LITMIR.BIZ

      He swept her an elegant bow. “My deepest gratitude, madam, for coming to my rescue. You saved my life.”

      She had not seen his face clearly before, and now Miranda stared at him, stunned by the jolt of feeling that ran through her. The man was undeniably handsome. Never before had she felt that sizzle of excitement, that elemental pull of lust—or the strange, deep connection, as if somehow she knew him. Crazily, the thought that had come into her mind was that this was the man she wanted to marry.

      “Perhaps you ought to let us take you home,” Miranda suggested. “My carriage is right there. I insist on driving you. You have received a blow to the head.”

      He smiled faintly. “Perhaps you are right.”

      As they rode in the carriage, Miranda considered the situation. Could the man she had rescued be the man she had been supposed to meet tonight? Was it possible that this handsome, rather charming man who was good with his fists was the Earl of Ravenscar? And what would have happened if he had not been late to the party tonight? One thing she was certain of: if this man had been there, she would not have left early!

      So Wild A Heart

      Candace Camp

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Epilogue

      1

      She reached up toward him, arms outstretched, eyes wide and pleading, mouth contorted in a death grimace. She was pale, her skin white with an undertone of gray, and water coated her skin and clothes. Dark seaweed wrapped around her chest, seemingly pulling her down into the roiling water.

      “Dev! Help me! Save me!” Her shrill words echoed through the darkness.

      He reached out for her, but her hand was inches from his, and he could not move forward. He stretched, straining every fiber of his being but she remained frustratingly beyond his reach.

      She was sinking into the black water, her eyes closing.

      “Don’t!” he yelled, grabbing futilely for her. “Don’t! Let me help you!”

      Devin’s eyes flew open, blank at first, then slowly gaining understanding. He had dreamed about her again.

      “Christ!” He shivered, feeling cold to the bone, and lanced around. It took a moment for him to realize where he was. He had fallen asleep sitting up in his bedroom, dressing gown wrapped around him. A bottle of brandy and a gracefully curved snifter sat on the small table beside his chair. He picked up the bottle and poured some into the glass, his hand trembling so hard that the bottle clinked against the rim.

      He took a quick gulp of the drink, warming as the fiery liquid rushed down his throat and exploded in his stomach. He ran his hand back through his thick black hair and took another drink. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he murmured. “I would have helped.”

      He was still cold, despite the aid of the brandy, and he stood up and walked over to the bed, his gait a trifle unsteady. How much had he had to drink last night? He couldn’t remember. Clearly it had been enough that he had fallen asleep sitting up instead of crossing the few feet to his bed. It was no wonder, he told himself, that he had had bad dreams.

      He crawled into bed, the covers having been neatly turned back by his valet before he left last night, and wrapped the blankets around him. Slowly, between the brandy and the warmth of the bedspread, his shivers slowed down, then stopped. It was June, not really that cold, even for sleeping in only one’s dressing gown, but Devin knew that his bone-chilling coldness had less to do with the temperature than with his most persistent and discomfiting nightmare.

      It had been years. He had thought the dream would have stopped recurring by now. But he could depend on it popping up here and there throughout the months, at least two or three times a year. Devin grimaced. He could not seem to keep a farthing in his pocket, but a bad dream he could hold on to for years.

      The shivering ceased, and his eyes drifted closed. At least, after all these years, he could sleep after the dream. When he’d first had it, he had stayed awake all night. Time might not heal all wounds, but apparently, with a little help from brandy, it could make them more easily forgotten. With a faint sigh, he slid into sleep.

      It was several hours later and the sun was well up when his valet shook his arm gently and whispered, “My lord. My lord. I am sorry to awaken you, sir, but Lady Ravenscar and Lady Westhampton are below, asking for you.”

      Devin opened one eye and rolled it up to focus with bloodshot malevolence on his servant, hovering at the side of his bed. “Go away,” he muttered succinctly.

      “Yes, my lord, I quite understand. ‘Tis a dreadfully early hour. The thing is, her ladyship is threatening to come up here and wake you herself. And one feels it beyond one’s duties to physically restrain your lordship’s mother.”

      Devin sighed, closing his eye, and rolled onto his back. “Is she weeping or warlike?”

      “No sign of tears, my lord,” his valet responded, furrowing his brow in thought. “I would say more…determined. And she brought Lady Westhampton with her.”

      “Mmm. Makes it harder when my sister joins forces with her.” “Just so, my lord. Shall I lay out your clothes?”

      Devin groaned. He felt like hell. His head was pounding, his body ached, and the inside of his mouth tasted as foul as a trash bin. “Where was I last night, Carson?”

      “I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” his valet replied blandly. “I believe that Mr. Mickleston was with you.”

      “Stuart?” Devin summoned up a faint memory of a visit from his longtime friend. It seemed that Stuart had been uncharacteristically flush in the pocket. That explained the hangover. They had probably visited half the hellholes in London last night, celebrating his good fortune—and no doubt disposing of at least half of it.

      He sat up gingerly, swinging his legs out of the bed, and waited for the rush of nausea to subside. “All right, Carson. Lay out my clothes and ring for shaving water. Did my mother indicate what she wanted?”

      “No, sir. I spoke to her myself, but she was quite reticent as to the object of her visit. She would say only that it was imperative that she see you.”

      “No doubt.” He looked at his valet. “I think a cup of strong tea would be in order.”

      “Indeed, sir. I will fetch it myself.”

      Thirty minutes later, shaved, impeccably dressed in the plain black suit and crisp white shirt that he favored, cravat knotted fashionably under his chin, Devin Aincourt made

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