MacFarland's Lass

by Campbell, Glynnis

  Not a moment too soon, for when the door swung open, Carol the cooper's daughter and Velera the chandler staggered in, bearing a great wooden half-barrel between them.

  Though his blood seethed with unspent lust and tempered rage, he couldn't blame the intruders. And he was too chivalrous to allow the lasses to carry their heavy burden by themselves. So as covertly as he could, Rane repositioned the incriminating lump in his braies and rose awkwardly to come to their aid. Hopefully, they'd notice nothing, which was more than could be said of Florie, whose eyes had widened with horror at his bold adjustment.

  "Goodwife Carol. Mistress Velera," he croaked. "Allow me." He hobbled forward. "'Tis far too heavy a thing for such delicate flowers."

  "Ach, Rane MacFarland!" Carol cooed, blushing, clearly pleased by his compliment. "Always so courteous. Isn't he, Velera?"

  "Oh, aye," she agreed, gladly surrendering the half-barrel to him. "Courteous." Then she narrowed suspicious blue eyes at him, and for an awful instant he feared his perfidy was discovered. "What's wrong with your eye?" She elbowed Carol. "What's wrong with his eye?"

  Carol gasped. "Gads! What's happened?"

  Before he could reply, her gaze traveled past his shoulder, alighting upon Florie.

  "Ach!" she huffed, lowering her voice to a whisper. "'Tis that wicked, miserable, thievin' wench, isn't it? She's attacked ye. Oh, Velera, look what the wretched grig has done."

  Velera pursed her mouth, tossed her pale blond tresses, and began pushing back her sleeves. "I'll blacken her eye for ye, Rane. 'Twouldn't be the first time I—"

  "Ladies," he said, blocking Velera's way. "Be at ease. 'Twas no fault o' hers. I…lost my footin' in the woods and caught a branch, 'tis all."

  Velera looked soundly disappointed, as if she dearly wished to beat Florie to a bloody pulp. Carol, however, wasted no time on rancor.

  "Ye poor, poor man," she soothed, sidling up for a better look at his bruise. "Rosemary water's what ye need. I can fetch rosemary from—"

  "There's no need. I've plenty o' rosemary," he said.

  "Ach, o' course," she said with a giggle, toying with a lock of her nut-brown hair. "'Tis the scent ye wear to throw off the deer."

  If only, he thought, he could throw the lasses off his scent so easily. By Thor, every fiber of his being longed to take up where he'd left off with Florie.

  He hefted up the tub, which made a good shield for his still rigid staff. "What's this for?"

  Carol brushed up against him. "Why, Rane, when we heard ye were laboring so tirelessly on the old church…"

  "Hammerin' and sawin'…and pantin'…" Velera chimed in dreamily. "And sweatin'…"

  "We wondered how the two of us might…ease your sufferin'."

  "And we decided your poor achin' bones might have need of a soothin' bath." Velera dipped her eyelashes.

  "And maybe two attentive maids to keep ye company." Carol ran a finger down the length of his arm.

  Any other day, Rane would have welcomed the comely lasses with open arms, stripped down to his skin, and happily let them scrub his back, his chest, his ballocks, whatever they wished. But today, his desires focused solely on Florie. Indeed, he'd rather resume his thus far chaste fondling of the bewitching felon than suffer the far more sensual pleasures the pair of maids offered.

  "I thank ye for your kindness," he told them, "but…" 'Twas on the tip of his tongue to decline their gift. Then he remembered Florie's fondness for bathing before the Sabbath. "I must finish this door before it grows dark. Afterward, I assure ye, I shall be very glad o' the tub."

  "Then we shall be very glad to wait while—" Carol began.

  "Ach, nae! I wouldn't even consider havin' ye wait for me." Carol's face fell, and he gave them his best frown of concern. "I couldn't bear the thought o' what might befall two o' my favorite lasses, walkin' home in the dark o' the wood."

  "But—" Velera said.

  "Nae. I'll hear none of it," he said sternly. "Ye're too precious, too temptin' a sight to outlaws who might frequent the forest at night." When they would have protested again, he flashed them a grateful grin. "But I cannot thank ye enough for the gift o' the tub. I shall treasure it and…and think o' ye two lovelies each and every time I sink my achin' body into the warm water."

