A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

“Your lips are cold,” he said before kissing her softly one last time. “Let me carry you back to the house where it is warm.”

She smiled. “Like you did on our w

edding day. Except then it was because I couldn’t keep up with your long strides.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago. So much had happened. So much had changed. How was it his life was so blessed while Ambrose had suffered so miserably?

“That was simply an excuse to hold you close.” The sudden realisation that he could never be without her sent his heart pounding against his ribs.

“And I would love nothing more than to rest my head on your shoulder again, but we must try to focus on the reason we’re here.”

“We’re wasting our time,” he whispered in the hope Dariell wouldn’t hear him, but the fellow was standing before the altar staring up at the scene portrayed by the stained glass.

When one has a moral dilemma, let God decide the outcome.

Ambrose had written that in his letter, too, but Devlin had dismissed it as just another opportunity for his pious parents to preach from beyond the grave.

Devlin wrapped his arm around Juliet’s shoulder. “Come. If we’re to remain here a moment longer at least stand before the candle lamp.”

He drew her down the aisle to the altar, just as he had done on their wedding day, on the day she had put her trust in him. The urge to drop down onto the red velvet kneeler and give thanks came upon him once again.

Then a fierce gale blew the chapel door open, sending it smashing against the stonework. The blast of wind tore through the small building. The candle flickered in the lamp. Outside the trees creaked and groaned under the pressure. Rain pelted the tiny diamond-shaped panes.

Dariell opened the glass door on the lamp and blew out the flame. “The reverend, he has left the linen cloths draped across the altar. We cannot risk the lamp toppling over and starting a fire.”

Another howling gust sent Juliet teetering backwards—from fright more than the power of the storm. Devlin stumbled back, eager to stop her falling, but caught the heel of his boot on the kneeler and almost brought them both crashing to the floor.

“Damnation.” How he kept them upright he would never know. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Juliet put her hand to her heart. “Oh, close the door, Devlin, before we’re taken clean off our feet.”

Devlin was more concerned his wife might catch her death, but he raced down the aisle, slammed the wooden door shut and turned the key in the lock.

“We daren’t risk walking back to the house in this,” he said as he strode back towards them.

Dariell had removed a linen cloth from the altar and draped it around Juliet’s shoulders. “It should keep the cold out.”

“Thank you, Mr Dariell.”

As Devlin moved to step over the kneeler, he noticed he had ripped the velvet cushion from its wooden plinth as he’d fallen back. He crouched down to secure the padding back in place. Should Juliet trip over it in the dark she would likely twist her ankle.

“Is there something wrong?” Juliet asked when he failed to stand, when he remained rooted to the spot.

Devlin held the loose cushion in one hand while he studied the contents buried in the hollow space carved into the wood beneath. Blood surged through his veins sending his pulse racing. It wasn’t the fact that the kneeler had come apart so easily. It wasn’t the fact that godly intervention had led him to make the discovery. It was the fact that after searching every inch of the house in vain he had finally found a thin bundle of letters.

It didn’t matter that it was dark. The smell of musty paper wafted up to his nostrils. The length of pink ribbon securing the package spoke of a feminine hand. Devlin ran the tips of his fingers over the brown spots marring the paper, marks that spoke of age, of decay.

Juliet came to stand at his side. Her sudden gasp echoed his sense of shock.

Dariell was too busy rummaging around in the oak cupboard behind the pulpit to make any comment.

“Do you think they’re the letters from Hannah?” Juliet knelt down beside him. “From first glance, I am more inclined to believe they belonged to your grandmother.”

The crashing of flint against steel caught their attention, and Dariell came to join them a few moments later carrying the glowing lamp.

“If a man cannot light a candle in church then there is something amiss, no?” Dariell placed the lamp on the stone floor beside them. “Well, my friend, do you intend to sit here all night, or will you examine the contents of these precious documents?”

While everyone longed to hear the truth, sometimes it brought pain, it brought problems, it brought havoc to people’s lives. Devlin was the happiest he had ever been, and he couldn’t help but feel some reservation.