Wild and Wicked (3 page)

This night he would bury all thoughts of his wife and daughter. By the grace of God he still had his son. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Devlynn’s mouth as he thought of the boy. A strong, smart boy nearing ten, Yale was as quick with a dagger as he was with a roll of the dice. Quick with a bow and arrow, sly and bullheaded, Yale eagerly argued with the castle priest, defied his teachers and often escaped from beneath his nursemaid’s wary eye. He rode the finest steeds without a saddle alone in the forest, was known to shimmy up a tree or down a rope faster than the most agile knights, and promised to be a handsome man in time. Gray eyes, thick black hair, a dusting of freckles and a bravery that bordered on recklessness. Aye, the lad was trouble, but also Devlynn’s pride and joy. Soon Yale would grow tall and strong, and Devlynn never once doubted his decision to keep Yale here, at Black Thorn, rather than send him to be a page at another lord’s castle.

The boy would someday be Lord of Black Thorn.

There was no reason for Devlynn to ever marry again; he had his only son and heir.

 

Hours later, aided by warm wine, a long, hot meal and the crackling yule log burning in the grate, the chill had drained from Devlynn’s bones. Holly, mistletoe and ivy had been draped throughout the great hall, where hundreds of candles burned, their flames flickering brightly.

As part of the festivities and feast a boar’s head, replete with sprays of laurel and an apple stuffed into its mouth, had been paraded through the guests upon a silver platter, then consumed along with great trays of eel, pheasant, salmon and crane. Wine flowed. Music trilled. Laughter rang. Dozens of finely garbed guests, resplendent with jewels, were dancing and making merry, laughing and drinking as if they had not a care in the world. Half of them he’d never met.

The spirit of the season was lost on the Lord of Black Thorn. Slouched against the small of his back at the head table with the rest of his family, Devlynn had no interest in the festivities, nor had he paid any attention to more than one fetching young maid determined to catch his eye.

“You break more hearts and dash more hopes than ’tis wise,” Collin warned his brother after Yale, un-characteristically drowsy, had been hauled off to bed. “There be skirts to be lifted tonight.”

“So lift them,” Devlynn replied, drinking heartily and motioning to a page to refill his cup. “All of them.”

“Some of the maids have eyes only for you.”

Because I am the lord,
he thought cynically as the yule candle burned bright before him. He had no interest in foolish, ambitious women. The page refilled his cup and he wondered when the evening would end.

“By the saints, ’tis an angel,” Aunt Violet whispered almost reverently as she gazed upon the guests.

Devlynn slid a glance in the older woman’s direction and saw her pale lips quiver in awe. Hurriedly, with deft be-ringed fingers, she made the sign of the cross over her ample, velvet-draped bosom. ’Twas as if she were warding off evil spirits rather than embracing a divine being cast down from the heavens.

Devlynn paid little mind to the old woman and swallowed another gulp of wine.

Though her once-clear eyes had clouded with age, Violet was always seeing spirits and ghosts. Now, during the holidays, his aunt was forever searching for some sign of heavenly intervention—conjuring up a miracle to lift what she considered a dark, gloomy pall that had fallen upon the Lord of Black Thorn’s shoulders.

’Twas foolishness.

A scamp of a child, the daughter of his sister Miranda, screamed gleefully as she dashed past.

“Hush, Bronwyn, off to bed with you,” Miranda ordered.

“Nay, mother, not yet,” the girl cried, brown curls bouncing around her flushed eight-year-old face. “We’ve not yet played hoodman’s-blind or bob apple.”

“But soon, the nurse will take you upstairs.”

“Where be Yale?” she asked Devlynn.

“Already abed,” her mother said sternly. “Where you should be.”

“Why? ’Tis not like him,” Bronwyn sniffed.

“Nay, ’tis not,” Devlynn agreed, wondering if the lad was becoming ill.

“Mayhap he is only pretending sleep and he is even now escaping the castle, as he has before!” Bronwyn said, her eyes glittering at the thought of her adventurous cousin.

“Nay. ’Tis only too much merriment and festivities,” Miranda said and Bronwyn, as if realizing she was in danger of being hauled off to bed this very minute, tossed her dark ringlets, then scampered away, chasing after a servant carrying platters of jellied eggs, tarts and meat pies.

