Passion's Exile (16 page)

He downed a healthy gulp of ale, then shook his head, scattering his wayward thoughts. Her destiny was not his affair. Unless Rose was a part of the scheme to kill Laichloan’s son—something he highly doubted—then she was no longer his concern.

Wilham was right. The inn housed a few willing wenches upon whom Blade might slake his lust. And he would have, he assured himself, if they’d stayed any longer. But Father Peter was already gathering his flock to depart. So Blade tightened his breeches and shouldered his pack, carefully disregarding the scarlet skirts that swirled at the edges of his vision.

By the time they’d marched north to Hillend, the sun had sunk behind the knees of the western hills, and a coverlet of chill fog had followed them in from the firth.

The circumstances of their lodging caused the first battle of the pilgrimage. Father Peter had made arrangements through a third party with a man of substantial wealth and title to house the pilgrims within the man’s demesne. Upon arrival, however, ‘twas apparent the residence was far too small to accommodate such a large number. ‘Twas obvious to Blade that the man—who was neither as wealthy nor as titled as he’d proclaimed—had overstated his capacity in order to earn a share of the pilgrims’ wealth.

‘Twas too late to secure other lodgings. So after a brief display of temper on the part of Father Peter, who was mollified by Simon the palmer, and a stubborn renegotiation of fees on the part of Jacob the goldsmith, the pilgrims managed to squeeze into the modest great room for an equally modest supper of broth thickened with eggs and breadcrumbs.

Blade kept his head buried in his trencher, unwilling to risk a glance at the lady whose lips he could too well remember upon his own. He drowned his desire—desire that was wont to rekindle—in the cup of coarse beer set before him. And only when the stories of the night were begun did he manage to think of anything other than the delectable woman in scarlet.

Lettie told the first tale. It began well enough, with three thieves competing to see who could best the others. One thief stole the eggs from under a magpie. The second thief replaced them without disturbing the bird. But while the second performed this task, the third stole the man’s hose from off his legs.

After that, the story fell to pieces. Lettie kept mixing up the thieves’ names, and she couldn’t recall which thief stole what from whom, nor how they managed to trick one another. She ended the telling in a sheepish giggle, unable to bring it to a sensible conclusion. The pilgrims nonetheless applauded politely, and Jacob the goldsmith patronizingly patted her hand, while the scholars murmured amongst themselves, trying to unknot the tangle of the story so they could decipher how it
should
have been told.

Blade narrowed his eyes at the blushing storyteller. He wondered if Lettie’s addlepated manner was real or feigned. If ‘twas genuine, he doubted the woman possessed the intellect to carry off murder. Her companion guildsman, however, seemed capable of a villainous plot.

Campbell the soldier was then asked for a tale. He demurred at first, claiming he knew no stories but those of grim wars and bloody battles.

“Then tell us one o’ those,” Father Peter declared, “and we shall welcome it, for e’en the Gospel recounts mighty wars fought in the name o’ the Lord.”

Campbell, still reluctant, began his tale quietly, in a voice so low the pilgrims had to remain nearly silent to hear him. He related the story of a company of gentle knights, bound in service to a cruel laird. They served their liege with honor for many years, though his ways were often brutal.

As he spoke, Blade noticed that Campbell’s fist tightened around his wooden cup, and he knew instantly ‘twas no story, but a true tale.

“They besieged crumblin’ keeps where no riches were to be gained, solely for the amusement o’ the laird,” Campbell said, his eyes glassy as he stared into his beer, “starvin’ the men, slayin’ lasses too weak to fight and ch-” He choked, then swallowed down bitter memory. “And children too young to understand.” He paused to gather his thoughts, and no one breathed.

Blade furrowed his brow. He’d seen Campbell’s pain before, in the faces of men forced by fealty to do things against their hearts, against their will.

“On a winter day they lay siege to the keep of a nobleman with four daughters as fair and pure as snow. By sunset, the outer wall was undermined, and the knights easily entered the keep. But this time, the loathsome laird desired that his men spare the nobleman and his four virtuous daughters.” Campbell took a bracing drink of his beer before continuing. “He wanted his knights to…” His jaw tightened. “To deflower the maidens, with their father as witness.”

