Passion's Exile (7 page)

He meant to hand the egg to the lass with a good scolding, chiding her for bringing along a pet for which she couldn’t care. But once he felt her delicate hand within his fist, once he glimpsed the guarded look in her eyes—eyes the color of polished cobbles at the bottom of a stream, olive and russet and emerald mingled—once he beheld the trembling of her rosy lips, he could only speak gently to her.

He silently damned himself for inspiring such revulsion when he only meant her well, but he supposed such was his curse. After all, good intentions had caused the burden of pain he now bore.

How many miles they trudged, he didn’t know. He paid little heed to the woods around him. Wilham and he had traveled so extensively across the countryside, it sometimes seemed he’d committed every tree to memory. There was little in the landscape to surprise him.

‘Twas strange, however, to travel with so many companions and to stop so frequently. Mounted on fresh horses, Wilham and he could ride fifty miles in a day. What was two days’ ride would take them ten on pilgrimage. He supposed the leisurely pace would ultimately prove a blessing, for he could use the time to unmask Archibald of Laichloan’s enemies. But it didn’t ease Blade’s mounting suspicion, born at The Black Hound, that change was in the wind, that somehow this journey, this pilgrimage, would alter him forever.

By the time the pilgrims paused again, Blade was certain the lass must be thirsty enough to drink the holy water out of the vial the priest wore around his neck. She hadn’t brought a wineskin or even a cup as far as he could see, and no one seemed aware or willing to remedy that. It entered his mind to offer her some of his own beer, but she’d doubtless refuse him. A gentlewoman would hardly drink from a vessel that had touched an outlaw’s lips.

Fortunately, the country cottage where they stopped featured an ale-stake protruding from the thatched roof, a sign that fresh brew was available. Blade noted that the lass dug out a few pennies from her purse at once, giving them to the elderly woman, who’d offered to purchase ale for them. At least she’d brought coin.

He leaned back against the shaded wall of the cottage, waiting his turn. Slaking the thirst of a score of pilgrims would take a while. He could wait.

In the meantime, he harkened to the conversations around him, listening for some clue, some slip of the tongue that would betray the identity of the plotters.

The man named Jacob, the goldsmith, paraded past the other pilgrims, no doubt so they could admire the sunlight flashing off his gold jewelry. The voluptuous dark-haired woman walked beside him. Blade didn’t know her name, but ‘twas obvious the two knew each other. She exchanged sly glances with the goldsmith and giggled at his every word as he expounded upon the details of his craft.

The two tanners, Ivo and Odo, squatted beneath an oak and spoke in barely coherent growls, their conversation consisting of crude comments about an alehouse near Falkirk at which one might procure more than just drink from the alewife.

The three scholars were engaged in another debate, this one regarding the merits of mounted men-at-arms over dismounted archers on the battlefield. Blade could have instantly settled their argument for them—he’d been in enough battles to know—but they’d only find another subject upon which to disagree.

Simon the palmer, clasping a wooden cross in his pale hand, murmured prayers with his head bowed. But when Drogo, the cook, happened near, Simon ceased his prayers and invited him closer to look at the sliver of the bone of Saint Regulus he carried in his satchel.

Blade smirked. He wondered if the bone had belonged to some unfortunate nameless beggar found by the roadside or someone’s butchered pig.

Wilham had wandered off to find a tree, but Blade knew he’d be back soon. During their travels, his comrade had developed a discriminating taste for ale and could correctly identify the proportion of barley, wheat, and oats in almost any brew, which apparently proved so amusing to the alewives that they’d often give him an extra cup at no charge. Blade, of course, had his own ideas about the alewives’ generosity—‘twas Wilham’s bonnie face and not his discerning palate that earned him the ale.

Blade sighed, crossed his arms over his chest, and rested his head against the plaster wall, closing his eyes. He could hear the pilgrims’ gossip much more clearly now. Fulk, the butcher, talked about a recent visit to Edinburgh. The goldsmith, Jacob, chuckled importantly, flirtatiously chiding the woman he now referred to as Lettie. Bryan, the most boisterous of the scholars, addressed the timid lad, asking for his name, and Blade could even hear his soft reply—Guillot.

Then someone touched Blade’s sleeve, and he sprang off the wall. His chains clanked as, in one swift motion, he unfolded his arms and instinctively reached for his absent sword.

