Passion's Exile (6 page)

Halfway through a wheezing oration about the incredible flagellants the father had encountered abroad, Wilham nudged Blade, muttering, “For a parish priest, he spends little time in his parish.”

Blade nodded. The fact that Father Peter was in essence a wayfarer cast a shadow of suspicion on his character. But ‘twas difficult to believe the prattling priest could keep any secret—and more to the point, a secret involving murder—for more than an hour. They’d only started their journey, and already Blade knew more than he ever wished to know about the man.

Following closely at Father Peter’s heels were the two young nuns. They complemented the priest well, for they talked hardly at all. They never questioned the Father’s gushing proclamations, but gazed at him in wide-eyed wonder, as if he spoke the Gospel every time he opened his mouth.

Staring at the nuns’ round, rosy-cheeked faces framed by linen wimples only a shade lighter than their skin—their blue eyes so alike, their small mouths made for murmured prayers—‘twas difficult to envision them as assassins. Indeed, the mere mention of violence would likely send the fragile creatures into an overwrought faint.

Directly behind the pious sisters walked the fascinating woman with the falcon. Her straight ebony hair caught the breeze, streaming out like a dark pennon against the bright green of the spring saplings all around them. Her gait was almost regal, and she bore the falcon proudly upon her gloved wrist. Blade wondered how soon she’d tire of carrying the thing. Peregrines were light, but as any knight bearing a shield knew, even a light thing grew heavy over time.

The bird was a pretty thing, despite its maimed eye, but he wondered why the woman would keep such a pet. It couldn’t hunt for itself and must be more trouble than ‘twas worth. He doubted she’d even given a thought as to how to feed it on the journey.

Something was definitely wrong. She hardly looked prepared for a trek of this magnitude. ‘Twas as if, in the impulsive way of females, the lady had awakened in the morning, snapped up her falcon, and decided to walk to St. Andrews, with never a notion as to how she’d get there or what to pack.

Blade almost pitied her. He too had left the comforts of a manor for the wilds of the woods. ‘Twasn’t easy to adapt. She’d probably given no thought whatsoever to what she’d eat, where she’d sleep, or how she’d get dressed without the aid of a maidservant.

Then again, he thought, maybe that was her aim. Maybe she was a true pilgrim who intended to humble herself by journeying without her usual luxuries to seek understanding and salvation.

The path ahead looped sharply so that the line of pilgrims folded back almost upon itself, and Blade, walking at the end, watched the lady pass in profile. She
was
captivating. She carried her head level, letting her eyes dip gracefully to guide her as she stepped forward. Her hands were delicate and fair, as if she did little more with them than wave or pray. Her beguiling chin came almost to a point, and her dark curtain of hair framed her face and brushed her waist like a cloak made of satin. Her skin looked as soft as a dove’s breast, and the enticing swell of her bosom stole the very breath from his mouth.

Then she caught him staring, and her grace disappeared. She tripped. The falcon’s wings flapped wildly for an instant, and the lass stumbled forward into the nuns ahead of her.

“Bloody he-…” he heard her mutter, and then, “Sorry.”

When her glance fell upon him again, he sobered. The lass was as skittish as a kitten in a stable full of warhorses. Why? What did she have to hide?

Rose cursed inwardly at her clumsiness. She had to stop dwelling on that brooding outlaw in the shackles. Surely she only imagined he was watching her.

She’d intentionally placed herself near the fore of the line, where persons of more piety and less menace seemed to congregate. Yet she could feel the felon’s merciless, penetrating gaze even at this distance.

God’s eyes, what did he want?

Perhaps he was a thief. Perhaps he’d seen her jeweled pendant and her valuable falcon and, guessing she carried silver, meant to steal it from her.

Yet he’d apparently chosen to travel on the pilgrimage, shackled and shamed, of his own will. Didn’t that mean he’d repented of his crime?

Rose glanced up again, surreptitiously. Faith, the man was audacious. He was
still
watching her. She felt her cheeks grow warm.

She wondered again what his crime could be. Theft? Murder? Rape? Her mind suddenly filled with a terrifying image of the dark criminal in shackles looming over her, ravishing her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the shocking vision.

