| Tracey Devlyn Romance Author |
Excerpt from A Lady's Revenge
1806, England
Guy Trevelyan, Earl of Helsford, stopped short at the sharp smell of burning flesh. The
putrid odor melded with the dungeon’s thick, moldy air, causing his eyes to sting and
his lungs to seize. His watery gaze slashed to the cell’s open door and he cocked his
head, listening.
There.
A sudden scrape of metal against metal. A faint sizzling sound followed by a muffled
scream.
He stepped forward to put an end to the victim’s obvious suffering, but was yanked
back, then pushed against the dungeon’s damp stone wall by his closest friend, the
Viscount of Danforth.
“Easy, Helsford,” Danforth whispered, holding him in place. “We must make sure that’s
our agent in there before revealing ourselves. We’re here for the Raven. No one else.”
Guy tried to refocus on their mission. Rescue the Raven, the female spy who had
infiltrated France's elite and saved thousands of British lives over the past few years.
Only a select few knew the agent’s identity, and Guy was not one of them. Neither was
Danforth, for the matter. They were operating on sheer instinct--retrieve an
Englishwoman and hope to God she’s the Raven.
Another gut-twisting sound from the chamber drew Guy’s attention. He clenched his
teeth. Less than twelve feet away, someone was being tortured by one of Valère’s
henchmen, and Guy might have to leave the poor bastard behind.
After several difficult seconds, Guy nodded, and Danforth released his restraining grip.
Guy drew in a steadying breath, then he inched toward the open portal.
“Why do you force me to be so cruel?” a voice from inside the cell asked. “All you have
to do is provide my master with the information he seeks.”
A chain rattled. “Go to hell, Beale,” a guttural voice whispered.
The henchman called Beale let out a deep sigh. “The branding iron seems to have lost
its effect on you. Let me see if I have something more persuasive.”
A low, almost animal-like growl preceded the prisoner’s broken whisper. “Your black
soul will burn for this.”
Beale chuckled low, controlled. “But not tonight, little spy.”
Something eerily familiar about the prisoner’s voice caught Guy’s attention. His gaze
sliced back to Danforth to find puzzlement etched deeply between his friend’s brows.
Guy turned back, the ferocity of his heartbeat pumping in his ears. His stomach
churned with the certain knowledge that he would not like what he would find in this
room of despair. He braced his hand against the rough surface of the dungeon wall
and leaned forward just enough to peer into the cell.
The room was larger than others they had searched. This one would stall two, maybe
three horses, rather than barely one.
In the center sat a long wooden table with a young man strapped in place by iron
manacles. Three strategically placed candles illuminated a small, circular area, leaving
the room’s corners steeped in darkness.
The prisoner’s filthy legs and arms splayed in a perfect X across the bench’s blood-
stained surface. A few feet away, with his back to the prisoner, stood a slender man
dressed in black, his unusual white-capped head bent in concentration over an
assortment of spine-chilling instruments.
As Guy watched, Beale caressed each shiny torture device with a lover’s attention.
Guy realized then that he couldn’t walk away from the poor tortured soul struggling on
the table. The prisoner faced certain death, if left here. Guy knew himself well enough
that he could never knowingly leave one of his countrymen in his enemy’s hands.
Especially not Valère’s.
Silently, he withdrew a six-inch hunting knife from his boot, ignoring Danforth’s warning
tap. His friend couldn’t see the evil radiating from Beale, as Guy could. This madman
must be stopped. Tonight.
Guy’s gaze shifted to the prisoner just as the young man’s head swiveled toward the
open doorway. Bleakness and terror etched his swollen and blood-encrusted face.
And determination.
The prisoner’s chest rose high with each deep, agonized breath. It was obvious the
young man knew Beale’s next attempt at pulling information from him would be far
worse than the last.
His terrified blue-green eyes—or eye, as one was little more than a bloated slit—
opened wide when the prisoner keyed in on Guy’s position.
Blue-green eyes. An unusual color Guy had seen only once before. His muscles
contracted. Nausea twisted in his gut as a wave of frigid heat surged through his body.
He knew those eyes.
The young man wasn’t a man at all. But a goddamned woman.
Cora.
