Wild and Wicked (18 page)

Payton’s lips flattened over his teeth and he rubbed a temple as if a headache were forming behind his eyes.

“If I were an outlaw, no one would catch me. Not ever.” Whoosh! Yale’s thick sword sliced through the air as he twirled on one foot. “I would kill them all.” He slammed the blade of his wooden sword into an old bench. Whack! Whack! Whack! “Die, cur!” he commanded and Payton glared at Apryll with eyes that had aged over the past few days.

“This goes on all the time.
All
the time. There is no rest. I’m thinking of gagging him and tying his hands and feet.”

“Ach! Try it and die!” the boy said, whirling and jabbing, slashing the air with his weapon.

“No.” All too vividly Apryll remembered her own wrists being bound with the cords from her tunic, the feeling of being completely vulnerable. “Come,” she said to the boy as she realized her brother was about to explode. She offered Yale her hand to stop another argument or worse. “If you be thirsty, Yale, there is a creek where you can drink your fill.”

“You can call me Death,” Yale announced.

Payton shook his head as if at a great folly. “’Tis his new name. One he chose.”

The boy nodded vigorously. “If I am to be part of this band in the game, I need a fitting name. As do you. What shall I call you?”

“Her name is Lady Apryll,” Payton cut in, adding to Apryll, “As we discussed, the boy believes this is a game because of the Christmas Revels. He also thinks his father will come and rescue him.”

“Oh, he will and when he does he will kill you all,” Yale agreed. “But if I am one of you, mayhap I can save your worthless skins.”

Apryll, tired as she was, swallowed a smile. This son of Black Thorn was giving Payton something to think about.

“Now—outside!” Death, née Yale, pointed his crude weapon at the broken door.

“Wait—”

He ignored Payton’s cry. As swift as an arrow shot from a taut bow, Yale streaked through the sagging portal.

“I don’t let him go outside, nor do I leave him alone,” Payton said, striding to the door to glare at the boy.

“I’ll watch him.”

“See that you do, sister, for if we lose him as a hostage we will have nothing. All we have done to this point will be a waste! Surely you don’t want that. Much worse will be the wrath of Black Thorn.”

“At least we agree on something,” she muttered, casting a scathing glance at her brother before slipping through the rotting timbers of the doorway. Outside, fog still shrouded the trees and crept upon the hard ground, adding a sense of gloom to the forest.

Apryll’s mind spun with ideas of escape, for now would be the perfect time, before her brother knew what was happening, but Payton, as if he expected her to try and thwart him, strode outside.

“We must not let him out of our sight,” he said, his lips barely moving, his eyes trained on the boy as Yale slid down the bank to kneel on rocks where ice collected near the shore. “And think not of taking him away from here, sister, or I will hunt you down and kill the boy as easily as if he were a stag in the woods.”

“And suffer further the wrath of Devlynn of Black Thorn?”

“Gladly.” Payton’s hatred ran deep; his need for vengeance was as dark as Satan’s soul. ’Twas more than Geneva’s visions that drove him. ’Twas more than a need to save Serennog that compelled him. ’Twas a need to prove himself, a burning desire to be recognized and be no longer cursed as a bastard.

“Watch yourself, brother. I am still the ruler of Serennog,” she reminded him.

Payton barked out a cold laugh. “Are you? And who is watching your keep while you’re away?”

“Sir Brennan, of course,” she said staunchly as she watched Yale lying flat on his stomach and peering into the clear water of the creek.

“And you trust him? He’s an idiot.”

“He’s loyal. And he has the steward to aid him,” she said with far more confidence than she felt.

“Andrew? Come, Apryll, surely you know the steward to be a weak, miserly man. He has no backbone whatsoever.”

“Let’s not forget Father Benjamin.”

“He’s blind, Apryll! For the love of Jesus and so are you,” Payton said over the caw of a raven hidden deep in the woods.

“I’m not so blind that I can’t see a brother turned traitor.”

“A brother who is trying to save your castle,” he reminded her harshly as his eyes scanned the woods. Worry etched the corners of his mouth. “Where the devil are Bernard and Samuel? Even if Black Thorn took the bait and the others had to elude his army, Bernard and Samuel should have made it here by now.”

