Wild and Wicked (14 page)

“God, you be a beauty,” he said, and the bulge in his beeches appeared larger. “A treacherous, lying beauty.” Raindrops peppered the tent now, running down the sides, and Devlynn, as if appalled by his purely male response to her, strode out of the tent.

“You cannot leave me like this,” she cried. “I’ll freeze.”

He felt a prick of conscience. What possessed him to act so? Aye, he’d wanted to pry information from her, to be sure, but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that a part of him wanted to see her naked, to hear her beg for him to bed her, to listen to her moan as he stroked her. It had been years since he’d wanted a woman, lusted after one so. And now his thoughts were filled with touching her in the most intimate places, kissing her lips, her throat and breasts. He would spread those long, alluring legs and probe her with hand, tongue and . . . stop! His member was so hard it ached, throbbed against his breeches.

Christ Jesus, he was a fool. Beguiled by the wench, half mad with desire for her. ’Twas idiocy.

Striding around the campsite, he pushed all thoughts of her aside as he added wood to the fire and felt the icy drops of rain slither down his neck and beneath his collar to cool his blood. Being this close to her was madness.

He could not forget that all he wanted from her was to find his son.

But the thought of punishing her in the most erotic and carnal of ways still blistered through his brain and he knew that if they didn’t find Yale and soon, he would bed the bitch and, he feared, never be the same.

 

“Still no word from our brother?” Miranda asked as she found Collin half in his cups, brooding by the fire.

“Nay.”

Bronwyn scampered up the stairs and whistled for the dogs, laughing gaily as they bounded after her.

“Nor did you find the woman?”

“Nay again, sister,” Collin growled, gulping from his mazer and snapping his fingers for the page. “Another,” he ordered, then, thinking better of it, kept his cup. “Bring the jug.”

“You have duties,” Miranda reminded him.

“To hell with them. The woman is nowhere to be found. The guards have found her not. Bloody hell.” He straightened from Devlynn’s chair and his back popped in a loud series.

“All of the guests have gone.”

“And good riddance.” He glanced around the room, where ivy, holly and mistletoe still draped the mantle and walls, and most of the candles had burned down. The rushes were dirty from the revels and he was weary. Being lord, even for a day, was exhausting. All the petty squabbles that he was expected to smooth over, all the worries and responsibilities. Aye, ’twas too much trouble.

The page returned with the jug of wine and Collin’s mood improved. “Mayhap the woman drowned in the moat while trying to escape.” He sighed as he thought of her comeliness. “A pity,” he thought aloud, for he had envisioned himself bedding her . . . once Devlynn had his fill of her, of course.

At that thought his nostrils flared, for it bothered him to be second born and therefore second best. He’d thought he would enjoy playing the part of baron but found it really, dreadfully tiresome.

“What have you done to the guard who let Lady Apryll escape?”

“Locked him away,” Collin said with a lift of his shoulder. He poured himself another cup of wine and held it up, silently offering a drink to his sister. She shook her head. “Yes, I left the sentry in the very cell where Lady Apryll was to be held captive, with the bucket in which she was to relieve herself. Devlynn can deal with him when he returns.”

“I see.” Miranda’s eyes clouded. Her thoughts seemed far away as she walked to a window and stared at the sleet falling from the leaden sky. “Let us pray it is soon that Yale is found and our brother brings him back to us.”

“Ah, yes, the family together again.” Collin took a long swallow of wine.

“’Twould be a blessing,” Violet said as she entered the room, her head tilted regally, her tiny mouth a knot. “You know ’tis what your mother wants.”

“Our mother is dead,” Collin reminded her, irritated at the old woman’s addled state. One never knew if Violet was coherent or not.

“I know she is dead! But ’tis what she would have asked.”

Collin stuffed his nose in his mazer. He did not need to hear the old woman’s prattlings for the dozenth time in a week.

“Morgan, your sire, he was a bad seed, you know. I hate to speak so of your father, but ’tis true. He was powerful and used that power against other baronies, some of which were our allies. And the women . . . his conquests of which he bragged so often, broke your mother’s heart, you know. Broke it.”