  They could do little but smile weakly. No doubt he'd painted a picture vivid enough to sustain their lurid fantasies.

  "Sweet Carol. Precious Velera. What a pair of angels ye are," he sighed. "Hurry along now, for I won't rest easy till I'm assured ye're safely home."

  Their faces befuddled with an odd mixture of pleasure and disappointment, they murmured fond farewells and left.

  Now, he thought in relief. Now he'd finish what he'd begun.

  But when he turned to Florie, he knew instantly 'twas not to be. She sat on the fridstool with her good knee drawn stiffly up to her chest, her arms crossed tightly around it, her countenance bleak. In his experience, when a maid wore that stricken expression, neither reason nor cajoling nor seduction would coax her back into an amorous mood.

  A moment ago, Florie had felt deliciously swept away by her passions, as if she soared on some wild charger into the heavens, where the promise of even greater ecstasy awaited. Like a starved waif, she'd feasted greedily on Rane, unable to stop her delirious craving, unmindful of the recklessness of her behavior, wanting more and more and more…

  Then they had appeared.

  She supposed she had no right to be angry. They were certainly welcome in the sanctuary. 'Twas a church, after all, a place of worship, open to everyone. Faith, Florie was the one in the wrong, expressing such carnal desires within God's house. Still, what she'd shared with Rane hadn't felt wrong. Indeed, nothing had felt so right in a long while.

  But as she waited restlessly for the lascivious maids to leave, that destructive emotion reared its head again. Jealousy.

  'Twas not as if Florie owned Rane, she reasoned. Even the priest had told her the handsome archer was…how had he termed it? Generous with his affections.

  Rane offered Florie a safe way to appease her sexual curiosity, by offering her a brief, insignificant, harmless encounter she could recollect in her lonely days to come. What did it matter if he had one lover or a hundred, if Florie was only another name notched into his bow? As her foster father was fond of saying, 'twas better to drink the dregs of another's pint than to be left with none at all. She didn't require Rane's fidelity. She only craved his arms about her. Her heart had nothing to do with it. What did it matter that others found delight in his embrace?

  Yet it did matter, immensely—which troubled her.

  Even when Florie was a child, her mother had warned her constantly to guard her heart. Only at her deathbed did Florie learn why.

  She'd placed the gold pomander in Florie's young hands, confiding that the beautiful piece had been a gift, not from her foster father, but from her mother's first love, her true love—a nobleman promised to another. The pomander would belong to Florie now, she'd said, for 'twas a precious reminder that had been purchased at the price of her heart.

  Florie's foster father, too, had shown her the perils of loving too deeply.

  Nae, she'd not make the mistakes her parents had, and the fact that she cared enough about Rane to feel jealous meant that she cared too much.

  Chapter 15

  Lady Mavis emerged from the dim dovecote, raising one hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the rising sun. On the other gloved hand perched her hooded prize merlin. Its white-spotted gold feathers fluttered as it bobbed, eager to fly. Mavis checked to see that the tiny scroll was still firmly attached to the bird's jesses.

  It had taken weeks, but she'd finally managed to get rid of all the useless doves in the cote, replacing them with her modest menagerie of falcons. Marry, if Gilbert had paid closer attention, he might have noticed that her falcons had a distinct fondness for dove meat. But he was oblivious to most of Mavis's pursuits, including, thankfully, the one in which she was about to indulg
e.

  She carefully loosened the tiny leather hood and lifted it from the merlin's head, exposing its keen, beady eyes. The bird hadn't eaten for days, not since it had feasted upon Gilbert's last dove, so 'twas hungry, which was good. Otherwise, it might become distracted.

  The falcon was trained to fly at the same hour each week to a particular spot in Ettrick Forest, a remote, shadowed grove where an English spy waited with fresh meat. After supping till its belly was full, the merlin would fly home to Mavis's glove, never knowing the great service it performed for Mavis and for England.

  Mavis blew a soft breath onto the bird's breast, ruffling its feathers, and the merlin tightened its grip on her glove, not enough to pierce the leather, just enough to pinch. Then she lifted her arm and spread her fingers to release the jesses, and the falcon pushed off into the sky, winging toward the woods.

