Passion's Exile

by Glynnis Campbell

  Rose cradled the falcon in the crook of one arm, then reached out to clasp Blade’s hand. Her fingers looked delicate against his scarred fist, but her grip was firm, as if ‘twere now her task to lend him reassurance.

  "She’ll live." She seemed to speak to convince herself as well as him. "I know she will. We’ve weathered much, Wink and I. We both have wills of iron." The adoring gaze she cast upon the maimed creature wrested at his heart. "She’ll survive. She has to survive."

  Blade’s throat thickened with emotion. He couldn’t look at her anymore, lest his eyes betray his doubt. Instead, he withdrew his hand and rose to his feet, clapping the grass from his clothing.

  She stood with his aid—the bird still nestled on her arm—holding to his hand longer than was necessary.

  "I’ll never forget your kindness," she whispered gravely, "no matter what happens."

  He glanced sharply at her, but her gaze had already strayed to the forest beyond. She did understand then. She did realize her falcon might not survive. ‘Twas not naivete after all that fed her optimism, but sheer determination. She simply refused to surrender.

  A newfound respect was forged within him for this lass with a flower’s name. She was no blushing pink rose whose frail petals wilted beneath the touch of the sun, but a rose of uncommon rich red, with a straight stem and a strong velvet blossom, and aye—he thought as they made their way back to the company of pilgrims—even a few prickly thorns.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rose clasped her hands under the table so tightly she thought her knuckles would crack. Why she’d let Tildy talk her into attending supper this evening, she didn’t know, for her thoughts were centered solely on Wink, who rested all by herself in the abandoned mews of Hawkhame in Kirkcaldy.

  Ironically, despite their lodgings’ name, for the last several years, the Lady of Hawkhame would allow no small animals in her demesne, for her daughter was deathly afraid of them. Thus, Rose was forbidden to bring Wink within the hall. And every moment spent away from her beloved pet added to Rose’s anxiety.

  As if Wink’s absence weren’t difficult enough to bear, Rose was forced to endure the well-intentioned pilgrims who made inept attempts to ease her worries. Indeed, the only relief she’d found tonight was in choosing a seat beside Blade at the table, who neither pried into her feelings nor gave her unwelcome advice. Unfortunately, he’d deserted her several moments ago, excusing himself to do God-knew-what.

  Then, as an added insult, as if Wink’s condition alone weren’t enough to diminish Rose’s appetite, the lady of the manor chanced to serve roast capon for supper. Rose, of course, had no stomach for the fowl, even less for the pointed tales this eve. Already, she’d endured Tildy’s story of a magical healing bird lost by a greedy knight. Now Simon related a parable, and Rose swore if he breathed one more thinly disguised word about anyone’s life or death being God’s will, she’d strangle the palmer in his own sackcloth.

  "...for who are we to ponder the mystery o’ the Lord’s ways..."

  Rose clenched her teeth against a scream as Simon's patronizing tone grated on her ears and the nuns softly added their agreement. By the Saints, did they honestly believe that God might mean for her innocent pet to die? Did all religious zealots so blindly and helplessly rest fate in the Lord’s hands? And if so, how would Rose ever endure being closeted with a bevy of spineless nuns for the rest of her life?

  Wink’s destiny did not rely solely upon the will of God, but the falcon’s own will. Rose was sure of it. God had no reason to curse such a harmless creature, any more than He had caused Wink to swoop down upon the wolves. Nae, Rose was certain the animal had made a deliberate decision to risk her own life. Wink had been willing to sacrifice herself to protect her mistress.

  Just as Rose had made the deliberate decision to take the veil. ‘Twas not the will of God that she become a nun. ‘Twas the will of Rose. Though ‘twas a difficult, desperate sacrifice she made, ‘twas hers and hers alone. Damn the nun’s sermonizing, ‘twas.

  "...never questionin’ God’s will..."

  Rose ground her teeth.

  Suddenly a cool, steadying hand closed over her knotted fingers. She stiffened, shooting a furtive sidelong glance toward Blade, who had just returned. His face carefully betrayed nothing, but his hand remained secretly upon hers, dispelling her rage, his grip solid and reassuring. And quite possessive.

