The second thief, angered now, thrust his knife forward. Blade dodged out of its path just before it would’ve skewered him and dealt the man a bruising blow to the arm with his left fist.
Meanwhile, the giant retreated. Though ‘twas hard to see the bent of his dim-witted thoughts, he appeared to plan some mischief.
"Run!" Blade commanded, glancing at Rose.
But she set her mouth in a stubborn line and shook her head. She wasn’t some timorous maid to flee and hide. She intended to help him.
The first man recovered and seized the second man’s dagger.
"Come on! Come on!" the man snarled, whirling both daggers in his fists, egging Blade to strike so he could dodge in and inflict damage from two places at once.
The robber probably never expected to be struck in the back of the head by a flying rock. Rose beamed in triumph. She’d hit her target and successfully stopped his forward progress. Her victory, however, was short-lived. To her dismay, not only did it not knock the man senseless as she’d planned—it served to further enrage him. He wheeled toward her, bubbles of angry spit dotting the corner of his mouth.
"Ye’re next," he sneered.
Rose was undaunted. Anything that broke the thief’s concentration had to be helpful to Blade. She searched the ground for another missile.
Blade fended off another attack, this time by both men at once, for the second had produced yet another short knife.
Rose glanced over to see the giant—his dim eyes narrowed, his tongue at the corner of his lip—poised to throw his dagger toward Blade.
"Nae!" she screamed, diving for the ogre.
Her shriek startled Blade enough to distract him, and in that moment, he earned a gash across his thigh from one of the thieves. But it also startled the giant enough to make him hesitate in his throw. She hurled herself at the muddy beast’s back, knocking him against a tree. Her pitiful weight couldn’t do much, but she hung tenaciously onto his immense neck while he thrashed like a hound trying to loose a kitten from its back. She clung to him for all she was worth, kicking at his legs and clawing at his face when she had the chance.
She should have known ‘twas hopeless. She might possess twice the dolt’s wits, but she was no match for his strength. And, unbeknownst to her, he still had the dagger.
With one powerful arm, he yanked her from his back and planted her between his two trunk-like legs. Then he hauled her back against his wide belly and set his dagger to her throat.
The steel edge felt cold and dangerous upon her neck. But the look Blade sent her when he saw what had happened was sharper and far more chilling, a glare that said she should have listened when he’d told her to run.
To her dismay, Blade, wincing with bitter regret, let out a great sigh, dropped his dagger to the ground, and raised his hands in surrender.
CHAPTER 6
Blade silently cursed his wretched shackles and his lack of a sword. If not for those self-inflicted hindrances, he’d have been able to dispatch the thieves in a matter of moments.
Instead he’d been dealt a stinging wound, he’d been forced to relinquish his only weapon, and the lass...
Curse her—where had she come from, and why hadn’t she done as he’d ordered? The apprentice, at least, hadn’t questioned his command. What mulish stubbornness possessed the maid to make her interfere in what was clearly a man’s battle?
Yet ‘twasn’t anger, but icy dread, that filled him as he gazed upon her.
She was a pale dove caught in the talons of a monstrous griffin, her limbs insubstantial, her throat vulnerable. Why the ogre bothered with the dagger, he didn’t know. The brute could probably strangle her with one paw. The chilling thought crystallized the breath in Blade’s chest.
But strangely, as the lass returned his stare, her eyes weren’t filled with fear, but with frustration. She clearly realized the folly of her actions now.
As disappointed as he was, he couldn’t fault the maid, not really. He would’ve done the same in her place. Her bravery, apparent in the stoic tilt of her chin, caught at his heart, even as it terrified him.
But there was nothing he could do now. The robbers would take the silver and probably his dagger. He only prayed to God they wouldn’t take the intrepid lass’s life as well.
The first thief had one final act of unspent rage left inside him. Before Blade could draw back or cast up his chains to block the blow, the man rounded on him with his knife, slicing Blade’s cheek open.
The lass gasped in horror. An instant later Blade felt the burn of the slash, the welling blood. But the cut was shallow, dealt more as a punishment than to inflict damage. ‘Twould leave a scar, but little more.
"Get the sack," the thief growled to his companion.
