"It looks good," he pronounced cheerily, gently swabbing at the bloodstains. "If the bandage is changed daily, it should heal in a few weeks."
Even as her stomach turned, her heart plummeted. She'd planned to leave behind this sordid mess as soon as possible and be back in the queen's solar in Dumbarton in a few days. She forced her gaze away from the wound, trying to pretend 'twasn't so bad. "I told ye, ye needn't look after me. I'll not be stayin' that long."
He raised a skeptical brow. "Ye're jestin', right? What o' those who hunt ye? Are ye goin' to race away from them like a cracked snail?" He didn't wait for her reply. "Nae, I swore I'd take care o' ye." He began to wrap the fresh bandage around her leg. "This is my fault. I cannot in good faith let ye leave until ye're whole."
She opened her mouth to launch a vehement protest, but just at that moment his fingertips chanced to tickle the back of her thigh again, and her leg jumped reflexively. His gaze darted to hers, catching the spark of pleasure in her eyes, and in that brief meeting his eyes flared with a like fire. Breathless, she glanced away, discomfited by the intense heat of his gaze.
An uncomfortable silence followed as he wrapped and knotted the bandage, yet Florie's mind was anything but quiet. 'Twas as if her senses had been awakened after a long sleep. She grew shockingly aware of his wooded scent, his golden skin, the warmth of his body. She noticed the broad contour of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the silken fall of his hair, like liquid sunlight, and most of all, the brush of his fingers, smooth and nimble, upon her tingling flesh.
At last he spoke, without looking up, rinsing the rag in the bucket. "'Tisn't true, ye know."
"What?" she purred. God's bones, what ailed her? Her voice felt thick in her throat, as if she'd been drinking cream and honey. She coughed. "What isn't true?"
"That curse."
She stiffened, then tried to feign indifference. "Curse?"
He draped the linen rag over the edge of the pail. "The Viking curse Father Conan likes to tell, that no Scotswoman can resist—"
"O' course not," she broke in, wondering if he could hear the edge of panic in her voice. "A lass would have to be addled to believe any man could be irresist…" She trailed off as the blue light from the window hit his eyes suddenly, refracting in a burst, spraying teal across the pale green like the most irresistible gem she'd ever seen.
"Aye?"
She scowled in self-reproach. What was wrong with her? If she were superstitious, she'd say there was a curse at work.
Just to prove she was still master of her own emotions, she announced, "I don't find ye irresistible at all."
"What's this?" The church door swung wide, admitting Father Conan, his back bowed beneath the weight of a parcel.
Though Florie knew the priest couldn't see her, she snatched her skirts back down and looked aghast at Rane. Bloody water still dripped from his fingertips. Lord, it looked as though they'd been engaging in some sacrificial pagan rite.
The priest waddled forward, oblivious to the spectacle. "Are ye losin' your touch, Rane?"
Rane rose to help the priest with his burden. "Ye know, Father," he sighed, shaking his head, "I believe ye invented that curse to torment me."
"The curse is true enough, m'lady," the priest insisted. "Not a day goes by when I don't hear the name o' Rane MacFarland sighed on some lass's lips."
Rane smirked. He hefted the bundle. "What have ye brought, Father?"
"Mead. Hard cheese. A bit o' mashloch, though 'tis o' poor grain. Thank the Lord for acorns and weeds, or we'd have no bread at all."
Florie wanted to try walking, but her belly convinced her to eat first. A meal would help sustain her as she exercised her leg, she reasoned, and 'twould be ungracious, after all, to refuse what the Father had brought. She supposed another quarter hour would make little difference. Besides, she was famished.
As it turned out, 'twas wretched fare indeed. The bread was bitter, the cheese so hard that Florie feared she might break a tooth on it. But the mead proved sweet and strong, and to her surprise, whether from the turmoil of the past day or the calming effects of the drink, soon after their simple meal, she found herself nodding with fatigue.
Chapter 6
Feverfew," the Father whispered to Rane, showing him the vial of the powdered plant he'd slipped into Florie's mead.
"Ye didn't."
"Just a wee bit."
