MacFarland's Lass

by Campbell, Glynnis

  She'd seemed truly charmed by his company, pleasured by his kisses, gloriously thrilled by their moonlight lovemaking. They'd soared into the night together, howling their passion at the moon like kindred wolves, mated for life.

  How could she walk away from it all, turn him aside as if nothing had happened, as if their hearts had never entwined, as if their souls were not melded?

  'Twas inconceivable that she didn't love him, he decided—that as they'd consummated their lust beneath the stars she hadn't experienced the same joy, the same passion, the same perfect oneness of mind, body, and spirit. That bond was undeniable, the magic between them unquestionable. After all, he thought with a self-mocking smile, was he not irresistible to all Scottish maids?

  'Twas obvious, then. Florie wasn't guided by her heart. 'Twasn't her heart that whispered in her ear, abandon him. Her heart was too kind, too gentle for that. Nae, that insidious advice came from her head.

  And her head could be reasoned with.

  Rane squared his Viking shoulders. If he wanted the lass, he'd just have to fight for her like his ancestors before him. Fueled by hope and iron resolve, he lengthened his strides toward the sanctuary.

  He couldn't have been absent from the steps more than a few moments. Yet as he emerged from the wood and glanced at the church, he saw that in this brief time everything had changed. His bow and quiver were no longer propped against the wall, and the door to the sanctuary stood open.

  He halted in his tracks. From the dark doorway emerged the silvery tip of a quarrel. 'Twas aimed at him, though it strayed frequently from its mark. And squinting behind the wavering shaft nocked into his own half-cocked bow stood Florie.

  "Don't come any closer," she called hoarsely.

  He didn't intend to, not with the way that arrow dipped and bobbed in her unsteady grip. If she let fly the shaft, there was no telling where 'twould end up. In his experience, an unpracticed archer was far more dangerous than a seasoned one. At this distance, at least, he was in little peril. Florie hadn't the strength to draw the bow completely. She'd be fortunate to send the quarrel flying more than a dozen yards.

  "Stay there," she said, her voice trembling almost as much as the arrow.

  He didn't move a muscle. He wondered what Florie intended. Surely she didn't mean to kill him. On the other hand, if she truly believed he meant to hold her in sanctuary until Lord Gilbert came for her…

  She took a hesitant step across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind her, then made her tense way down the steps. Rane gulped as the bow swung toward him. Her full satchel hung from one arm. 'Twas apparent she meant to succeed this time. And 'twas apparent she wouldn't hesitate to shoot anyone who stood between her and escape.

  Anyone but the man who loved her. Surely she wouldn't shoot him. He had to believe that.

  Silently praying for the first time that there was truth to the ancient Viking curse, Rane drew himself to his full height and called her name softly. "Florie."

  "Nae!" Florie cried, her agitation making the bow wobble wildly.

  She'd waited all morn to steal away, listened at the door since dawn for sounds of Rane's daily trek to the woods to empty his bladder. The bow and arrow had been an afterthought. She thought she'd be gone before he could come after her, before he'd even realized she'd left. But when she found his weapon on the threshold, she'd decided to arm herself as a precaution.

  Never had she imagined she might have to use it.

  She'd devoted hours over the last few days to despising the duplicitous archer, imagining fearsome punishments for his treasonous soul. She'd even carved reliefs of tortured figures into the wooden beams of the church to keep her hands busy, telling Father Conan they were depictions of martyred saints. She'd convinced herself she would be well rid of the lying coward. Indeed, she almost hoped he would be hanged in her stead.

  But now that he stood before her in the light of day…

  Against the gray mist of the forest, his flesh looked golden and warm and alive. His voice sounded deep, sweet, and impossibly tender. His eyes were dewy with… It must be the cool morning air. But 'twas so painfully easy to imagine they shone with love.

  A sob lodged in her gullet. Her limbs quaked like a newborn foal's. God help her, despite his cruel betrayal, despite her broken heart, she couldn't fire the arrow.

  He took a step toward her.

  "Nae!" she shouted, needing to bluff, even if she hadn't the will to shoot.

  "Florie."