Gasps of shock circled the table, but Campbell was too far into his tale to take notice.

“Three o’ the knights did as they were bid,” he said stonily. Blade could read the man’s torment in his face as he relived the horror. “Despite the maidens’ pleas and their father’s appeals, they…savaged them without mercy. But the fourth…” Campbell bit at his trembling lip. “The fourth refused. He knelt upon the stones o’ the keep and begged the daughters for their forgiveness o’ his sinnin’ companions. He threw himself upon the mercy o’ his liege, askin’ him to cease these godless acts.” The pause was so long then that the listeners began to shift upon their benches. But none dared break the heavy silence. “The laird drew his sword forthwith and lopped the man’s head from his shoulders.”

More gasps ensued. Even Blade drew in a sharp breath. He’d been certain that Campbell had been that honorable soldier.

One of the impertinent scholars commented, “Well, surely the knights then rose up against their liege.”

Campbell pinned him with a glare. “So ye’d think, would ye not?” he spat bitterly. “But then ye’re not a knight. Ye’ve not sworn fealty to a nobleman. Ye know nothin’ o’ loyalty and honor and allegiance.”

The soldier’s fierce words silenced the scholar and gave Blade pause.
He
knew all about honor. Honor had destroyed his life and apparently Campbell’s as well.

“They did nothin’,” the soldier snarled. “The fifth… The fifth…churl, even as his companion lay bleedin’ on the flagstones beside him, even as the women sobbed in horror and their father pleaded for mercy, even then…the bastard did as he was commanded and thrust himself upon the youngest maiden.”

The room fell silent as the soldier stared, unseeing, at the beer-stained tabletop. Meek Guillot was the first to move. Sitting beside the soldier, he rested a hand of comfort on Campbell’s forearm.

The soldier drew his arm back violently, as if the lad had branded him with fire. “Nae!” he cried. “Don’t touch me.”

Everyone grew uncomfortable then, for they all knew there was more than a grain of truth in his tale. Guillot withdrew his hand, his young eyes wide with hurt.

“Don’t,” Campbell said more evenly, “touch me.”

While those around him began tentatively to reinitiate the conversation and lighten the mood, Blade reconsidered the soldier’s tale. The story had no ending. Had Campbell become plagued by the burden of his sin? Was that why he’d come on pilgrimage, to seek forgiveness and redemption? Or was he still slave to his wicked master? Was he yet loyal to the deranged demands of his overlord?

Could Campbell be the murderer? He’d slain man, woman, and child without hesitation. He’d scarcely blink to kill a laird’s only son if his liege so ordered.

Despite Campbell’s assistance with the thieves and his painful tale, the soldier clearly had both the will and the stomach for violence, and Blade couldn’t overlook the overwhelming evidence that he might be the assassin.

Rose dug her nails into the battered wood of the trestle table. The soldier’s story was deeply disturbing, all the more so because she feared ‘twas true. But Campbell, at least, was on the path to salvation. His crimes might be abhorrent, but they were at least in his past. There was deliverance, even for him. When they reached St. Andrews, his soul could be redeemed.

Rose, however, engaged in perfidy even now. Somewhere, miles behind her, her scorned betrothed raged at her absence. And not only were Rose’s thoughts
not
with Gawter—they were centered on another.

She wished she could dismiss their seaside encounter from her mind as easily as Blade had. He’d hardly looked at her since their arrival in Hillend. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him, about his kiss, his hands upon her, the taste of his tongue inside her mouth…

Even the recollection dizzied her. A fervid blush stole across her cheek as she gazed at his somber profile, and she found it almost impossible to believe the breathtaking felon had actually kissed her earlier.

The feeling had been so much more intense than Rose had anticipated. She’d been attracted to his dark good looks and his kind heart, so she’d expected his kiss to be a pleasant thing. Never had she imagined ‘twould be so compelling. And now she craved more.

She longed for the crush of his demanding arms and the heady scent of him—all leather and iron and man, the savage feast of his hungering mouth and the erotic, blinding haze of his passion. She wanted his warm flesh, his sultry gaze, his delicious mouth. Even now, looking upon him, her heart quickened, her breath grew shallow, and her nether parts ached with yearning.