Rane frowned. He didn't approve of such sinister tactics, no matter how peaceful Florie looked, snoring lightly beside the fridstool.
"She mustn't leave sanctuary," Father Conan explained. "Ye were right, Rane. She's in grave danger."
The back of his neck bristled. "What kind o' danger?"
"Ye know I cannot violate the sanctity o' confession, lad," he murmured. "Suffice it to say the lass has very powerful enemies."
Rane glanced at the slumbering maiden—so small, so helpless. Whoever her enemies were, he'd wager they were after her gold. That servant of hers was a blockhead to allow her to wander loose so richly bejeweled. 'Twas fortunate that Rane had happened upon her when he did, despite the unfavorable circumstances of their meeting.
"Did she tell ye she's a goldsmith?" Rane asked. "She left goods and a servant back at the fair."
Father Conan sighed. "That's the other piece o' bad news I bring. I didn't wish to worry the lass, but I'm afraid the merchants have fled."
"Fled?"
The Father shook his head. "The English are back."
Rane's heart sank. "Hertford."
"He's loosed his hounds again."
Rane mouthed a silent curse.
"A pack o' them ransacked the fair late last night, lootin', stealin' livestock, wreakin' their usual havoc. The merchants scattered to the four winds."
Rane's heart dropped. "Was anyone…?"
"Killed? Nae. The burghers are salvagin' what they can. But with so much o' their goods and provender gone, 'twill mean hard times come winter."
Rane scowled, muttering under his breath. "Damned English bastards. Why do they plague Princess Mary with this brutal courtship?"
The Father shrugged. "They cannot afford her alliance with France."
"Hertford's a fool if he believes he can turn her affections to this new king by threatenin' her. That never worked for Henry."
Father Conan gave a dry laugh. "Not all men are as handy with the lasses as ye are, Rane. Hertford's even more brutish than King Henry was. He imagines he can win by force what he cannot by favor."
Rane shook his head. "'Tis a fool's game the English are playin', and we're the pawns that are sufferin' in their chess match."
"Faugh!" the Father said. "We Scots are a hardy lot. 'Twill take more than a few English torches to scorch the mane o' the Lion o' the North." He toddled off toward Florie, murmuring, "Meanwhile, until I can discover what's become o' her servant, I think 'tis best not to trouble the lass with bad tidin's."
Rane glanced at the sleeping beauty and nodded. She'd been fortunate indeed. God only knew what might have befallen her, had she not fled the fair last night.
If King Henry's temper had been short, Hertford, the agent of the new king, was even less discriminating in his violence, putting to the sword any who got in his way, whether priest or lass or bairn.
Still, the Father had a point. The Scots were a tough breed. Rane might not be able to fend off the entire English horde, but he could at least help the Border folk survive against their attacks. And he could begin with this lass.
"She'll need garments," Father Conan whispered, "plaids against the chill, perhaps a comb." He dug in his pouch to discover what silver he had. "Forty days is a long while."
Rane clasped the Father's wrist. "Put away your coin. I'll see what I can forage from the burghers."
As Rane expected, the people in the burgh were more than generous, despite their own poverty. The lasses, in particular, seemed pleased to donate their best things to Rane, as if he were a knight upon whom they bestowed a lady's favor.
; Of course, when he made his requests, he carefully omitted the fact that the items were intended for the sustenance of a comely maiden under his intimate care. After all, he was no fool.
Agnes the alewife blushed as she gave him a comb made of horn, and Meg Cockburn donated a kirtle she claimed to have outgrown, jutting out her ample breasts as proof. Redheaded Effy slipped him a chunk of soap, hardly used, she said with a wink. Bessy the leatherworker's daughter sighed wistfully as she cut one of the clumps of fragrant sage from the beam of her cottage. And with a broad, brazen smile, Nanne Trumbel tossed him a pair of well-worn hose.
Hefting the bundle that had cost him little more than a kind word, a smile, and, in one instance, a friendly pat to his arse, Rane made his way back to the church.
By the time he returned, the sun had nearly completed its slow journey across the sky, beginning to slip behind the west hills like a departing paramour, still warm from bed.
