Wild and Wicked Read online

  “Because of your plan against Black Thorn?”

  “Aye.” He crossed one booted leg over his knee and took a long swallow of wine. Firelight reflected in his eyes and the edges of his mouth curved ever downward. Deep in the rushes, the sounds of tiny claws, mice and rats, scraped against the stone floor.

  Apryll sensed a half truth hidden in her brother’s plan. “There is more you have not told me.”

  Payton lifted a dismissive shoulder. “Mayhap.”

  “What is the rest of it?”

  He hesitated. Buried his nose in his mazer.

  “If I am to be a part of this or give your scheme any merit, I must hear it all.”

  “So be it.” He set his cup on the scarred planks of a small table. “Geneva … she …” He sighed, clenched and opened a fist, and shook his head as if he were unable or unwilling to say the rest. Turning his head slightly, he called. “Geneva. Be you here?”

  Apryll felt a tingle on the back of her neck, the fine hairs at her nape raising one by one. ’Twas as if Satan himself had breathed upon her.

  Appearing on silent footsteps, Geneva rounded a pillar where, Apryll surmised, she’d been lurking and listening—at Payton’s behest.

  Tall and slender, wearing a faded green gown and an expression of abject serenity, Geneva observed Apryll with eyes a pale watery blue. Her skin was without a wrinkle and so white it was nearly translucent.

  “M’lady,” she said with a half curtsy.

  “What do you know of this?” Apryll demanded, but Geneva’s gaze was turned toward Payton.

  “You were to tell her the truth, Sir Payton.” Reproach edged the deep clarity of her voice.

  Payton’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He didn’t meet her eyes. The wind whistled and the coals in the fire glowed bright.

  “What is it?” Apryll demanded. A frigid chill seeped deep into her skin and she knew in a heartbeat that whatever it was, she would not like what the sorceress had to say. When Payton didn’t answer, she turned her question to Geneva. “Tell me.”

  A second’s hesitation.

  “Now,” Apryll ordered. “What is it you see?”

  Geneva lifted an elegant eyebrow. Her gaze fixed deep in Apryll’s. “In order for there to be peace and prosperity at Serennog again,” she said, “you will marry the Lord of Black Thorn.”

  Apryll’s blood turned to ice. “Never,” she said in a hoarse whisper that was far from her normal voice. Her stomach clenched in repulsion when she thought of the powerful, brooding baron and the rumors that had swirled around him. Cruel. Without a heart. Feared rather than loved, Lord Devlynn of Black Thorn was known throughout Wales for his unbending will. “Did he not kill his first wife and unborn babe?”

  “No one knows that for certain.” Geneva’s demeanor remained unmoved, expressionless.

  The wind seemed to have died. Apryll’s heart drummed a furious, denying tattoo. “And yet you think I would agree to marry him?” ’Twas absurd. Swiveling her head, she asked, “Payton? You knew of this?”

  He nodded stiffly, then snapped his fingers for more wine.

  “’Tis not about choice,” Geneva said with quiet conviction as she stepped closer, and Apryll was drawn once again to those unblinking pallid eyes. “’Tis about destiny, m’lady. Your destiny.”

  Chapter One

  Black Thorn Forest

  December 1283

  “Happy Christmas,” Lord Devlynn muttered without a trace of a smile. Tossing a sprig of mistletoe onto the grave where his wife and unborn daughter were buried, he couldn’t ignore the remorse that lay heavy upon his soul, nor the bitterness that had festered deep in his heart. He stared at the graying tombstone, fingered the rosary deep within his pocket, but could conjure up no prayer to ask God’s forgiveness.

  A raw December wind, promising snow, blew across the hillside. Frosted blades of grass crumpled beneath his boots. Two horses pawed the hard ground. Astride the bay, his brother sat, gloved hands over the pommel of his saddle, a long-suffering expression on a face considered handsome by nearly every woman in the barony. “Come along, m’lord,” Collin mocked. “’Tis time to put away the ghosts and leave the dead buried where they belong. There is living to be done and now ’tis the time. Like it or not, the revels are upon us and soon the keep will be filled with guests and laughter and celebration.” In the coming darkness, Collin slanted a wicked grin, the likes of which had melted the ice around more than one young maid’s heart. “’Tis time to forget the past, get drunk, raise a skirt or two and make merry.”

