Wild and Wicked Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  “A WONDERFUL STORYTELLER—I WILL

  PICK UP ANY BOOK WITH HER

  NAME ON THE COVER.”

  —Heather Graham

  Praise for Lisa Jackson’s Dark Jewels Trilogy

  Dark Sapphire

  “Lisa Jackson … fills the pages with intrigue and passion.” —Romantic Times

  Dark Emerald

  “A complex medieval romance… . Moves forward on several levels that ultimately tie together in an exciting finish. The lead characters are a passionate duo while the secondary players strengthen the entire novel. Ms. Jackson has struck a gemstone mine.”

  —Painted Rock Reviews

  “Lisa Jackson … snares the reader in an intricate plot and holds them until the very end.”—Romantic Times

  Dark Ruby

  “A true gem—a medieval masterpiece. Wonderfully compelling, filled with adventure and intrigue, sizzling sexual tension and a to-die-for hero, this one has it all.”—Samantha James

  “Rich, mysterious, passionate. It’s a winner.”

  —Alexis Harrington

  “Fast-paced and fun from the start … a high-action adventure that will keep you turning the pages.”

  —Kat Martin

  “A rich, unforgettable tale.”—Stella Cameron

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,

  Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, February 2002

  Copyright © Susan Lisa Jackson, 2002

  eISBN : 978-1-440-60073-9

  Excerpt from Cold Blooded copyright © Susan Lisa Jackson, 2002 All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to my editor, Cecilia Oh,

  not only because of the title, though that may

  be appropriate, but because she’s hung in there

  with me and helped me stay the course,

  being my champion as well as my conscience.

  Prologue

  November 1283 Castle Serennog

  “You ask the impossible!” Apryll stared at her brother as if he’d gone mad. She slapped the reins of her listless mare into a stable boy’s hand and frowned as she glanced up at the foreboding sky. Dark winter clouds, swollen with rain, moved slowly across the heavens as a keening wind tore through the outer bailey of the castle she’d called home for all of her twenty-two years.

  Mud spackled her skirts and gusts of the blasted wind snatched at her hair as she strode toward the great hall. Payton, her half brother, marched at her side and she was certain he’d gone daft. “I cannot sneak into Black Thorn Castle and dupe the lord with my … charms—is that what you said—you want me to … ‘charm’ the beast of Black Thorn while you … you … what? Steal his jewels and his horses? “Tis madness.”

  “You will not need to sneak. During the Christmas Revels the portcullis is raised and the doors of Black Thorn are thrown wide,” Payton assured her, his jaw set, determination etched in his bladed features. He took a quick step in front of her and, grabbing both her arms, forced her to stop just as the first drops of rain began to fall. “Look around you,” he ordered, desperation and a need for revenge carved into his features as he insisted she take a harder look at the once-beautiful castle now falling deep into ruin. Thatching had blown from the roofs of some of the huts in the bailey, beams had rotted, even the mortar in the thick curtain wall surrounding the keep was giving way, pebbles littering the dead grass. Winter apples hanging on leafless trees were shriveled and wormy. Sheep were huddled against the wind, their coats black with mud and dung, their bleats pathetic.

  “You can’t be so blind as not to see that there is not enough wood in all of the forest to get us through the winter, the stock is sickly, the grain supply infested with rats, the horses already showing bones. The stores of wheat and spices are nearly empty, the wool to make new clothes in scant supply as the sheep are dying. You’re the lady here,” he reminded her roughly as she threw off his hands and began walking again, hurrying through the inner bailey where chickens scattered, their tattered feathers flying into the puddles that had collected in the rutted pathways. “’Tis your obligation to help those who serve you.”

  “Aye, Payton, I must do something,” she admitted with a heavy sigh. Few hammers were banging as carpenters labored against impossible repairs and though the blacksmith’s forge was glowing bright, the bellows hissing, ’twould only be a short time before the castle was depleted of steel. Boys ran carrying sacks of acorns they’d gathered for the pigs, but soon what meager stores of feed that had been harvested and gathered would be drained. Gripping her cloak more tightly around her, Apryll bit her lip and hurried up the chipped steps to the keep.

  A rail-thin guard with a pockmarked complexion and sad eyes opened the door. “M’lady,” he said with only a shadow of a smile.

  “Geoffrey.” She paused before entering and felt rain seep under her hood to run through her hair and down her face. “How is your wife?”

  He glanced to the ground and clamped his lips together, then cleared his throat. “Mary—she be fine. As soon as the babes—twins they be, the midwife says—arrive, she’ll be back on her feet, mark my words. A strong lass Mary is.” But his gaze
belied the courage in his words.

