Wild and Wicked

  “’Tis not spirit, it’s a simple fact.”

  She lifted a haughty brow, then, as she’d seen Geneva do so many times before, dug the toe of her boot into the dirt and drew two runes, a pentagram and, next to the five-pointed star, the symbol of a male. “Since you are so fond of your hands, I’ll curse another part of your body,” she said and, using the heel of her boot, dug deep in the earth, cutting off the arrow part of the circle, the point that indicated it was male.

  “Holy Mother, heed my prayer, All your secrets here unlock, Touch the sinner who disbelieves, Wither and rot his pathetic cock.”

  “Wha—?” the man exclaimed.

  Others laughed.

  “Know you not that the women of Serennog are known for the spells they cast? That there is a curse about the keep? That all within have magical powers?”

  “’Tis … ’tis a lie. A joke.”

  She glanced down at the juncture of his legs and lifted a shoulder. “You should know soon. Within the fortnight. But if you want me to reverse the spell, if you would not take a chance, then stay away from me. And that goes for the rest of you.” She glanced around the small circle of men who had pledged their fealty to the Lord of Black Thorn and were now his most trusted soldiers.

  “If you be a witch,” one of the men ventured, “then why have you not escaped?”

  “I have once,” she reminded him. “I can again.”

  “Yeah, yeah, then just snap yer fingers and disappear.”

  She clucked her tongue as if they were schoolboys who were so stupid she could not believe it. “’Tis not how it works. But you will see … all of you …” Again she slid a knowing look at the bulgeless crotch of the pig-eyed soldier’s breeches. “Such a pity this one here will never sire a son.”

  “Enough,” Devlynn growled, though, in truth, he was amused at her handling of Sir Lloyd, for the man was a pain in the backside with his bawdy jokes and constant complaining. Were he not sure with a bow and arrow and loyal to Black Thorn, Devlynn would have left him at the castle.

  Hitching his chin toward the fat soldier, Devlynn ordered, “You, Lloyd, take two men on a hunting party. Don’t return without a stag or boar.” He turned to a tall, dark-eyed, surly looking man. “Bennett will scout ahead on the trail and you … Dennis, ride back to Black Thorn and explain that we have Lady Apryll prisoner. Tell my brother that there are traitors within the keep and I’ll not rest until every last one of them is exposed.”

  “And you, m’lord?” Dennis asked, his gaze sliding to Apryll. Her response was chilly indifference.

  “I shall interrogate the prisoner.” With that he nudged Apryll forward, indicating the single tent. She hesitated and all her boldness of a few minutes before faltered. He felt a moment’s satisfaction. “Inside.”

  “Why not here?”

  “Where you can run away? I think not.”

  Her spine visibly stiffened as she preceded him into his tent. He glanced over his shoulder to see that his men were doing his bidding and saddling their mounts. Good. He wanted a few hours alone with Lady Apryll of Serennog, the angel Aunt Violet spoke of, the woman whom Collin found intriguing, a self-proclaimed witch and Devlynn’s own personal nemesis.

  This day he would find out all there was to know about her and then decide her fate.

  This was a poor excuse for a camp, but it would damned well have to do, Payton decided as he eyed the dilapidated building surrounded by brush and brambles. He hauled his hostage, the baron of Black Thorn’s groggy son, over one shoulder and the boy moaned incoherently. He’d be waking up soon and Payton wanted him firmly imprisoned.

  As the boy groaned more audibly, Payton strode quickly, hurrying along an overgrown path toward what had once, in more thriving times, been an inn. That was long ago, before the bridge spanning the river had washed away in a flood and the road had been diverted to a more prosperous village. For half a century the building had been left to fall into disrepair and few remembered that it existed.

  Payton’s mother had told him of it long ago and he found it fitting somehow that the very site where she’d been ravished and impregnated by the beast of Black Thorn’s father was now a prison for his son.

  His back teeth ground together. He’d grown up knowing he was unwanted, the product of a rape, ignored by the lord who had sired him, tolerated by the baron who had raised him, Lord Regis, a man who had never been able to sire a son of his own. Apryll’s father.

