Passion's Exile (12 page)

“Gib!” the giant sobbed, letting go of his prisoner, dropping his dagger, and stumbling forward.

This time, the lass wisely staggered out of harm’s way.

Blade let up on the chain, releasing his quarry. With the heel of his boot, he shoved Gib as hard as he could toward the oncoming giant. They collided with a dull thud.

Just then, Wilham broke into the clearing, his eyes steely, his sword drawn. Beside him, Fulk brandished a hand-axe in one meaty arm. Campbell the soldier, spying the thief about to make off with Guillot’s silver, flung a dagger with deadly aim, pinning the thief’s sleeve to the tree trunk and leaving the blade shuddering in the wood. The sack of silver spilled to the ground. Coins scattered and shivered and rolled across the leaf-fall with a sound like discarded chain mail.

Blade swept up his dagger, Campbell drew his sword, and the quartet of armed men charged toward the thieves.

The thieves knew they were outnumbered. Gib hauled on the giant’s arm. “Come on, Jock!” he choked out, scrambling backward in the leaves.

The robber who was pinned to the tree began to shriek in panic.

“But Ralf’s still…” Jock the giant protested.

“Aye! I’m still…” Ralf screamed, trying to rock the dagger free, while his two companions scurried off through the trees. “Nae! Nae! Don’t leave me!”

Fulk the butcher walked slowly and deliberately toward the shrieking robber. The man yanked and pulled and tugged, his eyes rolling in panic, as Fulk raised his axe. Fulk never got the chance to deliver the blow, though Blade wasn’t sure if he intended to lop off the man’s sleeve or his hand. Just as Fulk drew close enough to strike, the robber tore his sleeve free and scrambled off after his fellows.

The thieves dissolved back into the shadowy forest like leaves melting into mulch, and the rescuers put away their weapons. Blade sheathed his dagger and made his way over to Rose.

She leaned against a tree, one hand braced behind her on the trunk, attempting to stay her gasps. Stray strands of raven hair slashed across one cheek, which was as pale as cream, and a tiny drop of blood welled at her throat where the giant’s knife had nicked her.

The sight made him shudder. Fighting, there’d been no time for fear. But now that the danger was past, now that there was visible evidence of how close she’d come to being slain…

“Ye’re…bleedin’.” His voice cracked.

She absently touched her throat, smearing the blood. Then she looked at him and furrowed her brow. “
I’m
bleedin’?
Ye’re
bleedin’.”

Blade wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. “‘Tis a scratch.”

Wilham chose that moment to barge forward with a wad of linen. “A scratch! Ha! So he’d say, my lady, were his head lopped from his shoulders.” He handed Blade the rag, frowning. “I can’t leave ye alone for a moment,” he complained. “Ye keep this up, and ye’ll ruin that bonnie face o’ yours.” Still scowling, he spared a wink for the lass, for which Blade gave him a glare of reproof. Then Wilham strode off, muttering and shaking his head, to help the others retrieve the spilled coins.

“Forgive Wilham,” Blade told her. “He…”

“He cares for ye.”

Her words gave him pause. She didn’t know how accurate they were. Wilham was the one who saved Blade from himself. “Aye.”

“
That
is far more than a scratch,” she whispered as she glanced at the cut on his leg. Her nose quivered. The coppery scent of blood was likely not one to which she was accustomed.

He shrugged. “‘Twill heal.”

She guiltily bit her lip. “‘Tis my fault.”

‘Twas
her fault. If she’d only done as he bid her and stayed out of the way, he might not be wounded now.

Indeed, he might be
dead
.

“Far better the scrape on my shank,” he admitted, “than a knife in my heart. I think I owe ye my life.”

Ever so carefully, he lifted her chin with his thumb so he could use the wad of linen to swab at her tiny cut. Her skin was so soft, so vulnerable. He felt her swallow beneath his fingers before she spoke.

“And I owe ye mine.”

Their eyes met, and her gaze, filled with wonder and gratitude and a little trepidation, cracked at his armored heart like a mace upon mail, making him feel things he knew he shouldn’t, things he didn’t deserve. He forced his eyes away.

“I’m a knight,” he said gruffly. “‘Tis my duty.” He resumed dabbing at her throat more perfunctorily, steeling himself against their unsettling intimacy. “But the next time, do as I command.”

She stiffened under his wounding words. “Leave ye alone to fend off robbers, shackled and swordless? How could I?”

