Passion's Exile

by Glynnis Campbell

  "Aye," he recalled. But for him, ‘twas not a pleasant memory. ‘Twas usually an escape from the constant tormenting of his older brother. He'd discovered that Morris was afraid of high places. So when his brother had a particularly violent day—swinging out at everything in sight, striking servant and beast and most especially his little brother Pierce—Pierce would seek refuge in one of the oaks surrounding Mirkhaugh until Morris’s rage passed. The only thing Blade remembered seeing from the top of a tree was Morris’s purpling face as he screamed up in frustrated fury.

  Rose scratched at her knee. "I suppose ‘tis why I love Wink so. Those wonderful places—they’re her domain. She flies higher than I could ever climb." She sighed. "Did ye ever own a pet?"

  He frowned at another unpleasant memory. "None o’ my own. My brother kept hounds, vicious things."

  "Vicious?"

  Blade sniffed. "He kept them half-starved so they’d be more aggressive on the hunt."

  He heard her quickly drawn breath. "‘Tis cruel."

  "He was a cruel man." Blade gained grim satisfaction from the fact he could say, "was." Shortly after Blade left Mirkhaugh, he received word that Morris had been murdered in a bloody fight at a tavern. Blade had been unable to summon any feelings of regret or sorrow. "A very cruel man."

  Rose’s voice touched him as softly as thistledown. "Then he’s not much like his brother."

  Blade stiffened. She had unwittingly stumbled upon his greatest fear, the fear he shared with no one, that he and Morris, born of the same father, might have similar natures.

  He snorted. "Ye mean, his brother the mercenary? The felon? The one bound in chains o’ disgrace?"

  She lay her arm gently along his, weaving tender fingers between his clenched knuckles. ‘Twas pacifying and terrifying all at once, for she tread perilously close to his heart.

  "Ye’re not a bad man," she murmured in earnest protest. "I won’t believe it. Ye’ve been nothin’ but gallant and generous and compassionate."

  He wished ‘twere so. But his soul had borne a burden of guilt too long. He knew well whose blood he shared and what sin he’d committed. "Ye hardly know me," he said hoarsely.

  She looped her arm brazenly through his and rested her cheek against his shoulder. How long had it been, he wondered, since a woman had touched him with such familiarity, such trust?

  "I know ye well enough," she whispered. "Ye can’t hide your heart."

  ‘Twas nonsense, some bit of a minstrel’s verse. How could she know his heart? And yet a small part of him—the piece of Sir Pierce that Blade couldn’t vanquish—seized onto her words like a drowning man clinging to an oar.

  "Ye’ve the heart of a champion," she breathed, turning to peer over at him, bathing him in a gaze of adulation and tenderness.

  To his chagrin, Pierce embraced that folly with the full force of his emotions.

  Rose’s face shone with feminine adoration, drawing his gaze to her with potent force, but something else flickered in her eyes, something intimate and secret and longing. Something dangerous. His breath stilled as she lowered her regard to settle upon his mouth, her lips parting infinitesimally.

  By the Saints, ‘twas clear what she wanted. Rose was too young, too unworldly, to hide her desires like the coy lasses who made a game of enticing men. Nae, she wore her yearning like a pennon flown from a high tower. And that longing mirrored his own.

  Silently cursing his own madness, he granted Pierce his wish. He turned toward her, catching her chin in one shackled hand. He placed his lips lightly over hers, capturing her gasp within his mouth.

  This time, their kiss was warm and soft and sweet, so unlike the fierce mating of their mouths before that it took him aback. Her body seemed to melt against him. Her limbs sunk under the weight of his tenderness. Her mouth sought his like a newborn seeking suckle.

  This time, there was no savagery in their embrace. He neither forced her jaws apart nor scraped her with his rough beard nor invaded her mouth.

  This time, he was moved to uncorrupted gentleness. And curiously, the light caress of her lips was far more powerful and intimate and compelling than that other kiss.

  He tangled his fingers in her silken tresses, inhaling her sensual perfume. She leaned into him, filling his arms, pressing her yielding bosom to his unyielding chest until their embrace brought them heart to heart.

