Wild and Wicked (4 page)

And it had already begun.

Payton savored every second of it, enjoying stealing into the high, guarded walls of Black Thorn with his small, deadly band, meeting with the traitors who, like he, wanted to see Devlynn’s downfall, waiting for the precise moment to strike. He glanced down at the guard at his feet, so quickly dispensed. Easy prey. All the sentries had been sipping far too much mead in celebration of the revels. It had been easy to secure the positions they needed.

He heard the hoot of an owl and a wicked grin slid across his beard-darkened jaw. ’Twas the signal. All was ready. The traitors within the keep had ensured that tonight he would succeed. He had but to steal down a few steps and wreak his vengeance.

He thought of the empty stores at Serennog, the few remaining animals in once-flourishing herds, and his anger burned hot. Devlynn of Black Thorn would pay, Payton thought bitterly as he stepped over the dead, slumped body of the guard. And he would pay dearly.

 

“My sister invited you?” Devlynn asked, scouring his mind for some snippet of conversation concerning Serennog or the castle’s mistress. “Forgive me, but I don’t remember Miranda speaking of you.”

“Should I be offended?” Apryll shook her head. “’Tis of no matter. She knows me not.” He noticed the pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat. “I came without invitation tonight.”

“And without escort?” he asked, sensing something was amiss, then chiding himself for all his cynicism.

“I needed one not.” She placed her hand in his and spun away for a few seconds, only to return. “I heard the gates of Black Thorn were thrown open to all during the revels and I decided to see for myself.”

“’Tis true. All are welcome.”

“Even strange women?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief so bright it pulsed. He couldn’t help staring at her lips and wondering what it would feel like to kiss her.

“You are not strange.”

“Am I not?”

“You did not just appear from the mist on the river or the clouds in the sky.”

“Oh? Did I not? How disappointing.” She laughed and the sound was a trill that sent shivers up his spine, that touched the coldest, darkest chambers of his black heart.

Her gaze swept the grand hall from the far balcony where the musicians played to the raised table at which most of his family gathered around the yule candle and mazers of half-drunk wine. Servants scurried, the castle dogs watched the festivities with suspicious gold eyes and a singer began a ballad in a warbling voice.

Devlynn felt a shaft of happiness enter his soul and he found himself drowning in this woman’s charms. The music was soft, the night inviting, the—

Devlynn stiffened.

The music died.

Conversation stilled.

In his arms, Apryll tensed. All eyes turned toward the main door.

“Who goes there?” Devlynn thundered.

“’Tis only I. Father Christmas,” a deep voice bellowed back.

“Enter.” Devlynn nodded to the guard who yanked hard on the handle. Along with a rush of snow-kissed wind and a trumpeter’s blast, a troupe of mummurs, poor townspeople and farmers disguised in costumes, arrived.

Children squealed in delight and the guests gathered around the spectacle, at the center of which was a brilliantly colored dragon composed of eight men covered in blankets, the first and tallest of whom supported the beast’s great head. The masked peasants as well as those hidden within the dragon bowed at Devlynn’s feet.

From the corner of his eye, Devlynn noticed Lady Apryll catch her breath and pale a bit, though mayhap it was because one of the mummers tipped his disguised head in her direction, as if he mistakenly thought she was the lady of the castle.

“’Tis . . . ’tis a glorious keep you have, Lord Devlynn,” Lady Apryll said quietly, her eyes following the troupe as it snaked through the great hall. Father Christmas was in the lead, the dragon wending ungainly behind him, children laughing and trailing behind the troupe.

“And what of Serennog?” he asked.

A shadow chased across her eyes. “’Tis much smaller than this. Not nearly as grand.”

“Are you not the baroness?” he asked.

“Aye, once my father passed on a few years ago.” She offered him another smile, one not quite as bright as before, and sent a nervous glance toward the mummers. “I suppose you might call me the lord.”

“I think not.” He laughed at her joke, for she was clever and witty, a woman who tested and tempted him. Bold and spirited. And mysterious. “So what of the revels at your own keep?”

Was it his imagination or did she tense a bit? “My brother . . . he attends to them.”

“You have a brother yet he be not lord?”

