Wild and Wicked (22 page)

“There is to be no death,” Geneva said as icy fear gripped her heart. Is this what she’d started, a war of death and destruction, all because she fell in love with a bastard whose only desire was to rule?

“Kill her as well,” Rudyard ordered, then added, “unless you would rather bed her first.”

“No!” Geneva’s blood ran cold. To what kind of hideous ogres had Payton allied himself? “Is not Payton the ruler here?” she demanded. “You must wait until he awakens and hear what he has to say.”

Rudyard’s eyes met Roger’s.

“What about the boy?” Roger asked, his eyes gleaming in evil anticipation.

“Well, of course, slay him.”

Geneva let out a strangled cry. “No, you must not. He is but a lad.”

“Born to the wrong man.” Rudyard cast a disgusted glance at Payton lying listlessly on the floor and once again, Geneva feared for her beloved’s life. “What the bloody hell good is the boy to us if his father is already dead?”

Apryll clung to the saddle for dear life. Her horse sped after Devlynn’s destrier, galloping wildly as rain spat from the dark sky. The woods opened to a road and Devlynn turned unerringly southward.

To Black Thorn.

Her heart turned to ice at the thought of returning to the keep where only a few short nights ago she had distracted him, played the tease, dressed in her mother’s wedding dress. They’d laughed, danced, flirted and kissed and it seemed like it had happened in another lifetime.

Her bones jarred and she slid in the saddle, her balance upset as she had no reins to control the horse, no sense of the animal. She could, when they slowed, fling herself to the ground, but what then? Where would she run with her wrists tied? Even if she did manage to dupe Devlynn again, which she seriously doubted she could, how far would she get on foot? Surely he would not be trusting enough to untie her and let her steal a horse again, should they ever rest.

It had been hours since they’d left the old inn and night was closing in. She was cold and hungry and needed to relieve herself, yet she refused to complain and gritted her teeth against her fate.

What would become of her, she wondered, watching Devlynn’s broad shoulders as he rode so effortlessly. Her heart twisted as she remembered how it felt to touch him, to kiss him. Well, that was long over. Any thoughts she had of lovemaking were foolish memories. Now, she knew, she was his enemy. Nothing more. Would he throw her in prison? Keep her hostage as Payton had Yale? Ransom her?

With what? The coffers of Serennog were empty. That condition was what had prompted her upon a course of lies and deception, steps she would gladly retrace if only she could. She thought of those in her keep, those who had trusted her with their lives, those she had sworn to protect. She’d failed them, every last one. From the grouchy wheelwright to the girls who collected eggs, or the stingy baker or apple-cheeked Edwynn the jester . . . or Mary, pregnant with her twins. Had they been born? Had they survived?

Darkness had descended and Yale had begun to complain about being tired and hungry. Devlynn insisted they ride on, only stopping at a creek to refresh the horses and relieve themselves. To Apryll’s mortification, he never left her side, only giving her a bit of privacy for a few minutes behind a small bush for her ablutions.

Finally he gave in to his son’s complaints and, no doubt, his own fatigue. At a farmhouse alongside the road he stopped and bargained for a hot meal and a bed of sorts with a huge bear of a man who offered them a spot in the hayloft.

The farmer’s groggy wife was as skinny as he was fat. At her husband’s behest, she heated a thick soup in a pot suspended over the fire. She glanced at the straps binding Apryll’s wrists but didn’t say a word, just bustled about her task.

Apryll and Yale warmed their hands at the fire while chickens roosted in the woodpile and a cat with suspicious eyes sat on the windowsill. Inky black with green eyes, it stared at the dog and hissed if the bitch dared come too close.

The hut was simple. Tools hung on the wall near the fire and a large table was pushed away from the heat. Two stools and a bench surrounded the fire and a simple bed was tucked into one corner. A few pieces of clothing hung from hooks near a back door that, from the sounds of bleating and mooing, was attached to the shed where the animals were kept.

Apryll sat on the bench and tried to draw the woman into conversation, but whether she was still half asleep or scared to death of the looks sent by her husband, the wife kept mum except to say that her name was Mina.

