MacFarland's Lass

by Campbell, Glynnis

  The aged priest seemed to shrink within his already withered frame. "I won't go back there. Do not ask it o' me, lad."

  Rane hated haranguing the poor fellow. He understood the priest's fears. Like the holy men before him, Father Conan believed in the curse. In the old man's mind, something evil in the church had ruined him, slowly destroying his eyesight until he could no longer fulfill his priestly duties.

  "'Tisn't for my sake, Father," Rane said, hunkering down by the fire to stir the coals and adding another log. "'Tis for a lass."

  The priest rocked forward on his three-legged stool with a knowing frown. "Why does that not surprise me?"

  "This one's in grave danger. Someone chased her through the wood. If ye don't grant her sanctuary—"

  The priest shivered visibly. "That church is hardly a sanctuary," he said bitterly. "I'd imagine the devil himself has taken up residence there by now."

  "Then all the better for her," he countered. "No one will dare enter the sanctuary to seize her."

  "Nor will I. I crawled out o' that cursed nave four winters ago. I have no intention o' goin' back. The place is filled with evil." He crossed himself. "Ye should remove her before it works its sorcery upon her."

  "Ach! I don't believe in sorcery."

  "Five priests, Rane, five." He recited the history almost like an incantation. "One by English dagger. One by fire. One by water. One fallen to drink. And one…" He gestured to his sightless eyes.

  Rane supposed there was no shaking the priest's conviction that the premature demise of the holy men was somehow orchestrated by the devil. Father Conan found it unthinkable to blame his god or fate for the cruel irony of robbing a priest of his sight.

  But in Rane's eyes, the priest's refusal to return to the church meant that King Henry had won when he'd attacked the sanctuary four years ago. And that was unthinkable to Rane. He wanted Scotland to reclaim the church, to forever dispel the myth of Henry's curse.

  With a sigh, Rane crossed to the pantry shelf, perusing the nearly depleted stores. A week ago he'd brought the priest a haunch of venison. 'Twas gone, yet the Father looked as gaunt and frail as ever. Rane unwrapped a block of cheese, carving away the mold with his knife.

  "Ye've been givin' your food away to beggars again, haven't ye?"

  "There are those less fortunate and more hungry."

  Rane shook his head. Blind, old, and feeble, Father Conan still believed he was privileged among men.

  "By Loki, ye're as shrunken as a grandmother's teat," he scolded. "Ye'll starve yourself to death. Then where will the beggars go for food?"

  "Rane," the Father chided, "ye know I cannot turn away one in need."

  "And what about this lass in need?"

  The priest's mouth turned down, and his face closed like the visor on a yeoman's helmet.

  Rane wrapped and replaced the cheese, then crouched beside the priest, resting a hand upon the man's shoulder. "She's not well, Father. She's wounded and—"

  Father Conan grumbled, "Then she has need of a doctor, not a priest."

  "Her first need is for protection."

  "Ye have a bow. Ye protect her."

  "Father, she's asked for sanctuary." Rane's patience was dwindling. "I cannot take her confession."

  "Then find another church. Find another priest," the Father muttered. "But do not ask me to go into that devil's den again."

  Rane rose, mouthing a silent oath. Indeed, he couldn't blame the Father. King Henry's men had left their mark. No one had entered the place in four years. Even the most devout of priests wouldn't take up residence there. Nor did he imagine the nasty, ill-tempered priest who presided over the church at nearby Selkirk could be persuaded to travel to hear the confession of a lone maiden in a moldering church purported to be cursed.

  As for conveying her elsewhere, the nearest sanctuary was miles away. Though Rane supposed he could carry her the distance if he heaved her across his back like a deer, 'twas too dangerous to move her.

  Rane clenched his fists, frustrated. "Father, I pray ye… There's no one else."

  The priest's chin quivered, partly with fear, partly with irritation. "I will…pray for her."

  Rane blew out an exasperated breath. "Evil spirits," he muttered, his patience at an end. "Curses. The devil. If ye ask me, every one o' those priests was the victim of his own human frailty or the simple cruelty o' fate."

  The Father blinked in surprise.

  "Aye, even ye," Rane continued, unable to halt his tirade, harsh though 'twas. "'Tis far too easy to blame your misfortune on the devil. Maybe your god gave ye this affliction. Maybe he blinded ye to test your faith."

