rosenwyn, dropped to a knee, and bowed his head. “Father is dead.”

  It was as though Mama were trapped in some invisible hold, as she stood stock-still, with her mouth agape, and then she fainted.

  “Mama.” Rosenwyn reached for her mother, just as Vennor and two miners caught Mama. “Petroc, help me.” Despite her entreaty, her brother remained fixed, and it was then she noted the tears streaming his cheeks. “Brother, it would seem you are now Lord Vael, and you must gather yourself, as our people will look to you for guidance and leadership.”

  “You are mistaken, Rosenwyn.” Slowly, he stood upright. “I am no lord, and Tharnham is no longer my home.”

  “You speak in riddles, brother.” She took him by the elbow. “Prithee, come inside, and wash the dirt from your face, as I have summoned our neighbors to partake of food and drink, that we might mourn, as one body of the faithful. And we must don the proper attire, to honor our father.”

  “I do not deserve a seat at the dais, or at any table, after I disappointed everyone.” As Petroc stumbled alongside her, he gripped her by the wrist. “But worry not, Rosenwyn. I shall plot an attack, to protect you.”

  “What need have I of your protection?” She signaled Vennor. “When everyone has arrived, close the gates.”

  “Aye, my lady.” The steward nodded.

  “You are a fool, if you think that will stop the foul wind that blows on the horizon.” Petroc wrenched her to face him. “Do you not see? The Burvilles are no more, and we live on borrowed time, at the leisure of those we call enemy.”

  “What happened?” Even as her heart broke for the loss of their father, she fought to maintain composure. Later, she would weep a river of tears. “Did the King not hear our complaints? Are we ignored?”

  “His Majesty never gave us an opportunity to address him.” Petroc bared his teeth. “He sent his knights, a pack of murderous butchers, to slaughter us. The only reason I survived was because Father insisted I ride at the back of the line. In truth, I never advanced in the conflict, as the Sovereign’s soldiers cut our Cornish brethren to pieces, and our casualties were great.”

  “What of the tariff?” Horrified, she clutched her throat, as it seemed a horrible dream. “If it remains in effect, it could destroy our industry.”

  “Dear sister, I submit we are doomed, as we must pay the tariff and the King’s penalty for engaging in rebellion against his authority.” To her surprise, he cupped her chin. “And the cost is especially egregious for you.”

  “For me?” She blinked. “Wherefore?”

  “Wait.” Petroc glanced left and then right. “Come with me.”

  He pulled her into the main residence. In a side corridor, shielded from prying eyes and ears, he compressed his lips and took her hands in his.

  “Petroc, you are scaring me.” She shuffled her feet. “Prithee, do not keep me in suspense. What is wrong? What would the King have of me?”

  “First, our father was stripped of his title, thus erasing the Burville legacy, and I do not inherit the earldom, Tharnham, or our mines.” He swallowed hard, and she swayed, but he steadied her. “Second, Lady Senara is given to the enemy, along with Bellesea and its fortune, thus I have forfeited my bride-to-be. Third, His Majesty confers our property, in its entirety, to one of his brutish knights.”

  “What?” A chill slithered down her spine, and gooseflesh covered her from top to toe, as she envisioned her childhood friend at the mercy of some unknown villain and strangers occupying Tharnham. “Poor Mama, this will destroy her. And what is to become of us, as we are penniless and homeless, by royal decree?”

  “Fourth, and worst of all, you are betrothed to the victor, as a spoil of war.” When she gave vent to a dolorous wail, Petroc quieted her with an upraised hand. “Know that if you refuse the King’s command, we are for the executioner’s sword.”

  “The decision is final?” She shuddered at the thought, because her father always promised her some input in the matter. “I am to have no say in the choice of my future husband?”

  “Have you not heard what I said?” To her surprise, Petroc grabbed her by her forearms and gave her a shake. “You are but chattel, and there is naught I can do to spare you what is, no doubt, a terrible fate. Indeed, you must do your duty, and there is no time to debate the situation, as we leave on the morrow.”

  “Whither do we go?” Grasping fistfuls of his tunic, she yielded to the tears that evidenced her broken heart. “Wherefore must we depart so soon? What is the rush? Are we not permitted to hold a service for Papa? Is His Majesty so cruel that he grants no period of mourning?”

  “Our wishes do not factor in the Crown’s decision, as we are but pawns.” Again, he pulled her into his embrace, and she sighed, as Petroc had always been her champion, as well as her brother, and she admired him. “My wedding is canceled, and yours is to take place shortly after our arrival at the Lair.”

  “The Lair?” She sobbed. Was her fiancé naught more than a pack animal? “It sounds positively dreadful.”

  “I am sure it is terrible, but we must obey, for Mama’s sake.” With his chin, he nuzzled her forehead. “However, while I am defeated, I am not dead, and I will find a way to avenge our father’s death and our birthright. But, for now, you must gather your things.”

  “Whither do we journey?” Shivering in the face of her new, cruel reality, she composed a mental list of various responsibilities. “Do we travel far?”

