MacFarland's Lass

by Campbell, Glynnis

  The man uncorked the costrel with his straight white teeth, which likely afforded him a dazzling smile when he wasn't scowling in concentration as he did now. No wonder she'd mistaken him for one of God's heavenly host.

  But his angelic image disappeared when he made the mistake of boldly reaching an arm about her shoulders.

  She reacted out of pure instinct, rearing back and jabbing her elbow hard into his belly.

  Rane collapsed forward with a wheeze. The blow didn't hurt. Not really. After all, she was a wee creature, and his stomach was hard with muscle. But the shock of a woman clouting him for nothing served to knock Rane's world awry.

  Women never clouted Rane.

  Women adored Rane.

  He was kind and gentle to them. He was their friend, their lover, their champion. Father Conan claimed there wasn't a female in all of Selkirk who didn't harbor some wee measure of affection for Rane MacFarland.

  "What was that for?" he asked.

  "Do not… touch me," she said stiffly.

  He frowned, perplexed. 'Twas the first time a maid had said that to him. Said it and meant it. He didn't know what to make of it.

  Then he narrowed his eyes. "Ye're still afraid o' me, aren't ye?"

  "Nae." She raised her charmingly dimpled chin a notch, though she didn't meet his gaze. "I'm not afraid of anyone."

  He resisted the urge to remind her that she'd been running from someone last night of whom she was clearly quite afraid. "Be at ease, my love. I only mean to help ye."

  "I don't need your help."

  "Indeed?" He raised a dubious brow.

  "I can manage on my own."

  "I see."

  "And I'm not…"

  "Aye?"

  "Your love." She said it under her breath, as if it were an embarrassing epithet.

  Rane was dumbfounded. "Huh. So ye're done with me, then?"

  She nodded.

  Rane frowned. Was she seriously asking him to go away? He supposed he understood her mistrust—how could he blame her, when he'd so grievously wounded her?

  But 'twas not in Rane's nature to abandon the helpless. He couldn't pass by a bird with a broken wing, much less leave a wounded maid to fend for herself. If the lass had known him better, she would have realized he had no intention of leaving her alone and defenseless.

  "Fine," he bluffed.

  "Fine."

  He popped the cork back into the costrel, noting the fleeting look of dismay that flickered over her face. "I suppose ye'll give and take your own confession as well?" He lifted a brow.

  Her lips were parted as if she meant to say something, but couldn't think of the words. By Freyja, she had a lovely mouth. He wondered if she knew how tempted he was to kiss her, her protests be damned.

  Instead, he rose to his feet.

  "Wait!"

  She would doubtless recant and beg for his aid now.

  "I'll have that drink," she murmured.

  His mouth twitched with amusement. 'Twas hardly the humble supplication he'd expected. "Ye will?"

  She nodded.

  Astounding, he thought, shaking his head. Earlier, as he'd watched the lass sleep, he'd thought her sweet and helpless. He'd planned to explain his unfortunate negligence to her when she awakened, to implore her forgiveness. He'd imagined her blushing, then placing one of her delicate hands upon his forearm, reassuring him with a gentle smile that she absolved him of his sin, murmuring her thanks for bringing her to sanctuary, for seeing to her wound, for protecting her. Maybe she'd offer him a soft kiss as reward, maybe more…

  "Sometime before Lent, if ye please," she quipped.

  He blinked. What a saucy lass she was. Rane was accustomed to maids flushing and stammering around him, stumbling over their words, scarcely able to string one thought to the next. This lass seemed neither intimidated nor awestruck, which was both disconcerting and perversely attractive.

  A bemused smile tugged at the corner of his lip as he surrendered the costrel to her.

  She was weak, probably weaker than she realized. Though she managed to twist off the cork, letting it drop into her lap, her arms began to tremble as she brought the costrel to her lips. She tried to take a sip but tipped it too far and choked instead. Ale dribbled out of her mouth, down her chin, and onto her gown as she alternately coughed and cursed.

  Hunkering down before her, he confiscated the costrel. "Let me help ye, lass."

