hollow words of consolation.
From the kennels the dogs began to bay.
Soldiers amassed. Nervous horses reared and snorted as they were harnessed to heavy carts laden with supplies and weapons.
Two men dead. Mayhap more.
The treasury robbed.
The stables burned and the best horses taken.
And Yale missing.
Because he was foolish enough to be enraptured by a woman.
A Jezebel.
He strode into the long, low building and stopped at the empty, burned stall where his steed had been stabled. The gray. Gone. Phantom’s box empty.
“God’s teeth, there will be vengeance,” he growled under his breath.
One person knew the truth and that one person was a woman, a beauty, an “angel,” Aunt Violet had called her. Aye, the angel of death and deception. Apryll of Serennog.
He yanked a pitchfork from a smoldering haystack and hurled it like a spear into the wall. A horse tethered nearby started and snorted. Devlynn barely noticed. His thoughts were centered on the traitorous, seductive, bold woman.
By the gods, he wouldn’t rest. He’d hunt her to the ground. When he caught up with her, he’d take great and slow satisfaction in wringing her pretty, lying neck.
Right after he bedded her.
Apryll watched the lord’s fury from the safety of the chapel window. As soon as she’d seen that the fire would die, she’d slipped through the garden and hurried along a well-trodden path to the first place of refuge she’d found and this was it, a wide room lit by a few dying candles. She’d crossed herself, then stared through the window, spying the lord easily. He was not what she had expected, given his dark reputation.
Aye, he was tall, but there were others who were taller, and he was broad-shouldered, yet lean, but it was his commanding attitude that caught her attention. Others, though larger than he, seemed to shrink in his presence. He spoke to several of the men, strode into the stables, returned to the outer bailey and was giving orders that she could not hear, could only imagine. But even in his fury she could not imagine him capable of the cold-blooded murder the rumors accused him of. Especially of his own child. Not after she had seen how much his son meant to the lord. But killing someone who caused his child harm? Aye, perhaps he could. She would not stay to find out first-hand.
How could she escape? The portcullis had rattled shut, the gates to the keep closed, and Apryll would be an idiot to think that the baron would not search every nook and cranny within the walls. There were escape routes within the castle, she was certain of it; every fortress had them, secret passages and sally ports, back doors mounted high on the exterior walls where soldiers could sneak out unobserved, but she knew not where they were. She could tempt the fates and face Devlynn, approach him and beg his forgiveness, offer to help him find his son, but she knew her efforts would only be met with cold, cruel disgust. Damn Payton, why had he left her here? Had it been intentional?
“God help me,” she whispered, glancing at the crucifix mounted over the altar. She could not hide here forever, for certainly she would be discovered, and she knew so little of Black Thorn, she knew not where a good hiding spot might be. One way or another she had to escape, chase down her brother and somehow free the boy. Only then would she be able to face Lord Devlynn again.
She spied a heavyset man, the priest, leading a woman to the chapel and her heart sank. Quickly she looked for a place to hide. Certainly not at the altar. Stealthily, she crept into an adjoining chamber wherein she spied a single pallet and small table. There was a curtain covering an alcove. Quickly, Apryll swept the drape aside and found herself in a small passageway only a few feet square with another door on the other side. That door was locked. Though she pressed her shoulder against the thick panels and tugged on the handle, it didn’t budge. She was trapped.
Her only
From the kennels the dogs began to bay.
Soldiers amassed. Nervous horses reared and snorted as they were harnessed to heavy carts laden with supplies and weapons.
Two men dead. Mayhap more.
The treasury robbed.
The stables burned and the best horses taken.
And Yale missing.
Because he was foolish enough to be enraptured by a woman.
A Jezebel.
He strode into the long, low building and stopped at the empty, burned stall where his steed had been stabled. The gray. Gone. Phantom’s box empty.
“God’s teeth, there will be vengeance,” he growled under his breath.
One person knew the truth and that one person was a woman, a beauty, an “angel,” Aunt Violet had called her. Aye, the angel of death and deception. Apryll of Serennog.
He yanked a pitchfork from a smoldering haystack and hurled it like a spear into the wall. A horse tethered nearby started and snorted. Devlynn barely noticed. His thoughts were centered on the traitorous, seductive, bold woman.
By the gods, he wouldn’t rest. He’d hunt her to the ground. When he caught up with her, he’d take great and slow satisfaction in wringing her pretty, lying neck.
Right after he bedded her.
Apryll watched the lord’s fury from the safety of the chapel window. As soon as she’d seen that the fire would die, she’d slipped through the garden and hurried along a well-trodden path to the first place of refuge she’d found and this was it, a wide room lit by a few dying candles. She’d crossed herself, then stared through the window, spying the lord easily. He was not what she had expected, given his dark reputation.
Aye, he was tall, but there were others who were taller, and he was broad-shouldered, yet lean, but it was his commanding attitude that caught her attention. Others, though larger than he, seemed to shrink in his presence. He spoke to several of the men, strode into the stables, returned to the outer bailey and was giving orders that she could not hear, could only imagine. But even in his fury she could not imagine him capable of the cold-blooded murder the rumors accused him of. Especially of his own child. Not after she had seen how much his son meant to the lord. But killing someone who caused his child harm? Aye, perhaps he could. She would not stay to find out first-hand.
How could she escape? The portcullis had rattled shut, the gates to the keep closed, and Apryll would be an idiot to think that the baron would not search every nook and cranny within the walls. There were escape routes within the castle, she was certain of it; every fortress had them, secret passages and sally ports, back doors mounted high on the exterior walls where soldiers could sneak out unobserved, but she knew not where they were. She could tempt the fates and face Devlynn, approach him and beg his forgiveness, offer to help him find his son, but she knew her efforts would only be met with cold, cruel disgust. Damn Payton, why had he left her here? Had it been intentional?
“God help me,” she whispered, glancing at the crucifix mounted over the altar. She could not hide here forever, for certainly she would be discovered, and she knew so little of Black Thorn, she knew not where a good hiding spot might be. One way or another she had to escape, chase down her brother and somehow free the boy. Only then would she be able to face Lord Devlynn again.
She spied a heavyset man, the priest, leading a woman to the chapel and her heart sank. Quickly she looked for a place to hide. Certainly not at the altar. Stealthily, she crept into an adjoining chamber wherein she spied a single pallet and small table. There was a curtain covering an alcove. Quickly, Apryll swept the drape aside and found herself in a small passageway only a few feet square with another door on the other side. That door was locked. Though she pressed her shoulder against the thick panels and tugged on the handle, it didn’t budge. She was trapped.
Her only
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