Running wild . . .
When Cassandra Sheridan agreed to an arranged marriage to the Earl of Hampstead, she never dreamed the cad wouldn't even bother to appear for their betrothal ball. It seems her intended cares more for gallivanting than meeting his bride-to-be! So Cassie decides to enjoy an adventure of her own and sets out across Scotland…and meets a dashing stranger who has elevated dueling and deception to an art form.
A dedicated spy on a mission, the Earl of Hampstead has more on his mind than a silly party. Now fate has thrown him together with a vivacious lady whom he must protect from harm, and whose sensuous beauty is proving most distracting. Worse still, Devlyn is horrified to discover she's the very woman he's engaged to marry!
With their lives and reputations in equal peril, do they dare surrender to their irresistible desires?
Naked blades flashed silvery blue in the moonlight. The sound of clashing steel grew louder as Devlyn St. Clair drove his opponent out of the shadows and into the moonlit clearing, the eerie tableau surrounding the deadly duel framed by the nearby family cemetery. Holding a saber in his black-gloved hand and a short-bladed Kinjal in the other, he circled his opponent, his tall boots soundless in the grass. He could hear distant shouts coming from the sprawling stone manor house.
"I will see you flayed alive this night, Hampstead," his foe boasted. "My father will hunt you down himself, then he will find my slut of a wife and slit her throat."
A faintly mocking smile curving the corner of his mouth, Devlyn broke away from the attack. "And you are a man of your word, Stefan. I have witnessed just how committed you are to carrying out your father's orders. Count yourself fortunate I need you alive."
Devlyn Holt St. Clair had gone by many names in his lifetime, most not real. Personas he donned like an actor on the stage. But tonight's performance with Ivanov was real, though executed prematurely, an unfortunate circumstance precipitated by the man's wife's untimely visit to Devlyn's bedroom last night.
He knew Ivanov's intent was to anger him and make him careless. Devlyn's intent, on the other hand, was to get Ivanov away from the house so Devlyn's men could grab him. But he felt the bloodlust burning past the walls of his restraint. Stefan Ivanov was a vicious, murdering bastard who had brutalized his own wife tonight. Devlyn had found her barely alive.
Stefan attacked with a roar. Devlyn stepped behind the riposte and slashed his saber across the other man's blade. They'd leapt off the terrace earlier, and the battle now carried the two men across the back stretch of the yard. People began spilling out of the house. Without pause, Devlyn ducked, whirled and faced his opponent, slamming the saber against his opponent's blade. The sound of sliding steel hissed, until they stood nose to nose. "Your father killed the wrong bloody brother, Stefan," he rasped in a cutting whisper. "He should have come after me."
"Dominick was a traitor, Hampstead. Your brother was a—"
Devlyn swung his fist, hitting the Russian across the jaw and felling him. Ivanov rolled and, barely evading a fatal blow, slashed with force at Devlyn's shoulder, tearing through his cloak and shirt into flesh and sending a riptide reaction through his body. The saber flew from his hand. He stumbled backward. Stefan pursued him. Devlyn brought the Kinjal up to counter the attack, struck out with his leg and knocked his opponent off his feet. Utter fury filled him.
He launched himself toward the prone man, only to be dragged away. "Stefan is down," his partner rasped. "He's no good to us dead."
Devlyn braced a hand on his legs. His chest heaving, his breath coming in gasps, he struggled to think. "Get him in irons, Rockwell." He felt a warm stream of blood down his arm. "Now."
But with a roar, his black hair wet with sweat, Stefan rolled back to his feet. Devlyn shoved away the hands holding him. The man just would not bloody go down. Promising retribution, the Russian raised the saber high above his head, a Cossack aiming for the final lethal thrust.
Devlyn reached behind his back and caught more of his cloak around his forearm, hoping to deflect the attack, the pain in his shoulder forgotten. Stefan was skilled and very dangerous, a cold-blooded killer. Unfortunately for the Russian, so was Devlyn. At the last possible second, he deflected the sword with his remaining strength. As Ivanov spun to attack again, Devlyn impaled him through the chest. For a moment, they swayed together...
