Page 3 of Nobody’s Angel (World of de Wolfe Pack #5)

“Wolves, Lettie? Seriously?” Glowering, he planted his hands on either side of her chair and leaned in close so that they were almost nose to nose.

“Here’s what I think about your so-called guardian angel and his ridiculous ideas.

” He paused the length of a heartbeat. “If I ever run into Jeremiah, I’m going to kick his scrawny, celestial ass from here to the Pearly Gates. ”

Brynne returned to Beresford Hall the following morning to collect Lettie for their journey to Wrexham.

The overcast sky, so dark and threatening, reflected his own gloom, for he and Lettie would share a two day ride in the earl’s carriage and then he’d never see her again. Two days alone with Lettie.

However, they would not be alone at night. Lord Beresford had arranged for them to stop in Preston to stay overnight with his cousin, a vicar by the name of Edward Falconer, a man who was unlike any representative of the church Brynne had ever known.

Brynne was well acquainted with the vicar, for the man was often at Beresford Hall.

A reformed smuggler and womanizer, he always seemed more suited to military service or espionage than to issuing Sunday sermons.

Brynne liked him, for unlike most supposedly pious men, he didn’t pass judgement and had immediately accepted him on the basis of his character and not on the circumstances of his birth.

He and Lettie would stay at the vicar’s residence in Preston tonight and then venture south to Wrexham on the second day if the rain held off.

Two days.

That’s all I have left with you, Lettie.

Since his belongings had been picked up from Woodburne Manor earlier this morning, they were already packed in the waiting carriage.

Lettie’s belongings were far more substantial than his meager possessions since she was to settle in for a month-long visit with Lady Frances and would be expected to attend numerous social affairs.

Her gowns alone would fill up several large trunks.

As Brynne rode up, he noticed Lord Beresford standing outside watching Lettie’s trunks being stowed on board the carriage.

Brynne dismounted and went to greet him.

“We’ll miss you,” the earl said and gave him a hearty pound on the back. “Be well, lad. As my nuisance of a daughter often says to you, be happy. That’s what I wish most for you, happiness. Nothing matters more in life.”

“I’ll do my best, my lord.”

“I know you will.” He ran a hand roughly across the nape of his neck, as though stuggling for his next words.

“Brynne, I wish things had turned out differently. You’re a good man.

I’m sorry the Woodburnes are so caught up in their own greed, they refuse to acknowledge your worth.

You must know that Suzannah and her father have always cared deeply for you. ”

“I do. I feel the same toward them.” He cast the earl a mirthless smile. “Suzannah will be settled shortly with Summersby–”

“Despite Lettie’s efforts.”

Brynne laughed softly. “Her well-intentioned, but misguided efforts. And now Lord Woodburne’s sister and nephews have moved in to secure their golden goose, so to speak.”

“And you’re off to start a new life. If ever you require a letter of recommendation from me, just ask and I’ll gladly give it.”

“I appreciate that, Lord Beresford.”

Their conversation came to a natural end just as the earl’s wife and daughters walked out of the house. The earl stared lovingly at them. “I know you’ll do well for yourself financially. But Brynne, don’t neglect your heart.”

After more farewells to the earl and his family, he waited for Lettie and her sister, Eugenia, to stop hugging and crying and promising to write to each other every day.

Their mother was crying as well, but managed to maintain her poise as any well trained countess would.

In truth, Lettie’s mother had all the good qualities one would hope for in a countess, a genuine warmth that made her loved by all, especially her husband who obviously doted on her.

Brynne had considered taking a wife, but never very seriously. No woman could ever measure up to Lettie, so the possibility of marriage was out of the question until the impertinent, flame-haired beauty was well and truly out of his thoughts. He didn’t think he would ever get her out of his heart.

But time and distance would heal his wounds.

He absently rubbed his shoulder to ease the itch on his birthmark. Wolf, indeed! It was nothing more than a red blotch signifying nothing.

Lettie finally released her sister and allowed Brynne to assist her into the carriage. His palms tingled as he touched her, and continued to tingle as he climbed in after her and settled his large frame opposite her against the leather squabs of the fine carriage.

The mere touch of her warm, lively body had him reeling, but Lettie hardly noticed, for her face was pasted to the window and she was sniffling as she stared out of the clear glass pane.

The carriage drove off, separating her from her family for the first time in her life. Fortunately for her, it was to be a mere month-long separation. She’d be reunited with her family at the end of that time.

But he and Lettie… they would be separated for the rest of their lives.

The realization caused him more pain than he’d ever experienced, even when fighting the French army before Napoleon’s capture and then again at the little Corsican’s defeat at Waterloo.

He’d been stabbed in the thigh with an enemy bayonet and grazed in the arm by a musket ball, but those were nothing to the hurt he was feeling now.

He studied Lettie, determined to take advantage of their time alone.

This first leg of the journey would take about eight hours.

Or nine, if they stopped at a reputable inn for refreshments.

Then on to Preston where they would stay overnight.

Perhaps two nights, if the weather turned bad and they were caught in a violent storm like the one that had struck last week and dumped a mountain of snow across the countryside.

No, he wanted the journey done and over.

It would do no good to prolong his torment.

He leaned forward and tucked the blanket that Lettie’s mother had thoughtfully provided around her legs. “Don’t want you catching cold,” he muttered, lacking no heat, for his blood had caught fire the moment he’d touched her.

Earl’s daughter.

No touching allowed.