Apryll shook her head. “Are you so foolish? Black Thorn’s army split into small groups and each group followed a different course at the crossroads.” When his eyes narrowed suspiciously, she added, “I was captured, Payton, that’s what took me so long to catch up to you.”

“By Black Thorn?”

She nodded.

“Again? After the time in the castle?”

“Aye,” she admitted, embarrassed.

“And yet you escaped?” He frowned skeptically, his gaze searching the patches of fog that refused to dissipate.

“’Twas not easy,” Apryll said, though in truth, it had been accomplished without much trouble. That worried her. Gnawed at her. Had Devlynn let her go? Nay . . . and yet . . . Payton was staring at her, expecting an explanation. “I waited until the guard had dozed and the wind was high so that the dog didn’t hear me, then I stole a horse.”

Payton’s eyes moved to the brown stallion with its distinctive white stockings. “You were not followed?”

“Nay.”

Anxiously he rubbed his jaw, scratching at the reddish stubble. “You’re sure?”

“No one has appeared, have they?”

“Yet.” He glanced back at the boy and his lips tightened with renewed worry.

“Be careful, Payton,” she warned, her blood turning to ice as she recognized the hate in the narrowing of her brother’s eyes. “If you so much as lay a hand on the lad, Black Thorn will do everything in his power to destroy not only you and me but our entire keep. No one will be safe.”

“It matters not,” Payton growled as Yale scampered to a tree near the old inn and swung from a low-hanging branch.

“It does matter. Lives depend upon it,” she said vehemently. “The only way they will be saved is if we return the boy to his father.”

He stared down his nose at her as if she were a fool. “The only way lives will be saved is for us to ransom the boy back to Black Thorn and strike a deal. He is all we have with which to bargain.”

“Then you best see that he’s unharmed,” she said, closing the few feet of distance between them. “For our safety and your stupid vengeance. Elsewise everyone will have died or been tortured in vain and you will not have achieved your goal of retribution.” She had to appeal to him at the only level she knew. “The boy must stay alive.”

“Bloody Christ.”

“Think, brother,” she said, laying a hand upon his sleeve, her fingers curling in desperation around the coarse fabric. “Do not let your temper get in the way of your dreams.”

But as she said the words, she knew that it was already too late. There was no reasoning with Payton.

She had no choice but to deceive him.

Payton alternately watched Devlynn’s son and searched the surrounding trees. His fingers curled nervously over the hilt of his sword, his eyes scoured the woods as if he expected the Lord of Black Thorn to burst from the cover of the brush, sword drawn, at any moment.

Yale dashed back to the creek, fell onto the bank and then tried to grasp a fish that wriggled past. “I need a spear,” he said, slanting Apryll a knowing glance. “Then I’d catch one sure. Have you a knife?”

“Nay,” she shook her head.

“Ah, but I had one. Last night.” He bolted toward the old building and returned seconds later with a dull-looking short-bladed dagger. He flopped on the cold bank, his eyes searching the water.

“That was only for whittling. You’re not to have a weapon!” Payton stormed to the creek bed and reached forward to snatch the knife from the boy’s fingers.

Yale’s eyes took on a wicked gleam as he hopped lithely to the balls of his feet. The wind caught in his hair and brought color to his cheeks. He danced away, holding one hand palm-out as if to ward off a blow, the fingers of his other gripping the knife and wiggling it menacingly. “But ’tis a game, and you’ve got a sword and bow.” He hitched his chin toward the horses and his eyes narrowed. “And, though you admitted it not, you stole Phantom. Oh, my father will be displeased.”

“I care not what he thinks.”

“You should.”

“But, Death,” Payton cajoled not very convincingly, “this is how this game is played. I am your captor.”

“Then I should have a weapon,” the boy insisted.

Payton gritted his teeth. “Give me the knife.”

“Take it from me.”

“Nay, don’t test him,” Apryll said to the boy, her heart nearly stopping. She could not bear the thought that Devlynn’s son might be harmed.

“This be your fault.” Payton threw his angry remark her way. “You’ve encouraged him. Now,
boy
, give me the knife.” His lips had thinned and showed white in suppressed rage as he and Yale circled.

Apryll stepped between them, facing her brother. “Leave him be!”

