Passion's Exile (31 page)

The dark mistrust clouding his eyes chilled her. He was right. He deserved an answer. But she refused to tell her handsome champion anything that would get him killed.

“I can’t tell ye,” she said. “I’m sworn to silence.” In a way, ‘twas true. Gawter
had
threatened to kill her if she spoke of his perfidy.

Her answer didn’t satisfy him, and she wished she could tell him more.

“Please, ye must believe me,” she beseeched him. “I would ne’er play ye false.”

The ice in his gaze thawed marginally, but doubt yet shadowed his eyes. She gulped. Dared she bare her heart to him? Dared she reveal her soul?

“I’d ne’er betray ye.” She licked her lip and took a steadying breath. “I love ye.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes, and for a breathless moment, she thought he was going to respond in kind. But uncertainty prevented him. He obviously needed convincing.

So with the impetuous nature she was born to, she grasped his linen shirt, leaned forward, and placed a gentle kiss upon his mouth.

He was unmoved at first, cautious, cool. But as her mouth lingered, she felt his resolve soften. Slowly he yielded to the affectionate brush of her lips, finally answering her with tender kisses of his own.

Her pulse hastened as his fingers cupped her face. She experienced again the blissful abandon of his embrace. The future, the past had no meaning. She existed in the moment, kissing the man she loved with all her heart and wishing that moment could last forever.

She threaded her fingers through his hair and circled her thumb around his ear. His shudder sent a vibration of desire through her as well. The hot current sang up through her belly, tightening her breasts, and down to awaken the place between her thighs. Her body responded with lightning haste, as if it recalled quite well the pleasure this man had offered before—pleasure that, once remembered, she hungered for with undeniable greed.

His breath steamed against her skin, and she shivered lustily as he kissed his way down her throat. His fingers couldn’t unlace her surcoat fast enough, and once the garment dropped over her shoulders, once her breasts lay bare, he wasted no time in sampling their bounty.

Rose gasped as his mouth opened to take in one straining nipple. She swooned as his tongue swirled about her flesh, bathing, sucking, leaving a trail of fiery sparks wherever it roamed.

And then—God forgive her—she wondered what his lips would feel like…down there.

‘Twas as if he spied upon her thoughts. No sooner had she blushed to imagine such a thing than he swept her up from the floor, depositing her on the bed, and, lifting her skirts and parting her legs, proceeded to kiss his way up along the inside of her thigh.

Her fingers tangled in the linens, and her face felt afire. Surely he didn’t intend to do such a thing. And yet he proceeded inexorably toward that spot of her innermost craving. She writhed in protest even while her moans urged him on. She grasped his shoulders with hands that simultaneously pushed him away and held on desperately. And still he advanced.

His hair brushed with tantalizing softness between her legs as he grew closer and closer to her most secret place, and she tensed, fighting the guilty desire to hide herself from him.

He paused. “Ye don’t desire this?” he murmured huskily.

She could not look at him. “Aye, but…”

“‘Tis my desire as well,” he assured her, running the back of his hand delicately over her woman’s curls.

She quivered and made no more protest, though her mind fought against the idea like a fledgling resisting flight. But like the bird, when she felt Blade’s breath upon her woman’s parts, when he parted her nether lips and lay his warm, wet tongue upon her flesh, she leaped to soar with all the natural grace with which her sex was endowed.

Like the fledgling’s first flight, ‘twas brief. His lips and tongue, devouring her in expert mouthfuls, led her to such heights so quickly she could scarcely catch her breath. He suckled her, drawing her up and up until she reached the top of her ascent, suspended high above the world.

She felt delirious, the way she had when she was twelve summers old, climbing the crumbling tower of the old Fernie keep to teeter on the high parapet wall, a gust of wind away from toppling to the stones below, wavering breathlessly between flying and falling. She clutched the linens ferociously.

And then she crested the heavens and dove toward the earth. She cried out with the glory of the sensation, her head thrashing across the pallet. Her nails dug into the straw mattress, and her legs… She had no idea what her legs did, but she feared she’d crush Blade with her convulsions.

After her descent, after her lungs filled with air again and her pulse began to slow, she could finally face her delectable assailant.

