Passion's Exile (28 page)

She’d betrayed him. Rose had betrayed him.

The woman he’d lent a cloak in the rain, brought supper when she was half-starved, rescued from thieves. The woman for whom he’d lost two nights of sleep nursing a falcon back to health. The woman with whom he’d shared kisses and desire and, God pity him, begun to fall in love.

He should have been accustomed to the acrid taste of treachery. ‘Twasn’t the first time he’d supped on that empty dish. But this time, it had come when he’d allowed his soul to become vulnerable. This time it tasted as bitter as rue.

Then an even more grim possibility occurred to him.

Was the one who’d written the letter merely Rose’s lover, or was he her accomplice? Could Rose be the one scheming to murder Laird John’s son? Had her beloved co-conspirator trailed her all the way from Stirling? Was he holding her in his arms even now, kissing her lips and murmuring assassination plots in her ear?

Wilham bent to pick up the note. “Wait.”

But Blade didn’t want to wait. He was weary and sick at heart. He wanted to bandage his wounds. And he wanted to forget he’d ever met the deceitful wench with the breathtaking face and delicious mouth and adoring eyes.

“Who wrote this?” Wilham asked.

Blade turned his back and began marching back to the inn. “I don’t know. And I don’t care.”

Wilham grabbed his arm, halting him. “Somethin’ isn’t right.”

Blade clenched his jaw. Of course, something wasn’t right. The woman he’d trusted—the woman who’d given him a glimpse of redemption, the woman who’d almost convinced him he was a man worthy of affection—had betrayed him. “What’s not right, Wilham?” he said bitterly. “The fact that I was gulled by her false heart? That ye were gulled by her innocent eyes? Or that Archibald of Laichloan is goin’ to be killed by a sweet-faced maid?”

“What?” Wilham let go of him and stepped back in shock. “Ye think Rose is the assassin?” He narrowed his eyes almost viciously. “God’s bones! The maid
is
innocent.” Wilham seized his arm again. “Listen to me. Ye have it all wrong.”

Blade wrenched his arm away. “I was a fool,” he growled, “and so are ye if ye believe her innocent.”

God, he should have known. If he hadn’t let his lust get in the way of his logic, he would have seen. The signs were there from the beginning—her lack of baggage, her ridiculous story about becoming a nun, her watchfulness of the pursuers.

“Damn your eyes, Blade, she
is
innocent!” Wilham hissed. “Ye, of all people, should know that. By the Cross o’ my sword, man! What kind of assassin rescues half-blind falcons and shows kindness to felons in chains?”

Blade didn’t want to listen to him. Wilham’s reasoning only served to widen the cracks in his heart. He turned and strode off again.

Wilham followed at his heels. “Do ye honestly believe the lass is capable o’ murder?”

“Maybe.” ‘Twas a lie. He couldn’t even imagine it. Aye, he’d seen her knock thieves about and charge a pack of wild wolves, but murdering a defenseless lad? ‘Twas unthinkable.

Still, though she might not do the deed herself, for the right reward, she might be party to the crime.

Wilham spat out a curse. “Can’t ye see what this is?” he said, flapping the missive under Blade’s nose.

Blade had had enough. He snarled into Wilham’s face. “Damn ye, Wilham! Must ye pour salt in my wounds?”

“‘Tis a trap, Blade. Listen.” Blade tried to ignore the harsh syllables as Wilham read the letter aloud once again, but they rang like death knells in the frosty night. “Blade, they lured her out here. She thought she was comin’ to meet
ye
.”

Blade’s laugh was full of pain. He would have liked to believe that, and he instantly regretted his impatience with Wilham, who was a loyal friend to try to persuade him of such nonsense. But the truth was far more believable. Rose had been waiting for this assignation since the beginning. The pilgrimage was simply a convenient way for a single woman to travel. Now her lover, her fellow assassin, had met up with her, and they’d carry out the rest of their plan.

And Blade? He supposed he’d been no more than a pleasant diversion for her. The thought soured his desolate mood, slowly curdling his anger. But ‘twas better that way. With his heart full of vengeance and rage, there was less room for pain.

“She was comin’ to meet me?” Blade echoed grimly. “Then I mustn’t disappoint her, must I?”

“Nae,” Wilham replied, ignoring his sarcasm. “The poor lass must be terrified. We’ve got to rescue her.”