  'Twas the first time Rane had ever voiced his opinion on the matter, and perhaps later he would regret his candor. But at the moment he didn't have time to smooth the priest's ruffled feathers. He didn't trust the lass to stay where he'd left her. Every moment he was away, the threat to her grew. And he wasn't about to abandon the lass he'd wounded by his own hand.

  So with a pointed slam of the priest's door, he trudged back along the overgrown path from the cottage to the old church.

  What was he to do now? How would he explain to the lass that of all the wayside churches dotting the road from Falkirk to Selkirk, she'd managed to choose the one with the threshold no priest would cross?

  "Ballocks." Florie perched on the low fridstool with her bare legs stretched out before her. Damn her chemise! 'Twas stuck to her bloody bandages, stuck in such a way that when she tried to get up, it pulled painfully at the scab. And all her tugging at the linen had caused her only more pain and frustration. As she bent over the injury, she saw 'twas bleeding again.

  "Ye're not worryin' that wound, are ye?"

  She yelped in surprise. She hadn't even heard the stealthy hunter come in. She hastily tossed her skirts back down over her legs, but not, she noted, before he got a good, long look at them.

  He closed the door behind him. "Are ye?"

  She gulped guiltily. How long had he been watching her? She should have left while she had the chance, her wound be damned. And aye, she was worrying it, with good reason.

  "Nae," she lied.

  The arch of his brow said he didn't believe her. "If ye worry at it," he said, resting his bow and arrows against the wall, "the wound won't heal."

  "I'm not," she insisted.

  One corner of his lip drifted up in a dubious smirk, and he started inexorably forward. "Let me see."

  "'Tis fine."

  She was sure she'd seen a lusty gleam in his eye a moment ago. 'Twas doubtless a dangerous thing to let him anywhere near her bare flesh. And yet here he came.

  "The cloth is stuck fast to the wound, isn't it?" he guessed, hunkering down far too closely beside her.

  "Nae," she hedged.

  "Show me."

  She drew her leg up out of his reach. She refused to be cowed into submission, no matter how her heart quivered with the powerful giant so near. "I can take care of it myself."

  To prove her point, she braced her hands on the arms of the fridstool, preparing to get up despite the painful consequences.

  He stopped her with a single hand on her shoulder. "Sit."

  She had little choice. Her strength was no match for his.

  "I vowed to take care o' ye, love," he told her with a wink. "'Tis what I intend to do."

  She bit at her lip. Despite his casual endearment and coy wink, his words sounded more like a threat than a vow, and her heart skittered at the thought of him sliding his fingers along her thigh. "I don't need your help. I'll be fine."

  He ignored her words, nodding toward her leg. "Let me see."

  Heat crept into her cheeks. "I'll find a doctor in the burgh."

  "I wouldn't advise it. We've only one doctor in Selkirk, and he's a crack-pated butcher." He took hold of the hem of her skirt and started to tug it upward.

  "Wait!" She clapped her hands over her knees to hamper his progress. "What about the priest ye promised to fetch?"

&n
bsp; He lowered his gaze. "In time, wee one." He tugged again on her kirtle. "First your wound."

  "Nae!" She tightened her grip on her skirts. She was fast running out of excuses. "Nae… I…"

  He paused and studied her, absently rubbing the fabric of her skirt between his thumb and finger. "Are ye blushin'?" A half smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. "Ach, darlin', I assure ye, 'tis nothin' I haven't seen already."

  She swallowed. He needn't remind her of that fact. She clung fiercely to the last bit of cloth guarding her modesty as her gaze darted over his sinewy forearms and broad shoulders. She wondered if he might resort to bodily restraining her. If he did, she'd fight, but she knew she hadn't a breath of hope against him.

  After a long moment of impasse, to her immense relief, he withdrew, shaking his head and settling himself patiently on the floor beside her. He snagged the costrel from his hip and uncorked it. "Ale?"

  She nodded, uncertain of his game, yet grateful for any reprieve from his physical attentions.

  But the knave didn't immediately offer it to her. Instead, he swirled the ale lazily around in the costrel. "Ye're a merchant, aye? I'll tell ye what I'll do. I'll make a bargain with ye," he said, a faint sparkle in his shrewd gaze. "Ye let me look after your wound, and I'll give ye a drink."

