"Wil, my friend," Blade sighed, clapping him on the shoulder, "only ye would choose for me a wife who’s bound for the nunnery."
"Nunnery?" Wilham’s brows raised, then furrowed. "She’s bound for the nunnery?"
"Aye."
"Ye’re jestin."
"Nae."
Wilham lost but a moment in contemplation. "Then ye’ll have to change her mind."
Blade would have argued, but his eye was caught suddenly by a bright flicker from the edge of the woods beyond the garden wall.
Wilham droned on, lost in his machinations. "I know. I’ll let slip how ye single-handedly bested the de Ware twins in tournament. Better yet, I’ll mention the cache o’ gold and jewels ye’ve won o’er..." He trailed off, sobering at once when he saw Blade studying something in the distance. "What is it?"
"Not sure."
Wilham followed his line of sight.
"A flash," Blade said. "The sun caught on... There."
"I see it."
Another glint of light sparked briefly against the dark trees, then was gone.
"Men-at-arms?" Wilham asked, squinting toward the forest.
"Maybe."
Two thick stone walls separated the woods from the pleasance garden, and guards were posted at close intervals along the outer curtain. But Blade’s heart still pounded as his gaze drifted over Rose—fragile and innocent and helpless among the flowers—while possible menace threatened only a few dozen yards away.
‘Twas absurd. What he’d seen could have been anything—a lady’s mirror, a gardener's spade, the pale flash of a bird’s wing—and yet some sense filled him with dread.
Wilham felt it as well. "Ye want your sword?"
Blade snorted. Of course he wanted his sword. His fingers itched to hold the familiar weight, so much a part of him for the last two years. But he’d taken a vow, and thus far he’d never broken his word. ‘Twould take much more than wanting to convince him to break an oath. "Nae."
"We’ll be leavin’ soon," Wilham urged. "We won’t have the protection o’ the castle or the guards."
For several moments more, they kept vigil. Finally, Wilham counted the pilgrims milling below.
"Blade."
"Mm?"
"Who’s missin’?"
No sooner had he asked the question than another flash came from the trees. 'Twas the glint off of Fulk’s axe, and Fulk and Drogo emerged. They appeared to be quarreling.
"What the devil were they up to?" Wilham wondered.
Blade didn’t care. He was just relieved they weren’t Rose’s pursuers. And that relief caught him off guard. First, that he felt so protective of a woman who might, in fact, be a fugitive. And second, because in his mercenary work, Blade always pursued his quarry with single-minded purpose until ‘twas run to ground. ‘Twas foolish—in some instances lethal—to let emotion interfere.
"A couple of assassins," Wilham guessed, "firmin’ up their plans?"
"Maybe. But what's their motive?"
"Revenge?" Wilham suggested.
Blade shook his head. "Unlikely, unless young Archibald o’ Laichloan has killed one o’ their kin."
"Coin?"
"Possibly."
"A butcher and a cook as hired assassins," Wilham mused, shuddering. "‘Tis a chillin’ way to dispose of a body."
Blade nodded. It had seemed altogether too convenient from the beginning that the two men, close companions, unbeknownst to one another, should by fate happen to join the same pilgrimage.
Still, there were others of the company who were just as suspect. The palmer, with his cache of fabricated holy relics, possessed the lack of scruples to commit such a crime for a handful of silver. The tanners, too, were a crude pair who might stoop to a felony to add to their purses. There was still the adulterous couple, Jacob the goldsmith and his paramour, Lettie.
And as long as he was doubting them, he might as well add to the list the Highland woman, the widow, the soldier, the apprentice, the nuns, the priest, and the three scholars, for none could be completely eliminated from the list of suspects.
Nae, the only pilgrims he could be fairly sure about were Wilham and himself...and of course, Rose.
Blade sighed. The pilgrimage was halfway through, and he was no closer to discovering the culprits.
"We should separate today," Wilham said, running his fingers through his chopped hair, trying to make some order of it. "We’ll hear twice as much that way."
Blade grunted his agreement.
Of course, Wilham had set him up again. While Wilham went to bring up the rear of the company, he suggested Blade move to the fore, which was how Blade wound up just one Highlander away from Rose.
