Passion's Exile (2 page)

Intrigue.

Her eyes widened. Rose knew that stables were a favored place for trysting. By the sound, ‘twas indeed what transpired.

She caught her lip between her teeth. She should leave. She knew that. She should turn around and creep back out the way she came in. ‘Twas probably just the groom and one of his mistresses. ‘Twas sinful to spy. Sinful.

But—curse her impulsive nature—once something piqued her curiosity, Rose couldn’t turn away.

Quietly, she secured Wink to a wooden post. Then she let her naughty feet propel her stealthily forward until, from behind the pillar of the last stall, she caught a glimpse of naked flesh.

They didn’t see her. The couple was lost in their passion, writhing on the bed of hay, their limbs tangled, their bodies bucking in violent counterpoint, their gasping mouths fouling the air with vile and interesting words the like Rose had never heard.

She stood gaping in fascination and revulsion. The man’s bare buttocks flexed and shuddered as he pumped mercilessly against the woman’s body. And yet the woman made no complaint. Instead, her ankles hooked around his waist, and her fingers clawed at his back, as if she were a spider consuming a fly. They smacked together faster and faster, their oaths turning into incoherent moans, until finally the woman shrieked, the man groaned, and they collapsed back on the straw, spent.

If Rose hadn’t been so transfixed, she might have escaped unnoticed. But the man chose that moment to lift his head, and when he turned toward Rose, shock forced a slow, ragged gasp from her throat. ‘Twas Sir Gawter. And beneath him, panting from her exertions, was her own mother.

Their eyes met, and for a moment no one spoke. Rose felt paralyzed, as if she’d stumbled into a nightmare where the world was cast completely awry.

“Shite,” Lady Agatha finally muttered. Then she giggled weakly, laying her head back on the hay.

Gawter didn’t find the situation so amusing. “What are ye doin’ here?” he snarled, his normally gentle face contorted with rage.

“I…I…” Rose gagged on her words. She longed to run, to flee out the stable door and keep on running, to run until the sun disappeared and the night came and the darkness blotted out all memory.

“Leave her be, Gawter,” her mother said.

“I asked ye a question,” he insisted.

Rose tried to look away, but her gaze seemed fixed on them. Gawter concealed his now shrunken member with a fistful of straw, but Rose knew she’d never forget the pathetic sight. And her mother lolled unabashedly on the hay, her nipples pinched and red, the black hair between her legs damp with sweat.

Rose shivered in revulsion. Gawter angrily clenched his teeth and made as if to stand, but her mother stayed him.

“I’ll speak to her,” she purred, smoothing the hair back from his forehead. “Get dressed, love, before the whole manor comes to see what wild beast has made such a fierce howl in the stables.”

Gawter pinned Rose with a gaze like an iron spike, but he did as Lady Agatha advised, shoving his arms into his shirt and cote-hardie, stabbing his legs into his trews. Meanwhile, Agatha watched Rose with amused interest.

Rose staggered out of his way when he stepped forward, thinking he intended to pass. Instead he grabbed her by the neck and shoved her back against the wall of the stable. The back of her head thudded against the wood, splintering her sight, and his fingers tightened around her throat, crushing her windpipe.

She scrabbled at his hands, to no avail. Through a stunned haze, she heard Wink’s piercing cry and the ineffectual flapping of the bird’s wings against her tether.

“This changes nothin’,” Gawter bit out. “Nothin’! Do ye hear? Ye’ll still be my wife. Breathe a word o’ this to anyone, and I’ll kill ye.”

Dazed breathless, she shut her eyes tightly against his horrible visage—his face flushed purple with exertion and fury, his eyes narrowed to beady slits, spittle gathering at the corner of his cruel mouth.

“Mark my words. I’ll kill ye,” he hissed.

He let her go then, and she collapsed forward, choking, falling to her knees on the stable floor. She didn’t watch him leave, but Wink screeched at him as he passed.

“Poor bairn,” Lady Agatha cooed when he had gone, her voice like honey laced with hemlock. “Ye’ve had a nasty startle, haven’t ye? Come to your mother.”

Rose clasped her bruised throat. Come to her? She couldn’t even
look
at her.

“Come along, sweet.” Agatha patted the straw beside her in invitation.

Rose wheezed, steadying herself against the urge to vomit. Was the woman mad? She slowly shook her head.