  She lowered her brows. "That isn't a bargain," she told him. "'Tis extortion."

  He gave her a maddening shrug.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. The rogue might think he'd gotten the best of her, but she'd learned a trick or two from her foster father about haggling. One way or another, she'd get her way.

  "Give me my drink first," she said. "Then I'll let ye look at it."

  He thoughtfully stroked his chin. "Fair enough. One swallow. More later." He passed her the costrel.

  She took one swig. Then stole another. But just as she would have nervily downed the rest of its contents, he wrested the vessel away.

  "Enough, darlin'," he chided, popping the stopper in.

  Darlin'. Did he have to keep calling her that? Nobody called her that. Every time he did it, her silly heart fluttered inexplicably, which only increased her discomfort.

  "With no food in your belly, lass," he added, "ye're likely to drink yourself into a stupor."

  He'd likely prefer that, she thought. "Then ye could paw me at your leisure," she murmured under her breath, though apparently not enough under her breath.

  "Paw ye?"

  She blushed. "'Twould seem to be your wont."

  "Indeed?" By the subtle crinkling of his eyes, her words appeared to entertain him. "I assure ye I've never pawed a lass in my life." He tucked the costrel back into his belt. "Caressed maybe. Fondled. But pawed?"

  Florie's ears burned. The last thing she needed to hear was a full accounting of the knave's debauchery.

  "Maybe," he whispered, leaning far too close to her, close enough that she could see blue crystals in his pale green eyes as he arched an amused brow, "ye're afraid ye might enjoy it."

  The blood rushed to her face, and her mouth made an "O" of outrage.

  He was spared her reply when a sharp cough came from the direction of the church door. Her guardian's knife was out and flipped backward in his hand, poised for throwing, before Florie could even look up. Faith, did he always attack first and identify his target later?

  'Twas but a hunched old man in a ragged brown cassock. A ring of rusty keys hung from his belt, and he hobbled in with the aid of a long, gnarled stick. The priest pushed back his cowl, revealing a wrinkled face, a shock of white hair, and a milky stare that marked him as a blind man.

  "Father," the archer said, sliding his knife back into its sheath. "Ye came."

  The priest shivered once, then crossed himself. "Even old fools can mend their ways, Rane."

  Florie glanced up at her meddlesome defender, who rose to meet the priest. Rane. So that was his name. It suddenly seemed appalling that, before this moment, she couldn't even name the man taking such liberties with her person.

  The old priest took a slow breath of musty air and croaked, "I fear I've been away too long."

  He extended his wrinkled hand, and Rane took it, drawing the old priest into a hearty and completely irreverent embrace. Florie's eyes widened. Did the archer treat no one with the proper decorum?

  "Bless ye for comin', Father," he said.

  The wizened priest somehow managed to extricate himself from Rane's smothering hug. "So where's the lass who seeks sanctuary at this forsaken place?"

  "Here, Father," Florie replied, hastily adding, "but I no longer need sanctuary. I'm sure I'll be safe enough now. I just want to go back to the fair."

  Rane frowned. "Back? Ye cannot go back. Not yet."

  "I beg your pardon," Florie said, bristling at the archer's tyrannical nature, no matter how handsome he was, "But I may go wherever and whenever I will."

  "Not while ye're under my protection."

  "I didn't ask for your protection. I don't want your protection."

  "Ye need me."

  "I don't need anybody."

  "Is that so? Well, ye seemed to need me badly enough last night."

  The Father's brows shot up in astonishment at the possible implication of the archer's words. "Rane, do ye hold the lady here against her will?"

  "Nae," Rane said.

  "Aye," Florie interjected.

  The priest shook his head. "I'm told a dozen maids asked after ye last evenin' at the fair, Rane. Leave it to ye to tumble the one who doesn't favor ye."

  Florie's jaw dropped. "Tumble? I didn't—"

  "Ye misunderstand, Father," Rane said, rushing to her defense. "'Tis not the way of it at all." He grimaced, then rubbed at the back of his neck, as if trying to decide how to proceed. Finally, he lowered his shoulders with a deep sigh. "'Tis in truth a very grave matter."