Once her husband had disappeared with Devlynn to tend to the horses, Mina seemed to relax a little. Yale explored the single room, causing the cranky hens to squawk in protest and flap their wings. The dog took up residence by the fire, her nostrils twitching at the pungent aroma steaming from the big black pot.

“In trouble are ye, lass?” Mina finally asked as she glanced at Apryll’s hands.

“Of a sort.” Apryll’s wrists ached from the tight laces and her stomach rumbled at the scent of food.

“Ye be a prisoner?”

“For the time being.”

“Ach, aren’t we all?” She tsk-tsked and stirred the soup. Her face, illuminated by the flames, was weathered and wrinkled, the hair peeking out of her scarf a coarse, springy gray.

The back door opened and Devlynn strode in, bringing with him the odors of horses, dung and dust.

“Your husband said to tell you he’ll be in as soon as he’s tended to the horses.”

Mina lifted a bony shoulder, then ladled the soup onto thick slabs of bread. They ate at the table, Apryll struggling with her manacles, Devlynn not offering to set her free. Even when Yale suggested that she could eat more easily if she wasn’t tied, he was silenced with a deadly, warning glare from his father.

And Apryll had too much pride to beg. She caught Devlynn’s glance once, saw the anger burning in his gray eyes, and inched up her chin, refusing to play the role of the subservient. She’d rot in hell before pleading with him to release her.

Yale and Mina threw scraps to the dog while the chickens clucked back to sleep and the cat leaped onto the cross beams, sitting aloft, his tail twitching as he stared down at the ragged guests.

The thick gravylike soup was divine. Hot and flavored with onions, it warmed a path down Apryll’s throat. She washed it down with ale and afterward the farmer offered them the hayloft in which to bed down. It was a slope-roofed space positioned over the pens holding two cows and a nanny goat.

Mina gathered several tattered blankets and, embarrassed that they were so ragged, offered her apologies. “’Tis sorry I be, but this is the best we have.”

“Don’t worry, the blankets are fine,” Apryll assured her and the woman glanced at Devlynn who, along with the farmer, was scattering hay into a manger.

“Is he . . . is he good to you? He claims he’s a baron . . . that’s he’s Black Thorn himself.”

“He is,” Apryll admitted.

Mina frowned. “Black Thorn,” she repeated under her breath as if the words were evil. “He’s a dark one, he is,” she whispered, making the sign of the cross over her nonexistent bosom. “His wife and unborn babe were killed . . . many think he was to blame.” With another furtive glance toward the men, she added, “She was a headstrong woman, Lady Glynda was. A match for him with her fiery temper.” Swallowing hard, Mina looked pointedly down at Apryll’s wrists again and added, “I wish I could help ye, but if I cross me Sam, he’ll beat me sure.”

“You’ve been more than kind.”

The wife’s dark eyes skittered from the manger to the loft and deep lines of worry furrowed the brow beneath her scarf.

“Woman! What’re ye gossipin’ about? Don’t you have work to do, now?” her husband, a mountain of a man with a bulbous nose and thick lips, growled. His face was illuminated by two candles flickering on a bench near the watering trough. The only other light came through the open doorway, a reddish glow from the fire. Sam shook a finger at his wife. “Just tend to the guests, Mina, and don’t be botherin’ ’em with any of yer chatter, now.” He turned back to his work and muttered something about stupid, ungrateful females.

Mina sent his backside a scathing look, then said to Apryll, “You’ll be needin’ a wet cloth to wash up. I’ll bring it up to you.” Rotating on a worn heel she bustled into the house as her husband grunted in satisfaction that she’d obeyed him.

“Can’t treat ’em too well,” he muttered, “Or they get a swelled head and expect it all the time.” His laugh was ugly and punctuated with snorts as if he thought himself the most clever man in the land.

Apryll would have liked nothing better than to put the big mule in his place but she held her tongue and climbed the ladder to the loft. Yale had already wrapped himself in one of Mina’s blankets and had curled himself into a corner where the sloping roof met one wall. He’d made a nest for himself in the loose hay and was snoring softly, dead to the world.

Apryll clumsily threw her blanket on a pile of straw near the top of the ladder. From her vantage point, she could glance over a single rail and see the dark shapes of the cattle, goat and now three horses packed into the small shelter. There were grunts and lows and an occasional snort, and the animal smells were strong, but the rain and wind no longer lashed at Apryll’s face, and despite the farmer’s stupid remarks, she was grateful for the food and shelter.