To her relief, he didn’t appear in the least reviled. Instead, his eyes were smokier than before, riddled with lust so transparent that her heart tripped, and her passions began, impossibly, to rise again.

She wanted him. But this time she wished to give him pleasure. She wished to witness him ride the wind and kiss the stars. She wished to see his brow furrow in ecstasy. To hear his groans of passion and to feel the shudders rack his body. Aye, she wanted him now.

He moved upwards over her, smoothing her hair back from her sweaty forehead with his thumb. His nostrils flared, and she could see a vein pulsing heavily in his throat.

“Ye’re like ambrosia on my tongue,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. His words ignited her desire. She grabbed the edges of his shirt and rolled over, hauling him with her until he lay flat on his back and she sat atop him.

He raised his hands in mute surrender, as if he wasn’t certain what she might do to him. And something about that uncertainty excited her. He was hers now. She could do whatever she wanted with him. If only she knew what to do.

Kissing. He liked kissing. She bent toward him, and her hair tumbled into his face. Withdrawing, she tucked her tresses behind her ear and tried again. His lips met hers, and this time they tasted of musk. Ambrosia, he’d said. Perhaps not, but ‘twas not unpleasant. She wondered if he tasted the same…down there. She wondered if she had the courage to find out.

Almost as if he heard her pondering, that part of him swelled against her where she straddled him, a blatant invitation. She remembered how it had felt that night Blade had placed her palm there. Still kissing him, she moved one hand over his shoulder and down along his ribs, turning it to cross his belly and capture the beast rising within his chausses.

He gasped against her mouth, and she felt a heady surge at what she’d wrought. Intoxicated by power, she stroked his iron length to watch him suck the breath hard between his teeth. She pressed him firmly through his taut braies, and his eyes squeezed shut as if she tortured him. But she had no fear of hurting him. He’d stop her if she did. And after all, it had been the same for her—an agony of pleasure.

But she yearned to bring him succor. And so she broke off her kisses and sat back upon his thighs, plucking at the points of his braies.

He raised his head and caught her wrist. “Ye need not,” he rasped.

She smiled slyly down. “Ah, but I do,” she breathed.

He let go of her then and collapsed back on the pallet. When she’d untied the points, she unfolded his braies, and his proud staff jutted free. For a moment, only a moment, she hesitated. ‘Twas an imposing thing and unfamiliar. How a woman’s frail body could encompass such a thing, she couldn’t fathom.

But Rose of Averlaigh had never been afraid of anything. And so she dauntlessly laced her fingers through the intriguing nest of black curls at the base and slowly worked her way along the thick pillar of muscle that pulsed when she touched it. ‘Twas amazingly soft, like velvet.

She embraced him with her palm, and he groaned. Glancing up, she saw he’d cast his arm over his face while his other fist gripped the bedclothes with white-knuckled force.

“Nae,” she bid him. “Don’t hide away. I want to see your pleasure.”

He complied, and the sweet suffering she glimpsed in his face almost convinced her to forsake her maidenhood, mate with him, and be done with it. But the road to her fulfillment had been fraught with such pained pleasure, and so it must be for him.

She longed to take him to the wondrous place he’d shown her. But she knew so little. Their bodies were so different. She didn’t know where to begin.

He must have sensed her uncertainty.

“Give me your hand,” he directed.

She did so, and he bathed her palm thoroughly with his tongue, then guided her hand downward again. He sucked in sharply as he folded her palm about his staff. Encompassing her hand in his own, he slowly slid her hand up and down along his length in a smooth, sensual rhythm.

“Aye,” he breathed, and she watched his face as it beamed in a sort of blissful wonder. “Aye.”

His grip grew firmer by degrees and more rapid, his breathing harsher, his expression more intense. Rose felt a wave of empathic exhilaration, reveling in what the mere touch of her hand could wreak.

And then a great shudder rocked him, and with a mighty roar, he arched deep into her hand, exploding with milky nectar. ‘Twas miraculous and empowering and bonding, and Rose was left speechless by the intimacy of what they’d shared.

Afterward, Blade gathered her against his chest. His heart pounded like an armorer’s hammer, and he covered her face with so many grateful kisses that she was moved to laughter.

“Ah, Rose,” he sighed, a weary smile of pleasure lighting his face. “I wish this moment would never end.”

