Passion's Exile Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Taste of Danger...

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  EPILOGUE

  Excerpt from NATIVE GOLD

  About The Author

  A Taste of Danger...

  “Kiss me!” Rose clapped her fingers over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. "That is, Sir Blade," she said, “Would ye do me the honor o’ grantin’ me a kiss?"

  "Nae." The word was cold, hard, final. "I won’t be used in such a manner."

  She gulped. "I meant no offense," she whispered. "‘Tis only that I’ve never had a kiss, not a proper one."

  Blade’s voice was a low growl. " Do ye expect a disgraced felon to give ye a proper kiss?"

  His words dizzied her. But Rose wasn’t afraid. He wouldn’t hurt her. She knew he wouldn’t. "Aye."

  The hands that seized her jaw weren’t gentle. They were demanding. His harsh stubble scraped across her cheek without a care for her delicate skin. And his mouth... His mouth consumed her like liquid fire.

  She should have detested his touch. ‘Twas rough and brutal and shocking. She should have fought her way free, wiped his cruel kiss from her mouth.

  But she didn’t want to.

  “Glynnis Campbell is a gifted new voice.”

  —Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Ms. Campbell keeps readers glued to the pages.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “A wonderful medieval voice and a great flair for the dramatic."

  —Romance Readers at Heart

  “Glynnis Campbell entertains her audience.”

  —Harriet Klausner

  “A fresh, exciting voice who knows how to stir a reader’s blood.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKClub

  “Glynnis Campbell, a born storyteller.”

  —Romance Authors & Readers

  PASSION’S EXILE

  Glynnis Campbell

  Other books by Glynnis Campbell:

  My Champion

  My Warrior

  My Hero

  Lady Danger (writing as Sarah McKerrigan)

  Captive Heart (writing as Sarah McKerrigan)

  Knight’s Prize (writing as Sarah McKerrigan)

  Danger’s Kiss (writing as Sarah McKerrigan)

  Captured by Desire (writing as Kira Morgan)

  Seduced by Destiny (writing as Kira Morgan)

  This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Glynnis Campbell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Book design and illustration by Richard Campbell

  Glynnis Campbell – Publisher

  P. O. Box 341144

  Arleta, California 91331

  ISBN-10: 1938114000

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938114-00-7

  Contact:[email protected]

  For my brother Brenn,

  who sometimes deems himself unworthy,

  but is always welcome home.

  Thank you for Sancho and Pancho,

  Trolly and Wishvicky,

  Sewers Beer, pine-needle forts,

  and wacky radio dramas,

  and remember, I am co-captain of the team.

  Did you say it? Did you say it?

  (Maniacal laughter)

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to

  Olivia Hussey and Viggo Mortensen

  and the kids from

  The Highly Gifted Magnet

  of North Hollywood,

  in particular,

  Thomas Hanff, Bryan Haut,

  Byron Miller, and Daniel Souleles,

  who were endlessly amusing and inspiring

  and are herein immortalized.

  CHAPTER 1

  AVERLAIGH MANOR

  NEAR DUNBLANE, SCOTLAND

  SPRING 1391

  Rosamund tickled the downy feathers of her falcon’s throat, cooing softly to the bird. Wink’s talons gripped her leather glove, and the falcon cocked its head, studying her mistress’s curving lips with its one good eye.

  "Such a bonnie lass," Rose purred, bobbing her arm to make Wink spread her splendid wings.

  The falcon might be maimed, but to Rose, Wink was the most beautiful bird in her mother’s mews. Rose’s gaze roamed over the others—hooded gyrfalcons and tiercels and merlins caught in the wild, now leashed to their perches—and she furrowed her brow at the subtle reminder of her own imminent capture.

  "‘Twon’t be so bad, Wink," she said, trying to convince herself as well as the bird. She swept her long sable hair back over her shoulder and smoothed the falcon’s wings into place. "I’m sure Sir Gawter will provide a fine, warm mews for ye." And, she silently added—her brow creasing with displeasure—a fine, warm bed for her.

