MacFarland's Lass

by Campbell, Glynnis

  But the woods were silent. She took a shuddering breath. If she could manage her fear and steal through the cover of the forest, avoiding the wolves and thieves and Englishmen that might lurk therein, maybe she'd gain enough distance from Selkirk by morn to travel safely on the main road.

  She had enough gold to pay for the journey, as long as she encountered no robbers, and if she kept to the…

  "Florie!"

  Her heart jumped into her throat. Nae, it couldn't be.

  "Florie?"

  Christ's bones! 'Twas Rane, returning.

  Sweet saints, he was as handsome as a Nordic prince, striding toward the church with supper as if he brought back the spoils of his latest conquest. Against her will, Florie's heart fluttered, remembering his strong body against her, around her, within her…

  Ah, God, she mustn't think of such things. She mustn't. She'd made up her mind to go. She must be strong.

  "Good evenin', wee fawn," he called, his face wreathed in a glorious smile, oblivious to her anguish. "I've brought a surprise for supper."

  Wee fawn. The endearment was like a knife plunged in her chest. Lord, she mustn't listen or she'd be lost.

  "Custard tarts," he tempted.

  She bit her lip. Custard tarts. She loved them, but they'd never be as sweet, as tempting as Rane's kiss. God's wounds, how would she live without that kiss?

  A sob lodged in her throat.

  Sweet Lord, she must not weaken, must not veer from her course, for both their sakes.

  'Twas the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she managed to tear her gaze away from him. Focusing tearful eyes on the forest ahead, clenching her fists with diamond-hard resolve, she slowly descended the steps.

  Dread prickled along Rane's spine. Something was wrong.

  All day long, he'd thought of nothing but the goldsmith. He hadn't even cared that his hunting was fruitless. His mind was distracted by visions of Florie with her limpid gaze, her satiated smile, her shapely body. She'd left him completely and deliciously helpless last night, beaten him at his own game of seduction.

  Yet he'd surrendered happily. She'd caught him like a rabbit, in a snare of lust and trust and affection stronger than any he'd experienced before. And today his heart was full of joy, full of wonder. Full of hopeless adoration.

  Aye, he'd decided at last, the mighty hunter had fallen. Rane was in love.

  The confession was a relief. For too long he'd cast his net wide, sweeping up all the feminine creatures who chanced past, enjoying their fleeting company yet willing to cast them aside like undersized fish if they grew too demanding.

  With Florie, 'twas different.

  Though she claimed his very soul, though he was certain in his mind he'd fallen into a situation of mortal danger, still he couldn't convince his heart. Florie made him happy, deliriously happy. And if he must yield as her captive to prolong that happiness, so be it. If he must be possessed to possess her, he would.

  'Twas that vow that put a skip in his step as he hurried toward the church, toward…home. Then he smiled to himself. When had he begun to think of the crumbling old sanctuary as home? 'Twas Florie who made it seem so, bringing warmth and comfort to the barren walls and shining light into the shadowy corners.

  But now, as he neared the church and the lass he—aye—loved, the melancholy shadows haunting her eyes filled him with misgiving.

  "Darlin'?"

  She said nothing, only stared steadfastly at the path ahead and descended the steps. Her cool manner chilled him to the bone.

  "Florie."

  Still she didn't answer, though there was a trembling in her chin that bespoke a temptation to reply. His throat thickened. By Loki, what was wrong? Was she angry with him? Did she blame him for the loss of her maidenhood? Unaccustomed panic raced through him at the thought that she might not care for him as he cared for her, that she might regret what they'd done, that she might…leave him.

  "Florie!" His voice was rough with dread this time. "Where are ye goin', lass?"

  A slim part of him hoped that he misread her expression, that she stepped into the woods only to relieve herself, that she'd afterward tweak his nose and call him a silly want-wit, and they'd both laugh about the misunderstanding.

  But 'twas obvious from her averted glance 'twas more than that. She carried her satchel, and she'd donned her bloodstained gown. Oh, aye, she planned more than a brief visit to the bushes. His heart thudding ominously, he watched her as, step by steady step, she walked out of his life.

