Passion's Exile (17 page)

Casting aside the last of her restraint, she tipped her head to nuzzle the spot between his shoulder blades. When he didn’t waken, she let her hand drift up, lightly grazing his spine with the back of her knuckles. Then, turning her hand over, she allowed her fingertips to rove tenderly across the sculpted contours of his back. Stripped now of his doublet, with only the thin layer of his linen shirt between them, Rose felt his warmth and the solid muscle that made up his warrior’s body. A sudden spark sizzled through her, awakening her blood and kindling the banked fire between her legs.

With a ragged, silent sigh, she braced her hand gently upon his hip and eased herself forward until she lay full against him. She turned her cheek against the blade of his shoulder and cushioned her breasts upon his back. His firm buttocks pressed against the part of her that burned with yearning.

Exquisite pain and profound pleasure warred within her body as she reveled in unrequited desire, all of her senses engaged with only him. She writhed subtly against him, seeking what she couldn’t have. Her pulse hummed in her ears, and her limbs moved of their own accord.

At last, her brazen arm—draped over his hip and curving downward across his flat belly—proved too bold.

Her wrist was trapped suddenly in a bone-crushing grip that almost made her cry aloud. An instant later, she heard Blade’s low voice, like the warning growl of a hound.

“Don’t ye dare.”

Blade had been awake for some time. After all, he hadn’t earned his reputation with a sword by dozing while trouble was afoot. But he didn’t guess who his stalker was until she sidled up against his back and her delicate fragrance enwrapped him.

Even then he hadn’t revealed himself, partly because his inquisitive nature demanded he first discover her intent and largely because, though he was loath to admit it, he enjoyed the sensation of the woman’s soft body cradled against him.

But then she’d gone too far. A kiss was one thing. Lying beside him was another. But letting her hands rove where they didn’t belong, so near to the fire that smoldered low in his belly, waiting to be roused, was deadly perilous.

“Go back to your bed,” he whispered over his shoulder, removing her hand forcibly from his stomach.

After a long pause, she asked, “Why?”

He scowled, taken aback. What did she mean, why? Because she’d been caught. Because ‘twasn’t fitting behavior for a lady. Because the woman who’d appointed herself guardian to the lass slept a mere few feet away. There were a dozen reasons.

“‘Tisn’t proper,” he grunted, unwilling to name them all.

“That isn’t a good reason,” she whispered, her breath tickling his back.

“And ye’re playin’ with fire,” he hissed.

“I’m not afraid,” she murmured.

“And…” he began, growing more aroused and angry and confused by the moment.

Then, desperate to extricate himself from this awkward position as quickly as possible, he did the vilest thing he could imagine. He seized her hand again, stuffed it down his braies, and pressed her palm against the hot, rigid proof of his desire.

“And there’s this,” he snarled.

It worked. She gasped, utterly flustered.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”

When he released her hand, she snatched it back at once, scrambled away without another word, and crept back to her mat.

He shut his eyes and smiled grimly. Surely Lady Rosamund would go barreling off to the convent now without a backward glance.

Part of him, however, thought he must have lost his wits. Perhaps he was like the flagellants who scarred themselves in devotion to God, for he felt irreparably branded by Rose’s touch. The memory of her soft palm burned his flesh.

Another part of him ached, not only with unslaked hunger, but with a hollow sorrow. Rose’s gentle caresses had soothed his battle-weary bones and recalled to him a time when his sword was unstained with blood. Her innocence awakened his chivalry. And her fearlessness… He smiled ruefully. Her fearlessness amused and amazed and captivated him.

The flames eventually dwindled on the hearth, as did the fire in his loins, and sleep came upon him. But his slumber was fraught with dreams of battle and bloodshed, so when the servants roused before the sun to stoke the fire and prepare breakfast, he welcomed the approaching morn.

Despite their close quarters, Lady Rose spared him not a glance as the travelers ate their morning meal and prepared to leave. He’d obviously made his point, and she was too abashed to meet his eye. When the pilgrims departed, he saw she’d made the wise purchase of a plain gray cloak, for which she’d soon be grateful. The mist this morn had unfurled across the glen and lay thick upon the ground.

The falcon seemed to dislike the clime. She fretted on the lady’s glove, ruffling her wings and shifting her perch while Rose struggled to keep her still.

