by Kira Morgan
She let her gaze drift back to the man’s angelic face. Christ’s thorns, ’twas him! He was the one who’d shot her.
Her breath quickened. Was he one of Lord Gilbert’s men? Had he confiscated her pomander? Frantically seeking the precious piece, she struggled up to her elbows, sending a spike of pain shooting through her leg. But, thank God, the girdle and pomander were still there, within arm’s reach.
“Easy, wee lamb,” he bade her, misunderstanding the source of her fear. “No one can harm ye here. Ye’re safe.”
Safe? There was no reason to trust him. She’d been a merchant long enough to doubt the promises of strangers. He might speak with a calming voice, his looks might be captivating, and others might be fooled by the reassuring sincerity in his eyes—eyes that were the complex shade of chrysolite, as lustrous as a polished gem, rich, intense, compelling…
She gave herself a mental shake. Others might be fooled by such distractions, but not Florie. So far the man had kept his word, bearing her to sanctuary, staying with her through the night.
But that was after he’d shot her with a bow and arrow.
He frowned at the doubt in her eyes. “Ye don’t trust me. I don’t blame ye.” He placed a hand over his heart. “But I swear, my lady, ’twas only an unfortunate accident.”
The man’s handsome countenance was enough to charm a greener maid out of her sense. His expression was earnest and concerned, and he was so comely that she found it difficult to tear her gaze away.
But Florie was wiser than most maids, wise and sensible. Whichever the man truly was, saint or sinner, she dared not linger long enough to learn, let alone trust him.
’Twas already daylight. Surely the lord sheriff had more important things to do than chase after a petty thief. He must have given up his search for her—after all, she hadn’t seen any riders follow her to the church. Florie even persuaded herself that by now Lady Mavis had forgotten about the pomander. In any event, Florie must return to the fair, for God only knew what fresh mayhem Wat had caused in her absence.
“Ye must be thirsty,” the archer murmured, loosening the leather costrel from his hip.
She reflexively licked her lips. Aye, she had a fierce thirst. She’d stay long enough to take a few sips, but then she’d be on her way. She dared not linger here, for by the look of the sorry place, the nave might well collapse at any moment.
The man uncorked the costrel with his straight white teeth, which likely afforded him a dazzling smile when he wasn’t scowling in concentration as he did now. No wonder she’d mistaken him for one of God’s heavenly host.
But his angelic image disappeared when he made the mistake of boldly reaching an arm about her shoulders.
She reacted out of pure instinct, rearing back and jabbing her elbow hard into his belly.
Rane collapsed forward with a wheeze. The blow didn’t hurt. Not really. After all, the lass was but a small thing, and his stomach was hard with muscle. But the shock of a lass clouting him for nothing served to knock Rane’s world awry.
Women never clouted Rane.
Women adored Rane.
He was their friend, their lover, their champion. Indeed, there wasn’t a female in Selkirk who didn’t harbor a healthy measure of affection for Rane McAllister.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Don’t… touch me,” she said stiffly.
He frowned, perplexed. ’Twas the first time a maid had said that to him. Said it and meant it. He didn’t know what to make of it.
Then he narrowed his eyes. “Ye’re still afraid o’ me, aren’t ye?”
“Nae.” She raised her charmingly dimpled chin a notch, though she didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m not afraid of anyone.”
He resisted the urge to remind her that she’d been running from someone last night of whom she was clearly quite afraid. “Be at ease, my love. I only mean to help ye.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Indeed?” He raised a dubious brow.
“I can manage on my own.”
“I see.”
“And I’m not…”
“Aye?”
“Your love.” She said it under her breath, as if it were an embarrassing epithet.
Rane, accustomed to lasses falling into his arms, was dumbfounded. “Huh. So ye’re done with me, then?”
She nodded.
Rane frowned. Was she seriously asking him to go away? He understood her mistrust—how could he blame her, when he’d so grievously wounded her?
