Passion's Exile (34 page)

“Ye’re certain?” he murmured.

God, aye! she wanted to shout, but—floating beyond words—she nodded instead.

Slowly, carefully, as if she were some fragile treasure of carved ivory wrapped in silk, he stripped her clothing from her, piece by piece. She shivered more from his adoring perusal than the night air, but he soon remedied the chill by removing his own garments and stretching out atop her.

She gasped. Everywhere their flesh touched melted together like copper and iron in a crucible. The heat of his body multiplied hers. ‘Twas heaven to be surrounded by so much warm skin, and she moved restlessly beneath him, still aching to be closer.

“Ah, Rose,” he sighed. “Ye’re so sweet, lass. So temptin’.”

He kissed her again, and she could feel his trembling restraint as his muscular lance swelled against her, prodding, needing.

“Closer,” she breathed.

Her nipples grazed his chest, and her hips ground up against that questing part of him. She slid her hands across the vast expanse of his back, over a rough scar that made him spasm momentarily. It must be the place where the woman had stabbed him, she decided. She wished she could smooth it away, erase all traces of it from his body and his memory.

He separated briefly from her to place his hand between their bodies, running his fingers through the damp patch of her woman’s hair until he found the tender flesh within. She bucked upward against his palm, her craving for his touch compelling her to lose control.

Her breath came in gulps, and her blood rushed in her ears.

“Please, now!” she cried.

He shuddered, and his voice was rough. “‘Twill prick ye sorely.”

She wanted no warnings. No regret. No hesitation. She wanted only him.

“I don’t care. Take me now,” she pleaded.

“Ye’re certain?”

“Aye.”

“Forgive me,” he whispered, then slowly pushed a finger into her, easing the way for his entry.

Rose knew a moment of doubt. Already her flesh was taut about his finger, and though the intrusion felt so right, so perfect, what she begged for was far larger. Surely ‘twould split her in two.

But she’d come thus far. And every mother on earth, save the Virgin Mary, had survived the ordeal. She didn’t wish to die with her maidenhead untried. And, Lord, she wanted to go to that place again, where time hung silent and the sky exploded in a burst of stars.

“Take me,” she entreated again.

What nudged at her was softer than his finger, and when he pressed into her the first bit, sucking a hard breath between his clenched teeth, ‘twas far from painful.

“Forgive me,” he breathed again.

Then he strove forward, and she felt her flesh tear. God forgive her, she cried out with the pain and tried to squirm away, for the sting was like the cut of a knife. But he was patient. He held her still, whispering soothing words against her hair, and slowly, gradually, her body stretched to receive him. Her eyes watered, but when he withdrew, it didn’t hurt as much. He plunged slowly into her once more, and this time the burn decreased to a dull ache. Soon there was no pain at all, only a deep, intriguing sense of fullness as he engaged her completely.

He kissed away the moisture along her lashes and smoothed the furrow from her brow. Far sooner than she expected, she was enveloped in a haze of desire again, for their joining seemed the perfect culmination of passion.

“Ah, God,” he gasped, his body shivering against her. “I can’t…”

He seemed overwhelmed by sensation, which pitched her own lust even higher. And still, as impossible as ‘twas, she yearned to be closer, to encompass him and be encompassed. She enfolded his broad shoulders in her arms and wrapped her legs about his thrusting hips, reveling in the complete penetration.

“Ah, Blade,” she sighed.

“So sweet…” he panted. “So warm…ah, God…not yet…”

She sensed him holding himself back while the caress of his flesh against her coaxed her to new heights. Her body glowed, sated yet unsated, with a frenzy that continued to climb until her control utterly dissolved and at last she soared wildly up like a rogue falcon. On the brink of a dive, she hovered—still, silent—her breath a slow inhalation that swelled her lungs till she thought they would burst. And then she plummeted earthward with shuddering speed, fearlessly plunging into the soul-shattering depths of release.

An instant later, he followed where she led, groaning and arching as spasms rocked him along the long descent. Then he sheathed himself one final time within her, clasping her close to his chest as if he’d never let her go. Their gasps and ragged whispers swirled together across the silent night as their tremors subsided.

“Hold me,” she breathed. “Hold me fore’er.”

