Blade’s eyes watered, blurring the table before him. Why Wilham had put him through this, he didn’t know. ‘Twas an anguish beyond endurance.
"His sword found its mark, sinkin’ straight and true into his attacker. But, alas, this once, he found ‘twas not his brother who’d dealt the treacherous blow. ‘Twas not his brother who’d stabbed him in the back. His avengin’ blade had pierced and slain..." He paused, and not a whisper broke the stillness. "His brother’s ungrateful wife."
Wilham waited for the gasps to subside before he continued. "When the young man saw what he had done, he was filled with such self-loathin’ and remorse that he fled the castle and his home in disgrace."
The ensuing silence was so complete that Blade could hear his own thudding heartbeat.
"What happened to him?" ‘Twas Campbell the soldier.
The hall was as still as death for a long while.
Blade could stand no more of the grim tragedy. "Accordin’ to Dante, he’s in the seventh circle of Hell," he grumbled.
Some of the pilgrims chuckled, not in amusement, but to lighten the dark mood. Wilham, however, didn’t so much as smile, and Rose...Rose looked as if she might weep.
Rose bit back an anguished sob. Her heart ached for the tormented man before her. To have endured such a tragedy...
She longed to rush to Blade’s side, take him in her arms, hold his troubled head upon her breast and soothe his damaged spirit. Blade wasn’t a felon. ‘Twas he who’d been wronged. God’s eyes! If his sword hadn’t slain the woman, Rose would have enjoyed finishing off the thankless wench herself.
Of course, ‘twas probably the wine speaking for her—Rose wouldn’t kill a spider. Still, a surge of righteous outrage flooded her veins, and she yearned to come to his defense.
As soon as the company adjourned, she did just that. The world spun as she stood up, the wine dizzying her. But she hurried to his side before he could leave, tripping at the last moment to collide with him. He managed to keep them both upright, though he, too, reeled slightly from the drink.
"Oh, Blade," she gushed, peering up into his sad, beautiful eyes, unmindful of the pilgrims around her. "‘Twasn’t your fault. Ye couldn’t know—"
His sharp look quelled her. What had she said? Why was he frowning?
He sighed, then took her by the elbow and ushered her nonchalantly outside to the pleasance garden, where the cool air sobered her somewhat. By the faint light of the crescent moon, she could make out the silhouettes of the fruit trees and rosebushes and beds of flowers. She breathed in a deep breath of night, and he turned her toward him.
"Ye must tell no one," he bid her.
"Tell no one what?" Her lids felt heavy, but she managed to raise them enough to stare at his delectable mouth.
"Who I am."
"The young brother in the story."
"Aye, but I beg ye, say nothin’."
"Why?"
He cast his gaze upon the stepping stones and said tightly, "‘Tis my shame to bear, and I’d bear it in secret."
She leaned forward then, grasping his doublet and gazing into his eyes, willing him to understand. He staggered back a step, against the stone wall of the garden.
"Nae," she said, "‘tisn’t your shame at all. Ye’re not to blame."
His voice was as bitter as rue. "‘Twas my blade that killed her."
Overwhelmed with compassion, she tried to lend him comfort, encircling his neck with her arms. "No one could blame ye for that. ‘Twas an honest mistake."
She saw his mouth working, saw anger flash across his face.
"I’m a seasoned knight," he growled. "I should have seen her. I should never have thrust..."
She felt his tension, sensed his self-hate, and she yearned to bind his wounds, to give him back his honor. Pity didn’t move him. Perhaps rage would.
"Listen to me," she commanded fiercely. "‘Twas that bloody mewlin’ milksop’s fault."
He blinked, startled by her oath. But she was angry, and when she was angry as well as drunk, her tongue wagged with a will of its own.
"What kind o’ woman would lash out at the man who saved her from such a beast?"
"‘Twasn’t her fault," he argued. "She was little more than a child. She couldn’t have known—"
"Satan’s ballocks! Even a hound doesn’t bite the hand that feeds it."
"She was only shieldin’ her husband," he insisted angrily, "the man she swore to honor."