And in a small, reckless corner of her spinning mind, Rose wondered if it might not be so.

“Why not?” she asked rashly. “Why don’t we run away together, ye and me, right this moment? Ye’ve said ye have no ties. What difference will it make if we ne’er go to St. Andrews?”

He chuckled and squeezed her tighter. “No one would miss
me
. But I fear someone may notice ye gone, lass.”

They might notice, she decided, but they’d hardly care. Sir Gawter wished her dead. To his mind, she
would
be. Her mother wouldn’t grieve her absence. And as for her fostering family, she’d send word to them that she was safe and content.

She
would
be content. She didn’t care who Blade was, what he’d done. Together, they could fight the demons of his past and face a lifetime of happiness.

“We could say I was killed by my abductors,” she suggested.

He smiled, obviously not taking her seriously. “What about your falcon?” Blade murmured.

Rose frowned.

“And my Wil?” he added.

She sighed and snuggled against Blade’s comforting shoulder. She’d realized ‘twas only a childish wish. Rose was a grown woman now with obligations and loyalties. She knew that. She couldn’t run away from duty. Nae, as heavenly as ‘twas to reside here in a landscape of dreams, Rose and Blade lived in a world of honor.

And so, after they floated awhile in a haze of drowsy euphoria, they made preparations to leave.

‘Twas a hard ride for the steed, for it had to carry the both of them a long distance to catch up with the rest of the pilgrims. But the sturdy creature managed, and by late afternoon, they loped up behind a familiar group of motley travelers, at their aft a crop-haired knight bearing a falcon.

Blade thought Wilham would never stop yammering, demanding to know every detail of Blade’s adventures. But at least it kept his thoughts off of Rose, who was busy fussing over her bright-eyed bird and endlessly assuring Tildy that she was, on the whole, unharmed.

In Blade’s absence, it seemed Wilham had done more than his share of investigation into possible suspects for the impending crime. As they continued along the road to Cameron, Wilham whipped a scrap of parchment from his pouch upon which he’d scribbled in charcoal the initials of all the pilgrims. Beside each were notes only he could decipher, so he enlightened Blade as to what he’d uncovered.

“First, Father Peter,” he confided. “As ye know, the priest talked o’ retirin’ from pilgrimage after this trip to St. Andrews.”

At Blade’s blank stare, Wilham leaned in conspiratorially. “What better way to insure he lives well the rest o’ his days than to commit one highly lucrative sin, a sin o’ which no one would ever suspect him?”

“Ye think the priest is bein’ paid to kill the lad?” Blade asked in disbelief.

“Maybe.”

“’Tis possible.” He frowned. “Who else is on your list?”

Wilham cleared his throat and scanned the page. “Simon the palmer. I don’t have to tell ye about his exploits. Splinters o’ the True Cross. Holy Water. The man makes a fortune sellin’ relics. He’d pass off his own mother’s bones as a saint’s if ‘twould earn him sixpence.” Wilham rattled the parchment importantly. “I heard him tell the goldsmith that he was lookin’ forward to collectin’ a sizable sum for a certain valuable skeleton in St. Andrews.”

“And?”

“Valuable skeleton? Archibald o’ Laichloan’s perhaps?”

‘Twas a grim possibility, but it didn’t make sense to Blade. “Why would Simon bother with the skeleton of a laird’s son when he could just as easily collect the bones of a vagrant?”

“He may have his reasons,” Wilham said. “Let’s see, where were we? Ah, Jacob the goldsmith. It seems his dalliance with Lettie has worn on him. Brigit the widow confided in me that—”

“She confided in ye?”

Wilham shrugged. “Women trust me. I have an honest face. Anyway, Brigit said she was considerin’ takin’ up with Jacob if she could get Lettie out o’ the way. But Lettie would have none of it. She insisted Jacob would never leave her, because—in her words—their bond went deeper than anyone could guess.” He repeated pointedly, “Deeper than anyone could guess.”

Murder made strange bedfellows and deep bonds. Blade had wondered all along if the guilty plotters might be the goldsmith and his mistress. They obviously had a history together, and despite the lack of a clear motive, ‘twasn’t hard to imagine the stealthy pair skulking about on murderous business.