Passion's Exile (10 page)

She snapped her skirt out of his way. Childish fury surged through her veins. She’d tried to deceive him, and he’d caught her in that deception. She fired a scathing glare at his back as he left.

When he turned unexpectedly at the door, he caught her enraged gaze. But he seemed largely unimpressed, which only angered her further.

“Ye needn’t distress yourself,” he murmured. “Sir Fergus can scarcely remember events of a day ago, much less those of a fortnight past.”

She blinked.

“Sleep well,” he told her. Then he gently closed the door.

She flounced down on the bed, spilling half the sweetmeats onto the carpet. Mumbling a curse, she managed to quickly gather the sugared fruit back onto the napkin, blowing it off for good measure, and set it aside.

Damn that wicked knight. He’d unearthed part of her secret. How long would it take him to discover the rest?

She wrested out of her surcoat, flopped onto her back in her linen chemise, and stared up at the knot of bedhangings centered above the bed. Was he right about Sir Fergus? Had the old man forgotten her?

If so, departing in the morning would be simple. But if he happened to remember her or Wink—or, more significantly, if someone
stirred
his memory—‘twould be difficult indeed to escape without Sir Fergus alerting her kin at Averlaigh.

Could she trust Blade to keep silent?

With a fretful sigh, she turned on her side, exhausted. Before her heart beat thrice, she fell asleep. And before she’d drawn three breaths, she began to dream.

She dreamt she was being pursued by a midnight rider again, galloping along the dark road, faster and faster. This time he caught up with her, snatched her from the saddle, dragging her onto his own mount, confining her there as they rode mile after mile. When day dawned in the dream, she swung around to look at her abductor, fearful ‘twas Sir Gawter, her betrothed. But instead, her captor was Blade. With a grim smile, he bade her open her hand. She did as he commanded, and he placed upon her open palm, not a robin’s egg, but a kiss.

Rose awoke to the sound of Wink shuffling along the steel rungs of the cage. In the pale sunlight, the threads of her dream slowly unraveled into oblivion till all that was left was the memory of her handsome captor and the gentleness of his touch.

Blade bit off a piece of the oatcake they were served for breakfast, then stuffed the rest into his pack. The lass had come down for neither the service in the chapel nor the morning meal, despite his reassurances she’d not be recognized. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t still abed. Father Peter seemed to hold to a strict schedule. He might well leave loiterers behind, particularly those who saw fit to avoid Mass.

He told himself that his concern wasn’t for her in particular, but for young Archibald of Laichloan. After all, if the group splintered, the lad’s assassins would be more difficult to track.

He paced across the hall yet again, restlessly flexing his fists, glancing up at the still closed door. Then Father Peter began announcing their departure.

“What’s the trouble, Blade?” Wilham whispered, falling in beside him. “Are ye that anxious to go?”

“We’re not all accounted for,” he muttered around the bite of oatcake.

Wilham scanned the residents of the hall. “The lass.”

Blade sent a glance toward the upstairs chamber.

“I never would have believed it,” Wilham said, shaking his head in a pretense of wonder, his voice thick with sarcasm. “She’s slipped off, hasn’t the little shrew, to do her dirty business? By God, she
is
the murderer.”

But just then, to Blade’s relief and Wilham’s amusement, the door swung open, and out peered the lass, looking warily both ways along the hallway. When she saw the way was clear, she retreated momentarily, then stepped onto the landing.

Blade almost choked on his oatcake when she reappeared.

The lass had been resourceful, he had to admit. She descended the steps, her head and face veiled by a modest swath of white linen. No one but he recognized that her concealing wimple was made of a supper napkin.

She managed to elude Sir Fergus’s attentions. The pilgrims said their farewells and cleared the hall, and the lass discreetly collected her falcon. But as she passed by, Blade couldn’t resist commenting under his breath. “Lovely veil.”

She blushed in a most becoming manner, and he found himself hoping that, despite his suspicions, the lass with the falcon wasn’t the assassin he sought.

Wilham elbowed him, breaking into his thoughts. “I think ye’d better train an eye on the goldsmith and that Lettie woman,” he confided.

“Why?”

“While ye were off last night, deliverin’ that midnight feast—”

Blade snagged Wilham’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Ye knew about that?”

