Passion's Exile (27 page)

“There’s still pursuit,” Wilham replied.

“Pursuit?” Blade repeated, though at first the word held no meaning for him. Forsooth, no words held meaning when Rose touched him like that, running the back of her knuckles along the swell of his…

“Aye,” Wilham said, scowling. “Are you certain ye’re…”

“Aye!” Blade answered, too sharply. “Aye,” he amended.

Wilham looked impatient. “How many o’ those did ye drink, Blade?” he asked, nodding at the ale. “I said, there’s still someone followin’ us.”

Blade managed an instant of clarity. Danger. There was danger nearby. “Who?”

Wilham shook his head. “Three, maybe four, is my guess. Mounted.”

Then Rose enveloped him completely in her hand, making his hips jerk and his thoughts scatter.

“Mounted?” he aped, though the word came out on a squeak.

Wilham’s brows drew together sharply. “Maybe we’ll talk when ye’re not half-drunk,” he muttered.

“Nae!” Blade said with a shudder of new resolve. “Nae.” Very well. The lass had won. ‘Twasn’t so bad, he decided, to surrender to so formidable a foe. Nor to one so beautiful. “A moment,” he told Wilham.

Then he turned and surreptitiously reached beneath the table to clasp Rose’s errant wrist. When she wheeled about, her cheeks were flushed, her mouth parted. So, he thought, she was not as unaffected or aloof as she pretended to be. The idea pleased him immensely. He grinned.

“I yield,” he conceded under his breath.

“But…” she began, attempting to stroke him again.

He placed her hand firmly away from him, upon her own lap. “Lass, if ye keep this up,” he whispered, “I’ll start bellowin’ like a wild boar and swell to such enormous size I’ll knock o’er the table.”

She stifled a giggle, and he longed to swallow the delicious sound in his own mouth. The emotions in her eyes were like the rapidly shifting canopy of a June sky. Desire clouded the clear, innocent heaven, and amusement sprinkled down like rain. He realized with a powerful surge of joy that he adored her.

‘Twas amazing. He hardly knew her. And yet an intimacy had formed between them, as strong and swift as a spider web spun overnight. He felt like the willing fly caught in that web.

Her gaze lowered to his mouth, and though a part of him yearned to accept her unspoken invitation—to knock the platters from the table, throw her down amidst the startled pilgrims, and consummate their mutual desire—he wisely refrained. There would be ample opportunity for them to be alone in the next few days. He’d make sure of it.

“Later,” he promised, giving her hand a parting squeeze.

Her eyes smoldered, and he took a deep breath to still his skipping heart. Then Wilham loudly invited Blade to come inspect the tavern’s collection of steins from Germany, and they excused themselves from the table.

“Mark ye,” Wilham groused once they were away from the others, “we only have a few more days to find the culprits.”

Bladed nodded.

“Mounted men travelin’ at a slug’s pace,” Wilham said, shaking his head. “I’m thinkin’ they may have an ally among the pilgrims.”

Blade frowned. ‘Twas possible the conspirators had split up—that one of them rode behind while the other traveled with the pilgrims. He blew out a frustrated breath. If ‘twas true, then they’d made no progress. “The assassin could be anyone.”

Wilham shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He studied the row of lidded steins lined up on the shelf.

Blade studied his friend. “What do ye know?”

With an air of distance, Wilham picked up a stein and opened the hinged lid. “Well, if ye hadn’t been so…distracted this afternoon…”

Blade clamped the lid shut with his palm, lifting a questioning brow.

Wilham immediately abandoned his aloofness, placed the stein back on the shelf, and leaned close to whisper, “Father Peter.”

Blade waited.

“He has the perfect cover,” Wilham said. “He’s leadin’ the pilgrims. He knows the road. No one would ever suspect a priest. And,” he added significantly, “I heard him tell the palmer ‘twas his last pilgrimage. His
last
pilgrimage.” Wilham rocked back smugly on his heels, awaiting Blade’s response.

Blade wasn’t sure what to think. Wilham might be right, but what he offered was hardly proof. Too many others had come alone on the pilgrimage. Any one of them might be the culprit.

“What about the palmer?” he suggested. Ever since he’d caught Simon gathering splinters for relics, just thinking about the man left a nasty taste in his mouth. “Or the widow? Or the apprentice?”

