World of de Wolfe Pack: Nobody's Angel (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Meara Platt

  They unwittingly matched in their grays and greens. Had he noticed? She knew that it would rankle him. “Shall we be on our way as soon as we finish this divine pudding?”

  She much preferred to be trapped here for a night of scandalous ecstasy, their clothes tossed aside in a gray and green heap while they behaved quite wickedly. But Brynne had walled off his heart once again and there would be no scandal and no ecstasy for either of them this evening.

  Too bad. She was curious to find out precisely what that word - ecstasy - meant. It sounded special, the sort of thing that she could share with Brynne alone and no other man. Certainly not that toad of a marquis, Cuthbert Rampling, who’d tried to explain it to her last Christmas. He’d been in his cups at the Beresford Christmas gathering and trapped her in the butler’s pantry. She’d had to crack a tureen over his head to escape his unwanted advances.

  Brynne uncrossed his arms and strode toward her. “It’s stopped. Yes, finish your pudding, Lettie, and let’s go. We only have three hours of daylight left.”

  And then he’d be gone from her life forever.

  Jeremiah! Do something!

  Chapter 4

  The sun was setting over the green hills and valleys of Wrexham and the sky was awash in shades of pink and lavender as the Beresford carriage bounced and squeaked its way into the quaint market town. Brynne drew his cloak more firmly about his shoulders, for the night chill penetrated the thick wool while he rode beside the carriage.

  After their repast at the Towton Inn, he’d assisted Lettie into the carriage but had decided to ride alongside on Valiant rather than risk more time alone in that enclosed compartment with Lettie. The skittish gelding had managed the journey with ease, but suddenly developed a limp as they turned up the drive to Wolverton Grange which was Lady Frances’ house. “Bloody hell,” he muttered into the wind, hoping the injury was minor. “Not far now, Valiant.”

  Lady Frances lived in a stately manor house on a quiet street in the bustling town. They’d passed lots of shops and several fashionable residences, keeping to the better part of town although Wrexham was fairly prosperous and even the lower classes seemed to live comfortably, Brynne noted.

  When Valiant’s limp became more pronounced, he dismounted and walked his trusted mount the short distance to the portico. Within moments, grooms rushed forward to tend to the horses and footmen attended to Lettie and her trunks. One of the older grooms came up to him. “I see he’s limping, sir. May I take a look at him?”

  “It would be most appreciated.” Brynne had intended to examine Valiant’s foreleg himself, but there was something in the way this older man handled the horse that spoke of experience far greater than his own.

  It took the man, an Irishman by the name of Seamus, no time to determine Valiant’s injury was a bruised foreleg that would heal nicely with a few days’ rest. “Three days, sir. He’ll be galloping across the fields like a colt by then. I have a liniment that ought to soothe him.”

  “Three days?”

  Seamus nodded. “Funny how these things happen. One can never tell with these horses. Ye think ye have a sturdy beast and find he’s as delicate as a society debutante.”

  Brynne stared after the groom as he walked Valiant to the stables. His massive beast did not look at all like a delicate young woman. “Three days,” he muttered to himself, trudging into the house to greet Lady Frances.

  Lettie obviously hadn’t heard the remark. She stared at him while wringing her gloved hands. “Brynne, you don’t need to rush off right away.”

  He ran a hand roughly through his hair, knowing by her quickening breaths and the utter desolation on her face that she thought this was to be their farewell. He saw the tears already forming in her eyes, their usually vibrant green depths devoid of mirth or brilliance. “Valiant’s leg is bruised.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Then her eyes widened. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “I can’t leave yet.” He turned to Frances. “Your head groom is taking care of him as we speak. May I impose upon your generosity to permit Valiant to remain here until he recovers? I will, of course, arrange for accommodations for myself at one of the local inns.”

  “Nonsense,” Frances retorted. “You’ll stay right here with us. I won’t hear of you staying anywhere else. Indeed, I’ll take it as a personal affront.”

