CHAPTER Twelve
I’ll take no orders from you.” Gwynn scrambled to her feet. Her pulse throbbed. Her heart thundered and she wanted to shake the very life from the man who dared stand before her. “How did you find me?”
“Luck,” he admitted with a smile that was a jagged slash of white that flashed in the darkness. Dressed in black, a new beard shadow roughening his chin, Trevin glared at her with eyes as dark as midnight and she was reminded of looking into those very eyes while he had made sweet, slow, sensuous love to her. For the express purpose of lulling her into trusting him. Oh, what a simpering fool she’d been.
“Luck,” she repeated, taunting him. “Like the kind of luck you had when you won the castle from Lord Dryw?” He didn’t bother to answer and she stepped closer to him, her fury mounting as she remembered each incident of mortification she’d faced at being held hostage, for that is what it was, at Black Oak Hall. “You… You had no right to try and keep me prisoner!”
“’Twas only to keep you safe.” His voice was low, like the sea at the turning of the tide.
“’Tis not your concerns, my lord.” Gossamer clouds scudded in the heavens, partially hiding the stars, and the forest seemed to close around them as if they were the only two people in this world. “I-I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” A dark eyebrow cocked insolently and he stared at her so long and hard she could suddenly barely breathe. Her abdomen tightened, her diaphragm pressed hard against her lungs.
She heard the sounds of the night, the hum of insects, the soft hoot of an owl and the rush of water as it tumbled over a creek hidden behind the thickets of oak and fragrant pine. Oh, what cruel fate that he could turn her thoughts to such a jumble when they had no time, no time at all to rescue Gareth.
“Have I not for the past thirteen years?” she managed to demand. “Not only did I look after myself, but our son as well, all the while ruling a castle.”
“Yea, and now you are a bride who has run from her husband, our son is banished and might face death, and your castle is in the hands of a man who is your sworn enemy.”
“All because of you!” She would not let him turn this all around. ‘Twas his fault as much as hers. She tossed her hair from her eyes and one side of his mouth lifted in amusement as he extracted a long pine needle from the tangled curls. His fingers grazed her cheek and all the spit in her mouth disappeared. Fierce but tender. Threatening but gentle. So was Trevin the outlaw.
Her stomach did a slow, sensual roll and for a second she thought only of kissing those hard, blade-thin lips and tumbling to the ground with him. But she could not. There was too much at stake. “Do you know that Gareth has been captured?” she asked.
“No.” His countenance was instantly grim.
“’Tis true, Trevin. Though he was sorely wounded, Sir Charles rode to Black Oak and told me that our boy is now captive. It seems both he and your magician friend have been cast into the dungeon.” Her heart was heavy with the thought of her son lying in the rotting prison beneath the towers of a castle he’d known as his home.
Trevin’s jaw tightened and his eyes glittered with a seething, deadly rage. “One of my men saw a wounded man wearing the colors of Rhydd riding to Black Oak. He also spied Webb, who we think attacked him.”
“Aye, Charles said as such. No doubt Ian ordered Charles slain to prevent him from reaching me with the news of Gareth’s imprisonment.” Gwynn shook the pine needles from her hair and fingered her dagger.
“So it seems.” He glanced at the night black heavens, then back to Gwynn. “Worry not. I will free both Gareth and Muir.”
“Nay,” she said, for as angry as she was with him, she knew that if he were to face Ian, Trevin would meet his end and the thought of his death, of never seeing him again was a torment she could not bear. “I will go. Ian will bargain with me.”
“Bargain?” He snorted.
“I will offer myself as trade.”
“What makes you think he will honor a bargain made with a woman who has already pledged herself to him?” Trevin rubbed the muscles of his neck and his eyebrows were drawn together, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
She’d considered this herself and had no answer. “I think… at least I hope, that he will want to please me.”
“And if he does not?” Trevin asked.
“Then I suppose I will have no choice but to rely upon you, thief.”
Trevin leaned down so that his gaze was level with hers, his breath warm as it touched her skin. “Make no mistake, woman. No harm will come to our son,” he vowed.
“How can you be certain?”
“Your husband is not foolish enough to risk my wrath.” His nostrils flared in the darkness. “Asides, he is using our son as a lure.” Trevin’s gaze met hers again and in one heart-stopping second she was lost to him. “He dares not harm him as it is you he wants.”
