His face was washed clean now, his hair still damp, darkening it to the shade of coal. His cheekbone bore the thin red slash that would fade to a scar and yet do little to mar the coarse perfection of his face. Already the mark seemed to enhance his rugged countenance.
Tildy, sitting at her other side, jabbed her and leaned close. Her breath reeked of cider. "Remember, that one’s trouble, lass," she murmured, "no mistake. ‘Twouldn’t surprise me if those robbers were friends o’ his."
Rose scowled. "What do ye mean?"
Tildy nodded. "Ye popped up and spoiled their thievin’." She hiccoughed. "If ye ask me," she whispered, "there’s more danger here in this company than in the woods." She wagged a cautioning finger. "We women’ve got to keep our eyes open."
Rose dismissed Tildy’s warning as drunken prattle. But the words haunted her the rest of the night. Could it be true? Could Blade have been an accomplice rather than a victim?
Nae, ‘twas absurd. He’d returned the silver to Guillot. He’d warned Rose away. And he’d earned a couple of nasty gashes fighting the thieves.
Yet he’d allowed the outlaws to leave with their lives, disappearing into the forest, none the worse for their escapade. And there was still the matter of Blade’s chains and the crime he’d committed to earn them.
She glanced again at the shackled hand resting on the table. Was that the hand of a thief? A traitor? A killer? Surely the hand wielding a dagger in her defense and dabbing gently at her cuts was incapable of such crimes.
But whether she believed it or not, Tildy had planted seeds of doubt in her mind. She perused the faces of the pilgrims along the trestle table with new eyes. Any one of them, she realized, might betray her for the sizable reward her betrothed could offer.
She made a silent vow then to remain as aloof as possible from the rest of the company. The pilgrims, for all their feigned piety, might sell her for a piece of silver. The fewer who knew her name and her history, the better.
Blade had saved her life today, aye. But Tildy was right. There was no cause to trust him. For the right price, even he might turn her over to Sir Gawter. No matter his forthright gaze, his tender heart, his tempting mouth...
Blade stuffed the last bite of oatcake between his teeth. The lass was staring at him again. He could feel her eyes, all drowsy and liquid, upon him. What she wanted from him, he didn’t know. Or perhaps he did know and just refused to allow the thought to surface.
On the other hand, after Father Peter’s harsh rebuke, the lass might never speak to a man again...unless, as he suspected, she was one of those wayward creatures who liked to contradict advice.
He wished she’d look somewhere else. It made his heart pulse wildly when she looked at him like that, and it roused the beast in his braies he’d let slumber far too long. Both of which distracted him from important matters at hand.
There were still questions about the incidents of the afternoon that he couldn’t answer. Chief among them was why the lass had been in the woods at that particular time in that particular place. She hadn’t strolled in with Guillot the apprentice. It seemed almost as if she’d been spying on the lad.
She’d left her peregrine at the inn. So what had drawn her into the forest? Could it be that she planned an assignation with someone there? Or even more disturbing, had the thieves not been thieves at all, but accomplices of hers? Maybe he’d saved her not from robbers, but from her fellow conspirators. ‘Twas enough to make his head throb.
"So what we know now," Wilham murmured, shoveling a spoonful of pottage into his mouth and talking around it, "is, despite the fact he’s a foreigner, Guillot the apprentice couldn’t be part o’ the plot."
Blade nodded. He’d seen the lad’s bruises, felt his fear. He knew the signs of ill-use. He was certain Guillot’s story was true.
"Nor is the murderer Jacob the goldsmith. The man obviously only unsheathes his dagger for Lettie." Wilham snickered at his own jest, then swallowed down his last bite of oatcake. "It can’t be Fulk or Campbell. They were only too pleased to grapple with the thieves. Did ye see how Campbell threw that dagger?" Wilham whistled. "The soldier has deadly aim."
Blade had his doubts about Campbell. The man was too silent, too reclusive. "Soldier? Or assassin?"
Wilham frowned. "Good point." He took a thoughtful sip of cider. "What about Rose?"
"Rose?"
"The falconer." Wilham shook his head. "Some spy ye are. Ye didn’t even know her name, did ye?"