His intended victim flinched, hissing, “Holy Mother o’…! Shite! I mean…”

‘Twas her, the lass with the falcon, and he’d done it again—startled her, this time into an oath at odds with her sweet lips. Her hazel eyes were wide, and the cup of ale she held aloft partially spilled over her hand, though she fought to hold it steady.

He let out his breath and lifted his hands in a gesture of apology.

“Well,” she said, her rapid pulse visible in the hollow of her throat, “I’d no idea ye were so easily startled. Forgive me.”

“My fault,” he grumbled, not entirely sure whether her tone was sincere or sarcastic. He glanced about at the pilgrims. Fortunately, the incident hadn’t attracted as much attention as he imagined. The others carried on with their chat, scarcely noticing he’d nearly leaped out of his skin.

“I thought… I’ve brought…” she began, pressing the cup of ale toward him, then blurted, “This is for ye.”

He stared at it stupidly.

“To thank ye.” She lifted her brows. “For the egg?”

He frowned. She owed him nothing. What he’d done, he’d done out of concern for her pet, no more.

“Unless ye’ve sworn off ale,” she added.

“Aye. Nae.” He winced. What was wrong with him? Irritated by his own rapidly diminishing wit, he took the ale from her and downed it all at once, wiping the foam from his lip with the back of his sleeve.

She raised a single slender brow in astonishment. “Shall I fetch another?”

Blade shifted his stance. She shouldn’t be conversing with him. A young noblewoman had no business speaking to a shackled mercenary.

“Sir?”

He blinked and looked down at her again. Lord, she was a beautiful creature. What had she asked him? Did he want another?

“Nae. ‘Tis enough.”

“I’ll gladly bring another if…”

He pressed the cup back into her hands, disconcerted by her attention and eager to be rid of her. “There’s no need. I expected no payment.” He saw the old woman emerge from the alehouse, carrying two cups. “Go,” he bid her. “Your own ale awaits.”

The lass lowered the cup and, with it, her defenses. “‘Twill wait a bit longer,” she said, surprising him. In a great show of courage for one so small, she straightened her back and looked him in the eye. “I’ve an offer to make ye.”

He swallowed. A dozen highly improper offers dashed through his mind, most of them involving the delectable lass flat on her back. He waited with bated breath, but wisely held his tongue.

“For each day ye fetch an egg for my falcon,” she offered, “I’ll buy ye an ale.”

He hesitated. ‘Twas unwise to enter into any such dealings with the lass. He knew that. ‘Twasn’t that he was unwilling to fetch food for her bird. He had as soft a heart as any man when it came to the welfare of helpless animals. But such a bargain represented a commitment. It meant that they must see each other, speak to each other, daily. He couldn’t afford to form an alliance with her, no matter how small. Her presence was far too distracting.

There was no question. He couldn’t agree to the bargain. Someone else could fetch eggs for her. She was a bonnie thing. With those dewy eyes and that sweet mouth, she could get any one of the men of the company to do the deed, ale or no ale.

Certainly he, Blade the mercenary, wasn’t the man to agree to such an alliance. ‘Twas foolish. And irresponsible. And dangerous.

“Aye, fine.”

What devil put the words in his mouth, he didn’t know. But as soon as they left his tongue, the gratitude lighting her eyes sparked an ember deep inside him that he’d almost forgotten, one that had lain dormant for months.

Her touch upon his arm was fleeting but potent. “Ye won’t regret your kindness, sir.”

Blade doubted that. He already regretted it. He watched her whirl away in a swish of scarlet skirts and ebony tresses and cursed himself for a fool.

Wilham strolled out of the woods, sniffing the air as he passed by the other pilgrims, waving the aroma of ale toward him with his hand, then confided to Blade, “Oat with a kiss o’ barley.” He flipped a penny into the air with his thumb, catching it again in his hand. “Shall we?”

When Blade didn’t answer, Wilham stopped and inclined his head. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Blade stared bleakly at the ground.

“Blade?”

He raised his eyes to glare at Wilham.

“Holy Mother, Blade, what did I miss?”

Blade clenched his jaw, then released it. “Nothin’,” he said. “Nothin’. Go buy yourself a pint.” He nodded toward the alehouse door. “Buy me one as well.” When Wilham had gone, he added in a mutter, “I’ll pour it o’er my witless head.”