“Aren’t you cold? We can share–”

“No.” He turned away and gazed out of his window, cursing inwardly as he caught her reflection against the glass pane.

He couldn’t get her out of his thoughts.

Couldn’t get her out of his sight. Couldn’t get her out of that organ within his chest that was practically pounding a hole through it because she was within arm’s reach of him.

“Brynne Evelyn Roger Twickenham.” She tapped him on the knee to force his gaze back to her. “What do you think of that name?”

He frowned. “It isn’t mine.”

She pursed her lips in thought. “I find I must agree. You’re not an Evelyn.

You’re not dapper at all. You’re built like a warrior.

A very handsome one, of course. I can see you in my mind wielding one of those ridiculously heavy medieval swords, slashing and thrusting it about as though it weighed no more than a London newspaper.

The Dark Wolf,” she said in a deep and overly theatrical voice.

“A knight loyal to the English king. All who see him quake in fear.”

He rolled his eyes.

She laughed merrily. “Very well, not a knight. How about Brynne Elliot Richard Tewkesbury?”

“Lettie, I’m going to toss you over my lap and spank you if you don’t stop this ridiculous game. I’m not a Bert. Nor will my real name, whatever the hell it may be, ever spell out B-E-R-T.”

She playfully stuck her tongue out at him, knowing he’d never raise a hand to her. He’d sooner cut off his arm than ever strike her. However, the prospect of his hand on her perfectly formed– he had to stop those wayward thoughts about her and her delightful derriere .

“Jeremiah talks to me in angel-speak,” she said after they rode in silence for several minutes.

“In what?”

“Angel-speak.” She shook her head and sighed.

“Angels always talk in riddles. They tell you something that sounds meaningless and you have to figure out what it means. But I’m simply dreadful at interpreting Jeremiah’s words.

Eugenia is much better at it than I. Too bad my parents wouldn’t allow her to come with us. ”

“You’ll see her soon.” He knew the sisters had always been close even though they looked nothing alike.

Both were beautiful, but Eugenia was taller and had dark curly hair like their mother’s.

Lettie reminded him of the runt of a litter, for there was something sweet and vulnerable about her that always roused his protective instincts.

She wasn’t small by any means, but neither was she very big. Just soft and perfect.

Her hair was also perfect, the lustrous strands of red and gold always seeming to catch the sunlight in a different way that never failed to fascinate him.

Her eyes were incredible as well, a soft, expressive green that sparkled.

She looked upward so that her gaze was now on the ceiling. “Dark Wolf. And roses?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Are you talking to Jeremiah now?”

“No, I’m talking to you.” She cast him a gentle, teasing smile that caused his heart to skip beats. This is how it always was when he and Lettie were together, his heart stopping cold or beating so fast it pounded a hole through his chest.

There was no middle ground.

He’d been in love with her since they were children and he was too stupid to realize that girls and boys were different.

He’d soon found out, of course, for he was a tall boy with hard muscles and had no lack of offers from women of all ages and all walks of life willing to teach him just how to please them.

He’d long ago lost his innocence.

Lettie had never shed hers. She was still so splendidly pure and innocent, it quietly drove him to madness to know that another man would have her, would have the right to run his fingers through her silky hair and kiss his way down her passionately responsive body.

He yearned to be the one to rouse her to pleasure and hear her soft, satisfied cries.

But not for one, meaningless night.

Lettie deserved better.

He forced his thoughts back to the conversation. “What did you say about roses? What have they to do with your dark wolves?”

She pursed her lips as she pondered the answer. “In truth, I’m not sure.”

He remembered the exact day he’d fallen in love with Lettie.

It was the day Suzannah’s older cousin Mortimer and some of the nastier village boys had surrounded him and begun to pummel him with their fists.

He was eight years old at the time and Lettie was all of five.

She and her father happened to be passing by in their carriage while those boys were kicking and punching him to the ground, their intention to push his face into the filthy mud where they believed he belonged.

Her father had jumped out to save him, and so had Lettie, kicking and biting those boys with a vengeance. They knew better than to harm a hair on the head of the earl’s precious daughter if they valued their lives. Even so, Lettie commended herself well. She did not back down from the fight.

Lettie’s lips were still adorably puckered as she continued to ponder his question. “There are red and white roses strewn across a vast field. They aren’t live rosebushes, but flowers already cut and dying. I’m not sure what they signify.”

The answer seemed obvious to him, for he knew his English history. “War of the Roses? Red rose and white rose, representing the warring factions?”

Her eyes lit up, their soft green shimmer drawing him in along with her smile. “Yes, it must be. Well done, Brynne! But how are they related to you? That’s the mystery we must solve.”

“There is no relation, just as my birthmark means nothing. No wolves, dark or otherwise.” He returned his thoughts to the young Lettie and the day she’d rescued him.

Once the boys had been chased off, Lettie had taken out her pretty lace handkerchief with the initials LB embroidered in pink thread on one end and a pink butterfly on the other, and used it to gently wipe the blood off his cut lip.

And his scraped knee. And his bruised knuckles.

And his muddied face.

How could he not have loved the girl ever since that moment?

She graced him with another smile that struck like an arrow straight through his heart. “Brynne Ernest Rowan Tarbolton.”

“No.”

“I have it! Brynne Elspeth Randolph Terrwilliger.”

He leaned his head against the black leather squabs and groaned. “ Elspeth? Seriously? Elspeth. ”