“Not with any kind of weapon. I swear, lad, if you don’t give up the knife I’ll be forced to tie your blasted hands behind your back and stuff a gag in that loud mouth of yours!” He pushed Apryll aside and advanced upon Yale, but the son of Black Thorn was agile. He ducked and sliced the air with his blade, nicking Payton’s sleeve and slicing the fine leather tooling of his mantle.

Payton wanted to strangle the insubordinate pup. “Christ Jesus, are you daft?” he demanded. “I could kill you as easily as not.”

“And what then? My father, he would not be satisfied with your death. Nay, he would torture you, twist your heart out slowly, spill your guts and let the castle pigs feast on them.”

Cold dread drizzled into Payton’s blood at the image. Had the cocky lad no fear?

“Nay, I think you’ll not kill me,” the boy said with a knowing, arrogant grin, his blade flashing in the pale morning light.

Damn Apryll for allowing the boy outside! Payton wanted to rant and rail at his fool of a sister, but he didn’t dare throw her another glance. He kept his eyes trained on the little dagger. Every muscle strung tight, he was ready to pounce upon the boy the second the lad’s attention was diverted.

“This is not part of the game,” Payton said.

“It is now.”

Apryll, curse her, didn’t do anything to stop the display. “Take the knife from him,” Payton ordered.

Slash, slash, slash.

The boy wielded the dagger in the air. “My father will have you beheaded. Even now he is coming for me and when he finds you, you’ll wish you’d never defied him!” Yale’s eyes held a wicked gleam and in that second Payton saw his own death . . . nay! He wouldn’t let a mere boy scare him. Quickly, he drew his sword.

“No!” Apryll sprang between them again. “Enough. There is to be no more bloodshed!”

“No more? Was someone hurt?” Yale asked and some of his spirit evaporated. He didn’t know what to believe, ’twas obvious.

“Not hurt. Dead. Killed,” Payton explained, thankful to finally witness a tremor of fear in the lad’s face, some of his cocksure mien slipping. “A guard or two and a stableman who didn’t want us to take the horses.”

“At Black Thorn? Seth?” The boy’s Adam’s apple jerked. “Is this true?” he asked Apryll.

“Aye. Sadly.”

Confusion contorted Yale’s young features.

“This . . . this be not a game?” he whispered and looked for the first time at the horses pulling at their tethers. The gray let out a nervous nicker and tossed his great head, tugging at the leather straps holding him fast. “Phantom,” Yale whispered to himself, as if suddenly putting the pieces of a difficult puzzle together. “My father’s steed.” His head snapped around and he glared at Payton as dry leaves rustled in the near-naked branches of the oaks. “So you really did steal my father’s horse. I—I thought it all a game . . .” His voice fell away.

“And I stole your father’s son.”

At last the daring youth was beginning to understand his dire plight. That was good, but also a worry.

The boy might try to escape and Yale, though he was finally showing some signs of concern, was a bold one, the baron’s son, a reckless boy. Like his father, and grandfather, Payton thought bitterly. Like himself.

A branch snapped in the woods. Payton whirled, hand on his weapon, his eyes searching the copse of trees to the west.

He saw a movement. A dark shadow leaping. Heart in his throat, he watched, certain death was upon them.

Ears twitching, a doe sprang over a fallen log to disappear into the mist-shrouded forest.

God’s teeth, he was wound tight. What he needed was a mazer of wine and a fine, hot wench, not this gloomy, eerie forest, deteriorated inn and impudent hostage who didn’t know when to shut his mouth.

And then there was Apryll. She was another worry; ’twould have been better had she not escaped Black Thorn. Payton couldn’t trust her; he was certain of it. He saw the fury in her eyes, knew she’d thought he’d abandoned her. Twice.

Bloody hell, what a mess!

Where was Roger? Samuel?
Anyone?

For a second his thoughts slid to Geneva with her pale, all-seeing eyes and her lush, willing body. Oh, that she were here . . . or, if not her, some other hot-blooded woman.

Rubbing his arm where Yale had sliced his jacket, he watched the wayward boy, who, after casting a furtive glance over his shoulder to ensure that Payton wasn’t following, made his way back to the creek’s bank, where he tried vainly to spear a fish. He was quick, determined, the set of his jaw reminiscent of his father.