Passion's Exile (25 page)

“Huntin’ for eggs?” He arched a brow. “Ah.”

“To no avail.”

He grunted. “I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thank ye. I’m…I’m truly beholden to ye.”

“Faugh.” He stared into his ale, slightly embarrassed. “Ye’re always thankin’ me for things knights are supposed to do for ladies.” He took a drink.

“Knights?” she asked. Ah, here was her chance. She licked her lips. Then she added pointedly, “Or lairds?”

He choked on his ale.

Mayhap she hadn’t been as artful as she thought.

When he was done coughing, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “What are ye talkin’ about?”

She couldn’t conceal the excitement in her voice. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Are ye a laird?”

His jaw tensed. “I told ye I’m a mercenary.”

She couldn’t leave it alone. “But were ye always a mercenary?”

“Nae.” He took another swig of ale and stared into the woods. “Before that, I was a child.”

She sighed. Blade had a tougher hide than the bear. “Ye know what I mean.”

“Besides, I thought we agreed to no more questions.”

“That was last night. ‘Tis a new day. Come, sir,” she coaxed. “Will ye not indulge me? A question for a question.”

“Ye played me falsely last night,” he reminded her.

“Very well.” She bravely lifted her chin. “Today I’ll answer ye truthfully, whatever ye ask. I swear it upon my honor.”

“On your honor?”

She nodded.

He smirked, shaking his head. “All right.” He took another sip of ale, then ran his thumb over the lip of the cup. “Then I’ll ask ye again, is it truly in your heart to become a nun?”

She didn’t figure he’d ask her the same question. At the painful reminder of her destiny, her heart thumped woodenly, and she lowered her head to stare at the ground before her. For a long while, she gave no answer, for it seemed that voicing her frustration would only increase it. But she couldn’t run from fate forever. And she’d sworn upon her honor to tell him the truth. At last she whispered, “Nae.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod.

“‘Tis simply that I have little choice,” she confided. She battled the urge to crumble like an earthen dam in a flood, spilling all her secrets in one great torrent. “I…” she struggled. “I fear I’m not free to go where my heart—” She broke off, mortified to find a sob choking her.

Blade had never been able to resist a lady in distress. He’d spent too many years as a knight in shining armor. So he pushed away from the wall, took her cup from her, and set both of their half-finished ales upon the ground. Then, ignoring propriety, he clasped her by the elbow to guide her away from the others so she might weep in peace.

“Come,” he said gently. “There’s a watermill behind the tavern.”

He hadn’t meant to make her cry. He’d only wanted her to face the truth—‘twas not in her heart to be a nun. He’d known that the first time he’d asked her. He’d known it the first time they’d kissed. And the second. And he knew it from the way she’d nestled against him in the dark last night—her soft, womanly curves cleaving to his body as if she were made for coupling.

The prideful part of him wanted to hear from her own lips that she wanted no part of the dismal, barren, passionless life of the convent.

Never had he meant to hurt her.

“Sorry,” she said, a hitch in her voice, dabbing at her eyes as they traversed the grassy mound toward the mill. “I don’t know what ails me. I don’t often… I never cry. I’m usually…quite strong.”

Her weeping wrenched at his gut. “I’m sure ye are,” he said. Then he added, in hopes of cheering her, “Any woman who can tame a bear…”

She made a sound that was half-laughter, half-sob, and it made him feel even guiltier.

As they drew near, he began to hear the water from the mill pond as it gurgled and sluiced and tumbled noisily over the slatted buckets of the wheel. The stones beside the stream were wet and slick, so he held onto Rose as they approached the millhouse. Passing by the churning wheel, they ducked through the low doorway of the small building and into the dry interior, where the large round grinding stone sat unused at the moment. Inside, the complaining squeak of wooden cogs and gears and the aroma of ground grain were oddly comforting.

Amber sunbeams spilled through the door, pooling on the plank floor and bathing the whole interior in warm light. Rose stood just inside the door, looking glorious against the tawny wood beams, like a brooch of ruby and onyx and pearl set in gold. Blade thought he could look at her forever. He wondered if he hadn’t had another motive in bringing her here, one far more ignoble—a selfish desire to recreate the intimacy they’d shared last night.

Then she wiped the last tears from her cheek—tears he’d caused—and remorse filled him.