  A shadow drifted across his eyes, liked a grim cloud eclipsing the sun. His hand tightened subtly into a fist at his side, and a muscle twitched once along his cheek. The cocksure knave vanished.

  The priest, blind though he was, detected Rane's darkening mood. He crept closer, his brow furrowed with concern. "What is it, lad?" he whispered, resting a fatherly hand upon Rane's forearm.

  Rane covered the priest's hand with his own and spoke so softly, she had to strain to hear. "I was huntin' last night."

  "Indeed?" The priest raised one snowy brow. "Well, 'tis your trade, after all, Rane."

  Rane exhaled heavily. "Without sanction."

  Florie stilled.

  The priest let his breath out on a soft whistle. "Poachin'."

  "Aye."

  Florie gulped, staring at the archer in horrified awe. She remembered crow-ravaged corpses of poachers twisting from the gallows at Stirling. If Rane was a poacher, maybe he was seeking sanctuary as well.

  "I see," Father Conan said thoughtfully.

  "I've been doin' so for weeks," Rane confessed.

  "But why, lad? Surely ye're well provided for."

  "I am, aye. But some o' the crofters…" He shook his head.

  "Ye give the meat to them," the priest guessed, "and to me." Then he gave a dry chuckle. "And ye scolded me for my soft heart."

  Rane gave the priest back his hand, turned rueful eyes upon Florie, and then furrowed his brows. "There's more." His mouth was grim as he lowered his gaze to her wounded leg, and she saw him swallow back shame. "Last night, while I was huntin', I…" He steeled his jaw and spoke gruffly, but his voice still cracked. "God forgive me, I…"

  Florie didn't want to feel sorry for the varlet. But when she heard that crack in his voice, she couldn't help herself.

  The hunter clearly was not the sort of man to go about shooting maidens for sport. It had been an accident, an accident both appalling and unforgivable to him. He'd never meant to hurt her. God's mercy, the man had shot her while hunting to feed starving crofters.

  Worse, he seemed the kind of person to torment himself over the misdeed for the rest of his life. And as much as her leg
throbbed from his lapse of judgment, or lack of sense, or dearth of skill, she couldn't let him do that. 'Twasn't fair.

  Florie prized fairness. 'Twas the hallmark of a good goldsmith. The man had done his best to make amends. He'd extracted the arrow. He'd dressed her wound. And he'd carried her to sanctuary. The least she could do was ease his guilt.

  "What is it, lad?" the priest asked.

  "I—"

  "He found me lost in the forest," Florie interrupted, "and brought me here." 'Twasn't a lie, not exactly. Wetting her lips, she explained, "Ye see, there was a… a mite of a misunderstandin'…and a mob o' men chased me a great distance through the wood. I scarcely escaped them."

  The anxiety of deceiving a priest made Florie rattle on like a milkmaid with a fresh rumor. "At the edge o' the forest, I…I fell, and this kind man helped me to the church. Since there was no priest within to grant me sanctuary, he offered to watch over me for the night."

  She glanced up at Rane. He was staring at her as if she'd grown horns.

  The priest turned to him. "Is this true, lad?"

  The archer lowered his brows. "Nae."

  "Aye," she replied, glaring pointedly at Rane. "O' course 'tis true. Ye brought me here, didn't ye?"

  He grunted assent.

  "And ye watched over me."

  "Aye, but—"

  "There. Ye see?"

  "Rane MacFarland," the priest chided him, clucking his tongue at the perplexed archer, "ye're too humble for your own good." He inclined his head toward Florie. "Have no fear, my child. All are welcome in the house o' the Lord. 'Tis a decrepit old church, nearly as decrepit as myself, but surely ye shall have sanctuary here. Lad, there's a fridstool here somewhere, as I recall. I'll unearth my books from the vestry." Then he waddled off.

  "Pray do not trouble yourself, Father," Florie called after the priest. "I cannot stay here much longer. As soon as I'm able to walk, I'll just be on my way and—"

  "Nonsense, lass," he replied, unlocking the vestry door with one of his keys and disappearing within. "O' course ye'll stay. Never let it be said that the charity o' the…"

  As the priest's words dwindled out of hearing, Rane whirled about, sinking onto his haunches beside Florie. "Ye lied for me," he accused. His eyes were suspicious and entirely too penetrating. "Why?"