If he couldn't hunt, he couldn't eat. 'Twas all he knew how to do. The Fraser household relied upon his talents, as did the crofters for whom he poached this year. If he lost the will to hunt, not only would he go hungry, but he'd doom half the burghers to certain starvation.
Nae, he thought, 'twasn't possible. 'Twasn't tolerable. He couldn't let one small turn of fate unman him. Choking back a lump of nauseating dread, he seized his bow and arrow and tromped back through the forest.
'Twas the lass, nothing else. Like the goddess Frigg, Florie safeguarded the woodland creatures by thwarting his aim. Once she was healed, once she was out of his life, he could purge himself of this debilitating weakness. Hell, then he'd load Lord Gilbert's tables with so much meat, the household would think every day a feast day.
Aye, as soon as Florie returned home, he'd be able to hunt.
Yet a part of him wished the lass wouldn't go.
'Twas admittedly ridiculous. After all, she didn't want to stay in Selkirk. All she spoke of was returning home.
Still, he knew there'd be a hollow place in his heart when she left. Maybe 'twas only that he was accustomed to her company after so many days. Or maybe 'twas the bond her sickness had forged between them. Maybe 'twas but the sorrel shine of her eyes, the rosy cast of her lips, the saucy angle of her chin, the inviting curve of her waist. Maybe, he thought ruefully, 'twas only that he'd been so long away from a wench's bed.
But nae, none of these rang true. He felt things for Florie that he'd never felt for another before. Not just a need to protect her. Not just a desire to take her in his arms. He felt…drawn to her, as if by magic.
A crow cawed at him from the high branch of an alder, as if to mock his superstitions. The bird was right. No faerie spell or Scottish bane or Viking curse bewitched him. He was beginning to sound as fanciful as Father Conan. 'Twas his own heart that took the reins, his unwise heart, for only a fool would allow himself to be drawn to that which had the power to unman him.
"Take this," Florie whispered to the priest late that afternoon, after Rane had changed her bandages and she was certain he was out of hearing. She wiggled loose one of her gold rings and pressed it into the Father's palm. "'Twill pay for what I've already eaten and buy our supper for the next several days."
She'd seen Rane return after Mass, his bow across his back, his hands empty, and she'd guessed at once where he'd gone. That his hunt hadn't been successful was no surprise. According to Father Conan, game was scarcer this year than any other in memory.
"Now mind ye," she added, "'tis gold and pearl and o' decent quality. Don't take less than a mark for it. And Father," she said softly, "I pray ye speak not a word of it to Rane. I wouldn't want to insult his pride."
She told herself 'twas because she couldn't afford to insult him. Her foster father had reminded her endlessly that one must never give offense to a man from whom one might stand to gain. Certainly she had everything to gain from Rane.
But she knew 'twas only half of the truth. Indeed, she cared for Rane's feelings. Whether she wanted him there or not, the stealthy archer was beginning to steal his way into her heart.
Chapter 12
Florie dreamt they were coming for her, Lady Mavis and the whole Fraser household. They had formed an ugly mob, and men-at-arms charged the door with an enormous battering ram. The pummeling was relentless, and the walls of the church shuddered, threatening to collapse about her.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
She started awake and sat up, her pulse racing, glancing toward the door, expecting it to splinter before her eyes. But there was only silence.
'Twas just a dream. An inane dream, she realized. Why would anyone storm the door of a church? 'Twas never barred.
Pound.
She nearly jumped from her skin. Someone was pounding at the door. She drew her good knee defensively up to her chest, watching the door shudder.
Pound. Pound.
She twitched again, then cursed her own cowardice. 'Twas ridiculous, she thought. No one had a battering ram at the door. There was a reasonable explanation for the noise.
She struggled to her feet and made her hesitant way across the sanctuary. The pounding grew louder and more threatening as she closed in on the door.
Mustering up her courage, she took a deep breath and snatched open the door all at once.
She startled Rane as much as he startled her. He slipped with the wooden mallet and caught the tip of his thumb.
"Shite!"
She might have cursed back at him, but all the breath had been sucked from her lungs.
