Wild and Wicked (15 page)

Apryll’s stomach growled, reminding her how long it had been since she’d had a meal. Though she loathed facing the men who had captured her, especially the gruff, heavy one called Lloyd, she complied, pushing herself to her feet and pausing to draw on her boots.

As she slipped through the tent’s opening, she surveyed the campfire where the pig-eyed soldier and another man were slicing up thick pieces of charred meat. There were puddles on the ground but the sleet had stopped and the night was icy cold, the wind singing through barren branches overhead.

Devlynn cut off a slice of venison for her and they ate seated on mossy rocks, warmed somewhat by the fire that flickered and snapped, tiny embers rising to the sky in the thick, curling smoke.

The soldiers sat in a shelter that faced the fire and the fat one’s eyes glowed evilly, red embers reflected in their slitted depths. Lord, he was a hateful creature.

“Where are the others?” she asked, licking her fingers, for the meat was the best she’d ever eaten. She licked the grease covering her lips, then wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “The scout. Has he not returned?”

“Not yet,” Devlynn admitted, glancing toward the path as if willing the man to appear. He tossed the dog a bone and the cur grabbed her morsel and slunk to a spot between two trees where she began gnawing on the fleshy rib.

Devlynn stood and dusted his hands.

“What if he doesn’t return?” Apryll asked.

Devlynn’s visage hardened. “You’d best hope that he appears and soon, for if he doesn’t I will assume that he came upon foul play at your brother’s hand.”

“He may have left on his own.”

Thin lips flattened. “Nay, Bennett is loyal.” But she’d planted a seed of doubt in Devlynn’s mind. Someone was a spy; more than one man. Someone had allowed Apryll and her band of thugs into Black Thorn and someone had helped her escape from the hermit’s cell in the tower. He considered the men with whom he rode—these who had followed him along this fork and the others: Kirby, Spencer, and even Rudyard, captain of the guard. Were they loyal? Or traitors? Would they serve him, or willingly slit his throat in the middle of the night? Staring across the fire to the men who had sworn their fealty to him, Devlynn realized he knew little about them—their lives, their ambitions, their dreams.

Mayhap their loyalties weren’t so steadfast.

Wondering about their allegiance, he took a long pull from the jug of wine, then wiped the back of his hand over his lips. What cur who’d sworn to serve Black Thorn had turned traitor and helped with the abduction of his son? Had one man within his trusted army killed Seth or Saunders . . . who? Who would rob him of his horses, money and jewels? Who hated him so and had such ambition, such daring?

A dozen faces flashed through Devlynn’s mind. His hand curled into a fist as he realized, not for the first time, that he could trust no one.

Especially this Jezebel claiming to be a lady.

The men had finished eating, tossing bones toward the fire, taking a long drought of wine and wrapping their cloaks about them as they settled in for the night beneath the lean-to.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Devlynn announced as he glanced at the darkness beyond the shifting circle of light cast by the fire. “We ride at dawn.”

“And what of Bennett, m’lord? What if he doesn’t return?” Lloyd asked.

“We ride without him.”

“Humph. Mayhap the witch there, she can conjure him up fer us.” Emboldened by too much wine, he sent Apryll a look of lusty loathing.

“’Tis not my specialty,” she said tartly. “I’m best at turning fat, lazy soldiers into toads.”

Lloyd snorted a laugh.

“Toads with warts upon their bodies and skin that itches as if it’s on fire,” she added calmly, then frowned as if suddenly remembering something important. “But . . . I must admit, sometimes the spell goes awry and the change isn’t complete, so I’m left with a fat, lazy soldier with warts and pimples upon his skin and a hunger for flies.” She leaned back on her heels and glared at Lloyd through serious gold eyes. “Do not doubt me, Sir Lloyd,” she said and casually slid a finger into the mud, where she began drawing runes. “Because once the spell has been cast it can never, never be broken and ’twould be a pity to think that you would spend the rest of your days at the dung heap, hoping your next meal would land and you could snap it up with your slimy tongue.”

“You lie,” he charged.