“And you.”
He took her hand and pulled her away from the tree. “Nay, m’lady, Ian wants me dead—or alive so that he can make a spectacle of killing me.”
“Then I will give myself-”
“He will not get the chance,” Trevin vowed.
“But-” The vision of Trevin bloodied from Ian’s sword was too much to bear. “You do not know him. He may be much older, but he is quick with a sword and knife.”
“Not quick enough, m’lady,” Trevin promised. He wrapped a strong hand around the nape of her neck and drew her head closer to his. “As long as I live and breathe, you will never give yourself to that cur.”
“But for Gareth-”
“Shh. Know you this,” he vowed, his breath whispering across her face. “I will never let you down, Gwynn of Rhydd. Nor will I let you place yourself or our son in danger. If you have faith in nothing else in this world, believe that you can trust me above all else.”
She swallowed hard and tried to slow the heat rushing through her blood. But he was too near, too male. The quietly disturbing scents of musk and leather mingled with the rain-washed smell of the forest. She felt his heat, knew a gnawing primal lust that was beginning to burn through her veins. “I-I can’t.”
“Try,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers ever so gently.
Oh, God, was that her heart knocking so loudly?
“Please, Trevin… oh, nay…”
With pale moonlight caressing his face, he took her into arms as strong as barrel staves and pressed cool, insistent lips to hers. She felt a desperation in his kiss, a wild need that pierced her soul.
There was no time for this madness; she could not place her faith in a man who would sneak away from her bed and hold her hostage. She could not, would not…
Resistance fled.
Her chilled, ready lips parted as if of their own accord. His muscles strained as he kissed her, as if though he wanted her, needed her, he, too, was battling his desire.
All too willingly she accepted his tongue, warm and wet, as it entered her mouth, touching, searching, playing with hers.
He trembled violently and she was lost to him yet again. Knowing she was making a mistake, she leaned against him and wound her arms around his neck.
“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”
His weight dragged them downward and Gwynn closed her mind to the doubts that sped through her mind. Aye, this was wrong. Aye, she might regret the glorious act for the rest of her life, but nay, she would not stop it from happening. Tonight might be the last night they would ever be together, the last time she would feel his kiss, the last moment she would ever feel his welcome weight upon her. Without another doubt, she closed her eyes, drew from his strength, and felt this dark, unforgiving night wrap around her as she gave herself to the only man she had ever loved.
“I hate the bastard!” Gareth rocked back on his heels in this hellhole of a prison and glared at Muir. Cold, beaten, and hungry, Gareth wanted the truth.
The old man stirred but didn’t waken.
“And I think you be a lying, one-eyed fool.”
“Say… what?” The old magician, lying on his side, stretched and opened his eyes.
“Trevin of Black Oak. The murderin’ thief. I hate him. He be not my father.” Gareth wasn’t going to believe any such poppycock. So his father wasn’t the baron. Fine. He didn’t need a sire. He’d gotten along well enough so far without a father… well, except that now he was being held prisoner in a rotting dungeon and scheduled to be hanged.
“Ah, boy, Trevin’s a good man.” Muir was quick to hold up a hand when he saw the protests forming on Gareth’s tongue.
“I don’t see how,” Gareth growled as the guard, keys clanging, opened up the cell door. Rats scurried through the filthy straw.
“You. Old man. The baron wants to ‘ave a word with you.” The guard belched and scratched at his protruding stomach while Muir struggled to his feet and, wincing, stretched his back until it made a series of pops. “Come along now.”
Gareth saw the ghost of a smile pass over the sorcerer’s lips. “Find out about my mother,” he begged, “and Boon.” He held onto the grimy bars as Muir, led by the guard, was shepherded out of the dungeon. ‘Twas a horrid place with rats and mice crawling through the holes in the crumbling walls and a stench that reeked from rotting food and urine.
If his mother could see him now she would keel over. Better that she never know. Oh, Mother, he thought, I’ve failed you. He’d never expected to miss her, had often thought her bossing was a bother, but oh, what he would give to have his blissful, na?ve life, when he was considered the son of the baron, returned to him.
“Fresh straw for the prisoners,” a voice called down the stairs and Gareth’s eyes rounded when he spied Tom, the butcher’s son, hauling a bundle of straw upon his back. “Where do ye want it?”
