Wild and Wicked (19 page)

No doubt he would try to escape.

It was only a matter of time.

But Payton had a few more drops of the drug Geneva had concocted for him, the same combination of herbs that had been used on the night of the revels. One of the traitors at Black Thorn had doctored Yale’s mazer, causing the boy to tire and fall asleep earlier than usual, allowing Payton to kidnap him.

It had been so easy. Almost too easy. But then the Lord of Black Thorn was a fool, Payton thought, remembering the weight of Black Thorn’s treasury in the leather pouches he’d filled. He’d carried them here, upon Devlynn of Black Thorn’s finest steed, then hidden the pouches beneath a stone in the old inn. Yes, he’d bested Black Thorn. He leaned against the corner of the inn and watched his sister.

Apryll walked to where the boy was playing and as she passed, he saw the welt on her cheek, the bruise yellowing and healing, but a reminder of what it meant to cross her brother.

Inwardly, Payton cringed when he thought of striking her, of deceiving her, and yet it had been necessary. He knew there were times when his temper got the best of him. ’Twas a burden, not only for him to bear but for those who dared defy him.

Eventually he would apologize to her. When the time was right. When she understood and accepted the extent of his ambitions. However, for the moment, he would keep his plans to himself.

Silently he vowed never again to raise his hand to her.

’Twas cowardly to hit a woman . . . he knew it, and yet the fury that ofttimes burned within him was a beast he could not cage. His jaw clenched hard and he pushed his guilt deep into a far corner of his mind. There was no time for it.

With a flap of great wings, the owl circled, landing upon the roof and glaring down at Payton as if he were an intruder. ’Twas nothing new. Payton had always felt as if he didn’t belong.

Soon that would change. A restless breeze pushed the fog around and rattled the naked branches of the trees surrounding the small clearing. Payton squinted at the looming shadows of the forest and wondered where the hell his soldiers were. Had they been detained? Taken prisoner? Even now leading Black Thorn’s soldiers to this old inn?

Apprehension gnawed at his gut. From the corner of his eye he saw Apryll tending to the horses. He couldn’t trust her; she was too insistent upon returning the boy to his father. If given the chance, she would certainly steal him away.

Or Yale would escape himself. There were many ways for a clever boy to slip out of the decrepit building and disappear into the forest. Then all would be for naught—his years of planning, of dreaming of a chance to claim what was his by right. Nay, he couldn’t lose Yale of Black Thorn now, not when all he wanted was so close at hand.

Payton crossed the cold ground to the creek bed where Yale was vainly trying to catch a fish. Clear water splashed over stones and a fox peered between exposed roots on the far bank only to disappear in the mist. Payton rubbed his arms at a sudden chill, for he felt, rather than saw, that he was being observed.

Squatting near the imp so that he was eye to eye with the lad, he said, “For the moment, boy, you must remain prisoner.” Payton reached into his pocket, quickly withdrew a leather thong and slipped it easily over Yale’s wrist.

“Nay!” The boy whirled, nearly toppling, his knife slashing, but Payton was quick, caught Yale’s small wrist, squeezed hard and the knife fell, clattering against a rock. Payton swept it upward and wiggled the point beneath Yale’s freckled nose. “You’ll stay quiet and obedient and tied until your father comes for you.”

“For the love of St. Jude, what do you think you’re doing?” Apryll dashed across the short distance separating them. She was about to say something else, probably order him to unhand the boy, but she stopped dead in her tracks. Her skin took on the color of pale milk as she stared at the blade near the boy’s throat. “Aye, Yale,” she amended, her voice barely a whisper. “You must do everything we say so that we might win the game.”

“There is no game,” Yale spat, and wiped the back of his mouth with the sleeve of his free hand while Payton kept the leather strap taut.

“You know that not,” she cajoled but she was worried. “You need not tether him like a mule,” she said, turning to Payton.

“He acts like one.”

“Let me go!” Yale cried, pulling at the leash.

“Later. If you behave yourself.”

“My father will have your head!”

“Your father isn’t here!”

“Release him,” Apryll ordered.

“When we return to Serennog.”

Yale pulled on his tether, then fell onto his rump, trying to use his weight to upset Payton.