  She’d met Sir Gawter of Greymoor a fortnight ago. He’d been a homecoming surprise from Lady Agatha, Rose’s mother.

  Because Rose had been sent away from Averlaigh at the age of seven to be fostered at faraway Fernie House for the last eleven years, she hardly remembered her mother. She definitely didn’t recall having a betrothed. The news had come as a nasty shock—for her and for Wink.

  The falcon had taken instant exception when Sir Gawter tried to kiss Rose’s cheek in greeting, screeching and swooping at the man’s head.

  True, Rose had been slow to call off her bird. But ‘twas only because she’d been so astonished by the kiss. Naturally, she was punished for the insult, forbidden to fly her bird.

  It hadn’t stopped her, of course. She’d simply removed the bells from Wink’s jesses and been more secretive about her daily escapes into the countryside to exercise her pet.

  But ever since, Rose had counted the weeks to her impending marriage with growing dread, as if she awaited her execution.

  ‘Twasn’t that Sir Gawter was abhorrent. He was young and tall and rather comely. He had lively blue eyes, a boyish dimple, and a fringe of golden curls. He was gallant, well-spoken, and clever. He could wield a sword and play the lute with equal agility. And he extended favors and flattery with a generous hand.

  But Rose felt nothing when she was around him, other than a vague and nagging sense of doom.

  Rose blew gently upon the bird’s breast, riffling her feathers. "I wish I were a falcon,” she sighed. “Ye’ve no use for a silly husband, have ye? All ye need are the open sky and the wind under your wings."

  She glanced again around the moldering mews—at the gaps between the battered timbers and the feathers thickly littering the ground. Rose’s stepfather had done nothing to keep the place up, and now that he lay dying, the decrepit pile of stones would become Sir Gawter’s when they wed.

  Rose couldn’t imagine why he’d want it. The manor was in ruins. Riding up to Averlaigh for the first time since she was a small child, she’d experienced a pang of disappointment.

  Compared to her home at Fernie House, which—though not lavishly appointed—was at least tidy and well-kept, Averlaigh looked like a withering old crone. The plaster walls of the great room we
re chipped and stained with char. Mice crept through the moldy rushes in the hall’s corners and pattered across Rose’s chamber floor at night. An odor of faint decay hung in the air within the stone walls, and outside, the once resplendent gardens were overgrown with thistles.

  Rose’s mother, however, seemed to have suffered no such wear. The manor might crumble apart, but Lady Agatha was careful to keep her own appearance untouched by age.

  Like Rose, her complexion was the color of fresh cream, her eyes an enigmatic blend of gold and brown and green, her hair glossy black. Lady Agatha took great pains to rouge her cheeks and lips, to perfume her skin, and to keep her sumptuous garments in perfect repair.

  Rose couldn’t be bothered with such nonsense. She could hardly sit still to have her hair plaited, and she had no patience for the endless lacing it took to get her into her layered gowns of silk and brocade. The moment she awoke, splashed water on her face, and tossed on a kirtle, she was ready to fetch Wink for a walk through the hills or saddle a palfrey for a morning gallop.

  Indeed, this morn she’d cast aside the gown of amber damask embroidered with threads of gold that the maid had laid out for her, choosing instead a sturdy kirtle of blue frieze. There was no need to fret if the hem grew soiled from the mews or the garden or the heather-cloaked knolls.

  "Well, bonnie Wink, let’s see what Apollo can find for your supper today."

  Wink tipped her head and fluffed up her feathers, as if she understood.

  Because Wink couldn’t hunt for herself, she needed to rely upon skilled gyrfalcons like Apollo to bring down prey for her. But that was Wink’s only concession to her impaired vision. The little falcon, as willful and impetuous as Rose herself, careened fearlessly through the sky, unconcerned with the consequences of such blind and reckless flight.

