Balancing carefully on her good leg, she strained to pull open the door. To her dismay, the moment she managed the feat a mischievous devil's breath of a draft blew in, instantly extinguishing the candle's flame and leaving her in utter darkness.
With a silent oath, Florie dropped the useless taper, then hobbled awkwardly into the doorway, straining to see in the moonless night. The sky was as dark as onyx, the air unseasonably chill. Despite the thick plaid, she shivered as the breeze sighed across her clammy skin.
At her next step, her ankle twisted upon the threshold, sending hot fire streaking up her thigh. She winced, holding her breath until it passed.
Perhaps her imminent departure wasn't so pressing, after all. Perhaps she could wait till dawn, when she'd actually be able to see where she was going rather than risk tripping and breaking her neck.
But then she mentally scolded herself for her lack of nerve. God's bones! She was the goldsmith to the queen, not some whimpering milkmaid. She could get past her pain and fear and do this.
She took one determined step.
Then something rustled at her feet.
Wolf! she thought at once. She dragged in a huge gasping breath as her toes curled back instinctively in her boots.
"Who goes!" a harsh voice suddenly barked, sending her heart vaulting.
The shock proved too much for Florie in her weakened state. Though she fought to stay conscious, her head began to spin and fog crept in at the edges of her vision. She faltered, then swayed. For an awful moment, she feared she'd topple.
With her last wisp of air, she managed a whisper of surprise. "Ye!"
"Florie?"
As she staggered dizzily forward, two large hands dug into her ribs, holding her upright.
"Florie!"
Her heart pounded wildly in her temples, her eyes rolled, and her bones melted like butter. As she sank, she remembered thinking vaguely that the archer shouldn't be touching her like that. Then she slumped into shadow.
"Come on, wee nightingale. Wake up."
Rane cradled the limp lass on his lap, buffeting her cheeks with soft pats, trying to rouse her. His heart was still lodged in his gullet.
"Ach, lass," he chided, more worried than angry. "Where in Nott's name were ye goin'?"
He knew the answer to that already. The headstrong maid was determined to return to the fair. 'Twas a good thing he'd prevented her. If her "powerful enemies" didn't hunt her down in the dark, the wolves surely would.
He caught her by her adorable pointed chin and jostled her gently. She moaned.
"That's it, love, come on. Wake up. Wake up."
Finally she roused, jerking her head irritably away from his slaps. "I am!" Her voice came out on a hoarse squeak, but nothing had sounded so welcome to his ears. "I am awake! Stop—"
"Are ye all right?"
She tried to wriggle out of his tight embrace. "I was," she said, "before ye scared the bloody hell out o' me."
"Ye?" Lord, the lass had no idea how his own heart pounded. "What the devil are ye doin' out here in the dead o' night?"
She retorted, "What the devil are ye doin' out here?"
She attempted to wrench herself away. Wary of her jabbing elbows, he tightened his grip.
"Unhand me, sirrah," she muttered, struggling against his binding arms.
"Hold still."
"Let go o' me!"
"Not until ye hold still."
"If ye don't let go o' me, I'll scream!"
"Ye're already screamin'."
She emitted an exasperated growl and began fighting him in earnest. But she'd left her pointy brooch behind, and he'd disabled her dangerous elbows. There was little she could do in her present position, and if Rane's hunting had taught him one thing, 'twas patience. He'd happily wait till dawn with the lovely lass on his lap, her backside squirming warmly atop that part of him that most liked warming.
Gradually she weakened and finally, realizing the futility of her struggles, slumped back against his chest. "I'm holdin' still. Now what the hell do ye want?"
Loki, the lass could curse like a quartermaster. "I'll tell ye what I don't want, poppet. I don't want to find your bloody corpse in the woods tomorrow morn because ye decided to flee, wounded and limpin', into a pack o' hungry wolves."
"Who said I was fleein'?"
"Aren't ye?"
"Nae."
"Then where were ye goin'?"
"Just… out, gettin' a breath o' fresh air."