“But—”

“I said, when we return, sister. For now, I can take no chances.” With a swift yank, Payton drew Yale to his feet and though the boy struggled, swore and spat, Payton wrestled him and quickly managed to wrap the strap over his free wrist, manacling the lad.

“This isn’t necessary! Payton, please, let the boy be free!”

“And take the chance of losing him? I think not.” Payton skewered her in his cold glare. “Now, there are supplies inside. Salt pork and the like. We’ll prepare a meal and celebrate by opening a cask.”

“This be not the time,” she said.

“Nay?” Payton snorted. “’Tis the perfect time. I’ve brought the baron of Black Thorn to his knees.”

“Never,” the boy snarled, pulling at the leather cutting into his wrists. “Let me free.”

Payton laughed mercilessly as clouds crawled over the pale winter sun.

Tossing his hair out of his eyes, Yale stiffened his spine and thrust out his hands, drawing the leather thong tight. “Cut me free,” he ordered. “I be the lord’s son and I order you to cut me free or suffer the consequences.”

“Not yet.”

“I command you.”

“And I command you to hell. I, too, be a lord’s son,” Payton said, and the fire that had raged in his heart from childhood burned ever brighter.

The boy had the nerve to lift his chin, to somehow seem to look down his nose as he stared up at the man who had dared bind him. “You will rue this day,” he said calmly and Payton knew a second’s fear.

“I think not.”

“My father will cut you to your soul.”

“Mayhap I don’t have one.”

“Then he’ll settle for your liver.”

“Enough,” Apryll said. “Untie him.”

“I think not.” Payton shook off his discomfort and breathed deeply. He wouldn’t let the boy unnerve him, not when victory and retribution were so close at hand. “So tell me,
Death,
like you not the game?”

“The game,” Yale repeated. His eyes narrowed on his captor with such intensity Payton wanted to slap him. “And what be the prize for the winner?” Yale asked.

Justice,
Payton thought, glancing toward the sky where a hawk circled beneath thin clouds. Finally, at long last, sweet, sweet justice.

 

Leaving his horse and dog tied farther into the forest, Devlynn crawled on his belly up the far side of the creek. He hid behind a small mound of earth where the roots and branches of a pine tree offered cover.

Peering through a low-hanging branch, Devlynn felt a mixture of relief and rage. Yale was alive. Healthy. Impudent as ever. And he was being restrained by the bastard who had the audacity to place a blade at the boy’s throat.

“God in heaven, no!”

Every muscle in Devlynn’s body grew taut. It was all he could do to restrain himself from vaulting over the deep stream and running his sword through Payton of Serennog’s heart. But he couldn’t risk it. Not with the wicked dagger angled against Yale’s soft and oh, so vulnerable throat.

Apryll flung herself at her brother, then stopped short as she noticed the blade. Fear shone in her gold eyes and she tried cajoling both Payton and Yale, trying to stave off any bloodshed.

Do not fight him, son,
Devlynn silently thought, as if in prayer.
I will save you, I swear it.

The bastard yanked his son to his feet and bound both his wrists as Apryll sprang at her brother, arguing fiercely against Yale’s manacles. But Payton was relentless. Unmoved. Yale, as if he didn’t realize how dire the situation was, argued and jeered at his captor, throwing himself against his restraints. For once Devlynn wished his son would still his impudent tongue. Taunting Payton might make him react violently.

Again Devlynn silently rued the very night on which he’d met Apryll of Serennog, when his head had been turned, his defenses let down and his son stolen from him.

Devlynn’s teeth gnashed in frustration. His fingers itched to strangle the bastard. And yet he waited. As mist clung to the forest floor and the branches dripped with the thick fog, Devlynn considered killing the bastard here and now. With his bow and arrow. The trouble was, in the shifting, foggy light there was a chance he might wound either Yale or Apryll, for Payton held the boy close.

Apryll stayed close to her brother, alternately yelling at him and whispering in his ear. Nay, it was too hazardous. He could not risk either life.

But there was a chance things would improve and he might get a clean shot. Slowly he reached behind him, withdrew an arrow from his quiver and strung his bow while lying upon a bed of dead pine needles. He could stand quickly, step away from the cover of the trees, draw back his deadly weapon and fire within a matter of seconds. His aim was true enough . . . if Yale or Apryll did not step into the arrow’s deadly path.