Guy Trevelyan, Earl of Helsford, stopped short at the sharp smell of burning flesh. The
putrid odor melded with the dungeon’s thick, moldy air, causing his eyes to sting and
his lungs to seize. His watery gaze slashed to the cell’s open door and he cocked his
head, listening.
There.
A sudden scrape of metal against metal. A faint sizzling sound followed by a muffled
scream.
He stepped forward to put an end to the victim’s obvious suffering, but was yanked
back, then pushed against the dungeon’s damp stone wall by his closest friend, the
Viscount of Danforth.
“Easy, Helsford,” Danforth whispered, holding him in place. “We must make sure that’s
our agent in there before revealing ourselves. We’re here for the Raven. No one else.”
Guy tried to refocus on their mission. Rescue the Raven, the female spy who had
infiltrated France's elite and saved thousands of British lives over the past few years.
Only a select few knew the agent’s identity, and Guy was not one of them. Neither was
Danforth, for the matter. They were operating on sheer instinct--retrieve an
Englishwoman and hope to God she’s the Raven.
Another gut-twisting sound from the chamber drew Guy’s attention. He clenched his
teeth. Less than twelve feet away, someone was being tortured by one of Valère’s
henchmen, and Guy might have to leave the poor bastard behind.
After several difficult seconds, Guy nodded, and Danforth released his restraining grip.
Guy drew in a steadying breath, then he inched toward the open portal.
“Why do you force me to be so cruel?” a voice from inside the cell asked. “All you have
to do is provide my master with the information he seeks.”
A chain rattled. “Go to hell, Beale,” a guttural voice whispered.
The henchman called Beale let out a deep sigh. “The branding iron seems to have lost
its effect on you. Let me see if I have something more persuasive.”
A low, almost animal-like growl preceded the prisoner’s broken whisper. “Your black
soul will burn for this.”
Beale chuckled low, controlled. “But not tonight, little spy.”
Something eerily familiar about the prisoner’s voice caught Guy’s attention. His gaze
sliced back to Danforth to find puzzlement etched deeply between his friend’s brows.
Guy turned back, the ferocity of his heartbeat pumping in his ears. His stomach
churned with the certain knowledge that he would not like what he would find in this
room of despair. He braced his hand against the rough surface of the dungeon wall
and leaned forward just enough to peer into the cell.
The room was larger than others they had searched. This one would stall two, maybe
three horses, rather than barely one.
In the center sat a long wooden table with a young man strapped in place by iron
manacles. Three strategically placed candles illuminated a small, circular area, leaving
the room’s corners steeped in darkness.
The prisoner’s filthy legs and arms splayed in a perfect X across the bench’s blood-
stained surface. A few feet away, with his back to the prisoner, stood a slender man
dressed in black, his unusual white-capped head bent in concentration over an
assortment of spine-chilling instruments.
As Guy watched, Beale caressed each shiny torture device with a lover’s attention.
Guy realized then that he couldn’t walk away from the poor tortured soul struggling on
the table. The prisoner faced certain death, if left here. Guy knew himself well enough
that he could never knowingly leave one of his countrymen in his enemy’s hands.
Especially not Valère’s.
Silently, he withdrew a six-inch hunting knife from his boot, ignoring Danforth’s warning
tap. His friend couldn’t see the evil radiating from Beale, as Guy could. This madman
must be stopped. Tonight.
Guy’s gaze shifted to the prisoner just as the young man’s head swiveled toward the
open doorway. Bleakness and terror etched his swollen and blood-encrusted face.
And determination.
The prisoner’s chest rose high with each deep, agonized breath. It was obvious the
young man knew Beale’s next attempt at pulling information from him would be far
worse than the last.
His terrified blue-green eyes—or eye, as one was little more than a bloated slit—
opened wide when the prisoner keyed in on Guy’s position.
Blue-green eyes. An unusual color Guy had seen only once before. His muscles
contracted. Nausea twisted in his gut as a wave of frigid heat surged through his body.
He knew those eyes.
The young man wasn’t a man at all. But a goddamned woman.
Cora.
| Sultry Romance with an Edge |
| Copyright © 2007-2010 Tracey Devlyn. All rights reserved. |
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Read an Excerpt from Dangerous Expectations