“Are ye daft, lass? Consortin’ with his like. The man’s a felon!”

Rose heard a Highland lilt in the spry old woman’s voice as she whispered in horror, hauling Rose aside rather familiarly by the elbow.

Rose’s heart raced. But she wasn’t afraid. She was excited. She stole a glance backward. The felon’s friend, the cheery man with the dancing eyes and cropped hair, stood beside him now, making him look even more dark and dangerous in contrast. “He’s not so ferocious.”

The woman snorted. “I ken men, lassie. That one? Pure trouble. Handsome as the devil and mean as a bear.”

“A bear?” Rose’s mouth quirked up at that. How odd that the woman should mention bears. Long ago, when she’d first arrived at Fernie House, a bear-baiter had come to St. Andrews. All the children of the village had gathered about the great iron cage to peer at the fierce beast inside, though none dared venture too close.

But fearless Rose had glimpsed the weariness in the bear’s eyes and the scars of too many battles, and she’d felt sorry for the poor creature. Pity had outweighed caution. While her maid’s back was turned and as the other children looked on in awe, she’d approached the cage and stuck her hand between the grate, stroking the bear’s coarse fur. For one brief moment, she’d sensed the animal relax, felt the warmth of its hide.

Then, naturally, her maid had shrieked in horror, surprising the bear, and amidst its startled roar and the screams of the children, she’d barely snatched Rose from the bear’s swiping paw. Afterward, Rose had been scolded roundly by her maid and whipped soundly by her foster father. But she never forgot the excitement she’d experienced, petting the savage animal.

‘Twas how she felt now. A part of her shivered with fright at what she’d dared. But another part was exhilarated. She’d reached out, touched the beast, and come back safe.

“I wonder what his name is,” Rose mused, her gaze drifting back to the man leaning against the alehouse wall, shadowed and pensive and silently menacing.

“Ach! There’s a tale,” the woman volunteered, wiping ale froth from her pursed mouth. “I heard his companion call him by name.”

“And?”

The woman arched a grizzled brow. “Blade,” she confided, shuddering. “Blade! What ilk of a brute has a name like that?”

Rose’s eyes were drawn to the dark felon again. Blade. A dangerous name for a dangerous man. Alone again, he stared somberly at the ground. She wondered where his thoughts drifted.

“God’s hooks, dinna look at him!” the woman hissed.

Rose ignored her. Blade. Such a cold, hard, unyielding name, like the flint in his eyes, like the strength in his hand. And yet, as with the bear, she sensed there was something tender beneath his hoary hide, if only she could reach out and touch it.

“Ye may thank Matildis for guardin’ your virtue, lassie.” She extended a pudgy hand. “That’s my name. Call me Tildy.”

“I’m Rose.”

The woman’s fingers were rough, her grip strong, her hand worn from honest labor. The guild pin she wore on her ample breast marked her as a wool merchant, and her finely embroidered cote-hardie and bejeweled belt distinguished her as a successful one. She was short, squat, round. Her face was as rosy and wrinkled as a rotting apple, and her eyes sparked like pine boughs on the fire, full of life and wit and wisdom.

“Well, wee
Rose
, ye’d best heed my words,” she warned, “lest some knave come along to pluck ye ere ye’ve
bloomed
.” She snorted at her own cleverness and gestured toward Rose’s cup. “Here, lassie, drink up. Ye’ve got a thirsty look about ye.”

Thirsty? Aye, that she was. For ale and for adventure.

But by the time the sun hung low and the pilgrims’ shadows stretched before them as long and thin as lances, Rose could scarcely plant one foot in front of the other. Her arm ached from transporting the falcon. Her lips were chafed and sore, and she could hardly keep her eyes open. How she longed to lay her head down upon a mossy bank somewhere, to get the sleep she so desperately needed. Her arm began to sink, and her eyelids flagged.

She snapped awake instantly at the sudden drumming of horse hooves. Riders rapidly approached from behind them. Her pulse rushed through her ears, and dread sent a paralyzing shock along her spine.

Bloody hell! What if ‘twas Gawter’s men?

“Make way!” Father Peter called out. “Riders! Make way!”

The pilgrims shuffled off to the side of the road, and Rose fell back, hoping to disappear in the deep shade of a sycamore. She turned away from the road, concealing Wink as best she could in the crook of her arm. Her heart throbbed almost painfully as she waited for the men to pass.