He scowled, avoiding her gaze. “‘Twas hazardous to stay. Ye should have obeyed me.”

“I’m not a coward,” she told him, snatching the rag from his hand a bit crossly. “And neither, I suspect, are ye. Would ye have left
me
had I commanded it? Turned and run?”

He deepened his scowl.

“I thought not,” she murmured, rising up on her toes to press the cloth to his bloody cheek. He flinched. Her smooth brow wrinkled with genuine concern. “Does it hurt?”

He swallowed hard and shook his head. ‘Twasn’t pain that made him recoil. ‘Twas amazement. He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had touched him with such tenderness. Most women dared not even draw close, let alone lay a hand upon him. He was dark and dangerous and savage. Touching him was like stirring a bed of hot coals. She shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t touch him. Innocent and young, she didn’t know what she roused in him, how he ached for…

Her tongue slipped out to moisten her rosy bottom lip, and a wave of desire washed over him.

“The cut isn’t too deep,” she murmured. “‘Twill leave only a faint scar.”

He scarcely listened. “Why are ye speakin’ to me, touchin’ me?” he wondered aloud. “Why aren’t ye afraid?”

She paused in her labors. The mischievous hint of a smile touched her eyes. “I suppose because I once ruffled the fur of a bear,” she said cryptically. “And ye’re only…” The humor faded from her gaze, replaced by something far more threatening. “A man.”

He might have imagined the rough desire in her voice, but he didn’t think so. Suddenly he felt the inexplicable need to frighten her, to distance her. “I’m a
dangerous
man,” he told her, letting his eyes, aglitter with all the hunger and desire he felt, rake her body.

Though he saw her breath catch and her eyes widen, she remained undaunted, resuming her tender ministrations. “And what makes ye so dangerous?” she asked breathlessly.

He seized her wrist and reminded her in a hiss, “I’m a dishonored knight.”

She gulped, and her nostrils fluttered, but she held her chin high. Her eyes shone like brimming pools of autumn rain. “Ye’ve shown me no dishonor,” she whispered.

Her gaze lowered to his mouth, making his heart stagger against his ribs. He thought instantly of a dozen ways to dishonor her, all of them immensely pleasurable. But he knew, despite his salacious imagination, ‘twas honor that left him incapable of pursuing them.

He released her wrist.

Rose felt lightheaded, not only from the hazardous encounter of the afternoon or the dizzying sight of blood, but from the reckless rush of her wayward thoughts.

As brash and improper and forward as it seemed, she longed to heal Blade’s hurts the way she had that bear long ago in St. Andrews. That he might be dangerous didn’t trouble her in the least. Indeed, it excited her. Even his scent—all smoke and musk and metal—was intriguing. Her heart felt drawn to him, like a moth drawn to the moon. And the daring woman within her desired to touch the man beneath the worn leather and hard iron, the man of warm flesh.

Thankfully, Blade took the bloodied rag from her hand before she could do something impulsive and foolhardy.

“Ye should go back now,” he said curtly, avoiding her eyes. “Wilham can take ye to the others.”

“Nae.” The word popped out of her of its own accord.

He locked gazes with her.

She swallowed. “I don’t wish to return yet.”

His eyes, once as cold and hard and gray as stone, softened. They were flecked with shards of blue and green, she realized, the color as mutable as the spring sky. She wondered what he saw when he looked into her eyes, if he perceived the yearning there.

“Go,” he bid her firmly. “Robbers I’d gladly battle, but I’ve no desire to war with Father Peter or your Highland mother hen over your virtue.”

Her virtue? His mind
was
on desire. The thought dizzied her, loosening her coy tongue. “Faugh, sir,” she scolded flirtatiously. “I thought ye were braver than that.”

His lip curved up the tiniest bit in response. “Nae,” he said flatly.

She feigned shock. “Ye won’t protect me from the scoldin’ they’re bound to give me?”

He shook his head. “‘Tis doubtless well-deserved. Ye’re too headstrong by half.”

“Headstrong? I’m not…” She couldn’t finish the lie.

He smirked, and his gaze slipped down to her mouth. Then he sobered. “Go,” he prodded.

But she didn’t want to go. Blade was far too beguiling. And stirring. And seductive. “I haven’t rewarded ye properly yet for rescuin’ me.”

