Passion's Exile (14 page)

As the travelers followed the shore of the firth past Inverkeithing, the waters gradually widened to become the mouth of the North Sea. The trees thinned, giving way to patches of tough seagrass and sandy soil. The sky stretched, as gray and somber as a nun’s habit, toward the empty horizon of land’s end. The wash of waves, bestirred by the storm, hissed over the wide bulwark of rock shielding the trail, and the brisk scent of the sea mingled with the smell of rain and wet sod.

Just as the pilgrims slogged miserably toward an inn at the cliff’s edge where they might take shelter, in a great show of irony, the tempest quieted as swiftly as it had begun. The clouds cracked apart like an eggshell, revealing the yolk of the sun, and shafts of pale gold light streamed down to illuminate the green swell of the firth and breathe steam upon the shore.

Blade and Wilham were the last to stomp the mud from their boots upon the wooden steps leading to the inn. Blade shook his head like a hound, spattering a protesting Wilham with rain, then slicked his hair back and went in.

The common room was merry and inviting and, best of all, dry. Tallow candles smoked from sconces set into the walls. The air was warm with the aromas of cooking venison, strong ale, and the coarse laughter of fishermen. A cheery fire burned on the hearth, and the pilgrims wasted no time in using the nearby pegs to hang up their wet mantles.

But Blade’s was not hung among them. He frowned, casting his gaze about the room as Wilham left to procure a brace of ales. There, beyond the crush of people, in a corner of the inn, Rose, still wearing his oversized cloak, blew out a candle and set her falcon to perch upon the crossbar of the extinguished sconce. At last, she took off the garment, as gingerly as if ‘twere an abbot’s cope, holding it carefully aloft lest it drag upon the floor. Her fussing made him smile, for the last several inches of the hem were already filthy.

But what she did next wiped the amusement from his face. She glanced marginally about the room to make certain no one saw her. Then, as he watched in breathless disbelief, she pressed the folds of his cloak to her face and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The sight made his heart gallop unsteadily, and he felt the breath leave his lungs.

“Here,” Wilham interrupted, pressing a tankard into his numb fingers. “This should warm your bones. Young barley with a touch of oats, although… Blade?” Wilham snapped his fingers suddenly in front of Blade’s eyes, making him blink. “Blade!”

“What?” he snarled.

“What’s wrong with ye? Has your brain gone soft with rain water?” He followed Blade’s gaze. “What are ye lookin’ at?”

Blade didn’t answer. He couldn’t think. He didn’t know what to make of the woman’s actions. So he did the only thing that would steady his nerves and silence Wilham. He slugged back the whole tankard of ale in one greedy gulp and shoved the emptied cup into his friend’s hands.

“God’s hooks, Blade,” Wilham muttered. “Show some respect for the alewife. You didn’t even taste that draught.”

Rose had left her corner. She now made her way through the crowd with his cloak, coming directly toward him. Irrational panic filled Blade’s chest. “Buy me another,” he told Wilham.

Wilham raised a brow, but left to do as he was bid. By the time the lass reached Blade, he was alone.

Her face was flushed, likely from cold and not the exhilaration that afflicted him, and the scarlet of her cheeks made her fair skin all the more striking. Her dark hair hung in damp tendrils about her face, adding to her frail quality. He hadn’t noticed before, but the corners of her mouth curved up slightly, as if she were accustomed to smiling. At the moment, however, her eyes were touched by a subtle longing, a bittersweet melancholy he could neither comprehend nor remedy.

“I can’t thank ye enough,” she murmured, absently caressing the wool of his cloak as if ‘twere a favorite pet.

He wondered if she knew what that caress did to his insides.

“‘Tis nothin’,” he said, nearly strangling on the words. God’s blood, what was wrong with him? So the woman had sniffed at his cloak. Perchance it smelled of smoke or sweat. Surely he’d only imagined that look of sensual bliss on her face.

She awkwardly handed him the cloak, and he awkwardly took it. Their fingers met, hers warm, his cool. Then she withdrew her hand to toy nervously with the neckline of her gown.

She cleared her throat and spoke with forced casualness. “How much farther do ye suppose ‘tis to Hillend?”

“Two, three miles.” He narrowed his eyes. ‘Twas obvious she had something on her mind besides the distance to their next lodging. And she was reluctant to say what that was.