  Faith, how long had it been since a woman had kissed him so? With such innocence, such affection, such trust? Again and again her lips blessed him with tender conviction, absolving him of his harsh past, promising him redemption, reminding him of the honorable man he once was—Sir Pierce of...

  "Ivo!"

  Rose drew back with a gasp.

  Hell! That was Odo. Just outside the mews.

  Blade’s heart throbbed with unspent passion and a sudden urge to beat the tanner senseless. Instead, he sank back in surrender, wincing as he banged his head against the wall.

  Odo stumbled past the mews, his voice thick with ale. "Ivo, where’ve ye got to?"

  The tanner crashed into the door of the mews, nearly bursting it open, and Blade quickly pressed two fingers to Rose’s lips to stop her from crying out.

  “Here...good fellow!” Ivo replied from outside. His words were likewise slurred, and he let out an enormous belch they could hear from within the mews.

  Odo shoved away from the door with a creak, and his voice receded. "Where’s...where’s...where’s the lusty wench then?"

  "Who, Brigit? Ah, shite. I thought ye were bringin’ her."

  The rest of their conversation trailed off into the night, and slowly Blade lowered his fingers from Rose’s lips. His mouth felt afire, his blood coursed like a flooding river, his loins ached with need, and he both cursed and blessed the timely interruption that had saved him from himself.

  Rose longed to strangle the drunken oafs.

  She could still taste Blade, still felt the eager press of his mouth—warm, commanding, yet tender. Their kiss had been instinctive, each brush of their lips like the weightless winding of a single strand of cobweb, insidiously binding them together. And yet she’d felt no desire to escape, for his kisses made her forget time and honor and destiny.

  In his arms, the world paused. Later she’d face what the future held. Later she’d confront her betrothed. Later she’d set aside earthly pleasures for the veil. But in that single precious moment, she’d welcomed oblivion, losing herself in Blade’s kiss. And she wanted that moment back.

  When she turned to Blade, however, ‘twas obvious he didn’t share her wish. He sat staring stonily ahead at his clasped hands. "I shouldn’t have done that."

  Her breath stopped. "Nae. ‘Twas my fault."

  "‘Twas none o’ your fault," he assured her, smiling ruefully at his shackles. "Ye’re the virtuous noblewoman. Remember? I’m the outlaw."

  "Nae." Sorrow and anger tumbled together through her thoughts. If those cursed tanners hadn’t passed by...

  "Ye should go back now." He added a dismissive sniff.

  She stared at him. He was armored now in indifference. How quickly he put up his shield. How well he feigned nonchalance. Yet she knew the truth. There had been genuine warmth in his kiss, true passion in his embrace. He wasn’t some unfeeling felon. Behind that cold iron and tough leather beat the heart of a man.

  "I’m not afraid o’ ye," she said.

  He turned to her and scowled a long while, as if to distance her with his dire looks. But it didn’t work. She kept remembering the bear in St. Andrews and the warm hide beneath the coarse fur.

  At last Blade shook his head, heaving a sigh that seemed half exasperation, half amusement. "Intrepid Rose. Tell me, is there anythin’ ye fear?"

  She smiled. He was going to let her stay. She settled back against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. "Ye tell me first. What do ye fear?"

  He thought for a bit, then lifted one corner of his mouth in a sly smile. "Questions."

  She had the feeling ‘twas only part
jest, that he preferred to keep his past well-guarded. “Then I’ll make a bargain with ye. Ask me one question—anythin’ ye like—and I’ll answer truthfully. But then I’ll ask ye any one question, and ye must likewise tell the truth."

  His frown was dubious. "Only one question?"

  "Aye,” she assured him.

  He scowled, rubbing his jaw pensively for several moments, tipped back against the wall to stare at the ceiling, then announced, “All right then. I’ve got it.”

  "Aye?" she asked, squirming. There were a hundred mortifying secrets he might coerce her to reveal.

  His face grew very serious, and she swallowed uncomfortably. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked him to play this game after all. What if he asked who was pursuing her?

  "Tell me, Lady Rose, is it truly in your heart to become a nun?"