“Violet is right. She
is
a beauty,” Collin whispered under his breath. There was awe in his voice, but Devlynn refused to be infected with the rapture his brother felt for females.

“All women are beauties to you, brother.” Devlynn tossed back his mazer, wiped his mouth and, bored by the conversation, searched the milling crowd with his eyes.

Then he saw her.

Unerringly.

Knowing instinctively that it was the “angel” of whom his aunt had murmured in awe. Mayhap his doddery, ancient aunt was right for the first time in her seventy-odd years, that the unknown woman was a magical being sent straight from the gates of heaven.

She certainly was like no other Devlynn had ever seen.

Tall and slender, bedecked in a dazzling white gown, she moved through the crowd with an easy, elegant grace. Her dress was embroidered with silver and gold thread, intricately woven, and her hair, as pale as flax, was threaded with silver and gold ribbons. Her eyes sparkled from the reflection of the hundreds of candles within the room, her cheekbones arched high above rosy spots of color on flawless skin.

Devlynn’s heart thumped in his chest. He silently called himself a fool. Took another swallow of wine.

“You told me not that you had invited divinity,” Collin teased, leaning closer to his brother, one side of his mouth lifted in cynical, wicked appreciation.

“I knew not.” Devlynn couldn’t pull his eyes from the curve of her cheek, nor the lift of her small, pointed chin.

Christ Jesus.
The air stilled in his lungs.

“I think I might ask her to dance.” Scraping his chair back, Collin lifted an eyebrow in his brother’s direction, as if in challenge. ’Twas his way these days. Collin seemed restless and bored, ready for a fight, always daring his older brother.

A spurt of jealousy swept through Devlynn, but he raised one shoulder as if he was not interested in the woman. Not at all. Yet he couldn’t stop following her with his eyes and felt the muscles at the base of his neck grow taut as Collin strode to the woman and, with only the slightest bit of conversation, began dancing with her.

She smiled radiantly, and slid easily into his brother’s arms.

Devlynn’s gut clenched. He feigned interest in the conversation around him, drank heartily, but the truth of the matter was that he could barely drag his eyes from the elegant woman draped in white as she swirled past lords and ladies festooned in purple, dark green and scarlet.

When the dance was finished, Collin bowed and she inclined her head, then turned to yet another man, a burly knight, who swept her into his arms. For a second Devlynn thought she cast a quick glance in his direction, but ’twas a heartbeat and then she laughed gaily in the bear of a man’s embrace.

Collin returned, picked up his mazer and sighed. “Truly an angel, but one with a touch of sin, methinks.”

“How could you know?”

“Trust me, brother. I know women. This one”—he pointed her out with the finger around his cup—“is spirited, and I’m not talking about heavenly spirits now.”

“Hush!” Violet said. “I’ll hear none of this!”

Devlynn finished his wine and while the tapers burned low and a jester tried to regale him with a bawdy joke, his attention never strayed from the bewitching woman as she danced. His eyebrows drew together and he wondered yet again who she was, why he’d never met her, how she’d come to be invited here.

As if he read his brother’s mind, Collin said, “I did not catch her name. But mayhap I will the next time.” The music faded and he started to climb to his feet, but Devlynn laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“Nay, ’tis my turn,” he said, surprising even himself.

“Ah . . . So brother, you not be made of stone after all.” Collin chuckled gruffly as Devlynn waded through the crowd, nodding to well-wishers as he passed, walking to the knot of guests near the fire where the woman swept a lock of hair from her cheek. He was not alone in his quest. More than one man was following her with appreciative and lust-filled eyes.

“Excuse me,” he said as he approached.

“Lord Devlynn.” She dipped her head.

“Could I have this dance?” he asked as a musician began to play a harp.

She smiled, her lips parting to show just the hint of white teeth. Gold eyes sparkled at him, yet there was something deeper in her gaze, something hovering beneath the surface. One honey-colored eyebrow raised haughtily. “Aye, m’lord, ’twould be my pleasure, to be sure,” she said, then tossed back her head to stare directly at him. “As it was, I thought I would have to ask you.”