Boots rang on the ladder and Mina’s head appeared over the edge of the loft. She balanced on the top rung and handed Apryll a wet, folded rag. “’Tis not much, but will make you feel better to clean up,” she offered.

“Thank you.” Apryll’s fingers brushed the older woman’s as she attempted to retrieve the cloth. Suddenly Mina clasped her fingers around the leather manacle surrounding Apryll’s wrists. “No woman should be bound,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “No woman.” In the darkness her voice was harsh. “There are many prisons, lass, many ways men have to keep a woman from her freedom and ’tis accepted, but I’m tellin’ ye, ’tis wrong. Always. It makes no difference whether ye be a lady, a peasant or a whore.”

Then, hearing her husband’s heavy gait below, she scurried down the ladder and disappeared into the darkness.

Apryll leaned against a post and listened to the sound of the animals feeding. Where was Devlynn? She was surprised he’d left her alone for so long, for he surely expected her to try to escape again. But then, where would she go?

Oh, but she’d tried that and she’d only ended up leading him to Payton.

Devlynn had let her escape from the camp. Then followed her. She was certain of it. No, she couldn’t try the same ruse. Closing her eyes, she heard the sound of rain drizzling down the roof and Yale’s steady breathing. Wind battered the roof and a horse nickered softly.

Soon Devlynn would climb up the ladder. What would the next few hours bring? They would be together, essentially alone, as Yale was fast asleep. What then? She remembered their last night together, the passion, the feel of his fingers upon her flesh, the way she’d ached for him, wanted him, had nearly begged him to take her virginity.

Even now, at the thought of it, she blushed. No, it wouldn’t happen again. He would never trust her enough to untie her, nor would he want to touch her or kiss her . . . nay, if he had any appetite left for her it would be purely animal, a man’s lust for a woman, a need to conquer and tame, without any affection or love.

At that thought she froze. Love? ’Twas a silly notion. Foolish. There was no love between them, only distrust and wanton desire, a carnal ache that she would consider no longer. Nor would she think of escape. Not tonight. She was too tired, she needed rest and then, once she awakened, she would find a way to outfox the damned beast of Black Thorn, a way that would somehow benefit her own keep.

Oh, Serennog! With a heavy heart she thought of her home and felt a deep-seated and desperate longing. Aye, the tapestries were torn and threadbare, and yes, there was hardly enough food to go ’round. The castle walls were crumbling, the rushes old and stale, but Serennog was home, a haven, her place on this earth. And the people who lived there depended upon her. Somehow she would find a way to bring it back to the grandeur it once held.

Without stealing.

Without kidnapping.

Without killing.

Curse Payton’s blind ambition!

Damn his thirst for revenge!

To hell with his need to prove himself as worthy!

What had happened between Morgan of Black Thorn and Apryll’s mother two decades past should be long buried. Aye, Apryll understood why Payton would feel a need to prove himself. Even after Apryll’s father, Lord Regis, was dead and Lady Rowelda had been close behind, her lungs rattling with the disease that had claimed them both, Payton had been unable to forgive their mother.

“’Tis sorry I am,” she’d whispered, trying to take Payton’s calloused fingers in her own dainty, blue-veined hand. She’d been lying in her death bed, her pale face having lost all of its joy, her eyes as dull as her thinning hair. “I have done you an injustice. I should have sent you away from Serennog, to someplace where you were not always reminded that you were another man’s child.”

He was stunned. “Why? Did you not want me either? Then why didn’t you just get rid of me before I was born as everyone believes you should have?” he asked, searching her face.

“No! I wanted you despite . . . but Regis, he . . .” She glanced from one of her children to the next. “He never forgave me for having borne another man’s child.”

“But you were forced,” Apryll said.

Rowelda’s thin lips twisted into a cynical smile. “I suppose I
should
have taken my own life. Honor, you know.” She drew in a raspy breath.

“Instead you bore a bastard and left him to be taunted and humiliated his entire life.” Payton’s face, once ashen, was quickly suffusing with color as anger surged through his veins.