The only guard left in the dank chambers was seated upon a bench under one low-burning torch. “Anywhere,” he muttered. “Who cares? Their sorry lives are worth naught.”
Tom, clumsy with his burden, unloaded his bundle near Gareth’s cell and as he untied the twine he whispered, “God eyes, Gareth, how did ye get caught?”
“Does not matter.”
“I always said you be a fool.” Thick fingers fumbling with the twine, Tom glanced over his shoulder. Assured that the guard wasn’t looking, he slid a small handful of straw between the bars, then straightened.
“What of Boon?” Gareth asked softly.
“I know not.”
“Hey! What’s going on?” The guard, realizing there was conversation between prisoner and laborer, reeled and glared at Tom with suspicious eyes.
“Nothing. The poor sod’s wanting me to get him some of cook’s sausage for him. Ha!” Tom spit on the floor, then turned and made his ungainly way up the steps.
“No talkin’, y’hear me?” the guard grumbled, his gaze moving suspiciously from cell to cell.
Gareth didn’t answer, nor did he touch the small bundle of straw that lay so near his fingertips. Only when the sentry’s attention was drawn to another prisoner did Gareth’s fingers search the dried bunch to find a slingshot fashioned from bone and leather. There were no pebbles within the bundle but ‘twas not a problem as the stone walls of the dungeon were crumbling and the mortar chipping away in bits and pieces. Ah, Tom wasn’t such a bad lad after all, Gareth thought, his fingers curling possessively around his newly gained weapon. He couldn’t wait to use it against some of the brutes who had hauled him in here.
Let anyone dare lay a hand on him. The fool would be lucky if he didn’t lose an eye for his efforts.
“I know you.” Ian stroked his chin carefully as he sat, one leg crossed over the other in his chair. The great hall was nearly empty, but the tantalizing odors of seared meat and spices lingered in the smoke-scented room. A wooden mazer dangling from the fingers of Ian’s one hand held wine, and the sweet perfume of fermented grapes teased Muir’s nostrils almost to distraction. A few guards were stationed near the doorways but they seemed disinterested in their lord and only snapped to attention when a fetching lass swung by. “We’ve met somewhere.”
“Everyone within the kingdom has heard of Muir,” the magician said sarcastically. Oh, for a mere sip from the lord’s sweet cup. “’Tis my powers that set me apart from the rest.”
“Do not jest,” Ian ordered, rubbing thumb and forefinger together. “’Tis just at the edge of my memory. I cannot remember where or when, but I will.” His lips fattened over his teeth as he concentrated. “In time.”
Muir kept his expression bland for ‘twould only cause harm if the new lord’s memory suddenly returned and he recalled the damning truth. ‘Twas years before, aye, when both Muir and Ian were young men. Guilt settled in his bones for ‘twas they who had started this horrid bloody chain. “I see not why you keep the boy in the dungeon,” he said.
“He’s a traitor. He killed the baron.”
“Nay, nay.” Muir shook his bald head. “He’s but a lad who was foolishly protecting his mother’s honor.”
Ian snorted and to Muir’s disappointment, drained his mazer. “Honor?” He shook his head and the veins in his face became visible with a slow-burning rage. “There is no honor or virtue in being a thief’s whore.” Wincing as he stood, he withdrew his sword and studied the long, shiny blade as it reflected the gold shadows of the fire. “But I will deal with her as well. She will be here soon, for I sent her a gift—a bloody messenger with the news of her son’s imprisonment.”
Muir felt a dull ache in his bad eye.
“The thief will follow.”
Pain, swift and sharp, pierced Muir’s brain. He doubled over and clutched his eye. Not now! He could not have a vision now, but sure as he was born, it came, in full view he saw Trevin and Gwynn together, riding toward Rhydd.
Toward Ian’s soldiers.
Toward the gallows.
Toward death.
He could summon no spit in his mouth and his heart seared as if it had been burned.
Ian’s voice came as if from far away. “’Tis only a matter of time and then, old man, revenge will be mine.”
Nay, ‘twill be mine, Muir thought as pain ravaged his body. And you, Lord Ian, will pay for all your sins.