  “So will I,” Lettie said, tipping her chin up and now smiling as though she’d just bested Napoleon at Waterloo.

  He raised his hands in resignation. “Very well. I know when I’m defeated.”

  Lettie closed her eyes and clasped her hands together as though in prayer. “What are you doing, Lettie?”

  “Thanking... you know who... for answering my prayers.”

  Frances cast her a benevolent smile, no doubt believing Lettie was referring to a much higher authority than a wayward guardian angel by the name of Jeremiah. “You’ll stay for the holidays, I hope. We celebrate quietly with several of the local families at Lord de Wolfe’s home. His family history is most interesting.”

  Brynne quirked an eyebrow. “I know the name. Where have I heard it before?”

  “No doubt in your history lessons.” Frances led them into her parlor and rang for refreshments which were quickly brought in and set out. “Lord de Wolfe’s family fought for the Lancastrian kings. They were highly regarded knights who battled bravely against the Yorkist forces. The de Wolfe men, the Le Becs, and–”

  Lettie gasped. “The wolf! And the roses, as in the War of the Roses. There was a terrible battle. The de Wolfes were a part of it and... and...” She arched an eyebrow and stared at Brynne urging him to acknowledge that her guardian angel was making a connection between him and the de Wolfe family. “Aunt Frances, please tell us more.”

  Frances nodded as she poured tea into their cups and offered them scones and cakes. “They fought not far from here. The battle of Towton. Thousands of men died, their blood turning the fields into streams of red.” She shook her head and sighed, setting down the slice of cake she’d just cut for herself. “A terrible tragedy.”

  She was about to explain more, but her housekeeper begged forgiveness for the interruption and sought advice from Frances. “Excuse me,” she said and momentarily left to attend to the domestic crisis.

  Brynne groaned as Lettie began to squirm in her chair excitedly and then turned to him in expectation. “Isn’t it wonderful, Brynne?”

  “No.” She was going to lead him on a useless chase to track down his family, a family that obviously didn’t wish to be found.

  “They’re here,” she said softly. “The wolf. The roses. That’s what Jeremiah was trying to tell me.”

  “It’s all coincidental,” he insisted. “Hundreds of battles took place all over England during the War of the Roses.”

  “And what of the wolf?”

  “Need I remind you of your aunt’s name? Wolverton.” He sighed and rolled his eyes.

  Lettie scowled at him. “Why are you being so difficult? Jeremiah was most certainly not referring to the Wolvertons, but to the de Wolfe family.”

  He still wasn’t convinced. “A name you must have heard during your studies, but at the time it made no impression on you. In your sleep, the memory of those studies crept back into your head. That’s the only reason why you’ve conjured them now.”

  She moved to the edge of the green silk sofa and leaned close to his chair. “Three days, you said. Will you give me those three days to prove you wrong? We can investigate together. Don’t you wish to know if you’re somehow connected to the de Wolfe family?”

  He ought to have said no, for there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was related to so powerful and respected a family. Such families do not drop their children on a stranger’s doorstep in the middle of winter.

  Nor were he and Lettie ever likely to discover who his parents were. There simply wasn’t enough time. More important, Lettie was looking for her Bert, or whatever combination of B-E-R-T that might fit to
reveal the man of her dreams. It wasn’t him and he wasn’t about to help her find the man who fit that description.

  “Please, Brynne. It’s a good plan.”

  It was a terrible plan, but Lettie had that determined pout on her pretty face that warned he wasn’t going to win this battle. The names tossed about earlier, Le Bec and de Wolfe, had no letters in common with that of Lettie’s future husband. “I’ll consider it, but you must promise not to get your hopes up. We aren’t likely to succeed.”

  “You’re wrong, Brynne. We have Jeremiah on our side.” She laughed softly, then gasped and looked upward, obviously behaving as though Jeremiah - who was fast becoming the bane of Brynne’s existence - was present.

  He frowned. “Damn it, Lettie. Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” She let out a hearty chortle. “Oh, dear!”

  “Fine, I’ll go along with your prank.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s your incompetent angel telling you now?”

