Wild and Wicked (10 page)

All because the sorceress had lied.

Apryll’s mount was no match for the gray. Within seconds Payton was out of sight and the jennet began to lag, her strides uneven. “Hurry, hurry,” Apryll urged, but she heard the beast’s ragged breathing, knew the feisty little mare was spent. “Oh, for the love of St. Jude,” Apryll muttered, reining to a stop and sliding to the ground. Holding the reins in one hand she began to walk to let the animal cool down, only to realize the mare was favoring a foreleg.
Now what?
Apryll wondered as she continued to walk through the forest. They were far from the old inn where the soldiers from Serennog were to meet, farther yet from the castle. And there was a fairly good chance that Payton had ordered the men to gather elsewhere, at a hidden spot unbeknownst to Apryll.

Payton’s plan was more treacherous than Apryll had imagined. To what lengths would he go? He’d already lied, betrayed her, stolen from Black Thorn and kidnapped the boy. He’d killed to make good his escape.

Lost in her thoughts, she heard a rumble. Low. Far away. But getting closer. Horses. Damn. The ruse didn’t work. The beast of Black Thorn was approaching. Quickly, she pulled the unwilling mare into a thicket, a small copse of saplings and briars. ’Twas little cover but the night was dark.

Then she heard the hound.

With a bloodcurdling bay that echoed through the forest.

“Cursed beasts,” she growled. She tied the mare to a sapling, then flung her hat down a ravine, hoping the damned dog would follow it down the steep cliff, allowing her more time. But where to hide? There was no cave, no hut, nothing.

The dog’s soulful cry drew nearer. Hoofbeats thudded louder. Closer. Apryll’s heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear herself think. She could run, but wouldn’t get far . . . nay, her best chance was to hide and, as the army passed, double back upon her own trail, her own scent mingling with those of the soldiers and horses . . . if she could outwit the dog. She pulled off her mantle and threw it down the ravine, farther along the path, hoping to fool the bloody curs. Then, running headlong toward the coming search party, she plunged through the forest, feeling twigs and briars pull at her sleeves and tangle in her hair.

Men were shouting. Oh, Lord, they were close. Over the roar of blood rushing through her head she heard deep voices, excited yips and the crash of hooves on the hard, icy road.

Lord help me,
she silently prayed, diving behind a burned stump and pressing her back to the charred bark as the army sped by. Dogs barking, horses galloping, men shouting, bridles and swords rattling. Heart in her throat she waited, certain that at any moment the small band would turn and hunt her down.

 

Yale opened a groggy eye. ’Twas dark except for moonlight and he was being held by strong arms as the horse beneath them seemed to fly through the night. His head spun and he wondered why his father had taken him from his bed to ride like the wind on horseback. Yale’s head pounded with every jarring hoofbeat and he was so tired, so sluggish, and something was wrong, very, very wrong. Yet Phantom’s strides were long, his gait sure.

“Father?” Yale muttered, his tongue thick as the ghostly forest flashed by in a blur.

“I be not your father.”

The voice was unfamiliar and Yale twisted his neck to look at the man who was hauling him off by horseback. ’Twas that of a stranger, a bold, angry man from the looks of him, but Yale wasn’t certain, his head felt about to explode and his stomach weak, and the darkness from which he’d emerged threatened to take him over.

“Who . . . who are you . . . ?” he managed to get out and he heard the rider laugh.

“You want not to know.”

Yale blinked once and then, as the ground swept by at a dizzying speed, he lost consciousness again.

 

Apryll waited, forcing her breathing to slow, straining to listen, daring to peek from behind the stump to search the darkness. She slipped away from the stump, dashed onto the main road and ran as fast as she could, heading toward Black Thorn. She remembered crossing a creek a few miles back. With enough of a lead, she could make it to the frigid stream and, using the water to hide her scent, follow the creek for a mile or so, to the next road, then circle back to Serennog or the inn where Payton’s men were to meet him. Behind her brother’s lying back, she would steal the boy and ascertain his safe passage to Black Thorn . . . or, better still, she would bargain with the devil, promise Devlynn the safe return of his son along with his horses and stolen valuables from the treasury in exchange for peace.