  He saw her swallow uncertainly as she wiped her mouth with the back of one shaky hand. She might not fear him, but she clearly resented his help. She eyed the costrel, weighing her options, and finally gave him a curt nod.

  He felt he'd won a bit of a victory. Still, he approached her slowly, the way he did a felled animal.

  This time the lass kept her elbows in check. But when he curved his arm about her narrow back, gathering her against his shoulder, she definitely stiffened. Indeed, Rane thought, as he tried to make her comfortable, he'd felt wooden posts more yielding.

  Florie fought to maintain her calm. She wasn't used to being touched. 'Twas overwhelming. Too intimate. Too invasive.

  Once, long ago, she might have enjoyed it. Indeed, she seemed to recall her mother holding her thus when she was a child. But after her death, when Florie had craved comfort the most, her foster father had turned away from her, more at ease with his arms wrapped 'round a keg of ale than his own daughter. And over the years, she'd grown accustomed to the lack of contact.

  Florie told herself she was no longer a child to be coddled and cuddled. She was almost a grown woman, practically a goldsmith in her own right, destined for the guild. She needed no consoling, nor did she want it.

  Especially since her foster father, who wandered about in a drunken fog most of the time, had begun to mistake her for her dead mother. He'd never abused her, but he'd received a sobering slap for his improper advances more than once, and Florie had blackened his eye a fortnight ago when his straying fingers began fumbling at the ties of her gown.

  'Twas that final offense that had convinced her to leave his household altogether to seek out her real father. 'Twas only natural then that she should be mistrustful of anyone laying hands upon her.

  Still, Florie had to admit that the archer's tender overtures were nothing like the frenetic groping to which she'd been exposed. When he eased her upright against his broad chest, surrounding her small body like some oversized throne, his warmth was not unpleasant. And his gentle strength could hardly be called threatening.

  But her heart was definitely pounding, and a powerful surge of strange emotion washed over her. Resisting the urge to lunge away, Florie instead held herself rigid as he brought the costrel to her parched lips.

  The drink was cool and sweet and refreshing. He showed patience, never letting a drop spill, as she slaked her thirst, sip by slow sip.

  Whether 'twas the effect of the ale on her empty belly or simply surrender to the inevitable, she gradually grew accustomed to the intimacy of his embrace. Her pulse calmed, her breathing slowed, and her muscles relaxed into a pleasant languor.

  After a few more pulls from the costrel, she had to concede that resting within the archer's imposing arms wasn't nearly as disagreeable as she'd first imagined. His shoulder was firm and reassuring, warm beneath the thin shirt of linen. He smelled surprisingly favorable, much better than the stagnant air of the church, rather like the forest—all evergreen and moss and rosemary.

  She reached up to tip the costrel further, letting the liquid soothe her throat, and her fingers tangled briefly with his. She couldn't help but notice they were long and sun-bronzed and supple, plainly more human than angelic.

  They were also, she noted, stained with blood. Her blood.

  She choked on the ale.

  "Slowly," he bade her, withdrawing the vessel and wiping away a drip at the corner of her mouth with his thumb, a far too personal gesture. "Better?"

  Florie felt weak and battered, as if a company of soldiers had ridden their warhorses over her.
She was also beginning to get a wee bit tipsy and confused. The man had shot her. She should despise him. Or at least fear him.

  But whether 'twas the comeliness of his face, the persuasion of his voice, the welcome yet unwelcome tenderness of his touch, or simply the ale, there was definitely something intriguing about the man who'd come to her rescue… after, of course, he'd ruthlessly wounded her with his bow and arrow.

  Before she could sort out her tangled thoughts and demand of him how he could have shot her, mistakenly or not, his hand roved brazenly over her face, settling upon her brow.

  "No fever. Good. I'll fetch the priest, clean your wound, change the bandages. Then we'll see about findin' somethin' to eat and—"

  "Nae!" Florie tensed. The man, like a naughty lad stealing a horse, seemed to have seized the reins of her fate to steer her in a direction she didn't wish to go.

  "Nae?"

