Read Passion's Exile for Free Online Page B

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