Not that he minded being close to Rose. He wasn’t completely convinced that Fulk and Drogo were the only ones lurking in the wood. And while that unease possessed him, he’d just as soon place himself between Rose and danger.
He tried to pay heed to the nuances of the forest as they traveled, alert to discrepant sounds or sights. But 'twas difficult to focus while Rose distracted him with blushing glances.
As if the sun rose and set upon his shoulder, Wilham had said. Certainly the wench didn’t worship him so fervently. And yet ‘twas difficult not to wish ‘twere true.
Her face was, in Wilham’s words, as beautiful as her namesake. What Wilham didn’t know, what Blade had glimpsed this morn, was that her body was no less perfect than her face. For that treasure alone, any man would feel blessed to claim her as his own.
But for Blade, her beauty ran even deeper. She had clung to him last night, as if he weren’t a felon, as if he weren’t a murderer. In her presence, by her grace, for one fleeting moment, his sins had been erased. She didn’t judge him by his past, nor did she plague him about his future. She simply granted him the gift of the precious time they shared.
‘Twas wrong, he supposed. Life couldn’t be lived as if there were no consequences. One couldn’t careen blindly down a path without knowing where it led. And therein lay the great battle waged between heart and mind, between desire and wisdom, a war too painfully familiar.
CHAPTER 12
Curiosity had tormented Rose ever since Guillot had revealed that Blade might be a fallen noble. So when the pilgrims stopped at a tavern along the Standing Stane road, she decided she had to find out the truth.
Of course, ‘twasn’t a question she could ask outright. She’d have to be subtle. Prying secrets from a man who preferred to be mysterious was an art.
She never imagined ‘twould be so difficult to speak with him. But as they stood together beneath the overhanging thatched roof of the tavern, a flood of sensual memories from the night before assailed her. Her heart fluttered, a flush warmed her cheeks, and her tongue all but failed her.
"I wished to...to thank ye," she murmured, her voice cracking, "for last night."
He gave her a hesitant nod. His chin was shaved clean today, and she couldn’t help wondering how it might feel against her cheek, smooth like that, what ‘twould be like to kiss him now.
"I...I’m sorry I fell asleep," she continued. Lord, she could smell the soap-scrubbed fragrance of his skin. "I would have liked to hear the rest o’ your story."
"‘Twas no great adventure," he murmured. "Not as heroic a tale as tamin’ a bear."
"Oh, nae, ‘twas quite a..." she countered, placing her hand on his sleeve, which stirred a memory of how well-muscled his arm had felt beneath that thin linen shirt last night. "A rivetin’ story. But I was weary, and your voice was soothin’." She swallowed. "With your arms around me, I—"
"Lass," he growled. "I’d advise ye watch your tongue. We’re not alone."
Before common sense could prevent her, she sighed, "I wish we were."
The only indication he’d heard her was a slight flaring of his nostrils, followed by a long silence. Rose blushed, withdrawing her hand. She’d been too forthright. But she’d spoken the truth. And with so few days left to pursue her heart’s pleasure, there was litt
le time for coy flirtation.
Blade eased the tension by changing the subject. "Your falcon will need to feed soon."
Rose nodded. She hoped her poor bird had the strength to eat. She'd left Wink in the tavern with Guillot, who was glad to watch over her. "Fulk and Drogo went huntin’ for eggs in the forest this morn—”
"Huntin’ for eggs?" He arched a brow. “Ah.”
“To no avail.”
He grunted. "I’ll see what I can find."
"Thank ye. I’m...I’m truly beholden to ye."
“Faugh.” He stared into his ale, slightly embarrassed. "Ye’re always thankin’ me for things knights are supposed to do for ladies.” He took a drink.
"Knights?" she asked. Ah, here was her chance. She licked her lips. Then she added pointedly, "Or lairds?"
He choked on his ale.
Mayhap she hadn’t been as artful as she thought.
When he was done coughing, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "What are ye talkin’ about?”
She couldn’t conceal the excitement in her voice. "Is it true?"
“Is what true?”
“Are ye a laird?”
His jaw tensed. "I told ye I’m a mercenary."
She couldn’t leave it alone. "But were ye always a mercenary?"