Blade snorted. "‘Tis o’ no consequence." But despite his claim, the name instantly reverberated in his head like plainsong echoing through a cathedral. Rose. ‘Twas a fitting name, for she was as fair as her namesake flower. Rose. Sweet. Pure. Beautiful. Then he gave himself a mental shake. "‘Tis likely a false name," he grumbled, downing the dregs of his cider.
‘Twas the goldsmith’s turn to tell a tale, and since the two nuns had already retired upstairs, and Jacob was well-sated with drink and adultery, he related a bawdy story that Blade guessed was closer to truth than fiction. Lettie’s cheeks reddened at the telling of it, but her eyes dipped languidly, as if she relived each lascivious moment.
The others took great interest in the tale. The tanners hung on his every word. The scholars listened as if he recited a lesson of Plato. Fulk and Drogo nodded their agreement at the passages concerning fickle women. Father Peter seemed oblivious to the suggestive language of the story. Even the palmer, though his lips thinned with disapproval, harkened with glitter-eyed attention.
Blade grew quickly bored, for the tale rapidly turned to an improbable and pointless embellishing of the goldsmith’s own sexual exploits. He swirled his refreshed cup of cider and took a sip. Over the rim of the cup, he glanced down the table. Rose, much to his amusement, listened with her mouth slightly agape.
Her expression amused him. Her sheltered ears had likely never heard such things. And that idea aroused an ignoble longing within him—he’d like to whisper such wicked words in her ear, to make her blush so.
When the tale was over, Father Peter, as if finally realizing the crude nature of the entertainment, tapped upon Rose’s sleeve, obviously trying to convince her to go upstairs. But Rose would have none of it. And the thought of tangling with the rebellious, wanton wench sent a shiver of desire coursing unbidden through Blade’s loins.
The second tale was offered up by Brigit the brewster. It, too, was rife with ribald acts, which she related with a spark of authenticity and promise in her eye that soon had every man in the room squirming like a hound in season.
This time, when Blade glanced at Rose, her lids seemed curiously weighted. Her bosom rose and fell rapidly, as if she were equally excited and appalled by what she heard. And this time, she caught him staring.
Rose’s cheeks flamed. Their eyes met for only a moment, and yet in that moment, such a strong wave of desire surged through her that it seemed to wash all reason from her brain.
Suddenly, against her will, she imagined herself as the faerie in the brewster’s fanciful tale, lying naked in a summer bower, awaiting the arrival of her mortal lover.
And to her horror, by the subtle smile on his face, Blade read her thoughts as clearly as his own and seemed more than willing to step into her fantasy as that mortal.
She tore her gaze away and, catching her breath, stared into her full cup of cider. She tried to block out the sound of the story, but her ear still managed to catch on the most vile words.
She couldn’t escape. In the eager silence of the inn, her leaving would draw attention. Why hadn’t she listened to Father Peter? She should have gone upstairs while she had the chance. Damn her insatiable curiosity! It never ceased to earn her trouble, whether ‘twas poking at a wild bear, spying in her mother’s stables, or squirming under the gaze of an outlaw.
Her eyes lifted to him again of their own will. This time, thank God, his attention rested elsewhere. But once her gaze alit on his dark-stubbled jaw, his strong chin, his hooded eyes, she couldn’t fo
rce it away. The firelight burnished his skin to a deep bronze and cast shadows along the lean hollows of his cheeks. There was a seasoned cast to his face, lines and scars that told of past battles, past adventures, past pains. And yet the wide curve of his mouth belied that harshness, lending him a quality of compassion.
She wondered what ‘twould be like to kiss him...
Laughter and applause burst out around her, and Rose was jolted back to the moment as everyone rose to retire.
She caught his eye once more before they climbed the steps to the upper floor. He saluted her with a courteous nod and a knowing smile, and she scurried up the stairs to join the others.
The next morn, the chill, damp air threatened rain as the pilgrims quietly plodded from Culross Abbey, where they’d attended Sabbath Mass. Above the mist, the skies were hung with shrouds of gray and white, draped like wet silk with their burden of moisture, while the firth below reflected their dreary mood. Rose, too, felt the somber weight of the weather. Immersed in her own thoughts, she paid little heed to the breakfast of barley bread and hard cheese the pilgrims ate as they set out along the road.
