Excerpt of So Wild a Heart by Candace Camp

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.

"Christ!" He shivered, feeling cold to the bone, and
glanced 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 lord-ship'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 his way downstairs, looking every inch the sixth Earl
of Ravenscar.

He walked into the drawing room, decorated tastefully in
masculine tones of beige and brown by the selfsame sister
who sat there now. An attractive woman in her late
twenties, she had the black hair, green eyes and well-
modeled features that were characteristic of the Aincourt
family's handsomeness, and was possessed of a charming
dimple in her cheek. She looked up at his entrance and
smiled. "Dev!"

"Rachel." He smiled back at her despite the low-grade
pounding in his head. She was one of the few people who
was dear to him. The smile faded as he turned toward his
mother, a slender blond woman whose exquisite taste in
clothes and regal carriage elevated her looks above an
ordinary prettiness. He bowed formally toward
her. "Mother. An unexpected pleasure."

"Ravenscar." His mother nodded to him. She had always
preferred formality even in dealings with her own family,
believing that to behave otherwise would undermine one's
importance — and whatever had befallen the Aincourt family
over the years, they were important.

"I am relieved to see you alive," Lady Ravenscar went on
dryly. "Given the reaction of your servants to the thought
of your receiving us, I was beginning to wonder whether
you were."

"I was still asleep. My servants are understandably
reluctant to pull me out of bed."

His mother raised her eyebrows. "It is almost one o'-clock
in the afternoon."

"Exactly."

The older lady sighed resignedly. "You are a heathen. But
that is not the issue at hand." She waved the matter
away. "I presumed not. Precisely what matter has brought
you into this den of iniquity? It must be of great
urgency."

Lady Ravenscar made a little moue of distaste. "I suppose
that is your idea of a jest."

"Very faint, I will admit," Ravenscar said in a bored tone.

"What brings me here is your marriage."

His eyebrows rose. "My marriage? I am afraid that I have
no knowledge of any marriage."

"You should," his mother retorted bluntly. "You are
desperately in need of one. You should have been casting
about for a suitable girl these ages past. But since you
have not made the slightest push in that regard, I have
found one for you."

Devin cast a look at his sister and murmured, "Et tu,
Rachel?"

"Dev…" Rachel began in an unhappy voice, looking abashed.

"Don't be nonsensical," Lady Ravenscar interrupted
crisply. "I am serious, Devin. You must marry — and soon —
or you shall find yourself in debtors' prison."

"I am not run off my legs yet," he said mildly.

"You are not far from it, if I understand your vulgar
expression correctly. Your estate is in dreadful shape,
and Darkwater is literally falling down about our heads.
As you would know if you ever made the least effort to
visit your lands."

"It is very far away, and I am not fond of visiting places
that are about to come down around my head."

"Oh, yes, it is easy for you to jest about it," Lady
Ravenscar returned feelingly. "You are not the one who has
to live there."

"You do not have to live there," he pointed out. "Indeed,
I believe you are residing in London right now, are you
not?"

"Renting a house for the Season," his mother said in the
tone of one suffering the utmost humiliation.

"We once had a house in Town, a lovely place where we
could hold the most elegant parties. Now I can rent a
house for only two months, and it's of such a size that I
can barely have a dinner for over eight people. I haven't
thrown a decent rout in years."

"You could live with me," Rachel told her.

"I already live on your husband's charity enough. I have
him and Richard to thank for the clothes on my back. That
is enough without making Westhampton put me up, as well.
It is Devin's responsibility. He is the Earl of Ravenscar."

"So I must marry to give you a house in Town?"

"Don't be obtuse, Devin. It doesn't become you. You have a
duty — to me, to your name — to yourself, for that matter.
What is to happen to Darkwater? To theAincourt name? It is
your duty to marry and produce heirs — how else are the
name and title to continue? And what about the house? It's
been standing since Queen Elizabeth was a child. Are you
going to let it fall into complete ruin?"

"I am sure the title will go on."

"Oh, yes, if you don't mind that rat-faced little Edward
March succeeding to your title. A third cousin, I ask you —
and he hasn't the least idea how to conduct himself, I
assure you."

"I would have said that you thought I hadn't the least
idea how to conduct myself, either."

His mother cast him a long, pointed look. "You haven't.
But at least you are direct in line. And you don't
resemble a weasel." She sighed. "It pains me to think of a
rodenty Ravenscar. Whatever else one might say about them,
at least the Earls of Ravenscar were always handsome
creatures."

"So I am to be the sacrificial lamb on the altar of
family, is that it?"

"There is no need to be dramatic. It isn't as if it isn't
done every day. Love matches are for the lower classes.
People like us make alliances. It is what your father and
I did. And look at your sisters. They married as they
should. They didn't whine, they just did what the family
needed. As head of the family, I can scarcely see how you
can do any less."

"Ah, but doing less is something I am remarkably good at."