  Even now the taunts of childhood rang in his ears. Payton the Bastard, Payton the Unwanted, Payton the Devil’s Spawn. He’d heard the taunts, borne them, broken his hand on more than one boy’s face, but it was the whispers that were the worst, quiet gossip that followed him and his mother about.

  “Poor thing,” some of the old hens of Serennog had clucked, looking upon his mother with pity in their eyes. “Ever reminded of that horrid time.”

  “She should never have borne him. ’Twould have been better if she would have drank something … you know, to get rid of it.”

  “Or ended her own life. I would have. Never would I have borne such ill seed.”

  The tops of Payton’s ears had burned bright red, for he’d heard the comments over and over again, suffered the pitying glances cast his mother’s way and realized that many in the keep believed that because of his mother’s rape and pregnancy there was a curse cast upon Serennog; that it was his fault for the troubles that had beleaguered the castle for close to two decades.

  And now he would finally return the favor.

  The boy moaned in his arms as Payton ducked through the sagging doorway where the door itself, a few rotting boards, hung drunkenly from rusting hinges. The walls were a drab gray color, weathered by the years that had stripped the shutters from the windows and allowed the brambles to claw upward. The building reminded Payton of a dying beast, broken spine exposed where the thatching from the roof had given way, ribs made of cross beams evident.

  Inside, faint sunlight filtered through the holes in the siding as Payton dropped the boy into a musty pile of straw.

  “Oooh,” the urchin cried, opening one eye a crack and rubbing his head. Black, tousled hair fell over his forehead, freckles dappled the bridge of his nose and his curious gaze bored into his captor. “Who the bloody hell are you?” he asked, showing not a smidgen of fear. “Where am I?”

  “You can call me sire,” Payton said, enjoying the moment.

  Blinking rapidly, as if to clear the cobwebs from his mind, Yale scowled. “You’re not Longshanks.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Then why should I call you sire? Be you a king?”

  “Not yet,” Payton said and smiled inwardly.

  Propping himself onto one elbow, the boy glanced around the shabby old inn. The floor was packed earth, a chimney crumbled at one end of what had once been a large, open room and supplies, carried in by the mule and cart a few days earlier, were piled near the blackened grate. A broken bench had collapsed against the back wall and spiderwebs and abandoned wasps’ nests hung in the darkest corners. Owl droppings and scattered bones littered one corner beneath a high, sheltered beam.

  “Where’s Father?”

  Good question, lad. Payton shrugged. “Lost, I presume.”

  “Nay, not Father. He is never lost.” Yale pushed himself into a sitting position and winced. “Aye, my head. It feels as if a thousand horses are racing through it.”

  “It’ll pass.” Payton strode to the supplies packed into a corner.

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “Why am I here?”

  Payton had expected this question. “All you needs know is that you are now our prisoner and you shall not attempt to escape.”

  “This is a game? Because of the revels?” Yale’s young eyes brightened at the prospect of a challenge. A smile of anticipation pulled at the corners of his lips. Aye, he was much like the man who had sired him. “Aunt Miranda told Bronwyn there was to be a surprise game at the revels!” An exc
ited grin stretched from one side of his mouth to the other, showing teeth too large for his face, as he quickly surveyed the dilapidated interior of the old inn.

  “’Tis no game, I assure you,” Payton growled.

  Yale ignored the answer. “Am I to escape? Is that it?”

  “That would be a grave mistake,” Payton warned as the boy clambered to his feet and, still dizzy, leaned a shoulder against the wall. He winced and blinked and Payton watched the boy think as his gaze swept the walls and what was left of the ceiling, searching for ways out of the building other than the broken door.

  But he was in no shape to escape yet. He still seemed woozy from the drug that had been added to his mazer and he winced at the dull rays of sunlight streaming through the rotting slats.

  “Have you drink?” Yale asked. “I’m thirsty.”

  “There is water at the creek.”

  “I’m hungry as well.”

  “Soon—when the others join us.”

  “What others?”

  “’Tis none of your concern.”

