Wild and Wicked (2 page)

“’Tis simple, Apryll. Either you marry and marry well, or we will not make it through the winter. Your subjects will starve.”

“I’ll not marry—”

“Lord Jamison asks for your hand,” he cut in.

She shuddered at the thought of the rheumy-eyed baron. His girth was equal to his height and he had a cruel streak she’d witnessed while hunting. Angry that the quarry, an impressive stag, had escaped, he’d raged and sputtered and whipped his dogs and steed with a fury that had brought a gleam to his eye and spittle to his lips. Apryll didn’t doubt for a second that his brutality had extended to his wives. “He has been married four times, brother. None of his wives lived longer than three years. Think you I should be the fifth?”

“You are strong . . .”

“Nay!”

“Fine, fine. But if not Jamison, why not Baron William of Balchdar? He asks of you often and would make a fine husband.”

“Then you marry him,” she snapped angrily, shaking the rain from her hair. “I detest him.”

“You detest all men.” Payton raised a dismissive hand.

“Not true.”

“Then all suitors. ’Tis long past the time when you should marry. By now, you should be wed and have two or three babes.”

“Not Lord William,” she said angrily. William was a handsome man with crafty eyes and a prideful stance. He looked down his straight nose as if everyone he came upon—peasants, servants, knights and even other lords—were beneath him, were put upon this land but to serve him. There were secrets hidden in his dark, arrogant eyes, secrets that sent a shiver down Apryll’s spine, secrets she, nor anyone else, dared unveil.

“What of—?”

“Say no more,” she ordered. “You need not remind me of each and every baron who would deign wed me and save Serennog. By the saints, I know well who they are!”

Payton laid a brotherly hand upon her shoulder as the fire crackled and smoke spiraled to the patched ceiling. Raindrops found their way inside, running down the walls or plopping in ever-growing puddles on the stone floor. “I know you want not to marry them and so I am offering you another answer.” Her half brother’s voice was soothing and sincere, yet she told herself he had his own reasons for scheming against Black Thorn.

The wind whistled eerily through the cracks in the walls, muting the sound of a baby wailing, sobbing pitifully in some distant part of the keep. Payton, curse his sorry hide, was right. Soon the sickness that had infected a few would spread throughout the castle and village, killing many and leaving those who were strong and lucky enough to survive the illness to face starvation.

“’Twas grim.”

“Listen, Apryll, ’tis your sworn duty to protect and care for these people,” her half brother reminded her as he spied a page huddled in a corner. “You there, boy!” Payton snapped his fingers. “John—wine for the lady and myself!” he ordered and Apryll cringed inwardly, for in light of their conversation, the wine seemed frivolous, best saved. “And see that it is warmed, as we be chilled to our bones.” The wool of his cloak was steaming, giving off an odor from the heat of the fire, and his eyes, usually as blue as a summer sky, had darkened. “All the trouble that has come this way can be laid at the feet of those who rule Black Thorn. ’Twas Black Thorn’s army and its lord that brought a curse upon Serennog. ’Tis only justice that we return the favor.”

“Or revenge,” she said, eyeing her half brother and wondering how deep his hatred ran.

He lifted a shoulder. “As I said, you,
m’lady
, have an obligation to those who serve you, and, as I see it, you can either marry some rich baron or partake in my plan.”

She dropped into a chair near the fire. Neither option was acceptable, both left a bad taste in her mouth. “And if I were to agree to your plan, I would need clothes . . . a fine gown and jewels . . . as well as an invitation.”

“I have considered all this.”

“Have you?” There was more to her brother than she knew, a side far more shrewd and deadly. She would have to tread lightly.

“Aye, and I’ve found all but the invitation, which will not be necessary.”

“
Found?
” She laughed hollowly and rolled her eyes. “You
found
a gown? We have no grain for the livestock, little food and not even a scrap of cloth large enough for Cook’s apron, as you so just warned me, but now,
now
you claim you’ve got a gown and gems fine enough to wear to the revels at Black Thorn?” She shook her head at the folly of it all. “Now, Payton, ’tis no longer a guess. Now I
know
you be daft.”

“Trust me.” Payton’s face was sincere, his brown hair glinting red in the light from the fire. “There are treasures within this very castle that were hidden away—our mother’s bridal gown and her jewels, all packed and wrapped carefully with dried herbs and flowers, then hidden deep within a crypt, untouched by the castle rats or moths or mold.”