Trevin cursed himself up one side and down the other. ‘Twas a fool he was and there was no doubt of it. Levered upon one elbow, he stared down at Gwynn, still slumbering, unaware that dawn was casting its first gray light through the forest. A solitary winter bird had begun to warble its lonely song as dew drenched the boughs of the surrounding trees.
She was a beauty. No doubt of it. Her skin was white and pure, her hair in red-brown ringlets framed an oval face with a strong nose and pointed chin. Fine, curling lashes brushed the tops of high cheekbones that were a soft peach color. Her lips were parted, her breath regular, and he knew that beneath the cloaks that had been their blankets her naked body was firm and wanting, a glorious place of pleasure and sanctuary.
A place you vowed never to visit.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw growing hard. Never had he felt this way for a woman, but this one, with her fiery temper and quick tongue, had somehow wormed her way under his skin. He could not seem to get enough of her and though his member was sore from all the times he’d enter her, still he wanted more.
Gently he brushed aside a wayward curl from her cheek and wondered why she was forever on his mind. ‘Twas not because she was beautiful, others were so. Nor was it because she was the mother of his son, again; other woman could have borne him children if he so desired. Nay, there was more to it. She intrigued him with her forest-green eyes, quick smile, and fertile mind. She was brave to the point of being foolhardy, outspoken for a woman, even of her station, and a person who seemed to believe not only in God but in the Earth Mother and magic as well.
Not that Trevin blamed her. Often times, it seemed, God turned a deaf ear to prayers. Had he not seen it himself when Faith and baby Alison had passed on? Guilt took a stranglehold of his heart and squeezed with iron-clad fingers. He should have loved Faith; but he had not. Though he’d been true to her and never lain with another woman, he had not cared for her with the same intensity that he felt for this sharp-tongued female.
Even though Gwynn was married to another.
Oh, fool that he was, he seemed unable to stop bedding her while she belonged to his enemies. First she’d been Roderick’s wife - well, at least in name. Now she belonged to Ian. Christ, Jesus, could he not be with her while she was between husbands? Mentally he kicked himself from one side of Wales to the other.
He knew of false marriage. Had he not married Faith out of guilt for winning her father’s castle, then watched in horror as he’d flung himself to his death. His attempts to save the old man had been futile and had turned on him. Many who lived within the walls of Black Oak and had watched him wrestle with Dryw had assumed that Trevin had pushed the old lord through the crenels to the cold stone courtyard rather than believe that he’d tried to save the drunken fool. Either way he’d lost and, as atonement, he’d married Faith. ‘Twas his fault she’d lost both father and home and he needed to assuage his guilt.
But loved her, he had not. At the birthing of their daughter, he felt close to her and had wrapped comforting arms around her when the baby had refused to draw a breath. He’d held Faith and the stillborn babe as she’d cried and tried to help her accept the loss of their child. She had refused.
He hadn’t been able to save her, either. As Faith had lain upon her deathbed, he’d vowed he loved her but she’d looked at him with sorrowful eyes and shook her head.
“Do not lie to me, Trevin McBain,” she’d said, lifting a weary hand and stroking his hair.
“I would not.”
“Oh, you be fond of me. Aye, even care for me a bit,” she’d said with a weak smile, “but do not shame us both by a lie.”
He’d kissed her cold lips and she, still holding the dead child had begged him to never love another.
Vow to me, Trevin that you’ll never love another woman. Swear it.
He’d sworn upon her grave that he would never marry again, never pretend to love another. He’d managed to keep that vow until this morning as he gazed down upon the one women who could bring him to break that oath.
Another man’s wife.
Even now he wanted to wake her with a kiss. Instead he fought the powerful urge to take her yet again, and angry at fates, shoved his legs through his breeches and threw his tunic over his head. He would not think of their lovemaking again, for it only clouded his mind. He needed a clear head and aside from that he had a new problem—what to do with her. He was not surprised that she’d duped his sentries; many of them were untrained and disloyal. He’d taken his best man from the castle, aside from Henry, the boy he’d knighted out of obligation.
“Lady,” he said, his voice rougher and deeper than was usual as he gently shook her shoulder. “Awaken. ‘Tis time we meet with the others.”
She stretched and smiled up at him, her eyes, when they opened, green shot with silver. “Mmm. Oh, m’lord,” she said with a naughty wink, “have you not the time to kiss me again?”
