"I don’t think so," the man said with mocking calm.
Blade continued his charge anyway, halting only when the point of his sword met the man’s pale throat. The villain—curly-locked and fair, dimpled and rosy-cheeked—had the sweet face of a lad. But his eyes gleamed with debauchery, the same corruption that had infested his brother’s gaze.
"Draw your sword," Blade warned him, "or I’ll kill ye where ye stand."
The man’s brows lifted in faux innocence. "And for what offense would ye murder me?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Maybe I’ll murder ye simply for the pleasure of it."
"Why, then they’ll hang ye, good sir, from Gallow’s Hill. Ye cannot kill a woman’s husband just for the sport..." He halted mid-sentence with a gasp of feigned shock.
Blade froze. His shock was not feigned. Husband. Had the villain said husband? His thoughts roiled wildly while his heart careened in his chest.
The churl clucked his tongue and spoke over his shoulder. "Why, darlin’, didn’t ye tell him? ‘Tis half the thrill, ye know, tellin’ your lover about your jealous husband."
Blade tried to ignore the storm of emotions coursing through him—pain, betrayal, fury, sorrow—but ‘twas too late. The armor around his heart had already been pierced by Rose’s love. And now it weakened with each traitorous word.
Rose’s silence condemned her and crushed him.
"Well, I’m sure ye’ll find another sweet thing to warm your bed,” the man said, fluttering his fingers in farewell. “Run along now. ‘Tis none o’ your affair."
Numb, Blade lowered his sword, and the man bent to haul Rose to her feet. Blade glanced at her only briefly, long enough to glimpse the blood on her cheek and the regret in her eyes.
"I’m sorry," she whispered. “I couldn’t tell ye.”
Blade tensed his jaw, wanting to believe her. But he couldn’t afford to trust her. He’d made that mistake before—coming between husband and wife.
He’d been wrong about Rose. She was a weak woman, just like Julian. Just like Julian, she’d weep and wail that her husband was cruel, and just like Julian, she’d betray the man willing to champion her against him.
No more, he decided. Chivalry had taught him to defend the helpless, but experience had taught him the price of meddling.
Yet when he turned in defeat to leave, something troubled him, compelling him to stay.
Rose had been a virgin. This knave might be her husband, but if he was, ‘twas in name only, for he’d never consummated the marriage. And Rose had insisted all along the pilgrimage that she traveled to St. Andrews to take the veil. So she’d obviously fled this man to seek sanctuary in a convent. Her avowed husband had sent his guard after her, giving them free reign to use her as they willed. The man clearly bore her no love, and she surely despised him.
And though Blade might prove as witless as a lad thrice burnt by fire, he grasped at those thin slivers of truth.
Maybe Rose wasn’t like Julian after all. Maybe she wouldn’t shield her abuser. Maybe she wouldn’t betray Blade.
His back still turned, he closed his eyes. "I would hear it from your own lips, Rose. I would hear that ye’re willin’ to return to your husband, to share his bed, to bear his heirs."
He waited for her "aye," but it never came. Instead, while he languished in uncertainty, she bit out slowly and distinctly, "I’d rather burn in Hell."
No words had ever gladdened his heart so fully. No words had ever inspired him to battle so quickly. With a determined flourish of his sword, Blade spun around to face his enemy and defend his love.
Before Rose could take another breath, Gawter cursed, pushing her aside to draw his weapon. Having learned from her encounter with the thieves, she quickly scurried out of sword’s reach.
At first the men circled, each judging the other’s skill. Gawter thrust forward. Blade deflected his sword and jabbed back. Gawter knocked the blade aside.
Then Gawter made a quick advance forward, pushing Blade back with rapid slashes. Blade whirled and came around with a broad sweep of his sword, forcing Gawter to leap back. Then Blade drove forward, hacking mercilessly. Gawter retreated, dancing along the wet stones.
Blade had a clear advantage until his foot slipped on a patch of damp moss and he nearly lost his balance. Gawter used the opportunity to aim a long thrust forward. Blade was forced to use his arm to toss aside the blow, and in the absence of proper armor, his doublet was slashed through to his skin.