“And you just happened to find them.”

“Father Hadrian and I.”

She scowled a bit. The priest was new to the castle, a seemingly pious man whose kindness seemed forced. Apryll wasn’t sure she trusted the man. There was something very amiss here, something wrong. “Even if you did have these things—”

“I do.”

“Then bring them before me and . . . nay! ’Tis foolishness. There must be another way,” she said, drumming her fingers on the smooth arm of her chair. Stealing from the Lord of Black Thorn would only spell deeper trouble.

“Mayhap.” Payton scowled and shrugged out of his mantle, draping it on a stool by the fire. “But I know not of it and we have little time.”

As if on cue, one of the servants who had been hiding behind the thin curtains began coughing loudly, the sound rattling in the poor man’s lungs and ricocheting through the rafters and ceilings of the drafty castle.

“Geneva has had a vision—”

“Hush! I’ll not trust the prophecies of a woman who claims to see spirits and casts spells and practices the dark arts!” Apryll quickly made the sign of the cross over her chest, for, in truth, the sorceress was a kind yet disturbing woman.

“Did Geneva not foretell the death of the miller’s son?” he asked, and she refused to think of the poor boy drowning in the millpond just this past spring. Payton lowered himself into the chair next to hers. “And what of the loss of Father Benjamin’s eyesight? Did not Geneva predict ’twould be so?”

“Aye, aye.” Apryll’s eyebrows pulled into a knot of concentration. Because of the rotund priest’s blindness, Father Hadrian had been sent to Serennog. “’Twas happenchance.”

“I don’t think so.”

John, the nervous page with hair that stuck out like dirty straw, entered quickly and poured two mazers of wine from a jug.

“Even Father Benjamin, a true man of our Lord, now believes that Geneva is blessed by God with the sight to see what is to come,” Payton insisted, taking his cup from the table and dismissing the page quickly with an impatient snap of his wrist. “Geneva has seen prosperity for Serennog again.”

“Because of your plan against Black Thorn?”

“Aye.” He crossed one booted leg over his knee and took a long swallow of wine. Firelight reflected in his eyes and the edges of his mouth curved ever downward. Deep in the rushes, the sounds of tiny claws, mice and rats, scraped against the stone floor.

Apryll sensed a half truth hidden in her brother’s plan. “There is more you have not told me.”

Payton lifted a dismissive shoulder. “Mayhap.”

“What is the rest of it?”

He hesitated. Buried his nose in his mazer.

“If I am to be a part of this or give your scheme any merit, I must hear it all.”

“So be it.” He set his cup on the scarred planks of a small table. “Geneva . . . she . . .” He sighed, clenched and opened a fist, and shook his head as if he were unable or unwilling to say the rest. Turning his head slightly, he called. “Geneva. Be you here?”

Apryll felt a tingle on the back of her neck, the fine hairs at her nape raising one by one. ’Twas as if Satan himself had breathed upon her.

Appearing on silent footsteps, Geneva rounded a pillar where, Apryll surmised, she’d been lurking and listening—at Payton’s behest.

Tall and slender, wearing a faded green gown and an expression of abject serenity, Geneva observed Apryll with eyes a pale watery blue. Her skin was without a wrinkle and so white it was nearly translucent.

“M’lady,” she said with a half curtsy.

“What do you know of this?” Apryll demanded, but Geneva’s gaze was turned toward Payton.

“You were to tell her the truth, Sir Payton.” Reproach edged the deep clarity of her voice.

Payton’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He didn’t meet her eyes. The wind whistled and the coals in the fire glowed bright.

“What is it?” Apryll demanded. A frigid chill seeped deep into her skin and she knew in a heartbeat that whatever it was, she would not like what the sorceress had to say. When Payton didn’t answer, she turned her question to Geneva. “Tell me.”

A second’s hesitation.

“Now,” Apryll ordered. “What is it you see?”

Geneva lifted an elegant eyebrow. Her gaze fixed deep in Apryll’s. “In order for there to be peace and prosperity at Serennog again,” she said, “you will marry the Lord of Black Thorn.”

Apryll’s blood turned to ice. “Never,” she said in a hoarse whisper that was far from her normal voice. Her stomach clenched in repulsion when she thought of the powerful, brooding baron and the rumors that had swirled around him. Cruel. Without a heart. Feared rather than loved, Lord Devlynn of Black Thorn was known throughout Wales for his unbending will. “Did he not kill his first wife and unborn babe?”