  "Don't." She clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt, and her breath came in shallow gasps. If he took another step…

  "Wee fawn."

  "Nae," she sobbed.

  "I would never have let him take ye."

  She tightened her grip on the bow. Even now the bastard lied to her.

  "Ye must believe me," he said.

  "Why?" she burst out, anger rising to drown her pain. "So ye can ply me with more empty promises?"

  "Nae." His eyes slowly traced the length of her, as if he memorized every curve. She shuddered under his perusal, as if he touched her everywhere he looked. "Ye must believe me…because I love ye."

  Florie's chin began to tremble. She clamped her lips together to still it. Hell, Rane did not fight fairly. 'Twas unspeakably cruel to taunt her so. Aye, she may have been stupid enough to believe him once, but no longer.

  "I love ye, Florie." He took another step.

  "Nae."

  "I love your laughter. I love the way your hair shines in the sunlight." Another step. "I love your sleepy eyes in the mornin' and your soft breathin' at night." Another. "I love the way ye sulk when ye lose at Hnefatafl, and the way ye crow when ye win."

  Florie cursed the tears of misery that filled her eyes. If only he meant what he said… If only he truly loved her… But 'twas all deception.

  "I love the passion ye have for your craft," he continued, advancing slowly, "and the way your shoulders straighten with pride when ye speak o' your work."

  She could shoot him now. He was close enough that she was fairly certain not to miss. But her eyes were so flooded with moisture, she could hardly take aim.

  "I love your strength in the face o' pain, and Odin mock me for a fool, I even love your stubborn spirit." He was so close now that he needed only to murmur. "I love the way your hands disappear within mine."

  Her arms shuddered dangerously on the bow, but still he came toward her, unafraid.

  "I love your breath upon my neck."

  He stood not three yards away now. If she released the arrow, 'twould kill him.

  "I love the way ye taste," he whispered.

  He was staring at her mouth, and she swore she could almost feel his kiss.

  "I love the welcome in your arms," he breathed, "and the warmth o' your body."

  He stopped directly before the bow, his chest a perfect target for the arrow.

  "Kill me if ye will," he said, "for if I don't have your love in return, I'm better off dead."

  A tear spilled over, escaping down her cheek. Like gold over flame, her resolve melted, reducing her to a formless pool of emotions. Maybe she was bewitched, for despite the warnings in her head, despite every shred of sense that told her she was mad to trust him, her heart yearned to believe.

  With a soft cry, she let the bow slip from her fingers. As the arrow clattered harmlessly upon the dirt, he stepped toward her, his arms open and welcoming. And, God curse her for a fool, she fell willingly into them.

  Their kiss was sweet and savage and desperate, filled with the hunger of their lonely nights apart. Florie let herself drown in his pacifying embrace. 'Twas as if Rane's lips sucked the very will from her, infusing her lungs instead with the elixir of desire. She drank it of her own volition, letting it numb her reason and assuage her fears. Their tongues spoke the language of love together, and a heady rush of desire coursed through her, humming in her ears, sizzling in her veins. Before long, her senses were spiraling out of control, like a whirlpool dragging her down to her do
om. And still she let it happen.

  "Oh, Florie," he growled against her mouth, weaving his fingers through her hair. "Don't leave me. I couldn't bear it."

  "Rane," she gasped, her lips at last revealing what her mind had so long denied. "I love ye so."

  As if her words were an incantation breaking a curse, he pulled abruptly away from her, his chest heaving, his nostrils flaring, his eyes piercing her with such intensity she feared she'd go up in flame.

  "Indeed?" He looked as if his fate hung upon her answer.

  "Aye, God help me."

  He closed his eyes in relief, and when he opened them again, they were filled with an emotion that made her knees weak. "God help us both."

  Then there was no time for words, for he drew her into another embrace, and his mouth swept down to claim hers once again. She no longer cared that she was foolish, no longer cared that she'd wagered her heart. All she knew was how divine Rane made her feel, how precious, how cherished, how beloved.