  Her breath caught. Did the pilgrims notice his trespass? Her heart raced at his boldness. Yet she had no desire to withdraw her hand. She quickly scanned the faces around her. To her relief, even Tildy smiled obliviously on. Apparently, the linen draping the table concealed their perfidy. And so Rose, too, pretended nonchalance as she feigned to listen attentively to the storyteller.

  She might as well have been deaf.

  Blade’s hand was a welcome comfort. Without breathing a word, he soothed her, the same way Rose was able to soothe Wink by smoothing her rumpled feathers. Beneath his callused palm, her fingers unclenched, her burden seemed to lighten, her distress calmed.

  "I’ve checked on your falcon," he breathed.

  She swallowed, waiting for his news.

  "As well as may be expected," he answered to her unasked question.

  She nodded, letting out a shallow sigh. Amongst all these pilgrims, she realized, only the dark felon seemed to truly understand her.

  Of course, everyone had shown her sympathy. Simon the palmer had relented to praise the bird’s loyalty. The nuns had assured her that should her falcon die, the saintly bird would wing its way to heaven. The scholars had even offered to pool their coin to purchase her a new peregrine when they arrived in St. Andrews.

  Yet no one but Blade grasped her desperate faith. No one but Blade made her believe there was hope.

  And Rose needed to believe that, for deep within her, she knew ‘twas more than her falcon’s life at stake.

  Wink was everything that Rose admired—freedom, bravery, independence, strength. The two of them had long shared a love of adventure and an affinity for the open sky. Rose had always felt that a part of her flew with the falcon, defying the envious pull of the earth, spreading her wings wide to encompass forest and glen and hill, soaring dauntlessly into the domain of angels.

  If Wink died...

  If Wink died, a part of Rose would die—her liberty, her fearlessness, her spirit.

  Before, Rose had taken solace in the fact that, no matter which prison she chose—whether she must endure a loveless marriage or a monotonous convent—Wink would be with her as a winged symbol of her unbound soul. Every time the falcon sailed on high, a part of Rose would sail with her.

  But while Wink hovered on the narrow brink between life and death, so, it seemed, hung the balance of Rose’s own survival.

  She didn’t expect Blade to understand. Still, she sensed he somehow knew her distress. ‘Twas as if his heart beat in tandem with hers, as if they shared some kindred suffering.

  Blade’s fingers curled under, gently stroking the tops of her hands, and ‘twas all she could do to keep from dissolving into grateful tears beneath his compassionate caress. Slowly, she unlocked her fingers, turning her wrist, palm up, and they clasped hands.

  There was far more solace than seduction in his clandestine touch, and yet her heart fluttered at what he dared. After all, Tildy sat hip to hip with her. Blade's man sat on his other side. One haphazard glance from either one would betray them. And yet Blade brazenly, fearlessly kept her hand in his, offering her comfort, lending her strength.

  'Twas a reckless gesture. Nothing good could come of her growing affection for Blade. Their shared experiences, which connected them now as intimately as their entwined fingers, would only serve to confuse her heart.

  Rose had a betrothed, a man she intended to thwart by taking the veil. She knew her two crossroads well and the direction in which she meant to go. Blade? He was like a wild and wayward path branching off into a forbidden landscape, tempting her from those clear avenues.


  Still, for all the sin of it, she couldn’t force her hand away, astonished by how natural his fingers felt surrounding hers, as if their two hands were halves of a broken vessel, now made whole. And if they only had this one bittersweet moment, while his fingers interlocked with hers...

  Too soon, the palmer abruptly ended his tale. Everyone at the table applauded politely. Reluctantly, Rose withdrew her hand to join in the applause. Blade clapped as well, his chains rattling against his thigh, and she feared the moment of liaison was forever lost. But underneath the obscuring clatter as the pilgrims emptied the benches, he leaned near to speak the most dangerous words to her.

  "Try to sleep," he whispered. "If ye need me in the night, come."

  He meant Wink, if Wink needed him. Of course, he meant Wink. But later, as she lay awake upstairs among the slumbering females of the company, the echo of his words haunted her—If ye need me, come.