  She blushed. “I can’t repeat it. But he wanted me to remind you that he’s a warrior angel, and if you insult him again, he’ll kick your scrawny... well, you get the point. However, he’s ever hopeful that one day you’ll believe he exists.”

  No chance. He didn’t believe in angels.

  “And he’s sorry about Valiant. There was no other way to make you stay. He wishes to assure you that Valiant is in no pain.”

  “Stop it, Lettie.” Valiant happened to injure his foreleg. Jeremiah had nothing to do with it because the guardian angel didn’t exist.

  Lettie was no closer to finding her Bert.

  And he was no closer to finding out who the hell he was.

  ****

  “Goodnight,” Lettie said with a yawn, closing her book as she rose from her comfortable chair in the Wolverton study to retire to her quarters. The clock on the mantel had just chimed ten o’clock, and though she often stayed up later, the events of the day had tired her out.

  “Goodnight, my dear,” Frances said, gazing up to smile at her. She had settled in an embroidered chair beside her writing desk, a lamp on that desk providing sufficient illumination for her aging eyes while she read the local scandal sheet. According to Frances, it was mostly about the quieter goings on at Bath and not nearly as interesting as the London gossip rags.

  Brynne was seated in one of the overstuffed leather chairs near the fireplace, nursing a whiskey, no doubt irritated and grudgingly mulling what she’d earlier said about investigating his family connections. He rose at the same time she did, as expected out of courtesy. “Sweet dreams, Lettie,” he said in a husky rumble, surprising her by the tenderness in his tone. He never seemed to lose patience with her, even though she had obviously rankled him earlier with talk of Jeremiah.

  “You too, Brynne.” Jeremiah did exist, whether or not he believed it. With her guardian angel’s help, she was going to provide Brynne the answer to the question that had plagued him all of his life.

  Who am I?

  It was one of the great philosophical questions.

  She knew exactly who Brynne was. Oh, she might not know his real name or his family history, but she knew him, the kind, protective, intelligent man she’d loved since she was a little girl.

  She felt his gaze on her back as she left the room.

  I wish you loved me, Brynne.

  She knew he didn’t, nor would he ever allow himself to fall in love with her.

  Sighing, she stepped into her bedchamber and quietly closed the door. Frances had assigned one of the younger maids to attend her and the girl was standing beside the fireplace, patiently awaiting her arrival.

  They made quick introductions and were soon chatting amiably. Nell was a young, sturdily built brunette who was excited to be charged with her personal care. This was her first time serving as a lady’s maid.

  They continued to chat while Lettie undressed herself and Nell set out her nightclothes on the neatly made bed. A fire had already been lit to ward off the chill in the room, but it was still cold enough that Lettie hastily donned her nightgown and woolen robe, then moved to sit beside the fire while she brushed her hair before braiding it.

  “Will ye be needing anything else, Lady Letitia?” Nell asked once she’d finished gathering up the clothes worn on the trip from Beresford Hall to Wrexham. The gowns she’d worn had gathered dust that needed to be brushed clean of the roadway dirt. A good airing and then ironing should restore them good as new.

  Her stockings and undergarments needed to be washed. In truth, Lettie usually attended to most of these chores herself and didn’t have much need for a maid, but Nell was a cheerful girl and Lettie definitely needed cheering at the moment.

  “No, Nell. Nothing more for tonight.” She smiled at the girl. “And please call me Lettie. Letitia sounds so formal. Perhaps I shall be Lady Letitia when I turn sixty. Does that suit you?”

  Nell nodded. “Lady Lettie does sound better. It’s a name that brings to mind a strong, spirited young woman with lots of determination. Yes, I like it very much. It suits you.”

  “Thank you, Nell.”

  The girl bobbed a curtsy and then left.

  Lettie stood in place for a long moment, feeling rather small in this large, pleasantly decorated room that was decidedly feminine. The wallpaper was of a delicate, meadow flowers design, a mix of pale yellows and golds, pinks and reds, with an occasional blue thrown in. The drapes were a thick, gold silk.