  Within a short time, Apollo managed to catch a sparrow for Wink and a young rabbit for himself. Rose let the birds gorge, and by the time she returned Apollo to the mews, ‘twas almost time for her own supper.

  She tarried on her way to the great hall, in no hurry to sup with her betrothed. Seeing Sir Gawter only reminded her that very soon he intended to share not only meals, but a bed, children, and the rest of their lives together.

  With Wink upon her glove, she ambled past the dog kennels, pausing to scratch the ears of the oldest flea-bitten hound, and pulled a thistle as she crossed the courtyard. She peered up at the ragged blue pennon fluttering from the half-collapsed tower and nodded to a maid drawing water from the well. She kicked a stray pebble through the grass until it rolled against the stone wall of the garden.

  A horse whickered softly from the stables nearby. Rose slid her gaze toward the lowering sun and the long-shadowed hills in the west. There was just enough time left to visit the horses and settle Wink in her bedchamber before supper.

  The groom was gone, but Rose knew which palfreys were tame and which would bite. As she crept into the hay-sweet warmth of the stable, slivers of sunlight pierced through the cracks between the timbers in long golden spears, illuminating airborne dust and bits of straw. The dun-colored gelding stamped his hoof, and the russet mare chomped noisily on a mouthful of hay.

  A curious rustling of straw at the back of the stable made Rose’s ears perk up. She stopped in her tracks. Silence.

  Then it came again. She frowned. Rats, most likely.

  But as she took one silent step forward, the rustling took on a rhythmic pattern. This time she thought she heard whispers. People.

  Intrigue.

  Her eyes widened. Rose knew that stables were a favored place for trysting. By the sound, ‘twas indeed what transpired.

  She caught her lip between her teeth. She should leave. She knew that. She should turn around and creep back out the way she came in. ‘Twas probably just the groom and one of his mistresses. ‘Twas sinful to spy. Sinful.

  But—curse her impulsive nature—once something piqued her curiosity, Rose couldn’t turn away.

  Quietly, she secured Wink to a wooden post. Then she let her naughty feet propel her stealthily forward until, from behind the pillar of the last stall, she caught a glimpse of naked flesh.

  They didn’t see her. The couple was lost in their passion, writhing on the bed of hay, their limbs tangled, their bodies bucking in violent counterpoint, their gasping mouths fouling the air with vile and interesting words the like Rose had never heard.

  She stood gaping in fascination and revulsion. The man’s bare buttocks flexed and shuddered as he pumped mercilessly against the woman’s body. And yet the woman made no complaint. Instead, her ankles hooked around his waist, and her fingers clawed at his back, as if she were a spider consuming a fly. They smacked together faster and faster, their oaths turning into incoherent moans, until finally the woman shrieked, the man groaned, and they collapsed back on the straw, spent.

  If Rose hadn’t been so transfixed, she might have escaped unnoticed. But the man chose that moment to lift his head, and when he turned toward Rose, shock forced a slow, ragged gasp from her throat. ‘Twas Sir Gawter. And beneath him, panting from her exertions, was her own mother.

  Their eyes met, and for a moment no one spoke. Rose felt paralyzed, as if she’d stumbled into a nightmare where the world was cast completely awry.

  "Shite," Lady Agatha finally muttered. Then she giggled weakly, laying her head back on the hay.

  Gawter didn’t find the situation so amusing. "What are ye doin’ here?" he snarled, his normally gentle face contorted with rage.

  "I...I..." Rose gagged on her words. She longed to run, to flee out the stable door and keep on running, to run until the sun disappeared and the night came and the darkness blotted out all memory.

  "Leave her be, Gawter," her mother said.

  "I asked ye a question," he insisted.

  Rose tried to look away, but her gaze seemed fixed on them. Gawter concealed his now shrunken member with a fistful of straw, but Rose knew she’d never forget the pathetic sight. And her mother lolled unabashedly on the hay, her nipples pinched and red, the black hair between her legs damp with sweat.