“Rosamund!” her mother snapped, shuffling into her discarded garments. “Don’t be a shrew!”

Rose’s head swam in chaotic circles of outrage and disbelief. She needed to stop her ears against her mother’s strident voice. She should never have come into the stable. She should never have come back to Averlaigh at all.

Agatha picked at bits of straw clinging to her velvet sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she quipped testily, “if ye were surprised by what ye saw. But Gawter is right. It changes nothin’.”

Rose didn’t mean to speak. She meant to remain silent until she could gather her wits to scramble to her feet and flee. But, as usual, her tongue had a will of its own.

“It changes nothin’?” she rasped. “God’s blood! How can ye believe that? Ye lay with him, Mother. Ye swived him, for God’s sake!”

“Faugh!” her mother warned. “Heed Gawter well. He means what he says. If ye speak o’ this, those words will be your last.”

Rose stared at her mother, incredulous.

Agatha came to her feet and regally smoothed her skirts. “I think, my dear Rosamund, your foster mother has neglected to teach ye the ways o’ the world. Very well then. ‘Tis up to me. Come.” She held out a hand toward Rose.

Rose shuddered.

Agatha sighed, then crouched beside her, catching Rose’s chin in a firm grip. Rose reeled from the musky smell of sex upon her. “So lovely.” Agatha smiled bleakly. “I was once as lovely as ye.” She ran her thumb along Rose’s lower lip, and Rose jerked her head away. “But even ye—sweet and young and fresh as ye are—can’t hope to satisfy the insatiable appetites o’ such a man.”

Rose narrowed her eyes in disgust.

“‘Tisn’t
ye
, dear daughter. ‘Tis the way o’ men. The ravenous beasts cannot be content with just one lover.” She tilted her head. “Ye haven’t lost your heart to him, have ye?”

“Nae,” Rose said between clenched teeth. “Ne’er.”

Agatha smiled. “That’s my little lady. Then there’s no harm in it, is there? He’ll wed ye and bed ye, and ye’ll have the bairns…” She strangled on the word, then recovered with a fleeting smile. “The bairns I can no longer bear.”

Rose clamped her lips shut, fearing she might retch at any moment.

“But ye understand why ye mustn’t tell, don’t ye?” Agatha spoke to her as if she were still a child of six. The last of the sunlight faded from the fissures in the stable walls, limning Agatha’s face with ominous shadows. “We’d lose Averlaigh, wouldn’t we? And we can’t have that.”

If she expected a docile response from Rose, she was disappointed. ‘Twas all Rose could do to bite back a scream of fury.

“Run along now, poppet,” Agatha bade her, patting the top of Rose’s head before she could duck away. “And remember, ‘tis our secret.”

Somehow Rose found the will to rise, collect her falcon, and walk out of the stable. But ‘twas at a nightmare’s sluggish pace that she crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps to her chamber. She closed the door behind her and slumped back against it, her body limp, her senses numb.

Wink’s impatient fluttering roused Rose from her stupor, and the twisted truth of what she’d witnessed suddenly curdled like poison in her belly. With a sickly groan, she staggered across the room and dove for the basin. There she retched and retched, till nothing was left but the bitter taste of betrayal.

“Oh, Wink,” she whispered weakly. Lifting the jug of water with trembling fingers, she rinsed her mouth and spat into the bowl. Then she wiped the cold sweat from her brow. “God’s wounds, what will we do?”

She sank onto her bed, loosening Wink’s jesses and letting the bird hop up on her perch. Once she’d seen the pitiful condition of the mews, Rose had insisted upon keeping Wink in her own chamber, and in such close quarters, the falcon had become her closest ally. Even now, the bird, as if understanding Rose’s distress, started scuttling anxiously back and forth along the wooden perch.

Rose, too, paced across the threadbare carpet, her mind whirling with images of her mother’s depravity. Nae, she’d never accept Lady Agatha’s solution, never submit to life with an incestuous adulterer. The thought of what they’d done…

“We have to go,” she muttered, biting at her thumb. “We have to leave Averlaigh.”

She fingered her battered throat. There was no question in her mind. Sir Gawter was dangerous. He’d meant what he’d said—he’d kill her if she revealed his sin.

“On the morrow,” she decided, “before anyone wakes.” Now that she’d made the decision, her heart raced like that of a loosed falcon. But where would she go?