  Rose started. ‘Twas a question she hadn’t expected, a question that shot to the center of her soul like an arrow sprung from an archer’s bow, and something she didn’t dare think about too deeply. For she knew the unfortunate answer all too well. She also knew that she had to lie to him.

  "Aye," she said, unable to look him in the eye.

  He made no reply, and at first, Rose imagined his silence meant he’d taken her at her word.

  She was wrong.

  "I think ye’re cheatin’ at this game, lass," he chided. “I think your lips belie your heart."

  She blushed, for they both knew the truth. She felt no calling for the church. She deluded even herself about the destiny awaiting her. Yet what else could she do, knowing she must believe the lie or fall into despair?

  She felt his gaze upon her a long while, and a part of her wished she could confess to him, blurt out everything that had transpired since that fateful day in Averlaigh. But some secrets were too dangerous to share.

  "What question will ye ask o’ me then?" he finally conceded.

  But Rose no longer found the game fun. He was right. She’d cheated. Still, one question had piqued her curiosity for some time now.

  "What was your crime?"

  His jaw visibly tightened, and some dark memory shadowed his eyes. She almost wished she hadn’t asked.

  But as quickly as the silent storm appeared, it vanished, and Blade’s sardonic smirk reappeared. He was going to lie, too.

  "A lass once asked me too many questions, so I locked her in a coop to join the rest o’ the cluckin’ hens."

  She cuffed his arm. "That’s terrible. If ye’re goin’ to lie, at least do a good job of it. Somethin’ like, I was a notorious reiver on the seas of Araby. Or I stole the jewels out o’ the bishop’s crozier. Or I seduced a dozen virgins in Edinburgh."

  "I doubt there are a dozen virgins in Edinburgh."

  "Well...not anymore."

  He actually laughed at that. Actually, ‘twas more of a bark than a laugh, but it served to lighten her spirits again. She rested her chin on the top of her knees, inexplicably content.

  After a bit, she asked, "Do ye suppose Brigit was really meetin’ the tanners?"

  "That sounds suspiciously like another question," he accused.

  "Hmm. Does it?"

  "Aye," he answered carefully.

  "Shall I stop askin’ questions then?"

  “Aye.”

  “Are ye sure?”

  He growled. "No more. I surrender."

  "Very well," she giggled. "Then tell me a story, a true story. Somethin’ that happened to ye when ye were a lad. And in turn, I’ll tell ye how I tamed the great bear o’ St. Andrews."

  Blade never got to hear about the St. Andrews bear. A quarter of the way through his story about the voyage he took to the Orient with his father, Rose yawned and leaned up against him.

  Halfway through, she squirmed at his shoulder until he lifted his arm out of the way and made room for her against his chest.

  When he reached the part of the tale where his father showed him the strange gray worms that spun silk, she lay fast asleep, sprawled across his lap in unabashed abandon.

  He let his voice fade away and just watched her. Her face, mashed against his chest, was as innocent as a bairn’s. Her hand curled upon his ribs, palm inward. She sighed in her sleep, and her breath warmed his flesh through the linen of his shirt. A stray lock of hair covered her brow, and he carefully brushed it back with his thumb.

  A smile touched his lips. Gone was the perfectly composed beauty. In her place was a charmingly vulnerable young lass with disheveled tresses, a soft mouth contorted by a yawn, and now a childlike hand scrubbing at her eye. A curious warmth surrounded his heart at the sight. How ‘twas possible, he didn’t know, but he thought he liked this windblown blossom even better than the flawless flower.

  A strange peace settled over him as he cradled her against his heart, as if he’d traveled a long way and had arrived home at last. Rose nestled against him like she belonged there, and he couldn’t deny she felt perfect in his arms.

  But even as he reveled in contentment, he knew ‘twas a false pleasure, no more substantial than a dream. Rose and he were disparate souls from two different worlds, come together only briefly as a consequence of fate. Neither knew the other’s past. They’d shared only brief conversation and two memorable kisses. In less than a week, they’d part ways, never to meet again. ‘Twas folly to imagine it might be otherwise.

