Passion's Exile (30 page)

“Ye whoresons aren’t worthy of your armor,” he sneered.

Then he engaged both men at once in a clash of furious steel. Rose had never beheld such speed, such power. He spun and slashed and thrust with the unpredictability of a summer squall. Unlike the gallant combat of tournaments, his fighting had a rough, crude character. He fought, not for style, but for efficiency. Lacking a shield, he elbowed his opponents away, backhanded them, even shoved them across the clearing with the sole of his boot.

One man fell backward, and Blade would have run him through had the other knight not swung around with a sword he was forced to dodge. The fallen man found Blade’s lost sword behind him and swept it up, gloating as he faced Blade armed with two weapons.

But Blade remained undaunted. He joined his hands on the hilt of his sword, and the increased strength of his blows sparked off the man’s weapons, jarring them until the blades shivered. He drove his opponent back with a vengeance until the man, cornered against a tree, gasping and grimacing in fear, dropped the weapons. Blade’s sword flashed in the firelight as it circled for the killing thrust.

But Blade’s chivalry prevented him from slaying the unarmed knight. Instead, he plowed his gauntlet into the man’s face. The clout made a sickening crunch on contact, and the force knocked the man’s head back against the tree. His eyes rolling and his nose dripping blood, he slid slowly down the trunk into a heap at the foot of the tree.

Rose wished she could have cheered, but while Blade had been preoccupied, the last remaining knight—the cruel one who had driven his fist into her belly, the one who had abandoned his companion to die an agonizing death—had decided to try another tactic. The sharp edge of his sword pressed against the rapidly pulsing vein in her throat.

Blade turned, and the sight before him—the woman with the battered face and her tormenter standing beside her, leering in smug contentedness, threatening her—brought so many memories crashing down around him that he staggered under their weight.

Not again, he thought.

Visions of the past swam before him with palpable clarity. Bruises on the woman’s cheek. Her torn gown. Tangled hair. Blood. And then the sounds. The nauseating smack of her abuser’s fist. Gasps. Weeping. And over it all, the fearful hush of the crowd. Then the incredible, unfathomable chuckle of satisfaction, clashing with the woman’s piteous sobs. The same chuckle Blade heard now as the demon before him—not his brother this time, but a monster of the same ilk—gloated over his victim.

For a moment, Blade couldn’t move. The memories unmanned him. His arms trembled, and his knees grew weak. Apprehension loosened his grip upon the sword.

Not again.

“Put away your sword, sirrah!” the man jeered. “I’ve won the day.”

But something in the man’s voice tweaked Blade’s ear, awakening him from haunting memories. ‘Twas not the same at all. And suddenly he was wrenched back to the present.

This was not his brother.

This was not Mirkhaugh.

And when he glanced into Rose’s eyes—shining with courage and determination and rage—he realized this was not his brother’s wife.

His grip tightened again upon the hilt, and hot blood flooded his veins.

“Come fight me like a knight!” Blade roared.

The man’s eye ticked in displeasure, but he managed to bite out a reply. “Brash words from a felon.”

“At least I don’t hide behind a woman.”

The man’s mouth twitched as Blade’s insult found its mark. But ‘twas a dangerous game. One slip of the sword…

“She’s not
my
woman,” the man replied. “’Tis no matter to me whether she lives or dies. But ye… Drop your sword now, or her next breath will be her last.”

Blade studied the man’s face. The man’s eyes glittered with the same coldhearted malignance as his brother’s. He was sincere. He’d kill Rose. Without remorse. And without blinking an eye.

Blade cast a quick glance toward Rose. She frowned, staring intently at his hip. She’d noticed his dagger, the weapon he wore at his hip for close combat, and she wanted him to use it. But she didn’t understand. He was several yards away. By the time he reached the villain…

She met his eyes, sending him an unspoken message of childlike trust.

“Drop it!” the villain bellowed.

Blade muttered an oath. He had no choice. Rose had suffered enough. He couldn’t let more harm come to her. His shoulders lowering in resignation, he let the sword fall from his fingers.

“There. ‘Twasn’t so difficult, was it?” the man crowed, though he wiped the back of his hand across a brow beaded with sweat.

Then, with a cocky salute, the knave started to lower his sword.