But ’twas not in Rane’s nature to abandon the helpless. He couldn’t pass by a bird with a broken wing, much less leave a wounded maid to fend for herself. If the lass had known him better, she would have realized he had no intention of leaving her alone. But perhaps he’d test her resolve by feigning his departure.
“Fine,” he said.
“Fine.”
He popped the cork back into the costrel, noting the fleeting look of dismay that flickered over her face. “I suppose ye’ll give and take your own confession as well?” He lifted a brow.
Her lips were parted as if she meant to say something, but couldn’t think of the words. By Freyja, hers was a lovely mouth. He was tempted to bend down and kiss it, her protests be damned.
Instead, he rose to his feet.
“Wait!”
She would doubtless recant and beg for his aid now, once she perceived the threat of his leaving.
“I’ll have that drink,” she murmured.
His mouth twitched with amusement. ’Twas hardly the humble supplication he’d expected. “Ye will?”
She nodded.
Astounding, he thought, shaking his head. Earlier, as he’d watched the lass sleep, he’d thought her sweet and helpless. He’d planned to explain his unfortunate negligence to her when she awakened, to implore her forgiveness. He’d imagined her blushing, then placing one of her delicate hands upon his forearm, reassuring him with a gentle smile that she absolved him of his sin, murmuring her thanks for bringing her to sanctuary, for seeing to her wound, for protecting her. Maybe she’d give him a soft kiss as reward, maybe more…
“Sometime before Lent, if ye please,” she quipped.
He blinked. What a saucy lass she was. Most maids flushed and stammered around Rane on first meeting, stumbling over their words, scarcely able to string one thought to the next.
But this lass seemed neither intimidated nor awestruck. Which was both disconcerting and perversely attractive.
A bemused smile tugged at the corner of his lip as he surrendered the costrel to her.
She was weak, probably weaker than she realized, and though she managed to twist off the cork, letting it drop into her lap, her arms began to tremble as she brought the costrel to her lips. She tried to take a sip but tipped it too far and choked instead. Ale dribbled out of her mouth, down her chin, and onto her kirtle as she alternately coughed and cursed.
Hunkering down before her, he confiscated the costrel and furrowed his brow in warning. “I’ll be helpin’ ye now, lass.”
He saw her swallow uncertainly as she wiped her mouth with the back of one shaky hand. She might not fear him, but she clearly didn’t want him too close. She eyed the costrel, weighing her options, and finally gave him a curt nod.
He felt he’d won a bit of a victory. Still, he approached her slowly, the way he did a felled animal.
This time the lass kept her elbows in check. But when he curved his arm about her narrow back, gathering her against his shoulder, she definitely stiffened. Indeed, Rane thought, as he tried to make her comfortable, he’d felt wooden posts more yielding.
Florie fought to maintain her calm. She didn’t like to be touched. ’Twas overwhelming. Too intimate. Too invasive.
Once, long ago, she might have enjoyed it. Indeed, she seemed to recall her mother holding her thus when she was a child. But after her death, when Florie had craved comfort the most, her foster father had turned away from her, more at ease with his arms wr
apped ’round a keg of ale than his own daughter. And over the years, she’d grown accustomed to the lack of contact.
Florie was no longer a child to be coddled and cuddled. She was almost a grown woman, practically a goldsmith in her own right, destined for the guild. She needed no consoling, nor did she want it.
Especially since her foster father, who wandered about in a drunken fog most of the time, had begun to mistake her for her dead mother. He’d never abused her, but he’d received a sobering slap for his improper advances more than once, and Florie had blackened his eye a fortnight ago when his straying fingers began fumbling at the ties of her kirtle.
Indeed, ’twas that final offense that had convinced her to leave his household altogether to seek out her real father. ’Twas only natural then that she should be mistrustful of anyone laying hands upon her.
Still, Florie had to admit that the archer’s tender overtures were nothing like the frenetic groping to which she’d been exposed. When he eased her upright against his broad chest, surrounding her small body like some oversized throne, his warmth was not unpleasant, and his gentle strength could hardly be called threatening.