He lifted a brow. Of course she'd been fleeing. This was the same headstrong lass who'd tried to crawl to sanctuary with an arrow in her thigh. Who'd refused to let him tend to her wound. Who'd protested when he'd tried to help her drink. The lass had a streak of willfulness a mile wide.
"Well, I'm afraid I cannot let ye do that."
"Oh?" She whipped her head around, and a hank of her hair slapped his cheek. "And how do ye intend to prevent me?"
"By reason if I can. By force if I must."
He almost felt the hackles rise along her back.
"Heed me well, sirrah," she said. "I'm not your servant, your child, or your dog. Ye cannot tell me where I may or may not go."
The lass had a point. But her stubbornness was overriding her common sense. "'Tis for your own safety, love," he explained. "As long as I'm carin' for ye, ye're just goin' to have to trust me."
"Trust ye? Trust ye? The man who shot me?"
He supposed he deserved that.
"Listen," she continued. "I didn't ask ye to care for me. I don't want ye to care for me."
Rane blinked, astonished, and a chuff of laughter escaped him.
Perhaps he hadn't explained himself properly. Normally, with a cunning turn of phrase, he could coax a lass out of anything—her bad temper or her clothes. But something about this rebellious wench drove all his usual sweet persuasions straight out of his head.
"Now ye heed me well, brat," he told her in no uncertain terms. "Ye've been gravely hurt. God willin', ye'll improve and be dancin' a reel by month's end. But at the moment?" He shook his head. "I'd wager it took all your strength just to cross the sanctuary. In your condition, ye'd be easy prey for the men who are after ye, as well as the beasts."
Florie scowled. 'Twas true. She knew she'd be lucky to walk twenty yards before she fell down in another faint. But curse it all, she didn't want to be beholden to anyone, least of all this knave who was holding her far too cozily on his lap.
"So what are ye doin' out here?" she asked. "Poachin'?"
"In the dark?"
She smirked, reminding him, "That didn't stop ye before."
"Ach, lass!" He gave her a chiding squeeze. "Ye cut me to the quick. Such cruel words from such a pretty mouth."
His comment rattled her. A pretty mouth? No one had ever told her she had a pretty mouth.
He clucked his tongue. "This is the thanks I get for watchin' over ye?"
She frowned. Then she realized why he was on the steps of the church. "Ye were guardin' the door."
"O' course."
That took the wind from her sails. "Well," she said with grudging courtesy, "ye needn't go to such trouble."
"'Tis no trouble."
No trouble? That was hardly true. Staying an hour late in the workshop to finish a nobleman's cloak pin was no trouble. But sleeping out of doors on a chilly night…
She shook her head in wonder. "Ye must be mad."
"Mad?"
"'Tis cold enough out here to freeze your ball—" She cut herself off. Living with two men, she'd learned a colorful array of crude expressions, none of which, her foster father constantly reminded her, were appropriate for a young lady.
Rane chuckled. "Ye needn't worry. My thick Norse hide keeps me warm enough."
Heat rushed to her face. His arms were snug around her, and that place beneath her bottom that she feared he'd freeze felt warm as well. Too warm. 'Twas sinful, reclining upon this stranger's lap. While he continued to trap her thus, it seemed as if he hollowed away at s
ome fortress within her, like a stealthy sapper undermining the wall of her defenses.
"Ye, however, my tender Scottish blossom," he said, "should go back inside."
Tender Scottish blossom? Who spoke like that?
Before she could protest, he swept her up in his arms as naturally as if he'd done so all his life. Indeed, to her consternation, she fit in his embrace as snugly as a well-made ring on a man's finger, almost like she belonged there.
Their emotions, however, couldn't have been less matched. He seemed calm, casual, composed, while she fought the urge to leap from his smothering arms.
Still, to her chagrin, when he finally returned her to the sanctuary, bidding her a soft good night, tucking her into her bed of plaids, closing the door behind him to leave her blessedly alone again, by some perverse twist of her nature she felt strangely abandoned. The sanctuary, robbed of his presence, seemed cavernous and desolate.
'Twas absurd.
Florie was accustomed to being alone.
