Passion's Exile

by Glynnis Campbell

  "By all means," Wilham said, sketching a deep bow to let him pass. "Love. Now that’s a different tale altogether." His knowing voice was as irritating as a knife on a grinding wheel. "Take your time."

  The sun fired its first yellow shafts through the split shutters onto the plaster wall. When Rose awoke, she couldn’t recall how she’d ended up back in the manor. The last thing she remembered was thinking how soothing Blade’s voice was, particularly when she rested her ear against his broad, resonant chest. She must have fallen asleep while he was telling his tale of the Orient. How remarkable the night had been.

  Wilham, Blade’s friend, had slipped a missive to her through a servant, letting her know that Wink had made it through the night and was resting. Rose planned to visit the mews to see for herself, right after her bath. The Lady of Hawkhame had indulged her guests this morn by providing two chambers with great steaming tubs, one for the men and one for the women.

  Flinging aside her linen shift, Rose sank blissfully into the clove-scented water. Never one to linger at her bath and well aware that others waited to bathe after her, she lathered the tallow soap into her hair and briskly scrubbed her skin till it tingled. She was eager to learn how Wink fared for herself and, she had to admit, even more eager to see Blade again.

  Her heart staggered, just remembering his kiss. When she thought of his smoldering gaze, his seductive mouth, the way his hands seemed to claim her, a warm wave of yearning enveloped her, hinting at deeper pleasure, promising her...

  Someone banged hard on the oak door. "Lads!"

  Rose gasped. ‘Twas Blade. Her eyes widened, and she clapped her arms across her breasts.

  "Have ye drowned in there?" he bellowed.

  She bit her lip, unsure what to do.

  "Come, lads!" he called, pounding again. "The water’ll be colder than a harlot’s heart by the time ye—"

  He pushed the door open before she could speak. He peered in. She watched, mortified, as his eyes flitted over her features, his glance fleeting yet perceptive enough to memorize every inch of her body.

  Blade sucked a hard breath between his teeth. He would carry that image of Rose with him to his dying day. He tried to avert his gaze—truly he did—but it peeled away only reluctantly.

  She was a vision in pearl and ebony and rose. Wet locks of hair framed her face and trailed over her creamy skin, past her eyes—round with shock, her flushed cheeks, and her open mouth. Lithe limbs enwrapped her, concealing her most private places, yet displaying the artful curve of her shoulder, the tender swell of her breasts. Her legs, doubled before her, were long and shapely, and—curse his unruly mind—he had no trouble at all imagining them locked around his waist.

  It took all his will to train his eyes upon the plank floor after feasting on such a sight.

  "Sorry," he managed to mutter. "I thought..."

  Damn that conniving Wilham. The crafty varlet had told him the three scholars were bathing in this chamber. Now that he knew Blade didn't intend to seduce and discard Lady Rose, he must be planning to thrust the two of them together at every possible opportunity.

  Blade quickly decided ‘twas better to simply close the door than try to explain Wilham’s misguided antics.

  “Sorry," he repeated.

  "Wait."

  He froze.

  Surely he’d heard wrong. He frowned, uncertain. Then, swallowing an overwhelming urge to graze her luscious contours with his eyes once more, dragged his gaze instead to her face.

  She looked as if she’d forgotten what she wished to say, and though a part of him would have her continue to forget so he might continue to gaze upon her, another part of him—the noble part—suffered unspeakable torment.

  Her eyes bound him as surely as the shackles binding his wrists, and he watched her lids lower subtly with longing. His heart bolted, and the breath lodged in his chest. This was no Siren’s game she played. Nae, she was an innocent. The desire playing over her face was as raw and primal and genuine as the hardening in his braies. He continued to stare at her—past decency, past honor, past shame...

  "Out o’ my way, ye knave!"

  Tildy came barreling down the passageway, trying to shove her way past Wilham, who was attempting to block her view and slow her progress.

  “But, Goodwife,” Wilham said, “certainly Lady Rose would like..."

  Blade backed out of Rose’s chamber and into the hall, scrabbling at the door latch to close it as discreetly as he could.

  "An apple tart to go with that lovely..." Wilham continued.