  Across the room, one of the nuns was talking in her sleep again, her voice altered by dreams into a low purr, soft and playful. Rose sighed. She couldn’t sleep. ‘Twasn’t that she wasn’t tired. The strain of the day had left her exhausted. But she feared that if she ceased praying for one moment, if she let her heavy eyelids close in slumber, death might steal her falcon in the night.

  She sat up, sweeping a tangle of hair back from her creased forehead. Come, he’d said, if ye need me. She shivered, pulling up the slipped shoulder of her linen underdress. Should she?

  There was nothing more Blade could do for her falcon. ‘Twas simply a matter of watching, waiting, and praying. Nae, she’d not trouble his sleep.

  But neither would she lie tossing in her bed till dawn. Better she should sleep in the mews than lie awake all night on a feather pallet.

  Shoving the coverlet back, she located her surcoat and slipped it over her head. With a stealth she’d learned from midnight forays into the locked chambers and forbidden passages of ancient Fernie House, she crept between the sleepers, down the stairs, and out into the dark courtyard toward the mews.

  The first thing she noticed when she eased open the door of the outbuilding and stepped through was the soft clink of chains.

  "Wink?" she whispered.

  "M’lady."

  "Holy sh—!" She nearly leaped from her slippers, despite the softness of his voice. "Blade?"

  "Come in and close the door ere ye’re seen."

  She did as he asked, though the blinding darkness of the mews did little to ease her racing heart. The air was as dense and black as coal to her unaccustomed eyes, and though Rose was used to the close confines of a mews, the chamber was oddly devoid of the ubiquitous odors of moult and mutes.

  "I thought ye might come." Blade’s voice floated in the shadows.

  "What are ye doin’ here?" Rose swept out her arm in an arc, trying to get her bearings, and backhanded something. "Oh. Sorry. Was that your—"

  "Forehead," he informed her.

  "Oh."

  "Here. Give me your hand."

  More cautiously this time, she extended her arm. He caught her fingers, then tugged her forward.

  "Ye couldn’t sleep?"

  She shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see her. "Nae. Ye?"

  She heard the shrug in his voice as he grunted. "My nights are oft troubled."

  He guided her carefully toward the least dim place in the mews, a spot illuminated by a crack in the door, where Wink was tucked into a nest of straw. Blade whispered, "Your falcon, at least, is sleepin’ peaceably."

  "Wink." Just seeing her bird eased her fears. "Is she all right?"

  "She’s...breathin’."

  So she was no worse, but no better. Rose swallowed hard. Of course, she couldn’t expect Wink to wake up in the morn, shake out her feathers, and fly to the top of the manor wall. Such expectations were foolish. Still, she’d half hoped for some sort of miracle.

  She turned to Blade, whose profile she could just begin to make out. "How long have ye been here?"

  "Since supper."

  She blinked. "Ye stayed with her all this time, watchin’ o’er her?"

  He snorted. ‘Twas clear he thought it no great sacrifice, nor did he wish her to make much of it.

  But for Rose, it meant the world. She tried to tell him so, but all she could manage was a broken, "Thank ye." The more eloquent words lodged in her throat.

  He shifted beside her, rattling his iron chains again. She realized he hadn’t let go of her hand. His fingers curved around hers as naturally as a vine clinging to a garden wall. She liked how it felt. She thought she might like to have him hold her hand forever. So she didn’t speak, scarcely breathed, afraid that if she did, she might break the fragile thread binding them. The silence stretched and thinned before them like wool on a spinning wheel.

  "Ye can’t stay here," Blade murmured at long last.

  She hoped that was regret she detected in his voice and that he couldn’t sense the subtle desperation in hers. "‘Tis safe for the moment. ‘Tis hours yet before dawn."

  "‘Twill be here in the wink of an eye." He gave her hand a final squeeze and released it. "Go. Your bird will be fine. Ye need to sleep."

  "I can’t sleep in the hall."

  "Ye needn’t worry. I’ll stay with your falcon," he promised.

  "Then I’ll stay as well," she said, jutting out her stubborn chin.

  There was a long silence while he probably pondered how best to argue with her.

  "Lass," he sighed, "if someone saw ye come hither—"

  "No one saw me," she assured him.

  "—and ye’re discovered here with me..."

  "No one saw me," she insisted. "I swear it." She was fairly sure she spoke the truth.

