Passion's Exile (26 page)

He sighed in fervent approval, leaning forward to kiss the spot below her pendant and between her breasts, tickling her with the soft brush of his hair. His fingers swept along her ribs to circle beneath her breast, and he cupped her gently in his hand. She held her breath as he lifted her for his pleasure, and the agonizing anticipation of his touch sent gushing warmth through her loins.

His thumb brushed across her taut nipple an instant before his lips claimed her. She gasped at the incredible liquid heat as his tongue bathed her and his mouth took suckle. She clasped handfuls of his soft, clean, thick hair, moaning low in her throat at the sweetness as he drew tenderly at her nipple, again and again.

Then he withdrew, and as his sated sigh chilled her moist flesh, stiffening her again, she made a mew of dissent. But he only meant to shift to her other breast, and as his hand enveloped and caressed and hefted her, she felt again the sensual magic of his touch.

And still…still ‘twas not all she desired. The arousal of her breasts only served to fuel the flames raging below. She thrust her hips forward, seeking in vain to find some satisfaction, but her only reward was a deep and rueful chuckle from her tormenter.

“Ah, lass,” he lamented, “ye desire what I dare not give.”

“Please,” she entreated, unaware of what she asked, only that she needed…more. “Please, Blade.”

He seemed to struggle with some great quandary. His chest, half bared from her meager advances, rose and fell heavily, his jaw tensed, and his brow furrowed as if he played an unwinnable game of chess.

“Please,” she whispered.

Finally, he nodded. Still kneeling, he widened the laces of her surcoat even more, allowing it to fall from her arms and slide to the curve of her hip. He pulled her close, resting his cheek against her bosom, then slipped his other palm along her belly, beneath her garments, toward the source of her distress. His shackle was cold and rough upon her skin, but his supple fingers made apology for that, stealing her breath away with their tenderness. She braced her hands upon his shoulders, afraid she might collapse beneath his torturous onslaught.

“Is this what ye desire?” he whispered.

She nodded, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

His fingers moved lower, delving into her damp nest of curls, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out—whether in protest or gratitude, she didn’t know.

“Show me where,” he murmured, though she could tell by his sure hand that he knew his destination well.

Her breath caught once, twice, thrice as the tip of his finger found the core of her arousal. She sobbed as he moved his fingers slowly across and over and around her flesh, tugging and sliding with sensual precision. She dug her fingers into his shoulders as he stroked her burning nubbin, amazed that his touch only made her crave more. She writhed wildly against his hand, gasping when the shackle pinched at her flesh.

“Easy,” he bade her, withdrawing his hand momentarily to slide the shackle back. “Easy, lass. ‘Twill come soon enough.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but she trusted him. As she watched in curious amazement, he lifted his hand to his mouth, moistening his fingers with his tongue. His nostrils flared as if he savored the taste of her, and the gesture sent a heady thrill through her.

Then he slipped his hand beneath her garments again. This time, his fingers, made slick, fluttered across her with compelling haste, bringing her ache to a more and more finely focused point, beckoning her to higher and higher planes of sensation.

Soon the pleasure and agony and longing escalated even further, reaching such intense heights that for an instant, she couldn’t breathe. The dizzying silence seemed to stretch into eternity, and she felt as if a delicate rain of warm sparks showered her.

Then, as suddenly as thunder, she was wrenched with a violence that thrust her hard against him. Her hips strained. Her fingers clawed at the muscle of his shoulders. She groaned a wordless cry of release, and her knees buckled in final surrender.

She bowed her head over his, weak with wonder and relief, and he carefully slipped his hand from her, embracing her about the waist.

She gasped, wrapping grateful arms about his head, glowing with contentment. “Oh, Blade. Blade.”

“Blade!” a voice called from outside. “Where are ye?”

Wilham!

Blade cursed.

Rose panicked.

Her heart pounding and her legs wobbling like a milkmaid’s stool, she struggled to find the sleeves of her surcoat.

Blade stormed to his feet. His face was black and full of fury, yet he managed to keep his wits about him.

“Arm,” he hissed, thrusting out his hand.

She gave him her arm, and he helped her stuff it into her sleeve.

“Blade!” Wilham was getting closer.

“Shite!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening.

“Other arm,” Blade directed.

