“Father?” Yale muttered, his tongue thick as the ghostly forest flashed by in a blur.
“I be not your father.”
The voice was unfamiliar and Yale twisted his neck to look at the man who was hauling him off by horseback. ’Twas that of a stranger, a bold, angry man from the looks of him, but Yale wasn’t certain, his head felt about to explode and his stomach weak, and the darkness from which he’d emerged threatened to take him over.
“Who … who are you … ?” he managed to get out and he heard the rider laugh.
“You want not to know.”
Yale blinked once and then, as the ground swept by at a dizzying speed, he lost consciousness again.
Apryll waited, forcing her breathing to slow, straining to listen, daring to peek from behind the stump to search the darkness. She slipped away from the stump, dashed onto the main road and ran as fast as she could, heading toward Black Thorn. She remembered crossing a creek a few miles back. With enough of a lead, she could make it to the frigid stream and, using the water to hide her scent, follow the creek for a mile or so, to the next road, then circle back to Serennog or the inn where Payton’s men were to meet him. Behind her brother’s lying back, she would steal the boy and ascertain his safe passage to Black Thorn … or, better still, she would bargain with the devil, promise Devlynn the safe return of his son along with his horses and stolen valuables from the treasury in exchange for peace.
Even if he agreed, it would not be the end of it, of course. Devlynn would still want to mete out his vengeance, but mayhap it would be tempered.
And what of Serennog? Would it not be in worse shape than before? What kind of a leader are you?
Mayhap Payton had been right all along. She would have to marry a wealthy baron, one she could barely stomach. She considered wealthy Baron William of Balchdar and shuddered. He was a cruel one, no doubt, but no worse than her other suitors, and Balchdar was a rich barony.
Her legs ached and her lungs burned and the sounds of the soldiers had faded, if only for a few minutes. She slowed to a fast walk, hoping that the cover of darkness would last until she reached the creek. She’d take off her clothes and carry them so that they wouldn’t become wet, then don them again … she hurried faster until she reached the banks of the stream, and, confident that she’d lost her pursuers, she stripped out of the huntsman’s garb, carefully tying the breeches and boots in the arms of the tunic’s sleeves.
The wind was cold against her bare skin, the water icy as she stepped onto the slippery rocks and made her way downstream. Dawn was beginning to break, gray slats of light creeping over the eastern hills and piercing through the brittle, empty branches of the trees. Shivering, biting her lower lip and thinking of a dozen ways to kill her brother, she picked her way along the creek. Fish slipped by her ankles and calves, but she didn’t feel them as soon as her lower extremities were numb. The bite of the wind, however, brought goose bumps to her flesh and her teeth chattered so hard as to cause a headache.
She was hungry and tired and when she thought of those few moments when she was in the great hall of Black Thorn, held tightly in Baron Devlynn’s arms as they danced, her mother’s wedding dress glittering in the glow of a thousand candles, it seemed centuries past rather than a few, short life-altering hours.
As the winter morning dawned, she heard a rooster crowing in a nearby village and spied an arch-shaped bridge spanning the creek bed. She crawled up a mossy, root-strewn bank and hid in the sparse foliage as she stepped into the trousers and reached for the tunic.
The blade of a sword pricked the back of her neck.
“Don’t move,” a man ordered and she froze.
Her heart sank.
She recognized the voice.
It belonged to Devlynn of Black Thorn.
“Turn around. Slowly.” His voice was low as the wind and just as cold.
Cursing her luck, Apryll held her tunic to her chest, covering her nakedness as she faced the lord. How long had he been standing in this shadowy part of the forest where the morning light shifted over the frozen ground and nary a winter bird sang? Had he seen her naked, watched as she slogged through the icy water? Flushing at the thought, she rotated to face the Lord of Black Thorn.
