Devlin

—Romantic Times

“…an incredible reading experience.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Don’t play with me, lass,” Devlin growled, his words harsh. “It could lead to serious business.”

“But I’m entirely serious,” Alyssa countered. Her inviting smile transformed her into the most desirable woman Devlin had ever encountered. She ran splayed fingers along his broad shoulders and was satisfied with the shudder she felt beneath her touch.

“I’ll not steal anything that should, by rights, belong to your husband,” Devlin ground out, the cords of his neck bulging and prominent as he fought for self-restraint.

“You cannot steal what is freely given, Devlin Fitzhugh.” The words were a whisper on the wind.

“But there can be no future for us, Alyssa. Surely you understand that.”

“All the more reason to enjoy the present,” she murmured, her lips seeking his once more.

At the firm pressure of her mouth, Devlin’s resolve began to crumble…

Dear Reader,

The team of authors who write as Erin Yorke returns to one of their most popular settings this month with Devlin, an emotional tale set in Ireland and England. It’s the story of an Irish rebel who saves the life of an Englishwoman and is captured by the English for his efforts. The young woman rescues him from prison, but the two of them must battle distrust and betrayal before finding the happiness they deserve.

Deborah Simmons also returns this month with The de Burgh Bride, the sequel to her steamy adventure, Taming the Wolf. This book is the story of the scholarly de Burgh brother, Geoffrey, who has drawn the short straw and must marry the “wicked” daughter of a vanquished enemy, a woman who reportedly murdered her first husband in the marriage bed!

A city banker forced to spend a year recuperating in the country goes head-to-head with a practical country widow and learns that some of life’s greatest pleasures are the simple ones, in Theresa Michaels’s next book in her new Western series, The Merry Widows—Catherine. And corruption, jealousy and the shadow of barrenness threaten the love of a beautiful Saxon woman who has a year to produce an heir, or be separated forever from the knight who holds her heart, in Shari Anton’s stirring medieval tale, By King’s Decree.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books this month. Keep an eye out for them, wherever Harlequin Historicals® are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Devlin

Erin Yorke

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ERIN YORKE

is the pseudonym used by the writing team of Susan Yansick and Christine Healy. One half of the team is married, the mother of two sons and suburban, and the other is single, fancy-free and countryfied. They find that their differing lives and styles enrich their writing with a broader perspective.

For Gary—You were really patient with this one

And for Chris and Dave, who learned to fend for themselves

Thanks for understanding. You’re the heroes in my life.

And

For Natasha Antonova Smith

Who went from “a wonderful life” to “pretty woman” in three weeks. May the happiness you found here follow you home to Russia.

Chapter One (#ulink_79351803-1611-5298-9fb5-d0c292fa1cf6)

Ireland, 1593

Lying in the belly of a trench near Dublin Castle, Devlin Fitzhugh felt a chill travel along his spine that had nothing to do with the briskness of the mistshrouded night. The sensation was so odd and unfamiliar that he was bewildered for an instant until he recognized it for what it was. He swore softly in the darkness. He hadn’t been plagued by fear before a skirmish since he was a stripling lad.

Slowly, he released his pent-up breath while he awaited the signal that would begin the raid. Yet try as he might, Devlin couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that tingled along the base of his skull. He didn’t have to ask himself why a man who had charged recklessly into battle innumerable times before should suddenly feel trepidation. He knew the source. It was the child the Macguires had recently brought to camp. The one they maintained he had fathered. The one they insisted was now his responsibility.

There was no reason to dispute their claim. Muirne’s coppery hair and the single dimple she sported in her left cheek echoed his own, loudly bespeaking her bloodlines. But what was he to do with a motherless mite no more than three years of age? He had never had ties other than those he owed his lord, yet here was an obligation of a different sort, one that prevented him from tendering unconditional allegiance to any chieftain, even Eamon MacMahon. The idea perplexed him and filled him with guilt. He was at a loss as to how to deal with it, but he would have no choice other than to do so once he rescued young Niall and returned him to his father’s camp.

His determination to sort out his life, however, did nothing to bring Devlin peace. The lethal calm he always experienced before battle continued to elude him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, worry still ate at his warrior’s resolve. Muirne had but lately lost her mother. What if she lost her father as well? What if he didn’t return from the impending fray? Devlin pushed the possibility from his mind. Surely thinking such a thing would make it so. Quickly, he crossed himself, as though to ward off evil.

“Your prayers won’t help Niall or any of us,” came a derisive voice at Devlin’s side.

“Perhaps, but they won’t bring about any harm, either,” Devlin responded gruffly. He stared straight ahead into the darkness, resisting the urge to throttle Cashel MacMahon, Eamon’s nephew and foster son. No other man would dare speak to him in such a manner.

“That remains to be seen, Fitzhugh. It’s beyond me why the MacMahon, wounded though he is, would entrust you with the task of seeing to my cousin’s deliverance. Wasn’t it your fault the boy was taken in the first place? He was riding with you when the attack took place.”

“You don’t have to understand anything other than you’re to remain silent and await the sign that the North Gate is open. And when it does come, you’ll do as I tell you,” Devlin replied through gritted teeth. His voice held a deadly calm that would have quieted most men. Yet Cashel pressed on.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you put the rest of us and our success at risk. Should that be the case, I will have to kill you.” Devlin stated his intent matter-of-factly, ignoring the attention his whispered words had earned from the others. His hand snaked back to rest lightly on the hilt of his dagger. He’d not permit Cashel’s unfounded pride to bring more disaster down upon their heads.

“Aye—allow the MacMahon’s son to be captured and then slay the foster son. Mayhap you want both Niall and me out of the way so Eamon will consider naming you his heir,” Cashel spit. His brown eyes glittered in the darkness as he looked to the rest of the rescue party for support. Receiving none, he became angrier. “I’ve never trusted you, Fitzhugh.”

“’Tis wise to distrust a man who dislikes you,” Devlin said casually, though a lethal note attended his words all the same. “And at the moment, I find I dislike you intensely.”

“Hold your tongue, Cashel,” urged Sean. “Your grudge sounds as if it is founded in naught but your own jealousy.”

“Founded in my rightful anger, you mean, an anger derived from Fitzhugh’s failure to safeguard my foster brother. The gallowglass is an outsider—a hired sword—no blood kin to us. It was bad enough that Eamon trusted him with teaching Niall the ways of warfare, allowing such a one to usurp a task that by rights should have been mine. Fitzhugh couldn’t keep the boy safe within our own territory. What makes the MacMahon, or any of you, think he can snatch Niall from the clutches of the English now that they have imprisoned the lad?”

“Because I vow by all that’s holy, I’ll move heaven and earth to return Eamon’s son to him,” Devlin growled as his fingers itched to unsheathe the dagger they clutched.

“Promises! You’re good with those, but with little else. Your newfound brat is testimony to that. What promises did you make to her mother when you lay with her?”

“Silence, man!” warned Dugal as Devlin’s fury blazed across his face. But Cashel ignored the caution, bent on his attempt to belittle Devlin in front of the MacMahon’s men.

“I know I would have lain down my life to protect Niall, yet it was no great surprise to me, Fitzhugh, that you returned to camp alive to tell your tale of ambush. I should slay you now for your cowardice. But I am a rational man and will leave justice to the clan. At present, I will do no more than relieve you of your command, and assume leadership for this raid.”

Devlin could control himself no longer. Quickly, his knife sliced through the night air, a muted flash of reflected moonlight. The weapon’s point lightly grazed Cashel’s neck in warning, leaving a scratch that could as easily have been a mortal slash.