She shoved her other arm violently into the sleeve, making the rip bigger in the process. Then she wiggled the surcoat up over her shoulders, fighting frantically to get the underdress to cooperate.

“Blade!” Wilham said. “Where the devil—”

“If ye value your life, Wilham,” Blade yelled out grimly, “ye’ll give me another moment!”

“But what are ye—”

“Not now!” he bellowed.

Blade spun Rose around, placed a knee against her backside, and wrenched hard at the laces of her surcoat.

“Too tight,” she gasped.

He released them a bit, then knotted the top. Satisfied, he wheeled her back around and gave her a curt, reassuring nod.

“Blade? Are ye in…”

The man was just outside the millhouse. And now that her common sense was returning, Rose realized what a compromising position they were in. Aye, her garments were in place again, at least fairly well in place, but there was no disguising the telltale disarray of her tresses and the flush of passion in her cheeks. Thank God ‘twas only Wilham and not Tildy or the nuns.

She glanced at Blade, who raised a questioning brow. She took a breath and nodded, then furrowed her brow. Blade’s doublet was askew. She straightened it for him, then steeled herself for the encounter.

Blade ducked under the doorway, half in, half out of the millhouse.

“I should chop your head from your shoulders,” she heard Blade mutter.

“Ah, so this is the thanks I get for comin’ to your rescue,” Wilham complained.

“My rescue.”

“They’re lookin’ for her, ye know.”

Blade cursed.

Rose gasped. What if they found her? What if they knew what she’d done? What if they banished her from the pilgrimage? What if they sent her back to Averlaigh?

“I told Father Peter I’d check inside the millhouse,” Wilham said.

Blade’s response sounded like the warning growl of a wolf.

Wilham continued, undaunted. “Come, Blade, out o’ my way. I won’t lie to a priest.”

With an oath of protest, Blade let him pass. Though she was dressed, Rose still clasped a self-conscious hand to her bosom as Wilham stuck his head inside the door. He smiled smugly, perusing all the gears and cogs and beams inside the mill, then winked at her, and exited.

“There,” she heard him declare. “I’ve checked it. Now hurry along, Blade. The pilgrims are restless.” There was a short pause. “And fix her laces before ye return, my friend. Looks to me like ye’ve grown a wee bit rusty.”

An observer would have assumed ‘twas the copious ale or the bounty of food or the tanners’ merry tales that warmed Blade to his marrow this evening as the pilgrims supped at The Green Dragon. Only he knew otherwise.

His pleasure was due to the blushing Rose beside him, who—unbeknownst to everyone at supper—rested a plundering hand upon his thigh under the table.

Tonight, whenever their eyes met, hers softened with secret knowledge, and a smile played about her lips. Though once quenched, apparently her thirst for him persisted.

As for Blade, he’d never hoped for requiting. When she’d pleaded with him in the millhouse, when she’d begged for release, he’d made the decision to appease her wishes. But despite his own roaring lust, he refused to gratify it at an innocent’s expense. So now, though he ached for her, he expected nothing in return, not even so much as that delicate hand resting in taunting proximity to his lap. In short, he harbored no regrets.

How could he? She gazed upon him tonight as if he’d given her the world. ‘Twas a magnificent feeling. He’d never experienced such intoxicating pride, even when he’d bested the de Ware twins. And that feeling of triumph made him want to give her even more.

But what more could he give her? He couldn’t offer her marriage. By choice, he’d been stripped of his noble rank. He laid claim to no property, no title. Despite his illustrious family history, Blade had nothing to offer a bride.

Rose giggled at Odo’s amusing story, and Blade couldn’t help but smile at her charming gaiety.

Maybe he should live as audaciously as Rose. She seemed to embrace every experience as if neither the future nor the past mattered, but only the moment. She lived to revel in what befell her today. If only he could be so free…

A spate of raucous laughter brought Blade back to the pilgrims’ stories. Ivo was recounting a jest he’d once played upon Odo.

“So I’m waitin’, ye see, till Odo is deep in his cups.”

“Which I rarely ever am,” Odo said drunkenly.

Everyone laughed.

“And I drag him over to the tannin’ vat.”

“He tells me ‘tis a bathhouse,” Odo protested.

“There I deposit him.” Ivo giggled helplessly. “And there the fool soaks all night!”