The second man began to lurch off toward the tree, but halted suddenly at the sound of distant voices. All of them stiffened. Faraway calls echoed among the trees, growing rapidly nearer.
Help. The apprentice had summoned help.
"Hurry," the first thief hissed, nervously gesturing with his bloodied dagger.
Blade glanced at the giant. The approaching men obviously made the slow-witted oaf uneasy, for he furrowed his brow like a fretting child, swaying absently from foot to foot. Unfortunately, his grip was steadily, inadvertently tightening around the lass.
The pilgrims were unaware of the precarious situation, or else they’d approach with more stealth. Blade heard them breaking through the trees already. God’s wounds, if they crashed into the clearing and startled the fearful blockhead, one slip of his knife would end the lass’s life.
Blade clenched his fists. He had to do something now, before the men arrived. ‘Twas an enormous wager, but if he was right in his guess about the giant—that the poor fool idolized his companions...
Blade eyed his discarded dagger, lying among the leaves. ‘Twas too far out of reach. He’d have to use something else.
The robber before him wiped a hand across his sweating lip. The man still brandished a knife, but his attention was focused elsewhere. If Blade moved quickly...
"Hurry!" the man snarled again. "Hur-"
Blade lunged forward, knocking the man’s dagger loose. Before the thief could recover, Blade jerked him about, bringing his shackle chain down around the man’s throat and hauling back on it.
The man let out a strangled cry as his fingers scrabbled at the chain. And, to Blade’s satisfaction, the action had its desired effect.
The giant looked suddenly dismayed, as if he couldn’t fathom something so dire happening to his dear friend. He let his guard slip a notch. The knife faltered in his fist.
"Let her go," Blade threatened.
"Nae, Jock! Don’t listen to him!" the second thief cried, his arm sunk deep in the bole of the tree. "Hold onto her!"
But ‘twas obvious where the Jock the giant’s loyalties lie.
"He’s hurtin’ Gib. Don’t hurt Gib," the giant pleaded, slowly lowering the knife.
"Nae, ye fool!" the second robber spat. "He’s playin’ with ye! Don’t let her go!"
Blade jerked on the chain around Gib’s neck, and his captive sputtered, rising on his toes in panic.
"Gib!" the giant sobbed, letting go of his prisoner, dropping his dagger, and stumbling forward.
This time, the lass wisely staggered out of harm’s way.
Blade let up on the chain, releasing his quarry. With the heel of his boot, he shoved Gib as hard as he could toward the oncoming giant. They collided with a dull thud.
Just then, Wilham broke into the clearing, his eyes steely, his sword drawn. Beside him, Fulk brandished a hand-axe in one meaty arm. Campbell the soldier, spying the thief about to make off with Guillot’s silver, flung a dagger with deadly aim, pinning the thief’s sleeve to the tree trunk and leaving the blade shuddering in the wood. The sack of silver spilled to the ground. Coins scattered and shivered and rolled across the leaf-fall with a sound like discarded chain mail.
Blade swept up his dagger, Campbell drew his sword, an
d the quartet of armed men charged toward the thieves.
The thieves knew they were outnumbered. Gib hauled on the giant’s arm. "Come on, Jock!" he choked out, scrambling backward in the leaves.
The robber who was pinned to the tree began to shriek in panic.
"But Ralf’s still..." Jock the giant protested.
"Aye! I’m still..." Ralf screamed, trying to rock the dagger free, while his two companions scurried off through the trees. "Nae! Nae! Don’t leave me!"
Fulk the butcher walked slowly and deliberately toward the shrieking robber. The man yanked and pulled and tugged, his eyes rolling in panic, as Fulk raised his axe. Fulk never got the chance to deliver the blow, though Blade wasn’t sure if he intended to lop off the man’s sleeve or his hand. Just as Fulk drew close enough to strike, the robber tore his sleeve free and scrambled off after his fellows.
The thieves dissolved back into the shadowy forest like leaves melting into mulch, and the rescuers put away their weapons. Blade sheathed his dagger and made his way over to Rose.
She leaned against a tree, one hand braced behind her on the trunk, attempting to stay her gasps. Stray strands of raven hair slashed across one cheek, which was as pale as cream, and a tiny drop of blood welled at her throat where the giant’s knife had nicked her.