But if her desire was far greater than she’d foreseen, so was her dilemma. How could she resign herself to a nunnery, feeling what she now felt? How could she sacrifice a lifetime of such pleasure for the chastity of the church? ‘Twas a coil that would torment her long into the night.

The trestle table was put away and mats laid out for beds upon the floor of the cramped hall. No modesty was afforded tonight, for men and ladies alike shared the single room. Father Peter did his best to divide the chamber diplomatically, but his designs were futile. Lettie couched herself near Jacob, and Brigit brazenly sidled up between the two tanners. As for Blade, none ventured near the fearsome felon, and by the time Rose set Wink on a perch and bid the bird goodnight, no other place remained for her.

“Don’t ye even think of it,” Tildy snipped under her breath. “
I’ll
take the spot nearest that villain, and ye’ll sleep ‘twixt me and the nuns.”

Though a rebellious retort hovered on Rose’s lips, she bit it back, knowing ‘twas best this way. If she planned to take the veil, then she must resist the temptations of the secular world, and ‘twas best she start now. So, with a small sigh, she snuggled beneath the furs the host provided and watched the hall grow dim as, one by one, the candles were all extinguished.

The fire, of course, would burn low all night for warmth, and as Rose rested upon the rush mat, she watched the shadows of flame lick at the plaster ceiling. How had she come to this pass? she wondered—a fugitive, traveling with strangers, sleeping on the floor. As a child, she’d had everything she wanted—warm clothing, rich food, a soft bed. Now she had nothing. And her destiny was poised on a blade’s edge.

For a long while she lay still, listening to the pilgrims snore all around her. Tildy’s loud rasping soon filled the quiet hall, and the nun beside her murmured softly in her sleep. But Rose could find no rest.

She swept a finger pensively across her lips, wondering if some stain of Blade’s kiss remained there to mark her. If so, ‘twould eventually fade, she assured herself, along with the strong wave of emotion that remembering his touch evoked. At least, she hoped ‘twould fade. For even if she ultimately decided to forego the church and wed Gawter, she dared not carry the memory of Blade’s caress to her marriage bed.

Thinking of her betrothed left a bitter taste on her tongue. She knew instinctively Gawter would never make her feel the way Blade had. All she could recall of Gawter now were his frantic, jerking buttocks, his sweating flanks, and his pig-like grunts of passion as he mated with her mother. Rose’s eyes filled with angry tears, blurring the patterns on the ceiling. ‘Twas so unfair, this awful choice fate had thrust upon her. Especially when so desirable a destiny slept not six feet away.

She swallowed heavily. ‘Twas completely improper, thinking of Blade in that way. First of all, she scarcely knew him, and what little she knew was that he was a mercenary, a man who changed residences, masters, and most likely lovers, on a whim. Secondly, he wasn’t some puppet to perform at her whim. He was a man with his own life and his own future. Aye, he’d obliged her with a kiss, but he would have done the same for any woman in the company. ‘Twas folly to make more of it.

And yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She eased up on her elbows and gazed over Tildy’s bulk. The dark outlaw lay facing away from her, the contours of his linen shirt illuminated by firelight. She caught her lip beneath her teeth. How she longed to feel it again—that breathless, tingling, heart-racing, burning need that was simultaneously stirred and relieved by his touch.

Her pulse thrummed in her bosom. A reckless notion hastened her breath. Dared she?

She bit at the edge of her nail. Tildy slept. No one need know. And it might be her last chance to sample the pleasures of a man’s body. She’d not wake him. She only wished to nestle against the strong breadth of his back, to inhale his fascinating male scent, to pet the wild beast, and to pretend for a little while that she belonged to him.

Swiftly, before too much reflection could make a coward of her, she slipped from beneath the furs and crawled past Tildy. Scarcely daring to breathe, she crept up on the slumbering felon and carefully stretched out beside him. His breathing was slow and steady and deep.

Inches still separated them, but already she felt the heat of him—vibrant, virile, powerful. Already her body responded to him, flushing with desire, tingling with need.

Closing her eyes, she imagined he was her husband—her strong, protective, faithful husband—who would slay dragons for her and have children with her and love her forever. She moved forward another inch, until her breath rippled the linen of his shirt. How safe she felt beside him, as if she needed fear nothing.