Blade shook his head. Sometimes Wilham only heard what he wanted to hear. He had no intention of rescuing the treacherous woman. Rose and her lover were assassins. He intended to seize them. ‘Twas as simple as that.

As they made their way back to the inn, Wilham stopped suddenly. “Why Rose?” he asked, screwing up his forehead. “Why would anyone take her?”

Blade sighed. He didn’t have time to engage in Wilham’s labyrinth of theories. He had outlaws to hunt.

“Unless they want us to nibble at their bait,” Wilham said. Then he snapped his fingers. “That’s it, Blade! If ye were the killer, and ye wanted to get rid o’ two pryin’ fellows who were about to stumble upon your plot, how would ye do it?”

Blade scowled. He didn’t like Wilham’s riddles.

Wilham answered himself. “Ye’d lure them away with an even more intriguin’ crime to solve.” Wilham nodded, well pleased. “Blade, my friend, the real co-conspirator is still lyin’ in his bed at the inn. And whoever ‘tis, he’s waitin’ for us to fall into that trap, to ride off after Rose.” He rubbed his hands together. “But he doesn’t know who he’s dealin’ with. We won’t fall for his trickery, will we? We’ll stay right here and…”

Blade stared soberly at his friend.

Wilham squirmed under his regard. “Naturally, we’ll go after Rose anyway, even if ‘tis a trap,” he said. “After all, we can’t just leave the lass to—”

“I’m goin’ alone.”

“What? Nae. There could be a dozen o’ them.”

Blade didn’t think so. So large a retinue would attract too much attention. He shook his head. “Three, four at the most.”

“I’m goin’ with ye.”

“Nae.” Blade didn’t believe Wilham’s story of subterfuge, but ‘twas a good excuse to get him to stay behind. Blade wasn’t sure he wanted Wilham to witness how he handled the betraying Rose. “If ye’re right, if ‘tis a trap, someone should stay with the pilgrims.”

He saw the conflict in his friend’s eyes. Blade never rode anywhere without Wilham, especially not into danger. But if Wilham honestly believed that Rose had no part in the plot, that the real assassin still traveled with the pilgrims, then someone had to stay behind and stand guard over the culprit.

Wilham drew himself up. “Ye stay. I’ll go after Rose.”

Blade arched a brow. They both knew that while Wilham possessed lightning wit and keen senses, Blade was far superior with a sword. And whether they believed ‘twas a mission of rescue or retribution, a deadly sword arm was required.

Wilham read the message in his eyes. But he crossed his arms over his chest in challenge. “What good are ye against a pack o’ kidnappers with your sword arm in shackles?”

Blade scowled, dreading the gloating that was bound to follow. “I won’t be shackled.”

“Indeed?” asked Wilham, lifting a scornful brow. “But what about your penance? What about your redemption?”

Blade shouldered him aside, pushing his way through the inn door.

Wilham argued with him the entire time he prepared for the journey. ‘Twas clear he disapproved of Blade’s plan. Nonetheless—faithful companion that he was—once outside, he saddled the best steed for Blade, setting aside enough coin to recompense the horse’s owner threefold.

When it came time to unlock his shackles, Wilham hesitated.

“If I do this,” he said, gripping the key in one hand and Blade’s sword in the other, “I want your promise that ye’ll do Rose no harm. No matter what ye believe.” He raised a hand to stop Blade’s protest. “Nae, I won’t listen to your slander. I know she’s innocent, even if ye’re too stubborn to open your eyes to the truth. She’s not Julian, Pierce. She’s nothin’ like Julian.”

Wilham was right. She wasn’t like Julian. His brother’s wife had been a victim, moved to betrayal by a misplaced need to protect the very man who tormented her.

Rose had no excuse. She’d used Blade for her own amusement. And now she’d pay.

“I won’t touch her,” he lied.

Wilham unlocked the shackles, and Blade, freed, spread his arms wide, flexing his shoulders. Wilham pressed the sword into Blade’s hands, and Blade sheathed the weapon, mounting up with Wilham’s assistance.

“Ride fast,” Wilham said, “and rejoin the pilgrimage as soon as ye’re able.”

The men clasped arms in farewell, and before the sun lightened the sky, Blade set out along the west road. The weight of both his broadsword and his cold heart were comfortably familiar. That he didn’t intend to keep his promise to Wilham was no great burden upon him. His spirit was already as heavy as lead.