After her mother had died, driving her foster father to spend most days in an intoxicated stupor, Florie had learned to pass the time in virtual solitude. She worked by herself behind her bench, with nothing but gleaming gold and lustrous gems for company, for hours on end.
That solitude had served her well. Without the distractions of friendships, she'd excelled in the craft and managed to keep the goldsmith shop quite profitable.
But now she felt inexplicably lonesome. The archer had touched more than just her body. He'd touched a place inside her, a soft place she'd locked away the day she'd watched her mother's coffin lowered into the earth. Like a burnishing cloth revealing the inner glow of a gem, his touch awakened long-lost emotions in her, emotions that both frightened and intrigued her.
'Twas those unsettling memories that kept her awake, along with a nagging awareness that while she lay snug in her cocoon of plaids, beyond the door Rane shivered in the cold. And 'twas that, nothing else, she told herself, that compelled her to make the grueling trek across the sanctuary once more to seek out her vigilant guard.
Chapter 7
This time the lass couldn't startle him, for Rane lay wide-awake, staring up at the stars, unable to quiet his lusting mind.
'Twas Florie's fault. That wee bit of a wicked faerie had worked some enchantment upon him to rouse his passions. Why else would she excite him so?
She didn't have the blond tresses he generally preferred, nor did she possess voluptuous curves to fill his oversized hands. Her stature wasn't even close to matching his own, which he'd found had certain advantages in bed. In fact, her head barely reached the middle of his chest. Furthermore, she displayed no interest in him and, indeed, seemed to have a curious aversion to his touch.
By Freyja, she should be the last maid on earth to arouse him. But arouse him she did.
Indeed, as she slowly opened the door, he was calculating how many of the forty days 'twould be before he might ease his ache in willing woman-flesh.
"Rane?" Lord, even her soft voice excited him. He liked the way his name sounded upon her tongue.
"Hm?" he grunted, raising up on an elbow.
"I cannot sleep."
She couldn't sleep? Even now his cursed loins kept him awake, chafing within the confines of his braies. "What is it?" he asked tautly.
"I cannot sleep, knowin' ye're out here, freezin'…"
She trailed off, but he remembered her words from before. He wondered how she'd blush if he told her that, while the rest of him might crystallize with frost, his ballocks were in no danger of freezing.
Instead, he said the chivalrous thing. "Ye needn't worry about me. I told ye, I have the blood of a Vi—"
"I won't sleep." She said it like a threat. "I won't close my eyes until ye promise to come inside."
He raised a brow. What a shrewd merchant she must be.
"And if ye refuse to come inside," she continued, shivering, "I'll s-sleep out here. If ye can endure the c-cold, so can—"
"Nae."
He grabbed her wrist before she could make good on her promise. Lord, her bones were frail and feminine, so unlike the determined lass herself, threatening to sleep on the cold steps of a church so he wouldn't have to suffer alone. Of course, he wouldn't let her do it.
"Frigg's bow! Ye're a headstrong lass." He blew out a sigh of feigned irritation. "I'll come in, then," he conceded. "I can see 'tis the only way I'll get any sleep."
He bedded down just inside the nave, bundled under the plaid that the lass stubbornly insisted he take. He stretched out with his weapon beside him and his back wedged against the church door. And he tried to think of anything but the bewitching dark-haired faerie with the sparkling brown eyes, sleeping but a dozen of his long strides away.
Florie stirred faintly beneath the prodding spears of dawn and the sound of men murmuring. Lulled by the warm light and the low hum of voices, she almost let herself drift back to sleep.
"They were countin' on venison for Midsummer's Eve," Rane was saying. "I promised Thomas…"
"It won't be the first year they've done without," the Father said. "Ye cannot blame yourself, lad."
"I cannot let them go hungry," Rane said. "I won't watch them starve."
"But poachin'? By my faith, Rane! In the forest o' your own—"
"Who better to slip under his nose?"
Intrigued by the conversation, Florie pricked up her ears, still feigning slumber.
The priest sighed. "Ye cannot risk your life to fill their bellies. Ye know they wouldn't want that."