After the ribald tales of the evening before, Rose’s night had been so filled with lusty dreams that she awoke blushing in the morn with the guilty impulse to make confession for her imagined sins. And those impure thoughts served to remind her of the grave decision awaiting her in little more than a week.
She needed to think earnestly about her future. Mere days from now, she’d be faced with a choice that would determine the rest of her life—whether to yield her innocence to an adulterous husband or remain a virgin in a convent for the remainder of her life. Up till now, she’d deceived herself into thinking there might be some other alternative, that by returning to Fernie House and the people who’d raised her she might somehow cajole and plead and worm her way out of her betrothal.
But such thoughts were childish. Above all, the laird and lady of Fernie had taught her honor. She’d been promised in betrothal, and she must abide by that promise or seek refuge in the church. ‘Twas that simple. ‘Twas not a decision to be made lightly, but at least the choice was ultimately hers.
She focused on the sisters walking before her. They seemed placid and comfortable in their chaste life, blissfully resigned to their passionless existence. Their manner was peaceful, and no trouble marred their pale brows. Life in a nunnery might be pleasant. Nuns were well-educated and well-respected. ‘Twas even rumored that falconry was a favored pastime in convent. Within the church, a woman was queen of her own destiny and might aspire to great power.
Yet Rose wondered how long ‘twould be before she tired of the plain gray habit and the monotonous daily prayers, the hush of women’s voices and the cloying scent of incense.
A few tentative drops of rain plopped from the sky, one landing on Wink, who shook her head in annoyance. Rose soothed the bird with a soft word and a scratch at the back of her neck.
But soon the raindrops grew heavier and more frequent, vexing Wink despite Rose’s best efforts to shield the falcon against her breast. Rose shivered, beginning to miss the cloak she’d been forced to leave behind. There was no help for it now, but she supposed she’d have to part with more of her silver when they reached the next town to buy a proper woolen cloak. In the meantime, the dilemma raging inside her would keep her from thinking too much about her sopping velvet gown.
What if she decided to return to Averlaigh, to her philandering betrothed? If Gawter truly wished to claim her for his wife, he’d have to forgive her for fleeing, at least publicly. After all, ‘twas common for young brides to harbor misgivings about marriage. She could claim that she sought to clear her soul before her wedding by making the pilgrimage to St. Andrews, and none would argue.
She’d earn a respectable holding and a noble husband. She’d bear heirs and run a household of her own. But at what price? Her body would belong to Gawter, but her heart she’d keep under lock and key. And she’d always know that her husband didn’t love her well enough to be faithful.
Her eyes clouded with sorrow and fury. ‘Twas a pathetic existence.
Yet the convent might be just as unsatisfying. What if her own passions tormented her? What if she found the burden of celibacy too great to bear?
The choice was so difficult. If only there was a way to try both paths...
A part of her wanted and needed more than to serve God, and a part of her desired more than children born of a loveless marriage. She wanted that feeling she saw on the faces of some of the ladies she knew, whose eyes lit up when their men came marching home from battle. She longed to snuggle by a warm fire on a rainy day like her fostering parents, to walk hand-in-hand over the heathery hills like the dairy maid and the shepherd, to share a trencher and a bed and a lifetime with someone who cherished her like a precious jewel. Was that so much to ask?
A drop trickled down her cheek, merging with the rain already wetting her face, so that only Rose knew ‘twas a rogue tear. Self-pity, however, didn’t suit her, and she swiftly wiped the drop away with the back of her hand.
That hand was still aloft when something swooped down upon her like a huge dark falcon. She gasped, making Wink screech and flap wildly. Black wool suddenly surrounded her, blocking out what meager light penetrated the clouds. She fought against the suffocating cloth, battling for freedom as it ensnared her.
"Easy!" Hands braced her shoulders, stilling her struggles. "I mean ye no harm."
She turned and peered up from beneath the enveloping shroud to see Blade—his hair damp, his brow furrowed, his eyes as gray as the day.
