MacFarland's Lass

by Campbell, Glynnis

  "'Tis so generous of ye to offer your strong back," the younger said, her eyes dipping with transparent desire, "when the Father is so crippled."

  Florie feared her fingers might snap the bail in half.

  "'Tis generous of ye, ladies," Rane protested. "I thank ye on behalf o' the Father."

  With a sharp clap of her hands, the lady in azure commanded her servants to stack the timbers at the church door.

  "Actually, Rane," she confided, taking several steps nearer, "there is another reason we came."

  The younger lady, at her sister's heels, nodded. "Indeed, we feared for your safety."

  Rane sniffed. "My safety?"

  "Aye," the elder replied, her eyes widening. "Did ye not know?"

  "Know what?"

  "About the…" The lady looked about her for witnesses, then hissed, "The outlaw."

  To his credit, Rane remained mute.

  "Aye," she whispered, warming to the subject. "There's a fugitive takin' sanctuary inside the church."

  "A dangerous fugitive," the younger added.

  Rane coughed then, though Florie was almost certain the sound concealed a laugh.

  "We saw her at Mass. A horrible creature," the first continued with a shudder. "'Tis a female, but not such as my sister or myself."

  "Indeed?" Rane managed a frown, but Florie thought she detected crinkles of laughter at the edges of his eyes.

  "She is o' monstrous proportions," the younger breathed, "an old hag with an enormous hunched back and…" She pressed a hand to her forehead as if she might swoon.

  "Oh, poppet!" the eldest said, patting her sister's arm. "Ye mustn't fret so." Then she said solemnly, "I caught a glimpse o' her face—ugly as sin."

  Rane scowled, pressing his lips together, and this time Florie was certain he bit back laughter. "I appreciate your concern, my ladies."

  The lass in azure sidled even closer to him. "Ye are our dear, dear friend, Rane, after all, and since we knew ye'd be laborin' inside the sanctuary…"

  "Aye," the younger purred, fluttering her eyelashes. "We couldn't bear it if anythin' should happen to ye."

  Florie feared if she clenched her jaw any harder, she'd crack it.

  "I assure ye, gentle ladies," Rane said, "I can protect myself from…monstrous lasses."

  Florie doubted that. This pair of monstrous lasses had him drinking up their flattery and dining from their fingers like a spoiled hound.

  "Oh, we never doubted that," the older sister said with a coy grin. "After all, Rane, ye're so strong and capable…"

  "And brave and cunnin'…"

  Florie couldn't listen to another word. She dropped the bucket with a thud, nearly splashing water over the sisters' blue satin slippers. They gasped. In unison, of course.

  "If ye need anythin' else…master," Florie drawled, "I shall be within the sanctuary." She picked up her overlong skirts. "And don't worry on my account, my ladies," she said pointedly to the sisters. "I know how to protect myself from monstrous lasses as well."

  As she limped up the steps of the church she heard the ladies murmur, "Rane, how do ye put up with such an impertinent servant?" and "He's done it for charity, poppet. See? She's a cripple."

  Florie slammed the church door with a satisfying bang, half hoping 'twould fall off its hinges again.

  Now she'd done it, Florie thought as she hobbled toward the altar. Her leg was throbbing again. Still, when she thought about it, the pain was nothing compared to what she felt in her heart.

  She knew she had no right to feel anything. After all, Rane didn't belong to her. Even if she had kissed him. Even if he had carried her to sanctuary and brought her a bath and helped her with the jordan and saved her leg from festering.

  She let out a sharp sigh. In another week or so, she'd leave this place and never return. She must remember her intentions. 'Twas foolish to develop anything more than a fleeting liaison with the man.

  But for the moment, she intended to make herself useful. 'Twas the way she dealt with the unpleasantness of her life. After her mother died, she'd thrown herself wholeheartedly into her work, and it had given her great solace.

  The vestry, she thought. 'Twas a mess. The blind priest likely had no idea that cobwebs hung from every corner, dust lay thick upon the Christmas service, and Methuselah had made a bed for himself out of altar cloths. While the vestry door hung shattered on its hinges, she might as well trespass there and tidy the place.