Wilham scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “The palmer
is
a disagreeable sort,” he agreed. “The widow? She’s too intent on slippin’ into the trews of every man on this journey. If she knew about the men followin’ us, she’d have bedded down with them long ago.”

A huge guffaw rolled across the tavern. ‘Twas Fulk, slapping Drogo on the back after yet another story from Odo.

Wilham arched a brow. “Fulk? Drogo? They went off in the forest this morn.”

Blade shook his head. “They were lookin’ for eggs for Rose’s falcon.”

“Ye’re sure?”

Blade nodded.

Wilham lifted his chin toward the falcon, who perched in a quiet corner of the inn. “They didn’t find any. The bird hasn’t eaten yet.”

“Nae.”

“But she’s survivin’.” He shook his head. “‘Tis impressive. Ye might have made a fine surgeon.”

Blade snorted, but he was pleased. Just as Rose had said, she and her falcon were both survivors. Still, the bird would have to eat soon, or its strength would wane.

The tanners finished their tales, to the protest of the pilgrims. Apparently, their knavish antics had been thus far the most entertaining of all the company.

Just before everyone retired upstairs, Rose sent Blade a clandestine glance of such heat and promise that it served to warm him half the night.

Unfortunately, that warmth kept him sleeping only fitfully, and thinking about Rose did nothing but aggravate what was already aroused. He needed a lungful of bracing air. So, when the moon hung past midnight, he pulled on his boots, taking care not to wake Wilham, and crept down the stairs, out into the night.

The air was chill, and his breath curled out in a tendril of fog. A low mist covered the ground, but overhead, the stars glittered like sparks. As he gazed up at them, he wondered if what the astrologers said was true, that a man’s fate could be read in the heavens. What did the stars say about him? And was there a way for a man to change his destiny?

A low clucking just beyond the corner of the inn caught his ear. The innkeeper’s chickens. Blade ambled toward the sound. Maybe one of the charitable hens had laid an egg. As long as he was awake, he might as well try to get Rose’s falcon to eat. Aye, ‘twas a miracle she’d survived the wolf, but ‘twould be a tragedy if the bird died of starvation. Rose would be inconsolable.

He ducked into the chickens’ roost. The hen made a soft cackle of protest when he snatched an egg from beneath her, then settled amicably enough over the remaining one in her clutch. When he’d finished, Blade let himself back into the inn.

The falcon perched in a corner of the main room, near the banked fire. He approached cautiously, wary of startling her. But to his surprise, the bird was awake, as if it had known he was coming. He cracked the egg and offered it to the falcon on his palm.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Eat. Ye have to eat if ye want to survive.”

Wink’s head perked up, but the bird only shuddered on its perch.

He brought his hand closer. “Take it,” he encouraged. “’Tis fresh and warm. Come on, ye stubborn lass.” The falcon only eyed it suspiciously.

“Come on, Wink,” he breathed. “Do it for your mistress. Do it for Rose.”

Blade would have sworn the bird cocked its eye at him. Then it tentatively dipped forward and pecked at the warm liquid. It shook its head vigorously, ruffling its neck feathers, but tipped down for another bite.

Blade smiled. Rose would be relieved.

He continued to hold the egg until the falcon ate her fill, then wiped the remainder from his hand with straw from the floor. ‘Twasn’t much food, but ‘twas enough to keep her alive another day.

“That’s a good lass,” he murmured, stroking the feathers of her breast till she sleepily closed her eye.

He glanced over at the stairs. He’d promised Rose he’d come to her later. He wondered if he could steal into her chamber. Making as little noise as possible, he crept up the stairs.

Just as quietly, Wilham was descending.

They nearly collided. Blade cursed under his breath and fell back against the wall, his heart pounding. “What in hell are ye doing?” he hissed.

“Is she with ye?” Wilham asked.

“Who?”

“Rose.”

“Nae,” he said smugly. Obviously, Wilham wished to catch him in some compromising position with Rose. “Not this time.”

Wilham looked more serious than Blade had seen him in a long time. “Then where is she?”

Rose stole out of the inn into the crisp night, clutching Blade’s missive tightly in her hand. He waited for her.
Your love
, the note read. She smiled, and the crescent moon smiled back at her as she followed the stone path toward the well where Blade told her he’d be waiting.