Beside her, Tildy screeched like a crow. "No harm? What the devil do ye mean, sneakin’ up and..."
"Tildy!" Rose snapped, silencing the woman, for now she understood. Blade had surrendered his cloak to her. The black wool hung heavily upon her shoulders and dragged in the mud, and the hood all but swallowed her head, but already it lent her comfort and warmth.
She lifted her eyes to him again, giving him a watery smile. How kind Blade was. Kind and thoughtful and caring. If only her betrothed were so kind, she considered, she might look forward to her marriage with something other than dread. All at once, she felt the most mortifying urge to sob. "Thank ye," she managed to squeak out before her chin began to quiver.
Blade clenched his fists. Now he’d made the lass cry. He’d only meant to ease her suffering a bit, not bring her more torment. She’d forgotten a cloak, and he simply intended to remedy that until they reached the next town, where she might procure one for herself.
As for Blade, he was accustomed to traveling in all sorts of weather. His heavy leather and woolen garments would stand him in good stead. And he refused to trudge one more step along the muddy road, snug in his woolen cloak, while the lass shivered in her sodden surcoat and flimsy linen underdress.
But all his pains had earned him nothing but her weeping.
He should leave her now. His presence obviously upset her.
Still, something in her liquid, melancholy gaze, the trembling of her mouth, the teardrops mingling with the raindrops on her cheek, held him there, drawing words from him he knew he shouldn’t utter.
"What troubles ye, lass?" he murmured low.
His question distressed her even more. Her brow crumpled, and her olive eyes spilled over with tears. Silently, he cursed his all too eager tongue.
“Nothin’,” she said, and he knew she was lying. Still, he dared not linger lest he be blamed for those tears. With a sigh, he turned to leave.
She caught the links of his shackles, halting him.
"Lassie!" Tildy hissed beside her, but Rose ignored the warning and coiled her pale hand in his chains.
"I don’t know what ye did to deserve these," she whispered in desperate haste before reason could prevent her, "but ye’ve shown me nothin’ but chivalry."
Her words jolted him. Chivalry? Was that what she thought? Blade was anything but chivalrous. He’d lost the right to that claim two years ag
o. And yet for a moment, he’d forgotten that he was no longer Sir Pierce of Mirkhaugh. For a moment, he’d dared imagine he was once again that noble knight, sworn to protect the innocent and helpless. Lady Rose had made him believe, if only for an instant, that he might be a hero.
He scowled at his own stupidity. She couldn’t be more wrong. He pulled the chain from her grasp, leaving her without a word, to rejoin Wilham.
No sooner had he fallen into line than thunder cracked, and the heavens opened, letting loose their store of rain upon his bare head, drenching him.
Wilham offered to share his cloak, but Blade refused it. After all, the storm matched his sullen mood. Perhaps the driving rain would wash the madness from his mind.
CHAPTER 7
As the travelers followed the shore of the firth past Inverkeithing, the waters gradually widened to become the mouth of the North Sea. The trees thinned, giving way to patches of tough seagrass and sandy soil. The sky stretched, as gray and somber as a nun’s habit, toward the empty horizon of land’s end. The wash of waves, bestirred by the storm, hissed over the wide bulwark of rock shielding the trail, and the brisk scent of the sea mingled with the smell of rain and wet sod.
Just as the pilgrims slogged miserably toward an inn at the cliff’s edge where they might take shelter, in a great show of irony, the tempest quieted as swiftly as it had begun. The clouds cracked apart like an eggshell, revealing the yolk of the sun, and shafts of pale gold light streamed down to illuminate the green swell of the firth and breathe steam upon the shore.
Blade and Wilham were the last to stomp the mud from their boots upon the wooden steps leading to the inn. Blade shook his head like a hound, spattering a protesting Wilham with rain, then slicked his hair back and went in.
The common room was merry and inviting and, best of all, dry. Tallow candles smoked from sconces set into the walls. The air was warm with the aromas of cooking venison, strong ale, and the coarse laughter of fishermen. A cheery fire burned on the hearth, and the pilgrims wasted no time in using the nearby pegs to hang up their wet mantles.
Passion's Exile Page 10