  Tildy stopped in her tracks when she saw Blade. She knew at once some mischief was afoot. "What the devil are ye doin’ at the door o’ the women’s chamber?"

  Blade scowled, unable to think of a good answer.

  Fortunately, Wilham’s quick wit stepped in. "Ah, Blade, well done," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Ye see, my good woman? I posted him here to guard Lady Rose’s bath."

  Her gaze narrowed dubiously. Tildy had mellowed in her disdain of Blade since he’d done Lady Rose the favor of splinting her falcon’s wing, but there was still a good deal of vinegar in her voice and a great deal of mistrust in her eyes.

  "Hmph," she snorted. "'Tis like settin’ a fox to guard chickens." She elbowed them aside. "Away with ye now, the both o’ ye. Well away."

  Tildy continued along the passageway past Rose's door and out of sight while they slunk off in the opposite direction. Halfway down the corridor, Blade cuffed Wilham on the shoulder.

  "What’s that for?" Wilham cried.

  "Ye knew very well who waited behind that door."

  Wilham gave him an irritating grin. "I did. Was she as lovely as ye imagined?"

  Blade cuffed him again, harder.

  "God’s eyes!" Wilham yelped. "I think ye’d be grateful. After all, I got her guardian out o’ the way so ye could..."

  "So I could what?" Blade snapped.

  Wilham shrugged. "Feast your eyes? Fetch her the soap? Help her scrub the places she can’t reach on her o—"

  Blade shoved him. “Cease!”

  Wilham shoved him back. "Ye cease!"

  Blade hauled him up by the front of his doublet.

  Then, down the passage, the door to Rose’s chamber creaked opened. They turned their heads toward the sound. A pale face surrounded by a riot of wet black hair peered around the door. The sight of her—so angelic yet so earthy—stole the breath from Blade. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but just then Tildy bellowed at her from the far end of the hall, and Rose ducked back into the room.

  Too late, Blade realized what a ridiculous picture he and Wilham made, like two lads brawling in church. Muttering a curse, he released Wilham.

  "Well, ye lucky bastard," Wilham said in wonder, straightening his doublet.

  Blade frowned. What was he yammering about?

  "She’s in love with ye."

  Blade rolled his eyes. Wilham was a dreamer and a fool. No woman cared for Blade. He was a mercenary, a wanderer, a felon. And if the sweet and innocent Lady Rose ever found out what else he was... "No one loves a murderer, Wilham."

  He shambled off then toward the chamber where the men's bath awaited, but he wasn’t quite out of hearing when Wilham grumbled, "She does, even if ye’re too blind to see it."

  Rose strolled through the pleasance garden at Hawkhame with Wink tucked in the crook of one arm, using the other to fluff her damp hair in the sunlight. She wished that she could order her thoughts as neatly as the surrounding beds of primrose, violets, and gillyflowers.

  What she’d intended to say to Blade when she poked her head out of the door this morn, she didn’t know. ‘Twas impossible to put words to her mixed feelings. But the thoughts that came closest were a perilous combination of leave me alone and take me away.

  She’d felt absolutely paralyzed when he walked in upon her bath—trapped there by the pure, raw, primal lust in his eyes. A fiery current had coursed through her veins and seared the breath from her lungs.
And ‘twas a heady thrill to think she could make him feel such things as well. The truth—that she’d spent the night in the massive arms of that imposing warrior, lay her head upon that broad chest, and placed kisses on that tempting mouth—made her long for him with a yearning past reason.

  And though he said nothing to encourage her passions, the unguarded desire in his gaze was enough. ‘Twas a seduction far more powerful than words.

  Tildy had interrupted them this morn. But there were still many moments left before the journey’s end, and Rose wondered if her heart didn’t lead her in the right direction after all. The future looked to be a dull and gloomy place for her. Why not seize one moment of happiness before 'twas lost forever? Why not grasp what joy she could in the little time left?

  She twined her finger idly through a lock of hair. She’d never felt so drawn to a man before. No man had called so clearly to her soul. She’d had admirers in St. Andrews, certainly—fair-faced lads with laughing eyes and sweet natures—but none of them had attracted her in the way this dark, menacing felon did.