The fog dampened the sounds of the forest, muting the plodding footfalls of the travelers. But whether ‘twas the falcon’s restlessness or that inherent sense of trouble Blade possessed, he began to suspect they were being pursued.

“Ye hear it, too?” Wilham murmured when they’d marched a few miles.

Blade nodded.

“Horses,” Wilham said, “but they’re laggin’.”

“Aye.”

Wilham cast a surreptitious look over his shoulder. “Fog’s too thick to see them. How many do ye wager? Two? Three?”

“Hard to tell.”

They walked on. No one else seemed to notice the faint hoofbeats behind them. Then the falcon emitted a disgruntled screech.

“What’s wrong with that bird?” Wilham asked after a bit.

Blade shook his head.

Wilham scratched his cheek. “Maybe the falcon senses our pursuers as well.”

“‘Tis more likely the falcon bristles at her
mistress’s
unease,” Blade said.

“Ye think the lass hears the riders?”

Blade narrowed his eyes at the gray-cloaked figure, blurred by the mist, on the path ahead of him. As he watched, she whispered to her falcon and cast a nervous glance back along the road.

“Oh, aye,” he told Wilham as a dark suspicion gripped him. “She hears them.”

He remembered the first group of riders and how the lass had hid from them. ‘Twas almost as if she’d expected pursuit. And now, when more horsemen approached, she grew as skittish as a kitten in a kennel.

Suddenly he realized an interesting possibility. Rose might be a fugitive herself. She may have spoken the truth about joining a holy order, but perhaps she was seeking sanctuary there for some crime. Perhaps someone hunted her, and she was fleeing the law.

“What do we do?” Wilham asked, one hand upon the sword he wore at his hip.

“Nothin’,” Blade replied, “unless they o’ertake us.”

Despite his words to Wilham, he didn’t intend to do nothing. He’d keep his eye fixed on Rose, studying her every gesture, watching her every step. He wouldn’t let her out of his sight for one instant. Then, when they reached their next stop, he’d get her alone and question her until she gave him the truth.

Opportunity came along sooner than he expected. Drogo the cook, Fulk the butcher, and the two tanners decided they’d not eaten well enough in Hillend and insisted, albeit with little argument on Father Peter’s part, on halting at the next inn along the road for a cup of ale and a bite of something more substantial than the barley gruel they’d had for breakfast.

To Blade’s satisfaction, the inn was ill-lit and as tightly packed with travelers as a barrel of pickled herring, perfect for his purpose.

“Keep that Highland hen occupied,” he muttered to Wilham, who—good man that he was—never questioned Blade’s requests.

Wilham raised a brow. “I hope ye don’t mean to finish what ye started yesterday.”

Blade responded with a frosty glare. “Not if the king himself ordered it.”

Wilham grinned, and Blade watched as his man approached the Highland woman, cleverly feigning to have something in his eye and begging her to come look at it in the light.

Meanwhile, Blade made his way through the crowd toward the lass. She’d just set her falcon to perch and was removing her glove when he snagged her by the waist, covered her mouth, and dragged her into the shadows beneath the stairs. She fought him, but had the good sense not to scream.

“What’s the meanin’ o’ this?” she hissed when he moved his hand away. Despite the frightened quavering of her voice, she seemed relieved to see him, as if she’d expected someone else. “Unhand me, sirrah.”

“Today, I’d speak with
ye
. Alone,” he said, echoing her request of the day before. He did unhand her, but he also blocked her way so she couldn’t escape.

She trembled and wrapped consoling arms about herself. “Haven’t ye shamed me enough? Believe me, I’ll not trouble ye again. Only let me go.”

He cupped her chin, forcing her face up toward his, though she wouldn’t look at him. “Who hunts ye?”

She started, and her eyes fluttered. “What do ye mean?”

“Who hunts ye?” he repeated.

“Hunts me? No one hunts me.”

“Ye’re a poor liar. Someone is followin’ us. Ye heard them, too. Who is it?”

“How should I know?” She tried to tug her chin away, but he held it fast. “If ye don’t unhand me this instant…”

“It may be I can protect ye from them,” he told her, “but I must know who they are and why they pursue ye.”