He’d been a fool to ever think there might be penance enough for him.

He was well past redemption.

Rose had feigned sleep for hours. Like a new-captured falcon, she found that the cloth covering her head—at first a source of panic—now became a refuge.

She knew who her captors were. And she knew ‘twas best not to engage them. So she remained silent, riding mile after mile, as limp as a fresh-slain deer across her abductor’s lap, listening, waiting. Thirsting.

Why they hadn’t killed her at once, she didn’t know. After all, ‘twas what Gawter had threatened. Perhaps the men wished to torment her before they murdered her. Or, more likely, perhaps Gawter intended to keep her alive long enough to bear him an heir, then see to her demise. For the moment at least, she still lived and breathed, though the latter was arguable. With the rough cloth sack wound tightly about her head, her breathing was labored, each inhalation more stale and hot than the last.

She felt the sun, glimpsed light through the coarse weave of the cloth. Exactly how long they’d been traveling, she didn’t know, but ‘twas past midday, and by the sun’s position, they were indeed headed west, back toward Averlaigh.

It had been a trap, she realized. And now that she recollected the language of the note, she was appalled by what a blockhead she’d been.
Your lover
, the missive had read. Those words could have been written by anyone. ‘Twas obviously a trick, penned by one of the men who’d seen her with Blade. And, lovesick fool that she was, she’d fallen into the snare completely.

She wondered what Blade would do when he found her gone. If he realized she’d been abducted, he’d come after her. But she half hoped he wouldn’t. After all, he was only one man against many, a shackled mercenary without a sword against four of Gawter’s best knights. And while Gawter may have issued instructions that Rose be brought back alive, there would be no such allowances for Blade.

Tears welled in her eyes as she thought about never seeing him again, but she bit them back. Better Blade should remain safe and well than embroiled in her thorny affairs. Nae, she prayed he’d remain with the pilgrims and ultimately find the redemption he sought at St. Andrews. And she hoped with all her heart that he’d take care of her precious Wink.

The men had stopped twice already to water their horses, and the sound of the gurgling stream had made her throat ache with thirst. But she dared not let the men know she was awake, lest they inflict worse torment upon her. So she allowed herself to be hoisted down and laid out along the stream’s edge, nearly weeping with frustration while the others refreshed themselves.

She couldn’t go forever without water, but she knew at some point she’d make a stand, and surprise was her best weapon. She had no intentions of going willingly with the men all the way to Averlaigh, for she harbored no illusions about Gawter’s temper. He meant to kill her, sooner or later. Of that she was certain. If she’d returned to him of her own volition, he might have been forced to show her mercy. But now he held her life in his hands. Nae, she had to escape. Or die trying.

They traveled on until the sun finally sank in the sky, stopping at last to make camp. Thus far, the men had spoken little, their chatter mostly trivial. But now their conversation centered around her.

“Ballocks! How hard did ye hit her?” her captor demanded, slipping her from his lap into another man’s arms. “She hasn’t moved so much as an eyelash all day.”

“If ye’ve killed her…”

“God’s hooks! Didn’t ye check to see if she was still breathin’?”

“Ach, so it’s my fault now, is it?”

“Lay her down then. We’ll take off the sack, see what we’ve got.”

This was her chance. They half expected her to be dead. Like a falcon swooping down upon prey, she might catch them unawares.

She forced her body to remain slack while they wriggled the bag upward, resisting the overwhelming urge to yank her surcoat down when it rose up with the cloth.

“Come on, wench. Ye can’t be dead now.”

“I don’t care if she’s dead or not,” one of them guffawed. “I’d like a turn between her bonnie legs.”

“Quiet!”

The bag pulled free of her head.

“Is she?”

Rose didn’t move. She took a long, invisible breath of fresh air to revive her spirits and counted slowly to three. She felt their presence as they leaned near.

At three, she yelled, exploding outward with her arms and legs, cuffing and kicking and flailing as violently as she could. She caught one man on the chin with her foot, another with an elbow to his shin. Her knee lodged between one man’s legs, and she placed a well-aimed punch at a leering eye. While they recovered, she managed to scramble to her feet. She swung hard about with her fist, clipping a man on the jaw, bruising her knuckles. With her other arm, she shoved one man into another, knocking their heads together with a loud crack.

Then she tore away toward the horses. If she could just reach that first mount…