Her heart hastened. "Enough," she breathed, unsure herself what she'd had enough of.
'Twas just as well. Though they were meager portions, she'd already eaten half the cheese and more than her share of the bread. He helped her take a drink of ale, and when his thumb grazed her chin to catch a stray drop, she flinched away.
He frowned and looked as if he might say something. Then he shook his head and drank from the costrel himself.
After an uncomfortably long moment where the only sound was Rane munching on his breakfast, Florie looked past her idle hands at the gory blotch staining her skirt. The garment would never be the same, she was certain, but 'twas worth an attempt to improve her appearance for her return to the fair. Using only the balm-free tips of her fingers, she dipped the rag into the pail and tried gingerly scrubbing at the mess.
Rane watched her without comment until he finished eating. Then he perused her handiwork and took the rag out of her hands.
"I fear ye've made it worse, lass."
He was unfortunately right. Though the water diluted the stain, now it smeared over a greater patch of her kirtle, the way gold could be hammered and spread into thin foil.
"'Twill never wash out completely now 'tis set," he told her.
She supposed he would know. He was a huntsman, after all. Likely all his garments were bloodstained.
"Take it off," he suggested matter-of-factly.
"What?"
"Your gown." He beckoned with a wave of his fingers. "Give it to me."
"I think not," she said indignantly, clutching to her skirts and smudging them with balm in the process.
"I'm sure ye've another." He started digging through the pile of things she'd taken from the satchel. She'd forgotten about that kirtle. "Ah. Here." He held up the garment, a large, shapeless thing of woad wool.
"I don't wish to wear…that. I'll wear my own clothin'."
"'Tis a serviceable garment," he said with a shrug. "Maybe not as fine as your own, but…" He perused her once from head to toe. "'Tis better than lookin' like a slaughtered lamb."
She grimaced. She did look gruesome. But she had no coin on her person to purchase the kirtle. And as she'd learned to neither a borrower nor a lender be, she never took anything without paying for it. "I cannot accept charity."
He chuckled. "Why, lass, how do ye expect to survive in sanctuary for forty days if not for charity?"
"I don't intend to be here for forty days. Once I'm fit to travel, I'll return to the fair."
"The fair?" He narrowed confused eyes. "But lass…" His expression told Florie something was wrong. Gradually, understanding dawned in his face. "I see. Ye're not such a good spy, after all. Did ye not hear what the Father said about the fair?" At the shake of her head he grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. 'Twas clear there was something he didn't want to tell her.
By the look in his eyes, she wasn't sure she wanted to hear. "Go on."
"He went there this morn to seek out your servant."
"And?"
"There are good tidin's and bad."
Florie steeled herself. "Aye?"
"I'm afraid your servant isn't there."
"What?" Her heart tripped. "What about my goods?"
"Gone as well."
"Gone?" Shock drained the strength from Florie. All her worldly goods, her life's work, a veritable fortune, were on that cart. God's blood, she couldn't lose her gold. If she lost her wares… She managed to rasp out, "Gone where?"
He shook his head. "The Father's tryin' to find out. It seems your servant left the fair yesterday, not long after ye did."
Florie tried to choke down the news. So Wat had apparently wasted no time in abandoning her. But where had he gone?
Wat was simpleminded, as malleable as pure gold. Without a hand to mold him he was devoid of any design, incapable of deception, which was both good and bad. Left to his own devices, he'd carelessly sold her mother's girdle. Now he'd been reckless enough to desert her. Was he so rash as to leave her goods to thieves and scavengers? The thought was staggering.
Bracing herself, she murmured, "What are the good tidin's?"
"Those are the good tidin's. The bad tidin's are the fair was ransacked by a band of English soldiers in the night."
"What?"
"They robbed the merchants and razed the clearin'. Your servant apparently had the good sense to flee before they arrived."
Not good sense. Good fortune. Wat hadn't the sense to come in out of the rain. Thank God he'd escaped, but the thought of English troops in the area sent a frosty shiver up Florie's spine.
