Passion's Exile

by Glynnis Campbell

  And Blade? He supposed he’d been no more than a pleasant diversion for her. The thought soured his desolate mood, slowly curdling his anger. But ‘twas better that way. With his heart full of vengeance and rage, there was less room for pain.

  "She was comin’ to meet me?" Blade echoed grimly. "Then I mustn’t disappoint her, must I?"

  "Nae," Wilham replied, ignoring his sarcasm. "The poor lass must be terrified. We’ve got to rescue her."

  Blade shook his head. Sometimes Wilham only heard what he wanted to hear. He had no intention of rescuing the treacherous woman. Rose and her lover were assassins. He intended to seize them. ‘Twas as simple as that.

  As they made their way back to the inn, Wilham stopped suddenly. "Why Rose?" he asked, screwing up his forehead. "Why would anyone take her?"

  Blade sighed. He didn’t have time to engage in Wilham’s labyrinth of theories. He had outlaws to hunt.

  "Unless they want us to nibble at their bait," Wilham said. Then he snapped his fingers. "That’s it, Blade! If ye were the killer, and ye wanted to get rid o’ two pryin’ fellows who were about to stumble upon your plot, how would ye do it?"

  Blade scowled. He didn’t like Wilham’s riddles.

  Wilham answered himself. "Ye’d lure them away with an even more intriguin’ crime to solve." Wilham nodded, well pleased. "Blade, my friend, the real co-conspirator is still lyin’ in his bed at the inn. And whoever ‘tis, he’s waitin’ for us to fall into that trap, to ride off after Rose." He rubbed his hands together. "But he doesn’t know who he’s dealin’ with. We won’t fall for his trickery, will we? We’ll stay right here and..."

  Blade stared soberly at his friend.

  Wilham squirmed under his regard. "Naturally, we’ll go after Rose anyway, even if ‘tis a trap,” he said. “After all, we can’t just leave the lass to—"

  "I’m goin’ alone."

  "What? Nae. There could be a dozen o’ them."

  Blade didn’t think so. So large a retinue would attract too much attention. He shook his head. "Three, four at the most."

  "I’m goin’ with ye."

  "Nae." Blade didn’t believe Wilham’s story of subterfuge, but ‘twas a good excuse to get him to stay behind. Blade wasn’t sure he wanted Wilham to witness how he handled the betraying Rose. "If ye’re right, if ‘tis a trap, someone should stay with the pilgrims."

  He saw the conflict in his friend’s eyes. Blade never rode anywhere without Wilham, especially not into danger. But if Wilham honestly believed that Rose had no part in the plot, that the real assassin still traveled with the pilgrims, then someone had to stay behind and stand guard over the culprit.

  Wilham drew himself up. "Ye stay. I’ll go after Rose."

  Blade arched a brow. They both knew that while Wilham possessed lightning wit and keen senses, Blade was far superior with a sword. And whether they believed ‘twas a mission of rescue or retribution, a deadly sword arm was required.

  Wilham read the message in his eyes. But he crossed his arms over his chest in challenge. "What good are ye against a pack o’ kidnappers with your sword arm in shackles?"

  Blade scowled, dreading the gloating that was bound to follow. "I won’t be shackled."

  "Indeed?” asked Wilham, lifting a scornful brow. “But what about your penance? What about your redemption?"

  Blade shouldered him aside, pushing his way through the inn door.

  Wilham argued with him the entire time he prepared for the journey. ‘Twas clear he disapproved of Blade’s plan. Nonetheless—faithful companion that he was—once outside, he saddled the best steed for Blade, setting aside enough coin to recompense the horse’s owner threefold.

  When it came time to unlock his shackles, Wilham hesitated.

  "If I do this," he said, gripping the key in one hand and Blade’s sword in the other, "I want your promise that ye’ll do Rose no harm. No matter what ye believe." He raised a hand to stop Blade’s protest. "Nae, I won’t listen to your slander. I know she’s innocent, even if ye’re too stubborn to open your eyes to the truth. She’s not Julian, Pierce. She’s nothin’ like Julian."

