Page 3 of A Touch So Wicked

“I understand,” Damian said. “Your Majesty’s generosity overwhelms me.”

The king beamed his approval.

“One more thing, my lord,” Lord Pelham said. “You will need heirs. The king intends to search for a proper heiress for you. Misterly must have a mistress.”

“I’m to be given a bride? An heiress?” Damian repeated. He wasn’t sure he approved of taking a wife sight unseen, but he wasn’t going to quibble. It mattered not whom he married; everyone knew a man took a wife to bear his heirs and looked elsewhere for sexual gratification. He bowed deeply. “I am most appreciative, Your Majesty.”

“So you should be,” Lord Pelham replied. “Do not fail England, Lord Clarendon. If a marriage between Misterly’s maiden and the Gordon laird takes place before you can stop it, all will be lost, including your lands and title.”

Damian understood perfectly, and he wasn’t about to lose everything he’d ever yearned for. Damian executed a courtly bow. “I shan’t fail you, Sire.”

The king waved him off. “Then be gone, my lord. I will look for the return of the Black Watch once you have everything in hand.”

After that surprising interview, Damian headed over to the Cock and Bull, where out of work knights and mercenaries were known to congregate. Though it would deplete his war chest, he had need of loyal men to help maintain order at Misterly once the soldiers departed.

The smoke-filled common room stank of stale ale and unwashed bodies. Damian spotted a close acquaintance seated at a table and cut a path through the crowd to join him.

Sir Richard Fletcher saw Damian and waved him over. “Damian! ’Tis good to see you again. Come join me. What brings you to London? Last I heard you were posted in Scotland.”

Damian greeted Richard enthusiastically and seated himself across the table from his friend. A barmaid appeared and he ordered two mugs of ale. The busty woman left and returned with two foaming tankards. Damian flipped her a coin, gave her a pat on her broad bottom, and eyed the enticing sway of her hips as she strolled away.

“Forget the barmaid, Damian,” Richard drawled, “you can wench later. You look pleased about something. Tell me your news.”

Damian returned his reluctant attention to Richard, who, if his ruddy face and slurred speech were any indication, was already deep in his cups.

Damian had met Fletcher years ago and they had remained friends. During the intervening years they had lost track of one another.

“You are looking at the new Earl of Clarendon and Lord of Misterly,” Damian boasted.

“An earl!” Richard repeated, clearly impressed.

“If anyone deserves it, ’tis you. Where the hell is Misterly?”

“Ah, Dickon,” Damian gushed, using Richard’s nickname, “’tis a grand fortress deep in the Scottish Highlands. I’ll have vast lands of my own and a village filled with people to till the soil and harvest the crops.”

“I thought you hated Highlanders,” Dickon said. “Did they not kill your father?”

Damian scowled. “Aye, Dickon, but there are also a title and English lands thrown in.”

“Ah, so Clarendon is an English title.”

“My lands are in Cornwall, but they are inconsequential compared to my Scottish holdings. And though I care little for hostile Highlanders, I must reside at Misterly in order to keep my English title and lands.”

“’Tis about time the Demon Knight received recognition for his efforts on behalf of England,” Dickon lauded. “What does the Crown demand in return for so rich a reward?”

Damian shrugged. “I must prevent the Maiden of Misterly from marrying a rebel Highland laird and maintain order.”

“Surely you don’t intend to go to Misterly without an army at your back,” Dickon said.

“I am to have temporary use of twenty soldiers of the Black Watch. I also intend to hire mercenaries to defend my lands and protect my lady wife.”

“Your lady wife?” Dickon repeated. “When were you wed? ’Tis news to me.”

“The king promised me an heiress to become mistress of Misterly.”

“I hope she isn’t overly stout,” Dickon guffawed. “All joking aside, I’m at loose ends right now and would be pleased to join your service. Mayhap I’ll find a feisty Highland lass to warm my bed.”

“Don’t count on it. She’s more like to stick a knife in your heart,” Damian jeered. “Have you forgotten that Highlanders hate our guts?”