He saw Wilham approach with his ale, and he met his gaze, surreptitiously nodding him away. Wilham understood at once and retreated to another table.

Blade took a deep breath and turned aside, dropping his head to stare nonchalantly at the rush-covered floor. “Lass,” he murmured, “ye should speak your piece and be gone. I told ye before, ‘tis unwise for ye to converse with my kind.”

“But I need…” she gushed, then paused, deeming it best to conceal her desperation. “I wish…to speak with ye.” She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. “Alone.”

He flinched, then rubbed a hand across his bristled jaw. “That is doubly unwise.”

“‘Tis o’ the utmost importance,” she said, the urgency in her voice perilously compelling.

He lifted his gaze to scan the room and saw what he least wished to see. The ever-watchful Highland woman glowered beside the falcon’s perch, her arms crossed, her mouth working. He murmured, “Your guardian would disagree.”

She ignored his comment. “Ye still owe my falcon her supper. Maybe some tidbit has washed ashore in the storm. Go down to the firth,” she implored him in a rush, catching his sleeve. “I’ll make some excuse and follow ye.”

‘Twas a mistake, all this clandestine activity. After all, they both knew what had happened the last time she stole off. “Lass,” he muttered, “ye’re invitin’ trouble.”

But when she looked up at him in entreaty, all beautiful and flushed and full of hope, he couldn’t find it in his heart to refuse.

Cursing her poor judgment and his weak will, he muttered, “I’ll wait a quarter hour, no more.”

He strode off to where Wilham sat, slung his cloak over the table, took one bracing gulp of ale, and set the tankard down with a weighted sigh. “I’m goin’ out.”

Wilham gave him a half-grin, but wisely said nothing.

Blade wheeled away from the table and out the door, squinting against the shock of the taunting brilliant sunlight that now graced the heavens and glittered off the surface of the water below.

Behind the inn, he followed a narrow trail that cut across the cliff face, descending gradually and depositing him onto gravel at the bottom. Caves and inlets pocked the cliff, and nesting seabirds circled rocky shelves and high ledges further along the shore where Blade might find eggs for the falcon. But scaling the wall without a grappling line and in shackles was out of the question. Besides, he dared not wander too far. ‘Twas one thing to meet the woman by the firth. ‘Twas quite another to lose her there.

He watched gulls swoop and soar along the shoreline, dropping mussels onto the rocks, fighting over crabs, and squawking indignantly when they lost a meal.

He soon tired of watching the birds and sank back into the shadowy shelter of a cliff outcropping, his back braced against the rock, his arms crossed over his chest. He wondered morosely if the lass truly intended to meet him or only attempted to cheat him out of his spot at the hearth. Just as he was about to give up on her and slog back to the inn, a sweep of claret skirts flashed from the base of the cliff.

She didn’t see him at first, and he took the liberty to watch her at his leisure as she held up her skirts to move gingerly across the wet gravel. What a lovely creature she was, so graceful, so beguiling. And—he remembered bitterly—so damnably vulnerable, as were all women.

This undertaking was baldly audacious, even for Rose. She’d lied to Tildy, telling her she intended to make use of the privy and asking her to watch Wink. Then she’d stolen out of the inn to meet in secret with a man who was practically a stranger. And now, even petting that wild bear in St. Andrews paled in comparison to what she intended to request of the dark outlaw. But desperate times required desperate measures, and this might be her last chance to weigh the destiny that awaited her.

“Sir Blade,” she whispered loudly, shielding her eyes from the bright sparkling jewel of the firth. She spied no dark silhouette against the white-ruffled waves. Perhaps he’d wandered further. She dared not follow too far. “Sir Blade, where are ye?”

The devilish knave must have been watching her in silence for a full minute, for she’d almost stumbled upon his hiding place when he finally announced his presence. “Here.”

Her heart leaped into her throat.

“Satan’s ballo-” she exclaimed, pinching off the foul oath just in time. There he was, lounging in a pocket sunk into the cliff wall, as still as death, as quiet as shadow. She made an attempt at nonchalance. “Ye…gave me a fright.”

He pushed away from the niche, moving into the bright sunlight. “Aye? Well, ye
should
be frightened.”