“I kept wonderin’ when the women were comin’,” Odo said.

“When I come back in the morn, he’s pickled like a herrin’!”

The pilgrims roared. Even Blade had to grin.

“But that’s not half as amusin’,” said Odo, “as the time I brought ye the rats.”

Ivo groaned. “Faugh, the rats!”

Odo rubbed his leathery hands together, warming to his tale. “I borrowed the miller’s cat once to clean rats from the tannery. That cat must have killed two dozen o’ the beasties, left ‘em at the door, as cats are wont to do.”

Ivo snickered and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

“Well, says I,” Odo continued, “What am I to do with all o’ these dead rats?” He thoughtfully stroked his chin.

“He comes to me…” Ivo put in.

“I come to Ivo, and I says, ‘Ivo, I’ve got a special order from the sheriff.’”

Ivo nodded enthusiastically.

“I dump out this bag o’ rats,” Odo continued, “and I says, ‘The sheriff wants these skinned and tanned.’”

Ivo shook his head. “Says he’s goin’ to have little purses made out of ‘em for his daughters.”

Odo turned to his friend. “How many did ye skin and throw in the vat?”

“God’s hooks,” Ivo said with a chortle. “A good dozen ere ye let me in on the jest.”

Rose laughed beside Blade, and the clear, carefree sound warmed him to his boots. He felt a fierce longing to be alone with her again, to weave his fingers through her hair, to breathe the wondrous scent of her body, to trace her womanly curves with his palms, to bring her passions to fruition once more.

The tanners continued, each besting the other with tales of good-natured knavery. But Blade’s thoughts centered on Rose. And because the inn was raucous and noisy, and because he was drunk on ale and desire, and because a rebellious part of him decided he might as well live as recklessly as Rose, he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear.

“Do ye know how I hunger for ye, Rose?”

He witnessed her quick intake of breath. Then her lids dipped in response, and she parted her lips. Still, she dared not look at him. Her fingers tensed on his thigh, and a streak of hot lust raced through his loins.

“Do ye want me as well?” he breathed.

Her eyelids fluttered and she nodded infinitesimally.

Then, without his bidding, the brazen wench allowed her fingers to wend their way toward the part of him that desired her the most.

He sucked a slow, silent breath between his teeth, the thrill of her touch heightened by the fact that he mustn’t let anyone at the table know what mischief she worked upon him.

The little witch took her time, torturing him, giving him a sweet smile as she worked her cruelty upon his thigh. Then her fingertips grazed lightly over the bulge in his chausses, and he clenched his hands atop the table.

She stroked along his length, and even though two layers of cloth separated them, he felt the heat of her fingers like the glowing blade of a new-forged sword. A groan escaped him, and Wilham, seated on his other side, turned in askance.

“Are ye all right?” he murmured, frowning. “Ye look ill.”

Blade tried to take a steady breath, but ‘twas difficult, so difficult, with the woman caressing him like that.

“Fine,” he managed, giving Wilham what he knew was an unconvincing smile.

Wilham arched a dubious brow.

“Is somethin’ wrong, Blade?” Rose asked, her face as guileless as an angel’s.

Blade clamped his teeth as a wave of sweet agony washed over him. The wicked wench tormented him deliberately.

Wilham leaned close and whispered across Blade to Rose. “Does he look ill to ye?”

She furrowed her brow in faux concern and whispered back. “He does look a bit…flushed.” She slipped her hand deviously along his inner thigh then, delving between his legs to carefully caress his ballocks. It took all Blade’s strength not to moan in pleasure. “Are ye sure ye’re feelin’ well, Blade?”

“Fine,” he choked. Then he turned to her with a lusty glare that would have singed any other woman’s eyelashes.

But Rose was undaunted, amused by his struggle to remain composed as she worked her wiles upon him. And to his utter surprise, he found her devilish ploys strangely tantalizing. She challenged him, he realized. And no knight could refuse a challenge. Despite the sweat beading his lip, he gave her a grim smile and turned back to Wilham. Never mind that Rose worked seduction on him mere inches away. He’d focus on Wilham’s words.

“Any news?” he murmured under another clamorous tanner’s tale. He picked up his cup and sipped casually, bent on ignoring Rose entirely.