Rane the Viking's son, like some ancient warrior, stood before her, filling the doorway, bared to the waist, in all his bronze glory. His hair was pulled back, bound with a leather tie, revealing his massive shoulders and the flexing muscles of his stomach. His skin, as golden as honey, was dusted with a light film of perspiration. And as she stood in open-mouthed awe, a droplet of sweat trickled down the side of his throat, past his arrow scar, and across the wide expanse of his chest.
Flustered, she forced her eyes back up to his face. But at the moment he was sucking on his injured thumb, and something about the sight sent another wave of heat rippling through her, discomfiting her even more.
Now flushed and faint, she dropped her glance to the ground, but the image of Rane standing so close, so naked, so beautiful, would live in her mind forever.
"Sorry," he said, withdrawing his thumb with an audible smack. "Did I wake ye?"
The absurdity of his question helped to sober her, but she was still reeling from the effects of the sensual heat roiling off of him like steam off of a simmering crucible.
"I'm repairin' the door," he told her. "It looks like someone slammed it right off its hinges."
"Lady M-Mavis," she managed to murmur.
Misunderstanding her stammer, he reached out to cup her chin. She held her breath. His hand was rough and dusty from labor, but 'twas as warm as malleable gold. "Ye needn't fear her, love."
She shivered. Lord, what ailed her? 'Twas not the first time he'd called her that. 'Twas not the first time she'd seen a half-naked man—men wrestled every May at the Stirling fair in their hose and boots. Nor was it the first time a man had touched her, though 'twas the first time a man had touched her and not suffered a cracked pate.
"I'm not afraid o' Mavis," she croaked. "Remember? I'm not afraid of…anythin'."
He studied her closer. "But ye're tremblin'. Are ye chilled?"
She gulped and shook her head. It took most of her willpower to keep her eyes trained on the stone steps. It took the rest to fight off an overwhelming desire to wrench her jaw from his grasp…or pitch forward into his warm, golden, naked embrace—she wasn't sure which.
She closed her eyes, hoping to dispel his disturbing image. "I'm just…weak, I suppose…from the wound."
This was ridiculous. She could certainly look at Rane. He was only a man, no different from any other. But when she lifted her eyes to meet those beryl-brilliant orbs, her lids dipped with something other than indifference.
Rane recognized the smoldering in her eyes. Desire. Pure, raw, unadulterated desire. The feminine question for which he always had a ready answer. And this morn that answer came swiftly and with great force, heating his blood and deepening his breath, rising so quickly it dizzied him.
"Ah," he said, realizing the truth. Florie wasn't afraid or cold or weak. She was aroused. He'd forgotten his state of undress and the effect it sometimes had on the lasses.
Not that he let it bother him. Indeed, gazing into Florie's smoky chestnut eyes, limpid yet filled with longing, he wished he'd forgotten his braies as well.
"'Tisn't that at all," he murmured, "is it, wee fawn?"
She swallowed visibly. Still cradling her chin, Rane loosed one finger to rest alongside her throat. Beneath his fingertip, her pulse pounded.
"Your heart's throbbin'," he whispered.
Her nostrils flared with a quick inhalation.
&nbs
p; "And your breath is short."
Her eyes drifted shut, and her lips parted infinitesimally, enough to reveal the moist recess within, warm and welcoming.
Rane felt his own pulse race. "'Tis…somethin' else."
He stared at her mouth—her soft, pouting lips that were made for kissing. He was going to kiss them. Soon. And she was going to let him.
"Nae," she breathed, as if she read his thoughts.
"Ye said ye feared nothin'." He brushed his bruised thumb lightly over her lower lip.
"I… I…"
"I remember how ye taste," he murmured. Sweet. Warm. Willing. His loins tensed with the memory.
She made a soft moan, sharpening his lust to a fine point.
"Come, darlin'," he breathed. "Ye want it."
"Do not…call me…that," she said weakly.
He dropped the mallet to the ground with a thud. Then, encircling her with one arm, he tipped her jaw to an accessible angle and let his mouth stop her ineffectual protests.
