Danger's Kiss (44 page)

But before she could change her mind, Father Peter clapped his hands together, calling for silence and summoning the pilgrims to draw near.

She rose from the table, and when she dared look again, she saw the man in shackles had come to his feet and thrown back his hood.

Her breath caught.  He stood tall over most of the other pilgrims.  The width of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest marked him as a man of uncommon strength.  Candlelight illuminated the angled planes of his face, accentuating the hollow of his cheek and the depth of his brow.  Dark hair slashed down in long, unruly locks over his forehead, shadowing his softly glimmering eyes.

Rose swallowed a rough knot of fear as she glanced at the irons shackling his wrists, wondering if the length of heavy chain slung between the thick cuffs would hold.

Father Peter spoke, issuing instructions for the pilgrimage, but she didn’t hear a word.  All her attention was focused on the dark figure that seemed to reign over the room.

He must have sensed her scrutiny, for in the next moment, he slowly turned his head until he stared at her as intently as she watched him.  His brow furrowed, and his mouth hardened as he studied her in a bold, leisurely manner from head to toe.  His gaze commanded her own, for try as she might, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

Yet ‘twas more than fear that held her.  Something in his glittering eyes excited her, challenged her, aroused her.  He was absolutely beautiful, sinfully so, she realized, more striking than any man she’d ever seen.  But there was something terrible in his beauty, some dark secret that lodged within the handsome confines of his form.

His eyes narrowed upon her for a long moment, as if they delved into her soul.  Her heart raced, her breath grew shallow, her knees weakened.  Overwhelmed by a mysterious, powerful shock she couldn’t name, she gripped the table to steady herself.  When he finally looked away, so intrusive and lasting was the impact of his gaze that Rose felt as if she’d been violated.

Blade scowled in the direction of the priest, his heart pounding far too forcefully.  That woman, the one with the half-blind falcon, had unsettled him.  And he was unaccustomed to being unsettled.

"Look penitent," Wilham hissed beside him.

Blade made the attempt, but soon the curious furrow crept back between his brows.

He’d spied the lass the instant she’d walked through the door, arriving on a stream of sunlight like an angel alighting from heaven.  Her rare beauty had astonished him, and he wasn’t a man easily astonished.  She was as small and slim as a child, yet she possessed enough womanly curves to be the mistress of a king.  Her snug white underdress, exposed in the slits of a sideless surcoat the color of ripe cherries, revealed a delectable form that sent his heart racing and his thoughts spiraling along all manner of sins.

Her features were as delicate as a fawn’s, yet strong and pure in color.  Her skin was pale and smooth, like cream, her lips the hue of summer wine.  Fine black brows arched over impossibly enormous eyes of a curious color he couldn’t distinguish.  And tumbling down past the swell of her hip, unbound sleek black tresses as shiny as satin reflected the flickering firelight.

But ‘twas more than her beauty that snared his eye.

She didn’t belong here.  ‘Twas plain in the nervous darting of her glance.  She was as out of place amidst the milling pilgrims as a lily in a field of thistles.

Where were her things? he wondered.  Noblewomen always insisted on packing chests of clothing, necessities they claimed they couldn’t live without, even if they ventured but a day’s ride from their home.  Despite the rich velvet of her surcoat and the quality of the fine silver chain and small polished carbuncle that dripped tantalizingly upon her bosom, this woman appeared to possess nothing but the garments she wore and the falcon.  How could she have planned to journey to St. Andrews without provisions?

Wilham elbowed him.  "At least
feign
to listen," he muttered.

Blade lifted his head and attempted to focus on the fat priest jabbering on about rules and lodging and the sanctity of pilgrimage, but soon his mind wandered again.  He lifted a hand, wincing at the clank of the chains, and scratched at his brow so he might peek at the woman between his fingers.

God’s breath, she was dazzling.  Her attention was upon the Holy Father now, but by the rapid rise and fall of her bosom, ‘twas clear she was ill-at-ease.  He slowly perused her again from top to bottom, lifting a brow at the state of her attire.  Her gown might be made of costly velvet, but there was a small tear at the inside of one sleeve, the hem was muddy, and the lower quarter of her skirt was littered with bits of dry grass.  What mischief had the lass been up to?

Everyone around him murmured, "Amen."  He belatedly echoed the sentiment.  Then the mob began gathering their possessions and shambling toward the door.

