Passion's Exile

by Glynnis Campbell

  Her heart beat like the wings of a caged falcon, and his words dizzied her. But she wasn’t afraid. He wouldn’t hurt her. She knew he wouldn’t. Just like she knew that bear in St. Andrews wouldn’t hurt her. "Aye."

  "Ye’re certain?" he hissed, his whisper laced with brutish threat.

  And still she trusted him. She parted her trembling lips and nodded faintly.

  He was absolutely right.

  The hands that seized her jaw weren’t gentle. They were demanding. He pressed the length of his hard-muscled body brazenly against hers, careless of propriety. His harsh stubble scraped across her cheek without a care for her delicate skin. And his mouth... His mouth consumed her like liquid fire.

  She should have detested his touch. ‘Twas rough and brutal and shocking, not at all the sweet, gentle caress she expected. She should have fought her way free, wiped his cruel kiss from her mouth, and fled gratefully to the nunnery.

  But she didn’t want to.

  His strength was intoxicating, his taste intriguing, his lust fascinating. She wilted against him, surrendering her lips, her limbs, her will to him. And ‘twas heaven.

  A sensual lethargy poured over her like rich oil, slowing her, weighting her eyelids, singing in her head like the buzzing of a hundred bees. Her arms traveled up of their own accord, settling upon his broad chest, and her fingers bunched in the thick cloth of his doublet. She breathed his breath—warm and heady with ale—and heard and felt his lusty growl. A curious vibration, like that of a plucked harp string, strong and resounding, wound its way through the core of her body, singing in her veins and echoing low in her belly.

  Then his thumb opened her jaw wide, and he made full assault upon her mouth. His tongue thrust between her lips—hot and wet and demanding—and a thrill coursed lightning-swift through her veins at the sensation. She groaned in pleasure and shame as he violated the soft recesses of her mouth. And still she didn’t want him to stop.

  Blade couldn’t stop himself. God, the woman tasted sweet, as delicious as ambrosia. And her body—so small, so frail, yet so warm and willing against his—was driving him mad with desire.

  He’d meant to frighten the overcurious wench—for her own good. She’d have no doubt, when he was through with her, that a nunnery was exactly where she belonged.

  He hadn’t counted on her liking it.

  Instead of recoiling in horror like any self-respecting virgin, the woman answered him, kiss for kiss, with a passion of her own. And now he began to lose himself in her desire.

  ‘Twas when her tongue eased forward to lap tentatively at his own that the last of his control slipped away. He broke free of the kiss, but only to lift his shackled hands up and over her head, to enclose her in his arms and pull her closer.

  He recaptured her lips, laying siege to her mouth until she opened for him and gave him her tongue again. A bolt of current surged through him, bringing him to instant arousal. His heart pounding, he slid his hands down her back and cupped the gentle curve of her buttocks, drawing her toward him. He pressed her against that full, aching part of him that cried out for relief, and though she gasped within his mouth at the bold contact, still she didn’t withdraw.

  Breathless with passion, he moved his rigid length with brazen need against the flat of her belly. There could be no mistaking what he desired, and yet she neither shrunk from nor bristled at his insolence. Instead, to his increasing amazement, she wrapped her arms about his neck and strove upward, meeting him.

  Finally, with a defeated groan, he lifted her so his swollen staff pressed at the tender spot between her legs. Lord, ‘twas sweet agony, despite the layers of clothing separating them. She writhed sensuously against him, and her innocent movement drove him to a more profound desire than he’d ever experienced.

  For one lingering moment, Blade forgot who he was, where they were, what he’d done, and knew only this overwhelming yearning to join with the woman. She clung to him fervently—her kisses desperate, her moans insistent—compelling him to take what she offered. And he longed to take it. He longed to slake his savage hunger, to drive himself deep into her body and find shuddering release.

  In another instant, he might have. He might have cast caution to the winds, tossed the bonnie maiden upon her back in the shelter of the cove, lifted her skirts, and had his way with her on the pebbled shore. But before the last shred of sense left him, a familiar voice made him freeze.

  "Blade!" Wilham hissed.

  Rose immediately broke free in a panic, panting rapidly, pushing against his chest.

