“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 delightfulderriere.
“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.”