She could think of only one refuge. “Fernie House. We’ll go back to Fernie House.”

Wink bobbed in agreement from her perch. Rose flung open the oak chest at the foot of her bed and began tossing linen chemises and satin slippers and velvet kirtles atop the mattress.

‘Twas a desperate flight, a perilous one. All manner of outlaws and wild beasts frequented the roads. And she had no idea what she’d do once she reached Fernie House.

But what choice did she have?

“We’ll watch out for each other, won’t we, Wink?”

Still, as she stuffed her garments into a large satchel and slipped her eating knife into the small sheath at her hip, she began to doubt the wisdom of such a reckless escape.

Fernie House was near St. Andrews, at least a four days’ ride. And this time, she wouldn’t be traveling with guards. ‘Twas an enormous risk for any fugitive, even greater for a lass alone. Worst of all, once Sir Gawter noticed her missing, he’d send his men to hunt her down.

Who could she trust? Who would accompany her? She’d only been at Averlaigh for a fortnight. She knew no one.

She dropped onto the edge of her bed again, chewing at her nail. There had to be a way… People traveled to St. Andrews all the time.

Some vague memory teased at the edges of her mind. She’d heard something recently, something about a pilgrimage…

She sprang to her feet, startling Wink.

At chapel last Sabbath, the father had announced a pilgrimage traveling from Stirling to St. Andrews. Stirling was only a half-day’s ride from Averlaigh. If she joined that pilgrimage…

A lass might travel in safety in the company of pilgrims.

The priest had said they were to gather at an inn for the journey. What was the name of it? The Black Boar? Nae, The Black Hound.

The pilgrims were leaving the morn of Saint Anselm’s Day. Rose quickly calculated the day on her fingers. Her heart plunged. Tomorrow was Saint Anselm’s.

But she refused to be daunted. It could be done. She’d have to pilfer a horse and steal away at nightfall. She’d have to pray the road was well-marked and free of thieves and wolves. And she’d have to ride like the wind to reach Stirling before daybreak. ‘Twas a bold plan, full of risk. But she could do it.

“Besides, Wink,” she said somberly, unlacing her soiled blue kirtle, “I suspect we’ll be safer tonight in the woods than within these walls.”

She was mistaken.

Sir Gawter was already having her watched.

Rose never noticed the spies’ vigilant eyes as, hours later—clothed in a fresh linen underdress, her best surcoat of scarlet velvet, and her brown woolen cloak—she quietly led her mother’s palfrey from the stable, mounted up, and set out from Averlaigh.

She’d ridden several miles along the road toward Stirling when she sensed she was being followed. She dared not turn and look. But by Wink’s unrest, she could tell someone was there. Who, she wasn’t sure. It might be Gawter’s men or common thieves or drunken ravishers. But one thing was certain—no person on honest business rode with such stealth in the middle of the night.

Rose clucked to the palfrey and whispered, “A wee bit faster, love.” She nudged the horse to a brisk walk.

A furtive glimpse under cover of her hood a moment later told her that the riders—two of them—had quickened their pace as well.

At present, they were a hundred yards back, but that could change at any moment. What could she do? She was still miles from the haven of Stirling.

She spared her pursuers one more glance, and in that instant, her worst fears were realized. Even at this distance and in the meager light of the waxing moon, she could see that the men wore Sir Gawter’s colors.

She stared straight ahead, her heart in her throat. If they were Gawter’s knights, they’d be riding warhorses—strong, powerful animals that could easily outrun the palfrey. ‘Twas useless trying to lose them.

She considered turning around and bargaining with them, doling out a generous portion of the coin she’d brought with her to ensure her freedom and their silence. But Sir Gawter had far more wealth to barter with than she, and if they’d come to slay her as she feared, they’d simply steal her silver when she lay dead and bleeding on the road.

Shivering, she peered ahead to the place where the curve of the road dipped and disappeared beyond a thick stand of trees. ‘Twas a good furlong away, but if she could make it as far as that bend…

Rose tucked her falcon into her cloak so the bird wouldn’t startle. What she planned was mortally perilous, but she had little choice. Wrapping her hands tightly in the reins, she whispered a prayer and silently counted,
one…two…
Wink ruffled her feathers abruptly, almost startling Rose from her mount, but ‘twas too late to delay.
Three!

She dug her heels sharply into the horse’s flanks. But instead of bolting forward, the animal reared in protest.