  Mavis smiled in satisfaction. She'd written just two words on the scroll, a name and a town—MARY and MUSSELBURGH—but they were priceless gems, leaked to her by her loose-lipped husband. And when they were delivered, she'd once more have the English royals in the palm of her hand.

  Rane picked up a long, bark-bare stick and stabbed with uncharacteristic irritability at the glowing embers beneath the steaming basin of water. He'd suffered all day from a keen sense of frustration, both mental and physical. As if their continued usefulness had come into question, his neglected ballocks ached with a sort of bewildered hunger that lodged deep in his belly. And his thoughts…

  Curse him, he'd thought of nothing but Florie from the time he'd awakened. Florie, with her fiery passions and quick wit…Florie, with her brutal honesty and tender heart…Florie, with her sultry eyes, honey lips, velvet flesh…

  He jabbed at the fire, cracking a black coal that squealed in protest as he exposed the flaming heart within.

  What the devil was wrong with him? He wasn't some simpleton to let his loins dictate his actions. He had a brain. Not only that, but he had his choice of most any of the lasses in Selkirk…not that he let that affect his humility or his judgment. He didn't believe in the curse. And he knew that looks were fleeting and lasses fickle. But the fact remained that, for whatever reason, he could fairly well swive whom he willed.

  Why, then, should he be swept senseless by a fey sprite who was too short for his liking, too dark for his tastes, and an enemy of his lord?

  Frigg's arrows, he should never have touched her. For now not only did he crave her beyond reason, but 'twas clear from her reaction to their visitors yesterday, her morose mood last evening, and her pensive silence today that she suffered the pangs of jealousy. Because of that one kiss, Florie thought she owned him.

  He shuddered. Possessive maids were dangerous. Rane tried to steer well away from them. But then, he'd never met a temptation quite like Florie.

  He poked again through the embers, watching a bright spark rise against the violet of the twilight sky.

  That kiss had been heavenly; the sensual play that followed, world-shaking. Her lips were soft and supple, her tongue delicate. From the first instant, he'd imagined what enchantments they might make upon the rest of his body.

  She'd cleaved tenaciously to him and, like a suckling calf, responded with instinctive avarice. He could see her still in his mind's eye, her lovely breasts pillowing against him until the crevice between deepened, beckoning him to their unplumbed shadows. Then, through her skirts, the warmth of her maid's core, the sweet spot betwixt her legs that had grazed his staff and moved against his hand with earnest longing, catapulting him into realms of passion where he'd never ventured before…

  His loins stung even now with raw need, and he growled in frustration.

  'Twas absurd. Lust was no different than any other bodily craving. When a man needed warmth, he never questioned which cloak to wear. If a man had to piss, any tree would do. Any brewster's ale could slake a man's thirst. Likewise, when a man sought satisfaction, one lass should serve as well as another.

  But the truth was that Florie was a rare lass. The desire he'd experienced with her yesterday was unlike any he'd known before. He'd never felt such a powerful bond with a maid, such a heady need to make her his and only his.

  Faugh! 'Twas nonsense, he decided, crumpling a dead leaf and tossing it onto the fire, watching it flare and turn to ash. 'Twas but long-forced chastity cramping his loins and twisting his reason.

  He silently cursed and frowned at a wisp of smoke curling into the night. Past its swirling veil, at the far edge of the pond, betwixt rows of bent reeds, a fat stag brazenly lowered his head to drink.

  Rane grimaced. His bow, of course, was out of reach. By the time he could get to it…

  He sighed. Surely the deer mocked him. Just as Frigg mocked him. Just as Odin himself seemed to enjoy tweaking Rane's destiny at his expense.

  Aye, letting the temptress past his defenses had been a mistake…just as what he did now was a mistake. Kissing her yesterday had been irresponsible. Heating a bath for her today was asking for nothing but trouble.

  Yet he foolishly crushed and sprinkled pungent laurel leaves into the simmering pot, then rose to his feet, unmindful of the deer that bolted away in surprise. He lifted the bail of the basin with a forked stick, already imagining Florie sluicing the warm and fragrant water over her lithe, bare limbs. Sighing in self-mockery, he trudged up the hill with all the enthusiasm of a felon headed for the dungeon.