  Rose shivered in revulsion. Gawter angrily clenched his teeth and made as if to stand, but her mother stayed him.

  "I’ll speak to her," she purred, smoothing the hair back from his forehead. "Get dressed, love, before the whole manor comes to see what wild beast has made such a fierce howl in the stables."

  Gawter pinned Rose with a gaze like an iron spike, but he did as Lady Agatha advised, shoving his arms into his shirt and cote-hardie, stabbing his legs into his trews. Meanwhile, Agatha watched Rose with amused interest.

  Rose staggered out of his way when he stepped forward, thinking he intended to pass. Instead he grabbed her by the neck and shoved her back against the wall of the stable. The back of her head thudded against the wood, splintering her sight, and his fingers tightened around her throat, crushing her windpipe.

  She scrabbled at his hands, to no avail. Through a stunned haze, she heard Wink’s piercing cry and the ineffectual flapping of the bird’s wings against her tether.

  "This changes nothin’," Gawter bit out. "Nothin’! Do ye hear? Ye’ll still be my wife. Breathe a word o’ this to anyone, and I’ll kill ye."

  Dazed breathless, she shut her eyes tightly against his horrible visage—his face flushed purple with exertion and fury, his eyes narrowed to beady slits, spittle gathering at the corner of his cruel mouth.

  "Mark my words. I’ll kill ye," he hissed.

  He let her go then, and she collapsed forward, choking, falling to her knees on the stable floor. She didn’t watch him leave, but Wink screeched at him as he passed.

  "Poor bairn," Lady Agatha cooed when he had gone, her voice like honey laced with hemlock. "Ye’ve had a nasty startle, haven’t ye? Come to your mother."

  Rose clasped her bruised throat. Come to her? She couldn’t even look at her.

  "Come along, sweet." Agatha patted the straw beside her in invitation.

  Rose wheezed, steadyi
ng herself against the urge to vomit. Was the woman mad? She slowly shook her head.

  "Rosamund!" her mother snapped, shuffling into her discarded garments. "Don’t be a shrew!"

  Rose’s head swam in chaotic circles of outrage and disbelief. She needed to stop her ears against her mother’s strident voice. She should never have come into the stable. She should never have come back to Averlaigh at all.

  Agatha picked at bits of straw clinging to her velvet sleeve. "I’m sorry," she quipped testily, "if ye were surprised by what ye saw. But Gawter is right. It changes nothin’."

  Rose didn’t mean to speak. She meant to remain silent until she could gather her wits to scramble to her feet and flee. But, as usual, her tongue had a will of its own.

  "It changes nothin’?” she rasped. “God’s blood! How can ye believe that? Ye lay with him, Mother. Ye swived him, for God’s sake!"

  "Faugh!" her mother warned. "Heed Gawter well. He means what he says. If ye speak o’ this, those words will be your last."

  Rose stared at her mother, incredulous.

  Agatha came to her feet and regally smoothed her skirts. "I think, my dear Rosamund, your foster mother has neglected to teach ye the ways o’ the world. Very well then. ‘Tis up to me. Come." She held out a hand toward Rose.

  Rose shuddered.

  Agatha sighed, then crouched beside her, catching Rose’s chin in a firm grip. Rose reeled from the musky smell of sex upon her. "So lovely." Agatha smiled bleakly. "I was once as lovely as ye." She ran her thumb along Rose’s lower lip, and Rose jerked her head away. "But even ye—sweet and young and fresh as ye are—can’t hope to satisfy the insatiable appetites o’ such a man."

  Rose narrowed her eyes in disgust.

  "‘Tisn’t ye, dear daughter. ‘Tis the way o’ men. The ravenous beasts cannot be content with just one lover." She tilted her head. "Ye haven’t lost your heart to him, have ye?"