Even if he agreed, it would not be the end of it, of course. Devlynn would still want to mete out his vengeance, but mayhap it would be tempered.

Mayhap Payton had been right all along. She would have to marry a wealthy baron, one she could barely stomach. She considered wealthy Baron William of Balchdar and shuddered. He was a cruel one, no doubt, but no worse than her other suitors, and Balchdar was a rich barony.

Her legs ached and her lungs burned and the sounds of the soldiers had faded, if only for a few minutes. She slowed to a fast walk, hoping that the cover of darkness would last until she reached the creek. She’d take off her clothes and carry them so that they wouldn’t become wet, then don them again . . . she hurried faster until she reached the banks of the stream, and, confident that she’d lost her pursuers, she stripped out of the huntsman’s garb, carefully tying the breeches and boots in the arms of the tunic’s sleeves.

The wind was cold against her bare skin, the water icy as she stepped onto the slippery rocks and made her way downstream. Dawn was beginning to break, gray slats of light creeping over the eastern hills and piercing through the brittle, empty branches of the trees. Shivering, biting her lower lip and thinking of a dozen ways to kill her brother, she picked her way along the creek. Fish slipped by her ankles and calves, but she didn’t feel them as soon as her lower extremities were numb. The bite of the wind, however, brought goose bumps to her flesh and her teeth chattered so hard as to cause a headache.

She was hungry and tired and when she thought of those few moments when she was in the great hall of Black Thorn, held tightly in Baron Devlynn’s arms as they danced, her mother’s wedding dress glittering in the glow of a thousand candles, it seemed centuries past rather than a few, short life-altering hours.

As the winter morning dawned, she heard a rooster crowing in a nearby village and spied an arch-shaped bridge spanning the creek bed. She crawled up a mossy, root-strewn bank and hid in the sparse foliage as she stepped into the trousers and reached for the tunic.

The blade of a sword pricked the back of her neck.

“Don’t move,” a man ordered and she froze.

Her heart sank.

She recognized the voice.

It belonged to Devlynn of Black Thorn.

“Turn around. Slowly.” His voice was low as the wind and just as cold.

Cursing her luck, Apryll held her tunic to her chest, covering her nakedness as she faced the lord. How long had he been standing in this shadowy part of the forest where the morning light shifted over the frozen ground and nary a winter bird sang? Had he seen her naked, watched as she slogged through the icy water? Flushing at the thought, she rotated to face the Lord of Black Thorn.

His face was a mask of anger and contempt, his flinty eyes slitted, his lips curled back over his teeth. The blade of his weapon didn’t move and as she faced him, its deadly point settled into the hollow of her throat. Despite the goose bumps she felt upon her flesh and the menace of the blade, she inched her chin upward and tossed her hair over her shoulder to stare up at him.

“You escaped.”

She didn’t respond.

“Who helped you?” he demanded, pushing his face closer to hers. When again she didn’t say a word his visage became deadly. “You escaped to join the others, but this is not the way to your keep.” Fury flared in his eyes and she felt the bite of the sword against her skin. “I’ll ask you again. Where is my son?” he demanded, furious eyes raking down her body. “What have you done with him?”

“He is with my brother.”

“And where is that?”

“Farther ahead on the road.”

A muscle worked in the baron’s jaw. “Then he’s alive.”

“Oh, yes!”
Dear Lord, did he really believe she would kill his son? Harm any child?

“Then why are you not with them?” Beneath the steely calm of his voice she sensed a dark worry and a deeper rage.

“I was. I did catch Payton, but . . . but . . . my horse became lame and I could not keep up. I heard you behind me . . . and . . . and I knew I had to flee, to find help.”

“To save your sorry skin,” he muttered, disgusted.

“To get help to wrest Yale from Payton.”

Devlynn glowered down at her, weighing her words, judging their worth, as he stood beneath the moss-laden branches of a sturdy oak.

“You wanted help to free the child that you stole and yet you did not come to me?”