  What was it, she wondered, that drew her to him? Was it his striking face? His powerful physique? Those eyes that could pierce her like a lance? Aye, all of them weakened her knees. And yet ‘twas more than just his body that hastened her heart.

  Maybe ‘twas his wit. He jested and jousted with words keen enough to cut, yet tender enough to charm.

  Maybe ‘twas his chivalry. He’d fed her falcon, rescued her from thieves, loaned her his cloak.

  Yet hadn’t Gawter, her betrothed, been just as gallant? Hadn’t he made all the appropriate knightly gestures—bowing over her hand, praising her peregrine, smiling at her quips? He had. But with Gawter, the overtures seemed only polite but cursory obligations of his noble rank.

  ‘Twas different with Blade. His chivalry stemmed from another source—a fount of kindness deep within his soul. She sensed—despite his chains of disgrace and his fierce scowl—there dwelt inside his felon’s body an angel of compassion.

  "Sir Ian believes the outlaw is in truth a great noble.”

  Rose whipped about, so startled by the young apprentice’s abrupt remark that she nearly dropped Wink. Guillot blinked and offered her a small smile. Over the last few days, Rose noticed the lad had seemed to blossom under the tutelage of his new hero, Sir Ian Campbell. The boy had appointed himself as a sort of squire to the soldier. Today Guillot’s eyes looked bright, his step light, his stature tall and proud.

  "What did ye say?" Rose asked.

  "Sir Ian believes your outlaw friend, the one you call Blade, might be a lord."

  Rose lifted her brows. "Why?"

  “He says he has seen his face before.”

  Flustered, Rose whirled about before the lad could witness the telling flush of her cheeks, and busied herself, stroking Wink’s breast. A lord! Her pulse suddenly pounded in her chest at the thought there might be some truth to Guillot’s words.

  Guillot seated himself on a small raised bench of chamomile beneath an apple tree. "Sir Ian said he saw a man with the same dark features at a tournament last year,” Guillot volunteered. “He said he fought valiantly, winning every contest of arms. Sir Ian remembered him, because he refused the champion’s prize, insisting it be sent in tribute instead to his castle."

  A prickling began along Rose’s arms, and a thrilling thought formed in her head. What if the tale were true? What if Blade were not the mercenary outlaw he appeared, but a nobleman with lands and a title?

  “Well,” she said, strangely discomfited by the news, “he obviously doesn’t want it known. So I suggest ye keep it to yourself."

  The lad looked contrite, but added, "I only thought, my lady, since he rescued you from thieves, and he mended your bird, and...I mean, the way he looks at you and..."

  Her gaze darted toward the apprentice. "Looks at me? He doesn’t look at me."

  “Oui, my lady,” Guillot said, his observations growing more distressing, and more exciting, by the moment. "As if you were a precious flower. Or an angel. Or—"

  "Faugh!" ‘Twas the only thing she could think to say, to stop his gushing and her thoughts, which were tumbling over themselves, gathering speed like a snowball down a hill.

  ‘Twas ridiculous. Surely Guillot was only flattering her—the French were notorious romantics.

  Besides, Blade’s nobility changed nothing. First of all, there was no assurance that Blade was the same man Campbell had seen. Second, Blade had earned those shackles somehow, and not by throwing a woman to the chickens. They were probably justly deserved. Third, just because he looked at her as if she were an angel...an angel...

  Lord, did he truly look upon her like that?

  A rush of warmth effused her.

  "Maybe, my lady, if it is true," Guillot ventured, knotting his fingers nervously before him, "you might restore him."

  "What?"

  Guillot dipped his eyes. "Sir Ian told me...what you did."

  "What I did?"

  He nodded. "He is sure you must be an angel. Sir Ian said you saved him from himself." He looked away, his mouth working. "If not for you, my lady—" He broke off, choked by emotion.

  Rose finished the thought for him. Sir Ian might be dead.

  The lad continued when he’d recovered his composure. "The outlaw, Blade, did me a similar kindness," he said. "So it would seem you are both angels of mercy." He chewed at his lip. "Forgive my boldness, my lady, but I believe perhaps you are meant to help the fallen knight, that you may hold the key to his shackles."

  Blade, done with his bath and dressed, held out his wrists while Wilham locked the shackles about them again.

