Eager to alter the amorous bent of her thoughts, she searched her mind for some safe subject.
His scar. He'd shown her his scar. She nodded toward his shoulder. "How did ye get your wound?"
He ran a hand over the place. "This? It happened long ago. A baron's son I took on his first hunt. The lad got so overeager, he fired at the first thing that moved." He shook his head. "Unfortunately, 'twas me."
Florie's eyes widened.
One corner of his mouth lifted ruefully. "I'm not certain which was worse, the lad shootin' me or his father praisin' him for his marksmanship."
"Nae."
"Aye."
"What did ye do?"
He shrugged. "I pulled the arrow out and—"
"Ye pulled the arrow out?"
"The lad panicked and ran. I couldn't very well lie there, bleedin'."
Florie gulped. What strength Rane must have.
"Like your wound, mine festered. The surgeon drew out the infection with scaldin' garlic water. Now I'm as hale as ever, save for the scar."
"'Tis hardly noticeable." Florie remembered too vividly the small mark in the midst of a glorious expanse of golden skin. And now that she thought about it, she also recalled the way his chest felt beneath her palms, firm but yielding, warm and supple. 'Twas far too tangible a memory to be the invention of her imagination. She'd never had such a lucid dream before.
Oh, aye, she realized, she had kissed Rane. And she did remember it now. Every inch of her body remembered it.
Yet he denied it. Why?
The answer was obvious, knowing Rane's nature. 'Twas the honorable thing to do. Florie had been feverish, only half aware of her actions. Rane, as always, was protecting her, this time from her own impulsiveness.
Father Conan was right. Rane was a good man.
"More ale?" he offered.
Their fingers interlaced on the costrel, and Florie was suddenly struck by the inextricable connection forged between the two of them. They'd gone to hell and back together. They'd shared not only pain but passion—blood and sweat and curses and kisses. Never had she been so intimately joined with another.
'Twas a heady feeling. And yet it left her dangerously weak…like her foster father, after her mother died.
The memory quickly sobered her. She took a drink and returned the costrel. She couldn't afford to indulge in flighty diversions, no matter how pleasant.
She was not like her foster father. She wouldn't make the mistakes he had. Her heart was her own. Her fate might rest in the archer's hands now, but soon she'd stand on her own again.
Independent.
Strong.
Self-reliant.
Aye, there was much she desired of Rane. But there was only one thing she needed of him, one thing he owed her.
"Ye know," she reminded him softly, "I never cried out."
He didn't answer immediately, tipping the costrel back for a drink instead. He wiped the foam from his stubbled upper lip with the back of his hand.
"Ye didn't," he finally agreed. "Ye were very brave."
But he said nothing more, and when she summoned the courage to gaze upon him, his face was dark, secretive, his mouth grim, his eyes shadowed.
She glanced away, her heart racing.
The decision to flee Selkirk had not been made lightly. After all, Florie had come here on a mission—to find her father, her real father, and escape the drunken nightmare that life with her foster father had become. Though her mother had never disclosed the nobleman's name, Florie knew that he'd once resided in Selkirk. She was certain that, armed with the distinctive gold pomander, she could find him.
Leaving now meant abandoning her quest for him and returning to her foster father, who didn't remember who she was half the time. But she was willing to do that, for there would be another fair in Selkirk after harvest. She could come back then, after all this unpleasant business was forgotten. Better she should return safe to Stirling than linger here for her trial. If she could return to Stirling…
God's eyes, did Rane mean to cheat her? The reality of the kiss she may have doubted, but she remembered well his pledge. Could he possibly intend to deny his promise? Betrayal lodged like a hangman's knot at her throat.
But she never learned his thoughts, for at that very instant, Father Conan waddled in through the church door with supper.
Florie, full from the tarts, let the men eat most of the fish skink and oatcakes. She conversed very little, except to reassure the priest that she was feeling much better after her bout with the ague. At heart, however, she felt sick. What if Rane broke his word and refused to help her?