Rane caught her forearm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. His fingers were warm, even through her sleeve. "Don't fret. He was seen headin' north. He's likely on his way back to Stirlin'."
'Twas likely. Wat might not be clever, but Florie could depend on him to be cowardly. He'd probably started packing for home when Lady Mavis drew her first breath to scream.
"Ye, on the other hand," Rane said, "are still in peril. 'Tisn't wise for a wee Scots kitten to be limpin' about while English dogs are on the loose." He nodded toward the satchel. "In the meantime, accept a bit o' charity."
Florie perused the crude items again while Rane left to fetch fresh water. She supposed refusing the gifts would make her seem ungrateful. But the idea that she might need them…
Was it possible? Was she truly trapped here? And if so, for how long?
She'd boasted to Rane that she was afraid of nothing, but the news of roving English soldiers struck fear in her heart. Last year the English had thrust deep into the belly of Scotland, burning a path of devastation as they marched to the River Esk, killing men, women, and children alike. Even from Stirling she'd seen the smoke of Hertford's massacre. 'Twas the reason Princess Mary had been whisked away to Dumbarton, and why there was talk in the queen's solar about moving her again.
Nae, Florie dared not travel apace while the English army ranged the countryside.
But how long would they remain? What if she were stuck here longer than a week or two? Marry, she couldn't dwell on that possibility. Nor could she rely on her sot of a foster father coming for her, if by some miracle Wat made it to Stirling.
Considering her unfortunate predicament, she'd hoped to return home quietly and soon, before her real father could learn of her presence in Selkirk. The longer she remained, the more likely he'd hear about the thief taking sanctuary in the church. And if he happened to glimpse the pomander…
She shuddered, taking great care as she unfastened the golden girdle and set it beside her. She didn't dare let the pomander out of her sight.
Changing into the kirtle was an awkward feat, even after she managed to stand, and she almost wished she'd had Rane's assistance…almost. The woad garment was bulky and dragged along the floor, and the sleeves fell almost to her fingertips. But she managed to rein in its girth somewhat with the girdle, tucking the excess fabric beneath her when she lowered herself back onto the floor.
When Rane returned with the full bucket, he sat down beside her, cross-legged, close enough that their knees nearly touched. Then, without warning and much to her astonishment, he casually lifted her leg to drape it intimately across his lap.
She tensed instantly.
"Does that pain ye?" His brow creased in concern.
"Nae," she said tightly, averting her eyes. Lord, his thighs were as hard as oak.
"Are ye sure?" His sleeve brushed her ankle.
She clenched her teeth, nodding curtly.
He smiled and shook his head, sweeping her voluminous skirts up to bare the bandage. "Are all men so repulsive to ye, or is it only me?"
She refused to look at him, and her denial was about as sincere as the forced apology of a child. "Ye're not…repulsive."
"Oh? Indeed?" He ran his fingers pointedly along the top of her arch, and she sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes crinkled in rueful humor. "Ye know, ye're just goin' to have to grow accustomed to me touchin' ye. I can't very well cha
nge your bandages otherwise."
She sat in blushing silence as he sliced away the bandage and cleaned the wound.
After a while she did become accustomed to it, for she had no other choice. She didn't wince when he lightly pressed the edges of the wound with his knuckle to check for infection. She didn't flinch when he dragged her skirts higher to access the injury. She didn't squirm, even when he rested her heel across the bone of his hip.
But her pulse still quickened, her cheeks flamed, and the breath snagged in her throat. Nae, his touch wasn't repulsive in the least…which made him far more threatening.
Rane felt he'd made some progress. 'Twas something like taming a feral kitten. At least the lass wasn't snatching her limb back in horror.
He wondered how much longer she'd put up with his touch. He wondered how long he could endure her feminine calf riding high upon his thigh, so close to the focus of his desire, and not crave comfort for the ache there.
She cleared her throat and tried to make conversation. "Where did ye learn your doctorin' skills?"
He shrugged. "Necessity." He grazed her ankle, lightly but intentionally, each time he payed out a length of bandage. "Accidents are part o' the hunt."