His face was a mask of anger and contempt, his flinty eyes slitted, his lips curled back over his teeth. The blade of his weapon didn’t move and as she faced him, its deadly point settled into the hollow of her throat. Despite the goose bumps she felt upon her flesh and the menace of the blade, she inched her chin upward and tossed her hair over her shoulder to stare up at him.
“You escaped.”
She didn’t respond.
“Who helped you?” he demanded, pushing his face closer to hers. When again she didn’t say a word his visage became deadly. “You escaped to join the others, but this is not the way to your keep.” Fury flared in his eyes and she felt the bite of the sword against her skin. “I’ll ask you again. Where is my son?” he demanded, furious eyes raking down her body. “What have you done with him?”
“He is with my brother.”
“And where is that?”
“Farther ahead on the road.”
A muscle worked in the baron’s jaw. “Then he’s alive.”
“Oh, yes!” Dear Lord, did he really believe she would kill his son? Harm any child?
“Then why are you not with them?” Beneath the steely calm of his voice she sensed a dark worry and a deeper rage.
“I was. I did catch Payton, but … but … my horse became lame and I could not keep up. I heard you behind me … and … and I knew I had to flee, to find help.”
“To save your sorry skin,” he muttered, disgusted.
“To get help to wrest Yale from Payton.”
Devlynn glowered down at her, weighing her words, judging their worth, as he stood beneath the moss-laden branches of a sturdy oak.
“You wanted help to free the child that you stole and yet you did not come to me?”
“Because you would not have believed me. And … and I knew not where you were nor what you would do to me if you found I had escaped.” She swallowed hard but didn’t move, felt the pinch of the sword but let her throat lay open. Exposed. She felt her pulse pounding in the circle of bones beneath the sword’s deadly edge, saw his eyes take in the movement, then drop to the rise and fall of her chest, hidden by her wretched, wrinkled tunic. Something chased across his eyes—a memory—something lustful. Whatever it was, it scurried away, a dangerous, passionate thought quickly banished.
Could this be the man she’d so brazenly kissed, the man with whom she’d shared a mazer of wine and danced so lightheartedly? He looked like a demon. Black hair curled and fell over his forehead, his jaw was dark with the start of a beard and every visible muscle in his face and neck was taut. Nostrils flared, he breathed pure loathing.
“As I said, my horse turned lame—”
“My horse,” he corrected, and she bit her lip. The sword slid lower, down her breastbone, not breaking the skin but scraping.
“Please, Lord Devlynn, you must believe me that I … I did not intend for the boy to be taken.”
“But he was.”
“Aye.” Lower still the wicked blade sank, pushing aside the rough folds of her disguise, exposing the tops of her breasts. She resisted, saw a flare in his eyes and let the tunic fall to the frigid ground.
“So … your intent was only to rob me blind, steal my horses and kill some of my men.”
“There was to be no bloodshed,” she said, feeling herself turn crimson despite the cold wind.
His jaw slid to one side as the tip of his sword slid over her abdomen to the thatch of curls at the juncture of her legs. “Oh, but there was. Two men dead, others dying and my boy taken out from under my nose, drugged by someone, a traitor, within my keep.” Anger burned through his words. “Enough crimes have been committed to send you to the gallows several times over but none of that matters. Only my boy.” Devlynn’s fury was pa
lpable, seeming to shimmer through the bare trees and across the silvery stream rushing by.
“Would I could change things,” Apryll said.
“Oh, lady, you can, and trust me, if you want to save your neck, you will.”
“Not unless you sheath that damned sword and we make haste. There is no time to waste with … with … idle threats.”
She stepped back and reached beneath her to gather up her clothes. “What is it you think I can do for you?” she said, turning her back to him.
“’Tis simple. Either your brother returns my son safely to me, or you suffer the consequences.”
“Oh, so you will hack me to pieces, is that what you are suggesting?” she said boldly, angry at being subservient. ’Twas not her nature.
“I can think of punishments that are not quite so brutal, but may still cause you to tell me the truth. There are ways, lady, to loosen a woman’s tongue.”