His gaze never leaving the unlikely threesome, he started to roll to his feet. At that moment Payton lowered his blade and, with a hard glance over his shoulder, shepherded the boy into the building. But Apryll paused, standing at the doorway, her golden hair damp with the fog, her eyes turned in his direction.

His heart nearly stopped, for he was certain she’d seen him, sensed his presence; then, she shook her head, as if to dislodge a silly notion, and hurried through the sagging entrance to her brother’s lair.

Devlynn silently cursed himself for hesitating.

The opportunity to save his son had slipped through his fingers.

But only for a moment.

The next time, he would not fail.

Collin waved the sentry into a chair near the fire. The man was half-dead from the looks of him, pale, nearly trembling, dirty as sin. “Sit, Sir Dennis, and tell me of my brother,” Collin said as Miranda, blast her, had the audacity to enter the great hall.

“Is there word from Devlynn?” she asked, her fingers wringing nervously. “And Yale? What of the lad?”

“I know not of the boy.” Dennis’s dark eyes were sunken far into his skull. “But Lord Devlynn rides with Sir Lloyd, Sir Rearden and a few others. At the crossroads just north of the old mill, we split into three groups, each searching for the outlaws.”

Collin settled back in his chair, resting a boot heel on a stool, his eyes narrowed as Dennis explained what had happened in the ensuing days. Miranda listened intently and snapped her fingers, ordering a page to fetch the soldier food and wine from the kitchen. While Dennis was explaining Devlynn’s strategy, the nervous page deposited a jug of wine and three mazers, while a serving girl brought a tray of cheese, smoked meat and bread.

“Does Devlynn not know that ’tis better to keep the army together, that there is strength in numbers?” Collin poured three cups, handed them about, then took a long swallow from his mazer. With a snort he added, “Our brother may be a warrior, aye, there is proof enough of that in the battles he’s won, but he is no general.”

“Let Sir Dennis finish,” Miranda snapped. She sat upon a bench and leaned forward on her elbows, eagerly drinking up every word the soldier reported, as if she wished she were riding with their headstrong brother through the dark forests and rugged cliffs while searching for the enemy. Collin had always suspected his sister would much rather have been born a man. Oh, she was a good enough woman, he supposed, if not a devoted wife to her old grunt of a husband, an adoring mother to her child. But whenever there was rumor of a battle, Miranda’s eyes would gleam and she would ask intricate questions, demanding details that most women of her station would find either boring or distasteful. Not so Miranda. Oftentimes Collin wondered if, given the chance, his sister would don a warrior’s armor and ride into battle herself.

“. . . So when the Lady Apryll of Serennog was captured, the lord was furious. He sent me here to warn you that there are traitors within the walls of Black Thorn. Someone aided the enemy into the keep as well as helped her escape.” Dennis eyed the platter of meat and cheese and quickly Miranda nudged it his way. “Eat. Please.” Dennis tore off some of the bread and sliced a thick slab of cheese.

Collin scowled, rested his foot on a stool near the fire. “We have yet to find the Judas.”

“Lord Devlynn will force Lady Apryll to talk,” Dennis said, eating hungrily.

“How?” Miranda asked.

“I know not, but he told me he would interrogate her himself, find out who was betraying him. When he returns, his justice will be swift.”

“And deadly,” Collin muttered as he glowered into his mazer. Was it his imagination or did he hear a quiet cough behind one of the curtains? He glanced behind him but saw no movement, no indication that someone was listening from the shadows, and yet the hairs on the back of his neck raised.

“What of the others—of Rudyard and Spencer?” Miranda asked, trying to sound casual, though, Collin suspected, she was more interested than she feigned. He’d seen her in the company of Spencer, where she transformed from a determined, unhappy woman to a silly lass whose eyes sparkled and whose cheeks blushed. ’Twas scandalous as she was married to another—an old codger who was Lord of Clogwyn, a man who spent his days warming his feet by the fire, feeding his pigeons or waxing philosophic about the tense state of affairs between the bastard English and the righteous Welsh. Lowell of Clogwyn hadn’t bothered to leave his keep for the revels and scoffed at any sort of celebration. ’Twas no wonder that Miranda found life with him dull and had returned here to live and, it seemed, find a different life from that of her husband.