“He’s not of my father’s blood,” she replied, her voice taking on a serious edge.

“A bastard.”

She ignored the comment and waved a hand toward the festivities. “And our celebration . . . ’tis not as grand as this . . . not nearly so.”

The mummers and Father Christmas were soon off and the music began again, the balladeer plucking his lute. Deftly Devlynn drew the Lady of Serennog against him, holding her firmly as they danced together, bodies fitting close, spinning apart, only to press intimately together again.

When the song ended, the lady tried to release his hand, but Devlynn refused to let go. “Join me at my table,” he offered.

“Oh, nay, ’tis not my place . . .”

“It is if I say so,” Devlynn insisted, though he told himself he was being foolish, that he’d drunk too much wine, that this woman, ethereal though she might seem, was flesh and blood, a creature so bold and sassy as to warrant his interest, aye, but not his trust. “Come.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Flush-faced, ribbons streaming from her hair, she followed after him as they wended their way through the crowd of revelers, many of whom were staring pointedly at him. Not since Glynda’s death had the Lord of Black Thorn been in the company of a woman; never had one been asked to sit at his table. Though he didn’t understand why, he linked his fingers through hers and held tight, almost as if he expected her to run off.

At the raised table, he drew her forward. “Lady Miranda, Sir Collin,” he said, pointing to each in turn. “My sister and brother.” Motioning with one hand, he added, “May I introduced Lady Apryll of Serennog?”

Collin, resting lazily upon his spine and cradling a mazer of wine, appraised the woman with cool blue eyes and the lift of one eyebrow. Forcing himself to his feet, he said, “We met earlier, though I wasn’t lucky enough to catch your name. Welcome to Black Thorn.” He leaned forward, took her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles while looking up at her. Again Devlynn thought he caught a deeper reaction in her eyes, as if Collin’s familiarity was somehow distasteful.

“Mayhap you would save me another dance?” Collin asked.

“Of course,” she said and Devlynn felt the cords at the back of his neck tighten as they did when he readied for battle.

Miranda, for once gracious, stood slowly and smiled as she appraised the woman. Nearly as tall as her brothers, Miranda was a large, rawboned woman, regal and stately, with wide features and a wicked tongue. Her eyebrows elevated a fraction. “May I echo my brother’s welcome?”

“I am pleased to meet you,” Apryll said, inclining her head slightly as Devlynn carried on with the introductions.

“And this is my Aunt Violet.”

Violet twisted to view the newcomer with curious opaque eyes. “A pleasure, to be sure, but . . . did you say you are the Lady of Serennog?”

“Aye.” Apryll shifted a bit.

“But I thought that castle was long abandoned . . . the lord having been disgraced . . . or . . . was it elsewhere . . . are there not ghosts of Serennog . . . or . . .” She let her words drift away and frowned. “Oh, I may be mistaken. These days I remember not well.” She waved off her muddled thoughts. “Welcome, child. My, but aren’t you lovely?”

“A pleasure to meet all of you,” Apryll said, blushing and bowing her head slightly as the piper started another tune and Devlynn offered her a chair. “You have a lovely family,” she whispered to him.

“And you’ve not yet met my boy.” He couldn’t keep the pride from his voice and then spied Bronwyn as she dashed behind the table. With one long arm, he grabbed his niece and she squealed in delight. “This is the castle imp,” he explained as, giggling, the little girl squirmed and tossed her curls from her mischievous eyes.

“I be
not
an imp.”

“Nay? Then a sorceress, mayhap? A witch?” With a wink at Apryll, he let Bronwyn slide to the floor.

“Aye. And I’ll cast a spell upon you, Uncle,” she cried, flitting off.

Apryll watched the girl dance between the benches and land with a plop in her mother’s arms.

“A spirited one, Bronwyn is,” he said, chuckling.

“Aye,” she said softly, then bit her lower lip before forcing a smile. He offered her wine and she accepted, sipping slowly, eyeing the festivities, making conversation with those around her. She was as enchanting as any woman Devlynn had ever met, as engaging and well-spoken as any lord as she matched wits with him. She laughed at his jokes, the sound touching an icy, banished place in his heart that somehow began to thaw. She spoke of tournaments and hunts and travels far within Wales as she sipped wine and nibbled at the jellied eggs.