  Lust and fury warred within Blade as he pierced Wilham with a glare that would melt steel.

  Wilham’s face was guilty, his voice urgent, as he nodded toward Rose. "That Highland woman is comin’!"

  Blade bit out a curse. Rose gasped and backed away, but trapped within his shackles, she almost fell backward over the chain. He caught her in time, and a short struggle ensued as they both tried to disentangle her. Meanwhile, the sound of furious footfalls crunching on gravel grew nearer.

  "Lassie!"

  Rose’s eyes widened, and she frantically wiped at her mouth, as if it bore evidence of his kiss. Blade frowned with all the furor of his thwarted desire, and Wilham glared back, pointing meaningfully below his belt.

  Blade glanced down. The bulge there was painfully obvious. Suffering under Rose’s flustered sob, he adjusted his chausses and tugged down his doublet until his arousal was at least partially concealed. He was certain, however, that there was no hiding the lust in his eyes.

  "Rose, lassie! Where the devil are ye?"

  "Here!" Rose cried out, her voice strident with forced levity.

  Tildy slogged forward, venom in her narrowed gaze. Blade knew there was no fooling the cunning merchant.

  "Ye see, good woman?" Wilham interjected before Rose could incriminate herself. "I told ye the lass was safe. She came to seek food for her falcon. And Blade, gallant fellow that he is, wouldn’t let her go near the firth where she might—"

  "Dinna mistake me for an addlepate, young swain!" Tildy snapped. "I can still see the lump in yon ‘gallant fellow’s’ trews."

  Blade was certain he flushed red, but he resisted the urge to open his mouth and make matters worse.

  "Come along, Rose!" Tildy barked, then added pointedly, "Ere this dark devil charms ye into deeper waters."

  Rose cast one last longing look at Blade, and ‘twas then he felt the weight of his misconduct. Satan’s claws, what had he been thinking?

  "What the devil were ye thinkin’?" Wilham demanded when the women had gone. "That’s no mere milkmaid for ye to trifle with. She’s a titled lady. Court her, certainly, but don’t seduce the wench. Do ye know what—"

  "Aye!" Blade snarled. "I know."

  He said no more. There was no way to explain what had transpired. Wilham would have laughed in disbelief had he tried to explain that the kiss was the lady’s idea. ‘Twasn’t worth the effort. Besides, ‘twouldn’t happen again.

  "Ye know, there are a couple o’ willin’ wenches at the inn," Wilham grumbled, "if a man’s dagger is in need of a good polishin’."

  "Wil?"

  "Aye?"

  "Enough."

  Blade’s command fell on deaf ears. Wilham chided him all the way back up the cliff and all the way to the inn. He supposed ‘twas a fitting penance for the sheer madness in which he’d just engaged.

  As it turned out, a few of the bored residents of the inn had made a game of trapping a mouse for the falcon, and through their efforts, the bird now feasted on fresh meat. Though Rose sat nearby—her ears likely blistered from the Highland woman’s scolding—she looked up neither at her bird nor upon him, but kept her gaze trained on the table before her.

  A strange mixture of satisfaction and disappointment filled him.

  ‘Twas best this way. He’d not discouraged her from the secular life as well as he’d hoped, despite his overbold embrace and far too intimate kisses. Indeed, she’d seemed to enjoy his touch
too well for one bound for the church. He only hoped her mortification at being caught would drive her to scorn earthly pleasures and ease her submission to a life of chastity.

  And yet a secret part of him didn’t hope that at all. She was far too fair a flower to wither and die in the smothering confines of a nunnery. Such a blossom should be nurtured and worshipped and allowed to bloom in all its glory. She should taste love and bear children. Wasn’t that God’s blessing to a woman? And this woman, in particular, with the depth of her passion and thirst and wonder, shouldn’t deprive herself of the fullest measure of that gift.

  He downed a healthy gulp of ale, then shook his head, scattering his wayward thoughts. Her destiny was not his affair. Unless Rose was a part of the scheme to kill Laichloan’s son—something he highly doubted—then she was no longer his concern.