If Rane had learned anything from a lifetime of hunting, 'twas the art of pursuit. The rules were the same for beasts or maidens. He knew how to steal up on them unawares, to seduce them into complacency, easing gradually closer and closer. He could anticipate their every movement, always controlling the pace, always calculating the moment of attack.
As he did now.
He kissed her lightly, nipping at her lips until she sought his. Only then did he press closer, sweeping his mouth across hers, accustoming her to his touch. When she answered with kisses of her own making, he teased her mouth wider until he could venture within. Then slowly, carefully, he let his tongue explore, first her lips, with tiny flickering tastes, and finally her tongue, licking like lightning over its moist surface. He caught her quick sigh in his mouth, soft with surrender.
Emboldened, he pressed her close against the bulge in his braies while his tongue plunged and swirled and tangled with hers. Moving his hand along her cheek until his fingers were entwined in her hair, he brushed his loins subtly but purposefully across her belly.
He knew what came next. She'd release one last shuddering breath of surrender and melt into his embrace. Just like all the other maidens. And when she did, he'd whisper something sweet in her ear, some endearment to reassure her that even though she may feel helpless in his arms, he meant her no harm, that 'twas safe to feel powerless, for he'd take control of her pleasure.
And so he had…until she made that sound in her throat.
'Twas little more than a faint groan. But it circled his ear like some primitive mating call, deep and savage, sending a jolting bolt of desire coursing through his body. And suddenly he felt utterly out of control.
As if bees swarmed through his brain, his head spun in a frenzied buzzing, and lust poured through his veins like hot honey. Every muscle felt shocked to life yet weak with need. He sucked a harsh gasp through his teeth and felt the air rasp through his lungs. And his hands, his capable hands, his expert hands that had caressed and coaxed dozens of lasses to pleasure and fulfillment, now trembled uncertainly.
Florie, Rane realized, was like no quarry he'd ever pursued. And what had begun as prey now became predator.
Florie's delicate hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer. She leaned into his chest, crushing the pillows of her breasts against him. And she began to kiss him as if she meant to devour him, opening her jaw wide to feast on his mouth and tongue, reveling in his flavor.
All the while she kept making those sounds, moans that were at once demanding yet helpless, deliberate yet fearful, expert yet artless. Sounds that were driving him wild.
Her hands slipped over his shoulders now, flattening upon his damp chest, and she arched her neck backward for his kisses, pressing her belly deliberately against the part of him that wanted her most. By Thor, he thought, he might well spill his seed in his braies if she continued.
With what was left of his wits, Rane momentarily pulled away, thrusting his thigh between hers to stop her inflaming movements. He dragged his hands down her back until he cupped her round bottom. Then he hauled her forward against his leg. She gasped as his thigh found the core of her need. Squeezing the muscles of her buttocks, he dragged her across his thigh as she writhed in wanton innocence against him.
Fortunately, not all his hunter's instincts were lost in a sensual haze. He heard the snap of branches behind him in time to salvage Florie's dignity. Or at least most of it.
Before the intruders could break through the trees, Rane tore his mouth from Florie's and pushed her away. Lord, she looked breathless and disheveled and utterly seductive, vulnerable and bewildered.
There was no time to explain his sudden retreat. She'd learn soon enough that they had visitors.
Assuring himself with a glance that Florie's disarray was not too incriminating, Rane caught up the sleeves of the linen shirt belted about his hips and slipped it up over his shoulders, forgoing the laces.
"Rane!" came a feminine cry from behind him.
Florie's eyes widened.
He glanced down. Shite! He might as well have a bloody quarterstaff in his braies. Briskly, he unbuckled his belt, allowing his shirt to float down over the blatant manifestation of his lust. Then he turned to meet the interlopers.
Florie bumped into the church door behind her, stunned silent.
She remembered when she was a lass, she and her mother had made a game of spinning in the meadow, twirling 'round and 'round, giggling with delight, until they were too giddy to stand. 'Twas how she felt now. She could neither walk nor speak nor think straight.