  “Is it?”

  “Aye.” Deep lines of frustration furrowed across Collin’s brow. He rubbed his hands together and his breath fogged in the air. “Mayhap you fancy a tongue-lashing from our sweet sister but I, for one, would like to forgo that supreme pleasure at least for this night.”

  “Ride ahead.”

  “Nay—”

  “I’ll be along! Tell Miranda to heat my mazer and fill it with wine.” Mayhap his brother was right; ’twas time to look forward rather than back.

  Collin hesitated, then glanced across the stream and tops of the forest trees to the hill upon which Castle Black Thorn rose, a massive stone and mortar fortress with towers spiraling heavenward. The main gate was thrown open, the drawbridge lowered and portcullis raised, while high on poles above the watchtowers, twin standards emblazoned gold and black snapped in the harsh winter breeze.

  “Have it your way, then. After all, you be the lord.”

  “Forget it not,” Devlynn suggested, striving for humor and failing miserably. His brother sent him a look of pity, reined his stallion and, shaking his head, slapped the beast on his broad rump. With a snort the steed bolted, and Collin, fur-lined mantle swelling behind him, rode furiously down the hillside. The horse’s hooves thundered against the frozen ground. Overhead a startled hawk flapped its great wings as it soared toward the woods.

  Devlynn watched horse and rider splash through the stream at the base of the hill, then disappear into a thicket of naked-branched oaks on the far side of the creek. Waiting until the echo of hoofbeats had faded into the low moan of the wind, Devlynn turned back to the grave. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. ’Twas time to let all the old pain die. Banish the guilt. He pulled off a glove with his teeth, then, reaching beneath his mantle, he wrapped chilled fingers around the black ribbon he’d worn around his arm, the reminder of the tragedy that had claimed his wife and unborn daughter’s lives, the symbol of the guilt that was forever carved into his heart.

  “’Tis over,” he growled, stripping the band from his arm and dropping it onto the dead grass. The first flakes of snow drifted from the dark sky as he strode to his horse and swung easily into the saddle. With thoughts as black as the coming night, he yanked on the reins and urged his barrel-chested gray. “Run, you devil,” he growled.

  The stallion shot forward. Sleek muscles moved effortlessly, long strides tore over the open fields and ever downward to the creek. On the near bank, the steed’s gait shifted, his muscles bunched, and Devlynn caught his breath. Phantom sprang, catapulting over the gurgling stream where ice had collected between the rocks. Devlynn felt a surge of power, a freedom as the raw wind pressed hard against his flesh and stung his eyes.

  This night he would bury all thoughts of his wife and daughter. By the grace of God he still had his son. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Devlynn’s mouth as he thought of the boy. A strong, smart boy nearing ten, Yale was as quick with a dagger as he was with a roll of the dice. Quick with a bow and arrow, sly and bullheaded, Yale eagerly argued with the castle priest, defied his teachers and often escaped from beneath his nursemaid’s wary eye. He rode the finest steeds without a saddle alone in the forest, was known to shimmy up a tree or down a rope faster than the most agile knights, and promised to be a handsome man in time. Gray eyes, thick black hair, a dusting of freckles and a bravery that bordered on recklessness. Aye, the lad was trouble, but also Devlynn’s pride and joy. Soon Yale would grow
tall and strong, and Devlynn never once doubted his decision to keep Yale here, at Black Thorn, rather than send him to be a page at another lord’s castle.

  The boy would someday be Lord of Black Thorn.

  There was no reason for Devlynn to ever marry again; he had his only son and heir.

  Hours later, aided by warm wine, a long, hot meal and the crackling yule log burning in the grate, the chill had drained from Devlynn’s bones. Holly, mistletoe and ivy had been draped throughout the great hall, where hundreds of candles burned, their flames flickering brightly.

  As part of the festivities and feast a boar’s head, replete with sprays of laurel and an apple stuffed into its mouth, had been paraded through the guests upon a silver platter, then consumed along with great trays of eel, pheasant, salmon and crane. Wine flowed. Music trilled. Laughter rang. Dozens of finely garbed guests, resplendent with jewels, were dancing and making merry, laughing and drinking as if they had not a care in the world. Half of them he’d never met.