  Wilham was right. The inn housed a few willing wenches upon whom Blade might slake his lust. And he would have, he assured himself, if they’d stayed any longer. But Father Peter was already gathering his flock to depart. So Blade tightened his breeches and shouldered his pack, carefully disregarding the scarlet skirts that swirled at the edges of his vision.

  By the time they’d marched north to Hillend, the sun had sunk behind the knees of the western hills, and a coverlet of chill fog had followed them in from the firth.

  The circumstances of their lodging caused the first battle of the pilgrimage. Father Peter had made arrangements through a third party with a man of substantial wealth and title to house the pilgrims within the man’s demesne. Upon arrival, however, ‘twas apparent the residence was far too small to accommodate such a large number. ‘Twas obvious to Blade that the man—who was neither as wealthy nor as titled as he’d proclaimed—had overstated his capacity in order to earn a share of the pilgrims’ wealth.

  ‘Twas too late to secure other lodgings. So after a brief display of temper on the part of Father Peter, who was mollified by Simon the palmer, and a stubborn renegotiation of fees on the part of Jacob the goldsmith, the pilgrims managed to squeeze into the modest great room for an equally modest supper of broth thickened with eggs and breadcrumbs.

  Blade kept his head buried in his trencher, unwilling to risk a glance at the lady whose lips he could too well remember upon his own. He drowned his desire—desire that was wont to rekindle—in the cup of coarse beer set before him. And only when the stories of the night were begun did he manage to think of anything other than the delectable woman in scarlet.

  Lettie told the first tale. It began well enough, with three thieves competing to see who could best the others. One thief stole the eggs from under a magpie. The second thief replaced them without disturbing the bird. But while the second performed this task, the third stole the man’s hose from off his legs.

  After that, the story fell to pieces. Lettie kept mixing up the thieves’ names, and she couldn’t recall which thief stole what from whom, nor how they managed to trick one another. She ended the telling in a sheepish giggle, unable to bring it to a sensible conclusion. The pilgrims nonetheless applauded politely, and Jacob the goldsmith patronizingly patted her hand, while the scholars murmured amongst themselves, trying to unknot the tangle of the story so they could decipher how it should have been told.

  Blade narrowed his eyes at the blushing storyteller. He wondered if Lettie’s addlepated manner was real or feigned. If ‘twas genuine, he doubted the woman possessed the intellect to carry off murder. Her companion guildsman, however, seemed capable of a villainous plot.

  Campbell the soldier was then asked for a tale. He demurred at first, claiming he knew no stories but those of grim wars and bloody battles.

  "Then tell us one o’ those," Father Peter declared, "and we shall welcome it, for e’en the Gospel recounts mighty wars fought in the name o’ the Lord."

  Campbell, still reluctant, began his tale quietly, in a voice so low the pilgrims had to remain nearly silent to hear him. He related the story of a company of gentle knights, bound in service to a cruel laird. They served their liege with honor for many years, though his ways were often brutal.

  As he spoke, Blade noticed that Campbell’s fist tightened around his wooden cup, and he knew instantly ‘twas no story, but a true tale.

  "They besieged crumblin’ keeps where no riches were to be gained, solely for the amusement o’ the laird," Campbell said, his eyes glassy as he stared into his beer, "starvin’ the men, slayin’ lasses too weak to fight and ch-" He choked, then swallowed down bitter memory. "And children too young to understand." He paused to gather his thoughts, and no one breathed.

  Blade furrowed his brow. He’d seen Campbell’s pain before, in the faces of men forced by fealty to do things against their hearts, against their will.

  "On a winter day they lay siege to the keep of a nobleman with four daughters as fair and pure as snow. By sunset, the outer wall was undermined, and the knights easily entered the keep. But this time, the loathsome laird desired that his men spare the nobleman and his four virtuous daughters." Campbell took a bracing drink of his beer before continuing. "He wanted his knights to..." His jaw tightened. "To deflower the maidens, with their father as witness."

  Gasps of shock circled the table, but Campbell was too far into his tale to take notice.

