Wild and Wicked (30 page)

“I only say what you yourself have wondered. Tell me not that the gossip hasn’t been whispered here, at Black Thorn, about your father’s conquests, about the children he may have fathered, about the women he raped and discarded to be scorned by their own—Oh!”

He grabbed her wrist, his fingers clenching tight over her fragile bones. “Enough.”

“Can you not face the truth?” she demanded. “Payton’s your half brother, Devlynn, as much as I be his half sister.”

His lips flattened over his teeth. “He is a bastard. Not by his birth, but by his actions,” Devlynn snarled.

“He is your brother. Your flesh and blood,” she threw back at him, and tried to pull her arm away. His fingers only held her tighter, a sinewy manacle that wouldn’t let go. “If you kill him, you kill a part of yourself. Why do you think he’s so angry? Why do you think he wants revenge?”

She saw a shadow chase across Devlynn’s eyes and knew that she’d hit home. “Would you kill your own brother?”

“I believe you not.”

“Now you be the liar, Devlynn of Black Thorn, for you know it to be the truth as much as I.” She lifted her chin, met his angry glare defiantly and saw the denial in his eyes begin to fade.

“So this . . . all this destruction was because . . . of birthright.”

“And rejection. Neither your father nor mine would claim him.”

“Christ Jesus. My brother?” He dropped her wrist and shook his head, as if to dislodge a bad thought. “And so he would sacrifice you to gain revenge upon me.”

“And all of Black Thorn.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. He paced to the window, glowered outside, then returned to the small table, where he drained his glass. “If you be lying . . .” But he let his voice fade. He held her gaze as if searching for deception and yet his eyes darkened, not with rage, but with another, perhaps more perilous emotion. She sensed a shift in the room, as if it had warmed. The chamber seemed to grow smaller. Closer. More intimate. The air was suddenly thick and it was difficult to breathe.

Devlynn set his cup on the table, then extracted her mazer from her reluctant fingers. Her heart began to pound in wild anticipation as she recognized the seduction in his eyes. She noticed how thin his lips were, how the cords at the back of his neck were visible, how the hair on the back of his hands caught in the firelight. She licked her lips nervously. “There is no reason to barter tonight, lady,” he told her, his voice low. “It’s time for bed.”

When she started to resist, he snarled, “Go now or I shall come with you.”

Devlynn felt a river of sweat run down his back. Sweat from denial. By the gods, Apryll of Serennog was an incredible creature. Her skin was without blemish, her pale hair curly and wild as it fell past her shoulders, her breasts high and firm with tempting pink nipples that puckered in the firelight and caused a man to lose all sense of reason, and Devlynn to push away the shock she had just delivered.

He was hard just from looking at her, his breeches suddenly much too tight. Swallowing what felt like a mouthful of sand, he had gazed at her front and back, taking notice of her perfectly rounded rump, her long legs and gold thatch of curls hiding the spot where they joined. God, he wanted her. Yet he had ordered her to get dressed, remembering all too vividly how taken he’d been with her at the revels, how he’d wanted her. He’d been foolish then, allowing his heart and mind-numbing lust to rule his head. Just as he was now. Oh, how easy it would be to give in, to kiss her and touch her and lose himself in her wicked, sweet warmth. Yet he didn’t.

He could not be distracted. Too much was still at stake. He swilled the end of his wine and watched as she struggled into her chemise. The fine silk was little barrier, easily removed or torn with a man’s passion.

Nervously, as if she expected him to lunge at her, she crawled into his bed and held the covers to her chin, like a frightened, trembling virgin. One side of his mouth curved into a smile, for he’d already tested her, known her to be hot-blooded and hot-tempered, a passionate woman easily roused to a fever pitch.

If he could trust himself.

Tossing a few logs onto the fire, he watched the flames crackle and spark, then made his way to the bed. Quickly he kicked off his boots. She followed his every move with her eyes, not averting them when he yanked his tunic over his head, not so much as blinking when he untied the laces holding up his breeches, laces that were stretched taut over the bulge in his crotch.

She was an enigma, strong one moment, fragile the next, willingly obedient and stubbornly obstinate. He let his breeches drop to the floor and caught her staring at his manhood, hard, stiff and ready. Rather than shrink away she lifted her gaze to his and raised a curious eyebrow while still clutching the coverlet to her chin.

What to do with her?

Make love until they were both sated and gasping for breath?

Leave her be and pray sleep would somehow come?

He threw back the covers and slipped into the bed.

She was warm, her body smooth. It was natural to reach out to her, to circle her waist in his arms, to press intimately against the silken folds of the chemise and the warm flesh beneath it. She didn’t recoil, but snuggled against him, as if she’d been expecting this, as if she wanted more. His blood fired and his damned erection ached painfully. She was so close, smelled so fragrant, hints of lavender mingling with that unique feminine musk.

He wanted to touch her and kiss her everywhere, he wanted to bury himself deep inside her and let go, he wanted to curl his fingers in her hair as he thrust into her again and again and again.

’Twould be such divinity.

And certain hell.

She was his sworn enemy; she’d lied to him and now tried to convince him that Payton was his brother. Could it be? Why not? Had he not heard the stories of his father’s conquests, the snickers of the soldiers who had ridden with him, the talk of women who had been willing, others who had not? He closed his mind to that thought, but if Payton were his brother, could he not accept as family those he’d once thought were enemies? Could he not fall in love with a woman who had once betrayed him . . . who since had proved herself?

She let out a warm breath that ruffled the hairs on his chest. She flung one arm around his torso as he drew her close. ’Twas impossible not to kiss her, idiocy not to let his fingers slide down the smooth slope of her shoulder. He felt her tremble as his own heart began to pound.

