Wild and Wicked by Lisa Jackson

with those of the soldiers and horses . . . if she could outwit the dog. She pulled off her mantle and threw it down the ravine, farther along the path, hoping to fool the bloody curs. Then, running headlong toward the coming search party, she plunged through the forest, feeling twigs and briars pull at her sleeves and tangle in her hair.
    Men were shouting. Oh, Lord, they were close. Over the roar of blood rushing through her head she heard deep voices, excited yips and the crash of hooves on the hard, icy road.
    Lord help me, she silently prayed, diving behind a burned stump and pressing her back to the charred bark as the army sped by. Dogs barking, horses galloping, men shouting, bridles and swords rattling. Heart in her throat she waited, certain that at any moment the small band would turn and hunt her down.
     
    Yale opened a groggy eye. ’Twas dark except for moonlight and he was being held by strong arms as the horse beneath them seemed to fly through the night. His head spun and he wondered why his father had taken him from his bed to ride like the wind on horseback. Yale’s head pounded with every jarring hoofbeat and he was so tired, so sluggish, and something was wrong, very, very wrong. Yet Phantom’s strides were long, his gait sure.
    “Father?” Yale muttered, his tongue thick as the ghostly forest flashed by in a blur.
    “I be not your father.”
    The voice was unfamiliar and Yale twisted his neck to look at the man who was hauling him off by horseback. ’Twas that of a stranger, a bold, angry man from the looks of him, but Yale wasn’t certain, his head felt about to explode and his stomach weak, and the darkness from which he’d emerged threatened to take him over.
    “Who . . . who are you . . . ?” he managed to get out and he heard the rider laugh.
    “You want not to know.”
    Yale blinked once and then, as the ground swept by at a dizzying speed, he lost consciousness again.
     
    Apryll waited, forcing her breathing to slow, straining to listen, daring to peek from behind the stump to search the darkness. She slipped away from the stump, dashed onto the main road and ran as fast as she could, heading toward Black Thorn. She remembered crossing a creek a few miles back. With enough of a lead, she could make it to the frigid stream and, using the water to hide her scent, follow the creek for a mile or so, to the next road, then circle back to Serennog or the inn where Payton’s men were to meet him. Behind her brother’s lying back, she would steal the boy and ascertain his safe passage to Black Thorn . . . or, better still, she would bargain with the devil, promise Devlynn the safe return of his son along with his horses and stolen valuables from the treasury in exchange for peace.
    Even if he agreed, it would not be the end of it, of course. Devlynn would still want to mete out his vengeance, but mayhap it would be tempered.
    And what of Serennog? Would it not be in worse shape than before? What kind of a leader are you?
    Mayhap Payton had been right all along. She would have to marry a wealthy baron, one she could barely stomach. She considered wealthy Baron William of Balchdar and shuddered. He was a cruel one, no doubt, but no worse than her other suitors, and Balchdar was a rich barony.
    Her legs ached and her lungs burned and the sounds of the soldiers had faded, if only for a few minutes. She slowed to a fast walk, hoping that the cover of darkness would last until she reached the creek. She’d take off her clothes and carry them so that they wouldn’t become wet, then don them again . . . she hurried faster until she reached the banks of the stream, and, confident that she’d lost her pursuers, she stripped out of the huntsman’s garb, carefully tying the breeches and boots in the arms of the tunic’s sleeves.
    The wind was cold against her bare skin, the water icy as she stepped onto the slippery rocks and made her way downstream. Dawn was beginning to break, gray slats of light