But she definitely felt trapped. Her heart began to pound unsteadily as a powerful surge of strange emotion washed over her. Staving off the pronounced urge to push frantically away from the suffocating sensation, Florie instead held herself rigid as he brought the costrel to her parched lips.
The drink was cool and sweet and refreshing, and he showed patience, never letting a drop spill, as she slaked her thirst, sip by slow sip.
Whether ’twas the effect of the ale on her empty belly or simply surrender to the inevitable, she gradually grew accustomed to the intimacy of his embrace. Her pulse calmed, her breathing slowed, and her muscles relaxed into a pleasant languor.
Indeed, after a few more pulls from the costrel, she had to concede that resting within the archer’s imposing arms wasn’t nearly as disagreeable as she’d first imagined. His shoulder was firm and reassuring, warm beneath the thin shirt of linen, and he smelled surprisingly favorable, much better than the stagnant air of the church, rather like the forest—all evergreen and moss and rosemary.
She reached up to tip the costrel further, letting the liquid soothe her throat, and her fingers tangled momentarily with his. She couldn’t help but notice they were long and sun-bronzed and supple, plainly more human than angelic.
They were also, she noted, stained with blood. Her blood.
She choked on the ale.
“Slowly,” he bade her, withdrawing the vessel and wiping away a drip at the corner of her mouth with his thumb, a far too personal gesture. “Better?”
Florie felt weak and battered, as if a company of soldiers had ridden their warhorses over her. She was also confused and more than a little tipsy. The man had shot her. She should despise him. Or at least fear him.
But whether ’twas the comeliness of his face, the persuasion of his voice, the welcome yet unwelcome tenderness of his touch, or simply the ale, there was definitely something intriguing about the man who’d come to her rescue… after, of course, he’d ruthlessly wounded her with his bow and arrow.
Before she could sort out her tangled thoughts and demand of him how he could have shot her, mistakenly or not, his hand roved brazenly over her face, settling upon her brow.
“No fever. Good. I’ll fetch the priest, clean your wound, change the bandages. Then we’ll see about findin’ somethin’ to eat and—”
“Nae!” Florie tensed. The man, like a naughty lad stealing a palfrey, seemed to have seized the reins of her fate to steer her in a direction she didn’t wish to go.
“Nae?”
“Nae.” Remembering the manners her mother had taught her, she added, “Thank ye.” She had neither the need nor the time for his help. No matter how handsome he was. “I have to go back to the fair. I have accounts to settle.” She nudged back the green wool garment that had been placed over her. “Thank ye for…” For what? she wondered. Shooting her? “For the ale. And the sanctuary. But I cannot tarry. I have—”
“Ye’re not goin’ anywhere with that wound.”
Her hackles rose. Was he giving her orders? No one told Florie what to do. Annoyed, she threw back the covers.
But when she beheld the extent of the gory stains on her clothing, the blood drained from her face and she felt suddenly queasy. She’d lost far more blood than she’d imagined. Furthermore, ’twas clear by the bandage that this man, this stranger, had already tended to her. Marry! The knave must have lifted her skirts, glimpsed her bare thigh, touched her bare flesh.
As she sat in stunned silence, he shifted to clasp her under the arms, completely disregarding her orders not to touch her. Then, with no more effort or ceremony than if she were a cloth puppet, he dragged her backward until she sat propped against the squat fridstool.
Her horror must have shown on her face, for when he crouched before her, meeting her gaze, his eyes softened slightly. “Don’t be afraid, love. I mean ye no harm.”
Florie stiffened. He misunderstood. Harm or no, she didn’t want him to touch her. At all. Her wound already left her feeling at a disadvantage, weak and vulnerable. When he touched her, that sensation was only magnified.
There was nothing she hated more than feeling helpless. She didn’t need his aid. She could take care of herself. She’d done so since the day her mother died.
Already, this stranger had trespassed upon her person. She wouldn’t suffer it again… no matter how her pulse quickened at the thought of him running those long golden fingers over her.
He took her hand between his two, not tightly, but firmly enough that she couldn’t snatch it back without force.