  Wilham was right. She wasn’t like Julian. His brother’s wife had been a victim, moved to betrayal by a misplaced need to protect the very man who tormented her.

  Rose had no excuse. She’d used Blade for her own amusement. And now she’d pay.

  "I won’t touch her," he lied.

  Wilham unlocked the shackles, and Blade, freed, spread his arms wide, flexing his shoulders. Wilham pressed the sword into Blade’s hands, and Blade sheathed the weapon, mounting up with Wilham’s assistance.

  "Ride fast," Wilham said, "and rejoin the pilgrimage as soon as ye’re able."

  The men clasped arms in farewell, and before the sun lightened the sky, Blade set out along the west road. The weight of both his broadsword and his cold heart were comfortably familiar. That he didn’t intend to keep his promise to Wilham was no great burden upon him. His spirit was already as heavy as lead.

  He’d been a fool to ever think there might be penance enough for him.

  He was well past redemption.

  Rose had feigned sleep for hours. Like a new-captured falcon, she found that the cloth covering her head—at first a source of panic—now became a refuge.

  She knew who her captors were. And she knew ‘twas best not to engage them. So she remained silent, riding mile after mile, as limp as a fresh-slain deer across her abductor’s lap, listening, waiting. Thirsting.

  Why they hadn’t killed her at once, she didn’t know. After all, ‘twas what Gawter had threatened. Perhaps the men wished to torment her before they murdered her. Or, more likely, perhaps Gawter intended to keep her alive long enough to bear him an heir, then see to her demise. For the moment at least, she still lived and breathed, though the latter was arguable. With the rough cloth sack wound tightly about her head, her breathing was labored, each inhalation more stale and hot than the last.

  She felt the sun, glimpsed light through the coarse weave of the cloth. Exactly how long they’d been traveling, she didn’t know, but ‘twas past midday, and by the sun’s position, they were indeed headed west, back toward Averlaigh.

  It had been a trap, she realized. And now that she recollected the language of the note, she was appalled by what a blockhead she’d been. Your lover, the missive had read. Those words could have been written by anyone. ‘Twas obviously a trick, penned by one of the men who’d seen her with Blade. And, lovesick fool that she was, she’d fallen into the snare completely.

  She wondered what Blade would do when he found her gone. If he realized she’d been abducted, he’d come after her. But she half hoped he wouldn’t. After all, he was only one man against many, a shackled mercenary without a sword against four of Gawter’s best knights. And while Gawter may have issued instructions that Rose be brought back alive, there would be no such allowances for Blade.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she thought about never seeing him again, but she bit them back. Better Blade should remain safe and well than embroiled in her thorny affairs. Nae, she prayed he’d remain with the pilgrims and ultimately find the redemption he sought at St. Andrews. And she hoped with all her heart that he’d take care of her precious Wink.

  The men had stopped twice already to water their horses, and the sound of the gurgling stream had made her throat ache with thirst. But she dared not let the men know she was awake, lest they inflict worse torment upon her. So she allowed herself to be hoisted down and laid out along the stream’s edge, nearly weeping with frustration while the others refreshed themselves.

  She couldn’t go forever without water, but she knew at some point she’d make a stand, and surprise was her best weapon. She had no intentions of going willingly with the men all the way to Averlaigh, for she harbored no illusions about Gawter’s temper. He meant to kill her, sooner or later. Of that she was certain. If she’d returned to him of her own volition, he might have been forced to show her mercy. But now he held h
er life in his hands. Nae, she had to escape. Or die trying.

  They traveled on until the sun finally sank in the sky, stopping at last to make camp. Thus far, the men had spoken little, their chatter mostly trivial. But now their conversation centered around her.

  "Ballocks! How hard did ye hit her?" her captor demanded, slipping her from his lap into another man’s arms. "She hasn’t moved so much as an eyelash all day."

  "If ye’ve killed her..."

  "God’s hooks! Didn’t ye check to see if she was still breathin’?"

  "Ach, so it’s my fault now, is it?"

  "Lay her down then. We’ll take off the sack, see what we’ve got."