Rane sighed. He knew well that warmth, knew it and missed it. He was unaccustomed to abstinence. Indeed, any other day, he might have answered Nanne's bold flirtation. But thoughts of the fey lass awaiting him at the church kept interfering with his lusty intentions, almost as if Florie bewitched him, compelling him instead to return to her.
When Rane entered the sanctuary, relieving the Father of his watch, he discovered that Florie was still asleep, curled up at the base of the fridstool. He frowned, wondering how careful the priest had been with the feverfew. The old man was blind, after all.
Placing his satchel on the stone seat, he tucked the coarse plaids in around her. Then he found and lit a long taper to place in a sconce beside her, should she waken in the night.
The candlelight flickered over her delicate features. 'Twas difficult for Rane to believe anyone would wish harm upon such a beauty. But he knew that even while she claimed sanctuary, the heathen English would readily violate it for such a prize. Florie was still in danger. He needed to remain watchful for her foes.
He'd prefer to sleep with her in his protective arms again, both for her safety and his satisfaction. Yet he knew he'd have no true satisfaction tonight. 'Twas needless torment for a man to bed down with a lass he couldn't have.
Besides watching for her enemies, he had to keep watch for Hertford's marauders, in case they decided to make a return visit to the church to finish the damage Henry had begun four years ago. So, arming himself with his bow and arrows and a cloak against the night, he whispered good night to the tempting lass and bedded down upon the steps of the church, under the starlit spring sky.
'Twas close to midnight when the soft knocking on Lady Mavis's solar door finally came. Mavis, too anxious for sleep, had spent the last several hours peering out her shutters, wringing her hands, watching for her maid's return in the impossible darkness.
Now, expelling a relieved sigh, she rushed to the door, snatching it open. Before the maid could speak, Mavis dragged her inside by her elbow and closed the door again.
There was no time for pleasantries. "Do ye have it?" she whispered.
The maid lifted the corner of her cloak. She was dressed as a lad, her braid tucked under a floppy bonnet, her knobby legs disguised by baggy slops and knee-high boots. She loosened the laces of the satchel hung across one shoulder and pulled out a rolled parchment.
Mavis's gut tightened. "What's that?"
"'Tis what he gave me, m'lady."
"But where is…"
Mavis tried to remain calm. She'd expected the maid to bring her the pomander, not a missive. After all, the command she'd sent to the English had been simple and straightforward. They were to ransack the fair, find the gold piece she described, and put it into the safekeeping of her servant.
What could have gone wrong?
Mavis eyed the lass with suspicion. Was her maidservant capable of deceit? Had she kept the piece for herself? "Ye're sure that's all?" she said sharply.
"Aye, m'lady. The man said—"
"What?" she snapped. "What did he say?"
The maid gulped. "He bade me tell ye… he was sorry."
Sorry. Mavis narrowed smoldering eyes. Sorry? For the love of God, she'd just risked her neck, betraying her own husband! She'd kept the lord sheriff distracted this eve, giving the English sergeant unfettered access to the fair and allowing his band of ruffians to fill their purses to their hearts' content. And all the ungrateful bastard could say was he was sorry?
She snatched the parchment from her maid's hands and began to read. According to the missive, the soldiers had located the goldsmith's cart, not at the fair, but on the road heading north, driven by a servant. They'd rifled through the goods, but the pomander was not to be found. The servant volunteered that his mistress had taken the piece with her, but he didn't know where she'd gone. He didn't change his story, even after they used their fists on him, so they took a hefty reward in gold and left the man senseless beside the road.
Tears of frustration welled in Mavis's eyes, blurring the letters on the page. 'Twasn't fair. The piece had been in her possession, in her hands. To be so close…
God, she didn't want her maid to see her crying.
"Go!" she croaked.
The wise lass, accustomed to Mavis's commands, bobbed her head and immediately did as she was told.
When she was gone, Mavis collapsed onto the velvet cushions of her settle. A single hot tear rolled down her cheek as she twisted the parchment in her fists.
She'd been so sure the English sergeant would come through for her, that the pomander would be safely in her hands by now, that she'd be able to melt the piece into oblivion before anyone was the wiser.