He found it impossible to resist her charms. Her face glowed in the mellow warmth of the yule candle and when they took the dance floor again, she was light and airy in his arms.

As the candles burned low, the wine took hold and she pressed against him, Devlynn gave in to the magic of the night. Though sanity and reason told him he was being foolish, he ignored their warnings. Somehow, because of this woman, the lost luster of Christmas began to shine in Devlynn’s battered soul again and the guilt he’d been bearing eased.

“Why have I not known of you before?” he asked as the hours slipped past ever more quickly. Holding her close, he dropped his gaze to the curve of her mouth.

“Mayhap I was hiding.”

“At Serennog?”

“Or in the very forests surrounding your keep. It could be that I am not who I seem.”

“No doubt you are a sorceress and you have bewitched me.”

“Oh, that I could bewitch you, Lord Devlynn,” she said with a naughty smile and the lift of one contrary eyebrow. “Oh, but that I could.”

“I fear you have, vixen.”

She laughed throatily. “I doubt I have that power.”

“You would be surprised.”

“Pleasantly so?” Again that saucy twist of her lips. Aye, she was a tease. An enchantress.

“What else?” She laughed lightly then and he could no longer resist her. His blood was streaming through his veins, his heart pumping with newfound life that pounded in his head and caused a swelling between his legs. He thought of kissing her and oh, so much more, of joining his body to hers in lusty pleasure and wicked seduction. She was innocence and sin wrapped together.

Tossing back his wine, erotic images playing through his mind, he knew he had to have her. No matter what the cost. Regardless of any consequence. And why not? Was he not the baron—Lord of Black Thorn?

He caught a knowing glance from his brother and felt only but a moment’s shame that Collin could so easily read the desire sizzling through his mind. Swiftly, disregarding any raised eyebrow cast in their direction, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her away from the crowd and into a dark alcove beneath the stairs. She laughed nervously, but he didn’t stop. Wrapping his arms firmly around her slim waist, he leaned forward and pressed his eager lips to hers.

She gasped but didn’t push away.

His fingers splayed over her back and the heat in his loins burned hot and hard.

She sighed as if in longing. She trembled beneath his touch, her eyelids fluttering closed as his mouth moved gently over hers and her breath mingled with his. Blood thundered through his veins, desire ran dark through his soul, and he knew in an instant that he would have this woman, one way or another.

His pulse pounded in his ears, the noise of the castle drifted away. She smelled of roses and violets and all things feminine. In the darkness of the alcove they were alone in the universe. His fingers twined in the thick curls of her hair. His mouth molded over hers. His tongue pressed hard against her teeth. Slowly her lips parted, giving him access to the moist haven of her mouth.

’Twas hours or an instant. He knew not which.

But he wanted her.

Burned for her.

Pushing her back against the wall, he pressed his body closer to hers, thigh to thigh, chest to breasts, lips to lips. Beneath the downy folds of her dress he felt her mound.

One hand lowered to cup her breast.

“Nay,” she whispered breathlessly, though her words quivered and he felt her heat, sensed her own blood running hot. In his mind’s eye he saw them lying naked upon his bed, the fire casting golden shadows on her naked flesh.

Now, in the alcove, with the sounds of the celebration drifting through the curtain, she forced her mouth from his. Her breathing was as ragged as his own. “Please . . . do . . . do not . . .” Swallowing hard, licking her lips, she stared at him as if suddenly afraid. “Oh, dear God in heaven,” she said, blowing out a breath as she drew away. “I cannot . . . we . . . we cannot.” She shook her head as if to convince herself. She placed one hand over her breasts and she bit her lower lip. “Lord Devlynn,” she whispered, her voice deeper than he remembered, “I . . . I am not what you think. . . .”

“And what do I think you are?”

She glanced into his eyes, hesitated, then looked away as if uncertain. “’Tis of no matter,” she said. “Oh, curse it all!” To his surprise, she placed her soft palms on either side of his face and dragged his mouth down to her upturned lips. She kissed him soundly, as if she would never stop. As if she couldn’t. Her lips were warm and trembled slightly.