Passion's Exile (15 page)

He sniffed and bent down to palm a piece of clamshell. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it skipping across the whitecaps. “‘Tis a miserable existence,” he muttered, watching the waves lap at the shore.

She followed his gaze, wondering how such a life could possibly be miserable. “But to owe no allegiance, to come and go where ye will, to be as free as…as a falcon…”

Blade was silent a long while. Rose closed her eyes, lulled by the gentle undulations of the water, imagining such freedom.

At long last, he let out a heavy sigh. “Very well. I’ll do it. Curse me for a fool, but I’ll grant your favor.”

Her eyes popped open. “Ye will?”

“Aye.”

“Ye swear it?”

“I swear.” He did not look happy about his decision. His arms were crossed, his brow was deeply furrowed, his mouth curved in self-mockery, and he exhaled again like a defeated warrior.

She refrained from jumping up and down with glee, deciding wisely that he’d not respect such childishness. “Thank ye, Sir Blade,” she said with as much dignity as she could. “Ye’ll not be sorry.”

“Not Sir Blade. I’m only Blade.” He sniffed. “And I’m already sorry.”

She smiled. She knew he didn’t mean that. There was a gentleness in his heart that his shackles and black leather and scowl belied. ‘Twas that gentleness that had made her choose him for the task.

He gave her a slightly sardonic nod of his head. “So what is it My Lady Nun desires?”

A wave of heat rushed over her face at his choice of words. What she desired was not at all befitting a nun. Maybe she’d been too impulsive. She scarcely knew the man. And he’d doubtless think her request completely mad. Yet he’d sworn. He’d
sworn
.

“The day grows short,” he cautioned.

She knotted her fingers tightly together, lifted her chin as bravely as she could, considering the circumstances, and, though it mortified her, looked him square in the eye. Then she couldn’t speak the words.

He frowned. “Lass, if ye don’t find your tongue quickly, ye’ll give that Highland woman a fit of apo-“

“Kiss me!” she gushed, then clapped her fingers over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that.

He drew back as if she’d threatened to spit in his face.

“That is,” she said, “Sir Blade…” She shook her head, correcting herself. “Blade. Would ye do me the honor o’ grantin’ me a kiss?”

He shuddered as if she’d asked him to kill a troublesome rat. Then his eyes snapped at her, blacker than coal. “What game do ye play, lass, and why?” he growled. “First nun and then harlot?”

“Nae!” Dear God, was that how he saw her? “Nae! ‘Tis not that at all.” Then what was it? the demon inside her taunted. What did she want from him? “I just… I only…” Bloody hell, her thoughts tumbled together like the churning currents of the firth. She’d never expected she’d have to explain herself to him. She’d assumed that like most men, he’d leap at the chance to kiss a young lady and ask no questions. As to her intent, that was her own affair.

He expelled a disgusted sigh and started to go.

She scrambled into his path, halting him. “Ye swore. Ye swore ye’d grant my favor. Listen. I’ll explain.”

The glower on his face told her she hadn’t much time.

She quickly licked her lips. “Ye see, I haven’t entirely decided to enter the convent.” She lowered her eyes. “‘Tisn’t an easy decision, as ye might well imagine.” She glanced up. He didn’t look as if he wished to imagine anything. She dropped her gaze again and took a few shallow breaths. “But if I’m to decide to give my life and soul and…and body to God, I would know what ‘tis I’m surrenderin’.”

He was silent. She dared not look at him.

“I’m only askin’ for a kiss,” she murmured, too humiliated to speak louder.

The firth lulled to a soft hiss, as if it, too, awaited his reply.

“Nae.” The word was cold, hard, final.

It felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. Her breath fluttered in her breast. Never had she imagined he’d refuse her. She wished she’d never asked him to meet her, wished she’d never spoken with him at all. Her voice came out on a wisp of air. “But ye…ye swore.”

His tone was grave. “I won’t be used in such a manner.”

She gulped. “I meant no offense,” she whispered. “‘Tis only that I’ve never had a kiss, not a proper one.”

His voice was a low growl. “Then why me? Do ye expect a disgraced felon to give ye a
proper
kiss?”

She hadn’t thought of it that way, and now that she did, his presence seemed suddenly menacing, his kindness less evident. Though she was certain he didn’t advance toward her, he seemed somehow to loom nearer.

