Lone Wolfe
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LONE WOLFE
BARBARA DEVLIN
OTHER TITLES BY BARBARA DEVLIN
BRETHREN OF THE COAST SERIES
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
Loving Lieutenant Douglas: A Brethren of the Coast Novella
BRETHREN ORIGINS SERIES
Arucard
Demetrius
PIRATES OF THE COAST SERIES
The Black Morass
KATHRYN LE VEQUE’S KINDLE WORLD OF THE DE WOLFE PACK
Lone Wolfe
The Big Bad De Wolfe
DEDICATION
This book would not be possible without the talent and generosity of an amazing author, Kathryn Le Veque. I am so proud to be part of her endeavor, I’m even more thrilled to create something in her world of the wonderful De Wolfe’s, and I am honored to call her my friend.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
LONE WOLFE
OTHER TITLES BY BARBARA DEVLIN
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT OF THE BIG BAD DE WOLFE
ABOUT BARBARA DEVLIN
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PROLOGUE
England
The Year of Our Lord 1447
Thither was naught so painful as ending a relationship with an ardent lover, especially with a man like the skilled and lusty Titus de Wolfe. For more than a year, Margreit d’Engagne enjoyed liaisons with the young warrior knight, a most fervent swain, every time she ventured to London.
At court, they met in the crowded great hall of the Palace of Westminster, and he claimed her maidenhead when she was but six and ten. Nay, it was not permissible for a lady of character to yield her bride’s prize to anyone but her husband, yet history was littered with such instances born of emotional attachments, neither frivolous nor sensible. Yet reality encroached on their paradise, and it was past due to deal with the consequences.
“What is thy hurry, sweet Margreit?” Naked, displaying a tempting specimen of male beauty and prowess without equal, Titus stretched across the bed, clutched a fistful of her wool gown, and tugged in play. “I am just getting warm, and I would savor thy sumptuous thighs until dawn.”
“But we both know that is not possible, as I must return to my chambers before I am discovered.” Dreading the task at hand, an unfortunate incident with which she wrestled for a fortnight, she adopted an air of unimpaired composure, wiggled free, sat in a chair, and slipped into her hose. “Thou dost know my father has brokered a match.”
“No, I was not aware of such developments.” With a wicked frown, her beau sat upright. “When didst thou intend to apprise me of the felicitous event?”
“Prior to my wedding, as I wish to avoid any unpleasantness.” She eased her feet into her leather shoes and stood. “And now I would have done with it, as I am to marry Roncin Saint-Germain on the morrow, on the steps of the Chapter House, with the archbishop officiating.”
“What?” And thither was the reaction she feared. Leaping from the mattress, Titus raked his fingers through his thick brown hair, and then he stomped to her. “So this is how ye dost bid fare thee well to a friend? Dost thou care so little for me? Am I so dispensable, my lady, as thou didst not think so but a few minutes ago. In fact, thou could not gain thy fill.”
“How dare ye speak to me thus, as thou could never be dispensable to me.” If only he knew the burden she alone carried, as he might sing another tune, but she would not have him that way. “Titus, be reasonable. Thou hast never broached the subject of our future, much less marriage, in all our meetings. Wilt thou not be honest? Hast thou ever considered making an offer? Art thou free to do so?”
“It is not that simple, as I am bound to another per a contract negotiated when I was but five and ten. Yet, if given the opportunity, I would make an attempt, as I am rather fond of ye.” With a grunt, he pulled on his braies, breeches, and tunic, and he gathered his remaining clothing from the floor. “But I require time, as thither art numerous complications, not the least of which is the fact that thy father is a Yorkist and mine is a Lancastrian.”
“Thus any union between our families is unlikely.” She gave him her back, and he tied the laces of her gown. “Didst ye not warn this could not last forever? Thy caution posits right and true counsel, and we would be wise to recall it.”
“But I had not anticipated the end would come so soon.” At last doffing his fur-lined cloak, Titus rested his palms to her hips and set his forehead to hers. “Canst thou not delay, as I had hoped to make some effort to sway my sire, but he is stubborn.”
“And thou art not?” She laughed, even as her heart fractured. “My Titus, how I love ye. Even after I take my vows, surrender to my husband, turn old and gray, and pass from this life, thou wilt own me, body and soul.”
In that second, Margreit held stock-still, praying for a declaration she suspected would never come to her.
“I am humbled by thy devotion, and I will hold thee in a special place, known only to ye, my darling girl.” Titus bent and bestowed upon her a bittersweet final kiss. “If thou dost ever have need of my sword, I am but thine to command, now and forever.” Without protest or a backward glance, he exited the chamber.
Folding her arms, she succumbed to the grief, mourning a life that might have been, had politics not ruled the day. As she gave vent to a sob, her gaze lit upon a swath of cloth on the floor, and she recognized the item in an instant.
The triangular black scarf made of cotton boasted a gold insignia she knew so well. The wolf’s head of the De Wolfes struck panic in their enemies far and wide, but to her she found naught but comfort. Holding the ailette to her cheek, she inhaled a shaky breath and pressed a palm to her now flat belly.