  “But I’m hungry now.”

  Payton hadn’t realized what trouble a boy could be.

  “You’ll just have to be patient.”

  “My aunt says I’m like my father, that patience eludes me.”

  Smart woman. “Hush now. I have work to do.”

  “What?” The lad was struggling unsteadily to his feet. “What work?”

  “Again, ’tis none of your concern, so just sit there and be quiet. When the others arrive we will eat. Until then you wait.”

  The lad’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you robbers, then? Cutthroats and the like?”

  “Aye, cutthroats,” Payton growled.

  “Is there a bloody band, then? Am I part of it?” Yale perked up, his hunger and thirst quickly forgotten at the thought of adventure.

  “You’re the captive,” Payton warned.

  “Am I really?” Yale was impressed. “How must I act?”

  “As I said. Quietly. You are to sit here and wait,” Payton snapped, obviously tired of the questions.

  “For what?”

  “To be rescued, of course.”

  “Bloody hell, then it is a game, and a grand one!” Before Payton’s eyes Yale transformed from a dullwitted and drugged prisoner to an active, excited boy ready to set upon a great adventure. “And my father, is he to rescue me? And Uncle Collin and Aunt Miranda, are they playing, too? Though she be a woman, she is a marksman with a bow and arrow and I’ve seen her swing a mace. Is she on our side?”

  Payton’s color rose. “Aye,” he said. “They are all part of our band.”

  “But what of Bronwyn? She’s a girl and …” His nose wrinkled. “A crybaby, methinks. Can’t hardly ride or hold a weapon. She’s not like her mum but—”

  “Enough!” Payton rubbed the back of his neck and wanted to cuff Devlynn’s son to shut the boy up. ’Twas better when he was drugged and slumped in the saddle. Quieter. And Payton needed time to think. To figure out what he was going to do with his sister, for surely she would appear any second. He’d known he’d left her behind and hadn’t worried about it; her mare was not nearly as fleet as the gray destrier he’d claimed as his own—Baron Devlynn’s steed.

  “When is the game over?” the boy asked as Payton’s head began to ache.

  “All you need to know is that you are my captive and you are to stay here. Quietly.”

  “Until my father saves me, is that it?”

  Payton’s lips thinned. “Aye. Until he tries to save you.”

  “Then am I to not try and get away?” he asked, crestfallen, an edge of suspicion to his voice.

  Payton latched onto this idea. “Aye. That would be best. You must do everything I tell you to do. Elsewise the game will be ruined.”

  “Am I to stay prisoner?”

  “A quiet, obedient prisoner.”

  The freckled nose wrinkled. “’Tis no fun.”

  “In the next go-round, you can be the kidnapper,” Payton offered, throwing the brat a bone.

  Yale visibly brightened. “Can I? Yes. I would like that.” He narrowed his eyes and curled his lip. “I’d be a nasty one, too, I would.”

  Payton believed him.

  He glanced out the window to the clouds thickening in the sky and wondered what had happened to his sister. Even accounting for the difference in speed of the horses, she should be appearing soon.

  At the very least within the hour.

  Unless something happened to her.

  Unless … He considered the man who was his enemy. Surely there was no way he could have caught up with Apryll. Not after her escape from the tower.

  And yet …

  Worry pricked at Payton’s conscience.

  What if she’d been captured? What if, even now, she was prisoner to the beast of Black Thorn? Would he torture her? Find a way to loosen her tongue? Even now the soldiers loyal to him could be riding to this old inn, blades drawn, blood-lust running through their veins.

  He glanced back at the boy who was now silent and staring hard at him with the same intensity Payton had witnessed in the Lord of Black Thorn’s eyes.

  It crossed his mind that this boy, so like his father, was his nephew, for Devlynn, by the black blood of a rapist, was his half brother. Though, it seemed, few at Black Thorn knew. Probably because Morgan of Black Thorn had pillaged and raped many times, and his seed was scattered widely over Wales with bastards such as he too many to count.

  Except that he was the son of a lady, not some country wench or tavern whore.