  The first thing she did was chase the old cat from his nest with a hiss. Then, winding her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and rolling back her long sleeves, she got to work. Echoes of the sisters' ingratiating voices haunted her, however, the whole time she labored.

  "Oh, Rane," she mimicked with thick sarcasm, piling the dirty service linens in the middle of the floor, "if I'd known ye were only half-dressed…"

  She wondered if Rane was so stupid as to be gulled by such empty flattery.

  The cope, maniple, and chasuble hanging on pegs she took out of the room, shaking them until dust rained down over the flagstones.

  Stealing into the storage room opposite, which was in even worse condition than the vestry, Florie managed to locate a broom. She swept away the webs and the worst of the dust from the furnishings. Then she used the damp cloth to scrub the chests and table until they gleamed and the grain of the dark wood was visible again.

  Next she went to work on the floor, sweeping up cat hair and mouse droppings and dead flies, chipping up globs of wax from the stones with a hoe she found in the storage room.

  She'd wash the linens in well water later, when the ladies were gone, after they were done admiring their…what was it they'd called him? She lay a palm upon her bosom, sighing in mockery. "Our dear, dear friend."

  She rolled her eyes, then brushed back a stray lock of hair to survey the work she'd done. 'Twas far from perfect. The wood needed a coating of tallow, burnished to a soft luster, and the stone floor could use a thorough scrubbing. But the worst of the mess was gone. And once she laundered the linens and folded them away into one of the chests, Methuselah's attempts to turn the vestry into his own opulent den would be thwarted.

  She picked up the broom one last time to sweep away the dregs of the dust, wondering how much longer the ladies were going to keep Rane from his work. "Oh, Rane," she purred, "'twas so kind o' ye to offer your strong back. Ye're so brave." Then she muttered, "Stupid wenches, fawnin' over him like he was some Vikin' god."

  A low chuckle told her she was no longer alone. She whipped around in horror. Curse the hunter's stealth! He'd stolen up on her again. Holy saints, how long had he been listening?

  Surely long enough to hear the part about the Viking god. She bristled to think she'd said such a thing. Yet gazing at him now, as he propped one arm against the top of the vestry doorway—the contours of his chest visible beneath his thin shirt, his long hair escaping the leather tie to soften the square line of his jaw, his face washed clean and comely and swathed in an amused grin—her heart fluttered, and she found it difficult to believe he was not indeed divine.

  "Ye disapprove o' my companions?" he inquired.

  She tore her gaze away from his magnificent body with difficulty. She remembered how it felt against hers. "'Tisn't my place to approve or disapprove."

  "Still, ye think them, what was it? Stupid?"

  Nae, she didn't think them stupid. Indeed, they were brilliant. After all, they'd managed to garner a good hour of Rane's attentions with little more than the sway of a skirt and the flutter of an eyelash.

  "Nae," she admitted with a sigh, "they're not stupid."

  "I find them charmin'," he pronounced, proving her point.

  "O' course ye do," she said, hoping he didn't notice the inexplicable bitter edge to her voice, an edge that almost sounded like…jealousy.

  He did notice. "That upsets ye," he remarked, his grin widening smugly.

  "Nae," she lied. "'Tis no matter to me at whom ye wag your tongue." Under her brea
th, she added, "Or your yard."

  He choked on a laugh. "My what?"

  She felt her cheeks pinken. "Nothin'."

  He grinned. "Ye think I've bedded them."

  "Have ye?" she blurted.

  "I thought 'twas no matter to ye."

  "'Tisn't." Her grip tightened on the broom.

  "Yet ye're certain I have."

  She shrugged. "Ye said ye found them charmin'."

  "I find many lasses charmin'. I don't bed them all."

  All this talk of bedding was warming Florie's cheeks. Her mind, too, was beginning to dredge up visions of that sheer linen shirt torn away, of blond hair spilled across a bolster…

  "Surely with that Viking curse o' yours," she said hoarsely, "ye could have any lass ye—"

  "The curse I keep tellin' ye isn't true?"

  "Well, they obviously think 'tis true," she snipped, unable to conceal her rising temper.