“Listen, lass,” he said, suddenly serious, his shadowed eyes locking with hers, gentle and commanding all at once, as if they might swallow her soul as surely as his palms swallowed her hand. “I don’t want ye to be afraid o’ me. I may be unworthy o’ forgiveness, but pray hear me out,” he murmured. “I never meant to harm ye. I was huntin’ in the forest. ’Twas truly an accident. God’s truth, I’d sooner cut off my own hand than hurt a maid.”
She gulped as she stared into his beautiful beryl-bright eyes… breathless… speechless…
Suddenly the church door creaked open, admitting a narrow shaft of sunlight. Florie gasped.
The archer turned and rose in one smooth movement, drawing his knife and planting himself like a guard between her and whoever violated the sanctuary.
But between her champion’s widespread, towering legs, Florie spied only a tattered old striped cat slinking along the wall. For one horrible instant she wondered if the man might hurl his knife and skewer the animal, the way he’d fired his arrow at her.
But he lowered his weapon and scolded, “Methuselah! Ye wayward beast.” With an exasperated sigh, he sheathed his knife and turned to her, explaining, “I thought it might be the riders who passed by last evenin’.”
Florie’s breath caught. “Riders?” She’d been so sure Lord Gilbert had forgotten about her. Had his men followed her, after all? Was she still in danger? Dread squeezed her heart. “What riders?”
He shrugged, then lifted his brows. “Maybe ye can tell me.”
Maybe not, she thought, swallowing hard. She didn’t fully trust the archer. For all she knew, he might be an accomplice to Lord Gilbert. Nae, the less he knew, the better. “I’ll save my confession for the priest.”
“As ye like.” He swept up his discarded shirt from the flagstones. Lord, was that what she’d slept on all night? “Ye should be safe enough here for a bit if ye stay by the fridstool. The Father doesn’t live far. I’ll be back in a wink.”
Indeed, she was surprised there was a priest who belonged to this church at all. The crumbling nave looked abandoned by man and perhaps by God as well.
The archer slipped the crumpled shirt down over his head, followed by his leather jerkin, and Florie only halfheartedly tried to avert her eyes. As he moved, his sh
irt clung to the defined contours of his back and strained at his wide shoulders, delineating an impressive array of muscle, and when he strode away, ’twas with the elegant strength of a cat. He was the sort of man to turn the heads of ladies and ladies’ maids alike—virile, feral, and well-favored. She shivered, deciding she was well rid of the dangerous stranger.
Just as he reached the door, he turned and fixed his gaze upon her, a gaze that brooked no rebellion. “Stay here.”
Stay here? How dare he issue commands! God’s breath, she wasn’t some hound licking at the man’s boots. ’Twas on the tip of her tongue to tell him so. But for once, Florie bit off her words, instead turning up the corners of her mouth in what she hoped resembled a smile of compliance.
No sooner did the door close behind her self-appointed master than she flung his cloak off and began examining her wound, calculating her chances of escaping before he returned.
Chapter 4
Rane wasn’t fooled for a moment by the lass’s foxy grin. He’d seen the mutinous glint in her innocent brown eyes. She might not be able to limp far enough to place herself in real danger before he returned, but he never doubted she’d try. And a lass so beautiful, lame, and helpless was as tempting a target to an outlaw as a crippled fawn was to a wolf.
At the church well, Rane washed his face from the bucket, welcoming the sobering slap of cold water. He needed the bracing chill to clear his thoughts, which had gone lustfully astray. The lass’s elfin eyes, that tempting mouth, her delectably carved body, and the resulting ache in his braies reminded him that he’d been three days without a wench. Even his shirt, rumpled from the weight of the maiden’s slumber, smelled of her—earthy, sweet, womanly.
He rattled his head, scattering droplets, and took a deep breath. He needed the fresh air to chase her scent from his nostrils and rouse him from his amorous stupor.
He also needed to retrieve the discarded weapon he’d left in plain sight, while keeping his senses sharp for the lass’s tormenters, who no doubt still ranged somewhere in the forest.