“Ye’d rest the weight o’ your decision,” he continued, “on how well ye enjoy my kiss. Is that it?”

It sounded inane when he said it aloud, and yet ‘twas unerringly accurate. She’d never kissed a man. If she entered a nunnery, she never would. How else could she make an informed choice?

“I ask ye again,” he said. “Why me?”

She faced him squarely, mustering all her courage. “Because ye’re kind and…and courteous…and honorable…and gentle…”

As she spoke, he began slowly, almost imperceptibly, shaking his head. “Ye don’t know me at all. I wear these shackles for a reason,” he purred, lifting them for her to see. Then he stepped nearer, as if he wished to frighten her, and her breath stopped. “Would ye taste a man’s desire?” he whispered, letting his warm breath sear her upturned face. “‘Tis neither kind nor courteous nor honorable nor gentle.”

Her heart beat like the wings of a caged falcon, and his words dizzied her. But she wasn’t afraid. He wouldn’t hurt her. She
knew
he wouldn’t. Just like she knew that bear in St. Andrews wouldn’t hurt her. “Aye.”

“Ye’re certain?” he hissed, his whisper laced with brutish threat.

And still she trusted him. She parted her trembling lips and nodded faintly.

He was absolutely right.

The hands that seized her jaw weren’t gentle. They were demanding. He pressed the length of his hard-muscled body brazenly against hers, careless of propriety. His harsh stubble scraped across her cheek without a care for her delicate skin. And his mouth… His mouth consumed her like liquid fire.

She should have detested his touch. ‘Twas rough and brutal and shocking, not at all the sweet, gentle caress she expected. She should have fought her way free, wiped his cruel kiss from her mouth, and fled gratefully to the nunnery.

But she didn’t want to.

His strength was intoxicating, his taste intriguing, his lust fascinating. She wilted against him, surrendering her lips, her limbs, her will to him. And ‘twas heaven.

A sensual lethargy poured over her like rich oil, slowing her, weighting her eyelids, singing in her head like the buzzing of a hundred bees. Her arms traveled up of their own accord, settling upon his broad chest, and her fingers bunched in the thick cloth of his doublet. She breathed his breath—warm and heady with ale—and heard and felt his lusty growl. A curious vibration, like that of a plucked harp string, strong and resounding, wound its way through the core of her body, singing in her veins and echoing low in her belly.

Then his thumb opened her jaw wide, and he made full assault upon her mouth. His tongue thrust between her lips—hot and wet and demanding—and a thrill coursed lightning-swift through her veins at the sensation. She groaned in pleasure and shame as he violated the soft recesses of her mouth. And still she didn’t want him to stop.

Blade couldn’t stop himself. God, the woman tasted sweet, as delicious as ambrosia. And her body—so small, so frail, yet so warm and willing against his—was driving him mad with desire.

He’d meant to frighten the overcurious wench—for her own good. She’d have no doubt, when he was through with her, that a nunnery was exactly where she belonged.

He hadn’t counted on her liking it.

Instead of recoiling in horror like any self-respecting virgin, the woman answered him, kiss for kiss, with a passion of her own. And now he began to lose himself in her desire.

‘Twas when her tongue eased forward to lap tentatively at his own that the last of his control slipped away. He broke free of the kiss, but only to lift his shackled hands up and over her head, to enclose her in his arms and pull her closer.

He recaptured her lips, laying siege to her mouth until she opened for him and gave him her tongue again. A bolt of current surged through him, bringing him to instant arousal. His heart pounding, he slid his hands down her back and cupped the gentle curve of her buttocks, drawing her toward him. He pressed her against that full, aching part of him that cried out for relief, and though she gasped within his mouth at the bold contact, still she didn’t withdraw.

Breathless with passion, he moved his rigid length with brazen need against the flat of her belly. There could be no mistaking what he desired, and yet she neither shrunk from nor bristled at his insolence. Instead, to his increasing amazement, she wrapped her arms about his neck and strove upward, meeting him.

Finally, with a defeated groan, he lifted her so his swollen staff pressed at the tender spot between her legs. Lord, ‘twas sweet agony, despite the layers of clothing separating them. She writhed sensuously against him, and her innocent movement drove him to a more profound desire than he’d ever experienced.