"I don't have a choice at the moment. But I can at least make sure they're fed till I can hunt again."
Florie heard the soft jangle of coins.
"That should sustain them for a day or two," Rane said.
"Bless ye, lad. I'll see they get it."
Florie's heart softened. Father Conan was half right. Rane was a good man. But 'twas plain to Florie 'twas not some ancient curse that drew maids to the huntsman. 'Twas the man himself and his kind nature, his compassion, his generosity.
Still, the priest's words were troubling. Rane was a poacher who apparently had every intention of continuing his criminal activities. Florie would be a fool to traffic with such an outlaw, particularly in light of her own predicament and her precarious standing with the guild.
She'd already ruined her chances of finding her father, at least on this visit. But if she ever hoped to restore her good name and return to Selkirk, she'd have to distance herself from men like Rane. Besides, 'twas obvious he had more pressing matters to attend to than playing nursemaid to her.
The men wandered out of hearing after that, and when the door opened and closed, Florie made the mistake of thinking she was alone. She threw the plaid back and rose up on her elbows.
"Ye're a naughty lass, spyin' on the Father and me." Rane's voice echoed in the sanctuary.
So did her gasp of surprise.
"Ach, love, did I startle ye?" he said with poorly concealed amusement.
"Nae," she lied. "And I wasn't spyin'."
He clucked his tongue, striding toward her. Faith, did his eyes have to twinkle like that? 'Twas distracting. And the sight of his broad chest brought back all-too-lurid memories of their intimate encounter on the steps last night.
"I have bread and cheese," he said. "Are ye hungry?"
She felt guilty accepting the food in light of what she'd just heard about the starving peasants. But she was ravenous, near dizzy with hunger. And the sooner she could regain her strength, the sooner she could leave. "Aye, a bit."
She scooted upright to make a lap for the breakfast, but he set the fare upon the fridstool instead.
"First we wash," he said, dipping a rag in the bucket of fresh water he'd drawn earlier.
She held out her hand for the rag, but he tipped up her chin to do the task himself.
'Twas entirely discomfiting. Not since she was a child had anyone washed her face for her. She was perfectly capable of doing it herself. She
started to tell him so, but he wiped the very words from her mouth. When she tried to pull away, he secured her chin like one would a rebellious lad.
"Hold still, darlin'."
She sat paralyzed between aversion and fascination, unsure whether 'twas torment or amusement to endure his ministrations, silent while he took extra care with the cut on her cheek.
He crouched so close to her as he furrowed his brows over the chore that she could discern each eyelash, as dark as wet wood, the faint stubble across his jaw, and the subtle upward curl at the corners of his mouth. His skin was as warm and tawny as gold, and, out of habit, she began to imagine what kind of worked chain might be worthy of such a setting.
"There was a lass beneath that filth," he jested. "Hand." He held out his hand for hers.
She placed her hand reluctantly in his, appalled to discover her nails were so dirty. He turned her hand over. The heel was red, scraped raw. He caught her other hand and turned it likewise.
"Ye fell."
She nodded.
"I have balm that may help," he said.
Balm? 'Twas but a patch of sore skin. 'Twould heal on its own. "Ye needn't bother. I…"
Ignoring her, he carefully swabbed her hands with the wet cloth, then took a jar from the satchel at his hip and daubed a generous amount of its contents onto the injured spots. 'Twas soothing, his touch so gentle it almost tickled. When he finished, her hands, greasy with balm, were rendered useless.
She hungrily eyed the loaf of mashloch. "How will I…"
"I warn ye, wee sparrow," he said, lifting a brow as he broke off a chunk of bread, "don't get accustomed to such coddlin'." He popped the morsel into her mouth. "'Tis only until ye heal."
'Twas pathetic, she decided, having to be fed like a bairn. Yet Rane didn't appear to deem it a burden. Indeed, he seemed to take great delight in serving her as if she were some ancient goddess and he, her adoring slave.
Until her tongue by chance happened to lap at the tips of his fingers. Then a duskier emotion shadowed his eyes, a look that frightened and thrilled her all at once.
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