A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

Dariell gave a curious hum. “And what were these pious words?”

“I cannot recall exactly.” Devlin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The action seemed to prompt his memory. “Something about trusting in the will of God, that under his watchful eye the truth prevails. It was the same speech my parents recited during difficult times.”

Dariell came to his feet and wandered over to the window. He stared out into the darkness. The soft glow of candlelight cast his reflection in the glass and Juliet could see him tapping his finger to his lips in thoughtful contemplation.

Devlin took the opportunity to capture her hand and bring it to his lips. His touch was warm, comforting. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered.

“I’m glad I’m here, too.” There was nowhere in the world she would rather be.

Dariell muttered to himself—a host of incoherent questions judging by the tone—but then he asked, “And where is God’s watchful eye?”

Juliet wasn’t sure if it was a rhetorical question or if he required an answer.

“It is … it is everywhere,” she stuttered.

“Oui.” Dariell swung around, his eyes wide, sparkling, like a sergeant from Bow Street having stumbled upon a vital clue. “While it is my humble opinion that we are closest to the Lord in times of servitude, there is a place where we feel at one with his presence?”

“You mean in church,” Devlin said.

“There is a private chapel here on the grounds is there not?” The Frenchman was already at the door before he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “Well, are you coming?”

Devlin rose slowly to his feet. “Coming where?”

“To church, of course.”

The wind howled through the ancient building. Dark shadows danced on the stone walls. The glass in the windows looked dull, the night having swallowed the vibrant colours seen vividly during the day. It was as if God had fallen into a deep slumber and the devil had invaded his house, determined to cause mischief. A bitter chill hung in the air, biting, clawing at one’s cheeks. They had left the house in a hurry, not bothering with the layers of clothing needed to keep out the cold, to protect them from the harsh elements.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” Devlin said though he did not doubt his friend’s logic. Not for a second.

“Did you not listen to what I said?” Dariell sounded amused.

During the short walk from the house, a walk that saw them jog to outrun the arctic breeze that tried to catch them with its frigid fingers, Dariell had repeated his mantra.

Go where your heart leads you.

“What am I supposed to do?” Devlin shrugged. “Wander around until I receive an epiphany?”

“You must look to your heart, for there you will find your brother.” Dariell clasped his hands behind his back as he examined the centuries-old flagstones. “Take a moment.”

Devlin glanced at Juliet, who placed the lamp on the stone altar and held her hands in front of the flame. She must be frozen to her bones, and the thought forced him to concentrate on the task.

Devlin paced back and forth along the aisle. Various thoughts entered his head. The fact his wife might catch her death if they did not hurry back to the house being the most prominent. What he would do to the baron if murder were no longer a crime being another example.

“You’re thinking, my friend.” Dariell’s words cut through the silence. “That is not how this works.”

There was no logical explanation for the things Dariell knew. Perhaps the Lord spoke to him in a series of dreams. Perhaps he was skilled in reading people’s minds, the unique language of their bodies. Perhaps everyone’s destiny was written, and he was but one of the few privileged people to have viewed the book.

Juliet approached.

She placed her hand on his arm. “When would Ambrose come here? Only on Sundays? Only when he had something to confess?”

“The answer is I don’t know.” For most of their adult lives, they had lived on different continents. Blood bound them together. Their ancestral name gave them a joint purpose. Their parents had instilled the need for family loyalty, but as to the character of the real man behind the name, behind the position, Devlin could only guess.

An image entered Devlin’s head, of a lonely man burdened with responsibility, with no one to share in his troubles. Did Ambrose kneel at the altar and pray for a good harvest? Did he beg the Lord to send him someone to love, someone to share in his triumphs and woes?

Someone like Juliet.

Overcome with a sudden surge of gratitude, of respect, of love, he drew his wife into his arms and kissed her so deeply he hoped she could taste the passion pumping through his veins.