“So she died of a broken heart, is that what you’re trying to tell us?” Collin asked, ignoring the dark look his sister was sending him.

“She died in childbirth, of course. But aye, Morgan trampled all over her heart. She loved him and that was her curse.”

“Is it not a woman’s lot?” Collin mocked.

“Hush!” Miranda took the older woman’s velvet-draped arm. “Come, Aunt Vi, let’s leave Collin to his drink. He’s in a foul mood.”

“Well, of course he is, dear, he’s just found out that he’s not cut out to be a baron.” Violet hoisted her pert little nose toward the ceiling and huffed out of the room. Miranda, escorting her, sent a scathing look over her shoulder to her brother.

“And a nice day to you, too, Auntie,” Collin muttered, lifting his cup in mock salute to the two headstrong women. He wondered why he bothered with his family.

“I heard that,” Aunt Violet called over her shoulder. “Trust me, neither I nor your mother, if she were alive would approve. You should curtail your affinity for old wine and young women, Collin. ’Twould serve you better!”

The old lady was daft. Completely addled, though he heard her tittering seep down the hallway and wondered if she had more of her mind than he thought.

So where the hell was Devlynn?

Collin strode to the window, looked out at the bleak day and slammed the shutters closed. Devlynn should have returned or sent a messenger by this time. Then again, it was so like the bastard not to keep him informed.

Scowling darkly, Collin tossed back the rest of his drink and settled into Devlynn’s chair again. He rested one booted ankle on the other knee. Unfortunately there was nothing to do but wait.

Hoofbeats shattered the stillness and Devlynn, who had spent the last quarter hour stirring the fire and standing in the sleet until his manhood had softened, flipped open the flap and stepped into the tent again.

Apryll was lying on the pallet, her eyes closed, her breathing even, the furs pulled haphazardly over her breasts. He felt instant remorse. What had he been doing? Goading her sexually? Threatening her and promising her and torturing her in an effort to find out Yale’s whereabouts?

She appeared to sleep and her mouth was slightly open, a perfect rosebud, the glint of white teeth visible, a tangle of blond hair falling all about her head upon the pallet. Aye, she was lovely. A temptress. And yet, despite all she’d done, the pain she’d caused, there was the hint of innocence in her eyes, a curiosity and intelligence that touched him on a deeper, more disturbing level.

He would not allow himself to be attracted to her; ’twas impossible. Not until Yale was found. And even then, once the boy was safe, Devlynn could never trust the lying, murdering wench.

He gazed down at her, at the arms bound uncomfortably above her head, and he bent down on a knee to untie the leather straps. There was nowhere she could run where he could not catch her; he’d only restrained her to make a point, to ensure her subservience, though, from the toss of her hair and the defiance she’d shown as he’d bared her breasts and tied her hands over her head, she’d never conceded to him. He hadn’t broken her spirit.

His jaw tightened and he discarded the image. Apryll would never break . . . but oh, she would bend and how he would love to be the one who was bending her. Just at the thought of it, his manhood twitched.

She sighed and rolled over upon the bed, curled in a small ball and continued sleeping peacefully.

Over the sound of the sleet, he heard horses approaching. Finally. He flipped open the flap to step back into the wind and rain.

The hunting party had returned with a small stag, a boar and several doves.

“A feast tonight, eh?” Lloyd said, proud of his skills.

“Good work.”

“The lady . . . she’s still in the tent?” Lloyd stole a glance at the tent and licked his thick lips as he eyed the flap. “She’s a wild one in bed, I’m guessin’, one who could go all night long. Ah, I’d like me a piece of her, I would, but those spells and chants and—say wha—? Ouch, fer Chrissakes, m’lord, yer tearin’ at me chest hairs!”

Devlynn’s fingers fisted in the fat man’s mantel and he dragged him off his feet so that their noses were nearly touching, Lloyd’s flat, oft-broken beak so near Devlynn’s straighter nose that he could smell the man. “You are not to refer to our captive as anything but Lady Apryll. You are not to make jokes at her expense. And you are not to inquire about her person. Understand?”