Wilham raised a brow. “Oh, don’t be so shocked,” he said. “Ye know as well as I do, ‘tis my occupation to watch your back.”

Blade released him with a disgruntled sigh.

“Anyway, while ye were…” He cleared his throat. “Out, I saw the goldsmith leave his bed and go out the door. I followed, watchin’ him from the doorway. He waited outside the ladies’ chamber for a long while, and eventually a woman emerged.”

“Lettie?”

“Aye. Where they went, I don’t know. But I know he didn’t return to bed until after ye’d come back.”

Blade frowned thoughtfully, looking over the heads of the pilgrims toward the goldsmith who, predictably, walked beside Lettie. ‘Twas possible they were the culprits. Lettie, in particular, looked capable of slipping poison into a young lad’s drink without skipping a breath. Blade would keep watch on them both today.

As they traveled through the wood, ‘twasn’t long before Blade’s eye chanced upon a small nest lodged in the fork of an oak tree not far off the path. It contained two tiny eggs and a larger one he knew belonged to a cuckoo. Performing two good deeds with one act, he slipped the invasive cuckoo egg carefully into the pouch he wore at his hip, to keep it warm until ‘twas time for the falcon to feed.

The morning blossomed into the kind of spring day to make a Scotsman boast. Puffy white clouds floated like thistledown across a jewel bright sky. Squirrels spiraled up the trunks of ancient oaks, and sparrows twittered and flitted about, their beaks laden with bits of dry grass and twigs. Newly-hatched butterflies embroidered the grass, alighting on daisies and bluebells and dandelions scattered on the emerald sward. The air was balmy and fragrant, full of new life. Even the scuffling of twenty pairs of shoes and the incessant drone of conversation created a lulling lay as the travelers strolled like minstrels through the countryside.

By mid-afternoon, they stopped to rest. The Gray Swan, a squat, crumbling tavern tucked away in a dark grove of oaks, far from any town, nevertheless made the pilgrims welcome. Blade wasn’t familiar with this particular establishment, but he knew their type well. Hardly a day passed that some traveler wouldn’t journey along such a road, whether a group of pilgrims, a fair-bound merchant, or a knight’s retinue. The Gray Swan fared well on the purses of wanderers. ‘Twas also a perfect site for secret assignations and gatherings of a less wholesome nature.

Indeed, Blade’s mind was so attuned to possible intrigue and danger that when he felt someone tug suddenly at his sleeve, he started and almost instinctively raised his fists.

Fortunately, he stayed his hands in time, but his fierce scowl made the woman gasp, and her falcon flapped wildly on her arm.

“Sorry.” He raised his hands in apology. “Sorry.” His heart banged against his ribs. Bloody hell—had he almost struck her? There were times when a knight’s instincts were a curse. Then he twisted his mouth bitterly. One of those times he remembered all too well. ‘Twas a time that haunted him every waking moment. He lowered his hands and growled, “Ye should ne’er steal up on a man-at-arms.”

He glimpsed the momentary sting in her eyes, but what he said, he said for her own good. He’d not withdraw his warning.

To his amazement, she didn’t dissolve into tears and run away. Instead, when her falcon calmed, she drew herself up to her full height, which still left her only shoulder-high to him, and disdainfully held out her closed fist.

He frowned, puzzled.

“Take it,” she snapped.

He warily held out a shackled hand, and she dropped a penny on his palm.

“For your ale,” she explained, flushing prettily with ire. “I expect ye to live up to your end o’ the bargain. My falcon grows hungry.” Then she whipped around in a swirl of scarlet skirts to stalk off.

He caught her by the elbow. She gasped, and he could see her pulse racing in her throat. He should let her go. He knew that. He was a knight, not an outlaw. Or at least he
had
been. ‘Twas brutal to accost a frail angel in such a manner.

Still, he detained her. He wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, holding her there, and, enclosing the penny in his other hand, reached into the pouch at his hip. Her brows lifted when he produced the cuckoo’s egg, and she had the grace to look chagrined when he placed it in her hand.

“Thank ye…sir,” she muttered, clearly abashed.

He felt a moment of grim satisfaction as she hurried off to feed the bird.