“Because you would not have believed me. And . . . and I knew not where you were nor what you would do to me if you found I had escaped.” She swallowed hard but didn’t move, felt the pinch of the sword but let her throat lay open. Exposed. She felt her pulse pounding in the circle of bones beneath the sword’s deadly edge, saw his eyes take in the movement, then drop to the rise and fall of her chest, hidden by her wretched, wrinkled tunic. Something chased across his eyes—a memory—something lustful. Whatever it was, it scurried away, a dangerous, passionate thought quickly banished.

Could this be the man she’d so brazenly kissed, the man with whom she’d shared a mazer of wine and danced so lightheartedly? He looked like a demon. Black hair curled and fell over his forehead, his jaw was dark with the start of a beard and every visible muscle in his face and neck was taut. Nostrils flared, he breathed pure loathing.

“As I said, my horse turned lame—”

“My horse,” he corrected, and she bit her lip. The sword slid lower, down her breastbone, not breaking the skin but scraping.

“Please, Lord Devlynn, you must believe me that I . . . I did not intend for the boy to be taken.”

“But he was.”

“Aye.” Lower still the wicked blade sank, pushing aside the rough folds of her disguise, exposing the tops of her breasts. She resisted, saw a flare in his eyes and let the tunic fall to the frigid ground.

“So . . . your intent was only to rob me blind, steal my horses and kill some of my men.”

“There was to be no bloodshed,” she said, feeling herself turn crimson despite the cold wind.

His jaw slid to one side as the tip of his sword slid over her abdomen to the thatch of curls at the juncture of her legs. “Oh, but there was. Two men dead, others dying and my boy taken out from under my nose, drugged by someone, a traitor, within my keep.” Anger burned through his words. “Enough crimes have been committed to send you to the gallows several times over but none of that matters. Only my boy.” Devlynn’s fury was palpable, seeming to shimmer through the bare trees and across the silvery stream rushing by.

“Would I could change things,” Apryll said.

“Oh, lady, you can, and trust me, if you want to save your neck, you will.”

“Not unless you sheath that damned sword and we make haste. There is no time to waste with . . . with . . . idle threats.”

She stepped back and reached beneath her to gather up her clothes. “What is it you think I can do for you?” she said, turning her back to him.

“’Tis simple. Either your brother returns my son safely to me, or you suffer the consequences.”

“Oh, so you will hack me to pieces, is that what you are suggesting?” she said boldly, angry at being subservient. ’Twas not her nature.

“I can think of punishments that are not quite so brutal, but may still cause you to tell me the truth. There are ways, lady, to loosen a woman’s tongue.”

“Without threatening to butcher her?” she threw over her bare shoulder as she struggled into her leggings and realized that her buttocks and the cleft between them were more than visible to him. Well, so be it. Let him stare. ’Twould harm nothing but her pride and that had been battered black-and-blue already.

She slid her arms through the sleeves of the tunic, yanked it over her head and slithered into the scratchy fabric. Feeling those hot eyes upon her she turned to face him again, her shoulders straightening. He’d lowered his weapon, but the cords in the back of his neck tightened and his eyes lingered a little too long on the slit of her tunic that was not yet tied.

“How did you find me?”

“’Twas not difficult.”

“Then tell me.” She laced her tunic tightly, unwilling for him to see even the slightest hint of her flesh.

“I came upon your horse, knew that we’d nearly caught you and that the hounds were confused. ’Twas simple enough. I put myself in your boots, considered what I would do when I knew I was about to be captured.” He flashed his sword at the sorry leather boots she was about to don. “There was but one sensible option, to double back, find a creek, try to confuse the dogs, then find a horse to steal.”

Her hastily made plan exactly.

His knowing, cold smile irritated her. His demeanor, that of a prideful lord looking upon a captive, made her want to put a blade to his throat when he was naked and see how he would like it. Oh, she would love to reverse the spin of the wheel of fate, to hold him prisoner while she found a way to wrest Yale from Payton without further bloodshed. But she had not the time for such idle dreams, not if she wanted to catch her brother.

Was it possible to reclaim Devlynn’s son and barter to save Serennog? She yanked on one boot, then the other.