Wild and Wicked (23 page)

“I saw to your needs,” she said softly.

“But never had the spine to defend me.”

“No.” Her head moved heavily against the pillows propping her up. “’Twas cowardly of me, but Regis, he wanted his own son and . . .”

“And the children you did have were bitter disappointments to him,” Apryll had finished. She, too, was disquieted. Although she had not been ignorant of the circumstances of Payton’s conception, they had never before spoken of it.

“Aye. But the fates stepped in and you, daughter, will be the ruler. You must marry and soon. Serennog needs a strong baron and an heir.”

“What of me?” Payton had demanded, stepping close to his mother’s bed and leaning down to view her more closely. “What’s to become of me?”

“You shall continue to live in the great hall and advise your sister.”

“I could rule. I have the blood.”

“Not of Serennog,” their mother said, sitting up before dissolving into a coughing fit and ending up retching into a small pail at her bedside. Her serving woman was quick to be in attendance, retrieving the pail and leaving another.

“She tires,” the woman insisted and the smell of oncoming death was heavy in the air.

“Yes . . . leave me . . .” Rowelda had whispered, her forehead shining with beads of sweat, her pale lips cracked. She looked at her children and forced a sad smile. “I did my best,” she said softly. “’Twas all I could do.” It was the last time Apryll had ever seen her mother alive. Within the hour, Rowelda of Serennog was dead.

And Payton’s ache for bloodlust had just begun.

Apryll had been too blind to see it for what it was. Grateful to have some little piece of family left, she’d allowed him too much power, too much authority, too much say in the decisions regarding running the keep. His appetite for authority had only been whetted. His hunger for vengeance had only increased.

He’d never forgiven Rowelda for keeping him. And his feelings for the man who had sired him, the warrior who had raped his mother, impregnated her and never claimed Payton as his son, had only festered over the following years. That the man was dead was of no consequence.

And Apryll had been foolish enough not to see his need for vengeance.

She pulled a blanket about her and opened up the cloth to wipe at her face, but there was something bulky hidden in the wet folds. Something hard and long. In an instant she realized it was a knife, a simple, bone-handled knife with a long, deadly blade. A weapon. Means of escape. From the wife of the big farmer.

As Apryll turned the sharp weapon in her fingers, the wife’s words ran through her mind.
No woman should be bound. No woman.

At that instant she heard the ladder to the loft creak, then the ring of boots as someone heavy began the short climb to the hayloft. Hurriedly she tucked the knife into the loose hay beside her blanket and began washing her face with as much grace as was possible considering that her hands were tied. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t let him see the knife.

Her heart banging wildly in her chest, she felt the weight of Devlynn’s gaze upon her, yet she went about her cleansing as if she couldn’t sense him in the dim light, as if she couldn’t hear the sound of his breathing, or smell that now-familiar musky scent that clung to him.

And yet she could. ’Twas as if all her senses were attuned to his every movement.

From the corner, Yale gave off a soft, drowsy sigh. Devlynn hesitated only a moment and then he was in the loft, bending low to avoid hitting the ceiling, moving toward her. She pretended not to notice, didn’t so much as glance up as he stood over her, bit her lip when she realized the toe of his boot might at any second scrape against the knife, her only hope of escape and salvation.

“Well, now, Lady Apryll,” he said, lowering himself into a squat so that his head was but inches from hers, “what are we going to do about sleeping tonight?” His breath fanned her cheek. “I don’t dare let you sleep by yourself or you’ll disappear by morning light, and if I sleep with my hands upon you there is no telling what might happen.”

She felt his fingertips lift a strand of hair off her face and push it behind her shoulder. The loft seemed to shrink, the animals below were suddenly far away.

“You tempt me, Apryll. Like Eve did Adam.”

“I’m offering you no apple.”

“Nay? Mayhap then I’ll be forced to steal one from you.”

She swallowed hard, knowing far well that he wasn’t speaking of fruit but of her virtue.

“You are in no position to deny me,” he reminded her and his hand settled possessively on her shoulder.

“I have no apple . . .” she whispered.