“Oh, Titus, what we missed. How I wish thee could know thy child.” From her fitchet, she pulled the betrothal ring gifted by her husband-to-be. “On my life, I vow our babe will know the truth of his parentage. Though I know not when or how, he shall know his father is the great Titus de Wolfe.”
_________________
CHAPTER ONE
Braewood Castle
The Year of Our Lord 1471
Thither was naught sadder than saying goodbye to a much-cherished mother. The precious soul of the woman who brought him into being, nursed his childhood hurts, encouraged his youthful dreams, and never failed to support his adult endeavors would soon depart to the glorious hereafter, and Titus Saint-Germain stood at her bedside and fought the urge to cry. But what could he do?
Despite his abilities on the battlefield, his title, his holdings, and his vast fortune, thither were no miracles he could summon, naught he could do would save his mother. Helpless, he could only persist on guard and protect her final moments, which he would do to the very end.
“Titus, come hither, as I would advise thee, one last time
.” After a violent coughing fit, the formidable creature known throughout the land as Margreit Saint-Germain, but the same grand lady who answered to ‘Mama’ for her only child, tapped the mattress, and he sat. “Send the physic away, as I would waste neither his talents nor his potions, and I would speak to thee in private.”
“Mama, thou wilt live to see a hundred years, as thou art too strong to yield to a mere fever, and thou wilt prevail.” Although he chuckled, he glanced at the physician, who frowned, nodded, and departed the chamber. Stark reality struck with a vengeance, given the ashen pallor of her complexion, and Titus surmised she had few remaining minutes. “Wherefore art thou so forlorn? Whither is thy treasured smile?”
“As I am soon to die, and can no longer protect ye, I would warn ye not to underestimate thy enemies, for they are many.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed his fingers. “When I am gone, do not be fooled by easy manners, sweet dimples, and friendly compliments. Thither art those who know thou art alone in this world, and they would take advantage of thy vulnerability and isolation.” For a few seconds, she struggled to breathe, and he patted her back. Praying for a reprieve, that he might find some escape to alleviate her suffering and spare her, he caressed her cheek, until she grabbed his wrist. “Warwick fights for the Lancastrians now, but Edward and the Yorkists will move to retake the Crown. Thou must prepare thyself for battle not only against thine enemies but also against those ye would call allies.”
“I do not understand, Mama.” After squeezing water from a cloth, he wiped her brow and neck. Given their close bonds, he humored her, as he presumed she worried for naught. “Wherefore would anyone strike at me? How am I a threat to those I serve?” Convinced it was the illness talking, he scratched his temple. “Thou dost make no sense.”
“Listen to me, and heed my caution. The Saint-Germain lands hold fortuitous position, high ground between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians, and Hastings hath long coveted our holdings, which thou dost now defend, and yet thou dost have a chink, of which thou art unaware, in thy armor. For a long while, I have kept a secret, which I considered a risk to thy safety, thus I carried the burden close to my chest. But if I do not share the truth, I leave thee in grave peril and susceptible to attack.” She licked her lips and swallowed hard. “Forgive me, but Roncin Saint-Germain was not thy father. With another’s seed growing in my womb, I came to my wedding bed. Although Roncin never broached the subject, as he was in some respects a gentleman, I believe he suspected as much. Mayhap that is the reason he never mentored thee, even though I am to blame, and thou were innocent.”
The floor seemed to shift beneath his feet, as he digested her confession, and he tamped his discomfit. But hers were not the ravings of a lunatic.
“Yet he did a great many things, for which he had no excuse.” Like beating Mama and Titus, whenever Roncin consumed too much ale, which happened with regularity. “He was an ornery drunk, a callous monster, and a cruel bastard.” And then it dawned on him that his mother had just declared him an illegitimate issue. Stunned by the revelation, his ears pealed, and he shivered. And although countless questions swirled in his brain, amid the constant echo of her pronouncement, he reminded himself that her end was near and held himself in check. Thither would be time enough to dissect her pronouncement, anon.
“Do not judge him too harsh, as complications during thy birth rendered me incapable of having more babes, and that disappointed him.” She gasped and wheezed, and Titus fluffed her pillow and tucked a stray tendril behind her ear. “I tried to be a good and dutiful wife, but he found pleasure elsewhere, which did not bother me, as ours was never a love match. Rather, I married him with my eyes wide open, knowing full well he had no interest in me, but I needed his protection, as did thee. Instead, as is often the case with powerful men, Roncin desired the lands endowed with our union, and I never denied him, so he was more than equitably reimbursed. But that is the way for women, as we are but pawns in a man’s game of chess, and I would have thy pledge to treat thy future wife better. How I wish I could be thither for thy ceremony, as I have dreamed of it since ye were born. I hope, some day, thou wilt forgive me, but I did what I thought best, as I was young, only eight and ten, pregnant, and unwed.”