  Florie's heart pounded as she perched the cake of soap atop the stack of freshly laundered linens and rearranged the flickering candles around the half-barrel for the third time.

  She'd had an entire day to think about Rane's kiss, to reflect upon her heartsick parents, to convince herself 'twas best to keep her distance from the handsome archer.

  But every time she caught sight of him, her body responded of its own will, warming, yearning, remembering, as empty without his touch as a gold setting without a jewel.

  Lord, she wanted him. Even if she couldn't keep him. Even if 'twas for only a day.

  She could set her emotions aside. She could. She wasn't her mother, to engage in a hopeless romance with a man beyond her grasp. Nor was she her foster father, weak-willed and obsessive. Nae, Florie was in control of her heart. As in control as Rane.

  After all, she lived in a man's world. She'd learned early on that she could do anything a man could do—set gems, keep accounts, deal with overbearing patrons. She could sweat and swear and endure pain without a whimper. Just like Rane.

  And if that were true, she reasoned, then why not tryst just as freely?

  Her heart skipped at the boldness of her plan. She scrutinized the stage she'd set in the narthex, praying that God wouldn't think her use of this entryway of his house as sacrilegious. Surely he'd understand. After all, was it not the Lord who created man and woman? Was it not he who said, be fruitful and multiply? Was it not he who invented desire?

  Still, she glanced toward the distant altar of the church and genuflected quickly, reconfirming her faith in a merciful God.

  The half-barrel was already partially filled with cool water to balance what simmered over the fire outside. It had taken Rane five trips to the well to make a decent bath for Florie, and though the tub was of ample size for her, she feared 'twas too small for a Viking. Surely the archer's impossibly long legs would become wedged into the barrel.

  Just recalling his impressive size set Florie's heart lurching and her thoughts careening back to yesterday. That incredible kiss. Rane's massive arms wrapped about her. Her fingers filtering through his hair. His hands fondling her in places where, dear God, she'd never imagined…

  She fanned a hand before her flushed face. Only a few days earlier, she would have recoiled from his possessive embrace. But what she'd once dreaded, she now welcomed. What she'd feared, she now desired. Her fingertips yearned to press into his supple flesh again. Her breasts ached to be crushed against his chest. Her mouth craved his kiss. She longed to run her palms over the sleek breadth of his shoulders, al
ong the muscular length of his arms, over the wide expanse of his back…

  A scuffling on the steps outside set her lascivious thoughts flapping off like startled doves. Her breath quickened as she hastily cast a handful of rosemary into the bath, sending pebbles of amber candlelight shimmering across the surface.

  A glance assured her that her gown, stockings, and boots were out of range of any stray splashes from the bath, but though she smoothed the linen chemise that covered her head to heel, still she felt curiously vulnerable in the sheer garment and her bare feet. She clasped her hands before her, and her heart fluttered, half in anticipation, half in trepidation at what she dared, as Rane shouldered his way through the church door.

  The plethora of candles seemed to alarm him, and as soon as he spied her in her chemise, he averted his eyes with a scowl.

  "Hope ye like laurel," he muttered, upending the basin of fragrant, steaming water into the tub, then swirling the hot and cold, laurel and rosemary, together with his hand.

  She caught her lip beneath her teeth. Now that he was here before her, real, substantial, she began to doubt her ability to carry off her plot. He was too large for the barrel by far. His legs would have to drape over the side. And how she'd ever manage to get him out of his garments…

  He shook the droplets from his fingers and turned to go. "I'll be outside if ye—"

  "Nae," she blurted, determined to finish what she had started. "Nae."

  He stopped, and she could see him fighting the urge to look at her, as he had all day.

  "Ye…ye needn't leave," she said.

  His nostrils flared once, and his jaw clenched as he seemed to consider her offer. Then he sniffed and shook his head. "I'll wait on the—"

  "Nae. Don't go. I mean…" Lord, already she sounded stilted. Her foster father was right—Florie was never more awkward than when she tried to converse. She'd meant to beckon Rane graciously, like a refined paramour, to reveal her intentions with leisurely elegance. 'Twas apparently not to be. "'Tis…'tis for ye," she said lamely.