  “I’ll see that the physician stops to see her and that Cook makes her best soup. I’ll bring it to your hut myself.”

  “’Tis kind ye be, m’lady.” Geoffrey nodded, managing a grateful, snaggletoothed smile as he shut the door behind them. Apryll felt cold to the bottom of her soul.

  “His wife will be dead within a week,” Payton predicted. The tables within the great hall had been pushed against the aging walls. He rubbed his gloved hands together. “As for Mary’s unborn babes …” He clucked his tongue and shook his head in dire prediction. “’Tis a pity.”

  “They’re not yet born, for the love of God. Mary has already birthed two fine, strong sons, so don’t be placing the twins in their graves already.” She refused to believe there was a grain of truth in his words. Mary, with her flaming hair and wide smile, was a big-boned, strong woman. The twins would survive. Somehow.

  But the gloom of the castle with its cracked walls and cobweb-dusted rafters couldn’t be ignored. And if those babes die, and other children as well, who will be to blame?

  You, Apryll.

  A fire burned within the grate and yet the cavernous room was as chilled as if a ghost had passed behind the ragged curtains. There had been a time when the whitewashed walls had been covered by colorful tapestries, the rushes had been fresh and sweet smelling, the enticing aromas from the kitchen had been ever present. Apryll remembered the smell of roasting pork as it turned on the spit, fat dripping into the coals, or the sweet scent of fruit tarts, or the smoky tang of charring eel flesh. Delicious scents had mingled and swept through the corridors and tunnels, sweeping through the great hall and filling the secret nooks and crannies where Apryll had played with the castle dogs or other children. But that had been long ago in a time when it had never seemed to grow cold, a time of laughter and songs and freedom. A time when her mother had been alive. Apryll had been her father’s pet, a spoiled child who had easily weaseled sweet tidbits before dinner from Cook, or been allowed to play seek-and-hide in the hay stored for the winter, or who had been dressed like a small princess for every festive occasion. She’d sat on her father’s knee and tugged on his thick reddish beard. It had been long ago, of course.

  Before the curse of Black Thorn had been cast upon us.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, she rubbed her sleeves, as if warding off a chill.

  Payton had never known the happiness that had once spilled like sunshine through this very hall.

  “The treasury be nearly empty,” he reminded her as Apryll tore off her riding gloves and, ignoring the hole in one finger, stuffed them into her pocket. Tossing off her hood, she warmed her palms by the fire. Piled high with ashes, the iron dogs supporting the burning logs seemed to glower up at her with their tarnished and blackened eyes. “The stores of feed are lower than they have been in years.”

  She bit her lip and braced herself, for she knew what was to come. Always, after Payton prophecied doom and disaster for the keep, he came up with suggestions on how to improve things. She wasn’t disappointed this afternoon.

  “’Tis simple, Apryll. Either you marry and marry well, or we will not make it through the winter. Your subjects will starve.”

  “I’ll not marry—”

  “Lord Jamison asks for your hand,” he cut in.

  She shuddered at the thought of the rheumy-eyed baron. His girth was equal to his height and he had a cruel streak she’d witnessed while hunting. Angry that the quarry, an impressive stag, had escaped, he’d raged and sputtered and whipped his dogs and steed with a fury that had brought a gleam to his eye and spittle to his lips. Apryll didn’t doubt for a second that his brutality had extended to his wives. “He has been married four times, brother. None of his wives lived longer than three years. Think you I should be the fifth?”

  “You are strong …”

  “Nay!”

  “Fine, fine. But if not Jamison, why not Baron William of Balchdar? He asks of you often and would make a fine husband.”

  “Then you marry him,” she snapped angrily, shaking the rain from her hair. “I detest him.”

  “You detest all men.” Payton raised a dismissive hand.

  “Not true.”

  “Then all suitors. ’Tis long past the time when you should marry. By now, you should be wed and have two or three babes.”

  “Not Lord William,” she said angrily. William was a handsome man with crafty eyes and a prideful stance. He looked down his straight nose as if everyone he came upon—peasants, servants, knights and even other lords—were beneath him, were put upon this land but to serve him. There were secrets hidden in his dark, arrogant eyes, secrets that sent a shiver down Apryll’s spine, secrets she, nor anyone else, dared unveil.

  “What of—?”

  “Say no more,” she ordered. “You need not remind me of each and every baron who would deign wed me and save Serennog. By the saints, I know well who they are!”