"Seven miles a day," Wilham said, shaking his head.  "‘Tis a snail’s pace."

Blade slung his pack over his shoulder and tried to purge the entrancing angel from his thoughts, scrutinizing the pilgrims one by one as they filed past.  There were two scheming culprits in their ranks, and he didn’t have much time to find them.

"‘Twould take us two days on horseback," Wilham complained, shouldering his own burden.

Blade grunted, not really listening.  Who could the perpetrators be?  Who looked capable of such villainy?  The lass in red glanced fleetingly over at him again.  Could she be an assassin?  ‘Twas unthinkable.  She had the sweet countenance of a cherub.  Still, he was wise enough to know a bonnie face oft hid a black heart.

"Well," Wilham sighed, "at least we’ll be comfortable enough tonight—dinin’ on spun sugar and sleepin’ with hot-blooded nuns."

Blade absently nodded, then drew his brows together.  Never mind the angel with the ebony hair, he chided himself.  That brawny man with the week’s growth of beard and the threadbare cloak had a ruthless edge to his stare.  Was he a killer?

Wilham cuffed him.  "I knew ye weren’t listenin’."

"What?"

"Come along, Blade.  I’ll fill ye in."

They fell in behind the last pilgrim.

"By the way, I’ve brought your sword," Wilham said smugly.

Blade gave him a sharp glare.  "I won’t use it."

"‘Twas a foolish vow," Wilham muttered.  "Ye’ll regret makin’ it."

Blade disagreed.  The surrender of his sword, like the shackles about his wrists, lent credence to his disguise.  And in a strange way, unburdened of the blood-stained weapon that had weighed upon his soul for two years, he indeed felt the faint hope of redemption.

‘Twas a glorious spring morn.  If he’d been less intent on his mission and less distracted by the scarlet temptress moving along the path well ahead of him, Blade might have enjoyed the pleasant march.  The sun was bright, the sky cloudless, the air filled with birdsong.  But his ear was attuned only to the quiet conversation around him, listening for any clue as to the identity of the killers.

A few of the pilgrims seemed above suspicion.  He highly doubted that Father Peter, the organizer of the pilgrimage, had so dire a plot in mind.  The priest was the most verbose of the travelers, though the man’s girth left him huffing breathlessly as he waddled along the path, stabbing at the ground with his staff.  The priest took enormous pride—almost sinful pride—in the many pilgrimages he’d made in his life.  There was no end to his bluster.  It seemed he’d been to every shrine in Christendom, and for each he had a story—a very long story—to relate.

Halfway through a wheezing oration about the incredible flagellants the father had encountered abroad, Wilham nudged Blade, muttering, "For a parish priest, he spends little time in his parish."

Blade nodded.  The fact that Father Peter was in essence a wayfarer cast a shadow of suspicion on his character.  But ‘twas difficult to believe the prattling priest could keep any secret—and more to the point, a secret involving murder—for more than an hour.  They’d only started their journey, and already Blade knew more than he ever wished to know about the man.

Following closely at Father Peter’s heels were the two young nuns.  They complemented the priest well, for they talked hardly at all.  They never questioned the Father’s gushing proclamations, but gazed at him in wide-eyed wonder, as if he spoke the Gospel every time he opened his mouth.

Staring at the nuns’ round, rosy-cheeked faces framed by linen wimples only a shade lighter than their skin—their blue eyes so alike, their small mouths made for murmured prayers—‘twas difficult to envision them as assassins.  Indeed, the mere mention of violence would likely send the fragile creatures into an overwrought faint.

Directly behind the pious sisters walked the fascinating woman with the falcon.  Her straight ebony hair caught the breeze, streaming out like a dark pennon against the bright green of the spring saplings all around them.  Her gait was almost regal, and she bore the falcon proudly upon her gloved wrist.  Blade wondered how soon she’d tire of carrying the thing.  Peregrines were light, but as any knight bearing a shield knew, even a light thing grew heavy over time.

The bird was a pretty thing, despite its maimed eye, but he wondered why the woman would keep such a pet.  It couldn’t hunt for itself and must be more trouble than ‘twas worth.  He doubted she’d even given a thought as to how to feed it on the journey.

Something was definitely wrong.  She hardly looked prepared for a trek of this magnitude.  ‘Twas as if, in the impulsive way of females, the lady had awakened in the morning, snapped up her falcon, and decided to walk to St. Andrews, with never a notion as to how she’d get there or what to pack.