Rose winced, but Blade was hardly hampered by the injury. He answered with a vengeance, sparks showering as his sword rasped along Gawter’s blade. Gawter skittered back again, and Blade followed him, forcing him to engage his weapon.
The swords clashed and clanged with a clamor to rival the bells of St. Andrews. Blade sliced through Gawter’s cote-hardie at the waist, drawing blood. But Gawter was no untried swordsman, and when Blade’s shoulder dipped as his next thrust fell short, he advanced, nicking Blade’s throat.
Rose gasped as Blade fell back, raising a thumb to his neck that came back bloody. Then, snarling like a wolf, Blade circled his quarry, watching for a weakness.
Gawter wiped the moisture from his brow with his sleeve, attempting to cover his anxiety by cockily tossing his sword from one hand to the other.
But Blade wasn’t intimidated. Indeed, he must have thought Gawter a fool, for he simply waited until the weapon was in midair, then, with a flick of his sword, sent it sailing across the lane to clatter against a crumbling wall.
Relieved of his sword, Gawter swore and reached for his dagger.
To Rose’s utter amazement, Blade chivalrously tossed aside his sword and drew his own dagger. This was no mercenary, not at all. No matter how much he denied his honor, it burned there within him, a luminous gallantry that no single foul deed nor years of exile could extinguish. Her heart warmed with pride.
The combat was just as fierce with lesser weapons. They nicked and slashed and jabbed each other until their fighting hands were slick with blood. Gawter’s combat became desperate, frenzied. But Blade had the advantage of having engaged in brutal warfare outside of the lists. He threatened and cuffed and distracted Gawter with taunts of his dagger until Gawter began to dodge blows that Blade never struck and thrust his knife through empty air.
Blade finally cornered his frustrated foe against the mound of refuse and kicked the knife from his hand so that it skidded across the lane. Then he planted his boot in the middle of Gawter’s belly and shoved him backward. Gawter stumbled, tripped, and went sprawling on his hindquarters atop a heap of broken pottery and rotten vegetables.
Rose sighed in relief. Gawter was disarmed. He was harmless now.
She didn’t worry that he might speak to the authorities, that he’d have Blade arrested. He had too much pride for that. He’d not breathe a word of his defeat at the hands of a felon. And now, all she wanted was to go to Blade, to her champion.
Blade sheathed his knife and started to turn to her, but behind him, Rose saw a glimmer of life from Gawter. The brute wasn’t as defeated as he appeared. As she screamed in warning, Gawter lunged up, a shard of pottery in one fist, and stabbed forward.
Blade was uncertain at first whether ‘twas fresh pain or the haunting sting of old wounds as his back twinged. Rose’s shriek seemed part of the slash, slicing through the air as sleekly as the point sinking into his flesh.
It hurt like the devil, but didn’t go deep. His padded doublet and his scar, thick and knotted, prevented that.
Still, time froze, and his mind spiraled back again, back to the events of that fateful day. His body yearned to repeat what it had practiced over and over in his nightmares—turn and thrust, turn and thrust—but he’d tossed aside his sword, and he’d sheathed his dagger. The pain began to spread like numbing poison across his back. Stunned, he swayed on his feet and gazed down helplessly at his empty hands.
Then, behind him, the man screamed. Like the breaking of an enchantment, the sound severed Blade’s
tie with the past, hauling him out of his shock and bringing him to his senses.
His eyes burned as he reached behind him and plucked the shard from his back, then turned with clenched fists to face the churl who’d stabbed him.
But the breath escaped him when he saw the man staggering backward into the pile of garbage, his face a rictus of horror and disbelief, his fingers scrabbling at the sword protruding from his belly.
Rose stood over the brute like a beautiful avenging angel. Her eyes were alight with righteous fire, her cheeks were flushed, and her chest was heaving.
Blade stared at her in wonder. Sweet Saints, she’d come to his defense. She’d managed to sweep up his sword to deliver a killing thrust to his attacker. His heart swelled with gratitude and admiration.