  The spirit of the season was lost on the Lord of Black Thorn. Slouched against the small of his back at the head table with the rest of his family, Devlynn had no interest in the festivities, nor had he paid any attention to more than one fetching young maid determined to catch his eye.

  “You break more hearts and dash more hopes than ’tis wise,” Collin warned his brother after Yale, un-characteristically drowsy, had been hauled off to bed. “There be skirts to be lifted tonight.”

  “So lift them,” Devlynn replied, drinking heartily and motioning to a page to refill his cup. “All of them.”

  “Some of the maids have eyes only for you.”

  Because I am the lord, he thought cynically as the yule candle burned bright before him. He had no interest in foolish, ambitious women. The page refilled his cup and he wondered when the evening would end.

  “By the saints, ’tis an angel,” Aunt Violet whispered almost reverently as she gazed upon the guests.

  Devlynn slid a glance in the older woman’s direction and saw her pale lips quiver in awe. Hurriedly, with deft be-ringed fingers, she made the sign of the cross over her ample, velvet-draped bosom. ’Twas as if she were warding off evil spirits rather than embracing a divine being cast down from the heavens.

  Devlynn paid little mind to the old woman and swallowed another gulp of wine.

  Though her once-clear eyes had clouded with age, Violet was always seeing spirits and ghosts. Now, during the holidays, his aunt was forever searching for some sign of heavenly intervention—conjuring up a miracle to lift what she considered a dark, gloomy pall that had fallen upon the Lord of Black Thorn’s shoulders.

  ’Twas foolishness.

  A scamp of a child, the daughter of his sister Miranda, screamed gleefully as she dashed past.

  “Hush, Bronwyn, off to bed with you,” Miranda ordered.

  “Nay, mother, not yet,” the girl cried, brown curls bouncing around her flushed eight-year-old face. “We’ve not yet played hoodman’s-blind or bob apple.”

  “But soon, the nurse will take you upstairs.”

  “Where be Yale?” she asked Devlynn.

  “Already abed,” her mother said sternly. “Where you should be.”

  “Why? ’Tis not like him,” Bronwyn sniffed.

  “Nay, ’tis not,” Devlynn agreed, wondering if the lad was becoming ill.

  “Mayhap he is only pretending sleep and he is even now escaping the castle, as he has before!” Bronwyn said, her eyes glittering at the thought of her adventurous cousin.

  “Nay. ’Tis only too much merriment and festivities,” Miranda said and Bronwyn, as if realizing she was in danger of being hauled off to bed this very minute, tossed her dark ringlets, then scampered away, chasing after a servant carrying platters of jellied eggs, tarts and meat pies.

  “Violet is right. She is a beauty,” Collin whispered under his breath. There was awe in his voice, but Devlynn refused to be infected with the rapture his brother felt for females.

  “All women are beauties to you, brother.” Devlynn tossed back his mazer, wiped his mouth and, bored by the conversation, searched the milling crowd with his eyes.

  Then he saw her.

  Unerringly.

  Knowing instinctively that it was the “angel” of whom his aunt had murmured in awe. Mayhap his doddery, ancient aunt was right for the first time in her seventy-odd years, that the unknown woman was a magical being sent straight from the gates of heaven.

  She certainly was like no other Devlynn had ever seen.

  Tall and slender, bedecked in a dazzling white gown, she moved through the crowd with an easy, elegant grace. Her dress was embroidered with silver and gold thread, intricately woven, and her hair, as pale as flax, was threaded with silver and gold ribbons. Her eyes sparkled from the reflection of the hundreds of candles within the room, her cheekbones arched high above rosy spots of color on flawless skin.

  Devlynn’s heart thumped in his chest. He silently called himself a fool. Took another swallow of wine.

  Who the devil was she?

  “You told me not that you had invited divinity,” Collin teased, leaning closer to his brother, one side of his mouth lifted in cynical, wicked appreciation.

  “I knew not.” Devlynn couldn’t pull his eyes from the curve of her cheek, nor the lift of her small, pointed chin.