Blade almost pitied her.  He too had left the comforts of a manor for the wilds of the woods.  ‘Twasn’t easy to adapt.  She’d probably given no thought whatsoever to what she’d eat, where she’d sleep, or how she’d get dressed without the aid of a maidservant.

Then again, he thought, maybe that was her aim.  Maybe she was a true pilgrim who intended to humble herself by journeying without her usual luxuries to seek understanding and salvation.

The path ahead looped sharply so that the line of pilgrims folded back almost upon itself, and Blade, walking at the end, watched the lady pass in profile.  She
was
captivating.  She carried her head level, letting her eyes dip gracefully to guide her as she stepped forward.  Her hands were delicate and fair, as if she did little more with them than wave or pray.  Her beguiling chin came almost to a point, and her dark curtain of hair framed her face and brushed her waist like a cloak made of satin.  Her skin looked as soft as a dove’s breast, and the enticing swell of her bosom stole the very breath from his mouth.

Then she caught him staring, and her grace disappeared.  She tripped.  The falcon’s wings flapped wildly for an instant, and the lass stumbled forward into the nuns ahead of her.

"Bloody he-..." he heard her mutter, and then, "Sorry."

When her glance fell upon him again, he sobered.  The lass was as skittish as a kitten in a stable full of warhorses.  Why?  What did she have to hide?

Rose cursed inwardly at her clumsiness.  She had to stop dwelling on that brooding outlaw in the shackles.  Surely she only imagined he was watching her.

She’d intentionally placed herself near the fore of the line, where persons of more piety and less menace seemed to congregate.  Yet she could feel the felon’s merciless, penetrating gaze even at this distance.

God’s eyes, what did he want?

Perhaps he was a thief.  Perhaps he’d seen her jeweled pendant and her valuable falcon and, guessing she carried silver, meant to steal it from her.

Yet he’d apparently chosen to travel on the pilgrimage, shackled and shamed, of his own will.  Didn’t that mean he’d repented of his crime?

Rose glanced up again, surreptitiously.  Faith, the man was audacious.  He was
still
watching her.  She felt her cheeks grow warm.

She wondered again what his crime could be.  Theft?  Murder?  Rape?  Her mind suddenly filled with a terrifying image of the dark criminal in shackles looming over her, ravishing her.  She squeezed her eyes shut against the shocking vision.

But they opened again of their own volition, and her gaze flickered inexorably back to him.  Still the knave stared—his brow furrowed deeply, his mouth grim, the soft clank of his chains sinister among the cheery chirps of sparrows on the wing.

She snapped her head about sharply to focus instead on the plump priest at the head of the line.  She wouldn’t look at the outlaw again.  She refused.

Her heart fluttered beneath her pendant, and though ‘twas absurd, she knew ‘twas more than fear quickening her pulse.  Something about the dangerous black-cloaked figure made her feel the same exhilaration she did when she rode faster than was safe on her palfrey or strayed too far from home.  ‘Twas that sort of forbidden excitement that she found in his gaze, a clandestine thrill that hastened her heartbeat and snatched her breath away.

But now she steeled herself against the lure of deeper peril.  She was in enough trouble already.  Though she’d ridden fast and far, pursuit was not long behind.  Gawter’s men would know they’d been gulled and by now would have reported back to her betrothed.  They’d tell Gawter she’d ridden east, and he’d guess she was on her way to Fernie House.

Perhaps Gawter would abandon the chase, perhaps not.  With her out of the way, he might simply wait for the Laird of Averlaigh to die and take the mother to wife instead of the daughter.  Surely he knew that Rose bore him no affection and wouldn’t contest the wedding.  On the other hand, if he wished to hold on to Averlaigh permanently, he needed an heir, and Lady Agatha was too old to give him one.  For that, he needed Rose.

Averlaigh had been the incentive for the betrothal all along.  She knew that now.  Sir Gawter possessed wealth, but no property.  Lady Agatha possessed property, but no wealth.  While the Laird of Averlaigh hung onto life, Rose’s mother wasn’t free to remarry, but with Rose as a sacrifice, the barren Agatha and rich Gawter could both gain what fortune they lacked and enjoy a surreptitious liaison into the bargain under Rose’s nose.  As for Rose, she’d supply the heir required to keep hold of Averlaigh.