Passion's Exile Read Free

submit to life with an incestuous adulterer. The thought of what they’d done…
    “We have to go,” she muttered, biting at her thumb. “We have to leave Averlaigh.”
    She fingered her battered throat. There was no question in her mind. Sir Gawter was dangerous. He’d meant what he’d said—he’d kill her if she revealed his sin.
    “On the morrow,” she decided, “before anyone wakes.” Now that she’d made the decision, her heart raced like that of a loosed falcon. But where would she go?
    She could think of only one refuge. “Fernie House. We’ll go back to Fernie House.”
    Wink bobbed in agreement from her perch. Rose flung open the oak chest at the foot of her bed and began tossing linen chemises and satin slippers and velvet kirtles atop the mattress.
    ‘Twas a desperate flight, a perilous one. All manner of outlaws and wild beasts frequented the roads. And she had no idea what she’d do once she reached Fernie House.
    But what choice did she have?
    “We’ll watch out for each other, won’t we, Wink?”
    Still, as she stuffed her garments into a large satchel and slipped her eating knife into the small sheath at her hip, she began to doubt the wisdom of such a reckless escape.
    Fernie House was near St. Andrews, at least a four days’ ride. And this time, she wouldn’t be traveling with guards. ‘Twas an enormous risk for any fugitive, even greater for a lass alone. Worst of all, once Sir Gawter noticed her missing, he’d send his men to hunt her down.
    Who could she trust? Who would accompany her? She’d only been at Averlaigh for a fortnight. She knew no one.
    She dropped onto the edge of her bed again, chewing at her nail. There had to be a way… People traveled to St. Andrews all the time.
    Some vague memory teased at the edges of her mind. She’d heard something recently, something about a pilgrimage…
    She sprang to her feet, startling Wink.
    At chapel last Sabbath, the father had announced a pilgrimage traveling from Stirling to St. Andrews. Stirling was only a half-day’s ride from Averlaigh. If she joined that pilgrimage…
    A lass might travel in safety in the company of pilgrims.
    The priest had said they were to gather at an inn for the journey. What was the name of it? The Black Boar? Nae, The Black Hound.
    The pilgrims were leaving the morn of Saint Anselm’s Day. Rose quickly calculated the day on her fingers. Her heart plunged. Tomorrow was Saint Anselm’s.
    But she refused to be daunted. It could be done. She’d have to pilfer a horse and steal away at nightfall. She’d have to pray the road was well-marked and free of thieves and wolves. And she’d have to ride like the wind to reach Stirling before daybreak. ‘Twas a bold plan, full of risk. But she could do it.
    “Besides, Wink,” she said somberly, unlacing her soiled blue kirtle, “I suspect we’ll be safer tonight in the woods than within these walls.”
    She was mistaken.
    Sir Gawter was already having her watched.
    Rose never noticed the spies’ vigilant eyes as, hours later—clothed in a fresh linen underdress, her best surcoat of scarlet velvet, and her brown woolen cloak—she quietly led her mother’s palfrey from the stable, mounted up, and set out from Averlaigh.
    She’d ridden several miles along the road toward Stirling when she sensed she was being followed. She dared not turn and look. But by Wink’s unrest, she could tell someone was there. Who, she wasn’t sure. It might be Gawter’s men or common thieves or drunken ravishers. But one thing was certain—no person on honest business rode with such stealth in the middle of the night.
    Rose clucked to the palfrey and whispered, “A wee bit faster, love.” She nudged the horse to a brisk walk.
    A furtive glimpse under cover of her hood a moment later told her that the riders—two of them—had quickened their pace as well.
    At present, they were a hundred yards back, but that could change at any moment. What could she do? She was still