  Casting aside propriety as easily as a cloak, she leaned into his arms, resting her hands upon his massive shoulders, arching back to let him deepen the kiss. His hand eased up her side, catching her under the arm, his thumb brushing over her gown, awakening the nipple beneath. She jerked at the lightning shock of his touch, and her senses began to rise as quickly as a raging river in a storm of passion.

  She moaned as he cupped her bottom, squeezing gently, pulling her forward against the firm evidence of his lust with an answering groan. Her body tingled in memory, in anticipation, and she writhed greedily against him. Saints forgive her, she wanted him again. Inside her.

  Blithe pleasure and sweet frustration warred within her as she sought to touch more of him. She stroked and kissed and lapped at what delicious skin was bared to her, but 'twas not enough. She clawed at his garments, seeking access to the supple flesh underneath, like a wild animal feeding on prey, until she grew near feverish with longing. Then she let her fingers trace his ribs, his abdomen, and lower, until she finally pressed her bold palm against his trews.

  He gasped. Then he grunted deep in his throat, opening her mouth with his tongue, invading with almost violent thirst until she grew dizzy with desire.

  "I need ye," he muttered against her mouth.

  "Then take me," she breathlessly replied.

  Without a word, he swept her off her feet and carried her into the wood.

  She would have let him savage her like a plundering Viking, so keen was her desire. And he would have done so, she sensed, were it not for the short walk into the forest that cleared his thoughts and tempered his need.

  He found their soft, grassy meadow and spread his cloak for her. Then, instead of claiming her quickly, Rane lingered over each moment, as if each precious jewel of time was to be enjoyed for its own sake. He forced her to an almost painful leisure, and yet that made their lovemaking all the more poignant.

  He laid her atop the cloak and undressed her slowly, unlacing her kirtle and peeling back the edges. He sighed lightly upon her skin, making her shiver in anticipation. Then, with the wicked hint of a smile, he slowly bathed her with his tongue. She moaned, arching toward his kiss.

  He let his hand follow a wandering path up her leg then, caressing the back of her knee, leaving tingling traces of his touch along her skin, easing her skirts higher and higher. He contacted the nearly healed scar left by his arrow on her thigh and, moving down her body, placed a gentle kiss there, then one higher, then one higher.

  Dear God, she thought, her heart drumming, if he continued…

  'Twas precisely what he intended. He slipped her hem up an inch and kissed her, then another inch, then another. Her face burned as she wondered where he would stop, imagining what 'twould be like if he didn't.

  He didn't. Higher and higher his kisses progressed until she squirmed in discomfort, tempted to say nae to him yet biting her lip to keep from uttering the words.

  Then he dragged back her gown completely, and Florie, simultaneously ashamed and aroused by her own wanton urges, burrowed her head in the folds of his cloak.

  "How beautiful ye are," she heard him say.

  She squeezed her eyes tighter. She'd seen herself down there. 'Twas nothing but a nest of black curls. And yet the ragged edge to his voice told her he spoke the truth. He thought she was beautiful.

  She felt a warm current of air then as he blew gently upon her, and she quivered as her body responded, tightening and swelling and straining toward him.

  "Let me touch ye," he murmured.

  Her eyes still shut, she nodded.

  He parted her legs slightly, stroking the insides of her thighs with the backs of his fingers, then spanned her waist with his hands. He ran his thumbs side by side from her navel down to the beginning of her downy hair, parting her gently, then gliding inward along her sleek recesses.

  She brought her hand up to her mouth, biting at her knuckles as her body strove upward on its own, seeking more and more contact.

  As if he knew what she craved, he slid a finger inside her. 'Twas her own body that made the motion, rocking insistently against his hand.

  "Ah, wee cricket," he said, his chuckle low and seductive, "ye tempt me beyond reason."

  God, she hoped so, for she had left reason behind long moments ago.

  "Let me taste ye," he whispered.

  She gasped. Surely he did not mean…

  Before she could fret and say nae to him, indeed before she could even tell him aye, he spread her legs wider. Then he lowered his head and covered her with his mouth, searing her flesh with his warm lips in the most wicked kiss. She tossed her head back, making fists of her hands. Never had she felt so alive, so awakened.

  And then he feasted upon her.