“You would be so bold?” He was surprised.

“As to approach the lord of the castle?” she asked, some of her gaiety fading. “Aye. I assure you I would.”

Who was she to flirt so wantonly with him? “And had I denied you?”

“Then I would have asked your brother.” He swung her easily into his arms and she moved flawlessly. “
He
would not have said nay.”

Devlynn didn’t doubt it for a second. Even now he felt the weight of Collin’s gaze boring into his back. “Who are you?”

“You know not?” she teased, moving easily as the tempo of the music quickened. Other couples stepped lively and swirled around them. Fragrant smoke spiraled to the ceiling and conversation buzzed beneath the lilting music.

It had been years since he’d danced, forever since he’d wanted to hold a woman and spin her across the floor, but this one molded tightly against his body and followed his steps easily when they were together, held his gaze when they danced apart, her feet moving quickly over the rushes, her snowy dress smooth and shimmering. She smelled of lavender and roses and the sheen of sweat that covered her skin glistened in the candle glow. She cocked her head as if silently defying him, as if beneath a false layer of civility there was a wild, rebellious spirit lurking within the deepest part of her soul.

For the first time since his wife’s death, the Lord of Black Thorn experienced a heat in his blood, a lust running through his veins, a throb in that part of him he’d thought long dead.

She angled her head and he saw the curve of her neck, long and slim, and fought the urge to press his lips against it. ’Twas foolishness. Nothing more. Too much wine and Collin’s cursed suggestion that he bed a woman this night. ’Twas all. And yet as he caught sight of the tops of her breasts, plump white pillows pushed seductively above the squared neckline of the dress, blood thundered in his ears, and his manhood, so long dormant, began to come to life.

She was innocent beauty and wicked seduction in one instant. Glancing up at him from beneath the sweep of honey-colored lashes, she met his gaze and didn’t back down for a second. As if she could read his thoughts, her smile diminished and her eyes darkened.

By the gods, he wanted her.

Deep in the most vital part of him, he yearned to sweep her from her feet, carry her up the curved staircase, strip the glittering white dress from her body, drop her onto his bed and press his hot, insistent flesh against hers.

Silently he condemned his soul to hell for his wayward, wicked thoughts. ’Twas reckless desire brought on by too much wine, the spirit of the revels, the rapture of the night and the absence of a woman for too long in his life. Nothing more.

“We’ve never met before,” he said. “I would have remembered.”

“So would have I,” she said, her voice without any trace of teasing. “Apryll of Serennog.” She said her name as if it should mean something to him, yet it only conjured up vague thoughts of a castle some believed to be in ruin, a keep that was rumored to be haunted, a once-prosperous barony that had, under this woman’s dominion, shriveled into poverty.

And yet she was here, in jewels and finery, boldly flirting with him.

Deep inside he knew he should tread warily here, that something was amiss, but the seduction of her smile caused him to cast caution to the winds. Tonight he would not be so suspicious. Tonight he would enjoy the festivities. Tonight he would let the tight reins on his desires slip through his fingers.

Tonight, mayhap, he would bed the lady.

Payton crouched low in the cold turret. From his hiding spot he heard the sounds of merriment rising up from the great hall. Conversation buzzed softly. Music lilted. Laughter rolled ever upward from the windows, through the crisp, clear night air in this, Devlynn of Black Thorn’s keep. While the sentries dozed, or rolled the dice, or sipped ale and wine, Payton had infiltrated the thick stone walls of Black Thorn. Like a shadow in the night, he’d spied upon the stables and pens of the castle. Aye, there were swift steeds, long-fleeced sheep and fatted pigs aplenty.

A cloud passed over the moon and he straightened, surveying the dark, wintry landscape with a practiced eye. ’Twould be so much easier to slay Devlynn outright, to kill him while he was hunting in the forest, but nay, then he would become a martyr, a saint to those who remained.

And his death would be far too swift and painless.

There would be no reveling in vengeance for Payton, and revenge was what he craved. The sweet trappings of a prosperous keep—fine clothing, jewels and wine—were second to what he wanted most. Besting the baron of Black Thorn, watching him suffer and become the object of shame—that was Payton’s objective.