Bloody hell, she hated depending on anyone. She'd seen what it had done to her foster father. He'd devoted himself wholly to her mother, and it had destroyed him. When death took her, he'd crawled into a tankard of ale and never emerged.
And yet she had no choice but to trust Rane, for the more she thought about it, the more she realized how few options she had.
She couldn't leave on her own, not while she was wounded and English blackguards roved the countryside.
She dared not go to trial, for with the merchants scattered, no guildsman remained to speak on her behalf or defend her honor.
She was alone, helpless, doomed to be tried and condemned.
She choked down a crumb of oatcake. 'Twas unthinkable. Rane had to help her. She had no other ally.
After supper, the priest groped for his staff and limped toward the door, calling over his shoulder, "Get a good night's rest. Tomorrow is the Sabbath, and I plan to say a Mass o' thanksgivin' in the sanctuary. 'Tis time these old church walls echoed with the word o' God again."
His words jarred Florie from her brooding. When the door closed behind the priest, she whipped about toward Rane with a look of horror. "Mass? I cannot go to Mass like this."
"Like what?"
"Look at me." Her hair hung in strings, her kirtle was rumpled, and she was certain the stink of fever was upon her. She'd never attended church in anything less than her best attire, decked in velvet, tastefully adorned with precious gems. And though her foster father thought it a waste of water, she always took a bath on Saturday evening, just like her mother always had, so that, in her mother's words, she would be sinlessly clean for the Sabbath.
Rane did look at her, a far too thorough perusal that took her breath away and somehow, despite her sweat-stained kirtle and sickly pallor, made her feel impossibly beautiful. 'Twas ridiculous. And yet the appreciation in his eyes seemed genuine.
"I…I must have a bath," she explained.
His eyes widened. "A bath?"
"In Stirlin', I always bathe before the Sabbath."
"Ye're not at your house in Stirlin', lass. Ye're in a church, an abandoned one at that. Here there are no tubs, no bath linens, no servants to heat water."
She frowned in frustration. Sanctuary was becoming damned inconvenient. But she wasn't about to give up. "I'll bathe in the pond."
He snorted. "Darlin', 'tis full night."
She glanced out the west window to the darkness beyond. "I don't care. I won't appear like this on the Sabbath."
"Appear before whom?" He sent her a one-sided smile. "No one worships here, save the mice."
"I've always bathed before the Sabbath," she insisted. "I'm not about to cease just because 'tis…difficult."
"Difficult? 'Tis nigh impossible."
Florie jutted out her chin. "I'll bathe in the pond."
Rane mouthed what she was certain was an expletive, drumming his fingers upon the fridstool, staring at her with mild irritation.
She didn't expect him to understand. After all, he was a man. Stubble and sweat and mud only made him look more… manly.
He blew out a frustrated breath. "I cannot allow it."
"I didn't ask your permission."
"Nonetheless, I'll not allow it. Ye have an open wound. I didn't labor so hard to cleanse it of infection only to have ye foul it again in pond muck."
; She ran a hand through her hair, unwittingly mimicking his favorite gesture. She supposed he had a point. "Then I'll lower myself into the well."
He coughed. "Into the well? Into the water we drink? I'm sure ye're as sweet as clover, love, but—"
"Curse it all!" she cried, at her wits' end. "I cannot live like this!"
"Ye cannot live otherwise, my lady," he said gently. "Indeed, ye should count yourself fortunate to have provender and a plaid against the chill. There are those who perish in sanctuary for want o' food."
'Twas the last thing Florie wanted to hear. That she might starve to death. And that she was helpless to do anything about it. The idea terrified her and made her all the more desperate to secure her escape.
"Well, I won't have long to worry about that, will I?" she asked, glancing sidelong at him. "After all, ye've promised to help me escape, haven't ye?"
He didn't reply. His eyes grew shuttered, just as they had the first time she'd asked him about the promise. An unwelcome frisson of fear skittered along her spine.
She spoke as evenly as she could. "Ye said ye would."
He wouldn't meet her eyes, and she saw him swallow uncomfortably.