  His tongue was like fire and honey and lightning all at once, burning her, soothing her, shocking her. She moaned, thrashing her head across the cloak in mindless ecstasy. As his tongue circled and stroked and suckled at her, desire rose so rapidly within her that she could scarcely catch her breath.

  Higher and higher she climbed, her muscles straining, her mouth open in disbelief. And when she at last crested the pinnacle, she plummeted from the cliff so gracelessly and with such abandon that surely only Rane's steadying hands kept her from crashing to the earth.

  She should have felt mortified. After all, she'd completely lost control. She lay mostly naked before a man she'd known but a fortnight, splayed in the sunlight in wanton disarray for all the world to see. She should have hidden her face in disgrace.

  Instead, she felt strangely free of shame and gloriously content. Indeed, she hadn't the strength to feel anything but quiet satisfaction.

  Eventually she found the will to open her eyes. When she did, Rane was looking upon her in a sort of fond wonder that warmed her heart and her bones and her soul.

  "Ah, Florie," he sighed, "what ye do to me…"

  She managed to rise up on her elbows to see exactly what she did to him. Aye, there was his proud staff, stretching his braies as if they were a banner announcing his desire.

  And as miraculous as it seemed, her own passion was already rising again. She wanted him…now.

  "Come, huntsman," she bade him softly. "Come claim your prey."

  He came into her gently, slowly, gazing into her eyes, as if to make the moment last forever. He coiled his fingers through her hair, brushed his lips across her forehead, whispered endearments in her ear, all the while keeping up a leisurely rhythm that belied the storm to come. His nostrils flared with restraint, and sweat beaded his forehead as he eased deeply into her body.

  Florie didn't mean to take command. 'Twas only that her body began to move on its own, at a quicker pace. She wrapped her legs about his hips and writhed upward, seeking his length, pulling back only to take more of him inside.

  He didn't seem to mind. Indeed, he shuddered in pleasure, sucking air between his teeth as she forced him to a faster gait. She felt his buttocks flex beneath her heels as he took up the chase, and sudde
nly she was careening toward release again.

  No longer did she pay heed to his movements. Burying her head against his shoulder, she clung to him, giving her body free rein. As her desire focused more and more intensely upon the place where their bodies joined, she became dimly aware of his rasping breath against her ear, in tandem with hers. Then she heard him gasp out, "Let me look at ye, Florie."

  'Twas almost impossible, but somehow she managed, even in the throes of ecstasy, to open her eyes, to meet his wondrous gaze. What she saw there was almost indescribable, a joy so intense, a torment so fierce, a knowledge so clear that it touched her very soul.

  She didn't remember falling. Nor could she clearly recall receiving his seed. What impressed itself upon her memory was the look in his eyes as they drank passion together, the look of pure love. Never would she forget that look.

  She must have dozed a while, for when she woke, Rane had laced her gown and snuggled her into his cloak. He was fully dressed now, reclining upon his elbow, watching her. For once, there was not a glimmer of a smile in his eyes.

  "What?" she whispered.

  "We need to talk," he said, lifting the satchel she'd unwittingly dragged along, "about this pomander."

  She swallowed, gathering the cloak about her and sitting up. Of course. 'Twas naive of her to imagine their lovemaking had solved everything, that she could bask in the warm afterglow of their coupling forever and forget her cares. Of course Rane would try to talk her into surrendering her heirloom.

  "'Tis mine by rights."

  He frowned thoughtfully, replacing the satchel. "'Tis a piece o' jewelry, Florie. Would ye truly throw away…" He tenderly clasped the back of her head, touching his forehead to hers, commanding her gaze. "This." Lord, his eyes were so beautiful, so cherishing. "… for a bauble o' gold?"

  'Twas tempting to yield to him. Nae, she'd not barter what she felt for Rane for a hundred gold pomanders. But this pomander was not just a bauble. 'Twas her past and her future.

  "Ye don't understand," she said.

  He lowered his hand. "I understand that ye cannot abide the injustice of it," he told her. "'Tis one o' your qualities I admire. But there are times when a man prizes somethin' above justice, when somethin' is more dear to his heart."