Wild and Wicked

  “You can go now.”

  “I think not.”

  “But—”

  “You can go now,” he said meaningfully and she gasped at his insolence.

  “M’lord, I needs privacy.”

  “I think not. Did you not use this same ploy on the night Yale was taken?” he asked. “Now … wash and do whatever else you have to. I will remain here.”

  She sucked in her breath, then, in the gathering moonlight, muttered something about bullheaded beasts with ill manners and added more loudly, “At least turn your back, m’lord. ’Tis the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  “I thought we already discussed my lack of gentlemanly skills. Now, take care of your needs and be quick about it. I have not all night.”

  “Bastard,” he thought she muttered as she sidled to a spot behind a tree, where all he could glimpse through a fork in the trunk was her flaxen hair, shining silver in the moonlight. While she was half hidden, he relieved himself as well, forcing his cock to soften so that he could create a stream that he arced at a flat rock. The woman was more trouble than she was worth, he decided, shaking himself before stuffing his member into his breeches and lacing up. ’Twould be best to send her back to Black Thorn and lock her in a dungeon.

  As if that would keep her. She’s as slippery as one of the eels in the pond at the castle! You’d best keep a close eye on that one.

  He glanced over his shoulder, didn’t see her silhouette, and fury tore through his veins. In less than a minute she’d slipped away. Again! He was about to call out when he caught a glimpse of silver-gold hair and realized she hadn’t escaped but was indeed leaning over the rocky bank of the creek and washing her face.

  Mayhap he’d been too hard on her, he thought suddenly, his fury turning to fascination as she held her hair up and cleaned the smooth contour of her face with her free hand. Was it possible that she was telling him the truth? That her brother had double-crossed her? There was a part of him that wanted to believe she wasn’t a part of so vile a deception as to kidnap his boy, but he couldn’t forget that she was the bait, the lure that kept his guard down in the plot to rob him blind and steal his son. Nay, he couldn’t trust her and it would serve him well to remember it.

  “Hurry,” he yelled, his voice echoing through the icy, brittle forest. “As I said, we’ve not got ’til dawn.”

  “Coming,” she shot back, and he saw her straighten, pull up the hem of her tunic and dry her face with the rough cloth. He caught a glimpse of her flat, white abdomen and his crotch tightened. Never had a woman affected him so. Not even Glynda, his wife, and for that betrayal he felt a jab of guilt.

  Suddenly Apryll appeared before him and walked stiffly along the path to the firelight flickering through a copse of pines. Most of the men were already wrapped in their cloaks, lying upon the ground, though James was scraping the stag’s hide clean with his knife, and another man watered and fed the horses while Lloyd sharpened his sword, frowning as he tested the sharp blade between his thick, calloused fingers.

  Obediently Apryll ducked into the tent and, as he’d promised, Devlynn stood watch.

  “We only have feed enough for three more days,” Rearden, the man who’d tended to the small herd, advised him.

  Devlynn nodded. “We’ll buy grain at the next village.”

  “Aye.”

  “So we ride tomorrow whether Bennett returns or nay?” Lloyd observed, running the whetting stone over his blade again.

  “Aye.”

  “And what of the woman?”

  “She rides with us.”

  Lloyd stopped stroking his sword long enough to look up at Devlynn. “A tracking party be no place for a woman.” He glanced meaningfully at the tent. “They’re useless creatures, you know, good for only one thing.”

  “And what would that be?” Devlynn asked in a low whisper, the muscles at the back of his neck bunching.

  “Warming a man’s bed. ’Tis all.”

  “What about motherhood?”

  “’Tis overrated. Me own mum, she died givin’ me birth, she did, and it hurt me not.” His smile was all knowing. “Your own son, he has no mother and he seems a fine lad.”

  “He has Miranda and Aunt Violet to guide him.”

  “And he’d do just as well without ’em.”

  The man was a fool.

  “Lady Apryll rides with us,” Devlynn said, tired of the argument. “And I’ll hear no disrespect.”

  “She’s a prisoner, ain’t she?” Lloyd said.

