Passion's Exile (33 page)

Everyone laughed, but Wilham held his gaze and said solemnly, “He was everythin’ a knight should be, even ere he won his spurs.”

Wilham’s words moved Blade, for he spoke from his heart. And Blade knew that no truer friend walked the earth. If ever they returned to Mirkhaugh…

But Blade couldn’t return. And soon he’d be reminded painfully of the reason for that.

“The oldest brother was rightful heir,” Wilham continued, “and thus the younger obeyed him in all things, though at times ‘twas to his own peril and shame. He endured the ridicule that his jealous siblin’ heaped upon him and turned his cheek when his brother’s angry fist clouted him. Even when the wicked lad became a malevolent man, rainin’ hard blows upon him, still the younger son brooked his brother’s punishment in silence.

“But when the villain began to practice his ruthlessness upon others, the young brother could abide no more.”

Blade stared at his clasped hands. He sat mutely while Wilham recounted his past attempts to remedy his brother’s damage—slipping meat to Morris’s starved hounds, mercifully killing a pair of kittens Morris had tortured half to death, freeing a terrified peasant locked in Morris’s oak chest.

As Wilham droned on, Blade began to relax. His secret was surely safe, for no one would believe ‘twas true—all those small acts of mercy he’d performed nor the unfathomable wickedness of his brother.

Then he caught Rose’s eye.

She knew.

He could tell by the grim awe in her face that she knew.

He supposed it should come as no surprise. He’d told her about his brother already, about Morris’s cruelty.

But she didn’t know the entire story. If Wilham finished the telling, if she heard about his own terrible crime…

He ground his teeth, lowering his eyes to his clenched hands once again. ‘Twas better this way, he decided. ‘Twould make their parting simpler. She’d be horrified. He’d be ashamed. And they could separate, while the brief moment of happiness they’d shared faded into insignificance.

“When the laird o’ the castle died,” Wilham continued, “and the time came for the oldest son to take a wife, he wed a young, frail wisp of a lass who bowed her head and trembled when she met him. For a fortnight, he jealously kept her in his bedchamber, and long into the hours of evenin’, her plaints and shrieks and weepin’ could be heard.”

Blade shut his eyes. He could still recall those piteous cries, even years later.

“But none dared cross the man who was now laird. And so the denizens o’ the keep kept to the shadows and spoke in fearful whispers, but not a soul braved his chamber door. Until…” Wilham paused for dramatic effect, taking a sip of his wine. “The younger son, one morn, while his brother was out huntin’, stole into the room. What he beheld there was too horrifyin’ to recount.”

Blade could remember every detail with perfect clarity. Julian’s naked body, spread and trussed to the bedposts like a hide for tanning, riddled with black and purple and yellow bruises. One eye swollen shut. Her lip split. Her hair matted with blood. Wrists and ankles chafed raw from the ropes. Her mouth bloody, one tooth dangling from its socket. Her breasts scored with the marks of Morris’s teeth. The bedclothes stained with blood.

“She was yet alive,” Wilham said, “but like everythin’ the brute owned, she was maltreated and mutilated almost beyond recognition. The younger son cast his gaze away in shame that his own blood kin had wrought such cruelty upon his bride, and he swore—though God might curse him for the deed—he’d make the devil pay for what he’d done.

“He loosed the gentle lady from the ties that bound her to the bed and clothed her and gave her what succor he could, though he dared not tarry in his brother’s chamber for what further shame his presence might bring upon her. Then, armed with his sword and his honor, he left at once to seek vengeance upon her abuser.

“They met in the courtyard, by the full light o’ day and before the good folk o’ the castle. First they had words, and all who heard were amazed at the power o’ the younger son’s speech, for never had they heard a man dare to raise his voice against their villainous liege.

“The older brother clouted him across the face for his insolence and drew his sword. The younger son pulled forth his own blade, declarin’ that he fought for the honor o’ his brother’s dishonored wife.

“’Twas a brave deed, for he knew at any moment his cowardly brother might command his knights to slay him outright. But the older brother had hated the younger far too long to give another the pleasure o’ killin’ him. So they engaged blades, and while a crowd gathered, they battled, nickin’ and slashin’ and dolin’ out minor injury, each to the other, until both knights were covered in blood.

