Wild and Wicked (8 page)

Devlynn felt himself weaken as he stared into those intriguing gold eyes. ’Twas madness. She was the bane of his current existence, the reason his son was in danger. Angry with himself, Devlynn broke the spell and glanced over her shoulder to the sentry. “Take her away and guard her with your life!” Then he turned on his heel and strode down the back stairs where he’d just happened to discover her on his way to the stables, where his soldiers were preparing a search party. He pushed the woman from his mind. He had to. Right now he had to find his son.

Then he’d deal with her.

 

Alone, Geneva sat before the dying fire in her hut at Serennog. The flames burned low and the wind whistled through the thin thatches of the roof and cracks in the old walls. She shivered but not from the cold that seeped into her bones. Nay, she had withstood a much colder brace of the wind, had survived in winters much more dire than this, but this day she was chilled in her heart.

Her cat, usually a wild thing, curled beside her on the straw mat that covered the bare earth of the floor. From the pen in the corner the goat bleated forlornly, as if the skinny beast, too, felt the tremble in the air, the ill winds, the desperate fear that created ice in Geneva’s heart.

“What have I done?” she whispered and rubbed her flat belly, wherein, she knew, her babe was growing. “Oh, Morrigu, mother spirit, forgive me, for I have lied.” Closing her eyes she took a small dagger from her pocket and with the blade scratched an image like a cock’s talon, a rune for protection, in the earth near the coals. “Look after Lady Apryll and Payton.” She cleaned her blade upon her dress, then laid it upon her palm and curled her fingers around it. Sharp steel cut into her skin and a few drops of blood dripped from her fist onto the rune. “Protect them. And the child. Let no harm come to them.”

She dropped her knife and stared into the fire. Black smoke rose through the hole in the roof and she saw another vision, one darker than most, one that could not be denied. One that brought tears to her eyes.

Already blood had been shed for Serennog and more would be spilled before long. “Nay,” she whispered as she tugged a tattered cloak around her shoulders. In the flames she saw death rising to claim those she loved.

 

The hermit’s chamber was a bare room with a cot and blankets. Fresh air flowed into the tiny cell through a slit in the mortar, little more than an arrow loop. The guard provided a pail of drinking water and an empty bucket for her to relieve herself. When he closed the door behind him, Apryll was left in total darkness.

She kicked at the cot, then sat down on the stupid thing. Planting her elbows on her knees, she rested her chin on her palms and plotted escape. But how? By calling the guard and stabbing him with the knife concealed in her pocket? By trying to overpower the brute and lock him in this room when he brought in food? Oh, ’twas hopeless. She felt around the wall, hoping for an opening that she might not have seen in the torch’s glare when she’d been brought here, but she felt nothing but stone and mortar.

The airhole was too small and, even if she could squeeze through it, she would be dozens of feet above the ground. No, she would have to use her wits. . . . Pacing the small area, she thought of Payton’s betrayal. Damn his need for revenge. Damn his ambition and damn, damn, double damn his lying tongue. Why had he not confided in her? Why had he disobeyed her and stolen the boy? What, exactly, had he planned?

The questions circled fast and furious through her mind. But a few moments had passed when she heard footsteps on the stairs, a quick, light tread.

Keys rattled in the door.

Apryll stood and clenched the handle of her knife.

In the darkness, the door creaked open.

“Lady Apryll?” a voice whispered.

“Aye. Who are you?”

“I be your salvation,” was the raspy reply.

A man? Woman? She could not tell. Old? Young? Again, she could not judge from the harsh whisper. “The less you know, the less danger there is. Now, hurry. We have not much time. There is a horse waiting for you outside the gates. Follow me.”

The figure, clad in heavy robes with a cowl covering a shadowed head and sheltering a hidden face, locked the door behind them. Then, grabbing a near-dead torch from the wall, her savior led her quickly down the spiraling stairs and outside, where the smell of smoke and wet ashes lingered in the crisp night air. Apryll could barely believe this twist in her fate. Was the stranger leading her to freedom or certain death? Was her companion a friend or foe? She knew not but followed closely behind.

