Once the water was set to boil, he added several cloves of garlic from the Father's overgrown plot of herbs, then returned to the sanctuary to find Florie out from under the plaids and shivering again. He replaced the woolens, leaving her thigh exposed, then drenched a piece of linen with the carmine thistle extract.
She awoke abruptly when he began swabbing the wound, kicking out reflexively and catching him in the ribs. He grunted. By Odin, she had a fierce kick for such a tiny thing.
"Nae!" she cried, thrashing.
"Hold still," he said gently.
"Ah, God," she groaned. "Why do ye torment me?"
Her voice, so puny, so helpless, caught at his heart. But he knew he had to be firm. "I must. 'Tis the cure for your ills."
"Stay away," she commanded weakly. "I'm weary o' your cures."
He tenderly brushed her forehead with the back of his hand. "I know."
To his sorrow, she recoiled from his touch. "Just leave me alone," she breathed.
A muscle jumped along his jaw. 'Twas his doing, all of this. He had shot her. And now he tortured her with painful remedies. But, damn his eyes, he was bound to her. He couldn't leave her alone.
"Ach, Florie, I'm sorry," he said. But she was already asleep.
An hour later, trudging back from the pond by twilight, Rane was filled with the same sick feeling he got when he had to finish the work of a careless hunter and put a deer out of its misery. His fingers quaked as he looped the bail of the jordan filled with boiling water over a thick branch to carry it to the church.
Florie still dozed. 'Twas tempting to do what he had to do without preamble. 'Twas the way he hunted. A stag scarcely knew what struck him when Rane let fly his arrow. The lass would awake with a shriek of agony, fighting like a wildcat, but 'twould be over quickly.
Then he remembered the brave lass who'd looked at him with trust in her eyes before he pulled the shaft from her wound. For all her feminine vulnerability, she was a strong lass, a sensible lass, not some unwitting animal he might attack unawares. She'd understand, and she deserved to know.
He set the bowl of still-simmering water on the flagstones, crushed several garlic cloves into it, and dropped in a clean square of linen. Then he unbuckled his belt, the belt that would soon bear two sets of her teeth marks. Finally, swallowing hard, he reached over and gently brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers.
"Florie," he whispered. "Florie."
She moaned.
"Wake up."
Her eyes fluttered open. To his dismay, she averted her gaze as soon as she recognized him. "What do ye want?" Her words were slurred.
"There's somethin'… I must do." He plowed his hand through his hair. "I'll not lie to ye, lass. 'Twill hurt like the devil."
Her chin trembled, whether with fear or anger, he wasn't certain. "Everythin' ye do hurts like the devil."
He supposed she was right. But 'twas for her own good. On impulse, he tugged apart the laces of his jerkin. "I want ye to see somethin'." He dragged his shirt down to reveal the jagged scar beside his shoulder.
She glanced sidelong at the spot.
"I was pierced by an arrow once," he told her. "My wound festered as yours has. Only one thing saved me. 'Tis the same thing I must do for ye." He compressed his lips. He well remembered his suffering. "Florie, I need ye to be brave."
That got her attention. She gulped and stared at him. "Why? What are ye goin' to do?"
He held his belt toward her.
"Nae," she breathed, fear wetting her already fever-bright eyes. Then she saw the bowl of ominously steaming water and stubbornly set her jaw. "Nae. Nae."
"I must draw the infection out."
"Nae!"
"It has to be done."
"Ye bastard," she whispered.
Her words cracked his heart. He scowled, dropping his gaze. "Bloody hell, lass," he ground out in frustration. "Do ye not think if there was another way…"
He could hold her down if he had to. 'Twould be little trouble for him to force her. But he didn't want to. Though it might mean the difference between life and death for her, still he wanted her consent. And at the moment, he could think of only one way to get it.
He blew out a long breath and shook his head. "I knew I should have done it while ye were unawares," he told her softly. "Faith, ye're only a wee lass. I cannot expect ye to be as strong as a man, as strong as I was. After all, 'tisn't as if—"
"Fine," she bit out, clamping her trembling lips shut and lifting her chin in a show of courage. "I won't be bested by a Viking. If ye endured it…then so can I."