  Wilham shook his head, replacing the key chain around his neck. "Chains. Shackles. Ach! Ye should have cropped your hair like I did. ‘Tis far less trouble."

  Blade wandered toward the shuttered window, easing it open. An errant breeze sighed through the treetops and ruffled his freshly washed hair as he gazed down to the walled garden below. She was there, among the others—her black tresses gleaming in the sunlight, her scarlet dress like a velvety blossom blowing atop the green sward. The lingering image of the pearly skin that lay beneath quickened his pulse, and he bit back the urge to groan aloud as his loins responded to the memory.

  He steeled his newly shaved jaw, trying to convince himself he merely perused the garden for suspects among the half dozen or so pilgrims gathered there. According to Wilham, he was failing miserably.

  "Why don’t ye just go down there and have a word with her?" Wilham said, drying what little hair he had left with a linen towel.

  "Who?" Blade said stubbornly, his eyes fixed on the scholars milling about among the fruit trees.

  Wilham chuckled wickedly. "The red rose in the garden," he taunted. "The one with the sweet perfume. The one with the lovely twin buds above, and the soft, ripe petals below."

  As irritating as Wilham could be, his words summoned up a vision of Rose that shot a pang of lust streaking through Blade’s groin.

  "Save your breath," he managed to mutter. "Roses always have thorns."

  "Ah, but they’re still the queen o’ the garden," Wilham continued, undaunted. "Behold, the proud and royal rose who wears a crown where’er she goes..."

  Blade, at the end of his patience, turned on Wilham with a scowl. "We’re supposed to be huntin’ assassins, not composin’ verse."

  Wilham lifted a dubious brow and usurped Blade’s place at the window, leaning over the ledge to study the occupants of the garden. "Let me guess. The scholars?"

  "Maybe," Blade challenged.

  "Oh, I suspected as much," Wilham said with lavish sarcasm. "That Bryan has murder in his eye. And if Daniel and Thomas were to ever cease arguin’ for more than the wink of an eye, who can say what mischief they might wreak?"

  Blade skewered Wilham with a quelling glare.

  Wilham was not quelled. But his sardonic expression faded, and he leaned back against the stone sill, successfully obstructing Blade’s view of
the garden.

  After a pensive moment, he spoke. "At least grant me this, Pierce," he said softly.

  Blade glanced at him. Wilham never called him by his given name. And he seldom spoke without a mischievous grin skulking at the fringes of his face. He did both now.

  "Think on it," he asked. "This is a lonely existence. We cannot be knights-errant for the rest of our lives."

  Blade sniffed. "Ye should have gone home," he muttered.

  "And abandon ye?" Wilham shook his head. "I couldn’t. But ye’re joustin’ with ghosts, my friend. ‘Tis time ye came back to the livin’."

  Blade had felt dead for the last two years. He couldn’t recall the towns he’d ridden into, couldn’t remember the faces of those he’d defeated in tournament.

  "Ye need this, Pierce," Wilham insisted, moving aside to reveal the garden. "Ye need her."

  Blade gazed at the lady set amongst the drab pilgrims like a crimson rose upon the emerald ground—her black hair gleaming like polished jet, her delicate face turning up toward the midmorning sun.

  He felt the need rise in him, felt it in that animal part of him that lusted for her flesh and felt it also deep within his heart.

  But more powerful was his need to crush such frivolous dreams and return to the despair to which he’d grown accustomed.

  "She’s not for the takin’," he told Wilham.

  Wilham blinked. "Why? She’s not wed. She’s young, beautiful, o’ the proper lineage. For the love o’ Mary, she even has all her teeth. And she gazes upon ye as if..." Blade’s glance darted to Wilham’s face. "...as if the sun rose and set upon your shoulder."

  Surely Wilham was mistaken. Aye, Lady Rose might desire his body, as often unworldly maids did, for he wasn’t uncomely. He’d been told so more than once. But ‘twas only a fleeting attraction. Rose didn’t care for him. How could she? She scarcely knew him.

  "A wife, a home, children. That’s what ye need. ‘Tis time ye opened your heart," Wilham prodded.

  But Blade had opened his heart before, and he’d destroyed what he’d held most dear. "Open my heart?" he said, smirking. "Not to that one."

  "Why?"