  Payton laid a brotherly hand upon her shoulder as the fire crackled and smoke spiraled to the patched ceiling. Raindrops found their way inside, running down the walls or plopping in ever-growing puddles on the stone floor. “I know you want not to marry them and so I am offering you another answer.” Her half brother’s voice was soothing and sincere, yet she told herself he had his own reasons for scheming against Black Thorn.

  The wind whistled eerily through the cracks in the walls, muting the sound of a baby wailing, sobbing pitifully in some distant part of the keep. Payton, curse his sorry hide, was right. Soon the sickness that had infected a few would spread throughout the castle and village, killing many and leaving those who were strong and lucky enough to survive the illness to face starvation.

  “’Twas grim.”

  “Listen, Apryll, ’tis your sworn duty to protect and care for these people,” her half brother reminded her as he spied a page huddled in a corner. “You there, boy!” Payton snapped his fingers. “John—wine for the lady and myself!” he ordered and Apryll cringed inwardly, for in light of their conversation, the wine seemed frivolous, best saved. “And see that it is warmed, as we be chilled to our bones.” The wool of his cloak was steaming, giving off an odor from the heat of the fire, and his eyes, usually as blue as a summer sky, had darkened. “All the trouble that has come this way can be laid at the feet of those who rule Black Thorn. ’Twas Black Thorn’s army and its lord that brought a curse upon Serennog. ’Tis only justice that we return the favor.”

  “Or revenge,” she said, eyeing her half brother and wondering how deep his hatred ran.

  He lifted a shoulder. “As I said, you, m’lady, have an obligation to those who serve you, and, as I see it, you can either marry some rich baron or partake in my plan.”

  She dropped into a chair near the fire. Neither option was acceptable, both left a bad taste in her mouth. “And if I were to agree to your plan, I would need clothes … a fine gown and jewels … as well as an invitation.”

  “I have considered all this.”

  “Have you?” There was more to her brother than she knew, a side far more shrewd and deadly. She would have to tread lightly.

  “Aye, and I’ve found all but the invitation, which will not be necessary.”

  “Found?” She laughed hollowly and rolled her eyes. “You found a gown? We have no grain for the livestock, little food and not even a scrap of cloth large enough for Cook’s apron, as you so just warned me, but now, now you claim you’ve got a gown and gems fine enough to wear to the revels at Black Thorn?” She shook her head at the folly of it all. “Now, Payton, ’tis no longer a guess. Now I know you be daft.”

  “Trust me.” Payton’s face was sincere, his brown hair glinting red in the light from the fire. “There are treasures within this very castle that were hidden away—our mother’s bridal gown and her jewels, all packed and wrapped carefully with dried herbs and flowers, then hidden deep within a crypt, untouched by the castle rats or moths or mold.”

  “And you just h
appened to find them.”

  “Father Hadrian and I.”

  She scowled a bit. The priest was new to the castle, a seemingly pious man whose kindness seemed forced. Apryll wasn’t sure she trusted the man. There was something very amiss here, something wrong. “Even if you did have these things—”

  “I do.”

  “Then bring them before me and … nay! ’Tis foolishness. There must be another way,” she said, drumming her fingers on the smooth arm of her chair. Stealing from the Lord of Black Thorn would only spell deeper trouble.

  “Mayhap.” Payton scowled and shrugged out of his mantle, draping it on a stool by the fire. “But I know not of it and we have little time.”

  As if on cue, one of the servants who had been hiding behind the thin curtains began coughing loudly, the sound rattling in the poor man’s lungs and ricocheting through the rafters and ceilings of the drafty castle.

  “Geneva has had a vision—”

  “Hush! I’ll not trust the prophecies of a woman who claims to see spirits and casts spells and practices the dark arts!” Apryll quickly made the sign of the cross over her chest, for, in truth, the sorceress was a kind yet disturbing woman.

  “Did Geneva not foretell the death of the miller’s son?” he asked, and she refused to think of the poor boy drowning in the millpond just this past spring. Payton lowered himself into the chair next to hers. “And what of the loss of Father Benjamin’s eyesight? Did not Geneva predict ’twould be so?”

  “Aye, aye.” Apryll’s eyebrows pulled into a knot of concentration. Because of the rotund priest’s blindness, Father Hadrian had been sent to Serennog. “’Twas happenchance.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  John, the nervous page with hair that stuck out like dirty straw, entered quickly and poured two mazers of wine from a jug.

  “Even Father Benjamin, a true man of our Lord, now believes that Geneva is blessed by God with the sight to see what is to come,” Payton insisted, taking his cup from the table and dismissing the page quickly with an impatient snap of his wrist. “Geneva has seen prosperity for Serennog again.”