But they opened again of their own volition, and her gaze flickered inexorably back to him. Still the knave stared—his brow furrowed deeply, his mouth grim, the soft clank of his chains sinister among the cheery chirps of sparrows on the wing.

She snapped her head about sharply to focus instead on the plump priest at the head of the line. She wouldn’t look at the outlaw again. She refused.

Her heart fluttered beneath her pendant, and though ‘twas absurd, she knew ‘twas more than fear quickening her pulse. Something about the dangerous black-cloaked figure made her feel the same exhilaration she did when she rode faster than was safe on her palfrey or strayed too far from home. ‘Twas that sort of forbidden excitement that she found in his gaze, a clandestine thrill that hastened her heartbeat and snatched her breath away.

But now she steeled herself against the lure of deeper peril. She was in enough trouble already. Though she’d ridden fast and far, pursuit was not long behind. Gawter’s men would know they’d been gulled and by now would have reported back to her betrothed. They’d tell Gawter she’d ridden east, and he’d guess she was on her way to Fernie House.

Perhaps Gawter would abandon the chase, perhaps not. With her out of the way, he might simply wait for the Laird of Averlaigh to die and take the mother to wife instead of the daughter. Surely he knew that Rose bore him no affection and wouldn’t contest the wedding. On the other hand, if he wished to hold on to Averlaigh permanently, he needed an heir, and Lady Agatha was too old to give him one. For that, he needed Rose.

Averlaigh had been the incentive for the betrothal all along. She knew that now. Sir Gawter possessed wealth, but no property. Lady Agatha possessed property, but no wealth. While the Laird of Averlaigh hung onto life, Rose’s mother wasn’t free to remarry, but with Rose as a sacrifice, the barren Agatha and rich Gawter could both gain what fortune they lacked and enjoy a surreptitious liaison into the bargain under Rose’s nose. As for Rose, she’d supply the heir required to keep hold of Averlaigh.

Rose shivered at their treachery.

The pilgrims had traveled for a few hours when Father Peter declared ‘twas time for a rest. He called the company to a halt beneath a grove of elms bordering a flower-studded glen.

The old apple-cheeked woman took the priest’s words to heart. She collapsed beside a rotting stump and in moments was snoring away like a well-fed hound. Most of the others dug in their satchels for bits of bread and cheese they’d brought along or hefted skins of quenching beer.

Rose licked her dry lips and swallowed thirstily. She’d been forced to abandon all her provisions when she’d leaped from the horse. It hadn’t occurred to her to purchase spare provender at the inn. She supposed she’d been so preoccupied with evading death at the hands of Gawter’s men that she hadn’t considered she might well die of starvation on the road.

At least they’d stay at a manor this eve, where they were likely to be fed generously. There she’d eat a small supper and cache a bit of food for the next day’s travel. Meanwhile, rather than stand about with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, she decided to stroll across the daisy-strewn meadow to let Wink stretch her wings.

Behind her, the soothing murmur of voices diminished as she crossed the grass. In the midst of the glen, Rose loosed Wink’s leash from her jesses. The instant the falcon was released, she took to the sky. Rose lowered her hand, massaging the muscles of her arm, which ached with the burden of carrying the bird for so long. She smiled as Wink circled overhead. How free the falcon flew, unbound by worry and the weight of the world.

For a long while the bird turned lazily in the sky, skimming past the emerald tops of the trees, her tawny wings fluttering in the gentle breeze.

Rose envied the falcon’s freedom. Ever since learning of her betrothal, Rose had felt trapped, like a leaf caught in a swift current, tossed at a whim, steered by destiny. The thought that she had no control over her own future filled her with dread.

Wink dove suddenly and soared past, rising high again in the sky, and Rose shielded her eyes with her arm to watch the bird’s antics. The falcon might not see well enough to hunt, but she’d never lost her love of speed.

After a while, in the distance, Rose heard Father Peter summoning the pilgrims to continue their journey. With a light sigh, she held her gloved hand aloft, beckoning Wink. The trusty falcon obediently glided down, alighting on her wrist, and while Rose secured her jesses, Wink plumped her feathers as if boasting of her flight.

How the man stole upon her unawares, Rose didn’t know, but the instant she wheeled around, the dark, chained felon filled her vision like some giant raven swooping down to carry her off. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and a rough gasp was ripped from her throat.