“I shouldn’t have asked ye that,” he apologized.

“’Tisn’t your fault.” She sniffed. “‘Tis what I’ve been askin’ myself all along.”

He ran his hand over the rough surface of the grinding wheel. “And now ye have your answer.”

“Aye.” She closed her eyes.

“So will ye not follow your heart then?” He tried to make the question sound casual. He wondered if he succeeded.

She chewed at her lip. “Would ye?” She gazed up at him with moist eyes as if the world balanced on the edge of her question. “Have ye always followed your heart?”

He swallowed hard, wishing he could say aye and then prove it by crushing her in his arms, kissing her with all the dark passion and burning thirst he felt.

He lied instead. “A mercenary has no heart,” he told her. “I follow my instincts.”

Her eyes, bright with tears, softened as if she didn’t believe him. Her voice was husky when she spoke, and he found that curiously alluring. “And what do your instincts tell ye?”

His instincts told him to thrust the bewitching wench up against the wall of the mill and plunge his aching lance deep into her yielding softness.

He clenched his teeth till they creaked like the mill cogs. Finally he let out a shuddering sigh. “My instincts tell me ye’re a great deal o’ trouble.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He gazed at her bowed head, at the shimmering river of ebony flowing over her shoulders to her waist. He couldn’t imagine her chopping her tresses off in favor of a nun’s veil, any more than he could envision her taming her impulsive nature to suit a convent.

After a time, she lifted her gaze and murmured, “I haven’t had
my
question yet.”

He braced himself. She was going to ask him again if he was a laird. What would he tell her? She’d sworn on her honor to speak the truth, and she had. He owed her as much. And yet his anonymity was the one piece of armor he couldn’t afford to surrender.

“Tell me,” she said so low he could barely hear her, her eyes trained on the sun-drenched planks of the floor. “Have ye…that is, do ye feel…” She clasped her hands tightly before her, took a deep breath, and started over. “Do ye feel any…desire for me at all?”

Blade’s jaw dropped, all the strength draining from him. ‘Twasn’t the question he expected. The question he expected would have been far easier to answer. Desire for her? Satan’s ballocks, she must be jesting.

Just gazing at her delicate hands, he remembered their light touch upon his arm. Focusing upon her lips, he instantly recalled the taste of her kiss.
Desire
for her? Holy Saints, aye, he felt desire for her.

She still stared at the floor, and he could see she held her breath, waiting for his answer.

What could he tell her? That her kisses filled him with molten need? That her touch set his pulse racing? That he could hardly bear to be alone here with her for want of seizing her, ravishing her…

“‘Tis fine if ye don’t.” Her voice was thin and pained, but she spoke with dignity.

“Sweet Saints, woman,” he breathed, “who wouldn’t desire ye?” He spoke hoarsely, raking a hand back through his hair. “Ye’re beautiful. Enchantin’.” For a man of few words, suddenly he could not stop. “Magnificent. Intoxicatin’.” He lowered his gaze to her lovely lips, parted in wonder. “Irresistible.”

With a light gasp, Rose took a dangerous step toward him and placed a tentative hand upon his chest. Suddenly he could well imagine the intrepid damsel taming a wild beast. He closed his eyes, inhaling the clean fragrance of her hair.

And then, as he knew she would—as they both must have intended all along—she pressed soft lips to his.

Rose knew ‘twas impetuous and wicked and greedy, but she couldn’t help but steal a kiss. Especially when his clean-shaven cheek was so intriguing…his sensual mouth parted in invitation…and his eyes smoky and willing.

‘Twas an innocent brush at first, gossamer light and tenuous, inquisitive and shy. She whispered wordless secrets into his mouth. He exhaled on a ragged sigh. And like the east wind, beckoning with its mysterious spices, his breath called to her, sending a warm shiver along her spine.

“We mustn’t,” he whispered against her lips.

“Aye,” she agreed, deepening the kiss. Now that there was no stubble peppering his jaw, she could feel the yielding warmth of his flesh. She nuzzled his chin, reveling in the sensation.

He broke away, holding her at arm’s length. His eyes were glazed with passion. “‘Tis unwise,” he gasped.