"Nae." He took another swig of ale and stared into the woods. "Before that, I was a child."
She sighed. Blade had a tougher hide than the bear. "Ye know what I mean."
"Besides, I thought we agreed to no more questions."
"That was last night. ‘Tis a new day. Come, sir,” she coaxed. “Will ye not indulge me? A question for a question."
"Ye played me falsely last night," he reminded her.
"Very well." She bravely lifted her chin. "Today I’ll answer ye truthfully, whatever ye ask. I swear it upon my honor."
"On your honor?"
She nodded.
He smirked, shaking his head. "All right." He took another sip of ale, then ran his thumb over the lip of the cup. "Then I’ll ask ye again, is it truly in your heart to become a nun?"
She didn't figure he’d ask her the same question. At the painful reminder of her destiny, her heart thumped woodenly, and she lowered her head to stare at the ground before her. For a long while, she gave no answer, for it seemed that voicing her frustration would only increase it. But she couldn’t run from fate forever. And she’d sworn upon her honor to tell him the truth. At last she whispered, "Nae."
From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod.
"‘Tis simply that I have little choice," she confided. She battled the urge to crumble like an earthen dam in a flood, spilling all her secrets in one great torrent. "I..." she struggled. "I fear I’m not free to go where my heart—" She broke off, mortified to find a sob choking her.
Blade had never been able to resist a lady in distress. He'd spent too many years as a knight in shining armor. So he pushed away from the wall, took her cup from her, and set both of their half-finished ales upon the ground. Then, ignoring propriety, he clasped her by the elbow to guide her away from the others so she might weep in peace.
"Come," he said gently. "There’s a watermill behind the tavern."
He hadn’t meant to make her cry. He'd only wanted her to face the truth—‘twas not in her heart to be a nun. He’d known that the first time he’d asked her. He’d known it the first time they’d kissed. And the second. And he knew it from the way she’d nestled against him in the dark last night—her soft, womanly curves cleaving to his body as if she were made for coupling.
The prideful part of him wanted to hear from her own lips that she wanted no part of the dismal, barren, passionless life of the convent.
Never had he meant to hurt her.
"Sorry," she said, a hitch in her voice, dabbing at her eyes as they traversed the grassy mound toward the mill. "I don’t know what ails me. I don’t often... I never cry. I’m usually...quite strong."
Her weeping wrenched at his gut. "I’m sure ye are," he said. Then he added, in hopes of cheering her, "Any woman who can tame a bear..."
She made a sound that was half-laughter, half-sob, and it made him feel even guiltier.
As they drew near, he began to hear the water from the mill pond as it gurgled and sluiced and tumbled noisily over the slatted buckets of the wheel. The stones beside the stream were wet and slick, so he held onto Rose as they approached the millhouse. Passing by the churning wheel, they ducked through the low doorway of the small building and into the dry interior, where the large round grinding stone sat unused at the moment. Inside, the complaining squeak of wooden cogs and gears and the aroma of ground grain were oddly comforting.
Amber sunbeams spilled through the door, pooling on the plank floor and bathing the whole interior in warm light. Rose stood just inside the door, looking glorious against the tawny wood beams, like a brooch of ruby and onyx and pearl set in gold. Blade thought he could look at her forever. He wondered if he hadn’t had another motive in bringing her here, one far more ignoble—a selfish desire to recreate the intimacy they’d shared last night.
Then she wiped the last tears from her cheek—tears he’d caused—and remorse filled him.
"I shouldn’t have asked ye that," he apologized.
"’Tisn’t your fault." She sniffed. "‘Tis what I’ve been askin’ myself all along."
He ran his hand over the rough surface of the grinding wheel. "And now ye have your answer."
"Aye." She closed her eyes.
"So will ye not follow your heart then?" He tried to make the question sound casual. He wondered if he succeeded.
She chewed at her lip. "Would ye?" She gazed up at him with moist eyes as if the world balanced on the edge of her question. "Have ye always followed your heart?"
He swallowed hard, wishing he could say aye and then prove it by crushing her in his arms, kissing her with all the dark passion and burning thirst he felt.
He lied instead. "A mercenary has no heart," he told her. "I follow my instincts."