  “Aye.” He rubbed her back, and she relaxed. “We venture north, to Scotland, and a border village known as Wolflee.”

  “How awful.” In that moment, she vowed to fight for her family and Tharnham, no matter the cost to her person. “Although I know it not, I detest it and my husband-to-be. Prithee, what is his name, that I might curse him in my prayers? And from what sort of people is he descended?”

  “He is called Titus de Wolfe. Apparently, the De Wolfes are loyalists with a long history of service to the Crown, but that does not mean they cannot be beaten, and I am already formulating a plan, with my friends, to avenge us.” Petroc gave her a tight squeeze of reassurance. “So have care, sister, and do whatever you must to survive, until I put Titus de Wolfe in his grave.”

  _________________

  CHAPTER TWO

  A shrill shriek rattled the walls, as Titus’s parents argued, with Desiderata and Uncle Titus waging the
ir own battle, in the background, and Titus huddled in the hall with Arsenius. To his memory, never could he recall Atticus and Isobeau engaged in such fierce combat. Then again, never had Titus been betrothed. For a moment, he actually believed his father might strike Uncle Titus. A loud crash echoed in his ears, and he hunkered, glanced at Arsenius, and flinched, when a second thunderous bellow evidenced the continuing fight.

  “Never have I seen Mama so angry.” Titus tugged at his doublet and whistled, as the heated argument intensified, sending a servant running for shelter. “And to my recollection, the only occasion upon which she banished Father from her bed was after the feast of Christmastide in London, when he danced with Lady Arweld, but that period of atonement lasted but a small portion of an evening, as they woke the entire household when they reunited.”

  “I remember that.” Blanching, Arsenius scratched his chin and pointed for emphasis. “Did not the King order Atticus to indulge Lady Arweld?”

  “He did.” Titus narrowed his stare, as he reflected on that particular mishap. Details mattered not with Mama, when it came to Papa’s fidelity. “Do you really think that makes a difference when, as is the case with Desiderata and your sire, Mama reigns supreme, whither Father is concerned?”

  Shaking his head, Arsenius grimaced. “We must never let that happen to us.”

  “Agreed.” Despite his father’s insistence, Titus vowed never to permit his future wife to wield as much power as Father surrendered to Mama. Of course, Papa loved Mama, and that was his mistake. Unlike his sire, Titus would keep his fiancée in her place, which was in his bed. Beyond that, he had no need of her. Satisfied with his plan, Titus rubbed the back of his neck and then slapped Arsenius on the shoulder, as they navigated the narrow passage. “Let us search out a firkin of ale in which to drown our sorrow.”

  “Cousin, you are wise beyond your years.” In the great hall, Arsenius hailed a servant, requested their drink of choice, and sat at a table near the back of the large gathering room. “Have you reviewed the condition of your new estate?”

  “Nay.” As usual, Arsenius approached his impending marriage as he did everything else, with a clearly defined plan of attack, whither Titus delayed his duties. “I suppose I shall survey the situation when I arrive in Cornwall, but I wager you have scrutinized every detail of the reports we received.”

  “Wherefore would you say that?” Of course, Arsenius had combed over each page of the documents assessing the status of Bellesea, in advance of his nuptials, whereas Titus postponed such boring tasks, as was his habit. Wherefore should he do today what he could defer until the morrow?

  “History.” A maid delivered two tankards of ale, curtseyed, and excused herself. “I know you too well, cousin.” Titus raised his mug in toast. “To your marriage.”

  “And to yours.” Arsenius consumed a healthy draft and gave vent to an impressive belch. “After studying the monetary impact of the King’s tariffs, I understand why the Cornish farmers rebelled. They shoulder the greatest portion of the tax burden for a war that benefited them not, while His Majesty demands Lord Arscott supply the usual amount of clotted cream to appease the royal appetite. The situation is beyond unreasonable.”

  “Careful, Arsenius.” On guard, Titus peered over either shoulder and frowned. “The walls have ears, and you could still land in the stocks.”

  “I know, but I sympathize with my soon-to-be in-laws.” Furrowing his brow, Arsenius scratched his chin, and Titus could almost guess his cousin’s thoughts, as Arsenius always harbored a weakness for the less fortunate. “They have forfeited their ancestral lands, their title, their industry, and their legacy. No doubt, they hate us, yet we are to wed one of their women. Their loss is our gain, and I would not rub their noses in their misery. Rather, I would welcome them.”

  “What do you propose?” Not that it mattered to Titus, because he was the victorious party, was he not? He earned his prize. While he would have surrendered the lady, that was not his choice, and he was more than happy to seize the wealth that came with her. Leaning forward, Titus propped his elbows on the table. “Most assuredly, they will hate us.”

  “Who could blame them?” In silence, Arsenius gazed into his tankard and frowned. On the wooden bench upon which he sat, Titus tapped a countdown, of a sort, until his cousin snapped to attention. “The answer is simple. We are De Wolfes.”