“No one knows that for certain.” Geneva’s demeanor remained unmoved, expressionless.

The wind seemed to have died. Apryll’s heart drummed a furious, denying tattoo. “And yet you think I would agree to marry him?” ’Twas absurd. Swiveling her head, she asked, “Payton? You knew of this?”

He nodded stiffly, then snapped his fingers for more wine.

“’Tis not about choice,” Geneva said with quiet conviction as she stepped closer, and Apryll was drawn once again to those unblinking pallid eyes. “’Tis about destiny, m’lady. Your destiny.”

Black Thorn Forest
December 1283

“Happy Christmas,” Lord Devlynn muttered without a trace of a smile. Tossing a sprig of mistletoe onto the grave where his wife and unborn daughter were buried, he couldn’t ignore the remorse that lay heavy upon his soul, nor the bitterness that had festered deep in his heart. He stared at the graying tombstone, fingered the rosary deep within his pocket, but could conjure up no prayer to ask God’s forgiveness.

A raw December wind, promising snow, blew across the hillside. Frosted blades of grass crumpled beneath his boots. Two horses pawed the hard ground. Astride the bay, his brother sat, gloved hands over the pommel of his saddle, a long-suffering expression on a face considered handsome by nearly every woman in the barony. “Come along,
m’lord,
” Collin mocked. “’Tis time to put away the ghosts and leave the dead buried where they belong. There is living to be done and now ’tis the time. Like it or not, the revels are upon us and soon the keep will be filled with guests and laughter and celebration.” In the coming darkness, Collin slanted a wicked grin, the likes of which had melted the ice around more than one young maid’s heart. “’Tis time to forget the past, get drunk, raise a skirt or two and make merry.”

“Is it?”

“Aye.” Deep lines of frustration furrowed across Collin’s brow. He rubbed his hands together and his breath fogged in the air. “Mayhap you fancy a tongue-lashing from our sweet sister but I, for one, would like to forgo that supreme pleasure at least for this night.”

“Ride ahead.”

“Nay—”

“I’ll be along! Tell Miranda to heat my mazer and fill it with wine.” Mayhap his brother was right; ’twas time to look forward rather than back.

Collin hesitated, then glanced across the stream and tops of the forest trees to the hill upon which Castle Black Thorn rose, a massive stone and mortar fortress with towers spiraling heavenward. The main gate was thrown open, the drawbridge lowered and portcullis raised, while high on poles above the watchtowers, twin standards emblazoned gold and black snapped in the harsh winter breeze.

“Have it your way, then. After all, you be the lord.”

“Forget it not,” Devlynn suggested, striving for humor and failing miserably. His brother sent him a look of pity, reined his stallion and, shaking his head, slapped the beast on his broad rump. With a snort the steed bolted, and Collin, fur-lined mantle swelling behind him, rode furiously down the hillside. The horse’s hooves thundered against the frozen ground. Overhead a startled hawk flapped its great wings as it soared toward the woods.

Devlynn watched horse and rider splash through the stream at the base of the hill, then disappear into a thicket of naked-branched oaks on the far side of the creek. Waiting until the echo of hoofbeats had faded into the low moan of the wind, Devlynn turned back to the grave. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. ’Twas time to let all the old pain die. Banish the guilt. He pulled off a glove with his teeth, then, reaching beneath his mantle, he wrapped chilled fingers around the black ribbon he’d worn around his arm, the reminder of the tragedy that had claimed his wife and unborn daughter’s lives, the symbol of the guilt that was forever carved into his heart.

“’Tis over,” he growled, stripping the band from his arm and dropping it onto the dead grass. The first flakes of snow drifted from the dark sky as he strode to his horse and swung easily into the saddle. With thoughts as black as the coming night, he yanked on the reins and urged his barrel-chested gray. “Run, you devil,” he growled.

The stallion shot forward. Sleek muscles moved effortlessly, long strides tore over the open fields and ever downward to the creek. On the near bank, the steed’s gait shifted, his muscles bunched, and Devlynn caught his breath. Phantom sprang, catapulting over the gurgling stream where ice had collected between the rocks. Devlynn felt a surge of power, a freedom as the raw wind pressed hard against his flesh and stung his eyes.