  “Aye, and a lady.”

  Lloyd snorted but held his tongue and Devlynn, jaw tight, resisted the urge to throw a fist in his fleshy face.

  Apryll listened to the argument and with the light from the fire as her guide searched the tent. If only she could find a knife of some kind, something sharp enough to make a slit in the tent wall, she could make her escape now, while the men were talking between themselves, while the dog was happily chewing on her bone, before Devlynn returned to the tent.

  She could cut through the forest on foot, again use the stream to confuse that miserable dog and find a horse to steal or beg a ride from a farmer’s wagon once she found the main road.

  And you’ll be caught. The men have horses and that damned dog. They’ll track you within hours … no, you need a better scheme. You have to sneak past Devlynn’s small army, steal the horses, make sure that you have time on your side.

  Oh, fuss and bother, what to do? She found no knife, not even the one that Devlynn had removed from her when he’d taken her captive again. ’Twas an impossible situation and yet one she had to rectify.

  She lay back on the pallet, feigning sleep should Devlynn step inside, and tried to come up with some scheme, a means of escape. But as the hours ticked by, the voices of Black Thorn’s soldiers stilled, and the campfire glowed dim, she found no way to save herself.

  All too soon she heard a shuffling of feet, Devlynn’s deep voice ordering another man to stand watch.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t want to think about what would happen next. She had only to remember the last time they’d lain on the pallet together—how his hands and mouth had teased her, tempted her and caused a deep, shameful want within her.

  Even when he’d bound her hands and bared her breasts there had been disgrace, yes, but also a bit of desire … an awakening of a dark, hungry lust within her, an emotion more disturbing than the man himself.

  The flap fell away and the Lord of Black Thorn entered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Devlynn slipped onto the pallet beside her, his large frame cuddling up to hers. Apryll forced her breathing to sound regular though her heart was beating wildly, her lungs constricted. She let her mouth go slack though every muscle in her body was stretched taut, every nerve fiber jangled. How could she bear the next hour or so next to him, feeling his body curve over hers?

  Be calm. Pretend. Relax. Do not let him know that you are awake.

  She felt him shift, sensed that he levered up on one elbow to look down upon her. What could he see in the darkness? His breath was warm as it whispered against her face and ruffled her hair. She let out a soft sigh, then nearly flinched when she felt his finger trace the welt upon her cheek.

  “I’ll kill the bastard,” he vowed. “For Yale and for this pain to Apryll … oh Christ Jesus, what am I saying?” There was a tortured edge to his voice, a hint that he felt the same confusion as did she.

  He flung an arm around her waist and burrowed under the blankets, drawing her close, fitting her body next to his. She knew he had to be tired, that by now exhaustion should bring deep sleep within minutes, so she didn’t stir, listened to the sound of his breathing and saw the shadow of the sentry playing upon the tent as the man paced in front of the fire.

  Sleep, she thought, hoping all the men, the horses and especially the bloody hound would drift into a deep impenetrable slumber and she could make good her escape.

  Devlynn burrowed further under the furs and the arm around he
r reached beneath her tunic, his hand scaling her ribs until his fingers found her breast.

  Her stomach tightened. Her blood heated and despite her intentions of feigning sleep her nipples puckered. He rubbed a calloused thumb over the tip of one. Dear God, what sweet, sweet torment. Her breasts seemed to fill, as if they were engorged with milk, and Devlynn groaned.

  Was he asleep?

  Or very awake?

  She knew not. His fingers were warm and he breathed against her shoulder onto a spot on her neck that tingled in anticipation. Stay distant. Do not let your body betray you. You must escape! Remember that above all else, Apryll.

  With a groan, he tugged, rolling her over so that she lay on top of him, her spine against his chest. Both his arms surrounded her, both hands reached beneath her tunic. Oh, Lord, this was madness! Two sets of fingers massaged her breasts and it was all she could do not to move her buttocks rhythmically against his abdomen and the tip of his manhood, that hidden head she felt pronging upward against his breeches.