  This was her chance. They half expected her to be dead. Like a falcon swooping down upon prey, she might catch them unawares.

  She forced her body to remain slack while they wriggled the bag upward, resisting the overwhelming urge to yank her surcoat down when it rose up with the cloth.

  "Come on, wench. Ye can’t be dead now."

  "I don’t care if she’s dead or not," one of them guffawed. "I’d like a turn between her bonnie legs."

  "Quiet!"

  The bag pulled free of her head.

  "Is she?"

  Rose didn’t move. She took a long, invisible breath of fresh air to revive her spirits and counted slowly to three. She felt their presence as they leaned near.

  At three, she yelled, exploding outward with her arms and legs, cuffing and kicking and flailing as violently as she could. She caught one man on the chin with her foot, another with an elbow to his shin. Her knee lodged between one man’s legs, and she placed a well-aimed punch at a leering eye. While they recovered, she managed to scramble to her feet. She swung hard about with her fist, clipping a man on the jaw, bruising her knuckles. With her other arm, she shoved one man into another, knocking their heads together with a loud crack.

  Then she tore away toward the horses. If she could just reach that first mount...

  She took three great steps, then vaulted up, seizing the reins with one hand, the saddle with the other.

  She almost made it.

  But these were seasoned soldiers.

  Before she could swing her leg up over the saddle, she was dragged down by the back of her skirts. She tried to kick her assailant, but he yanked her hard, and she lost her grip on the saddle. Even then, she would have fled afoot, but he tripped her, and she fell headlong to the ground. Behind her, she heard three swords unsheathe. And knew she was doomed.

  She shuddered as cold steel pressed at the back of her neck, and prayed for quick death.

  "Argh! My ballocks!" one man whimpered. "The she-devil’s ruined me."

  Her captor planted a knee in her back and wrenched her head back by the hair. She winced in pain.

  "I could snap your neck," he spat, "ye daughter o’ Satan."

  He hauled her up instead by her hair, making her eyes sting with tears, and stood her up before him, her neck gripped in his hand. His eye was already beginning to blacken from her fist, and she took some satisfaction in that. But there was no mercy in his dire gaze.

  "Know this, wench," he growled. "Sir Gawter’s not a patient man. He’ll likely reward us for tamin’ ye. And we’d gladly break ye just for the sport of it."

  His words sent a chill through her bones, but she refused to cower. He shook her once by the throat, then let her go.

  The man who was bent double in agony lumbered up then, a watery-eyed sneer marking his pallid face. So quickly that she couldn’t dodge it, he swung around with his mailed hand and split open her cheek. Pain burst across her face as she was knocked back against the horse, dazed.

  "Ye stupid fool!" the first man shouted. "Not where it’ll show!" Then he drew back his fist and gave her a brutal punch in the stomach.

  She caved forward, wheezing for breath, shaking in shock, hurting so much she prayed for sweet unconsciousness.

  Blade fell back into his mercenary habits with the ease of a knight donning a well-worn gauntlet. Though the distraction of going on a pilgrimage had been an interesting break, his mood at present was more suited to the solitude of the hunt.

  His quarry wasn’t difficult to track. The riders took no special care to hide their passage. One of their mounts had a worn shoe and thus, a distinctive print. But they’d left hours before him and likely traveled in haste. They might be difficult to catch.

  Why they fled west, he didn’t know. The assassins had said they were going east to St. Andrews. The further he pursued the horsemen, the more he wondered if Wilham might have been right about Rose’s disappearance being diversionary.

  Still, it didn’t deter him from his course. He had a crime to uncover. There was wrong to be righted.

  In a secret corner of his mind, he recognized the assassination was the least of his reasons for coming after Rose. She’d betrayed him, and if there was anything he stood for, anything for which he’d scour the ends of the earth, ‘twas justice.

  It took all of one day and most of another, hard riding and with nothing but stale bread and cheese for sustenance. But when he finally caught up with the riders at twilight of the second day, creeping up on their camp with the stealth of a seasoned hunter, all his plans for righteous retribution took an unplanned turn.