"Accidents?" Her eyes dipped with telltale desire. She was definitely enjoying his touch, no matter how she wished to deny it. Still, she managed to keep her tone even. "I thought ye never missed."
"I don't," he said, running his palm casually up the back of her calf, which made her blush prettily, then added, "but the same can't be said of others."
"Others?"
"My fellow hunters." He pressed his fingertips gently into the soft flesh at the back of her knee.
She bit her lip. "Stop…" she said tautly. "Ye mustn't…"
He froze. "Aye?" he asked, all innocence. "Is somethin' wrong?"
She hesitated, waging some inner battle. Then she shook her head.
He happily resumed his attentions, wrapping the bandage around her thigh, smoothing the linen against her skin with a gently provocative touch. "I stitch up more knife wounds in a year than most doctors do in a lifetime."
Visibly distressed now, Florie could only gulp out, "Indeed?"
Rane battled back a smile. 'Twas highly entertaining, tantalizing her this way. He loved seducing lasses. Almost as much as swiving them. He had to admit 'twould give him great pleasure to gradually arouse the skittish lass, to awaken her passions until she fell hungrily into his arms.
Of course, he wouldn't.
Despite his lascivious reputation, Rane was more protector than seducer. 'Twasn't in his nature to traffic with maidens who couldn't tell the difference between lust and love and gave their hearts too freely. Only experience taught a lass to live for the pleasure of the moment, to enjoy the thrill of the hunt.
'Twas the reason Rane eased his lusts upon seasoned wenches for the most part, who kept their hearts under lock and key. 'Twould be reckless to dally with someone like Florie.
But by Thor, he wanted her. Badly. And if she'd move her heel just a few inches to the left, she'd feel how badly.
Her eyes were closed now. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth. And there was a fretful crease in her brow.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "I've yet to kill anyone."
"What?" Her eyes flew open.
"With my doctorin'," he explained.
"Oh." Florie was definitely distracted, hardly able to think straight. He rather liked her that way.
Yet, inwardly cursing the meddlesome scruples that prevented him from slaking his hunger at once with her kisses, he did the noble thing and tied off her bandage. "There ye are."
The lass wasted not a moment when he was done, extricating her leg from his lap at once and pulling her skirts down over his handiwork. "I suppose ye'll be goin' home soon," she said breathlessly. "Your family must wonder what's befallen ye."
A grin hovered at the corner of his mouth. The lass was all but shoving him out the door with her words. Yet a moment before, her smoky chestnut gaze had sent a completely different message. "I've no family here."
She frowned. "Ye live alone?"
"I have my own quarters," he admitted, washing his hands in the last of the clean water, "though I'm seldom alone. There's always a fellow nearby to share an ale with, an adversary for chess, a—"
"Doxy to warm your bed?" she muttered, then winced as if her tongue had spoken without her consent.
He chuckled. "Sometimes."
She made a moue of disapproval. "Ye should go home to them, then. I hate to think o' the number o' wenches languishin' for your company, what with that curse and all."
He fought back a grin, drying his hands on the hem of his linen undershirt. "I told ye, love, there's no curse." He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, just to watch her bristle. "But what about ye? Have ye got lovers in Stirlin' languishin' for your company?"
She audibly caught her breath, whether from his bold touch or his bold question, he wasn't certain. "I most certainly do not. I'm a goldsmith."
He cocked a brow. "Does one prevent the other?"
"It does if ye want to be a good goldsmith."
"And are ye a good goldsmith?"
She proudly lifted her chin. "I'll have ye know I'm the goldsmith to…" She hesitated. "To some very important people."
He smiled. Nothing made a lass more tempting to Rane than a cocky streak. And indeed, he was feeling sorely tempted.
'Twas time to search for something to satisfy a less dangerous appetite.
He rummaged through the satchel Father Conan had brought and pulled out a thick slice of gingerbread and a knob of butter wrapped in a green leaf.
He broke off a morsel of the bread, slathered it with butter, and fed it to Florie. "The gold ye wear, is it from your master's shop?"