“Without threatening to butcher her?” she threw over her bare shoulder as she struggled into her leggings and realized that her buttocks and the cleft between them were more than visible to him. Well, so be it. Let him stare. ’Twould harm nothing but her pride and that had been battered black-and-blue already.
She slid her arms through the sleeves of the tunic, yanked it over her head and slithered into the scratchy fabric. Feeling those hot eyes upon her she turned to face him again, her shoulders straightening. He’d lowered his weapon, but the cords in the back of his neck tightened and his eyes lingered a little too long on the slit of her tunic that was not yet tied.
“How did you find me?”
“’Twas not difficult.”
“Then tell me.” She laced her tunic tightly, unwilling for him to see even the slightest hint of her flesh.
“I came upon your horse, knew that we’d nearly caught you and that the hounds were confused. ’Twas simple enough. I put myself in your boots, considered what I would do when I knew I was about to be captured.” He flashed his sword at the sorry leather boots she was about to don. “There was but one sensible option, to double back, find a creek, try to confuse the dogs, then find a horse to steal.”
Her hastily made plan exactly.
His knowing, cold smile irritated her. His demeanor, that of a prideful lord looking upon a captive, made her want to put a blade to his throat when he was naked and see how he would like it. Oh, she would love to reverse the spin of the wheel of fate, to hold him prisoner while she found a way to wrest Yale from Payton without further bloodshed. But she had not the time for such idle dreams, not if she wanted to catch her brother.
Was it possible to reclaim Devlynn’s son and barter to save Serennog? She yanked on one boot, then the other.
Payton would never give up his prize. Not without a fight. Or compensation.
As she straightened, he held out a hand. “Your weapon.”
“I have no—”
“Do not take me for a fool,” he said through lips that barely moved. He saw the defiance in her eyes, the tilt of her chin. She reached into her pocket and withdrew the small dagger with a bone handle. He grabbed the knife with his free hand, then hitched his chin toward his horse. “You will do as I say,” he asserted. “From this moment forward.”
Apryll didn’t argue. ’Twas of no use. For the moment she would abide by his wishes. But only for the moment.
Devlynn saw the defiance in her eyes, the way she clamped her jaw down hard as if she were controlling her wicked tongue. She was used to giving commands, not taking them, and the flare of her nostrils when he ordered her about would have been amusing if the situation were not so dire.
And her body. By the saints, ’twas perfect. Even now as she walked to the horse and tossed that mane of gold hair over her shoulder, he imagined the curve of her spine, the split of her buttocks, her long, bare thighs. Aye, she was covered now by her huntsman’s tunic and breeches but as long as he lived he would not forget the tilt of her breasts with their button-hard pink nipples, nor the inviting V of honey-colored curls hiding her woman-mound.
Sword drawn, he watched as she reached the horse and, thinking he didn’t see the sideways glance, looked longingly down a path to escape. She was a spirited one, he’d give her that.
And she stole your son. Forget it not!
Dawn had erupted in a bright, wintry fury, offering a few shafts of light to the gloomy forest and dappling the frozen ground but bringing little warmth to the Lord of Black Thorn’s frigid heart. Yet this woman, Jezebel that she was, caused his blood to heat. With fury? Or desire? Perhaps a little of both.
Long ago, with his wife, he’d learned there was a fine line between love and hate, that passion could be fueled by anger as well as lust. Apryll of Serennog, with her stiff pride, sharp tongue and beguiling body, inspired both.
“We ride now. To my son.” He swung onto the bay’s broad back and warned her, “Do not think of escape. ’Tis of no use.” He sheathed his sword, reached down and offered his hand. Indecision darkened her gold eyes. For a second he thought she would spit into his open glove, or try to run through the brambles and vines of the forest. Her back was ramrod stiff, her shoulders square, defiance radiating off her in palpable waves. “If you disobey me,” he said evenly, “not only will you be punished, but those you love will be as well.”