She wiped the back of one fluttering hand across her tingling lips. “Aye.” Sweet Mary, he was right. She was bound for convent. In a few more days, they’d never see one another again. ‘Twas foolish to think…

He caught the back of her neck and pulled her forward again, growling as his mouth closed over hers. She could taste his impatience, and ‘twas intoxicating. Every inch of her skin felt alive, sensitized, shamelessly eager for his touch.

Again and again he kissed her, his hands winding through her hair and cupping her chin. She angled into his embrace, savoring the heat of his body and the flavor of his kiss. Her fingers dragged at his shoulders, bidding him come closer, and she willingly crushed her breasts against his doublet. A singing began within her ears, like angels’ voices summoning her to heavenly realms, and those rich harmonies of yearning seemed to circle about her head.

She gasped against his cheek. Still she wasn’t close enough.

He broke away for a moment, lifting the heavy chain that hung between them over her head, and capturing her again in his arms. Now she leaned fully against him, her velvet upon his leather, their bodies meeting as zealously as the palms of a Saint. Nudging her belly was the hard evidence of his longing, as keen and consuming as her own, and his conspicuous desire fueled hers. A bolt of scorching need shot through her, leaving a tingling in her breasts and a demanding fire between her legs.

He splayed his hands across her back, and everywhere the pads of his fingers touched her, she felt him leave his mark. His lips consumed her, his tongue swirled hungrily inside her mouth, and her own tongue answered with a kindred craving. His arms sank lower until he cupped her buttocks, pulling her against his thigh. She sucked in a shallow breath, pressing her woman’s parts wantonly against his leg in an attempt to quench the burning there.

And still ‘twasn’t enough.

Her breath came in quick gulps, and her heart pounded as if it might burst from her ribs. His mouth trailed across her jaw, and when he nuzzled at her ear, his breath sent a hot shiver through her.

“Have I answered ye, lass?” he whispered.

She quivered, overwhelmed by the hushed intensity of his voice, of his kisses, of his seduction. Oh, aye, he’d answered her.

His teeth gently caught the lobe of her ear, and she moaned as her control slipped swiftly away. Her frenzied hands stroked and slid and clutched at whatever she could find of him.

His mouth moved lower then, nibbling along her neck, taking the chain of her pendant between his teeth, nuzzling the neckline of her surcoat aside so he could feast upon the crest of her shoulder.

He made sounds low in his throat—primal sounds that called to her as surely as a buck summoning a roe—and her heart thrilled with the impulse to answer.

She felt his hands climb up her back toward the laces of her surcoat, and she made no protest, for she likewise clawed at the ties of his doublet to gain access of her own. Her lips sought the pliant muscle of his chest, and she eagerly sampled the savory flesh there.

Her gown slipped slowly from her shoulders. Blade’s breath, labored and heavy, seared her skin as he kissed his way downward. She gasped, abandoning her own exploration as she grew overwhelmed by his. Her head tipped back in ecstasy as he traversed her throat, then her collarbone, then the upper curve of her bosom.

A surge of yearning flooded her breasts, stiffening her nipples until they almost stung. She flushed hotly, mortified to discover that she wanted to feel his mouth upon her there as well. His thumbs tugged gently but insistently at her clothing, and she arched back, straining to free her breasts from their velvet prison.

Almost painfully aware of the craving between her thighs, wondering if he suffered the same intense hunger, she slid her palms down the front of his open doublet, then lower, seeking the root of his desire.

He was swollen and solid as rock, and he groaned loudly when she touched him, as if her fingers penetrated his chausses to brand his flesh. Still, he pressed back against her hand, like an ascetic welcoming the bite of the lash, and she stroked along his rigid length, soothing and stirring him all at once.

But when she compressed her hand about him, he hissed against her bosom as if in pain, withdrawing to sink upon his knees before her.

Her shoulders were entirely revealed now. Her crimson pendant was her only adornment, and her surcoat barely caught on the peaks of her breasts.

She supposed she should feel shame. But when she gazed into Blade’s passion-veiled eyes—dark and smoky and wild and desperate—she felt only an inescapable longing to yield.

She closed her eyes and caught her lip between her teeth. ‘Twas madness, this wanton surrender. Yet she desired nothing less. With trembling hands, she caught the front of her surcoat and pulled it steadily down for him, shivering as she exposed her breasts fully to the balmy air and his lusty gaze.