“Nay, we must away-”
“’Twill not take long,” she cooed and he was undone yet again. Cursing his weakness, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her as the sun crested the eastern hills. Her warm, sleep body molded to his and he knew deep in the darkest part of his soul, he was lost to her. He would have this one last union, for there would be no others and when she realized how he plotted to thwart her, she would be furious with him and never have want of his kiss.
‘Twas bittersweet, this loving, and he kept his eyes open as he watched the sunbeams turn her hair to fire. Forever would her image be burned into his brain for ‘twould be the last time his gaze caressed her flawless skin and never again would he sense her breath catch in her throat, feel the soft whisper of her fingers searching through his chest hair to discover his nipples, or experience the slick sensation of her tongue slide intimately over his skin.
Almighty God, he would miss her.
But he had no choice.
“We must help them, I tell ye,” Idelle insisted. She paced in the small chapel and skewered the priest with a look she hoped would make him squirm. Some man of the cloth he was, always having a page flog him until his back bled ‘twas addled.
“I cannot go against the lord’s wishes.”
“Why not? Oh, a fool ye be, Father Anthony.”
“’Tis not God’s will.” He wiped a gold chalice with his sleeve, then placed it into a cupboard with silver and gold crosses, goblets, and leather-bound tomes.
“Do ye think ‘tis God’s will that Lady Gwynn’s son be locked away like a criminal?”
“He’s a traitor. He killed the lord.” A great sadness stole across his face. “’Tis the law.” Father Anthony locked the cupboard and tucked the key in the deep pockets of his vestment.
“And ye, being a priest, are bound by higher laws, are ye not? Are not God’s covenants more dear than earthly decrees and possessions?” She stared pointedly at his carved, locked cupboard.
“Who are y-you to lecture me, woman? I know of your dark arts. Have I not turned a blind eye when you mention the names of the pagan gods? ‘Tis said you cast spells and chant not the prayers of the church, but rave of devils and demons and the like. ‘Tis time you came forward, daughter, and c-cast away your evil ways.”
Idelle stood toe-to-toe with the priest. Her eyes may be weak, but her heart was not. “’Tis not evil I worship, Father, but all things good and wise. I have faith in the Christian God, aye, but there is magic in the earth, wind, and sea that I will forever use. Asides, we have no time to argue about good and evil, for we both know what they be. We are talking of a youth, Father Anthony, Lady Gwynn’s boy and of an old man who is dying.”
“The magician.”
“Aye.”
“He, too, practices that which is forbidden. I prithee, Idelle, s-s-search your heart. L-l-look to God.”
“And I prithee, Father Anthony,” she said, her milky eyes focusing upon him, “look to your own soul. Who are ye to point a pious finger? I know of ye, Anthony, as I birthed ye to yer poor dead ma. I’ve watched ye grown from a lad to a man and I, too, have turned a blind eye to all that ye’ve become.”
He swallowed hard. “I-I d-d-do not know wh-what you mean.”
“Sure ye do, Father.” Idelle, through the clouds in her eyes, noticed his Adam’s apple twitch nervously. “Now, think of the good of Rhydd, the people within, and especially Lady Gwynn and her son.”
“I-I will pr-pray on it.”
“Do so.” Idelle deftly crossed herself and genuflected at the altar, then she turned quickly and left the fool of a priest. He was a sorely troubled soul, one who could not look into a mirror without cringing. She only hoped he would search his heart, for she desperately needed his help if she were to free the lady’s boy.
The last of the complaints had been heard and Ian’s head pounded. The arguments were petty. One peasant argued with his neighbor over the size of his land, a starving farmer begged forgiveness for poaching a stag in the woods, and the cook whined on and on that the steward wasn’t keeping stock of the spices and that the multure, fee for milling grain, wasn’t enough to keep up with the demand of flour for bread. ‘Twas too much for Ian and he wondered how Roderick, then Gwynn, had kept everyone in the castle at peace. Though he’d watched her over the years and offered his advice, even overseeing some of the work, Gwynn, in her husband’s absence, had managed to rule Rhydd as well as raise that confounded boy without any outward trouble. Nor had he, while she was in charge, sensed any of the simmering rebellion that he now felt existed within the keep.
He stood and stretched, ignoring the pain in his legs. His wounds were healing and soon he would bear only scars from Trevin of Black Oak’s sword.