  Oh, so little separated their bodies. She wanted to arch and writhe against him, to twist about, face him and cover his mouth with hers, yet she dared not. His lips brushed against her shoulder and she shuddered, wanting, longing, aching for the dark void deep within her to be filled.

  In her mind’s eye she saw herself naked, turning upon him, running her fingers through the stiff hairs of his chest, feeling his scarred, strident warrior muscles, searching out the flat nubs that were his nipples. She imagined her naked body sliding downward, mounting his thick, smooth shaft, feeling him fill her, experiencing the wonder of her maidenhead shattering, knowing what it was finally like to be a woman … to take a lover. To join with the Lord of Black Thorn.

  Oh, God, what was she thinking?

  As his fingers kneaded her flesh, ’twas all she could do to remain immobile, pliant as if in sleep, and unresponsive. His hands tightened and he moved beneath her, his stiff manhood prodding, poking, rubbing against the rough fabric of her breeches, teasing the cleft of her buttocks, making her wet.

  She could stand it no longer and moaned softly, curving her spine, wondering what would be the loss to allow him entrance into a body that was quivering inside, hot with want, anxious to feel all of him.

  One of his hands lowered, dipped beneath the tie of the uncomfortable breeches, skimmed her flesh with expert fingers that caressed her skin and invaded the thatch of curls below her navel.

  She trembled.

  No! She couldn’t allow this!

  But she didn’t move, just closed her eyes and sucked in her breath as his fingers explored further, touching the edges of her most secret places, parting her, sliding inside.

  “Aye, little one, you want me,” he whispered. “Even in slumber, you want me.”

  He thought she was sleeping. Oh, Lord, could she keep up the deception? Would her body allow it?

  “You’re wet for me, Apryll of Serennog, and I’m hard for you … so hard. I could take you in one thrust, lady.”

  Sweat prickled her crown. ’Twould be so easy to turn in his arms and kiss him, aye, and beg him to do just as he suggested.

  His finger delved deeper, touching a spot she didn’t know existed. She let out a soft groan.

  “Oh, you like that, do you?” His finger teased, moving against her, creating heat in a body already aflame. She thought she would go mad with this new anxious wanting. “And would you like my tongue as well? Or just my cock?”

  His tongue? She’d heard of this before but had no idea he could cause such an ache with a mere suggestion of something she’d heretofore thought repellent. Now the thought of his mouth upon her, touching, tasting, caressing any part of her body sounded like heaven … nay, hell … nay … oh, God, he was parting her again, inserting another finger. She wiggled involuntarily, taking more of him, wanting everything.

  “Be you awake, Lady Apryll … can you not feel my lust for you? How much I want you? You’re so hot and wet … and I bet you taste of woman and wine together.” He whispered his lusty words against her bare shoulder while exploring the cleft between her legs with one set of fingers and massaging one breast with his other hand.

  “I’m going to bed you, little one. But not now,” he said, slowly withdrawing his hand and leaving her yearning for more of his touch.

  Nay! He couldn’t stop now, not when there was so much she wanted to know, so much he could teach her, when she was so close to … to … what?

  “Oh, no, not now … not when you sleep, but when you’re awake, then, lady, when you can look into my eyes and watch me touch you, witness the length of me claiming you, then … then I’ll show you what it means to be bedded and bedded well.”

  Was he mocking her as he extracted his fingers? Had he known all along that she was awake? He lowered her onto the pallet beside him. In the darkness, without a word, he adjusted her breeches and tunic, smoothing her clothes over her as if he’d never disturbed her, never so much as traced a finger along her skin. Her body cried silently for more of his touch.

  With one arm securing her to the mattress, he pulled the covers to her neck and whispered, “Pleasant dreams, little one.” And then he chuckled softly as if everything that had gone before was a game—a game for his amusement and her humiliation.

  Her cheeks burned in shame and yet … despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t wait until the next time he touched her. At that thought she nearly cried out. There would be no next time.

  She would see to it.

  Tonight she would escape. Somehow, someway, she’d put as much distance as possible between herself and this horrid, intriguing, mystifying man.