  He chuckled. "If 'twill smooth your feathers to know, lass, nae, I've not…wagged my yard at them." She hated to admit it, but his words did relieve her in some small measure. At least until he added, "After all, every man knows 'tis a fool who'd swive sisters."

  Vexed anew, she scowled at the floor, sweeping her broom in irritated stabs at an imaginary patch of dirt and silently cursing shallow-pated men. "Maybe ye can convince the wee darlin's to give up their sisterhood, then, so ye may swive whom ye—"

  His hand closed abruptly over hers on the broom, and she jumped, unaware he'd left his spot in the doorway. She stopped sweeping, and their gazes locked. His fingers were warm, cupping her hand as perfectly as the setting of a jewel, and his eyes were even warmer, their blue-green depths lit by amusement.

  His nearness was intoxicating, and she suddenly longed to toss the broom aside and continue where they had left off, to lean into his embrace and taste his passion again.

  But she'd learned something from the sisters this morn, something that made Rane's advances easier to resist. She'd learned she was no different in his eyes than any other maiden. He treated them with the same honor and kindness, the same sly smile and coy glances that he offered her. 'Twas evident Florie held no special place in his heart. And while 'twas what she claimed to want, the truth was Rane was special to her. Whether she willed it or not, 'twas more than mere lust that called her to him.

  Yet she knew she must protect her heart at all costs. If that meant she couldn't have the liaison she desired with Rane, so be it. She'd leave his seduction unanswered.

  Rane, as if spying upon her mind, retracted his hand and nodded at the broom, retreating to safer discourse. "I see ye've taken your servant's role to heart."

  "I'm only earnin' my keep."

  He glanced about the room, clearly impressed. "Indeed, if ye continue to earn your keep so well, the Father may decide to keep ye longer." Just then Methuselah peeked between Rane's legs, slinking possessively around his calf with a shiver. Rane reached down to scratch the old cat's grizzled head. "Though Methuselah may not be so pleased. Ye've despoiled his luxurious lodgin's."

  Florie sniffed. Even the cat sided with Rane against her. "He'll have to make extreme penance for the offense he's done this holy place."

  "As will I," he replied with a wink. "Come along, old man," he said to the cat. "Let's see if we can unearth an ax to split these timbers."

  Florie missed Rane as soon as he left. 'Twas absurd, she told herself. She preferred to work alone. She always had. Moreover, the fact that she could possibly care for a dullard so easily gulled by a pair of scheming wenches riled her. But as she carried the bundle of linens to be laundered outside, her foolish heart quickened in anticipation of setting eyes on the handsome Viking again.

  He was splitting timbers beside the church, swinging a heavy ax in his gloved hands as if 'twere feather light, his shoulders straining the fabric of his shirt, his back damp with sweat. His hair was secured once again with the leather thong, exposing his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. He took no notice of her, so she watched in uninterrupted fascination.

  He truly was splendid, no matter that his wits today seemed as soft as pure gold. 'Twas little wonder the sisters pursued him like adoring pups, their tongues all a-wag. The Viking son would one day make some lass a fine husband.

  Handsome and healthy.

  Good and generous.

  Strong.

  Comely.

  Kind.

  "Somethin' amiss?"

  Florie, enveloped in a sudden and overwhelming melancholy, only stared at him, deaf at first to his words.

  "Florie," he called again, resting his ax upon his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

  Everything, she thought.

  Everything was wrong.

  She was trapped in a strange place, accused of a terrible crime, and somehow, incredibly, falling in unrequited love with a man she'd likely never see again.

  "Nothin'," she lied softly. "Nothin's wrong."

  Chapter 13

  Rane spent the entire day laboring on the vestry door, partly because it needed to be done, mostly to keep his hands busy, for they wanted nothing more than to curve about Florie's waist and haul her close for a heated kiss, to caress the thick sable masses of her hair, to awaken her warm, willing flesh. And the fact that between spates of furious cleaning in the sanctuary Florie sat on the steps of the church, watching him as he split and sawed, measured and planed, sanded and hammered, only aggravated his lusty mood.