The sight made him shudder. Fighting, there’d been no time for fear. But now that the danger was past, now that there was visible evidence of how close she’d come to being slain...
"Ye’re...bleedin’." His voice cracked.
She absently touched her throat, smearing the blood. Then she looked at him and furrowed her brow. "I’m bleedin’? Ye’re bleedin’."
Blade wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. "‘Tis a scratch."
Wilham chose that moment to barge forward with a wad of linen. "A scratch! Ha! So he’d say, my lady, were his head lopped from his shoulders." He handed Blade the rag, frowning. "I can’t leave ye alone for a moment," he complained. "Ye keep this up, and ye’ll ruin that bonnie face o’ yours." Still scowling, he spared a wink for the lass, for which Blade gave him a glare of reproof. Then Wilham strode off, muttering and shaking his head, to help the others retrieve the spilled coins.
"Forgive Wilham," Blade told her. "He..."
"He cares for ye."
Her words gave him pause. She didn’t know how accurate they were. Wilham was the one who saved Blade from himself. "Aye."
"That is far more than a scratch," she whispered as she glanced at the cut on his leg. Her nose quivered. The coppery scent of blood was likely not one to which she was accustomed.
He shrugged. "‘Twill heal."
She guiltily bit her lip. "‘Tis my fault."
‘Twas her fault. If she’d only done as he bid her and stayed out of the way, he might not be wounded now.
Indeed, he might be dead.
"Far better the scrape on my shank," he admitted, "than a knife in my heart. I think I owe ye my life."
Ever so carefully, he lifted her chin with his thumb so he could use the wad of linen to swab at her tiny cut. Her skin was so soft, so vulnerable. He felt her swallow beneath his fingers before she spoke.
"And I owe ye mine."
Their eyes met, and her gaze, filled with wonder and gratitude and a little trepidation, cracked at his armored heart like a mace upon mail, making him feel things he knew he shouldn’t, things he didn’t deserve. He forced his eyes away.
"I’m a knight," he said gruffly. "‘Tis my duty." He resumed dabbing at her throat more perfunctorily, steeling himself against their unsettling intimacy. "But the next time, do as I command."
She stiffened under his wounding words. "Leave ye alone to fend off robbers, shackled and swordless? How could I?"
He scowled, avoiding her gaze. "‘Twas hazardous to stay. Ye should have obeyed me."
"I’m not a coward," she told him, snatching the rag from his hand a bit crossly. "And neither, I suspect, are ye. Would ye have left me had I commanded it? Turned and run?"
He deepened his scowl.
"I thought not," she murmured, rising up on her toes to press the cloth to his bloody cheek. He flinched. Her smooth brow wrinkled with genuine concern. "Does it hurt?"
He swallowed hard and shook his head. ‘Twasn’t pain that made him recoil. ‘Twas amazement. He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had touched him with such tenderness. Most women dared not even draw close, let alone lay a hand upon him. He was dark and dangerous and savage. Touching him was like stirring a bed of hot coals. She shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t touch him. Innocent and young, she didn’t know what she roused in him, how he ached for...
Her tongue slipped out to moisten her rosy bottom lip, and a wave of desire washed over him.
"The cut isn’t too deep," she murmured. "‘Twill leave only a faint scar."
He scarcely listened. "Why are ye speakin’ to me, touchin’ me?" he wondered aloud. "Why aren’t ye afraid?"
She paused in her labors. The mischievous hint of a smile touched her eyes. "I suppose because I once ruffled the fur of a bear," she said cryptically. "And ye’re only..." The humor faded from her gaze, replaced by something far more threatening. "A man."
He might have imagined the rough desire in her voice, but he didn’t think so. Suddenly he felt the inexplicable need to frighten her, to distance her. "I’m a dangerous man," he told her, letting his eyes, aglitter with all the hunger and desire he felt, rake her body.
Though he saw her breath catch and her eyes widen, she remained undaunted, resuming her tender ministrations. "And what makes ye so dangerous?" she asked breathlessly.
He seized her wrist and reminded her in a hiss, "I’m a dishonored knight."