But 'twas not to be. That cursed wench still ranged the countryside somewhere with the damned thing. And Mavis wouldn't rest until she saw both of them destroyed.
As if one failure weren't painful enough, this eve, to keep her husband busy, Mavis had bedded with him. And though she'd prayed to God to make her fruitful, 'twas salt in her wound to know that, like all the other times before, she'd prove as barren as a hollowed pear.
In the dark hours before dawn, Florie stirred groggily from her slumber. Her foster father would no doubt be snoring off last night's excesses, she thought, so she'd have to go downstairs and open the shop herself. Her eyes still half-shut with sleep, she threw back the coverlet and prepared to swing her legs over the edge of her goose-down pallet.
The needle-sharp jab of pain in her thigh stopped her, bringing her fully awake. She grimaced, sucking hard through her teeth.
She'd forgotten. She wasn't in Stirling, in the comfortable house of her foster father.
When the pain faded, she rubbed at her eyes, groaning as the memories came filtering back. She was an outlaw now. She was wounded. And she was alone in a dark church outside of Selkirk.
God's bones! What time was it? The last thing she remembered was supping with Rane and Father Conan. How could she have fallen asleep?
Wat must be worried ill. She must get back to him. She had to try hobbling on her injured leg.
"Bloody hell," she whispered.
The floor beneath her felt as frigid and hard as winter ground. Her leg throbbed. Her mouth was dry. And there was a soft scrabbling in the shadowy corner that she hoped was only Methuselah the cat.
Why anyone would call this a sanctuary, she couldn't fathom. 'Twas cold and lonely and dismal. She'd already had to bargain for a swallow of ale and scrounge for food. Relying on the charity of strangers was insufferable. 'Twas a good thing she intended to leave, for she couldn't endure one more day of such dependence.
Only yesterday she'd been a successful craftswoman with a goose-down bed, a fire on her hearth, meat on her table, a clean gown for every day of the week, and an audience with the queen. How she'd come to this, and how anyone could ever live thus for forty days, she couldn't imagine.
'Twas no matter, she told herself. She wasn't going to be here for forty days.
She perused the pile of plaids she'd cast off and frowned. They hadn't been ther
e before. Someone had draped them over her and lit the candle at her side. By its waxy glow, she spied a satchel left on the fridstool.
Her curiosity momentarily outweighed her caution. She opened the cloth sack and pulled out the contents: a wool kirtle, a ragged pair of hose, a horn comb, a bundle of dried sage, and a chunk of soap.
They were far coarser things than she was accustomed to, but more than she had a right to expect. She sniffed at the fragrant clump of sage. Where had the offering come from? Who had been so charitable?
Then a sudden misgiving jarred her. Maybe 'twasn't charity at all. Maybe she'd been charged for the items.
She patted her throat. Her pendant was still there. Her wrist and fingers were still encircled with gold.
Her pomander! Where was her pomander?
Tossing the sage aside, she dug through the plaids, frantic. Surely the Father had not bartered away her heirloom to purchase these trifles. Aye, he was blind, but certainly he could tell that piece was worth far more than the contents of the satchel.
Her fingers finally closed around a familiar link, then the pomander, and she exhaled in relief. She pulled the girdle out from beneath the cloth and fastened it securely about her hips.
Then she perused the gifts again. They were a kind gesture, though she wouldn't be staying long enough to require them.
Using the fridstool to lever herself up, she gradually struggled to her feet, inch by arduous inch. Her thigh pulsed painfully as she stood, and she feared for a moment the pressure would open the wound again.
Balancing on her good leg and squinting into the dark recesses of the church, she focused on the door, determined to venture outside.
Filching a plaid to bundle about her shoulders, she pulled the candle from the sconce, then took a tentative step forward on her injured leg. Blood surged with excruciating force to her day-old wound, and she fought off a wave of dizziness as she shifted back onto her good leg.
When her vision cleared and the ache diminished somewhat, she tried again. Step by agonizing step, she limped forward, blinking her eyes to keep her light-headedness at bay, biting her lip against the torturous pain. It took an eternity to traverse the twenty yards of the sanctuary, and by the time she reached the doorway, sweat glazed her face and she was exhausted.
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