“Bastard,” he spit out as Webb, who had watched the lord dealing with his villeins from his post near the door, approached. “Have you news of my wayward wife?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“Nay. She be a slippery one.”
Ian could not disagree.
“As she’s with Trevin of Black Oak, she is even more difficult to find,” Webb said.
Ian saw the amusement in the knight’s eyes and knew that Webb was not alone in his silent laughter at the new baron being cuckolded.
Most people in the castle, himself included, believed that Gwynn was with Trevin. Was he not the father of her child? Had he not lain with her years before? Her marriage to Roderick hadn’t stopped her from bedding the thief, so surely her vows to Ian, given the result of a bargain for her son’s life, would be taken no more seriously.
He wanted to put Sir Webb in his place, but bit back a sharp retort, believing, as always, that he who gets the final laugh enjoys it most, and no one, neither the thief, nor Ian’s whore of a wife, would get the better of him.
“You are a soldier,” he said slowly to Webb, “one who managed to help my brothers escape a prison where he’d been held for years. Surely a mere slip of a woman and a common thief are not so clever as to elude you.”
The light of cruel merriment in Webb’s gaze faded.
“’Tis only a matter of time.”
“Good.” Ian lifted a lofty eyebrow. “I would hate to think my trust in you was ill placed.”
“Nay, m’lord,” Webb said stiffly, but hesitated. “However, there is the matter of payment.”
“Payment? For what?”
“Recovery of the boy.” Webb’s lips tightened a bit.
“I did promise that you would be paid, did I not?” Ian stroked his chin. “And, I suppose that even though the lad did practically walk into the keep, that you should have some reward.”
The tension in the dark knight’s face relaxed a bit.
“I will see to it,” Ian said with a nod. “But since the task proved easy, I want you to do more for me.”
“More?” Webb’s back stiffened and Ian waved away his doubts. “Worry not, I said I will pay you for Gareth, and so I shall. ‘Twas our bargain. Now I want you to ferret out the traitors within the castle. Trevin and the lady could not have escaped without help. Listen to the gossip, have our trusted men search through the hiding spots here at Rhydd, watch everyone more closely, and find out who would have pledged his fealty not to me, if the truth were known.”
Webb leaned upon his sword. “Have you anyone you do not trust?”
“I trust no one.” Motioning for two mazers of wine, he waited until a scrawny page had done his bidding, then sat with Sir Webb at the table. “Start with the old woman—the midwife—who attended to my wife.”
“Idelle?”
“Aye. Though she is nearly blind, she sees all.” Ian swirled his cup. “Then, look to the freeman. The butcher has distrust in his gaze, the carpenter is too silent, and the mason is a brooding, gloomy soul.”
“Think you they are enemies?”
“Mayhap.” Ian took a sip and let the wine slide down his throat as he swirled his cup. “But there are others as well, soldiers within our army who would take up arms against me if there were a choice between my wife and myself.”
“What of the priest?” Webb asked.
“Father Anthony?” Ian scowled. There had always been something that bothered him about the man, but he could never put his finger upon what the trouble was. “Nay, he’s a coward, to be sure. Spineless and jumpy, but he was loyal to my brother and would dare not defy me.” He thought hard for a second, but dismissed Webb’s concerns. “Worry not of him.”
“Lord Ian!” A guard approached. “We found Sir Keenan naked as the day he was born, dirty and stumbling around the forest.”
“Sir Keenan?”
“The knight who was missing on the night when Trevin of Black Oak escaped,” Webb said, his hand upon his sword.
“Aye,” the guard agreed.
“But he is alive?”
“Barely. He collapsed afore we got him through the gate. He babbles like the village idiot and says nothing but nonsense. We—we carried him as far as the atilliator’s shop.”
Ian’s mouth drew into a hard, unforgiving line. “I will see Keenan now. Mayhap he will remember what happened that night and know who the traitors were who helped the outlaw escape.” ‘Twould be sweet vengeance to discover who was disloyal to him, sweet vengeance indeed.
“When I find out who the traitors are, I will see that they are punished within an inch of their miserable lives.” He drained his mazer and slammed the empty cup onto the table. Looking at Sir Webb, he added, “When I’m through with them, they’ll wish they’d never been born.”