An instant later, Blade’s dagger whirled through the air. By the grace of God and Blade’s steady hand, the knife sheathed itself deep in the villain’s chest. Blade whispered a prayer of thanks.

He wasted no time with the incredulous brute who choked in pain and surprise, staggering and gasping for air. The man would eventually die. His only concern was for Rose. He picked up his sword, rushed forward, shoved the wheezing man out of reach of her, and bent to slice her bonds.

By the time he loosed her gag, the man had shuddered out his last breath and lay silent in the leaves.

“Blade,” Rose croaked, lifting trembling arms around his neck. There was such relief, such faith, such tenderness in that one syllable that it swelled his heart and illuminated his soul.

Overcome with compassion and self-reproach, he swallowed a lump of shame. How could he have ever suspected such a good-hearted woman of betrayal? Wilham was right. She was as innocent as a flower—sweet, pure, delicate…

“Damn your hide,” she whispered against his cheek, jarring him from his remorse. “Why the devil didn’t ye loose me earlier?”

He grinned, relieved. Her body might be bruised, but her spirit was unbroken. He lifted her carefully in his arms, carrying her toward the flickering firelight so he might tend to her hurts.

“Would ye have run to safety as I commanded?” he asked, hunkering down by the fire and settling her upon one knee.

Her mouth quavered on the verge of a smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“After I lent ye assistance.”

“I feared as much,” he told her, brushing a stray lock of hair back from her bloodied cheek.

She was too weary to argue. She was almost too weary to drink the watered wine he offered her from his flask. But she managed a few swallows, finally lowering her eyes in exhaustion. Then she relaxed against his chest with a trust that warmed him to his core and began, miraculously, to heal his damaged spirit.

He thought she’d fallen asleep. While she lay quiet, he perused her injuries. Her jaw sported a dark bruise, her cheek was split, and there were scrapes along her neck. But her bones, at least, seemed whole. He wondered if she was fit to travel.

Her eyes still closed, she said faintly, “Let’s go. This place reeks o’ death.”

Blade was only too happy to oblige. After he kicked dirt over the fire and set the knights’ horses free, he mounted his own steed with Rose before him. ‘Twas a long ride back, but Rose was as light as thistledown in his arms. He hastened the horse along the road until, several hours later, he happened upon a crumbling cottage purporting to be an inn.

‘Twas near midnight, but a few pieces of silver persuaded the innkeeper to let the last remaining chamber to a traveler and his wife. After seeing that the horse was safely stabled, Blade carried Rose upstairs to their room, a shabby place with a straw pallet and chinks in the plaster. But ‘twas warm enough, reasonably clean, and safe.

She stirred as he laid her out atop the bed.

“‘Tis all right,” he murmured. “No one will hurt ye now, I swear.”

As a noble knight, he was obligated to protect and defend the helpless. But for the first time in his life, when he made that pledge, he meant it with all his heart.

Blade ran the back of his hand over Rose’s precious locks. She made a soft sound of relief, then curled on her side, falling asleep again almost instantly. He swore that as long as he breathed, he’d not let harm come to a single hair on her head.

He lifted the coverlet over her, secured the shutters, and, bunching his satchel to bolster his head, stretched out at the foot of her pallet, his sword at the ready beside him.

Though he was exhausted, he didn’t fall asleep immediately. Something picked at the back of his brain. Who were the men in the red cote-hardies? And why had they taken Rose? They’d made no demands, and they could see she had no possessions with her. Yet, of all the pilgrims, they’d purposely selected her. They’d been sent by someone, whoever belonged to that red crest. ‘Twas not one Blade recognized, but in the last two years, the king had granted land to several nobles. It could be anyone. And though the thought caused a foreboding twinge in his chest, he realized it was probably someone Rose knew.

He wouldn’t wake her again tonight, but on the morrow, he’d make Rose tell him everything. After all, he couldn’t protect her from an enemy he didn’t know.

Some time later, when he’d slept a few hours, but the world was yet dark, he heard someone creeping close. His fist had already instinctively coiled about the hilt of his sword, but he soon realized the interloper was Rose. Dragging the coverlet with her, she eased down beside him.

“Move o’er,” she said, her voice soft and demanding at the same time.