A dozen fears coursed through her brain: she was alone; she was cornered; he meant her harm; no one would help her. And yet she stood frozen to the spot, as if by some perverse enchantment. Though every instinct told her to run—run now, run fast—her feet wouldn’t budge.

Instead, as if she moved through honey, she slowly lifted her gaze past the ominous shackles and the heavy chain linking them, up between his powerful arms to his massive chest, past the dark scrub of his strong chin, settling on his wide mouth. He didn’t speak, and the continuing silence frayed her nerves until she could bear it no longer.

“What is it?” she whispered, her nostrils flaring. “What do ye want?”

Surer than a falcon on the hunt, he grabbed her free wrist. She yanked back, but his grip was firm. She glanced down. His great scarred knuckles seemed to devour her trembling hand. The iron of his shackles was cold upon her wrist, and she swallowed hard as the links of the chain softly clanked against her sleeve.

Against her will, her gaze was wrenched back up to his face. He frowned, and she noted the color of his eyes. Gray. Unrelenting gray. Cold, hard, sinister gray. The color of consuming fog and impending death. A scream gathered in her throat, and she drank in a lung full of air to give it voice.

“Hush,” he quietly warned her.

She should have ignored his threat. After all, a host of pilgrims stood nearby. A dozen defenders would have come to her rescue had she cried out. But something flickered in his gaze, some suggestion of controlled composure that calmed her enough to prevent the gathering scream.

He dropped his gaze to her bare hand, then turned it until ‘twas palm up. She watched, breathless, and it occurred to her that he might snap her wrist with a single clench of his fist, strangle her with the length of chain, or draw a dagger to slay her, and no one would reach her in time to prevent him.

“Open your hand,” he bade her.

As if he’d uttered a spell, she slowly unfurled her fingers. With his other hand, he dropped something carefully into her palm, something small and round and warm. Furrowing her brow, she peered down. ‘Twas a single blue robin’s egg.

She blinked up at him, confused. Was it a trick of the light, or did she detect slivers of azure amidst the gray of his eyes, a warm spark in the cool ash? ‘Twas extinguished almost as quickly as ‘twas born, and he released her hand with equal haste.

“For the bird,” he explained.

She glanced in wonder at the gift. Of course. Food for her falcon.

Before she could gather her wits to thank him, he nodded in silent farewell. In a sweep of dark wool, worn leather, and rough iron, he turned to rejoin the group.

Once Rose set the egg on the grass, Wink made quick work of it. But ‘twas a long while down the road before Rose’s heart ceased its erratic beating.

Wilham gave a low whistle when Blade fell in beside him. “Well.
She’s
magnificent,” he whispered.

“Aye,” Blade blandly agreed, his eye fixed on the trail.

“Make a man a fine prize, eh?” Wilham prodded.

“Aye.”

“Lovely as a spring day?” Wilham mused.

Blade shrugged. “Pity about the eye, though.”

Wilham stopped in his tracks with a disgruntled frown, and Blade walked past him, the hint of a smile twisting his mouth.

For all Wilham’s virtues, he could be an incessant nag, worse than a doting mother, constantly goading Blade to abandon the road, to take a wife, to purchase himself a parcel of land and settle down. Blade didn’t want to hear another word about the lass with the falcon. Not after the way the woman had knocked his brains all askew.

He shouldn’t have spoken with her. He’d probably frightened her. In a rare moment of distraction, he’d forgotten that he was no longer Sir Pierce of Mirkhaugh, but Blade the mercenary. For an instant, there had been no tragedy, no dishonor, no past.

But the lady wasn’t blind. She could see his damning shackles. She was witness to his shame. Naturally she’d assume he meant her harm.

Approaching her had been doubly foolish considering his mission. Familiarity tainted objectivity. He couldn’t afford to befriend any of the travelers, knowing he planned to expose two of them as assassins.

He hadn’t meant a thing by the gesture. ‘Twas only that he’d seen the lass had brought no food with her, and while it might do
her
no harm to go hungry till their next meal, the falcon would suffer without proper sustenance. Live prey was hard to come by, but eggs were easy to find. They weren’t as palatable to a peregrine as fresh kill, but they’d serve. And so when he’d discovered a robin warming a nest in the crook of a tree, he’d shooed the bird aside and pilfered one of her clutch.