  He let out a weighted breath. "Ye know what they’ll think. A lady’s virtue is—"

  "I don’t care what they think." ‘Twas a reckless thing to say, and Lady Anne would have scolded her soundly for such irresponsibility, but at the moment, ‘twas a heady feeling to speak the words. "My virtue is no one else’s affair."

  "‘Tis my affair," he countered. "I’d rather not add seduction to my list o’ crimes."

  His comment caught her off guard. She hadn’t realized her presence here was just as great a threat to him. But she didn’t wish to leave. And she was so certain no one had seen her come this way.

  "Please let me stay," she whispered, snagging his fingers again.

  She saw the muscles around his mouth tense as he battled with the decision.

  "I won’t be any trouble," she swore. "I’ll be as quiet as a shadow. And I’ll steal back before sunrise. I promise."

  Blade knew he was making a huge mistake.

  No trouble? She was already trouble. And quiet? He’d never met a lass who didn’t talk endlessly. Not that he minded. He liked the soothing discourse of women. But he doubted she’d stay awake to find her way back to her chamber.

  By all accounts, he should send the wayward young lass off to bed. A lady of her rank never trafficked with a man who wasn’t her betrothed, especially in a lowly mews at midnight, and most definitely not with a felon.

  But the truth was he enjoyed her company. ‘Twas lonely in the dark in an empty mews in the middle of the night, no matter how much he was accustomed to solitude. And the lass had a singular charm about her that intrigued and entertained him. So when she peered up at him with her vulnerable, shining eyes and her sweet promises, her fingers twining with his and her womanly scent clouding his senses, ‘twas impossible to tell her nae.

  He scowled. "I trust ye’ll bring me a crust now and then when I’m rottin’ away in your father’s dungeon," he said dryly.

  "We won’t be caught," she insisted, catching his forearm. "And if we are, I'll defend ye."

  She was audacious, this Lady Rose, far too reckless for her own good. But ‘twas part of what he was beginning to admire in her, that untamed spirit and willful daring.

  "‘Tis crude lodgin’s," he warned.

  "I won’t complain," she vowed.


  "Come find yourself a seat in the straw then."

  He guided her toward the nest he’d made of clean hay from the stables. He’d have to remember to pick every condemning piece of straw from her velvet surcoat before she returned to the hall.

  When she was settled, he sat beside her, bracing his back against the wall and draping his arms over his bent knees. ‘Twould be a trial, sitting so close to her warm, womanly body and not vividly imagining the crime he swore not to commit, particularly when seduction was an insignificant sin beside that which already damned him. But for a woman bound for convent, her virtue was paramount. So he’d clench his jaw, steel his resolve, and think of other things.

  "Ye’re very attached to your falcon."

  "Aye. We’re kindred spirits, Wink and I."

  Was that her shoulder touching his? He cleared his throat. "How long have ye had her?"

  "Six years." She was fidgeting now, trying to get comfortable. "She’d been abandoned in an eyrie on the ledge of a tower." She shuffled about in the straw, bumping against his hip. "Sorry. Her eye was missin’ when I found her."

  Despite her apology, Rose’s hip remained planted firmly against his, and he wondered if she recalled the power of the beast she roused. His voice cracking, he attempted nonchalance. "Your falconer collected her for ye?"

  "Nae. Our falconer thought I was a fool, that Wink was better left as carrion for the crows." She moved to mimic his posture then, drawing her legs up and catching them in the circle of her arms. ‘Twas curiously endearing. "Nae, I climbed up myself and rescued her, kept her hidden in my chamber, and let another falcon hunt for her."

  He sent a sharp glance her way. "Ye climbed up yourself? As a child?"

  She shrugged. "I climbed everythin’ when I was a child—trees, towers, walls. My foster mother told me ‘twas terribly indecent. But I couldn’t help myself. I’ve always been cursed with devilish curiosity." She tipped her head back against the wall, gazing upward into some happy, faraway space. "Once ye climb up, ye can see everythin’—distant crofters harvestin’ their fields, knights tiltin’ in the yards, milkmaids dozin’ behind the stables." She giggled. ‘Twas a delightful sound. Then she cocked her head at him. "Didn’t ye ever climb trees?"