Her eyes felt weighted, her lips tingled, her blood seemed vitalized by the most wonderful elixir, and her body…lord, her body felt on fire. Thoroughly drunk on desire, she couldn't even muster the strength to be civil to their visitors.
Fortunately, Rane seemed to suffer no such affliction, though his voice sounded more strained than usual. "Good morn."
"Rane!" This time the voice came attached to a figure emerging from the woods.
A loud gasp ensued, followed by a second voice chiming in dramatically, "Oh, Rane! If I'd known ye were only half-dressed…"
Florie frowned and turned her gaze upon two of the loveliest creatures she'd ever seen. They had to be sisters, so alike were they in form and feature. Their skin was as pale as pearls, and blond curls peeked from their fashionable gable hoods of velvet studded with sapphires. Their twin kirtles, one of azure, one of emerald, embroidered with figures of leaves and flowers, marked them as nobility, as did the presence of a pair of servants in matching blue tabards who struggled behind them with several large timbers.
Much to Florie's consternation, she despised the beautiful noblewomen at once.
"My ladies," Rane replied, sketching a slight bow.
"Tut-tut, little sister, avert your eyes!" the first one cried, though Florie noted that the maid could not seem to look Rane over thoroughly enough herself.
The younger sister shielded her eyes with delicate fingers through which she kept peering at every possible opportunity.
"Please forgive my vulgarity," Rane apologized, laying a hand across his heart, which did little to conceal his undress. "Ye've caught me…at my bath."
He'd invented that, likely to protect her or maybe to hurry the ladies along. But he was wrong to beg their forgiveness. 'Twas they who had intruded upon him. They should be the ones begging his pardon.
"Oh, Rane," the young sister gushed, "ye could never be vulgar."
"Not even if ye were completely unclothed," the older added.
Then both sisters gasped and giggled in unison, covering their errant lips and blushing prettily. Florie nearly choked on incredulity, wondering if they'd practiced this particular speech.
Unable to listen to more of their simpering, Florie decided upon an excuse to quit them. "I'll fetch your bathwater, then," she muttered, limping awkwardly down the steps.
As if for the first time, the elder sister seemed to notice Florie. A tiny
frown marred her perfect brow. "Why, Rane, is this a new servant?" she asked, her voice tainted slightly with something unpleasant.
Florie's hackles rose at that. A servant? God's eyes, she'd presented jewelry to Princess Mary in the queen's solar!
Suddenly she wished she'd already fetched the bucket of water that she might douse the sugary wenches and melt them. But then, she supposed the mistake was understandable. Florie had left her jewels within the sanctuary, and garbed in nothing but the oversized woad kirtle, she likely did resemble a servant. Still, the lady's condescending air nettled her.
Rane didn't seem to know how to answer the lady, and the truth struck Florie with the weight of a millstone. Nae, she wasn't a servant. She was less than a servant. She was an outlaw, which was far worse.
Better they should think her his maid.
Before Rane could respond, she blurted, "Aye. My ladies." She dropped into a respectful curtsy, wincing as pain shot up her injured thigh.
"Hm." The older sister cast one last appraising glare, then dismissed her, which suited Florie well. While Florie lowered the bucket into the well, the lady returned her attention to Rane. "We missed ye at Mass yesterday," she pouted.
"Aye," the younger said, aping her tone. "We missed ye, Rane."
"We fretted that maybe ye had a malady."
"Or a malaise."
"Or an ague."
The ladies regarded each other and emitted sad sighs together. Florie ground her teeth, trying in vain not to listen, and began to bring up the full bucket.
"I prayed for ye, Rane," the youngest added.
"I thank ye for your kind prayers, my ladies," Rane replied, beaming, "but as ye can see, I'm quite well."
They tilted their heads and smiled appreciatively, and Florie's fists tightened around the rope of the bucket as she hauled it to the top of the well.
"Oh, I'd almost forgotten," the older sister said, fluttering her hands. "The reason we came. Father Conan mentioned that ye had need o' timbers for a new vestry door."
Loosing the brimming bucket from the rope, Florie hefted it from the well by the bail.
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