"Then she was a bloody halfwit!" Rose charged. "And not worthy o’ your saving her."
"Ye weren’t there!" he hissed, his temper flaring. "Ye wouldn’t know."
"Nae, but I know ye!" she cried, grasping the back of his head and commanding his gaze. "And I know ye have more honor in your thumbnail than that woman had in her entire wretched body."
Something altered in him then, an infinitesimal surrender in his eyes, as if he wanted to believe her.
"Aye," she whispered. "Aye." Her eyes were drawn to his mouth, and she moved her hands forward until she cupped his face.
Their kiss was as natural as the gentle sweep of the night wind. Their mouths—hot with ire, soft with liquor—met and mingled and mended all their harsh words. Rose felt the need in his kiss, not just lust this time, but something more profound, the need for redemption, the need to purify himself in her soul.
Maybe ‘twas the fresh breeze or the haze of drink or the desperation she felt, knowing ‘twas their last night before St. Andrews, but she suddenly longed to give herself to him completely, to make this eve momentous and memorable and eternal. On the morrow she could repent. On the morrow she could yield to the church. But tonight she wished to render unto Blade the one thing that was hers alone to give, to grant him absolution.
She broke from the kiss long enough to murmur against his lips, "Lie with me."
He stilled.
"Lie with me, Blade." She circled a finger around his ear. "Please."
His voice was gruff, ragged. "Ye’re besotted."
"That may be, but I have enough o’ my wits about me."
"Not if ye wish to bed a felon."
"Ye’re not a felon. Ye’re a gentleman. And a hero. And a knight who’s the very model o’ chivalry." She swallowed. "And ye’re the man I love with all my heart."
He cradled her face in one hand and brushed his thumb across her lips. "What o’ the convent? What o’—"
"I don’t want to think about the convent. I don’t want to think about the morrow, and the next day, and the years to come, and the rest o’ my life. I want to savor this moment."
She tried to kiss him again, but he held her away, wavering uncertainly, searching her face as if he sought some important truth there.
Then at last, to her great relief, he made his decision. He pulled her into his arms and swooped down upon her mouth with all the desperation of a condemned man. He kissed her till she was breathless, till her heart thrummed like a timbrel, till the air no longer chilled her skin.
The taste of his lips was more intoxicating than the wine, and she tilted her head to delve her tongue further into the warm recesses of his mouth.
Soon she found her body straining toward him of its own volition. Her arms entwined about his neck, her breasts swelled against his broad chest, and she pressed her hips wantonly against his muscular thigh. She wove eager fingers through his hair, moaning softly as she strove to get closer.
She plucked at his doublet, trying to access the warm flesh beneath, but her untrained fingers were frustrated by the garment. He had no such difficulty. He removed the thing with ease, leaving only linen beneath. She reached under his shirt to run the flat of her palm across his bare chest, savoring the supple curve of muscle there. He gasped and clasped her roving hand against his breast.
But she wanted more of his flesh, more of his warmth. She sank before him, letting her fingers slide over his waist to the top of his braies. Kneeling, she brushed her hand over the hard bulge that throbbed at her touch, then pressed her c
heek against him, relishing the groan of desire coming from deep within his throat.
Suddenly he hauled her back up, then swept her off of her feet into his arms. He carried her to a bed of clover among the flowers and, spreading out his discarded doublet, lay her down atop it, among the sweet-scented grass and blossoms.
For a moment, he only looked at her, his eyes drifting over every feature of her body. Then his hands repeated the course, tracing the line of her brow, sweeping over her lips, rounding her shoulder, cupping her breast, caressing her waist, dragging across her hip and along her thigh, brushing her knee and ankle.
"Ye’re certain?" he murmured.
God, aye! she wanted to shout, but—floating beyond words—she nodded instead.
Slowly, carefully, as if she were some fragile treasure of carved ivory wrapped in silk, he stripped her clothing from her, piece by piece. She shivered more from his adoring perusal than the night air, but he soon remedied the chill by removing his own garments and stretching out atop her.
She gasped. Everywhere their flesh touched melted together like copper and iron in a crucible. The heat of his body multiplied hers. ‘Twas heaven to be surrounded by so much warm skin, and she moved restlessly beneath him, still aching to be closer.