His fingers slid down the slope of her breast, idling at the nipple beneath the rough fabric of the tunic. To her dismay, the wayward bud puckered in anticipation and her breast seemed to fill. Slowly he traced the hard bud through her tunic. “Oh, but you have sweet sin to give,” he said. “Sweet, sweet sin. The kind a man could lose himself in, the kind a man would gladly give up his soul for.”

Heat raced through her bloodstream and deep inside she felt an awakening, the ache she’d tried to deny. He reached beneath her tunic and his fingers scaled her ribs. She held back a moan, resisted the urge to fall against him, but her breast responded and as he touched the very tip of her nipple, hunger swept through her. His finger skimmed that sensitive skin, then withdrew. She couldn’t breathe. He pinched her then, teasing and playful, but with a sharp little bite that made her want more. She imagined his weight upon her, and in her mind’s eye she viewed his naked body, all hard sinew and muscle, skin shiny with sweat and stretched taut as he parted her legs, thrust into her and claimed that which he called sin for his own.

“I should wring your neck for all that you’ve done,” he said and she was brought quickly back to the here and now. “But I think instead I’ve found a much more pleasurable way to punish you.”

Devlynn heard the voice in his head, knew he should stop, that touching the woman, even being close to her, was dangerous.

Punish her, indeed!

Who would pay the price if he were to bed her now? Was there any chance that he could have his way with her and forget her? Nay, he thought not, and yet he could not resist the temptation of her lips or the dark seduction he’d seen earlier in her gold eyes.

Here in the darkness with the rain tapping on the roof and the soft bed of hay and straw, how could he withstand the warm seduction of her body?

Was she willing? She had been only last night. He leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers. She trembled. Didn’t draw away. Nor did she kiss him so ardently as she had the night of the revels.

“Untie me,” she whispered.

“So that you can escape?” He was so close he could smell her, taste her. His blood ran hot.

“Nay. I would not.”

“And you, my lady, are a liar. A beautiful, bold liar. Nay, your bonds will stay for the night. Come morning I may change my mind.”

“Morning is but a few hours,” she said.

“Then you won’t have long to wait.” His body ached for her and it would be so easy to strip her of her clothes, to pry open her legs, to bury himself in her moist, enticing warmth . . . what would it hurt? God knew it was time he had a woman. Right now, just thinking of it, his manhood was as stiff and hot as newly forged steel.

But not this woman. Not now.

He pulled her tight against him, heard her gasp as he rolled them both in the blankets.

“Sleep,” he said.

“That is my punishment?”

Had she the nerve to taunt him? She was shameless. And seductive. And a tease.

“For now.”

“And later?” she asked, her voice breathless.

“Later, we shall see.” It wasn’t chivalry or nobility that kept him from taking her but something far deeper. ’Twas fear. Fear that he might lose his Judas of a heart to her—
A kidnapper! A liar! His enemy!

’Twas insanity.

Disgusted with the turn of his thoughts, he curved his body around hers, cupping her smaller frame with his, feeling her buttocks pressed against his cock. He held her manacled wrists in one hand, his other arm surrounded her waist. She was tense. Unsure. Her breasts spilled over his arm while her rump pressed intimately to his crotch. So supple and rounded. So firm. An invitation.

By the gods, he wanted her. Ached for her.

But not tonight.

Not tonight.

 

“’Tis as you said,” the boy, Henry, whispered into Father Benjamin’s ear as they walked past the bee-keeper’s hut in the bailey at Serennog. “Father Hadrian is living in the great hall. He sleeps in the lady’s bedchamber.”

Benjamin sighed, though he’d expected the news. Henry was his eyes, though Benjamin was not as blind as many thought. For some reason they believed that his blindness had affected his hearing, his ability to smell, his touch and most certainly his mental prowess.

To his dishonor, he hadn’t disavowed anyone of their perception. Let them think they were hiding from him when he heard their footsteps, let them shout at him that they had given up drink when he smelled the ale upon their lips, let them swear that they had been at mass when he had not sensed them in the chapel. Let them think him slightly dithery and addled.