  “So where are the others?” the boy asked, eyeing Payton from the other side of the fire. “Your band of cutthroats and thieves, where be they?”

  “They shall come. On the morrow,” Payton replied, though, in truth, he wondered as he searched the darkness through the window. He’d paced all day. Waiting. Checking the supplies, keeping the damned fire lit, every second aware that Devlynn and his army could appear. The plan was that they would meet here by nightfall of this day. And yet there had been no sign of Bernard or Samuel, who had angled east. They were to have cut back on the far side of the river and arrived here no later than nightfall. As for Roger, Isaac and Melvynn, those who had traveled along the ridge with the torches, they were to have led Devlynn’s army on a great chase, splitting up further and riding here. At least one of them should have appeared.

  Then there were those he’d left at Black Thorn, the spies who had helped him, those disloyal to Devlynn. He’d expected a report from one of them … and yet, nothing.

  And what about Apryll? Where was she?

  Had they all fallen? Had every one of his men and his headstrong sister been captured? Had Payton so vastly underestimated his enemy?

  “This be a boring game,” the boy said. He’d been whittling all day, fashioning a sword with a dull knife Payton had allowed him. “Where is my father?”

  A fine question. “He’s searching for you, to be sure.”

  “Then he will find me.” Yale nodded to himself. He was so confident, so certain of his father’s strengths. What would it be like to have a son, one who had abject faith in you? “And when he does, you will lose your game.”

  “I think not.”

  “My father is the best swordsman in all of Wales!”

  “If you say so.” Payton was tired of hearing about his enemy, a god in his son’s eyes.

  “Aye, he’ll make short work of you and of a dozen of your men should they appear!” Payton’s nerves were stretched thin and he was irritated by the lad with his incessant questions and buoyant spirit. By the gods, if he would only sleep … there was more of the drug and the thought of doctoring Yale’s mazer was tempting. Give the boy some wine and the potion and finally get some peace.

  But he had to save the sleeping potion he’d brought for the next segment of the ride. Better to have the boy dull when they were moving him so t
hat he would give them no trouble.

  Yale stood suddenly and began slashing and parrying with his sword, moving quickly around the fire, slaying imaginary enemies. For a young one he was quick on his feet, lunged and jabbed with sure strokes, twirled and feinted effortlessly. He twirled closer to Payton, slicing his “sword” in quick strokes. Involuntarily Payton reached for his own weapon only to see the boy’s smile at the thought of a real challenge.

  “Ha!” Yale said, thrusting and retreating. “Should we duel, then?”

  “I think not.” Was the boy daft? “Your sword is wood. Mine is steel. ’Twould be no match.”

  “I could make you one,” he offered and, swinging his “blade,” watched his shadow as it danced across one of the sagging walls. Payton gritted his teeth. He needed more than a vial of the sleeping potion, he could use a vat of the stuff with this boy as his prisoner. Mayhap he should dispense with the act of this “game,” tie and gag the boy and be done with it.

  Suddenly Yale stopped fencing with his imaginary foe. “From now on my name shall be Death.”

  “Death?” Payton repeated. “Why?”

  “Because all dastardly types have fiendish names. As I am part of your band”—he looked around the cavernous, dilapidated room and lifted an eyebrow to point out that there was no one else within the walls—“I shall have a dangerous name. From now on you are to call me Death. ’Tis all I will answer to.”

  Praise be, Payton thought, rubbing his temple, perhaps now the boy would be quiet. “Get in your blanket,” Payton barked. “’Tis time for bed.”

  Yale didn’t appear to hear.

  “I said, drop the sword and go to sleep.”

  The boy sent him a chastising glance.

  “Now!”

  Not so much as a cringe.

  Payton took a step forward and to his astonishment the boy, rather than cower, did the same. Payton blew out his breath and the damned kid mocked him, sighing loudly. Payton shoved his hands though his hair. The boy could not be intimidated. Would he have to actually hurt the dolt? Yale ran his own fingers through his hair and rolled his eyes in parody of his keeper.