Her mouth full, she could only nod. Now that there was space between them, her composure had returned. She reminded him again of a feral cat, all purr and fur at a safe distance, nothing but teeth and claws when you tried to pick her up.
He buttered a piece for himself and bobbed his head toward the intricate chain about her wrist. "He does fine work."
She swallowed the gingerbread and licked her lips. "Oh, I made this one." She moved her forearms, displaying the various rings and bracelets. "These are all mine."
"Indeed?" he said in surprise, inspecting them more closely. The lass had remarkable talent. The design on one of the gold cuffs resembled the stems of intertwined roses, and where each flower should be, a tiny pearl gleamed. One of her rings featured another pearl cunningly enwrapped in leaves of gold to mimic a rosebud. "Very clever."
The way her eyes lit up at his compliment, one might have thought he'd sworn his undying love to her. "My master, o' course, always had the true talent," she said. "I mostly play at foliage and simple ring brooches, usin' pearls and crystal. But he's worked in enameled gold and cabochon gems and the most beautiful intaglio…"
He grinned, not at what she was saying, for he could understand little of it, but at how he'd finally found a subject about which she waxed enthusiastic. Her pretty brown eyes were as bright as gems themselves. 'Twas apparent she had great zeal for her craft.
"Ye have no idea what I'm talkin' about, do ye?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Huntsmen have little use for gold, unless it comes in the form o' coin."
"But, sir, ye're made for gold," she gushed, catching him off his guard. "With your tawny skin and flaxen hair, ye should have a thick gold chain with four-in-one links, like chain mail, and a pendant of sea-green chalcedony to match your eyes—" She stopped abruptly, as if suddenly aware she'd said too much.
He allowed a smile to curve his mouth. The lass had been thinking about this for some time, he could see. Tawny skin? Flaxen hair? Eyes of sea-green? Aye, she'd given him a lot of thought. He popped another crumb of gingerbread into his mouth.
She shrugged with studied indifference, picking at a nub on her skirt. "Anyway, 'tis a piece I could easily craft for
ye."
He stopped in mid-chew. Lasses offered him gifts all the time, mostly flowers and honeycakes and verse he couldn't read. No one had ever offered him a thing of such value before.
Why should they? He was, after all, but a huntsman. He'd worn nothing but leather, linen, and wool his entire life. To have something so precious made especially for him, something crafted by her own hand…
Then he scowled at his own gullibility. She was a merchant. 'Twas in her nature to flatter men into purchasing her wares and then demand a king's ransom for them. 'Twas a foolish notion anyway, he decided, an archer wearing a gold chain. 'Twas frivolous, a waste of coin, not worth considering.
He scoffed, offering her another sweet morsel. "I spend my silver on simpler things."
She ducked around the bite, glaring at him as if he'd insulted her. "I wasn't thinkin' o' chargin' ye."
"A bejeweled huntsman," he grumbled, silencing her with the bite of gingerbread. 'Twas absurd. He nodded toward the gilded girdle that she wore about her hips. "What about that piece? Did ye craft it as well?"
She swallowed, lowering her gaze to the golden links. "This? 'Tis my foster father's work. He made it for a…for my mother."
Rane picked up the pomander, turning it in his fingers. "And ye wear it," he ventured, "because your mother's…gone?"
She glanced up sharply, surprised by his guess. "She's dead."
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
She gave him a one-shouldered shrug. "It happened long ago, when I was a child."
He examined the piece. The hinged lid was in the shape of a heart, carved with intertwined letters of gold. "What's this?"
"F," she told him, pointing out the letters, "and G. For Florie Gilder. 'Twas added when I was born."
He nodded, picking up the trailing end of the girdle to examine a jousting scene captured in intricate detail on one of the links. "He must love ye very much."
His words seemed to puzzle her. "Who?" she asked.
"Your master. Your foster father, to let ye wear it."
"Oh. Aye." She absently ran her thumb across the clasp of the girdle. "I suppose."
MacFarland's Lass Page 9