She gulped, and her nostrils fluttered, but she held her chin high. Her eyes shone like brimming pools of autumn rain. "Ye’ve shown me no dishonor," she whispered.
Her gaze lowered to his mouth, making his heart stagger against his ribs. He thought instantly of a dozen ways to dishonor her, all of them immensely pleasurable. But he knew, despite his salacious imagination, ‘twas honor that left him incapable of pursuing them.
He released her wrist.
Rose felt lightheaded, not only from the hazardous encounter of the afternoon or the dizzying sight of blood, but from the reckless rush of her wayward thoughts.
As brash and improper and forward as it seemed, she longed to heal Blade’s hurts the way she had that bear long ago in St. Andrews. That he might be dangerous didn’t trouble her in the least. Indeed, it excited her. Even his scent—all smoke and musk and metal—was intriguing. Her heart felt drawn to him, like a moth drawn to the moon. And the daring woman within her desired to touch the man beneath the worn leather and hard iron, the man of warm flesh.
Thankfully, Blade took the bloodied rag from her hand before she could do something impulsive and foolhardy.
"Ye should go back now," he said curtly, avoiding her eyes. "Wilham can take ye to the others."
"Nae." The word popped out of her of its own accord.
He locked gazes with her.
She swallowed. "I don’t wish to return yet."
His eyes, once as cold and hard and gray as stone, softened. They were flecked with shards of blue and green, she realized, the color as mutable as the spring sky. She wondered what he saw when he looked into her eyes, if he perceived the yearning there.
"Go," he bid her firmly. "Robbers I’d gladly battle, but I’ve no desire to war with Father Peter or your Highland mother hen over your virtue."
Her virtue? His mind was on desire. The thought dizzied her, loosening her coy tongue. "Faugh, sir," she scolded flirtatiously. "I thought ye were braver than that."
His lip curved up the tiniest bit in response. "Nae," he said flatly.
She feigned shock. "Ye won’t protect me from the scoldin’ they’re bound to give me?"
He shook his head. "‘Tis doubtless well-deserved. Ye’re too headstrong by half."
"Headstrong? I’m not..."
She couldn’t finish the lie.
He smirked, and his gaze slipped down to her mouth. Then he sobered. "Go," he prodded.
But she didn’t want to go. Blade was far too beguiling. And stirring. And seductive. "I haven’t rewarded ye properly yet for rescuin’ me."
She saw his jaw tighten as his eyes locked again on her lips. When he finally tore his gaze away, he sniffed, almost as if she’d insulted him. "I was once a knight, even if I wear shackles now." He draped the rag over his wounded thigh and knotted it firmly. "Ye owe me no reward. ’Tis only part of the oath I took—to defend the helpless and to guard the virtue o’ lasses like yourself."
"But I—"
"By the Saints!" boomed the familiar voice of Father Peter, destroying the intimacy of the moment. “What’s happened here?”
Blade stepped back to a polite distance as the priest barreled forward. Rose would have sworn there was a glimmer of satisfaction playing about Blade’s mouth as the father began lecturing her in clamorous tones.
And so the priest carried on—sometimes addressing Rose, sometimes Guillot, sometimes the company in general—all the way to The Red Lion, their lodging for the night in the firthside village of Culross. The journey was but an hour’s trudge away, and yet it seemed far longer, for at every step, Father Peter reminded them of the dangers of going alone into the forest.
Once or twice, Rose ventured a glance over her shoulder for a glimpse of her dark rescuer and was rewarded by a knowing look from him that told her he believed she deserved every word of reprimand.
By the time they smelled the briny air of the Firth of Forth, the sun had lowered enough to make the water look like a shimmering swath of silver silk. The Red Lion stood along the main firthside road, and Rose was glad to find a peddler hawking his wares beside the inn. She purchased a few items with which to make the journey more comfortable—a cake of tallow soap, a length of cheap linen for washing, and a wooden comb, which she used at once to whisk the tangles from her hair.
A humble supper of thick cod pottage and oatcakes washed down with cider soon filled Rose’s belly, yet she tasted little of it. Despite the watchful eye of Father Peter, who sat beside her, her gaze kept roving to the handsome outlaw dining at the far end of her table.
Passion's Exile Page 9