Her eyes, bright with tears, softened as if she didn’t believe him. Her voice was husky when she spoke, and he found that curiously alluring. "And what do your instincts tell ye?"
His instincts told him to thrust the bewitching wench up against the wall of the mill and plunge his aching lance deep into her yielding softness.
He clenched his teeth till they creaked like the mill cogs. Finally he let out a shuddering sigh. "My instincts tell me ye’re a great deal o’ trouble."
"So I’ve been told."
He gazed at her bowed head, at the shimmering river of ebony flowing over her shoulders to her waist. He couldn’t imagine her chopping her tresses off in favor of a nun’s veil, any more than he could envision her taming her impulsive nature to suit a convent.
After a time, she lifted her gaze and murmured, "I haven’t had my question yet."
He braced himself. She was going to ask him again if he was a laird. What would he tell her? She’d sworn on her honor to speak the truth, and she had. He owed her as much. And yet his anonymity was the one piece of armor he couldn’t afford to surrender.
"Tell me," she said so low he could barely hear her, her eyes trained on the sun-drenched planks of the floor. "Have ye...that is, do ye feel..." She clasped her hands tightly before her, took a deep breath, and started over. "Do ye feel any...desire for me at all?"
Blade’s jaw dropped, all the strength draining from him. 'Twasn’t the question he expected. The question he expected would have been far easier to answer. Desire for her? Satan’s ballocks, she must be jesting.
Just gazing at her delicate hands, he remembered their light touch upon his arm. Focusing upon her lips, he instantly recalled the taste of her kiss. Desire for her? Holy Saints, aye, he felt desire for her.
She still stared at the floor, and he could see she held her breath, waiting for his answer.
What could he tell her? That her kisses filled him with molten need? That her touch set his pul
se racing? That he could hardly bear to be alone here with her for want of seizing her, ravishing her...
"‘Tis fine if ye don’t." Her voice was thin and pained, but she spoke with dignity.
"Sweet Saints, woman," he breathed, “who wouldn’t desire ye?" He spoke hoarsely, raking a hand back through his hair. "Ye’re beautiful. Enchantin’." For a man of few words, suddenly he could not stop. "Magnificent. Intoxicatin’.” He lowered his gaze to her lovely lips, parted in wonder. “Irresistible."
With a light gasp, Rose took a dangerous step toward him and placed a tentative hand upon his chest. Suddenly he could well imagine the intrepid damsel taming a wild beast. He closed his eyes, inhaling the clean fragrance of her hair.
And then, as he knew she would—as they both must have intended all along—she pressed soft lips to his.
Rose knew ‘twas impetuous and wicked and greedy, but she couldn’t help but steal a kiss. Especially when his clean-shaven cheek was so intriguing...his sensual mouth parted in invitation...and his eyes smoky and willing.
‘Twas an innocent brush at first, gossamer light and tenuous, inquisitive and shy. She whispered wordless secrets into his mouth. He exhaled on a ragged sigh. And like the east wind, beckoning with its mysterious spices, his breath called to her, sending a warm shiver along her spine.
"We mustn’t," he whispered against her lips.
"Aye," she agreed, deepening the kiss. Now that there was no stubble peppering his jaw, she could feel the yielding warmth of his flesh. She nuzzled his chin, reveling in the sensation.
He broke away, holding her at arm’s length. His eyes were glazed with passion. "‘Tis unwise," he gasped.
She wiped the back of one fluttering hand across her tingling lips. "Aye." Sweet Mary, he was right. She was bound for convent. In a few more days, they’d never see one another again. ‘Twas foolish to think...
He caught the back of her neck and pulled her forward again, growling as his mouth closed over hers. She could taste his impatience, and ‘twas intoxicating. Every inch of her skin felt alive, sensitized, shamelessly eager for his touch.
Again and again he kissed her, his hands winding through her hair and cupping her chin. She angled into his embrace, savoring the heat of his body and the flavor of his kiss. Her fingers dragged at his shoulders, bidding him come closer, and she willingly crushed her breasts against his doublet. A singing began within her ears, like angels’ voices summoning her to heavenly realms, and those rich harmonies of yearning seemed to circle about her head.
Passion's Exile Page 19