Read Online Passion's Exile by Glynnis Campbell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Glynnis Campbell
Tags: Romance
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awake on the path. Though her eyes stung with fatigue and her limbs hung like lead weights, she was too anxious to drowse.
Only when the sky darkened from periwinkle to deep azure in the fading light of the afternoon, only when they broke through the fringe of trees marking the place where the forest ended and the gentle slope of Clackmannan began, did Rose realize where they’d come.
Rising before her against the dimming canopy was a grand manor that might have looked welcoming to Rose in her weary state, but for the familiar yellow banner streaming out from its square tower. Her heart sank. They’d come to de Murs, the home of addled old Sir Fergus, with whom Wink had had…the unfortunate accident…just a fortnight ago.
“Lucifer’s ballocks,” Rose whispered to the falcon. “Not de Murs.”
It hadn’t been Wink’s fault.
They’d stopped at this exact spot on their journey from Fernie House to Averlaigh a fortnight ago. ‘Twas only for a few hours, to rest their horses and ease their hunger. Sir Fergus had been a generous, if feeble-witted, host. But while his renowned cook was preparing a supper feast for them, Rose and Wink had retired to his guest chamber. While Rose was napping, Wink managed to pry open the cage of prize finches Sir Fergus kept in the room and had enjoyed her own feast. What ensued was an ugly scene Rose didn’t care to recall.
They couldn’t possibly stay here. Sir Fergus was sure to recognize her. Or at least her bird. And yet there was nowhere else to go.
With each step up the arduous path toward the manor, Rose’s pace slowed and her thoughts raced.
Maybe she could abandon the pilgrims and slip away unnoticed. She could hide in the stables or the mews and rejoin the company in the morning.
But nae, there was one who would surely note her absence. Blade had been eyeing her all day like a hawk watching a mouse.
Rose silently cursed. What a coil she was in. Of all the houses in Scotland, why had they come to de Murs? Even now, from one of the high windows, a servant waved at them in welcome. If only she had her cloak or something—anything—to cover her face… Even so, the by-now-infamous feathered, one-eyed murderer would surely give her away.
If she were discovered now, if all her running had been for nothing, and she had to return to Averlaigh, to her pathetic mother and the depraved man she was supposed to marry…
Rose felt ill.
Ill.
That was it! Aye, she felt ill, quite ill, too ill to dine with the others. Too ill, in fact, to even meet their host.
Carefully furrowing her brow, she tried thinking ill thoughts. ‘Twas little challenge. Having traveled all night and all day with scarcely a bite to eat, forced to consort with outlaws and scoundrels, pursued by men who wished to slay her, she was already half sick with apprehension. She let out a weak moan. The nuns turned to see what was amiss.
Rose pressed her fingers to her temple.
“Does your head ail ye?” one of the sisters inquired.
“Aye.” Rose emitted a shaky sigh. “It troubles me from time to time.”
“Maybe ye should go directly to bed when we reach the manor,” the other sister suggested.
Rose nearly smiled at how neat and simple it had been. But just for good measure, she kept up her pretense, lurching along the road, clutching her head, and moaning occasionally.
At one point, she wondered if perhaps she should be less conspicuous. After all, she didn’t wish Sir Fergus to fetch her a physician who might reveal her fakery.
But ‘twas too late. Unbeknownst to her, she’d already drawn the eye of the one with enough cunning to expose her.
Blade’s senses grew alert the moment he saw the lady weave off the path. He thought at first ‘twas mere fatigue. Her strength had been waning for the last hour. He’d seen it in the declining angle of her arm and the slowing of her step. He’d begun to wonder if she’d make it up the shallow hill to de Murs manor.
But now she’d started
Only when the sky darkened from periwinkle to deep azure in the fading light of the afternoon, only when they broke through the fringe of trees marking the place where the forest ended and the gentle slope of Clackmannan began, did Rose realize where they’d come.
Rising before her against the dimming canopy was a grand manor that might have looked welcoming to Rose in her weary state, but for the familiar yellow banner streaming out from its square tower. Her heart sank. They’d come to de Murs, the home of addled old Sir Fergus, with whom Wink had had…the unfortunate accident…just a fortnight ago.
“Lucifer’s ballocks,” Rose whispered to the falcon. “Not de Murs.”
It hadn’t been Wink’s fault.
They’d stopped at this exact spot on their journey from Fernie House to Averlaigh a fortnight ago. ‘Twas only for a few hours, to rest their horses and ease their hunger. Sir Fergus had been a generous, if feeble-witted, host. But while his renowned cook was preparing a supper feast for them, Rose and Wink had retired to his guest chamber. While Rose was napping, Wink managed to pry open the cage of prize finches Sir Fergus kept in the room and had enjoyed her own feast. What ensued was an ugly scene Rose didn’t care to recall.
They couldn’t possibly stay here. Sir Fergus was sure to recognize her. Or at least her bird. And yet there was nowhere else to go.
With each step up the arduous path toward the manor, Rose’s pace slowed and her thoughts raced.
Maybe she could abandon the pilgrims and slip away unnoticed. She could hide in the stables or the mews and rejoin the company in the morning.
But nae, there was one who would surely note her absence. Blade had been eyeing her all day like a hawk watching a mouse.
Rose silently cursed. What a coil she was in. Of all the houses in Scotland, why had they come to de Murs? Even now, from one of the high windows, a servant waved at them in welcome. If only she had her cloak or something—anything—to cover her face… Even so, the by-now-infamous feathered, one-eyed murderer would surely give her away.
If she were discovered now, if all her running had been for nothing, and she had to return to Averlaigh, to her pathetic mother and the depraved man she was supposed to marry…
Rose felt ill.
Ill.
That was it! Aye, she felt ill, quite ill, too ill to dine with the others. Too ill, in fact, to even meet their host.
Carefully furrowing her brow, she tried thinking ill thoughts. ‘Twas little challenge. Having traveled all night and all day with scarcely a bite to eat, forced to consort with outlaws and scoundrels, pursued by men who wished to slay her, she was already half sick with apprehension. She let out a weak moan. The nuns turned to see what was amiss.
Rose pressed her fingers to her temple.
“Does your head ail ye?” one of the sisters inquired.
“Aye.” Rose emitted a shaky sigh. “It troubles me from time to time.”
“Maybe ye should go directly to bed when we reach the manor,” the other sister suggested.
Rose nearly smiled at how neat and simple it had been. But just for good measure, she kept up her pretense, lurching along the road, clutching her head, and moaning occasionally.
At one point, she wondered if perhaps she should be less conspicuous. After all, she didn’t wish Sir Fergus to fetch her a physician who might reveal her fakery.
But ‘twas too late. Unbeknownst to her, she’d already drawn the eye of the one with enough cunning to expose her.
Blade’s senses grew alert the moment he saw the lady weave off the path. He thought at first ‘twas mere fatigue. Her strength had been waning for the last hour. He’d seen it in the declining angle of her arm and the slowing of her step. He’d begun to wonder if she’d make it up the shallow hill to de Murs manor.
But now she’d started
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