  Christ Jesus. The air stilled in his lungs.

  “I think I might ask her to dance.” Scraping his chair back, Collin lifted an eyebrow in his brother’s direction, as if in challenge. ’Twas his way these days. Collin seemed restless and bored, ready for a fight, always daring his older brother.

  A spurt of jealousy swept through Devlynn, but he raised one shoulder as if he was not interested in the woman. Not at all. Yet he couldn’t stop following her with his eyes and felt the muscles at the base of his neck grow taut as Collin strode to the woman and, with only the slightest bit of conversation, began dancing with her.

  She smiled radiantly, and slid easily into his brother’s arms.

  Devlynn’s gut clenched. He feigned interest in the conversation around him, drank heartily, but the truth of the matter was that he could barely drag his eyes from the elegant woman draped in white as she swirled past lords and ladies festooned in purple, dark green and scarlet.

  When the dance was finished, Collin bowed and she inclined her head, then turned to yet another man, a burly knight, who swept her into his arms. For a second Devlynn thought she cast a quick glance in his direction, but ’twas a heartbeat and then she laughed gaily in the bear of a man’s embrace.

  Collin returned, picked up his mazer and sighed. “Truly an angel, but one with a touch of sin, methinks.”

  “How could you know?”

  “Trust me, brother. I know women. This one”—he pointed her out with the finger around his cup—“is spirited, and I’m not talking about heavenly spirits now.”

  “Hush!” Violet said. “I’ll hear none of this!”

  Devlynn finished his wine and while the tapers burned low and a jester tried to regale him with a bawdy joke, his attention never strayed from the bewitching woman as she danced. His eyebrows drew together and he wondered yet again who she was, why he’d never met her, how she’d come to be invited here.

  As if he read his brother’s mind, Collin said, “I did not catch her name. But mayhap I will the next time.” The music faded and he started to climb to his feet, but Devlynn laid a hand upon his shoulder.

  “Nay, ’tis my turn,” he said, surprising even himself.

  “Ah … So brother, you not be made of stone after all.” Collin chuckled gruffly as Devlynn waded through the crowd, nodding to well-wishers as he passed, walking to the knot of guests near the fire where the woman swept a lock of hair from her cheek. He was not alone in his quest. More than one man was following her with appreciative and lust-filled eyes.

  “Excuse me,” he said as he approached.

  “Lord Devlynn.” She dipped her head.

&nb
sp; “Could I have this dance?” he asked as a musician began to play a harp.

  She smiled, her lips parting to show just the hint of white teeth. Gold eyes sparkled at him, yet there was something deeper in her gaze, something hovering beneath the surface. One honey-colored eyebrow raised haughtily. “Aye, m’lord, ’twould be my pleasure, to be sure,” she said, then tossed back her head to stare directly at him. “As it was, I thought I would have to ask you.”

  “You would be so bold?” He was surprised.

  “As to approach the lord of the castle?” she asked, some of her gaiety fading. “Aye. I assure you I would.”

  Who was she to flirt so wantonly with him? “And had I denied you?”

  “Then I would have asked your brother.” He swung her easily into his arms and she moved flawlessly. “He would not have said nay.”

  Devlynn didn’t doubt it for a second. Even now he felt the weight of Collin’s gaze boring into his back. “Who are you?”

  “You know not?” she teased, moving easily as the tempo of the music quickened. Other couples stepped lively and swirled around them. Fragrant smoke spiraled to the ceiling and conversation buzzed beneath the lilting music.

  It had been years since he’d danced, forever since he’d wanted to hold a woman and spin her across the floor, but this one molded tightly against his body and followed his steps easily when they were together, held his gaze when they danced apart, her feet moving quickly over the rushes, her snowy dress smooth and shimmering. She smelled of lavender and roses and the sheen of sweat that covered her skin glistened in the candle glow. She cocked her head as if silently defying him, as if beneath a false layer of civility there was a wild, rebellious spirit lurking within the deepest part of her soul.

  For the first time since his wife’s death, the Lord of Black Thorn experienced a heat in his blood, a lust running through his veins, a throb in that part of him he’d thought long dead.