  “And De Wolfes always take care of our own.” Smiling, Titus nodded, as he could have predicted that response. “How could I forget, when Papa recited that every day of the first twenty years of my life?”

  “Although His Majesty considers our brides the enemy, the betrothals define them as family, and we must treat them as such.” Regardless of Arsenius’s honorable sentiment, which were much to his credit, Titus suspected that what his cousin proposed was easier said than done, because he knew how he would feel, were their positions reversed. “It is imperative we reassure our future wives that we are not their adversaries. Indeed, we are their allies and protectors.”

  “How do you suggest we achieve our goal, while seizing their birthright and their maidenhead?” Titus arched a brow, as the answer to that mystery eluded him. “Trust me, I am not sure which scares me more or presents the greater danger.”

  “Do not fool yourself.” Arsenius cast an expression of unutterable confusion, and Titus struggled to suppress laughter. “The latter poses the most formidable threat, and I have no clue whither to begin, as I have never, to my knowledge, deflowered a virgin. Have you any experience with such creatures?”

  “Bleeding balls of agony, no.” At the mere suggestion, Titus wrinkled his nose, as he avoided the unspoiled like the plague. “I prefer skilled ladies, as opposed to chaste innocents, and I dread the time and energy we must expend to teach them the ways of pleasure. The poor thing will probably collapse in a fit of hysteria upon glimpsing my longsword.”

  “Mayhap we should inquire after our fathers for counsel, as they faced the same quandary on their wedding night.” Arsenius averted his stare and scratched his chin. “Although I am not eager to broach the topic, as I anticipate a series of endless baiting, taunting, and feminine giggles.”

  “That is because their fair temperament hinders their ability to engage in serious topics.” Wagging a finger, Titus snickered. “In fact, my father contends that every discussion of import with my mother ends in bed.”

  “No doubt the female penchant for emotion impedes their judgment, as I suspect the same is true of Mama.” A strange assortment of countenances invested Arsenius’s face, until he grimaced and smacked his lips, at which point Titus expected his cousin to vomit. “Papa often laments similar situations with my mother. Perchance physical relations offer the sole means of consolation when real world issues invade my mother’s gentle existence, and she cannot cope.”

  “Well, we are the stronger sex.” Titus nodded in agreement. “We would do well to take notes for future reference, that we might provide succor in like fashion. You know me, I will take any excuse to drain my moat.”

  “Oh, do I know you.” Laughing, Arsenius stared at the contents of his tankard. “I wonder if I might ask you a personal question.”

  “When have you not?” Titus snorted. “We have no secrets, cousin. I am your brother, as you are most assuredly mine.”

  “I wondered if you embrace the opportunity the King bestowed upon us?” Shifting his weight, Arsenius voiced Titus’s innermost vulnerability. Given Arsenius’s close relationship with his father, Titus never imagined his cousin shared the same feelings, in regard to their inescapable lineage. “Do you never find yourself alone amid our family? Are you never lost in the crowd? Have you ever wished that you might journey some place whither—”

  “—No one knows my name?” Titus could scarcely believe his ears, as he locked forearms with Arsenius. “Whither no one has heard of the De Wolfe legacy?”

  “Aye.” The relief in Arsenius’s expression mirrored Titus’s, and it dawned on him that no one could bett
er relate to the never-ending expectations than someone in the same position. Indeed, Arsenius had a celebrated sire with which to contend. “Forgive me, if this offends you, but I am excited about the prospect of moving to Cornwall and forging my own heritage. And although I do not yet know the character of my bride-to-be, I am emboldened by the possibilities associated with the title and estate.”

  “I, too, am blessed with renewed vigor and a spirit of adventure I have not experienced since Father hired my first whore.” So, Titus did not use the same elegant terms to express his emotions. Then again, with Arsenius, Titus could always be himself. “Ah, I have fond recollections of her red hair and the funny little sounds she made in the throes of passion. What was she called?”

  “How should I know?” Compressing his lips, Arsenius averted his gaze. “And I wager her passion relied more on Atticus’s generous payment than your fledgling abilities between the sheets.”

  “Do not insult my skills, cousin.” Titus sobered, as he took the bait his cousin foolishly dangled. “Though you have grown to equal my size, I can still whip you.”

  “Is that so, old man?” Arsenius gulped the last of his ale, set down the tankard with a loud thud, and stood. “I would like to see you try.”

  Without warning, not that he ever extended such courtesies; Titus lunged across the table and grabbed his cousin by the throat. Moving swift and sure, just as Titus anticipated, Arsenius stretched high but then tripped Titus, and they toppled to the ground. That was a sharp move he would not forget. Rolling left and then right, with each gaining the high ground for a moment, before the other made a successive launch, they knocked over and reduced a bench to splinters, chuckling the entire time. He rumpled Arsenius’s hair, and he pinched Titus’s nose, until someone coughed rather loudly.

  “What goes on hither?” Folding his arms, Atticus glared at Titus and then Arsenius. “It appears a couple of braying asses have ventured into the great hall.”