She hesitated, obviously considering his tempting offer. Ultimately, however, her fear of her pursuers outweighed her trust in his protection. Straightening her back, she looked him in the eye.

“I need no champion. No one is followin’ me. No one has cause to follow me. I’m simply on pilgrimage to St. Andrews to become a nun.” She pulled her chin out of his grasp. “And furthermore, my falcon will need no egg today. The mouse she ate yesterday will serve her well enough. So ye needn’t trouble me again until the morrow.”

Curse her stubbornness, the woman was lying through her teeth. But what was her secret? Who followed her? A cheated merchant? A robbed nobleman? A fellow assassin? If it took him the rest of the journey, he’d discover the answer. For now, however, he and the lass remained in check.

“I’ll be watchin’ ye,” he warned, backing away with a mocking bow. In a dour mood, he sauntered toward Wilham, who sat by a sheepskin-paned window while the Highland woman’s thick fingers prodded at his eye.

“Ah,” Wilham crowed when he spotted Blade. “I think ‘tis gone, goodwife,” he said, rapidly blinking his eyes. “I can’t thank ye enough.” With that, he rose to meet Blade, leaving open-mouthed Tildy behind.

“Anythin’?” Wilham asked.

Blade shook his head.

“They should have ridden up by now,” Wilham said. “Whoever ‘tis, they’re takin’ great pains not to be seen.”

Those great pains extended long into the afternoon. The riders remained at the edge of hearing and just beyond sight in the obliging shroud of fog, and though Rose’s falcon continued to fret, the lass resisted the incriminating urge to turn her head, at least while Blade watched her.

He was true to his word. He never let Rose out of his sight. Even when they stopped at The King’s Arms for cider. Even when Rose stole off in the direction of the orchard behind the tavern.

At last, Rose thought as she picked her way through the misty orchard, she’d escaped the condemning eye of that wretched brute. As if ‘tweren’t troubling enough to know that someone dogged them, Blade had to torment her by watching her every move. Hadn’t he humiliated her enough already?

‘Twas unforgivably wicked, what he’d done last night. Taking her hand and placing it…there. Just thinking about it made her blush.

Yet after she’d crept back to her bed like a whipped hound, the mortifying shame lessened to be replaced by a kind of curious wonder.

Had she made him swell like that? God’s eyes, his man’s part was as thick and solid as the grip of a lance. And yet there was a velvet heat to his flesh that had seared her palm.

Her cheeks warmed, and she cursed silently, shuddering off the dregs of her musings. She wrapped her rough cloak closer about her as she drank in the sweet scent of last year’s rotting apples. She’d not be gone long. Tildy had gone to the privy, and Rose needed just a moment or two of peace. Between the dark felon’s watch, Tildy’s direful whispering, Wink’s irascible mood, and the knowledge that the riders behind them might be Gawter’s men, she was frayed with worry.

She’d hoped to find solitude. Instead, as she crept through the orchard, she heard a strange sound that halted her in her tracks. She thought at first ‘twas an injured animal, crying in pain. But as her eyes filtered through the mist, she beheld a figure slumped beside an apple tree.

‘Twas Ian Campbell the soldier. He knelt in the mud beneath the tree in his linen shirt, his head buried in his hands, his shoulders heaving with great sobs. Her heart went out to him at once, and she longed to lend the poor man comfort for the pain he suffered.

But she understood the pride of men well. She wouldn’t shame him by intruding upon his moment of solitude. She’d half-turned to go when she saw him pick up the dagger lying beside him.

Her heart wrenched against her ribs.

What did he intend to do with the blade? Nothing good, she was certain. His grim, tear-stained face, his eyes, glazed with defeat, and the fingers clenching the haft of the dagger with white-knuckled force told her as much.

Her breath came shallow as she watched him slowly lift his shirt with one hand, exposing the pale flesh of his stomach. Dear God, nae!

She must stop him.

Somehow, she must stop him.

Her heart pounding, she began shuffling toward him as casually as possible, as if she’d only arrived, humming under her breath, creating noise to alert him to her presence and hopefully distract him from his dire purpose.

It partially worked. He wrenched the linen shirt down and swiftly wiped away the evidence of his tears with the back of his arm. But he didn’t rise from where he knelt, and he didn’t sheathe his dagger. Which meant he’d not changed his mind, only delayed his action.