  Why he couldn't simply seize her and be done with it, he didn't know. He'd never let conscience stand in his way before. But somehow, what he felt for Florie was different from the wanton play in which he normally engaged. He wanted more from her, more than just a harmless tryst, more than just a rollicking tumble in the grass. And frankly, that alarmed him.

  By the time he'd cut new hinges out of a leather purse found among the wreckage of the storage room and tapped loose the lock assembly from the old door to secure it to the new wood, evening clouds were gathering, and he was no closer to assuaging his thirst for the enchanting lass. Indeed, his desire seemed to wax with the passing hours.

  As he lugged the finished door through the sanctuary, he glimpsed Florie upon the fridstool, her skirts pushed up as she adjusted her loose bandage. The sight of her bare leg nearly made him drop the heavy door. 'Twas absurd, he knew. He saw that leg every day. And yet 'twas ever like the first time.

  "I'll change that when I'm done here," he grumbled.

  Mere days ago, she would have snatched her skirts down in horror. Now, to his chagrin, she continued to bend her wounded leg this way and that, completely without modesty. He wondered how long that immodesty would last if she knew what corrupt thoughts streamed through his mind at the sight of all that tempting flesh.

  "All my movin' about today must have loosened the bandage," she said.

  He glanced about the sanctuary. She had been industrious. Not a cobweb remained in the corners. The flagstone floor had been swept clean, and the wooden panels around the perimeter of the church gleamed with beeswax. She must have poked about in the storage room, for a half-dozen iron holders fitted with tall tallow candles stood about the nave like guards. The apse was littered with glazed earthenware bowls of all sizes, and beneath Florie's sweetly curved bottom nestled what looked to be a brocade cushion.

  How he envied that cushion.

  "Rane."

  He grunted, forcing his eyes to her face. She was staring at his handiwork with a puzzled frown. He righted the door and propped it against the vestry passage. "What?"

  "Did ye notice…" she began tentatively.

  "Notice what?" All he'd noticed were the soft, silky planes of her thigh.

  "The…" She pointed to the narrow vertical gap carved out at the bottom of the door near the hinge.

  One corner of his mouth drifted up. She'd spotted his modification. "Ye mean…Methuselah's doorway?"

  Her jaw fell. "Ye didn't!"

  "I did." He bit back a grin. "Couldn't leave the old cat out in the cold, after
all."

  As slow and sweet as honey, a conspiratorial smile poured over her face. Lord, 'twas irresistible. "But the Father…"

  "Is blind. I won't tell him, if ye don't."

  Then, as if prompted, Methuselah trotted up to the door, sniffed at it suspiciously, and wriggled through the crack.

  Florie and he laughed together, and he felt the warmth of their mated laughter waft over him like a summer breeze. 'Twas an intimate moment, this secret they shared, a closeness he'd never experienced before with a maiden. Her guard relaxed, she reacted with abandon, giggling with joy, and he felt swept along on the tide of her delight.

  "What's all this levity in my church?" came the old priest's voice from the entrance to the sanctuary, which only made them laugh all the harder.

  Rane was too exhilarated to resent the intrusion, especially since it came with partridge pie and cool perry sent from Gwen, the miller's daughter.

  Florie, too, greeted the priest happily, raving about Rane's excellent carpentry and pouring the Father's drink for him.

  And all the rest of the night Rane felt giddy, as if he'd become drunk not on the perry, but on that one sip of shared laughter.

  Florie half expected to awaken the next morn to find the priest and the archer still engaged in their lighthearted argument about which God created first—the egg or the hen.

  But the sanctuary was quiet, lacking the jollity of the night before. The only remnant of their pleasant supper was the linen rose Rane had cleverly folded for her out of a napkin.

  She smiled. Where was the archer this morn?

  When she swung open the church door, 'twas onto a surprising white sea of fog, a sea that rolled across the sward to obscure all but the highest branches of pine, poking out of the mist like masts of ships. She shivered, wrapping the plaid closer about her shoulders.

  Somewhere beyond the cloudy veil, a scratching like the sound of a goldsmith's filing echoed softly in the heavy air.

  "Who's there?" she called, though she instantly regretted her incaution. After all, the sound could be anything—wolves gnashing their teeth, mice gnawing on bones, English soldiers sharpening their swords for her neck.