The traitor to Black Thorn walked swiftly, stealing through the shadows, face always averted from the pale light of the moon. There were men still milling about the stables and lights glowed from the windows of the castle where but a few hours before she’d danced and flirted with the baron. Dear God, it seemed an eternity.

Behind the windmill and along a pebble-strewn path they hurried to the rear gatehouse. Apryll braced herself. Surely some of the soldiers were within these barracks, but she followed the darkly cloaked figure through a doorway and up two flights of stairs, encountering no one.

“They all be at the fire,” her companion, as if reading her mind, said, then opened the door to a small chamber where metal blades glinted in the light of the torch. “Now, hurry.” Across the room to a thick oaken door her cohort glided. “’Tis an old sally port,” the Judas explained and tossed a coil of rope out the opening. “Slide down, drop to the ground and run to the woods. A horse is waiting near the old bridge.”

“Who are you?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”

“Consider me a friend of Serennog. Make haste. The baron leaves within the hour and then there will be no hope.”

Apryll did as she was bid but glanced over her shoulder and saw a pale face deep within the cloak. White skin and dark eyes that reflected red in the dying light of the torch.

She took the rope in her hands, sent up a prayer that it was long enough to reach the ground and let the rough coil slide through her fingers as she dropped into the yawning darkness.

“Run, you beast, run!” Apryll dug her heels into the sides of her laboring mount. The mare had been tied to a leafless apple tree and Apryll had wasted no time vaulting into the saddle, burying her knees into the bay’s sides and taking off after her brother and his small band of soldiers.

Unerringly she headed across the fields, knowing that she could cut some distance by avoiding the road and realizing that within minutes the Lord of Black Thorn’s army would thunder through the gates. Would he know that she’d escaped? Or would he think she was still held prisoner to be used as something to bargain with her brother?

Leaning low over the jennet’s neck, she rode hard, over the frozen fields, riding north toward Serennog. If Payton had remained true to their plan, there was a chance she might catch him. Alone, she could take a shortcut while her brother was carrying the boy, pulling extra horses and dragging a small army with him.

If she was lucky, she could catch them at the crossroads. If she was not, then all was lost, for the specter of death would be chasing them.

Devlynn of Black Thorn, when he realized how she’d duped him, would be flying after her with all the vengeance of Satan.

God help us all,
she silently prayed, leaning lower over the mare’s sweating shoulders. Her teeth chattered in her head and the reins were brittle in her frozen fingers. Her cheeks stung from the bite of the wind.

But inside she seethed. Burned with rage.

What a fool Payton was! And to leave her!

Oh, if she could, she would wring his arrogant neck. How dare he alter the plan? Go against her orders? Risk the lives of all who resided at Serennog? Again she kicked her mare, hoping to catch up to the other horses and their thieving riders, men she had known all her life, men who were not her partners in the raid on Black Thorn.

Her brother was addled, that was it, Apryll thought, as her horse made up lost ground. She shuddered to think what would happen to them when Devlynn caught up with this mad band of thieves and kidnappers. No torture would be too cruel to satisfy him, no pain too great.

Geneva’s grim words reverberated through her mind.
’Tis about destiny, m’lady.
Right now that destiny seemed as bleak as the winter night.

“Hiya!” she urged the mare as she rode into a copse of trees where moonlight filtered through the skeletal branches. In her mind’s eye, Apryll envisioned Devlynn—his face hard, his eyes cold, his big hands curling into fists of silent fury at the audacity and pain of having his child kidnapped from right under his nose.

Aye, there was sure to be hell to pay.

Damn Geneva with her pale eyes and dire predictions. Damn Payton for the vengeance that burned bright in his heart. And damn her for being a dreamer, the ruler who always hoped the fortunes at Serennog would someday turn. She’d been a fool.

And what about tonight, with Devlynn of Black Thorn?
Her teeth gritted as she remembered how she’d flirted outrageously with the baron and even gone so far as to kiss him wantonly on his lips. Her body quivered beneath his touch and she’d wanted so much more. Dear Lord, what had she been thinking? ’Twas to have been part of a well-planned act. But she’d allowed herself to get caught in the spirit of the revels, of the warmth and joviality within the castle, of the merriment.