She took a deep breath to steady herself, but 'twas ragged and strained. "Ye promised that if I didn't scream—"
"I…"
He clenched his fists and his jaw, tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing, like a warrior deciding whether to advance or retreat, his scowl growing blacker by the moment.
Finally he shot to his feet. This time she heard his curse. 'Twas most foul. Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the sanctuary, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 11
Even before the echo of Rane's oath died, Florie's chin began to tremble. She stared at the closed door in disbelief, and it blurred through her welling tears as her throat thickened with the urge to sob.
Rane had never intended to keep his word, she realized. He'd lied to her, forsaken her. After all they'd endured together—pain and succor, exhaustion and solace, shame and triumph—he'd ruthlessly betrayed her. Faith, his treachery stung far worse than any broken vows her foster father had made, worse even than her mother abandoning her.
But she fought back the despicable impulse to weep. Weeping was for weakhearted maids who couldn't compete in a man's world. Florie was stronger than that. She gave an angry sniff and whisked away the droplets gathered on her lashes.
Somehow she'd manage. Somehow she'd survive. She always had. She didn't need the archer. And when he came back, she'd tell him so.
If he came back.
It didn't matter, she told herself. She was better off without him.
Still, she couldn't help stealing glances at the church door every few moments. She worried her sleeve between her fingers and chewed at her lip as the candle beside her burned down a quarter of an inch, then half. Another half inch melted away as she adjusted her makeshift pillow beneath her head, scrunching the fabric into a shape more conducive to slumber.
But she couldn't sleep. The hour grew late. Where had the archer gone? To the woods? Home? Now that her leg was improving, had he left her for good? Would he ever return?
She flopped onto her side and pulled the plaids over her shoulders, smearing away a stray tear of self-pity with a furious swipe. She didn't care if he ever came back, she told herself.
After all, he was an arrogant knave.
A vile worm.
A miserable cur.
A black-hearted whoreson who…
The church door swept open abruptly, banging back against the wall, catapulting her heart against her ribs. In staggered Rane, struggling with a steaming cauldron. She rose up on her elbows with a puzzled frown. Muttering irritably, Rane lugged the heavy basin forward, finally setting it beside her on the flagstones.
"Oh," she breathed, suddenly realizing what he'd done. Indeed, so moved was she that she nearly strangled on the lump rising in her throat.
He scowled as if he'd had to travel to the Orient to get the hot water, but she could tell her response pleased him. He dropped a linen cloth into the basin.
"I haven't any rose petals to sprinkle in, my lady," he said with heavy sarcasm, shaking out his wet hands. "'Tis only a basin, not a full bath. But ye've got soap and a rag. 'Tis the best I can manage."
Florie's eyes teared up again, and she self-consciously brushed away the moisture. "'Tis more than enough," she choked out.
He grunted. "See ye don't get your bandage wet," he said, wagging his finger, "and leave me a little o' the water before it cools." Then he left her to her ablutions.
For Florie, it may not have been the most complete scrubbing she'd had before the Sabbath, but 'twas indeed the most welcome.
As she finished washing behind her ears, she cast a glance up at the cobweb-strewn altar, sending up a word of thanks to God for sending her Rane MacFarland, as well as an apology for all the wretched names she'd called him.
One more prayer remained. 'Twas not precisely a prayer. Indeed, 'twas more akin to a curse, and Florie flushed with chagrin even as she formed the words. She clasped her hands before her and made a silent appeal to Sebastian, the patron saint of archers, that until such time as Rane saw fit to keep his promise to her, his bow arm would tremble and his arrows would fly astray.
Mavis awoke in the dark, roused by the familiar, unwelcome ache, low in her belly, of her courses coming on. She moaned and reached out an arm for Gilbert. But she'd forgotten he was gone, summoned to the queen's court, leaving her alone in her misery. Frustration and anger twisted her mouth as tears filled her eyes.