“At last, the younger knight found an advantage and dealt his brother a severe wound, grievous but not mortal, along his flank. The man fell back, screamin’ in outrage and pain, and the youngest son smiled in grim satisfaction. But soon, as he was a knight o’ great honor, the pleasure o’ revenge was soured by the sight o’ his kinsman’s blood on his sword, and the younger man, sickened by his own savage violence, turned away to withdraw.”

Blade tasted bitterness at the back of his throat, the taste that always came to him when he relived what happened next. Almost as if he were there again, his face flushed with the heat of shame and horror. His breath came in shallow sips, and though he clenched them tightly together, his hands trembled. He couldn’t bear to look at Rose.

“But as he turned aside,” Wilham said softly, “the crowd gave a great gasp, and he felt of a sudden a deep thrust o’ steel in his back. His reflexes like lightnin’, he instinctively whipped about and plunged forward in answer with his blade.”

Blade’s eyes watered, blurring the table before him. Why Wilham had put him through this, he didn’t know. ‘Twas an anguish beyond endurance.

“His sword found its mark, sinkin’ straight and true into his attacker. But, alas, this once, he found ‘twas not his brother who’d dealt the treacherous blow. ‘Twas not his brother who’d stabbed him in the back. His avengin’ blade had pierced and slain…” He paused, and not a whisper broke the stillness. “His brother’s ungrateful
wife
.”

Wilham waited for the gasps to subside before he continued. “When the young man saw what he had done, he was filled with such self-loathin’ and remorse that he fled the castle and his home in disgrace.”

The ensuing silence was so complete that Blade could hear his own thudding heartbeat.

“What happened to him?” ‘Twas Campbell the soldier.

The hall was as still as death for a long while.

Blade could stand no more of the grim tragedy. “Accordin’ to Dante, he’s in the seventh circle of Hell,” he grumbled.

Some of the pilgrims chuckled, not in amusement, but to lighten the dark mood. Wilham, however, didn’t so much as smile, and Rose…Rose looked as if she might weep.

Rose bit back an anguished sob. Her heart ached for the tormented man before her. To have endured such a tragedy…

She longed to rush to Blade’s side, take him in her arms, hold his troubled head upon her breast and soothe his damaged spirit. Blade wasn’t a felon. ‘Twas
he
who’d been wronged. God’s eyes! If his sword hadn’t slain the woman, Rose would have enjoyed finishing off the thankless wench herself.

Of course, ‘twas probably the wine speaking for her—Rose wouldn’t kill a spider. Still, a surge of righteous outrage flooded her veins, and she yearned to come to his defense.

As soon as the company adjourned, she did just that. The world spun as she stood up, the wine dizzying her. But she hurried to his side before he could leave, tripping at the last moment to collide with him. He managed to keep them both upright, though he, too, reeled slightly from the drink.

“Oh, Blade,” she gushed, peering up into his sad, beautiful eyes, unmindful of the pilgrims around her. “‘Twasn’t your fault. Ye couldn’t know—”

His sharp look quelled her. What had she said? Why was he frowning?

He sighed, then took her by the elbow and ushered her nonchalantly outside to the pleasance garden, where the cool air sobered her somewhat. By the faint light of the crescent moon, she could make out the silhouettes of the fruit trees and rosebushes and beds of flowers. She breathed in a deep breath of night, and he turned her toward him.

“Ye must tell no one,” he bid her.

“Tell no one what?” Her lids felt heavy, but she managed to raise them enough to stare at his delectable mouth.

“Who I am.”

“The young brother in the story.”

“Aye, but I beg ye, say nothin’.”

“Why?”

He cast his gaze upon the stepping stones and said tightly, “‘Tis my shame to bear, and I’d bear it in secret.”

She leaned forward then, grasping his doublet and gazing into his eyes, willing him to understand. He staggered back a step, against the stone wall of the garden.

“Nae,” she said, “‘tisn’t your shame at all. Ye’re not to blame.”

His voice was as bitter as rue. “‘Twas my blade that killed her.”

Overwhelmed with compassion, she tried to lend him comfort, encircling his neck with her arms. “No one could blame ye for that. ‘Twas an honest mistake.”

She saw his mouth working, saw anger flash across his face.

“I’m a seasoned knight,” he growled. “I should have seen her. I should never have thrust…”

She felt his tension, sensed his self-hate, and she yearned to bind his wounds, to give him back his honor. Pity didn’t move him. Perhaps rage would.

