Passion's Exile by Glynnis Campbell

“What do ye want?”
    Surer than a falcon on the hunt, he grabbed her free wrist. She yanked back, but his grip was firm. She glanced down. His great scarred knuckles seemed to devour her trembling hand. The iron of his shackles was cold upon her wrist, and she swallowed hard as the links of the chain softly clanked against her sleeve.
    Against her will, her gaze was wrenched back up to his face. He frowned, and she noted the color of his eyes. Gray. Unrelenting gray. Cold, hard, sinister gray. The color of consuming fog and impending death. A scream gathered in her throat, and she drank in a lung full of air to give it voice.
    “Hush,” he quietly warned her.
    She should have ignored his threat. After all, a host of pilgrims stood nearby. A dozen defenders would have come to her rescue had she cried out. But something flickered in his gaze, some suggestion of controlled composure that calmed her enough to prevent the gathering scream.
    He dropped his gaze to her bare hand, then turned it until ‘twas palm up. She watched, breathless, and it occurred to her that he might snap her wrist with a single clench of his fist, strangle her with the length of chain, or draw a dagger to slay her, and no one would reach her in time to prevent him.
    “Open your hand,” he bade her.
    As if he’d uttered a spell, she slowly unfurled her fingers. With his other hand, he dropped something carefully into her palm, something small and round and warm. Furrowing her brow, she peered down. ‘Twas a single blue robin’s egg.
    She blinked up at him, confused. Was it a trick of the light, or did she detect slivers of azure amidst the gray of his eyes, a warm spark in the cool ash? ‘Twas extinguished almost as quickly as ‘twas born, and he released her hand with equal haste.
    “For the bird,” he explained.
    She glanced in wonder at the gift. Of course. Food for her falcon.
    Before she could gather her wits to thank him, he nodded in silent farewell. In a sweep of dark wool, worn leather, and rough iron, he turned to rejoin the group.
    Once Rose set the egg on the grass, Wink made quick work of it. But ‘twas a long while down the road before Rose’s heart ceased its erratic beating.
     
    Wilham gave a low whistle when Blade fell in beside him. “Well. She’s magnificent,” he whispered.
    “Aye,” Blade blandly agreed, his eye fixed on the trail.
    “Make a man a fine prize, eh?” Wilham prodded.
    “Aye.”
    “Lovely as a spring day?” Wilham mused.
    Blade shrugged. “Pity about the eye, though.”
    Wilham stopped in his tracks with a disgruntled frown, and Blade walked past him, the hint of a smile twisting his mouth.
    For all Wilham’s virtues, he could be an incessant nag, worse than a doting mother, constantly goading Blade to abandon the road, to take a wife, to purchase himself a parcel of land and settle down. Blade didn’t want to hear another word about the lass with the falcon. Not after the way the woman had knocked his brains all askew.
    He shouldn’t have spoken with her. He’d probably frightened her. In a rare moment of distraction, he’d forgotten that he was no longer Sir Pierce of Mirkhaugh, but Blade the mercenary. For an instant, there had been no tragedy, no dishonor, no past.
    But the lady wasn’t blind. She could see his damning shackles. She was witness to his shame. Naturally she’d assume he meant her harm.
    Approaching her had been doubly foolish considering his mission. Familiarity tainted objectivity. He couldn’t afford to befriend any of the travelers, knowing he planned to expose two of them as assassins.
    He hadn’t meant a thing by the gesture. ‘Twas only that he’d seen the lass had brought no food with her, and while it might do her no harm to go hungry till their next meal, the falcon would suffer without proper sustenance. Live prey was hard to come by, but eggs were easy to find. They weren’t as palatable to a peregrine as fresh kill, but they’d serve. And so when