She saw his jaw tighten as his eyes locked again on her lips. When he finally tore his gaze away, he sniffed, almost as if she’d insulted him. “I
was
once a knight, even if I wear shackles now.” He draped the rag over his wounded thigh and knotted it firmly. “Ye owe me no reward. ’Tis only part of the oath I took—to defend the helpless and to guard the virtue o’ lasses like yourself.”

“But I—”

“By the Saints!” boomed the familiar voice of Father Peter, destroying the intimacy of the moment. “What’s happened here?”

Blade stepped back to a polite distance as the priest barreled forward. Rose would have sworn there was a glimmer of satisfaction playing about Blade’s mouth as the father began lecturing her in clamorous tones.

And so the priest carried on—sometimes addressing Rose, sometimes Guillot, sometimes the company in general—all the way to The Red Lion, their lodging for the night in the firthside village of Culross. The journey was but an hour’s trudge away, and yet it seemed far longer, for at every step, Father Peter reminded them of the dangers of going alone into the forest.

Once or twice, Rose ventured a glance over her shoulder for a glimpse of her dark rescuer and was rewarded by a knowing look from him that told her he believed she deserved every word of reprimand.

By the time they smelled the briny air of the Firth of Forth, the sun had lowered enough to make the water look like a shimmering swath of silver silk. The Red Lion stood along the main firthside road, and Rose was glad to find a peddler hawking his wares beside the inn. She purchased a few items with which to make the journey more comfortable—a cake of tallow soap, a length of cheap linen for washing, and a wooden comb, which she used at once to whisk the tangles from her hair.

A humble supper of thick cod pottage and oatcakes washed down with cider soon filled Rose’s belly, yet she tasted little of it. Despite the watchful eye of Father Peter, who sat beside her, her gaze kept roving to the handsome outlaw dining at the far end of her table.

His face was washed clean now, his hair still damp, darkening it to the shade of coal. His cheekbone bore the thin red slash that would fade to a scar and yet do little to mar the coarse perfection of his face. Already the mark seemed to enhance his rugged countenance.

Tildy, sitting at her other side, jabbed her and leaned close. Her breath reeked of cider. “Remember, that one’s trouble, lass,” she murmured, “no mistake. ‘Twouldn’t surprise me if those robbers were friends o’ his.”

Rose scowled. “What do ye mean?”

Tildy nodded. “Ye popped up and spoiled their thievin’.” She hiccoughed. “If ye ask me,” she whispered, “there’s more danger here in this company than in the woods.” She wagged a cautioning finger. “We women’ve got to keep our eyes open.”

Rose dismissed Tildy’s warning as drunken prattle. But the words haunted her the rest of the night. Could it be true? Could Blade have been an accomplice rather than a victim?

Nae, ‘twas absurd. He’d returned the silver to Guillot. He’d warned Rose away. And he’d earned a couple of nasty gashes fighting the thieves.

Yet he’d allowed the outlaws to leave with their lives, disappearing into the forest, none the worse for their escapade. And there was still the matter of Blade’s chains and the crime he’d committed to earn them.

She glanced again at the shackled hand resting on the table. Was that the hand of a thief? A traitor? A killer? Surely the hand wielding a dagger in her defense and dabbing gently at her cuts was incapable of such crimes.

But whether she believed it or not, Tildy had planted seeds of doubt in her mind. She perused the faces of the pilgrims along the trestle table with new eyes. Any one of them, she realized, might betray her for the sizable reward her betrothed could offer.

She made a silent vow then to remain as aloof as possible from the rest of the company. The pilgrims, for all their feigned piety, might sell her for a piece of silver. The fewer who knew her name and her history, the better.

Blade had saved her life today, aye. But Tildy was right. There was no cause to trust him. For the right price, even he might turn her over to Sir Gawter. No matter his forthright gaze, his tender heart, his tempting mouth…

Blade stuffed the last bite of oatcake between his teeth. The lass was staring at him again. He could feel her eyes, all drowsy and liquid, upon him. What she wanted from him, he didn’t know. Or perhaps he
did
know and just refused to allow the thought to surface.

On the other hand, after Father Peter’s harsh rebuke, the lass might never speak to a man again…unless, as he suspected, she was one of those wayward creatures who liked to contradict advice.

He wished she’d look somewhere else. It made his heart pulse wildly when she looked at him like that, and it roused the beast in his braies he’d let slumber far too long. Both of which distracted him from important matters at hand.