He kissed her forehead, then each eye, and enfolded his arms beneath her, lifting her into his embrace. They stayed like that for a long while, their breath slowing, the air cooling about them, and Rose knew she’d never been happier. Never
be
happier.

“Fore’er,” he agreed.

And they both pretended to believe the lie.

Blade’s head throbbed when he awoke the next morn in the men’s chamber to an eye-stabbing knife of brilliant sunlight. Apparently, by the grumbling around him, he wasn’t the only one paying the price of overindulgence in Greek wine. The mood was surly amongst all the pilgrims as they bestirred themselves from sleep, smacking wine-sour mouths and wandering toward the great hall in search of something to ease their dry throats.

But everything changed when he spotted Rose. Groggily descending the steps, he caught a glimpse of her across the hall. With her falcon on her arm, she came in from the outdoors, smiling and flushed and breathless from her morning adventures. Her skirts were dirtied at the hem, but she’d tucked a red rose behind one ear, and he would have sworn she was haloed in sunshine.

Suddenly Blade didn’t care about his aching head. Just looking at her set his heart to pounding, for he knew what resided beneath her lush gown of red velvet. And his body remembered well their coupling. Even now his loins stirred at the memory of her silken tresses, her supple breasts, her yielding flesh. She truly was a lovely woman. She’d make a beautiful bride.

For someone else.

Someone deserving. Someone decent. Someone whose hands weren’t bound by shackles, whose heart wasn’t bound by shame.

His chest was wrenched with pain as she caught his eye, flashing him a smile of pure adoration. At least, he consoled himself, she had no regrets about what they’d done. But then maybe she expected him to sue for her hand now, to save her from the convent by offering her marriage.

That he couldn’t do. He wouldn’t ask her to live as he did—homeless, nameless, a wandering sword-for-hire. ‘Twas no life for a titled lady.

She wouldn’t understand. Her heart would be broken. But one day she’d come to realize that he’d done what was best. One day she’d find a handsome nobleman to carry her off on his white steed, to a castle with a mews the size of the king’s stable. And maybe…maybe she’d remember him.

He shrugged off his melancholy mood and descended the last step. Today was their final day together. He’d be damned if he’d spoil it for her.

‘Twas Wilham who reminded him that they had another mission today. ‘Twas the day of reckoning, and they were no closer to discovering Archibald’s assassins. And so he vowed, reluctantly, to intensify his efforts on that score.

It occurred to him, as they trod the final steps toward St. Andrews, that nine days together were long enough to make enemies of most any men, and the pilgrims were no exception. Despite the joy that should have heralded their approach to the celebrated city, the travelers bickered amongst themselves. The earliness of the hour and the dank mist that lurked over the landscape served to hang a pall over the entire company.

The scholars moaned about their aching heads. The tanners groused over the lack of ale in holy shrines. Lettie and Brigit pecked like hens at one another, and Jacob rolled his eyes in weary disgust. Campbell grew sullen and withdrawn, confounding Guillot, who moped beside him. Drogo and Fulk argued over some insult one had given the other at supper. The two nuns walked in frosty silence, and Blade swore he saw one of them clout the other. Simon was his usual morose self, and Tildy, normally animated, only muttered about her weary old bones and the damp weather. Even Father Peter looked worn about the fringe, and ‘twas easy to believe that ‘twould indeed be his last pilgrimage.

Rose seemed the only stream of sunshine on the gloomy day, and though it frayed Blade’s composure, he finally screwed up enough courage to speak with her.

He caught up with her and asked conversationally, “Ye know well the shrine at St. Andrews?”

She brightened at his appearance. “Aye.”

Suddenly her beauty, her adoring eyes, the memory of the intimacy they had shared, left him at a loss for words, like a peasant meeting the king. “‘Tis…wondrous.”

She let her hand drop beside his and, with clandestine grace, ran a finger along his palm. “’Tis impressive, I suppose.” Her eyes were trained on the path ahead, but her eyelids dipped sensuously as she told him, “Last night…was wondrous.”

He swallowed. Aye, ‘twas. More wondrous than a dozen St. Andrews. Last night would haunt him the rest of his days.

“Ye know,” she murmured low, “I meant what I said.” She glanced up at him, whispering, “I love ye, Blade, with all my heart.”