  "Three o’ the knights did as they were bid," he said stonily. Blade could read the man’s torment in his face as he relived the horror. "Despite the maidens’ pleas and their father’s appeals, they...savaged them without mercy. But the fourth..." Campbell bit at his trembling lip. "The fourth refused. He knelt upon the stones o’ the keep and begged the daughters for their forgiveness o’ his sinnin’ companions. He threw himself upon the mercy o’ his liege, askin’ him to cease these godless acts." The pause was so long then that the listeners began to shift upon their benches. But none dared break the heavy silence. "The laird drew his sword forthwith and lopped the man’s head from his shoulders."

  More gasps ensued. Even Blade drew in a sharp breath. He’d been certain that Campbell had been that honorable soldier.

  One of the impertinent scholars commented, "Well, surely the knights then rose up against their liege."

  Campbell pinned him with a glare. "So ye’d think, would ye not?" he spat bitterly. "But then ye’re not a knight. Ye’ve not sworn fealty to a nobleman. Ye know nothin’ o’ loyalty and honor and allegiance."

  The soldier’s fierce words silenced the scholar and gave Blade pause. He knew all about honor. Honor had destroyed his life and apparently Campbell’s as well.

  "They did nothin’," the soldier snarled. "The fifth... The fifth...churl, even as his companion lay bleedin’ on the flagstones beside him, even as the women sobbed in horror and their father pleaded for mercy, even then...the bastard did as he was commanded and thrust himself upon the youngest maiden."

  The room fell silent as the soldier stared, unseeing, at the beer-stained tabletop. Meek Guillot was the first to move. Sitting beside the soldier, he rested a hand of comfort on Campbell’s forearm.

  The soldier drew his arm back violently, as if the lad had branded him with fire. "Nae!" he cried. "Don’t touch me."

  Everyone grew uncomfortable then, for they all knew there was more than a grain of truth in his tale. Guillot withdrew his hand, his young eyes wide with hurt.

  "Don’t," Campbell said more evenly, "touch me."

  While those around him began tentatively to reinitiate the conversation and lighten the mood, Blade reconsidered the soldier’s tale. The story had no ending. Had Campbell become plagued by the burden of his sin? Was that why he’d come on pilgrimage, to seek forgiveness and redemption? Or was he still slave to his wicked master? Was he yet loyal to the deranged demands of his overlord?

  Could Campbell be the murderer? He’d slain man, woman, and child without hesitation. He’d scarcely blink to kill a laird’s only son if his liege so ordered.

  Despite Campbell’s assistance with the thieves and his painful tale, the soldier clearly had both the will
and the stomach for violence, and Blade couldn’t overlook the overwhelming evidence that he might be the assassin.

  Rose dug her nails into the battered wood of the trestle table. The soldier’s story was deeply disturbing, all the more so because she feared ‘twas true. But Campbell, at least, was on the path to salvation. His crimes might be abhorrent, but they were at least in his past. There was deliverance, even for him. When they reached St. Andrews, his soul could be redeemed.

  Rose, however, engaged in perfidy even now. Somewhere, miles behind her, her scorned betrothed raged at her absence. And not only were Rose’s thoughts not with Gawter—they were centered on another.

  She wished she could dismiss their seaside encounter from her mind as easily as Blade had. He’d hardly looked at her since their arrival in Hillend. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him, about his kiss, his hands upon her, the taste of his tongue inside her mouth...

  Even the recollection dizzied her. A fervid blush stole across her cheek as she gazed at his somber profile, and she found it almost impossible to believe the breathtaking felon had actually kissed her earlier.

  The feeling had been so much more intense than Rose had anticipated. She’d been attracted to his dark good looks and his kind heart, so she’d expected his kiss to be a pleasant thing. Never had she imagined ‘twould be so compelling. And now she craved more.

  She longed for the crush of his demanding arms and the heady scent of him—all leather and iron and man, the savage feast of his hungering mouth and the erotic, blinding haze of his passion. She wanted his warm flesh, his sultry gaze, his delicious mouth. Even now, looking upon him, her heart quickened, her breath grew shallow, and her nether parts ached with yearning.

  But if her desire was far greater than she’d foreseen, so was her dilemma. How could she resign herself to a nunnery, feeling what she now felt? How could she sacrifice a lifetime of such pleasure for the chastity of the church? ‘Twas a coil that would torment her long into the night.