He released his sword and opened his arms. She nestled easily into the curve of his embrace, as if she’d belonged there all her life, wriggling herself into a comfortable and intimate position that roused his blood and taxed his restraint.

“Ah, witch, ye don’t know how sorely ye tempt me,” he breathed against her hair.

But his silk-voiced temptress was already asleep.

When Blade awoke the next morn, Rose was still slumbering on the warped wood planks, cradled in his arms. ‘Twas absurd, but he couldn’t remember sleeping so peacefully, not even in his feather bed at Mirkhaugh. ‘Twas heaven lying with Rose, her soft hair tickling his chin, her skin smelling of womanly slumber, her body warm and soft where it clung to his. He hated to disturb her.

But the day grew late. And now that Rose was safe, they had to intercept the other pilgrims. After all, Rose still planned to journey to St. Andrews, and Blade had an assassination to prevent.

So as gently as he could, he urged her awake.

“Rose? Rose.”

When she turned drooping eyes to him, he winced at the cut on her face, made all the more vivid by the light of day.

“Is it time to go?” she murmured.

“Aye.”

He reluctantly extricated himself from their pleasant entanglement, rose to fetch a linen cloth and water from the pitcher beside the bed, then returned to crouch beside her.

“Tell me,” she ventured, rubbing at her eye. “How is Wink?”

He smiled. Here the lady sat, her face bruised, her garments torn, snatched from the jaws of death, and all she cared about was that crippled falcon of hers.

“Better.” He dipped the cloth in the water. “She ate an egg.”

He pressed the wet linen to her cheek. She winced once, but managed to remain brave for his ministrations.

“Who’s carin’ for her now?”

He wiped away a spot of blood from Rose’s ear. “Wilham. Though your Highland nurse is likely fightin’ him for the privilege.”

“We’ll join them soon?”

“Aye.”

She grabbed his wrist. “How soon?”

He swiped at the tip of her nose. “So many questions.”

She relinquished his arm with a sigh.

He relented. “We’ll leave after I’ve seen to your injuries.”

“God’s teeth,” she pouted, ducking away. “I’m well enough. Let’s leave now.”

He frowned, catching her head by the chin to more closely inspect the bruise along her cheekbone. “I have a few questions for ye first.”

She bit at her lower lip, obviously disconcerted.

He swabbed at a scratch beneath her ear. “Who were those men?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t believe her, but neither did he think she’d feed him a blatant lie. She may not know them by name, but…

“Whose knights were they?”

“Their…their crest looked familiar,” she admitted. She screwed up her forehead as if trying to remember, but wouldn’t look him in the eye. “I believe…Greymoor?”

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he didn’t know the man. “And what would Greymoor want with ye?”

She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it and shrugged. “They…didn’t say.”

He could see by the guilty dip of her eyes that she
did
know Greymoor.

He caught her chin again and forced her to look at him. “Lass, I just slaughtered the man’s knights at great peril to my own body. If ye know anythin’ o’ this nobleman and his demands, I would learn it.”

A shadow crossed her eyes then, and he glimpsed the battle ensuing within her. Her indecision filled him with sudden misgiving. Jesu, had he killed guiltless men?

Nae, he decided. Guiltless men, knights worthy of their armor, did not beat women. For that alone, they deserved to die.

“Please,” she implored. “Don’t ask me that. I don’t dare answer.”

What was the lass hiding? “I told ye I’d protect ye,” Blade murmured. “Do ye not trust me?”

Rose rested a placating hand upon his chest. “’Tisn’t that,” she assured him.

“Then what?”

She bit her lip again, reluctant to say.

He whispered an oath. “Lass, if ye intend to betray me…”

She gasped. Betray him? Was that what he thought? Betray the man who had ridden to her rescue? Who’d risked his life to save her from Gawter’s minions? The man whom she wished with all her heart she could possess?

“Nae!” she cried. “Ne’er.”

But neither could she divulge the truth of her capture. Gawter
would
come after Blade. The man Blade had left alive would insure that. ‘Twas clear Gawter had spared no expense when it came to claiming what he deemed was his, even if, once he’d won Rose, he might well kill her. And when he came for the man who’d slain his knights and delayed Rose’s capture, he’d come with an army. Blade, for all his amazing prowess with a sword, was no match for an entire company of knights.