Her tender words were like a welcome dagger in his chest, akin to the bittersweet, savage thrust he’d dealt her last night. But, God forgive him, he couldn’t answer in kind. To do so would be careless, irresponsible, foolish. Yet words spilled from his lips unwilled. “I’ll never forget ye.”

“Nor I ye.”

He furrowed his brow, weighted with guilt. “What I said last night…about fore’er…”

“I know,” she said, and he could discern clearly now the hint of melancholy at the back of her eyes, the sadness that had likely been there all along, the sorrow she’d buried under sunny smiles and gay laughter. “I know. But we have today. And I’ve no regrets.”

Her brave face made him feel all the worse, as if his own heart might break. ‘Twas absurd. His heart had been shattered years ago. Surely there was nothing left to wound.

“There ‘tis!” someone shouted suddenly, and the rest of the pilgrims joined in, their spirits revived.

A few miles hence, rising above the mist, stood the great twin spires of St. Andrews. For some, like Father Peter and Simon the palmer, ‘twould mean another badge on their cloak or another coin in their purse. For some, like Campbell and Guillot, the cathedral represented penance and forgiveness. For many, ‘twas simply the end of a colorful journey. For Rose, it meant a turn in her life’s path. And for Blade? What he’d almost believed might be his last chance for redemption he now looked upon with dread. Looming above the city ahead was the end of hope.

As planned, they’d arrived on the Sabbath, and they now entered the city as the bells began tolling the call to Mass. The streets soon flooded with worshippers—citizens and pilgrims, nobles and servants, merchants in robes of brocade and polished gems, beggars in grimy tatters, penitents in sackcloth—all swarming toward the cathedral.

Even Rose, clutching tightly to her falcon, appeared to be carried along by the throng at a whim, like a blossom on a swirling stream. But she seemed excited, not frightened, and she must have read his concern, for as they drifted apart, she laughed and sent him a merry promise across the crowd. “After Mass!”

Blade cast a backward glance toward Wilham, who shrugged as he tried to keep an eye on the members of their company. As much as Blade wanted to stay with Rose, he had a murder to prevent.

At the summit of the grand cathedral, as the horde pressed into the sanctuary, Blade struggled to keep sight of everyone in the teeming chaos of velvet and broadcloth, perfume and sweat, laughter and scolding.

The St. Andrews residents swept forward with rude haste past the vast arches of the cathedral, seeking the spots closest to God, while visitors paused in hushed reverence at the door. Blade and Wilham hovered over their flock like anxious shepherds. But the pilgrims, tired of one another’s company, were more than willing to sever ties, and Blade and Wilham were forced to separate to maintain surveillance.

Candles filled the sanctuary with golden light, and Blade remembered when he’d first seen the cathedral as a lad. St. Andrews, with its vaulting arches and stained glass windows gleaming like jewels, its gilded altar and the sweet smoke drifting like celestial spirits past the pillars, had seemed like heaven. Now, he realized, something had been missing. An angel.

He glanced over his shoulder. There she was now, standing with her falcon near to the door, her reverent face illuminated by candlelight, as beautiful as a saint.

Spiced incense wafted through the air, quieting the worshippers, and Blade directed his attention forward again. The altar seemed a mile away. The figures at the fore in rich-colored copes looked as small as finches. And between Blade and those figures swam a sea of people—two of whom, despite the sanctity of their surroundings, plotted murder. He scowled, scanning the crowd, wondering if he faced an impossible task.

He spotted Ivo and Odo behind a pillar. They’d smuggled in a wineskin and were passing it back and forth.

Fulk was easy to find, for he towered over the congregation. Drogo stood beside him, and they both looked awestruck by their surroundings.

The sister nuns, despite the hushed reverence of St. Andrews, were bickering again at the back wall of the cathedral.

The Highland woman had planted herself in the midst of some well-dressed nobles and was scrutinizing them from head to toe, almost like a cutpurse sizing up victims. Blade narrowed his gaze as she surreptitiously fondled the fabric of first one lady’s surcoat, then a gentleman’s cloak, and concluded she was only examining the quality of their garments.

Father Peter had cheerfully bullied his way to the front of the sanctuary, and Simon had used the priest’s considerable girth to clear the way.