  Did she intend to desert him, then? Without a word? Without a farewell glance? His chest began to throb with a deep-seated ache, as if a horse had kicked him in the ribs. How could she simply walk off as if they'd never met, never talked, never, for the love of God, kissed and wept and laughed and sworn and made love together?

  He wouldn't let her. He refused to stand idly by while she slipped through his grasp. Not now—now that he knew he loved her.

  Thor's rod! He'd be damned if he'd let her leave.

  "Florie!" he commanded. "Nae!"

  The stubborn lass ignored him. He dropped the tarts into the dust and slipped the bow from his shoulder.

  "Stay!"

  She kept walking, her step quickening slightly. She was almost to the trees.

  He bellowed an oath so foul it made her flinch, but still she stayed to her course.

  Then he did what any hunter about to lose his prey would do. He swiftly slipped a quarrel from his quiver and nocked it into his bow, drawing back and taking aim.

  "Stay where ye are," he warned.

  Florie turned her head at the telltale creak of the bow. Her jaw slackened with amazement. Gone was the gentle lover of the night before. Rane's sweet mouth was grim, his brow furrowed, his eyes piercing. He was a huntsman now—his legs braced in an archer's stance, his bow drawn to its fullest arc, his arrow aimed to kill.

  A silent scream echoed through her soul. Time slowed impossibly in her perception, and the world tilted beneath her feet. She staggered back in shock. With sudden clarity, she saw Rane's quartz-clear eyes narrowing on her. A tiny muscle jumped in his cheek, where his thumb nested, the same thumb that had brushed across her lips so tenderly once. She heard the stretch of sinew as his fingers flexed around the bow, heard herself drawing a long, jagged gasp.

  Her pulse pounding like a death tabor, she turned away then, moving as if she swam through liquefying amber, forcing her legs to run, reaching forward, straining to make it to the forest.

  She had no time to wonder at his betrayal, no time to question the hostility in his glare. She thought only of fleeing his savage weapon.

  But as she desperately surged forward, the trees seemed to draw away before her eyes, and she felt a sob of panic rise in her throat. She'd never make it. Already she could imagine the blunt pain of the bolt shot into her back, shoving her to the ground with killing force.

  But by some miracle, no shaft whistled toward her. And when she finally succumbed to morbid curiosity, craning her head around, she saw he'd dropped the bow and now pursued her on foot, closing the distance with astonishing speed.

  With a startled squeak, she whipped about. Faster! She must run faster!

  She could hear him now, drawing closer and closer, his normally silent footfalls pounding upon the sod with maddening regularity. The knave didn't even bother to run. He knew she couldn't match his long stride. Nor did he call after her. 'Twas clear he'd given up on that score. But they both knew her capture was inevitable. She was at a disadvantage in every way.

  Still she bolted forward, unable to make herself stop, too alarmed to yield. His steps grew louder, the measured crunch of leaves sounding smug against her panicked scuffling. She could almost feel the heat of his rage burning the path behind her like wildfire.

  Her heart hammered at her ribs. He was almost upon her now. Almost in arm's reach. There was nowhere to flee, nowhere to hide.

  Then she found an escape.

  Ahead, to her left, the land fe
ll away, making a steep embankment that extended down a score of yards or so.

  There was no time to think. She bolted toward the edge of the ravine, intending to run or slide or roll down the leafy slope, whatever it took to elude capture.

  But he must have guessed her strategy.

  "Nae!" he yelled, and in two strides he was upon her.

  He tackled her with all the force of a falling tree. Thankfully, as she went down he turned with her, taking the brunt of the fall upon his own back. But her wind and her dignity were knocked from her as she dropped, sprawled across his body as if he were a great pallet, inches from the edge of the ravine.

  There was no chance of escape now, not while he trapped her in his strong Viking arms. She squirmed in vain against his powerful body, her heart fluttering as wildly as a fledgling's wings.

  "Hold still," he muttered against her ear.

  "Nae! Let me go!" she screamed. "Let me—"

  His palm covered her mouth, silencing her cries, and she struggled desperately, fearing he would suffocate her with his hand.