  He looked at the boy. Devlynn of Black Thorn’s son. His only heir. Payton felt no kinship with the lad.

  Yale was but a means to an end. Of no more value than the horse Payton had stolen … and in many ways worth much, much less.

  Chapter Eleven

  Apryll shuddered as she entered the lord’s tent. On the floor, squarely in the middle of the makeshift room, was a pallet that had been covered with furs.

  Lord Devlynn’s bed.

  Her throat turned to sand. She heard the sound of hoofbeats, knew the other soldiers had ridden off and that she was now alone with the beast of Black Thorn.

  Alone with him in his bedchamber, for that’s what this tent is, Apryll.

  “Sit,” he commanded and nudged her toward the bed.

  “I would rather stand as I’ve been riding and—”

  “Sit.”

  She did as she was bid. ’Twould do no good to make him angry. Nay, she had to lure him into a feeling of security; she needed him to think that all thoughts of escape had left her head. Dropping onto the soft pallet she wondered how many women he’d bedded on this very mattress and if she’d be the next.

  Would it be so bad? To lay with this man? Aye, he is your enemy, Apryll, but have you not felt the fever of his kiss, known your skin to quiver for his touch, sensed the hardness of his manhood pressed against you as you rode? How much longer will you remain a virgin when no man pleases you and you think you will never marry?

  Would it be a sin to join with a man you do not love? It happens often for others and might just be the means of your escape.

  She’d heard gossip in the corridors of Serennog often enough. Once, when Apryll had been on the staircase, she’d paused to lace her boot and heard the silly, gap-toothed laundress, Daisy, complaining that her man fell asleep after laying with her.

  “He be not the only man afflicted with the ailment,” Frannie, the head seamstress, had assured her. Cackling loudly, Frannie had confided in the younger woman, “’Tis a woman’s curse, you know, to want more, to hope that your husband is man enough to take care of yer needs as well as his. But it don’t happen much, Daisy, not at all. Most men make quick business of it, then just when you be ready to enjoy yerself, they roll off of ye and start snorin’. That’s the way it is, I tell ye,” Frannie said as they started down the stairs again. “Ye’d be wise to pleasure yourself afterwards.”

  “But if I have a
man—”

  “You’ll not be satisfied.” Their voices were fading and Apryll had stolen after them, listening to the conversation as Frannie’s voluminous skirts had swept the floor.

  “Oh, they talk a lot, about rutting and rutting until long in the night,” she was saying. “My man, he swears to his friends that he can make me howl all night long, when the truth of the matter is he barely rolls off me before he sleeps the sleep of the dead. What a man says he does in bed and what he does, well, they be not the same. Not at all. Me husband, Tim, he brags to me, tells me he’ll love me until I be spent, when we both know it’s a lie. The trouble is, Tim believes the lie hisself.”

  Now a plan was hatching in Apryll’s head. Could she go through with it? Lie with this man and hope that he fell asleep? He had to be as weary as she, for he’d spent as many hours awake. She looked up at him, a big man, too tall to stand in the tent, hunched over a bit, arms folded over his broad chest, piercing gray eyes staring at her so hard she was certain he was reading her thoughts.

  “Lie down.”

  She stiffened. Her heart thundered as he took a step closer.

  “Lie down.”

  “I need not …”

  “Oh, yes, you do. We both do. We will sleep and when my men return we will awaken. You will tell me then why you attacked my castle and took my boy and if I think you have not lied to me, I will let you eat, for you must be hungry.”

  As if on cue her stomach rumbled.

  “Lie down.”

  “I be not tired,” she lied. Oh, it was one thing to consider lying with the man, feeling his body around hers, but now, when it was time, she had doubts that it would be wise.

  “You do not take orders well.”

  “Nor, I think, would you.”

  “But I be not the captive. Now … lie back or I shall have to force you. Is that what you want?” There was a spark of fire in his eyes, a bright pinpoint of sexual light that caused a quiver deep inside.

  She licked her lips and heard his swift intake of breath.

  “You be a vixen woman,” he growled, the fire flaring and hissing.