Devil to Pay_The - MacLachlan 01 (2005) by Liz Carlyle

Author:Liz Carlyle
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Historical Romance
Publisher: Pocket Books (December 28, 2004)
Published: 2004-12-22T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

A Judas Kiss

By eleven the next morning, Lord Devellyn was drunk. Not, mind you, totally tangle-footed or thoroughly tosticated. Just a trifle concerned. He was slouched in his leather armchair by the study hearth, sipping slowly at a tumbler of Scotch whisky—always his choice for medicinal purposes—and waiting for his teeth to float away when Sir Alasdair MacLachlan came into the room in something of a flurry, without waiting to be announced.

“What the devil’s happened?” his friend demanded. “Honeywell says you’ve had an accident.”

Devellyn studied the shimmering gold splinters in his glass. “So I have,” he finally replied, enunciating every word. “An accident. Named Ruby Black.”

“Ruby Black—?” Alasdair was standing over him now and peering at his head. “Lord, Dev, what a goose-egg!” he said. “And it’s red, too.”

“Yes, well, you ought to see my knees,” muttered Devellyn.

Alasdair poked gingerly at the knot. “Does it hurt?”

“Not”—Devellyn paused to rip off a hearty belch—“anymore.”

Alasdair narrowed one eye at the tumbler. “What’s in the glass, old boy?”

Devellyn started to laugh, but it hurt too much. “What is that old Scots saying of your granny’s, Alasdair?” he muttered. “Whisky won’t cure a cold—?”

“Aye, but it fails more agreeably than most things,” finished Alasdair.

“Yes, that one.” Devellyn nodded, noting with vague indifference that the collection of hunting scenes on his walls were beginning to go in and out of focus. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or a concussion.

Alasdair drew up a chair, and sat down near his friend. “Honeywell says you tripped and hit your head,” he said quietly. “Is it true?”

Devellyn laughed. “Not precisely,” he answered. “I was paid a visit last night, Alasdair. From the Black Angel. And that lump, I reckon, could be a little love tap.”

Alasdair drew back. “Dev, you really are concussed,” he answered. “You’re saying the Angel rang your bell and just waltzed in, pretty as you please? Then conked you over the sconce and bolted? What did she steal this time?”

My soul, he thought. But he said, “Nothing, Alasdair. And it was my bedchamber. I awoke to find the woman standing by my dressing table.”

“She broke in?” said Alasdair. “Lord, she’s a bold piece!”

“That’s an understatement.” Devellyn was beginning to feel a tad sober, a miracle he resisted.

“God, Dev! What did you do when you caught her?”

The marquess stared at the floor. “Ah, Alasdair, you don’t want to know,” he murmured, thrusting out his glass. “Here, refresh this for me, will you? And have one if you think it not too early.”

“It is too early, by God,” he said, going to the decanter on the table. “Even for me.”

“Then your head does not ache like you’ve got a shiv in your skull,” said the marquess. “Else you’d be grateful for anything that killed the pain.”

“Just tell me what happened,” ordered Alasdair, pouring.

With great care, Devellyn let his head fall back against the chair. “I am not perfectly sure,” he said waiting for the room to stop spinning. “I think…I think, honestly, that I slammed my skull into the footboard of the bed.

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