"Ye're certain?"
Her curt nod relieved him and helped steady his hands for the task ahead.
"But," she added, "'twill come at a price."
He stared at her, incredulous. Even under such dire circumstances, Florie bargained like a merchant. "A price?"
"If I hold very still for ye and don't… scream," she said with quiet bravery, "ye must repay me."
"I don't have much coin," he admitted.
"I'm not askin' for coin."
"Then what would ye have?" Anything, he thought. He'd promise her anything, though he was certain she couldn't keep her word. Rane himself had writhed and bellowed in pain from the ordeal. And though she was courageous, she was also frail. "What would ye ask o' me?"
For a long moment, she only stared at him. Then she whispered weakly, "When my leg is healed and the English are gone…if my foster father doesn't come for me…help me escape from this place. Take me home to Stirlin'."
His heart plummeted. He'd expected her to ask for what most maids did—new stockings or a ribbon or the deerskin pouches he liked to make for them. He'd never imagined she'd ask him to betray his lord. Guilt sank over his shoulders like an ox yoke, made heavier by the trust in her eyes, trust he didn't deserve.
He couldn't keep such a promise, no matter how much he wanted to. Treating her wounds, seeing her fed, keeping her safe and sheltered were things he could do. But abetting in her flight…
"I pray ye," she breathed.
He furrowed his brow at her faint entreaty, her wide, vulnerable eyes. Then he cursed silently. Why he troubled himself over the matter he didn't know. The lass wouldn't be able to keep her part of the bargain anyway. The moment he held the steaming cloth to her tender flesh, she'd yelp like a cornered vixen. Surely there was no harm then in giving her a hollow promise. "Agreed."
He proffered his belt again, and now she took it, slipping it between her teeth while tears of apprehension seeped from the corners of her eyes. He blew out a hard breath, steeling himself.
"I'm sorry," he growled. He carefully exposed her wound. Then he slid his arm along her calf to cup the back of her knee with one hand, tucking her leg firmly beneath his arm and against his side. With the stick, he retrieved the steaming rag from the bowl. When he met her gaze, she gave an infinitesimal nod.
Then, clenching his jaw against the brutality of what he had to do, he slapped the scalding linen to her open wound.
Amazingly, she didn't scream, though she arched up in pain. He swiftly lunged against her, holding her down with his weight so she couldn't shake the cloth loose. The skin of her thigh reddened and quivered, and the squeals caught in her throat were like slashes cut across his heart. But she didn't scream.
A half dozen times he repeated the process, each time holding her tightly as the cloth cooled and her squirming subsided.
When he was finished, tears drenched her cheeks, and her chest convulsed with wrenching breaths that shook him to his core.
He felt like a monster. All he could do was take her in his arms and let her sob out her anguish upon his shoulder.
He rocked her, murmured apologies to her, cupped her head in his hand as her silent tears fell unchecked upon his shirt. He curled her hair behind her ear and swept away her teardrops with his fingers. He stroked her back, soothing her the way one would a heartbroken child. Then his lips grazed the crown of her head and lower, to he
r forehead, the arch of her brow.
For once, likely because she was exhausted, she didn't pull away. Indeed, she rested her head against his chest as if he were her fondest companion. And when his lips moved lower still, touching the bridge of her nose, her head tipped back against his shoulder in surrender.
He never intended to kiss her.
Seduction was the furthest thing from his mind.
But the fiery fever of her skin begged for the cool brush of his mouth, and she made no protest as he pressed his lips upon her closed eyes, then along her cheekbone. Sweeping one hand along her neck, he lifted her chin with his thumb and, hesitating only a moment, kissed her full on the mouth.
It began as a sweet kiss, a kiss of atonement from him, a kiss of yielding from her. But as she melted against him, her fervid lips seemed to sear him with their touch, as if she repaid him in kind for the torture he'd dealt her. He felt her restraint dissolve as she branded his mouth again and again, snagging her fingers in the front of his shirt and making feminine moans.