"Ah, Rose," he sighed. "Ye’re so sweet, lass. So temptin’."
He kissed her again, and she could feel his trembling restraint as his muscular lance swelled against her, prodding, needing.
"Closer," she breathed.
Her nipples grazed his chest, and her hips ground up against that questing part of him. She slid her hands across the vast expanse of his back, over a rough scar that made him spasm momentarily. It must be the place where the woman had stabbed him, she decided. She wished she could smooth it away, erase all traces of it from his body and his memory.
He separated briefly from her to place his hand between their bodies, running his fingers through the damp patch of her woman’s hair until he found the tender flesh within. She bucked upward against his palm, her craving for his touch compelling her to lose control.
Her breath came in gulps, and her blood rushed in her ears.
“Please, now!” she cried.
He shuddered, and his voice was rough. "‘Twill prick ye sorely."
She wanted no warnings. No regret. No hesitation. She wanted only him.
"I don’t care. Take me now," she pleaded.
"Ye’re certain?"
"Aye."
"Forgive me," he whispered, then slowly pushed a finger into her, easing the way for his entry.
Rose knew a moment of doubt. Already her flesh was taut about his finger, and though the intrusion felt so right, so perfect, what she begged for was far larger. Surely ‘twould split her in two.
But she’d come thus far. And every mother on earth, save the Virgin Mary, had survived the ordeal. She didn’t wish to die with her maidenhead untried. And, Lord, she wanted to go to that place again, where time hung silent and the sky exploded in a burst of stars.
"Take me," she entreated again.
What nudged at her was softer than his finger, and when he pressed into her the first bit, sucking a hard breath between his clenched teeth, ‘twas far from painful.
"Forgive me," he breathed again.
Then he strove forward, and she felt her flesh tear. God forgive her, she cried out with the pain and tried to squirm away, for the sting was like the cut of a knife. But he was patient. He held her still, whispering soothing words against her hair, and slowly, gradually, her body stretched to receive him. Her eyes watered, but when he withdrew, it didn’t hurt as much. He plunged slowly into her once more, and this time the burn decreased to a dull ache. Soon there was no pain at all, only a deep, intriguing sense of fullness as he engaged her completely.
He kissed away the moisture along her lashes and smoothed the furrow from her brow. Far sooner than she expected, she was enveloped in a haze of desire again, for their joining seemed the perfect culmination of passion.
"Ah, God," he gasped, his body shivering against her. "I can’t..."
He seemed overwhelmed by sensation, which pitched her own lust even higher. And still, as impossible as ‘twas, she yearned to be closer, to encompass him and be encompassed. She enfolded his broad shoulders in her arms and wrapped her legs about his thrusting hips, reveling in the complete penetration.
"Ah, Blade," she sighed.
"So sweet..." he panted. "So warm...ah, God...not yet..."
She sensed him holding himself back while the caress of his flesh against her coaxed her to new heights. Her body glowed, sated yet unsated, with a frenzy that continued to climb until her control utterly dissolved and at last she soared wildly up like a rogue falcon. On the brink of a dive, she hovered—still, silent—her breath a slow inhalation that swelled her lungs till she thought they would burst. And then she plummeted earthward with shuddering speed, fearlessly plunging into the soul-shattering depths of release.
An instant later, he followed where she led, groaning and arching as spasms rocked him along the long descent. Then he sheathed himself one final time within her, clasping her close to his chest as if he’d never let her go. Their gasps and ragged whispers swirled together across the silent night as their tremors subsided.
"Hold me," she breathed. "Hold me fore’er."
He kissed her forehead, then each eye, and enfolded his arms beneath her, lifting her into his embrace. They stayed like that for a long while, their breath slowing, the air cooling about them, and Rose knew she’d never been happier. Never be happier.
"Fore’er," he agreed.
And they both pretended to believe the lie.