Was it only her imagination, or did he loom larger, darker, more menacing? Perhaps ‘twas only a trick of the light. Or perhaps she’d made a mistake. Perhaps she should go back to the inn and forget about her brilliant stroke of inspiration.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What do ye want?”

She chewed at the corner of her lip. Now that she stood before him, dwarfed by his massive warrior’s body, intimidated by the stern gravity of his countenance, she feared she’d made a grievous error. He was as dangerous as the sea, she realized—powerful, undaunted, and unpredictable.

“Every moment ye’re away,” he warned her, “feeds rumor.”

He was right. She’d come this far. She might as well plunge into the icy waves headfirst.

“I want to explain why I’ve come on pilgrimage.” She didn’t intend to tell him all of the truth, just the bit she required.

His mouth tightened into a hard line. He obviously didn’t think the conversation warranted such privacy.

“I’m…” She swallowed. “I’m thinkin’ o’ joinin’ a holy order.”

“What!” His bark startled her.

She blinked. “I’m thinkin’ o’…o’ becomin’ a nun.”

If she weren’t serious, she might have laughed at the curious expression of distaste and revulsion that passed over his features. “Why?”

This was where she planned to sidle past the truth, and for that, she couldn’t look him in the eye. She cleared her throat, studied her fingers, and thought about all the reasons one might enter a convent. “I wish to devote my life to God. I wish to help the sick. Feed the poor. Read the Bible each day. Be a bride o’ Christ.”

He was silent so long that she was forced to look up at him. His eyes mirrored the sea, stained in mutable shades of green and blue and gray that deepened and flickered in the fickle sunlight. His gaze narrowed now as if he guessed the truth. Yet he remained silent, allowing her to slip her own neck through the noose of her lies.

“I don’t plan to return to Averlaigh,” she told him.

“Averlaigh,” he repeated, and her heart stopped. “Odd. I heard ye’d come from Doune.”

“Well, aye, or-, originally,” she stammered. Damn her eyes, she hadn’t meant to reveal that. “Anyway, I’m considerin’ enterin’ the convent in St. Andrews.”

“I see.” There were definite glints of both humor and irritation in his gaze now, and it vexed her. “Well, I suggest ye learn to curtail your swearin’. They don’t much like swearin’ in convents. And I wish ye the best in your endeavor.” He made as if he would leave.

“Wait!” She placed a restraining hand on his chest. “I have a favor to ask o’ ye.”

He arched a brow.

She twisted her fingers together, glancing along the cliff wall, where seabirds flapped and dipped along crevices in the rock. ‘Twas far more difficult than she’d expected to lend words to her wishes. “‘Tis not such a great favor. ‘Twill cost ye nothin’. ‘Twill take but a moment o’ your time, and ‘tis not altogether unpleasant, I’m told. But…”

“Is this a rebus then that I must disentangle?” He crossed impatient arms over his chest, making her even more anxious. “Lass, I pray ye be frank.”

By the Saints, his eyes—touched by amusement, shimmering in the water’s reflection like buffed pewter—entranced her. Against her will, she lowered her gaze to his mouth, wondering if ‘twas soft or firm… She gulped. Lord, what would she do if he said nae?

He mustn’t. He must grant her this favor, or she’d perish of humiliation.

She took a fortifying breath and decided, “Ye must swear to tell me aye.”

He squinted suddenly sober eyes against the dazzling sunlight and gazed out over the firth. “I ne’er make blind promises.” He picked up a shell fragment at his feet and tossed it casually across the shore.

“‘Tis but a wee favor.”

“Yet ye’re loath to name it.” He collected another shell and tossed it to the water’s edge. Two seagulls, expecting food, hopped near to peck at it.

Curse the felon, all this conversation was diminishing Rose’s courage. Maybe she’d made a mistake after all. She worried the velvet of her surcoat between her finger and thumb. Blind promises, he’d said. He never made blind promises.

Suddenly she straightened. “Does a knight not swear fealty to his liege to do all that he commands?”

“Aye.”

“Is that not a blind promise?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I never claimed I was the king’s man. And at the present, I’m a mercenary. I serve no master. I owe fealty to none.”

Rose pondered his words for a moment, then sighed, murmuring, “I wish
I
were a mercenary.”

“Ye?” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Ye don’t have the bloodthirsty look about ye.”

“Nor do ye.” In fact, the irreverent curve of his lips gave him a rather knavish air.