  She climbed into the large bed that was warm and comfortable, for Nell had placed a warming brick at the foot of it to keep her toes warm. Despite the pleasant heat of her sheets now tucked about her, she gasped as a shiver suddenly tore through her.

  It wasn’t from the cold, but about Brynne. Three days, and then he would be gone.

  She shivered again, worried that the visions she had seen today boded ill for him. Would he be riding off to his death?

  No! He’d survived war, and he was strong and clever.

  She fluffed her pillows with more vehemence than necessary and drew the blanket up to her neck so that it covered all but her head. The images of wolves, roses, and battlefields continued to clutter her thoughts. “Jeremiah, I need to understand what’s happening. Where do I start?”

  Nothing.

  “Jeremiah,” she called out, this time louder.

  No response. He wasn’t here.

  This was often his way, to leave clues that overset her and then fly off, not to be seen for months at a time. Apparently, he was a very busy guardian angel and had little time to spare for each of his charges. He always complained about how much of his valuable time she and Eugenia took up because they always seemed to need his help.

  He thought that she and Eugenia were remarkably dense and couldn’t solve even the most trivial matters.

  None of his other charges had a problem with the advice he gave them, or so he claimed. Ha! A fib if she ever heard one.

  Did angels tell fibs?

  Because angels weren’t perfect. And no matter what Jeremiah claimed, it was obvious that he was the problem. Lettie couldn’t imagine anyone understanding his riddles. Ever.

  Finally succumbing to exhaustion, she slept soundly through the night and was well rested by the time the household began to stir shortly after dawn the next morning. Nell knocked lightly at her door around eight o’clock and quietly stepped in to draw back the curtains. Sunshine spilled in through the window. “Did you sleep well, Lady Lettie?”

  “Yes, Nell. I did.” She slipped out of bed and hurried to the window to peer at the sky. It was a vivid blue, except for an occasional patch of soft, white clouds that sailed by. However, it was a blustery day. The trees were noticeably swaying in the stiff breeze, and when Lettie put her hand to the window glass, she had to draw it away quickly.

  It was bitterly cold.

  “The sun will warm up the day,” she muttered, ever hopeful. She and Brynne had work to do and she didn’t wish to be trudging about over icy roads.

  She quickly
washed her hair and scrubbed her body with the lavender-scented soap she’d brought with her from Beresford Hall, and then sat beside the fire Nell had started in the hearth in order to help her wet hair to dry faster.

  When it was almost dry, she styled it in her usual bun.

  Knowing the day would be cold and they’d be spending time outdoors, she donned her warmest gown, an amber-colored, merino wool that settled softly against her skin. She put on woolen stockings to match her gown and then slipped her feet into her sturdiest walking shoes.

  After giving herself a quick inspection in the mirror, she hurried downstairs to the breakfast room. Since she was the first to arrive, she took her time perusing the silver trays set out on the sideboard. Eggs. Kippers. Ooh, sausages.

  “Good morning, Lettie.” The rich timbre of Brynne’s voice drifted in from the doorway.

  She turned from the sideboard and smiled at him as he approached. He looked even more delicious than those lovely sausages. “Did you sleep well, Brynne?”

  He looked as though he had, for his eyes were dark and clear, and his features did not appear strained. His dark hair was damp from washing and he’d shaved. The appealing scent of maleness and lather mingled with the aroma of the various foods set out before them.

  His clothes, as always, were dark, elegantly cut, and lacking in frills.

  She loved the way he looked.

  Loved the way his broad shoulders filled out his jacket. His legs were long and muscled, and his stomach trim. He walked with a confident swagger, like a general used to taking command. “You’re staring at me, Lettie.”

  She blushed and turned away, pretending to inspect the delights set out for breakfast. “I... um, was... merely... um, inspecting you to be sure you were properly dressed for today’s... um, excursions.”

  He moved to stand beside her, leaning his elbow on the sideboard as he looked down at her from his impressive height. “What excursions?”