CHAPTER 16
Blade’s head throbbed when he awoke the next morn in the men’s chamber to an eye-stabbing knife of brilliant sunlight. Apparently, by the grumbling around him, he wasn’t the only one paying the price of overindulgence in Greek wine. The mood was surly amongst all the pilgrims as they bestirred themselves from sleep, smacking wine-sour mouths and wandering toward the great hall in search of something to ease their dry throats.
But everything changed when he spotted Rose. Groggily descending the steps, he caught a glimpse of her across the hall. With her falcon on her arm, she came in from the outdoors, smiling and flushed and breathless from her morning adventures. Her skirts were dirtied at the hem, but she’d tucked a red rose behind one ear, and he would have sworn she was haloed in sunshine.
Suddenly Blade didn’t care about his aching head. Just looking at her set his heart to pounding, for he knew what resided beneath her lush gown of red velvet. And his body remembered well their coupling. Even now his loins stirred at the memory of her silken tresses, her supple breasts, her yielding flesh. She truly was a lovely woman. She’d make a beautiful bride.
For someone else.
Someone deserving. Someone decent. Someone whose hands weren’t bound by shackles, whose heart wasn’t bound by shame.
His chest was wrenched with pain as she caught his eye, flashing him a smile of pure adoration. At least, he consoled himself, she had no regrets about what they’d done. But then maybe she expected him to sue for her hand now, to save her from the convent by offering her marriage.
That he couldn’t do. He wouldn’t ask her to live as he did—homeless, nameless, a wandering sword-for-hire. ‘Twas no life for a titled lady.
She wouldn’t understand. Her heart would be broken. But one day she’d come to realize that he’d done what was best. One day she’d find a handsome nobleman to carry her off on his white steed, to a castle with a mews the size of the king’s stable. And maybe...maybe she’d remember him.
He shrugged off his melancholy mood and descended the last step. Today was their final day together. He’d be damned if he’d spoil it for her.
‘Twas Wilham who reminded him that they had another mission today. ‘Twas the day of reckoning, and they were no closer to discovering Archibald’s assassins. And so he vowed, reluctantly, to intensify his
efforts on that score.
It occurred to him, as they trod the final steps toward St. Andrews, that nine days together were long enough to make enemies of most any men, and the pilgrims were no exception. Despite the joy that should have heralded their approach to the celebrated city, the travelers bickered amongst themselves. The earliness of the hour and the dank mist that lurked over the landscape served to hang a pall over the entire company.
The scholars moaned about their aching heads. The tanners groused over the lack of ale in holy shrines. Lettie and Brigit pecked like hens at one another, and Jacob rolled his eyes in weary disgust. Campbell grew sullen and withdrawn, confounding Guillot, who moped beside him. Drogo and Fulk argued over some insult one had given the other at supper. The two nuns walked in frosty silence, and Blade swore he saw one of them clout the other. Simon was his usual morose self, and Tildy, normally animated, only muttered about her weary old bones and the damp weather. Even Father Peter looked worn about the fringe, and ‘twas easy to believe that ‘twould indeed be his last pilgrimage.
Rose seemed the only stream of sunshine on the gloomy day, and though it frayed Blade’s composure, he finally screwed up enough courage to speak with her.
He caught up with her and asked conversationally, "Ye know well the shrine at St. Andrews?"
She brightened at his appearance. "Aye."
Suddenly her beauty, her adoring eyes, the memory of the intimacy they had shared, left him at a loss for words, like a peasant meeting the king. "‘Tis...wondrous."
She let her hand drop beside his and, with clandestine grace, ran a finger along his palm. “’Tis impressive, I suppose.” Her eyes were trained on the path ahead, but her eyelids dipped sensuously as she told him, "Last night...was wondrous."
He swallowed. Aye, ‘twas. More wondrous than a dozen St. Andrews. Last night would haunt him the rest of his days.
"Ye know," she murmured low, "I meant what I said." She glanced up at him, whispering, "I love ye, Blade, with all my heart."
Her tender words were like a welcome dagger in his chest, akin to the bittersweet, savage thrust he’d dealt her last night. But, God forgive him, he couldn’t answer in kind. To do so would be careless, irresponsible, foolish. Yet words spilled from his lips unwilled. "I’ll never forget ye."
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