Her rising passion fueled his own desires, and soon his hands moved with schooled instinct over her body, threading through her hair, caressing her face, tracing the curve of her hip. Her response was so ardent and so unexpected that, like a stag shot through the heart with a hunter's shaft, he was felled by a bolt of raging lust. He felt the most overwhelming, ungentlemanly urge to pin her down again, to toss up her skirts, and sink his aching dagger into her maiden's body.
But, God help him, he was not a monster.
And she was not herself.
Breathless, he broke off the kiss.
She gave a soft mewl of protest that he pretended not to hear. Instead, he merely held her against his pounding heart, saying nothing, until her breathing slowed and she succumbed to her fatigue.
His mind, however, was far from silent. Conflicting emotions warred within him: guilt and lust, compassion and self-loathing, shame and wonder.
He hadn't imagined her ardor. Even now his lips tingled from her greedy kisses. She had wanted him. She had reached for him. Her desire, like a flaming arrow fired into a hayfield, had sparked his own, and now unquenched fire raged through him.
He had no right to seduce her. He knew that. Not while she was so weak, so vulnerable. But somehow, for the first time in years of seducing maids, Rane had been almost unable to stop himself.
'Twas irresponsible.
Unforgivable.
And uncouth.
Now all he had to do was to convince that snarling beast betwixt his legs.
He pressed a final kiss to the top of her slumbering head and sighed into her hair, maddened by the snare into which he'd let himself be dragged.
Still, seduction was not the most bothersome quandary on his mind. The thought that truly troubled him, the thought that shook him to the core, was the fact that through the entire painful ordeal, Florie had never screamed, not once.
And now he owed her a promise he dared not keep.
Chapter 10
Soft snoring woke Florie. She cracked open her eyelids and beheld Rane, dozing with his back against the fridstool, his arms crossed, his head nodding on his chest.
He looked terrible. Gone were the tresses that shone like a sheet of satin. His hair hung in dull locks, unwashed and unkempt. His chin was covered in dark stubble, and his eyes were limned with gray shadows.
She wondered if she looked as bad as he did, as bad as she felt. Sweat covered her body, and her own hair was oily to the touch. Her leg burned, but the pressure of the swelling had ceased.
How much of what she remembered was true and how much a dream, she wasn't sure. The events of the past few days were as foggy in her mind as the Stirling moors. She knew neither how long she'd slept nor what day 'twas. She had vivid memories of being awakened again and again to endure the rinsing of her wound. And she recalled the agony of the scalding cloth.
But the thing she remembered most vividly was the impression that she'd let Rane kiss her, kiss her on the mouth. And she had no idea why.
Florie seldom allowed a man to touch her, much less kiss her. Such a thing seemed…predatory. And yet, in her recollection, Rane's arms had felt, not threatening, but reassuring. The touch of his lips had not offended, but excited her.
She shook her head. Surely 'twas a dream, an absurd delusion of her fevered brain.
She lifted the back of her quaking hand to her brow. 'Twas wet there, but at least the unbearable heat had dissipated. And now she was famished.
She let her gaze drift over to the fridstool. There were two golden tarts there. If she could reach one of them…
She moved a quiet inch toward the pastry.
"What?" Rane burst out, coming alert so quickly that it startled the speech from her. He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, then looked at her and frowned. "Ye're sweatin'."
'Twas true, though not the most gallant thing to say to a lass. She scowled. "Ye need a shave," she countered.
With the curious beginnings of a smile, he lunged forward, grabbing the back of her head and flattening his great palm against her brow. Marry! Did the man ask leave for anything?
"The fever, 'tis gone," he said happily, releasing her. "How do ye feel?"
Giddy. She felt giddy. As if his lighthearted mood was contagious. But that feeling confused her. "Hungry," she said instead.
He immediately retrieved both tarts from the fridstool and offered them to her. "Thirsty as well?"
She nodded, and he handed her his costrel.
Ale had never tasted so good. And when she bit off a flaky piece of tart, the chunks of spiced apple inside were remarkably sweet. Indeed, she was nearly finished with the pastry before she realized he was staring at her.