She'd been foolish enough to hope that maybe this time his seed would take, maybe this time she'd grow fat and happy with a son, and she could forget about everything—King Henry's bitter betrayal, her exile from the Scots court to this miserable patch of land, and, aye, even that pesky whelp at the fair with the incriminating pomander.
But the stars had crossed her again. And now she'd be forced to endure another month of malicious whispers. She despised the gossips, who clucked their tongues, spreading rumors that the sheriff's second wife might do no better than his first and leave their lord childless. Worst of all, in the darkest recesses of her heart, Mavis lived in fear they might be right, that she'd be cast aside like one of Henry's barren queens.
She was getting no younger, and upon Henry's death she'd lost the protection of the English crown. If she didn't secure her future soon with Gilbert's child…
Even now she felt her authority slipping. Her own servants looked at her with pity instead of fear. The English soldiers were not so quick of late to come at her beck and call. Gilbert was away far too frequently on the queen's business, and though the Scots court was not the den of debauchery that King Henry's had been, Mavis wondered what tempting doxies lurked there. Then there had been the nasty surprise at the fair, which had caught Mavis completely off-guard, awakening her to an even more imminent threat.
Mavis's belly cramped. She winced, knowing she'd have to attend to her body's needs soon. But she knew she wouldn't sleep another wink until she decided what to do about that damned goldsmith, the conniving wench who'd managed to claim sanctuary in the old church.
If 'twere up to Mavis, there would be no more sanctuary. Henry had always felt the Pope held too much power, and Mavis agreed, though 'twas heresy here to speak of it. One day, perhaps, all that would change, but until then she'd have to abide by the dictates of the church, which meant that for forty days, no matter how much Mavis wanted to throttle the life out of the wicked trull who'd crossed her, she was untouchable.
But Mavis couldn't afford forty days. Every hour the urchin lingered in Selkirk felt like an hour plucked from Mavis's future. And now that Gilbert was away…
She pursed her lips in thought.
The wench might be untouchable, but perhaps she wasn't unreachable. Perhaps, Mavis mused, managing a weak smile despite the spasm snaking through her belly, there was a way to make the miserable
whelp see the error of her ways.
"Shite!" Rane hissed, making Father Conan wince. "Sorry."
"Who is it?" the Father asked. "Can ye see?"
Rane scanned the furthest turn of the road, where the rising sun crested the horizon to be immediately swallowed by a bank of gray clouds. They were definitely coming this way—a retinue of lords, ladies, men-at-arms, maids—dressed for Mass.
"The Frasers. And Lady Mavis."
"Mavis?" The Father squinted with displeasure. "Shite," he echoed under his breath. "What does she want?"
Rane spit into the dirt. "Florie."
The priest straightened, as much as his bent back would allow. "She's in sanctuary. She cannot be taken."
"Nae. But now that Gilbert's away, nothin' would please Mavis more than to force a confession from her."
The Father exhaled, his breath making a thin cloud on the chill air. "What will ye tell the lass?"
Rane sniffed. Last night his loyalties had been wrenched between his allegiance to his lord and his vow to Florie. But with the coming of Lady Mavis this morn in force, the balance shifted. 'Twas an underhanded attack, blatantly cruel and utterly ruthless.
"I'll tell her to be strong." As an afterthought he added, "And silent."
"And what will ye tell your lord when he returns?" Father Conan asked gently.
Rane narrowed his eyes at the distant mustard-colored pennants drooping in the damp morn. What could he tell Lord Gilbert? That he questioned his own loyalty?
"'Tis a quandary, is it not?" the Father asked. "To serve two masters, one who'd own your soul and one who'd claim your heart."
Rane glanced sharply at the priest. What was he babbling about? Aye, he'd sworn lifelong fealty to Gilbert. But Florie had no claim upon him. She wanted his protection, not his heart.
Still, the priest's words were impossible to forget, and he pondered them all the way back to the church.
Rane prepared Florie for the ordeal as best he could. Predictably, when he told her the news, she thrust out her chin at a rebellious angle. But Rane knew her moods well enough now to recognize the subtle fear behind her feigned bravado.
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