“Mmmm.” She continued drawing and Lloyd squirmed, jabbed his elbows at James and pretended not to notice, but his eyes continually flickered back to the lady in a huntsman’s garb, a woman who concentrated on the complex figure she sketched in the mud.

The little golden-haired vixen.
She knew exactly what she was doing to Lloyd, though the soldier deserved it. ’Twas time to end this nonsense. Devlynn leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You’ve had your fun, now, ’tis time for you to return to the tent.”

Her brows pulled into a single, unhappy line. “May I first be allowed to wash and . . .” She cleared her throat. “. . . I needs relieve myself.”

Of course she did. He took her arm and without any word dragged her through the brush to a spot where the stream pooled and eddied beneath the roots of ancient trees upon the banks. “Here.” He let go of her. And waited.

“You can go now.”

“I think not.”

“But—”

“
You
can go now,” he said meaningfully and she gasped at his insolence.

“M’lord, I needs privacy.”

“I think not. Did you not use this same ploy on the night Yale was taken?” he asked. “Now . . . wash and do whatever else you have to. I will remain here.”

She sucked in her breath, then, in the gathering moonlight, muttered something about bullheaded beasts with ill manners and added more loudly, “At least turn your back,
m’lord.
’Tis the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“I thought we already discussed my lack of gentlemanly skills. Now, take care of your needs and be quick about it. I have not all night.”

“Bastard,” he thought she muttered as she sidled to a spot behind a tree, where all he could glimpse through a fork in the trunk was her flaxen hair, shining silver in the moonlight. While she was half hidden, he relieved himself as well, forcing his cock to soften so that he could create a stream that he arced at a flat rock. The woman was more trouble than she was worth, he decided, shaking himself before stuffing his member into his breeches and lacing up. ’Twould be best to send her back to Black Thorn and lock her in a dungeon.

He glanced over his shoulder, didn’t see her silhouette, and fury tore through his veins. In less than a minute she’d slipped away. Again! He was about to call out when he caught a glimpse of silver-gold hair and realized she hadn’t escaped but was indeed leaning over the rocky bank of the creek and washing her face.

Mayhap he’d been too hard on her, he thought suddenly, his fury turning to fascination as she held her hair up and cleaned the smooth contour of her face with her free hand. Was it possible that she was telling him the truth? That her brother had double-crossed her? There was a part of him that wanted to believe she wasn’t a part of so vile a deception as to kidnap his boy, but he couldn’t forget that she was the bait, the lure that kept his guard down in the plot to rob him blind and steal his son. Nay, he couldn’t trust her and it would serve him well to remember it.

“Hurry,” he yelled, his voice echoing through the icy, brittle forest. “As I said, we’ve not got ’til dawn.”

“Coming,” she shot back, and he saw her straighten, pull up the hem of her tunic and dry her face with the rough cloth. He caught a glimpse of her flat, white abdomen and his crotch tightened. Never had a woman affected him so. Not even Glynda, his wife, and for that betrayal he felt a jab of guilt.

Suddenly Apryll appeared before him and walked stiffly along the path to the firelight flickering through a copse of pines. Most of the men were already wrapped in their cloaks, lying upon the ground, though James was scraping the stag’s hide clean with his knife, and another man watered and fed the horses while Lloyd sharpened his sword, frowning as he tested the sharp blade between his thick, calloused fingers.

Obediently Apryll ducked into the tent and, as he’d promised, Devlynn stood watch.

“We only have feed enough for three more days,” Rearden, the man who’d tended to the small herd, advised him.

Devlynn nodded. “We’ll buy grain at the next village.”

“Aye.”

“So we ride tomorrow whether Bennett returns or nay?” Lloyd observed, running the whetting stone over his blade again.

“Aye.”

“And what of the woman?”

“She rides with us.”

Lloyd stopped stroking his sword long enough to look up at Devlynn. “A tracking party be no place for a woman.” He glanced meaningfully at the tent. “They’re useless creatures, you know, good for only one thing.”