Her heart quickened—partly in excitement, partly in relief—when she saw the silhouette moving beside the well.

“Blade,” she breathed, hurrying her steps. Already she could imagine his arms around her, his mouth claiming hers…

The exact moment she realized ‘twasn’t him, she couldn’t say, but in that moment she slowed her steps, and misgiving sent a shiver up her spine.

She was an instant away from turning to scurry back to the inn when another dark shape lunged at her from the shadows. Her breath caught on a gasp. But the sound was smothered by a sack of rough cloth rasping down over her head, shutting out the stars.

Brutal hands wrenched her off her feet. She tried to scream. But the breath was jarred from her as a stout arm hefted her up. She twisted in her captor’s punishing grasp, punching out at whatever she could hit. He swore as her fist made contact with something soft. But her victory was brief. The sack was yanked further down, pinning her arms and hampering her struggles.

Again she tried to cry out. A huge hand closed over her face, blocking the sound and her air. Desperate for breath, she opened her mouth wide, then clamped down hard with her teeth. Her attacker emitted a foul curse, reflexively snatching his hand back, then stuffed the fabric into her mouth to stifle her cries.

This couldn’t be happening, she thought wildly. An inn full of pilgrims stood only a dozen paces away. Surely someone would hear the disturbance.

There were more of them now. One attacker squeezed her mercilessly about the waist. Another seized her legs, upending her. Nae! She’d not let them take her away. Her heart pounding frantically, she kicked out in a last savage bid for freedom. She was rewarded by a dull blow to the back of her head.

For a stunned instant, she thought they’d removed the sack from her, for her vision filled with bright stars. But the dots of light faded like cooling sparks, leaving only a coal black oblivion.

“What do ye mean, ‘where is she’?” Blade asked, his heart lurching violently. “She’s not upstairs?”

Wilham shook his head.

Blade refused to panic, despite the knifing pain in his chest that told him he already had. There had to be a good reason for her absence.

“I’ll check the privy,” Wilham offered.

Blade nodded. Of course. She was likely there. Why had he been worried? After all, Rose’s falcon was still downstairs. She wouldn’t leave without her precious pet.

But his assurances were dashed when Wilham returned, empty-handed. Agonizing moments later, they stood in the stable after searching every corner of the inn and the outbuildings without finding a trace of Rose. Blade’s mind began filtering through the unpleasant possibilities.

“The horsemen followin’ us,” Wilham suggested, lifting a candle to shed a pool of light over the straw of the stable. “Any o’ these mounts theirs?”

Blade scrutinized the three horses. Two of them looked well past their prime, scarcely fit to travel. They likely belonged to the innkeeper. The third was a fine steed, but he remembered its owner from the inn, and that man was traveling in the opposite direction. “Nae.”

So their mounted pursuers weren’t staying at the inn. They likely still lagged behind. Maybe they were camped in the woods. Unless…

Unless they’d already found what they’d come for and left.

The thought chilled him.

Snatching the candle from Wilham, Blade strode out of the stable, across the grass toward the main road. There were hoofprints in the mud, but ‘twas no surprise. Horses traveled past every day. Still, there was fresh horse dung along the road, and there seemed to be a grouping of recent prints that led to and from the inn without going past.

“What’s this?” Wilham asked, coming up behind him with a crumpled piece of parchment. “I found it by the well.” Blade held it up to the candle. They read it silently together.

Dearest Rose, I can wait no longer. Come to me before midnight at the well. Your love.

There had to be some mistake. It couldn’t be
his
Rose. He perused it again.

Nae. He’d read the letter correctly. Rose had gone to the well to meet…”your love.”

Her love. The words felt like a punch to the gut. For a moment he couldn’t breathe.

Rose had played him for a fool, he realized. She’d toyed with his affections and led him a merry chase, all the while fully aware that her love wasn’t far behind. He ground his teeth against the pain, letting anger rush in to fill the hollow in his heart.

But though he trembled with rage, in his heart’s place throbbed a dull ache. A familiar, cruel voice told him he should have known better than to trust a woman.

He crushed the note in his fist. It fell, fluttering, from his fingers.