For one lingering moment, Blade forgot who he was, where they were, what he’d done, and knew only this overwhelming yearning to join with the woman. She clung to him fervently—her kisses desperate, her moans insistent—compelling him to take what she offered. And he longed to take it. He longed to slake his savage hunger, to drive himself deep into her body and find shuddering release.

In another instant, he might have. He might have cast caution to the winds, tossed the bonnie maiden upon her back in the shelter of the cove, lifted her skirts, and had his way with her on the pebbled shore. But before the last shred of sense left him, a familiar voice made him freeze.

“Blade!” Wilham hissed.

Rose immediately broke free in a panic, panting rapidly, pushing against his chest.

Lust and fury warred within Blade as he pierced Wilham with a glare that would melt steel.

Wilham’s face was guilty, his voice urgent, as he nodded toward Rose. “That Highland woman is comin’!”

Blade bit out a curse. Rose gasped and backed away, but trapped within his shackles, she almost fell backward over the chain. He caught her in time, and a short struggle ensued as they both tried to disentangle her. Meanwhile, the sound of furious footfalls crunching on gravel grew nearer.

“Lassie!”

Rose’s eyes widened, and she frantically wiped at her mouth, as if it bore evidence of his kiss. Blade frowned with all the furor of his thwarted desire, and Wilham glared back, pointing meaningfully below his belt.

Blade glanced down. The bulge there was painfully obvious. Suffering under Rose’s flustered sob, he adjusted his chausses and tugged down his doublet until his arousal was at least partially concealed. He was certain, however, that there was no hiding the lust in his eyes.

“Rose, lassie! Where the devil are ye?”

“Here!” Rose cried out, her voice strident with forced levity.

Tildy slogged forward, venom in her narrowed gaze. Blade knew there was no fooling the cunning merchant.

“Ye see, good woman?” Wilham interjected before Rose could incriminate herself. “I told ye the lass was safe. She came to seek food for her falcon. And Blade, gallant fellow that he is, wouldn’t let her go near the firth where she might—”

“Dinna mistake me for an addlepate, young swain!” Tildy snapped. “I can still see the lump in yon ‘gallant fellow’s’ trews.”

Blade was certain he flushed red, but he resisted the urge to open his mouth and make matters worse.

“Come along, Rose!” Tildy barked, then added pointedly, “Ere this dark devil charms ye into deeper waters.”

Rose cast one last longing look at Blade, and ‘twas then he felt the weight of his misconduct. Satan’s claws, what had he been thinking?

“What the devil were ye thinkin’?” Wilham demanded when the women had gone. “That’s no mere milkmaid for ye to trifle with. She’s a titled lady. Court her, certainly, but don’t seduce the wench. Do ye know what—”

“Aye!” Blade snarled. “I know.”

He said no more. There was no way to explain what had transpired. Wilham would have laughed in disbelief had he tried to explain that the kiss was the lady’s idea. ‘Twasn’t worth the effort. Besides, ‘twouldn’t happen again.

“Ye know, there are a couple o’ willin’ wenches at the inn,” Wilham grumbled, “if a man’s dagger is in need of a good polishin’.”

“Wil?”

“Aye?”

“Enough.”

Blade’s command fell on deaf ears. Wilham chided him all the way back up the cliff and all the way to the inn. He supposed ‘twas a fitting penance for the sheer madness in which he’d just engaged.

As it turned out, a few of the bored residents of the inn had made a game of trapping a mouse for the falcon, and through their efforts, the bird now feasted on fresh meat. Though Rose sat nearby—her ears likely blistered from the Highland woman’s scolding—she looked up neither at her bird nor upon him, but kept her gaze trained on the table before her.

A strange mixture of satisfaction and disappointment filled him.

‘Twas best this way. He’d not discouraged her from the secular life as well as he’d hoped, despite his overbold embrace and far too intimate kisses. Indeed, she’d seemed to enjoy his touch too well for one bound for the church. He only hoped her mortification at being caught would drive her to scorn earthly pleasures and ease her submission to a life of chastity.

And yet a secret part of him didn’t hope that at all. She was far too fair a flower to wither and die in the smothering confines of a nunnery. Such a blossom should be nurtured and worshipped and allowed to bloom in all its glory. She should taste love and bear children. Wasn’t that God’s blessing to a woman? And this woman, in particular, with the depth of her passion and thirst and wonder, shouldn’t deprive herself of the fullest measure of that gift.