“Listen to me,” she commanded fiercely. “‘Twas that bloody mewlin’ milksop’s fault.”

He blinked, startled by her oath. But she was angry, and when she was angry as well as drunk, her tongue wagged with a will of its own.

“What kind o’ woman would lash out at the man who saved her from such a beast?”

“‘Twasn’t her fault,” he argued. “She was little more than a child. She couldn’t have known—”

“Satan’s ballocks! Even a hound doesn’t bite the hand that feeds it.”

“She was only shieldin’ her husband,” he insisted angrily, “the man she swore to honor.”

“Then she was a bloody halfwit!” Rose charged. “And not worthy o’ your saving her.”

“Ye weren’t there!” he hissed, his temper flaring. “Ye wouldn’t know.”

“Nae, but I know
ye
!” she cried, grasping the back of his head and commanding his gaze. “And I know ye have more honor in your thumbnail than that woman had in her entire wretched body.”

Something altered in him then, an infinitesimal surrender in his eyes, as if he wanted to believe her.

“Aye,” she whispered. “Aye.” Her eyes were drawn to his mouth, and she moved her hands forward until she cupped his face.

Their kiss was as natural as the gentle sweep of the night wind. Their mouths—hot with ire, soft with liquor—met and mingled and mended all their harsh words. Rose felt the need in his kiss, not just lust this time, but something more profound, the need for redemption, the need to purify himself in her soul.

Maybe ‘twas the fresh breeze or the haze of drink or the desperation she felt, knowing ‘twas their last night before St. Andrews, but she suddenly longed to give herself to him completely, to make this eve momentous and memorable and eternal. On the morrow she could repent. On the morrow she could yield to the church. But tonight she wished to render unto Blade the one thing that was hers alone to give, to grant him absolution.

She broke from the kiss long enough to murmur against his lips, “Lie with me.”

He stilled.

“Lie with me, Blade.” She circled a finger around his ear. “Please.”

His voice was gruff, ragged. “Ye’re besotted.”

“That may be, but I have enough o’ my wits about me.”

“Not if ye wish to bed a felon.”

“Ye’re not a felon. Ye’re a gentleman. And a hero. And a knight who’s the very model o’ chivalry.” She swallowed. “And ye’re the man I love with all my heart.”

He cradled her face in one hand and brushed his thumb across her lips. “What o’ the convent? What o’—”

“I don’t want to think about the convent. I don’t want to think about the morrow, and the next day, and the years to come, and the rest o’ my life. I want to savor this moment.”

She tried to kiss him again, but he held her away, wavering uncertainly, searching her face as if he sought some important truth there.

Then at last, to her great relief, he made his decision. He pulled her into his arms and swooped down upon her mouth with all the desperation of a condemned man. He kissed her till she was breathless, till her heart thrummed like a timbrel, till the air no longer chilled her skin.

The taste of his lips was more intoxicating than the wine, and she tilted her head to delve her tongue further into the warm recesses of his mouth.

Soon she found her body straining toward him of its own volition. Her arms entwined about his neck, her breasts swelled against his broad chest, and she pressed her hips wantonly against his muscular thigh. She wove eager fingers through his hair, moaning softly as she strove to get closer.

She plucked at his doublet, trying to access the warm flesh beneath, but her untrained fingers were frustrated by the garment. He had no such difficulty. He removed the thing with ease, leaving only linen beneath. She reached under his shirt to run the flat of her palm across his bare chest, savoring the supple curve of muscle there. He gasped and clasped her roving hand against his breast.

But she wanted more of his flesh, more of his warmth. She sank before him, letting her fingers slide over his waist to the top of his braies. Kneeling, she brushed her hand over the hard bulge that throbbed at her touch, then pressed her cheek against him, relishing the groan of desire coming from deep within his throat.

Suddenly he hauled her back up, then swept her off of her feet into his arms. He carried her to a bed of clover among the flowers and, spreading out his discarded doublet, lay her down atop it, among the sweet-scented grass and blossoms.

For a moment, he only looked at her, his eyes drifting over every feature of her body. Then his hands repeated the course, tracing the line of her brow, sweeping over her lips, rounding her shoulder, cupping her breast, caressing her waist, dragging across her hip and along her thigh, brushing her knee and ankle.