She looked down at the second tart, guiltily swallowing her last bite of the first. "This must be yours."
He smiled and shook his head. "Take it." Something mysterious shone in his eyes, a strange blend of contentment and relief and amusement that set her heart aflutter.
"But what will ye eat for supper?" Though she would dearly love to consume both tarts, her father had not raised a mannerless mop.
"Father Conan will come anon. I gave him coin for more food. Go on. Ye haven't eaten properly for three days."
She nodded and nibbled at the second tart. He was still watching her. His eyes looked bleary and careworn.
"Maybe ye should nap, then," she said. "Ye look as if ye haven't slept properly for three days."
He rubbed the backs of his fingers over his jaw, grinning. "That wretched?"
Indeed, she thought, he didn't look wretched in the least. The slight shadow upon his cheek made a stunning contrast to his fair features, the way topaz set off bright gold. Nae, though he appeared tired, he also looked more real, coarser, less like an angel now and more…human.
Lord, had she really kissed him? She wished she could remember.
Screwing up her courage, she picked idly at the tart, dribbling crumbs onto her kirtle. "While I was fevered…"
"Aye?"
"Did I…"
He lifted a brow, waiting for her to finish. When she didn't, he guessed, "Talk in your sleep?" Then he gave her a devilishly coy grin. "Oh, aye. Ye revealed to me the mystery o' turnin' lead into gold. But never fear—your secret is safe with me."
She could not help but smile at his nonsense. Turning lead into gold was the pursuit of alchemists insidious enough to find a way to leech off of foolish noblemen's coffers.
"Nae. I mean, did ye…and I…" She moistened her lips and furrowed her brow, intently studying the tart. "That is…did we…"
"Aye?"
She furrowed her brow at him, like a seer trying to read a particularly cloudy glass. But his expression revealed nothing. She shook her head. "I was fevered. Surely 'twas only a dream."
"What did ye dream?"
A short laugh bubbled out of her. The whole idea seemed daft now. She frowned at the absurdity of it. "Nothin'. 'Tis utter tosh, I'm sure. I dreamt that ye…that
we…kissed. Can ye fathom that?"
She waited for his laughter. It never came. She glanced sharply at him, and there was a wistful quiet in his eyes as he smiled at her.
"Kissed? But ye don't remember for certain?"
He leaned toward her suddenly, and for one terrible, wonderful instant, she imagined he intended to prove the truth of it, to kiss her here and now. But instead he reached out to brush a stray crumb from the shoulder of her kirtle. Though he seemed not to notice, his forearm chanced to graze her bosom, and she felt his touch as if 'twas flame.
Were he any other man, she would have clouted his errant hand. But she knew Rane meant nothing by it. He simply attended to her the way he had with the jordan, with a gesture that was casual, functional, pragmatic.
Her response, however, was far from casual. His brief caress left her flustered and fascinated and shamefully aroused. Her breast tingled from the contact, and suddenly she was certain they must have kissed before, for her body responded to his touch as if 'twere not the first time.
"I assure ye, lass," he murmured with unabashed cocksureness, staring sensuously at her mouth, "if I'd kissed ye, ye'd remember it."
But she did remember it. Or she remembered the dream. Her mind reeled with phantom memories. She recalled the strength of his chest and the comfort of his arms around her as he cradled her against his heart. His mouth, she thought, had tasted like the sweetest ambrosia, cooling her fevered lips, slaking her burning thirst. Her pulse had surged through her ears like the deafening roar of the sea, and his gasps had echoed hers as their breath mingled. She'd felt her spirit rise, as if it floated far from her tortured body, and for the first time she'd not felt panicked by his touch but honestly craved it.
'Twas well and good 'twas a dream, she decided. Those kinds of untamed emotions—reckless desire, unruly passion—were what led a person down the path of self-destruction and dependence.
But despite Rane's denial, despite the wisdom of restraint, when Florie glanced at the inviting mouth she'd dreamt of kissing, her blood flowed like molten gold, and she feared 'twould be perilously easy to lend credence to the dream.
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