Wild and Wicked (16 page)

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.

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 that 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.

“What’s this?” Payton demanded.

“What’s this?” was the reply.

“Listen, boy, if you know what’s good for you you’ll not—”

“Listen, boy, if you—”

Payton lunged, grabbed the kid by the front of his tunic. “Do not mock me.”

“Do not mock me.”

“Are you daft, boy? I could snap your neck with one hand.”

“I’m not daft and my father could snap your stupid spine, bone by bone, with one finger. Now, remember, you are to call me by my new name. Death.”

So be it,
Payton thought. “Then,
Death,
it would serve you well to wrap yourself in one of the furs I was kind enough to give you and go to sleep.” Slowly he uncurled his fingers and to his surprise the boy did as he was bid, taking his wooden sword, tucking it close to his body and using one of the furs for his blanket. He nestled into a clean spot on the floor, away from the owl droppings but close enough to the fire for warmth, and offered Payton a boyish grin.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night to you, too.”

The boy just stared a him with those damnable gray eyes so like those of his father. In a gesture far older than his years, he arched one black eyebrow.

Payton understood. “Good night,
Death.
”

Apparently finally satisfied, the boy closed his eyes and rolled over, facing away from the fire’s shifting flames. A few seconds later he was asleep, softly snoring and thankfully not jabbering on and on.

The tense muscles of Payton’s shoulders relaxed a bit and he decided to open a jug of wine.

After the last two days and nights, he deserved a drink.

Mayhap two.

Death.
’Twas a foolish name. Stupid. Proof of the boy’s innocence and brainlessness.
Death.
Payton strode to the corner where the supplies were kept and glanced up at the owl’s roost. The big bird had abandoned his nest to avoid the humans and fire and to hunt.
Death.

Payton grabbed the wine jug by its handle, pulled out the cork and took a long swallow. The soothing liquid eased down his throat and he closed his mind to the thought that the boy’s self-proclaimed new name might just be a premonition of what was to come.

 

Apryll eased her way to the side of the pallet and to her surprise, after only a bit of resistance, she eased away from her captor. Her heart thudded in her chest, beating as wildly as the wings of a suddenly caged bird, but she, ever so slowly, made her way to the flap of the tent.

She’d watched and waited, witnessed the guard’s shadow stop its pacing as he sat in front of the fire. From the slump of his shoulders, she thought he might be dozing and now, as she peeked through the slit of the flap, she had the ready excuse that she had to again relieve herself, that she was certain her monthly time was upon her. The way men shied away from such talk by women, she was certain she could convince him to let her have some privacy.

As it was, she didn’t need to resort to the lie, for the guard was, as she had hoped, leaning against the bole of a sturdy oak. His eyes were shut, his mouth slightly agape.

So the dog . . . where was the dog? Quickly, she scanned the camp and saw the bitch curled into a ball, only a piece of bone beside her, ears down. Fortunately the wind had kicked up again and rustled though the branches overhead. Along with the gurgle of the stream and crackle and hiss of the fire, the rush of the breeze gave her more cover than a still, quiet night. Carefully she slunk around the perimeter of the tent, ducking through the shadows to the tether line where the horses were dozing.

She searched for the fleetest, did not recognize the stallion in the dark of the night and, with freezing fingers, took the first animal she could untie, a dark mount with splashes of white upon his legs and chest.

Her ears straining for any sound from the camp, she held her breath as she wrapped the reins of her horse’s bridle around her already freezing fingers. The night was bitter cold, though she was sweating from sheer nerves, her muscles tense, her mind spinning with images of what Lord Devlynn would do to her if he woke to find her missing.

Dear God, help me,
she silently prayed as she led the beast along the northward path until she was certain enough distance was between her and Devlynn’s band, then she swung herself astride the beast’s broad back and urged him into a quick gallop. With moonlight as her guide and the wind at her back, she rode through the thickets and over the streams, heading straight to the old inn where she hoped she would find Payton and the boy.