  He stole one final kiss from her, a quick brush of his lips upon the crown of her head, before he eased her off of the chain of his shackles. She mewled in drowsy protest as he propped her upright, but never fully wakened, even when he stood her up on her wobbling legs.

  He sighed. Sneaking her back into the hall wouldn’t be easy. She obviously couldn’t walk there on her own. He’d have to carry her then and pray no one prowled about the manor tonight.

  She was lighter in his arms than his suit of armor, he thought, as he stole around the perimeter of the starlit courtyard. Her velvet skirts served to dampen the sound of his chains, but he was careful to keep to the shadows to avoid discovery.

  He’d almost reached the door of the great hall when the icy point of a sword swept suddenly across his throat, freezing his blood, and a cloaked figure emerged from a dark corner of the wall, hissing.

  "What the devil have ye done?"

  CHAPTER 11

  "For God’s sake, Wil, put that away!" Blade hissed back.

  "Not until I hear an explanation."

  "Is that my sword?” he whispered in disbelief. “Ye’re threatenin’ me with my own sword?"

  "Ye surrendered it, remember?"

  Blade swore under his breath. "Will ye at least let me return her upstairs?"

  "I want to know just what ye’re returnin’ her from."

  Blade let out a long-suffering sigh and made an attempt to explain. "Nothin’ happened."

  Wilham smirked. "Nothin’ happened."

  "Nothin’ happened."

  "She looks awfully content," Wilham snipped.

  "Maybe she’s dreamin’ that she’s out o’ the cold night air and warm in her bed," Blade said pointedly.

  Wilham tensed, accidentally jabbing Blade with the tip of the sword. Blade winced, and Wilham winced in turn. Poor Wilham—he didn’t have the mettle to kill a man in cold blood. Blade was half-tempted to simply back off and walk away, just to show Wilham how empty his threat was.

  "Ye know, Wil, if ye slit my throat, she’ll tumble to the ground."

  "Damn it, Blade," he bit out, ignoring Blade’s logic. "She’s a titled lady. ‘Tisn’t like dallyin’ with a tavern wench. Ye can’t haul titled ladies off to the stables."

  "Nothin’...happened," he repeated. "Now are we goin’ to stand here till sunrise?"

  "Ye’re certain?" Wilham asked, squinting as if that made it easier to discern the truth. "Nothin’ happened?"

  Blade only looked at him.

  "Would ye swear it on your mother’s grave?"

  "My mother’s alive, Wil."

  "Would ye swear it on my mother’s grave?"

  Bl
ade sighed. "All right. I swear it on your mother’s grave."

  "Ye didn’t swive her?"

  "Your mother?" Blade said sardonically.

  Wilham gestured pointedly with his brows at Rose.

  "Nae," Blade answered. "I didn’t swive her."

  "Then what did ye do?"

  Not for the first time since they’d started on the pilgrimage, Blade wished his sword were in his hands, for he longed to pommel Wilham with the flat of it all the way to St. Andrews.

  "Can’t this wait?" Blade muttered.

  Wielding Blade’s sword obviously made Wilham smug. "Nae," he said, jutting out his chin. "Just give me the brief version."

  Blade’s blood boiled, but he supposed Wilham was only looking after his best interests.

  "I went to the mews to watch over her falcon."

  "I know that."

  Blade frowned.

  "I watch your back, remember?" Wilham said.

  "She was worried about her bird, so she came."

  "I saw her."

  Blade grimaced. "Well, if ye know so damned much, why are ye askin’ me what happened?"

  "Because ye were alone in there together for nearly two hours."

  Two hours? It had seemed like far less. "We...talked, that’s all."

  "Talked."

  "Aye."

  "Talked about what?"

  "I don’t know. Climbin’ trees. Flyin’ her falcon. Sailin’ to the Orient." A smile touched his mouth. "She told me she once tamed a bear." He would have liked to hear that tale.

  Suddenly Wilham lowered the sword and stared at him incredulously. "Well, by all that’s holy, I never would have believed it."

  Blade frowned. "What?"

  "My fine fellow," he said, an enormous grin pasted on his face, "ye’re in love."

  Blade swore.

  Wilham chuckled.

  "May I go now?" Blade growled.