  From his vantage point in the shadows of the trees, he spied them—four men in matching red cote-hardies, cooking their supper over a blazing fire.

  He was surprised to discover they were not miscreants, but noble knights. Usually, men who wore the colors of a lordly house carried themselves with a lofty bearing. Rarely did they sleep on the ground when there was an inn nearby, and only during a siege did they move about so secretly.

  But what amazed him more was that Rose wasn’t among them.

  His first thought was that she hadn’t gone with them after all, that she might have refused to leave with her lover, that she’d bid the man adieu at the well and chosen to remain with the pilgrims...with Blade. But he cast that sentimental thought aside like an over-sugared sweetmeat.

  The other possibility shook him to his foundations. Maybe they’d...done something...to Rose and disposed of her. Maybe she was...

  He dared not even utter the word in his mind. For all of his vengeful thoughts, there was a part of him—a weak, vulnerable piece of his heart—that still clung tenaciously to the hope that he was wrong about Rose. And that part of him would languish forever if anything had happened to her.

  Thus, with a conflict so twisted it confounded his brain, he prayed that Rose was still alive...so that he might wring her treasonous neck.

  The men laughed as they turned a brace of spitted rabbits over the fire. One of them left to piss against a tree, and in that dark gap left by his absence, Blade spotted Rose.

  She sat beyond the fire, tethered to a fat oak. Her arms were bound before her, and she was gagged. Her hair was snarled, her torn surcoat hung off one shoulder, and her cheek bore a bloody bruise.

  Wilham had been right. Rose was innocent. These brutes had abducted her. And they’d...hurt her.

  Shame, then fury, rose so quickly in him that his blood surged through his veins like molten steel. Without thought, without stealth, purely on warrior instincts, he drew his sword, crashing forward through the trees with a mighty roar in his throat and fire behind his eyes, wielding death.

  Rose saw the men scatter, and her mind flashed back to that time long ago—to that other roar, when all the other children had been afraid, and Rose had held her ground.

  Whatever wild animal approached, it couldn’t be as vicious as her captors. They’d already bloodied her cheek, bruised her ribs, and half-starved her. So while Gawter’s men dispersed in a spate of panicked oaths, she waited numbly for death to come.

  When she saw who ‘twas, when she beheld Blade charging into the clearing like an enraged beast, all of the pent-up fear she thought she’d subdued, all the despair locked deep within her breast escaped on a great sob of relief.

  He’d com
e for her. Blade had come to her rescue.

  His hands were free of his chains now, and he brandished a sword as if ‘twere an extension of his arm. He planted his feet wide before the fire. His chest was heaving, and his firelit face was a flickering mask of grim, controlled fury. ‘Twas a face to set even her courageous heart racing in terror. No wonder the men had fled.

  "Come face me, ye cowards!" he bellowed.

  ‘Twas only when they came for him that she remembered he was one man against four. Her heart lurched. Sweet Mary! He was going to get himself killed.

  She had to help him. Squirming violently against her bonds, she screamed behind the gag, hoping to garner his attention, hoping to get him to cut her free. But all that came out was a weak squeal.

  He paid her no heed. Instead, he strode forward, swinging his broadsword in one hand with almost insolent grace.

  "Come pay for your dishonor," he snarled toward the men.

  She thrashed again, trying to convince Blade to loose her, but he didn’t seem to understand.

  "Turn away, lass," he called to her. "‘Twill not be a bonnie sight."

  Of course, nothing would convince her to look away now. ‘Twas like asking her not to think of purple thistles. Her gaze was drawn to him with almost magnetic force.

  And then the battle began.

  She’d trusted the men to fight honorably. After all, though they’d been rough with her, they were still noble knights. Surely they battled under some code of chivalry.

  Her expectations were dashed when all four attacked Blade at once.

  But to her amazement, in a single smooth movement, Blade knocked aside one weapon with his own, skewered a second man in the shoulder, then spun to kick the third blade away and swung his sword around to engage the last assailant.

  Never had she seen such dexterity, such daring, such strength. Sir Ian Campbell had been right. Blade was a peerless fighter.