  "Hush," he murmured. "Quiet." His voice was surprisingly gentle for someone who had just aimed a loaded bow at her. "I wouldn't have shot ye," he muttered against her ear, almost as if he convinced himself. "I wouldn't have. 'Twas only my damned instincts."

  She didn't believe him. She'd seen the intensity of his hunter's gaze, and she didn't want to see it again. At the very least, she'd not go down without a fight. Her arms trapped, her dagger out of reach, she resorted to the only weapon she had. Baring her teeth, she bit down, catching the meat of his thumb between her jaws.

  He cried out, snatching back his injured hand, and for one victorious moment Florie thought she might escape.

  But he rolled to his feet, dragging her with him, and, before she could get her bearings, hefted her up and slung her across his shoulders like fresh kill.

  The temptation to yell for help was strong. But 'twould avail nothing. No one in Selkirk would come to a felon's aid, not when a brawny huntsman stood in their way.

  So she tried her last weapon—reason. All the way back to the church, she tried to explain. 'Twas dangerous for her to stay any longer. She had to return to Stirling. She even promised that she'd disavow any knowledge of Rane, so none would know he aided in her escape, if only he'd let her go.

  He turned a deaf ear.

  Her hopes fell as he climbed the steps and pushed his way through the door, returning her to where she'd begun, to sanctuary.

  "Florie!" Father Conan was shouting when they entered. She had the sense he'd been calling her for some time.

  "She's here," Rane answered, his voice stern.

  "Ah, lass!" the Father sighed in relief, clapping a hand to his bosom. "I wondered where ye'd gone off to. I feared maybe Lady Mavis or—"

  "Father!" Florie seized the opportunity for an ally. "Help me, Father!"

  "What is it, lass?"

  "He tried to kill me!" she shouted in a rush, despite Rane's tightening grasp. "Rane tried to kill me!"

  With a sigh of exasperation, Rane swung her off of his shoulders, setting her on her feet none too gently.

  "Rane?" the priest asked.

  "I told ye, Florie," Rane said, "I wouldn't have shot ye. I only wished to stop ye."

  "I didn't wish to be stopped."

  "Ye put yourself in grave danger by fleeing. Ye're an outlaw. Do ye know how long ye'd last in the forest, alone, at night?"

  The priest's brows rose. "Is this true, lass? Were ye fleein' sanctuary?"

  She couldn't lie to a priest. "Maybe."

  "Well then, lass," he said with a puzzled frown, "what else would ye expect o' the lad?"

  'Twas an odd statement indeed, not at all what Florie anticipated from the affable priest.

  "What do ye mean?" she asked.

  "What did ye think Rane would do?"

  "I…I expected he might…protect me."

  The Father straightened suddenly in surprise, turning his head toward Rane. "Did ye never tell her, lad?"

  When Rane didn't answer, Florie turned to look at him. His face had darkened into an inscrutable scowl.

  "Tell me what?" She glanced back and forth between Rane and the priest.

  Rane's expression reflected a confusion of rage and shame and frustration. With a growl, he turned on his heel and swept back through the door of the church, slamming it so hard that it echoed in the sanctuary and knocked dust from the ceiling timbers.

  Florie felt dread steal along the back of her neck. "What is it, Father?" she ventured. "What did he not tell me?"

  "Lass," he said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. "Rane is huntsman to Lord Gilbert. He's not here to protect ye. He's here to prevent your escape."

  Chapter 18

  Florie felt sick. She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe. Shaking, she staggered back, fumbling her way to the fridstool.

  "Lass," the Father said, "are ye well?"

  Nae, she was not well. She would never be well. Rane's betrayal tasted like bitter poison.

  "Fine," she managed to choke out, straining to draw breath into her lungs.

  "Do ye not see, lass?" the priest said in soft concern. "Ye cannot leave. If ye do, Rane will pay the price o' your crime. He'll hang for thievery."

  Against her wishes, images flew through her mind, nightmares of Rane swinging, gaunt and limp, from a gallows, and then bittersweet visions of the past few days—Rane's laughing eyes and flashing white teeth, his protective arms and gentle hands. She heard his voice in her head, soothing and warm, smelled his woodland scent, felt the power of his embrace.