Despite the gloomy outward appearance of The Gray Swan, once they went inside, the tavern maids were cheery, and the ale was cheap. But a few dubious characters whispered in shadowed corners. Blade never kept his hand far from his dagger. The tavern was an ideal place to plot devilry.

Wilham obviously agreed. The ubiquitous sparkle of his eyes vanished, replaced by watchful sobriety. While the rest of the pilgrims drank greedily, he and Blade sipped at their cups, keeping their minds clear, their wits sharp.

The first pilgrim to leave the tavern was Jacob the goldsmith. Blade wasn’t the only one watching him. Two nefarious-looking oafs took keen interest in his going, perhaps with an eye for his gold.

“Shall I follow him?” Wilham asked.

“Not yet.”

Blade watched the oafs. They were in no hurry to follow the goldsmith either. Perhaps he’d misjudged their intent. But in another moment, Lettie rose from her bench and sauntered toward the door.

“Now?” Wilham asked eagerly.

“I’ll go. Ye keep an eye on those two nefarious-lookin’ oafs.” He nodded toward the men.

Disappointed, Wilham slumped at the table, and Blade slipped out the tavern door in time to see Lettie vanish beyond the trees. She was easy to track—she didn’t trouble to hide her passage or silence her footfalls—and after exchanging a few badly done owl calls with someone, ‘twasn’t long before she met up, as he suspected, with Jacob. Blade hid in the bushes, close enough to see them, but not to hear their whispers.

Soon, however, he discovered the purpose of their secret meeting. They plotted not assassination, but adultery. Lettie kissed the goldsmith, then chuckled in rich seduction, turning and bending forward at the waist to flip up her skirts while Jacob fumbled with the points of his braies.

Blade squeezed his eyes shut. He wished to see no more. ‘Twas bad enough that he couldn’t stop his ears against their grunts and squeals nor leave without alerting them of his presence.

It didn’t take long. Blade was able to conceal himself well enough that, when they were done, they passed by one at a time—for appearance’s sake, of course—without seeing him. He waited several moments, then emerged from the brush and started back along the trail, disgusted at the waste of his time.

The trees crowded this part of the wood, forming a leafy canopy overhead that cast deep shadow on the ground below. Blade was struck by misgiving about the place and its unnatural dark, as if the forest was accustomed to harboring evil and might turn on him at any time. More than just the sin of adultery took place here, he was certain.

Something rustled the thick blanket of dead leaves off to his right, and he froze, his hand gripping the haft of his dagger. A squirrel suddenly bounded from the pile, its tail twitching as it scampered into the bushes. Blade let go of his weapon.

He heard another shiver of leaves—a wren this time, flitting among the branches.

But a larger movement drew his eye, and he slipped behind a fat sycamore trunk to observe. Through the maze of saplings, he spied Guillot. The timid youth, with his woven satchel slung over one bony shoulder, was groping along the bole of an oak. A finch flew past the lad’s head, and the boy ducked in panic. His gaze darted nervously around the forest, and fear drained the color from his face.

As Blade watched, the lad reached into the hollow bole, wincing distastefully at whatever skittering creatures lurked there, then withdrew his arm. Into the hollow went the satchel. Then the boy picked up a stone and scratched an X into the trunk above the bole. When he was done, he dropped the rock, wiped his hands on his breeches, hastily scanning the woods, then scurried toward the spot where Blade waited.

Blade stepped out from his hiding place to intercept the lad. But when he caught the youth by the shoulders, the poor lad instantly went as limp as a dead dove. Indeed, Blade didn’t so much restrain the lad as hold him upright. If Guillot was part of a murder plot, Blade thought, he must be someone else’s instrument, for the boy’s heart was clearly too weak for intrigue.

“Please do not kill me.” His voice was as thin as thread, colored by a faint French accent, and tears welled in his wide eyes. “Do not kill me. You can have it. You can have it all.”

“Shh. I won’t kill ye. I just want to know what mischief ye’re up to.”

“I meant to give it back. I swear I did. Only do not…do not tell him. Do not tell him it was me.” Then he began sniffling like a child, and ‘twas all Blade could do to calm the pitiful lad.

“What did ye take?” he asked gently. “What did ye leave in that tree?”

“S-s-silver, my master’s silver.” He clutched at Blade’s shirt, pleading with him. “I wouldn’t have taken it, but I had no coin of my own.”