And you didn’t expect Lord Devlynn to be so attractive. ’Twas not his square jaw and broad shoulders, though, as much as the glint you saw in his gray eyes, the hint of passion in their flinty depths. And the feel of his lips, the promise of more.
Never in her life had she felt such heat in her blood, experienced the pleasure of pure seduction. Oh, bittersweet temptation.

“You’ve been a fool,” Apryll admonished now, her teeth chattering as she caught her first glimpse of Payton’s band riding in the moonlight. Her brother was astride a huge gray animal, surely the baron of Black Thorn’s destrier, and holding fast to his prize. Though the distance was too great to see clearly, Apryll knew it was the boy, the baron’s son. “Idiot,” she muttered, kicking her mare hard, closing the distance as the band reached a streambed.

With Payton’s charger in the lead, the horses swarmed through the creek, spraying icy water and scrambling up the far bank.

How could she have trusted her brother? As her game little mare galloped after the faster horses and the wind streamed through Apryll’s hair, Payton’s words mocked her.

That is the trouble with you, sister, you are never willing to do what must be done.
Payton’s accusation stung far more painfully than the cut on her face, for his words rang true. Now the devil of Black Thorn was after these men, the tattered band of Serennog’s finest and bravest soldiers turned thieves and kidnappers. Most of them had wives, two had young daughters, and yet they had risked their lives on this fool’s mission. For Serennog.

If they were caught they would surely all be hanged or drawn and quartered.

Through the forest they careened, hoofs pounding as they raced away from Black Thorn. Apryll’s stomach clenched. Oh, it was a foolish, foolish plan and they would all surely be killed. Everyone at Serennog would be taken prisoner. Mayhap tortured. Forced into servitude.

Rose, the seamstress with her sparkling eyes and bawdy jokes, the skinny cook, Wynne, who could stretch one goose to serve twenty, little Millie, the laundress, and oh, so many others would face the gallows or bondage to a baron who detested them. Some of the women would be turned into whores to service the soldiers . . . all because Apryll had been weak and trusting.

“Lord help me. Help us all,” she whispered as they crested a knoll and the rutted road split. As planned three groups of riders followed differing courses. Payton headed due west upon his gray destrier—again just as planned, though Apryll lagged behind. She and he had agreed to take the longer route to Serennog while Bernard and Samuel, dragging extra horses, turned east and the others, Roger, Issac and Melvynn, kept to the northbound path, the direct route over the mountains to Serennog. When they reached the ridge, they were to light torches to lure Devlynn’s soldiers away from their true meeting spot, an abandoned inn, west of Serennog.

Oh, this was madness! Heart drumming at counterpoint to the thunder of her mount’s hoofbeats, she chased after the gray on the rutted cart path. Would the beast of Black Thorn be duped so easily?

She remembered staring into his eyes, recognizing a deep, guarded intelligence in those gray orbs.

Far in the distance, she heard the baying of dogs. Trained hunters upon the scent. Closing the distance. By the gods, they were doomed.

 

Devlynn rode as if Satan were chasing him. With dogs in the lead, his band of soldiers following, he drove the poor horse beneath him mercilessly. The hounds were on the scent. He’d let them sniff Yale’s clothes and the curs had circled and yipped until they had been unleashed, then they’d taken off, on the road leading north.

Through the fields and into the woods, faster and faster. Time was his enemy. The longer he was separated from Yale, the more likely the boy would suffer. He thought of how easily he’d been seduced by the woman and how quickly she’d betrayed him. Teeth gnashing, he spurred his mount as the beast stumbled through a creek, sliding on the slippery rocks before scrambling up the far bank and shooting into the woods.

Down the road, faster and faster, until he came upon the dogs barking and shifting at a junction where the road splintered into three directions. He pulled up, his horse sweating and lathered, the breath from his hot lungs fogging the air. The lead dog headed north toward Serennog, but that seemed too easy. The smart bitch chose the western bend, and a few others were sniffing and barking toward the east.