  "Nae." Remembering the manners her mother had taught her, she added, "Thank ye." She had neither the need nor the time for his help. No matter how handsome he was. "I have to go back to the fair. I have accounts to settle." She nudged back the green wool garment that had been placed over her. "Thank ye for…" For what? she wondered. Shooting her? "For the ale. And the sanctuary. But I cannot tarry. I have—"

  "Ye won't get far with that wound, lass."

  She furrowed her brows. Surely twasn't that bad. After all, the bleeding had stopped. She threw back the covers.

  When she beheld the extent of the gory stains on her clothing, she paled and felt suddenly queasy. She'd lost far more blood than she'd imagined. And to make matters worse, 'twas clear by the bandage that this man, this stranger, had already tended to her. Marry, he'd glimpsed her bare thigh, touched her bare flesh.

  As she sat in stunned silence, he shifted to clasp her under the arms, completely disregarding her propriety. Then, with no more effort or ceremony than if she were a cloth puppet, he dragged her backward until she sat propped against the squat fridstool.

  Her horror must have shown on her face, for when he crouched before her, meeting her gaze, his eyes softened slightly. "Don't be afraid, love. I mean ye no harm."

  Florie stiffened. He misunderstood. Harm or no, she didn't want to be at his mercy. Her wound already left her feeling at a disadvantage, weak and vulnerable. There was nothing she hated more than feeling helpless. She didn't need his aid. She could take care of herself. She'd done so since the day her mother died.

  Already, this stranger had trespassed upon her person. She wouldn't allow it again… no matter how her pulse quickened at the thought.

  He took her hand between his two, not tightly, but firmly enough that she couldn't snatch it back without force.

  "Listen, lass," he said, suddenly serious, his shadowed eyes locking with hers, gentle and commanding all at once, as if they might swallow her soul as surely as his palms swallowed her hand. "I don't want ye to be afraid o' me. I may be unworthy o' forgiveness, but pray hear me out," he murmured. "I never meant to harm ye. I was huntin' in the forest. 'Twas truly an accident. God's truth, I'd sooner cut off my own hand than hurt a maid."

  She gulped as she stared into his beautiful beryl-bright eyes…breathless…speechless…

  Suddenly the church door creaked open, admitting a narrow shaft of sunlight. Florie gasped.

  The archer turned and rose in one smooth movement, drawing his knife and planting himself like a guard between her and whoever violated the sanctuary.

  But between her champion's widespread, towering legs, Florie spied only a tattered old striped cat slinking along the wall. For one horrible instant she wondered if the man might hurl his knife and skewer the animal, the way he'd fired his arrow at her.

  But he lowered his weapon and scolded, "Methuselah! Ye wayward beast." With an exasperated sigh, he sheathed his knife and turned to her, explaining, "I thought it might be the riders who passed by last evenin'."

  Florie's breath caught. "Riders?" She'd been so sure Lord Gilbert had forgotten about her. Had his men followed her, after all? Was she still in danger? Dread squeezed her heart. "What riders?"

  He shrugged, then lifted his brows. "Maybe ye can tell me."

  Maybe not, she thought, swallowing hard. She didn't fully trust the archer. For all she knew, he might be an accomplice to Lord Gilbert. Nae, the less he knew, the better. "I'd rather confess to the priest."

  "As ye like." He swept up his discarded shirt from the flagstones. Lord, was that what she'd slept on all night? "Ye should be safe enough here for a bit if ye stay by the fridstool. The Father doesn't live far. I'll be back in a wink."

  Indeed, she was surprised there was a priest who belonged to this church at all. The crumbling nave looked abandoned by man and perhaps by God as well.

  The archer slipped the crumpled shirt down over his head, followed by his leather jerkin, and Florie only halfheartedly tried to avert her eyes. As he moved, his shirt clung to the defined contours of his back and strained at his wide shoulders, delineating an impressive array of muscle, and when he strode away, 'twas with the elegant strength of a cat. He was the sort of man to turn the heads of ladies and ladies' maids alike—virile, feral, and well-favored. She shivered, deciding 'twas best to avoid such a tempting and dangerous man.

  Just as he reached the door, he turned and fixed his gaze upon her, a gaze that brooked no rebellion. "Stay here."