With the fire hissing and popping, he slanted his mouth over hers. Welcoming lips met his. Eager. Anxious. Hot. She kissed him, letting her lips part, offering silent invitation. His tongue rimmed that silken edge, testing, tasting, probing deeper, flicking past her teeth.

Moaning softly, she arched against him.

All restraint dissipated. Lust fired his blood. Want throbbed with each beat of his heart. He ignored the warning screaming through his mind, the voice that reminded him that he dared not become entangled with this woman, that she had played him for a fool more times than not, that she was first and foremost his sworn enemy.

He couldn’t resist.

His hands found her breasts straining beneath the tight chemise. Her nipples were erect against his palms. She rubbed against him anxiously as he pulled her tighter, the silk of her gown a frail obstruction that rustled seductively.

His groin tightened. His cock felt as if it would burst.

She wriggled and writhed, drawing his head downward, and he kissed the hard buttons that were her nipples through the fabric, causing a wet spot that clung to her skin and only served to make her breasts more visible. She tasted of heaven and he pulled her tight against him, one hand on the small of her back, the other firmly around a buttock, the tips of his fingers exploring her cleft, massaging that sweet muscle as he suckled.

“Ooooh,” she moaned, her fingers in his hair, her abdomen arching upward as he slid lower, bunching the fabric of the chemise and slipping beneath the soft folds to explore that most secret, moist part of her. She smelled of lavender and musk and tasted of feminine nectar. He parted her private lips with his tongue, nipped at her with his teeth, explored her with his fingers and mouth, sucking, tasting, breathing as she writhed above him. Her legs were upon his shoulders, the scent of her strong.

“Apryll,” he whispered into that delicate, exquisite cave and she cried out. “Aprylllllllll,” he said again and she spasmed. He licked her, deepening his caress, hearing her gasp, feeling her heat. His own blood raged, pounding through his head, throbbing in his manhood, crying out for release.

Moving upward, parting her knees with his legs, he fastened his mouth over hers and nudged her gently, pushing, prodding, testing. She clung to him, her breathing as rapid and shallow as his own. Beads of perspiration ran down her face and caused her gold hair to darken. She looked up at him with wide amber-colored eyes and in that instant there was no turning back.

Despite whatever wrath this one act wrought, he had to have her.

He thrust hard, delving deep, feeling a moment’s resistance as she gasped. “Oh!”

He pulled back and drove again. She melted around him, began to move with him, met each lunge feverishly, her fingers curling into the muscles of his back as she clung to him. His blood thundered and his body cried to release as he plunged ever faster, feeling the heat, fusing his body to hers, braced on his elbows and watching the color come to her face, her body convulse and her cry of release.

Then he let go. With a final thrust, lights shattered behind his eyes. His seed spilled and he fell against her, dragging in each breath, hearing his heart pound so wildly he thought it might explode, wrapping his arms around her and wondering if he could ever let her go.

Mayhap, he thought, his mind a blur of wine and sex, that he would keep her here forever, that she would become his love slave, that each night he would spend the hours ravishing her body, giving and taking of sexual favor. But the thought didn’t sit right and he knew it was a foolish notion. Because, damn it, he wanted more. So much more from this woman.

By the saints, where did that thought come from?

But marriage? Nay.

He wanted to scoff at the thought.
Love? An enemy?
But she was no more his enemy than his own flesh and blood. She had redeemed herself time and time again and by the gods, he did love her.

Yet he could not admit this new emotion he felt, did not want to dwell on it.

Yale needed siblings, aye, but marriage? To this woman? What if she disagreed?

Just business? That part left a bad taste in his mouth.

God in heaven, ’twas too much to think about, too much to consider when all he wanted to do was hold her close, kiss her and make love to her all over again.

She sighed and he brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek. “You were a virgin,” he said, rolling to his side and watching the firelight catch in her hair.

“You are surprised?” Flickering shadows played upon her face.

“Yes.”

“’Tis not a sin,” she teased.

“Nay.”

“Some consider it a virtue.”

“Yes, I know, but . . . you are the ruler of Serennog.”

She laughed softly. “So I can command any man I want to sleep in my bed, is that what you think?” Levering onto an elbow, she stared down at him and shook her head, damp curls framing her face. Her color was high, her lips curved in amusement, a bit of mischief dancing in her eyes. “I am not a man, Devlynn.”

“I noticed.” He touched her breast, watching her nipples tighten and hearing her quick intake of breath.

“Nor an animal.”

He lifted a disbelieving brow and she laughed gaily, the sound trilling off the rafters and walls.

“Well, not usually.” Tracing the slope of his nose with one index finger, she added, “I seem to forget my sense of propriety with you.”

“Do you?”

She was teasing him, her lips twitching in amusement. What was it about this woman that she could be such a feisty-blooded she-cat one moment and a playful kitten the next? Ah, she vexed him sorely. Mayhap when she tried to convince Lloyd at the camp in the woods that she was a sorceress, ’twas not a lie, for surely she had bewitched Devlynn.

She leaned over and kissed his lips playfully, just a light brush, followed by a giggle.

“Careful,” he warned.

“Of what?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Because I can have my way with you again.”

“Is that so? Funny,” she said, “because I was just thinking the same.” She bit her lip and cast a glance at the ceiling. “That I might have
my
way with you. But then . . .”

“Then?” he prodded.

“Well, I was wondering how long it would take you . . . well . . . until you . . . until you would be able to . . . you know . . . pleasure me again.”

“Pleasure you?” It was his turn to be amused.

“Yes . . . I, um, I’ve heard a man needs time to recover, to regain his strength before he is able to . . .”

“Pleasure a woman again,” he guessed.