“A murderin’ bitch! That’s what she is. Seth’s dead. Saunders! Others, too.”

“Do I have to remind you of your station, Sir Lloyd?” Devlynn demanded, his lips barely moving, sleet washing down his face as the other men, wide-eyed, looked on.

“Nay, m’lord, nay.”

“Then get about skinning the stag and boar.” Slowly Devlynn released his grip and Lloyd’s boots sank into the mud. “You, James, help Lloyd, and the rest of you set up a lean-to. This blasted weather isn’t going away and we’ll need shelter until we ride out.”

“So there’s been no word from Bennett then?” Lloyd dared ask, sniffing loudly and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“Nay.”

The scout had not returned and Devlynn glowered at the empty trail. He was eager to ride ahead and find his son. His muscles were edgy and taut, his entire body restless. Being near the woman only made him more so and he ached for some kind of respite. He could lose himself in her, spread her legs and bury his shaft deep in her deliciously moist warmth . . . but ’twould only lead to more trouble.

If only the damned scout would return.

He helped the men build the lean-to by stretching hides over a brace made of sticks they gathered and whittled into shape. When the lean-to was finished it was only shoulder high, large enough for the men to sit near the fire while watching the stag and boar sizzle over the coals, but not tall enough to allow anyone to stand.

’Twas good enough for one night, Devlynn thought as he looked into the fire and watched smoke curl into the darkening heavens. James turned the spit. Fat slid onto the coals, hissing and sizzling as it burned, and the scent of roasting meat made Devlynn’s stomach growl. He stretched an arm over his head and yearned for slumber. Tired to his bones, he dared not try to sleep next to Apryll.

He couldn’t trust himself around her. She was forbidden fruit and he a starving man.

Settling onto his haunches, he stared at the fire, watching the golden flames crackle and spark, his ears straining as he listened for the sound of hoofbeats. Where the devil was Bennett? Surely he would return by nightfall.

Thinking of the scout and what harm might have happened to him, Devlynn picked up a wet stick, tore it apart and threw the bits of wood into the fire.

Was his hostage telling the truth? Had Payton stolen the boy away to Serennog? It seemed the logical thing to do and yet Devlynn wasn’t convinced. Why not then straight to the castle? Why take the time to try and confuse the trackers by splitting up at the junction in the road? Why not keep the band together, for surely there was safety in numbers?

He glanced toward the tent where Apryll slept and wondered of the dreams running through her pretty head. Dreams of lovemaking? Or of Yale? Plans for escape? She knew more than she was saying, he could see it in her eyes.

And, God help him, what beautiful eyes they were. Eyes that had somehow reached deep into his soul and cursed him forever.

 

Apryll awoke in the darkness and for several seconds she didn’t know where she was. A warm reddish glow was faintly visible through some kind of screen and she was lying on a hard bed with furs tucked to her chin. The smell of roasting venison and smoke touched her nostrils and her stomach cramped in anticipation of food.

Somewhere nearby a dog let out a soft woof.

Her heart sank as she remembered. She was a captive. To Devlynn of Black Thorn, the man who had dared bare her body and bind her wrists. But her hands were free . . . and her tunic nearby. Hastily she flung the hated shirt over her head, slipping her arms through its scratchy sleeves, but she could not lace the slit in front as the ties were missing.

Damn the beast of Black Thorn!
Embarrassment burned the back of her neck and her cheeks when she remembered him stripping her and tying her hands over her head. If she ever got the chance, she’d gladly return the favor. But for now . . . she slunk from the bed and, using her hands, searched for a sag in the hem of the tent, a spot where there would be enough room to wiggle beneath the folds, squeeze her body through the opening and . . . what? Scurry through the forest in the darkness? Steal a horse? Try to outwit the dog? For the love of Mary, she needed a plan. She heard footsteps and flung herself onto the pallet, as if she’d just been awakening.

The tent flap opened and the Lord of Black Thorn, carrying a candle, appeared.

“I was about to wake you,” he said, as if they were fast friends . . . or lovers. His eyes scanned her quickly donned tunic, but he didn’t comment. “’Tis time to eat.”