Wild and Wicked Read Free Page A

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