Then she turned a shocked gaze to him, and he realized the impact of what she’d done. Rose wasn’t a battle-seasoned knight accustomed to killing. She was a gentle lady. Her deed would scar her for the rest of her life.
As if to insure her suffering, the man whimpered, “Rose, ye killed me.”
Her brows furrowed, and Blade spit out an oath, cursing the man for his cruelty. Then he stepped forward and seized the haft of his sword.
“Nay, I killed ye,” he said, wrenching the blade from his belly and thrusting it again into the man’s black heart.
Rose sat on a broken barrel, trembling with the shock of all that had passed. Never had she imagined herself capable of such bloodlust. Blade had been kind to make the killing blow, to take the sin of murder upon himself. But that didn’t change the fact that she’d wished Gawter dead with all her heart. And her own savagery frightened her.
Blade gave him a hasty burial beneath the mound of refuse—a fitting grave, Rose thought, for the brutish swine. When he was done, he came to crouch at her feet, took her quivering hands between his own, and began to question her.
She answered woodenly, hardly knowing what she said, telling him that nae, Gawter had neither kin nor keep, that he’d wanted to marry Rose for her holdings. Nae, she didn’t know where Greymoor was. Aye, they’d planned to live at Averlaigh. Nae, her foster parents didn’t know she was here.
After his interrogation, they fled the scene like two bloody soldiers traveling home from war, winding their way back to the cathedral in pensive silence.
But now that her shock had passed, now that she began to think about the consequences of her actions, she felt as if a yoke had suddenly been lifted from her. Her betrothed was dead. No longer did the decision of wedding or taking the veil hang over her head. She was free to follow her heart.
Now she could run away with Blade. They could find a place far from Averlaigh and Mirkhaugh and St. Andrews, far from the ghosts of their past. They could make a new beginning...follow a new dream...together.
They reached the door of the sanctuary, and Rose stopped Blade, gazing up into his somber eyes with hope. But before she could share her dream, Blade spoke.
"Father Peter can see ye safely to the convent."
Her heart caught. "The convent?"
“Mass will be o’er shortly, and—“
“But I...” She flushed, ashamed of having deceived him. "I never wanted to go to the convent." She twisted her fingers together. How could she explain? "‘Twas for sanctuary." She averted her eyes, mortified by the appalling truth. “Ye see, my betrothed was...he was beddin’ my mother. He only wanted heirs o’ me because my mother is barren.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell ye before.”
His answer, long in coming and strangely solemn, made her wary. "Ye deserve better."
She gave him a shaky, uncertain smile. "I’ve found better."
When he didn’t respond, her heart flopped over. She nervously licked her lips, and tears stung at the back of her eyes. Did he not mean to ask for her hand? She was free now. And they were in love. She knew they were. Could he possibly mean to leave her?
His voice was gruff, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. "Nae. Ye deserve a man with a home, with a name."
She swallowed, silently cursing the waver in her voice. "Your home is Scotland. Your name is Blade. ‘Tis enough for me."
He sniffed. "Ye’re young. Ye don’t know what ‘tis like to wander endlessly, to wonder when your next meal will be, to subsist on what ye can carry on your back. ‘Tis no way for a lady to live."
The tears welled thickly now, and Rose felt her chest collapse so that she could hardly draw breath. "I told ye. I’m...a survivor."
Blade’s heart felt like it was being squeezed through an apple press. Speaking about his life—the struggle for subsistence, the unpredictability, the loneliness of the road—made him realize how miserable he was. And looking upon Rose’s tearful face, her imploring eyes, her trembling lips, made him aware of all he intended to sacrifice for that life.
Was it worth it? Was it worth avoiding the pain of returning to Mirkhaugh to continue living as a felon if it meant he could never have the one thing in his life that was good and beautiful and pure? And what if Mirkhaugh denied him? What if he was stripped of his title in earnest, banished from his home forever, executed for his felony?
Nae, ‘twas too great a risk. Better that he should always wonder if his kin still despised him than return to the site of his crime and remove all doubt.
And better that Rose should find another—a worthy man who could give her all the happiness and stability she deserved, who could assure her of a long and comfortable life. He’d tell her so...gently.