As many fathers would have killed their daughters for such grievous infractions, Titus comprehended her motivations and her actions. Try as he might, he could not imagine the depth of her distress, and he ached for her, as she often situated herself between Roncin and Titus, when he was but a wee lad too small to shield himself, and she paid for her bravery in the coin of blood and tears. The beatings, brutal and lengthy in duration, so often left mother and son scarred in a corporeal legacy to Roncin’s temper. But Mama never wavered, and on countless eventides they sheltered in Titus’s room, with the door barricaded. Regardless of Roncin’s desire to hurt Titus, the man always had to go through Mama to strike her son. In short, Titus owed her everything.
“Thou didst deserve so much more, and I am sorry I caused ye undue strife.” Bowing his head, he pressed a chaste kiss to the back of her knuckles, as he pondered the desperate conditions she endured at such an early age. “And I bear no ill will, as thou hast always been my doting Mama.”
“Oh, but I have never lamented thee, my precious boy, as thou art my pride and joy. And neither was Titus at fault, as he was bound to another. But I never lost touch with him, as we corresponded in secret, and he eventually married a lovely lady, with whom he found happiness, and I wanted naught less for him. However, his contentment was brief. If I have but one regret, it is that I never apprised thy true sire of thine existence. But he was murdered before I had the chance.” In that instant, tears filled her blue gaze, and she gave vent to a mournful whimper. “Never will I forgive the villains who betrayed and killed him, and if Hastings attempts the same with ye, I swear he will rue my wrath, as I will rain hellfire and brimstone on the lot of them.” Then she sobbed, and he daubed her nose. “I know, with every fiber of my being, thy father would have acknowledged thee, as he was the best of men, and thou art just like him, down to the paw-shaped birthmark on thy right arm.”
For a minute, he contemplated the odd-shaped blotch, which he had long ago dismissed as ordinary, on his flesh.
“Mayhap thou might tell me of him.” As she deteriorated, Titus sought to distract his mother, as he would have her final minutes composed of glad tidings. “How didst thou meet, and didst thou care for him?”
“Across the crowded great hall of Westminster, he spied me at a ball and asked me to dance. Garbed as an Egyptian deity, I fell to his hapless portrayal of a Roman conqueror, and how he conquered me. And never hath a woman loved a man as I worshipped him.” When she laughed, she caught her breath and then hacked, and a crimson droplet trickled from her mouth. “Never doubt that thou were the product of two people who shared great passion and an abiding devotion.”
“Take it easy, Mama. Do not strain thyself.” He had just enough time to retrieve the bowl from the bedside table, before she slumped forward and vomited clots of blood, but she refused the glass of water he offered. “Prithee, recline and relax.”
“Thither is little left to me, thus I must hurry. Ah, thou dost remind me of him, though. He had thy modest temperament, olive coloring, imposing stature, brown hair, and piercing hazel eyes. Thou art, in fact, a mirror image of thy namesake.” From under the covers, she drew a scrap of cloth, which she passed to him. Unfolding the black cotton, he discovered a gold wolf’s head insignia embroidered on an ailette with which he was vaguely familiar. “Thou dost hail from a proud family with a rich history. Thou art the grandson of Solomon de Wolfe, nephew of Atticus, the Lion of the North, and son of the warrior knight Titus de Wolfe.” With a groan, she winced and bit her lip, and he sensed her slipping away. Grabbing his wrist, she wrenched herself almost upright. “Seek thy heritage, my son, before it is too late. Promise thou wilt do so, that I might rest in peace, as thou hast never broken faith with me. Promise me, I beg thee.” With
a violent jerk, she cried out in pain. Staring at the ceiling, she clenched his hand and gritted her teeth. “Oh, Titus, my love, thou hast come for me. Hither am I, thy Margreit, to relinquish my soul into thy welcoming embrace.”
And then Mama was gone.
“I vow on thy spirit, I will honor thy request.” For a while, he studied her face, somber but graceful in repose, and committed her features to memory. Then Titus bent his head and wept.
~
The sun shone bright on the horizon, cutting a narrow path of gold through the lancet window of her chamber at Waelmore Castle, signaling the passage of another day since Lady Desiderata de Mandeviel had seen her beloved Titus. Betrothed since birth to the magnificent knight, the mightiest lancer in all of England, a point of fact she would argue with anyone, she knew not when her girlish fancy with the handsome warrior had developed into something far more dedicated, something fervent, something that would outlast eternity.
At the age of eight and ten, she doubted not her ardent love for her future husband, and she reveled in the knowledge that he shared her devotion, as he declared himself without restraint. In fact, in her mind, they were already bound by the sacrament of matrimony. Clutching the embroidered handkerchief her swain gifted her in celebration of her fifteenth year, she sighed and strolled to the hearth, when a knock at the door intruded on her thoughts.
“Come.” She smiled, as her father, the second most important angel of her life, peered about the edge of the oak panel. “Papa, how art thou this fine eventide?”
“Quite well, my dear.” For a moment, he simply stared at her, and in a flash she knew something was amiss. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and paced, and she braced for ill tidings. “Thou hadst a letter from Titus. What hath he to say?”