No fear showed in those intelligent eyes. Only quiet, determined rage. Lips pursed, she placed her hand in his and he lifted her easily into the saddle in front of him, wedging her between the pommel and his crotch. His longer legs were pressed against the back of her thighs and the pressure of her sweet, round rump was impossible to ignore.
Reaching around her, he grabbed the reins and cursed the fates for the hardness in his groin. That he would want her bespoke his foolish masculinity, but the pressure of the split of her buttocks against his shaft was undeniable. As he nudged the bay into a gallop, he felt her rub against him and knew that he was in for hours of torment. It would be so much easier to drop her to the ground, to leave her to her own fate, but she was a bargaining chip and she alone knew where his son was.
Much as he detested the thought, she was valuable to him.
And you want her. More than you have ever wanted a woman. You want to feel her beneath you, writhing and calling out your name, screaming with pleasure as you claim her.
In his mind’s eye he envisioned her beneath him, soaked in sweat, her pert nipples rising upward, begging for his tongue and lips. He saw himself twining his fingers in the shimmer of gold that was her hair as he entered her.
The back of his throat turned to dust.
Oh, ’twould be heaven as well as hell to bed her.
He felt the heat of her body as he leaned against her back and whispered into her ear, “Tell me where I can find my boy.”
When she didn’t reply, he reached upward and cupped a breast in one hand, felt the bud of her nipple between his thumb and finger.
“There are ways of getting the truth from you, Lady Apryll,” he said. “And I vow I will use every one of them on you.”
She swallowed hard but tried to show no reaction. His gloved hand was warm and she despised herself for not feeling revulsion at his touch. The man held her life in his hands, had imprisoned her, had sworn to seek retribution against her and yet she couldn’t keep thoughts of kissing him, of touching him, of laying with him from her mind.
What had gotten into her? Now, wedged between the pommel and his crotch, she shouldn’t be aware of the stiffness pressed hard against her buttocks, of the shaft of his manhood rubbing erotically against that sensitive cleft, but of the danger that surrounded her.
She had to get away from him, to elude him again and to reach Payton first, try to reason with her brother and to return Yale to his keep.
Mayhap then she could get away from the devil of Black Thorn.
Then again, mayhap not.
Chapter Ten
At last the torturous ride was over, Apryll thought as Devlynn reined in his sweating mount near th
e campground, little more than a fire pit with a spit, one tent and a tethering line for five or six horses. Nearby a creek gurgled as it cut through frozen banks. A few men milled around the fire and they all looked up as horse and riders approached.
Shame burned her cheeks as the soldiers watched the Lord of Black Thorn help her off her mount and onto the hard ground.
“So you found the woman, did ye?” a fat one asked, his slitted, feral gaze running up and down her body. “And dressed like a huntsman. I thought she was locked away at Black Thorn.”
“You were mistaken,” she snapped.
“Mayhap that’s not such a bad thing.” The soldier’s voice was lusty and Apryll inwardly cringed. “We could use ourselves a woman here, to cook and clean and keep a bed warm at night, eh?” he said, winking broadly at the others gathered around the single tent in a small clearing where the fire smoldered in a ring of mossy stones.
“Aye, she’s a pretty one, she is, and feisty, too, I’m willing to bet,” the man added, his thick lips rising into a hideous grin.
“Touch me and you’ll wish you never had,” she said angrily, stepping closer to the pig-eyed man. She didn’t bother to toss her tangled hair from her face or stiffen her spine. Nor would she cower. It was enough that she held him in her steady glare. “If you value your hands, you’ll keep them to yourself.”
He laughed. “What will you do to them, bite off my fingers, eh … ooh, that you would try.” He wiggled the dirty digits in front of her face.
If she expected Devlynn to come to her rescue, she was disappointed.
“Ow … I like a woman with a bit o’ spirit to her.” The soldier wheezed at his little joke and she wished she had her little knife to keep him at bay. As it was, she would have to use her wits.