But before he could breathe a word, she shoved at his chest, snarling viciously at him. "Damn ye to Hell, Blade!"
He cast a wary eye up toward the spires of St. Andrews. It took an intrepid soul to curse on the steps of the holy cathedral.
She stabbed an angry finger at his doublet. "I know ye care for me. Are ye so bloody fond o’ your fugitive ways that ye’d not abandon them for my sake?"
A tiny voice deep inside him was bellowing the very same thing. A tiny voice that sounded curiously like Wilham. Maybe he was addled. Maybe he was a bloody, raving madman. Maybe his redemption was to be found in St. Andrews. Not within the holy sanctuary, but in the absolving angel before him.
For now he walked along a dagger’s edge, knowing he must leap one way or the other. On one side of the knife was Rose—beautiful, precious Rose, with eyes the color of a quenching stream, lips that tasted of spring, arms that comforted and aroused and tamed him. And on the other side was...
Slow, agonizing death.
There was no choice. The answer stood before him, frowning in wounded frustration, trying to conceal her pain behind a mask of rage. Curse his soul, he’d hurt her enough.
"Rosamund," he decided, taking her gently by the shoulders, "go to the nunnery." She bit her lip and was on the verge of furious tears when he cupped her face in one hand and said, “Wait for me there. If I’m able, I’ll come for ye by Lammastide.”
The wind abruptly went out of the sails of her anger, leaving her blinking in confusion. She searched his eyes. “Ye will?”
“If I’m able,” he repeated. The odds were against him. He knew that. But if he didn’t try...
“Lammastide?” she croaked. Three months probably sounded like an eternity to Rose.
“If I don’t return..."
“Ye will,” she said, smiling now through her tears. “I know ye will.”
He swallowed hard. Her innocent faith was hard to endure. “If I’m not back by Lammas...then take a husband or take the veil."
For Rose, three months passed on the back of a snail. One day was much the same as the next at the convent—nuns in drab habits murmuring along the passageways, gathering for the sumptuous Sabbath meal of ubiquitous bread and broth, prostrating themselves before the altar, not so much to worship, Rose suspected, but to sleep after rising at such an unholy hour.
The only interruption in the dull routine was when her foster parents visited. They brought news of her stepfather’s death and her betrothed’s mysterious disappearance, wh
ich had thrown Rose’s mother into a rage. Rose was relieved that Gawter’s body hadn’t been found, and apparently, a neighboring nobleman had made an offer on Averlaigh, so Rose’s mother, deeply in debt and furious with Rose’s decision to join a religious order, had sold her property and moved herself into a modest home in Stirling.
But none of that concerned Rose. What consumed her was the fact that today was the first of Lammastide, and Blade hadn’t yet appeared.
Visitors had stopped by the nunnery all day long, bringing Lammas offerings of bread and coin for the poor. Rose had stationed herself at the convent gate to watch them come and go, biting her thumbnail and searching their ranks for the face she dreamt about each night. Still he hadn’t appeared.
Now she paced back and forth through the nunnery’s herb garden with Wink on her arm, unable to resist glancing frequently toward the western road, where the sun continued, against her wishes, to sink lower and lower in the sky.
"Ye’ll see, Wink," she said with forced cheer, smoothing the feathers over the falcon’s breast with nervous fingers. "He’ll come."
Wink ruffled her feathers, which had grown back nicely, all but a tiny patch over her blind eye. The bird no longer wore the bandage around her wing. Thanks to the healing skills of one of the nuns, the bone had fused. But Wink couldn’t fly.
As for Rose, the nuns had welcomed her, though ‘twas clear from the start they didn’t approve of her intrepid ways. In their minds, ‘twas reckless to hoist oneself onto the lower limb of the apple tree to pick fruit. Rose wondered what the nuns would think if they knew she’d scaled towers and battled thieves.
As always, Rose bobbed her arm for Wink, encouraging her to flap. She might not be able to fly, but the bird needed to stretch her wings, for she would founder without exercise.
Rose’s gaze drifted inexorably back to the west. The sun was but an inch from the top of the hills now. She let out a quivery sigh.
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