“And what would that be?” Devlynn asked in a low whisper, the muscles at the back of his neck bunching.

“Warming a man’s bed. ’Tis all.”

“What about motherhood?”

“’Tis overrated. Me own mum, she died givin’ me birth, she did, and it hurt me not.” His smile was all knowing. “Your own son, he has no mother and he seems a fine lad.”

“He has Miranda and Aunt Violet to guide him.”

“And he’d do just as well without ’em.”

The man was a fool.

“Lady Apryll rides with us,” Devlynn said, tired of the argument. “And I’ll hear no disrespect.”

“She’s a prisoner, ain’t she?” Lloyd said.

“Aye, and a lady.”

Lloyd snorted but held his tongue and Devlynn, jaw tight, resisted the urge to throw a fist in his fleshy face.

 

Apryll listened to the argument and with the light from the fire as her guide searched the tent. If only she could find a knife of some kind, something sharp enough to make a slit in the tent wall, she could make her escape now, while the men were talking between themselves, while the dog was happily chewing on her bone, before Devlynn returned to the tent.

She could cut through the forest on foot, again use the stream to confuse that miserable dog and find a horse to steal or beg a ride from a farmer’s wagon once she found the main road.

Oh, fuss and bother, what to do? She found no knife, not even the one that Devlynn had removed from her when he’d taken her captive again. ’Twas an impossible situation and yet one she had to rectify.

She lay back on the pallet, feigning sleep should Devlynn step inside, and tried to come up with some scheme, a means of escape. But as the hours ticked by, the voices of Black Thorn’s soldiers stilled, and the campfire glowed dim, she found no way to save herself.

All too soon she heard a shuffling of feet, Devlynn’s deep voice ordering another man to stand watch.

She didn’t move. Didn’t want to think about what would happen next. She had only to remember the last time they’d lain on the pallet together—how his hands and mouth had teased her, tempted her and caused a deep, shameful want within her.

Even when he’d bound her hands and bared her breasts there had been disgrace, yes, but also a bit of desire . . . an awakening of a dark, hungry lust within her, an emotion more disturbing than the man himself.

The flap fell away and the Lord of Black Thorn entered.

Devlynn slipped onto the pallet beside her, his large frame cuddling up to hers. Apryll forced her breathing to sound regular though her heart was beating wildly, her lungs constricted. She let her mouth go slack though every muscle in her body was stretched taut, every nerve fiber jangled. How could she bear the next hour or so next to him, feeling his body curve over hers?

Be calm. Pretend. Relax. Do
not
let him know that you are awake.

She felt him shift, sensed that he levered up on one elbow to look down upon her. What could he see in the darkness? His breath was warm as it whispered against her face and ruffled her hair. She let out a soft sigh, then nearly flinched when she felt his finger trace the welt upon her cheek.

“I’ll kill the bastard,” he vowed. “For Yale and for this pain to Apryll . . . oh Christ Jesus, what am I saying?” There was a tortured edge to his voice, a hint that he felt the same confusion as did she.

He flung an arm around her waist and burrowed under the blankets, drawing her close, fitting her body next to his. She knew he had to be tired, that by now exhaustion should bring deep sleep within minutes, so she didn’t stir, listened to the sound of his breathing and saw the shadow of the sentry playing upon the tent as the man paced in front of the fire.

Sleep,
she thought, hoping all the men, the horses and especially the bloody hound would drift into a deep impenetrable slumber and she could make good her escape.

Devlynn burrowed further under the furs and the arm around her reached beneath her tunic, his hand scaling her ribs until his fingers found her breast.

Her stomach tightened. Her blood heated and despite her intentions of feigning sleep her nipples puckered. He rubbed a calloused thumb over the tip of one. Dear God, what sweet, sweet torment. Her breasts seemed to fill, as if they were engorged with milk, and Devlynn groaned.

Was he asleep?

Or very awake?

She knew not. His fingers were warm and he breathed against her shoulder onto a spot on her neck that tingled in anticipation.
Stay distant. Do not let your body betray you. You must escape! Remember that above all else, Apryll.