  Had it all been a lie? Had he played her false only to keep her docile? To keep her in captivity? Or worse, only to coax her into his bed?

  She felt as if her heart had been kicked from her breast, that her chest lay empty, her soul hollow. Only a deep-seated nausea lingered to remind her she was mortal.

  Later, she'd be furious. Later, she'd rail and cast aspersions and curse his offspring for all eternity. And after that, she'd accept what she'd learned from her parents—'twas a fool who'd surrender her heart.

  But for now, she was stunned and aching. Unable to cease trembling, she hunched over her knees and fought the urge to retch.

  What words of solace the priest offered she didn't know. The outside world faded from her awareness as a slow, killing frost crept into her bones.

  Rane didn't come back. But Florie was certain he stood guard outside the church, his lord's obedient huntsman to the end.

  At suppertime she refused sustenance from the priest, having lost her appetite, though she was tempted to drown her hurt in the bottle of cider he brought. But that was her foster father's way, and Florie was not her foster father. Nor would she weep pitifully like her mother. Instead, as the night closed like a burial shroud over her dying spirit, Florie huddled in the dark, trying to escape into sleep.

  Later she would gather the shreds of her trust and confront what lay ahead. But for now, her broken heart would let her do nothing but wallow in profound sorrow as she tried valiantly to fade into the oblivion of slumber.

  Mavis bit her lip as she gazed out her sunny window in the direction of the decrepit old church, tapping the rolled missive on the sill. If she managed to pull off this bit of subterfuge, she'd be restored to her former status as the English Crown's most valuable spy.

  Her contacts had grasped the significance of the cryptic message she'd sent by falcon. According to their reply, they intended to make their way in numbers to Musselburgh to intercept Princess Mary before she could take refuge there. The return missive in Mavis's hand requested she keep Gilbert's men-at-arms occupied for the next few days so that the English troops could safely steal across Fraser land to claim the princess.

  Two birds with one stone—King Henry had taught her that expression, and it seemed apt now. She turned from the window with a smug grin and tossed the parchment onto the fire, where it smoldered and unfurled, glowing orange before it went
up in flames.

  She knew exactly how she was going to keep the Fraser soldiers busy.

  Rane hitched up and tied his braies, then ran both hands back through his tangled hair. He bit out a weary curse, pounding the side of his fist against the oak tree he'd just pissed upon.

  Two days had passed since he'd spoken to Florie. Two long days and three interminable nights. God help him, he'd slept horribly for all of them. Dawn had never come this morn, unless one could call the roiling spring storm clouds visible in the east proof that the sun was somewhere in the sky. He felt as miserable as the bruised heavens looked, and even the expectant peace of the forest could not cheer him.

  He'd wanted to hurt Florie, to repay her for playing maliciously with his heart, for leaving him. But he hadn't meant to threaten her with his bow and arrow. And he'd certainly never meant for her to find out about Lord Gilbert's orders.

  Now she'd never trust him.

  If she had harbored regrets about their tryst before, surely now she wished she'd never met him. If before she questioned her affections, now she must loathe him.

  For two days they'd eaten their meals apart. For two days he'd seen only glimpses of her when the Father passed in and out of the church. 'Twas driving him mad.

  He picked up a stone from the path and cast it into the bushes. There was only one way to regain her trust, he knew. One way he might enter into her good graces again.

  He'd promised to take Florie home to Stirling. Maybe 'twas time to make good on that promise.

  'Twas a great risk. Lord Gilbert would blame Rane for Florie's flight and hold him accountable for the loss. If the lord felt merciful, Rane would be lucky to escape with his life and a lifetime of debt. But if Lady Mavis was of a mind to steer Gilbert by the ballocks, as she often did, Rane might hang.

  Not that that would stop him. He'd be happy to save Florie's life even at the cost of his own. But he also wanted to prove to Florie that he'd never betrayed her trust.

  Would she believe him? Did she even care for him any longer? After everything they'd shared, it seemed impossible that she could have feigned her love for him all this time.