’Twas his only weapon and sad as it was, these days all men needed a defense. He knew that treachery abounded. He feared that Lady Apryll was in danger and he realized that those who had plotted against her also pretended to be her most devoted servants.

The very ones who lied to him about attending mass. One day, the Father would see to their sins.

Hadrian was the worst. Wearing the vestments, pretending to be a messenger of God, when he was evil incarnate, indulged in the pleasures of the flesh and lied through his supposedly devout teeth. ’Twas a travesty.

“We must leave the keep,” he told the boy as he listened to the sounds of the night. Somewhere nearby guards were playing dice, laughing drunkenly, while the wind creaked through the sails of the windmill.

Henry was an orphan, both his parents having fallen ill to the sickness that had swept through the castle three years before. Since Apryll had left, the lad had no one but Benjamin to see to him. “We will need some supplies, Henry, and a horse or a mule. I will procure the animal and you will find a way to weasel an apple or two from the cook and, mayhap, some dried eel?” A jug of wine would help, but he thought it best if he didn’t ask for too much. He didn’t want to raise any more suspicions than was necessary and these days no one within the keep trusted the other.

“I will try.”

Benjamin grabbed the boy by the sleeve. “Do not fail me, Henry. I fear the lady is in grave danger and it is up to us to save her.”

“Really? An adventure?” Henry was suddenly eager.

“Aye. Now, off with you. Come back at dawn and as soon as the gates are lifted we shall leave. I will tell Hadrian that I must visit those in the village who are too weak and old to come to mass.”

“You would lie?” The boy was awestruck and it bothered Benjamin. Not only the lying, but the fact that the lad was impressed.

“All in the name of God,” Benjamin said, then cringed, for he wasn’t certain he was doing God’s will . . . and yet he felt as if he had no choice. The fate of Serennog appeared to be in his old, tired hands.

Payton groaned. He felt as if his head had been flattened on a rock, beaten with a stick, then pounded to a pulp. Rolling over, he blinked and saw a ring of men standing around him. In their midst was Geneva and for once her placid expression had turned to worry. “Christ Jesus,” he swore, rubbing his eyes with his palms and wishing something would stop the painful banging in his brain.

“Here, drink this.” Her voice was a balm, her hands cool as she touched him and offered him a mazer. He took a sip. Water!

“Wine,” he muttered and pushed himself to a sitting position. “I need wine.” He eyed the men surrounding him—nearly a dozen of them, men whose allegiance he had bought and others, traitors to Black Thorn, who had their own reasons for joining him.

He could not be seen lying here like a pig wallowing in mud. His spine snapped to attention and he stood so quickly he nearly fell over. “Where are they?” he demanded with a sickening feeling as he surveyed the empty old inn.

“Your hostages?” Rudyard, the thin, shifty captain of Black Thorn’s guard, asked.

“Aye.” He was walking now, striding through the decaying, drafty building, searching the cobweb-infested corners, his gaze scraping every nook and cranny where a boy might hide.

“They’re gone,” Rudyard said. “Black Thorn stole his son and your sister.”

“No—” But the reality set in and the pain in his head increased. By the gods, no! No longer caring what the rest of the men thought, he strode to his hiding spot. Dread took a stranglehold on his heart as he removed the stone. The hollow beneath it was empty, the pouches missing. “Damn!”

“That’s right,” Rudyard said, his voice irritating over the murmur of the rest of the men. “Black Thorn took back the gold you wrested from him. Now you have nothing. No money. No hostage. Not even his steed.”

Rage fired Payton’s blood and burned out the last of the cobwebs in his mind. How could this have happened? How could he have become so careless? He remembered sitting at the fire with his sister and that impudent boy, eating the charred meat and drinking a cup or two of wine, and then he’d become so sated and drowsy that he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open, that rather than ride out, he’d insisted they rest. “Damn it all to hell,” he muttered, then swiped at the air with a fist, for he understood the depths of Apryll’s betrayal. She’d drugged him rather than the boy. Cursed, cursed woman! He swore under his breath.

“What?” Geneva asked, walking up to him, her serene expression once again in place.