  Florie blinked. No one ordered her about, and 'twas on the tip of her tongue to tell him so. But for once, she bit off her words, instead turning up the corners of her mouth in what she hoped resembled a smile of compliance.

  No sooner did the door close behind him than she flung his cloak off and began examining her wound, calculating her chances of escaping before he returned.

  Chapter 4

  Rane wasn't fooled for a moment by the lass's foxy grin. He'd seen the mutinous glint in her innocent brown eyes. She might not be able to limp far enough to place herself in real danger before he returned, but he never doubted she'd try. And a lass so beautiful, lame, and helpless was as tempting a target to an outlaw as a crippled fawn was to a wolf.

  At the church well, Rane washed his face from the bucket, welcoming the sobering slap of cold water. He needed the bracing chill to clear his thoughts, which had gone lustfully astray. The lass's elfin eyes, that tempting mouth, her delectably carved body, and the resulting ache in his braies reminded him that he'd been almost a week without a wench. Even his shirt, rumpled from the weight of the maiden's slumber, smelled of her—earthy, sweet, womanly.

  He rattled his head, scattering droplets, and took a deep breath. He needed the fresh air to chase her scent from his nostrils and rouse him from his amorous stupor.

  He also needed to retrieve the discarded weapon he'd left in plain sight, while keeping his senses sharp for the lass's tormenters, who no doubt still ranged somewhere in the forest.

  'Twas more than his natural affinity for helpless females that drove him to protect the maid, more even than his need to assuage his guilt and make amends. Maybe 'twas the challenge of her saucy tongue. Or the memory of her body nestled for warmth against his all night. Or her strange, skittish nature, reminding him of a wild kitten that needed, yet feared, to be stroked.

  Whatever 'twas, that silken skin, those lustrous brown eyes, that curving mouth enchanted him, moved him, and left him feeling as uneasy as a stag catching scent of a hunter.

  This lass intrigued him more than most. If he were inclined to fantasy, he'd almost believe she was one of the impish woodland sprites rumored to live in Ettrick Forest, garbed in the pale pelt of a deer and bejeweled with gold treasure, or perhaps a daughter of the Norse goddess Frigg, playing mischief upon his wits.

  He shook his head as he tromped down the hill toward the pond, scooping up his discarded bow as he went. 'Twas his Scottish blood that made such absurd fancies creep into his brain. Nae, the lass was only human, no matter how difficult 'twas to purge her image—her gentle curves, her trembling mouth, her compelling gaze
—from his mind.

  He found his quiver, undisturbed except for a beetle crawling over the fletching of his arrows. He coaxed the bug onto his finger and set it upon the trunk of a laurel, then slung the quiver over his shoulder.

  A spot of maroon among the fallen leaves caught his eye, and Rane realized with a guilty pang that he looked upon a drop of spilled blood, the lass's blood.

  He carefully picked up the stained leaf. Over the last several years he'd hunted scores of deer, shot them, dressed them out. Never had the sight of blood troubled him. But as he looked upon the leaf, his mouth dried and his fingers began to quake.

  "Loki's teeth," he muttered angrily, crushing the leaf in his fist. What if shooting the lass had spoiled him for hunting altogether?

  Steeling himself against that fear, he searched for the quarrel he'd removed from her thigh. But though he looked high and low, he never found it. And while he deemed himself well rid of the damning shaft, he couldn't help believing some mischief or magic had made it go missing.

  Armed now, Rane hastily loped along the weed-choked path from the church to the priest's cottage, though doubt dogged his heels every step of the way. 'Twould be a miracle if he could get the priest to set foot in the sanctuary after all these years.

  As always, Father Conan welcomed him warmly. The two were old friends, despite Rane's preference for Viking gods, and Rane visited his humble cottage often. The white-haired priest offered him a cup of ale and a seat at the hearth, inquiring about his health and asking whether he'd picked out a wife yet. Rane chuckled at that. Everyone knew Rane was in no hurry to settle down.

  But the old man's hospitality only extended so far. As Rane had expected, after a bit of friendly banter, when he confronted Father Conan with his request, misgiving reared its head. Despite the cheery fire flickering on the hearth, a cool gravity descended upon the cottage, distancing the two men.