by Kira Morgan
’Twas more than his natural affinity for helpless females that drove him to protect the maid. More even than his need to assuage his guilt and make amends. Maybe ’twas the challenge of her saucy tongue. Or the memory of her body nestled for warmth against his all night. Or her strange, skittish nature, reminding him of a wild kitten that needed, yet feared, to be stroked.
Whatever ’twas, that silken skin, those lustrous brown eyes, that curving mouth enchanted him, moved him, and left him feeling as uneasy as a stag catching scent of a hunter.
This lass intrigued him more than most. If he were inclined to fantasy, he’d almost believe she was one of the impish woodland sprites rumored to live in Ettrick Forest, garbed in the pale pelt of a deer and bejeweled with gold treasure, or perhaps a daughter of the Norse goddess Frigg, playing mischief upon his wits.
He shook his head as he tromped down the hill toward the pond, scooping up his discarded bow as he went. ’Twas the Scots half of him that made such absurd fancies creep into his brain. Nae, the lass was only human, no matter how difficult ’twas to purge her image—her gentle curves, her trembling mouth, her compelling gaze—from his mind.
He found his quiver, undisturbed except for a beetle crawling over the fletching of his arrows. He coaxed the bug onto his finger and set it upon the trunk of a laurel, then slung the quiver over his shoulder.
A spot of maroon among the fallen leaves caught his eye, and Rane realized with a guilty pang that he looked upon a drop of spilled blood, the lass’s blood.
He carefully picked up the stained leaf. Over the last several years he’d hunted scores of deer, shot them, dressed them out. Never had the sight of blood troubled him. But as he looked upon the leaf, his mouth dried and his fingers began to quake.
“Loki’s eyes,” he muttered angrily, crushing the leaf in his fist. What if shooting the lass had spoiled him for hunting altogether?
Steeling himself against that fear, he searched for the quarrel he’d removed from her thigh. But though he looked high and low, he couldn’t find it. And while he deemed himself well rid of the damning shaft, he couldn’t help believing some mischief or magic had made it go missing.
Armed now, Rane hastily loped along the weed-choked path from the church to the priest’s cottage, though doubt dogged his heels every step of the way. ’Twould be a miracle if he could get the priest to set foot in the sanctuary after all these years.
As always, Father Conan welcomed him warmly. The two were old friends, and Rane visited his humble cottage often. The white-haired priest offered him a cup of ale and a seat at the hearth, inquiring about his health and asking whether he’d picked out a wife yet. Rane chuckled at that. Everyone knew Rane was in no hurry to settle down.
But the old man’s hospitality only extended so far. As Rane had expected, after a bit of friendly banter, when he confronted Father Conan with his request, misgiving reared its head. Despite the cheery fire flickering on the hearth, a cool gravity descended upon the cottage, distancing the two men.
The aged priest seemed to shrink within his already withered frame. “I won’t go back there. Don’t ask it o’ me, lad.”
Rane hated haranguing the poor fellow. He understood the priest’s fears. Like the holy men before him, Father Conan believed in the curse. In the old man’s mind, something evil in the church had ruined him, slowly destroying his eyesight until he could no longer fulfill his priestly duties.
“’Tisn’t for my sake, Father,” Rane said, hunkering down by the fire to stir the coals and adding another log. “’Tis for a lass.”
The priest rocked forward on his three-legged stool with a knowing frown. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“This one’s in grave danger. Someone chased her through the wood. If ye don’t grant her sanctuary—”
The priest shivered visibly. “That church is hardly a sanctuary,” he said bitterly. “I’d imagine the devil himself has taken up residence there by now.”
“Then all the better for her,” he countered. “No one would dare enter Lucifer’s lair to seize her.”
“Nor will I. I crawled out o’ that cursed nave four winters ago. I have no intention o’ goin’ back. The place is filled with evil.” He crossed himself. “Ye should remove her before it works its sorcery upon her.”
“Faugh! I don’t believe in sorcery.”
“Five priests, Rane, five.” He recited the history almost like an incantation. “One by English dagger. One by fire. One by water. One fallen to drink. And one…” He gestured to his sightless eyes.
Rane supposed there was no shaking the priest’s conviction that the premature demise of the holy men was somehow orchestrated by Satan. Father Conan found it unthinkable to blame God or fate for the cruel irony of robbing a priest of his sight.
But in Rane’s eyes, the priest’s refusal to return to the church meant that King Henry had won when he’d attacked the sanctuary four years ago. And that was unthinkable to Rane. He wanted Scotland to reclaim the church, to forever dispel the myth of Henry’s curse.
With a sigh, Rane crossed to the pantry shelf, perusing the nearly depleted stores. A week ago he’d brought the priest a haunch of venison. ’Twas gone, yet the Father looked as gaunt and frail as ever. Rane unwrapped a block of cheese, carving away the mold with his knife.
“Ye’ve been givin’ your food away to beggars again, haven’t ye?”
“There are those less fortunate and more hungry.”
Rane shook his head. Blind, old, and feeble, Father Conan still believed he was privileged among men.
“Faith, ye’re as shrunken as a grandmother’s teat,” he scolded. “Ye’ll starve yourself to death. Then where will the beggars go for food?”
“Rane,” the Father chided, “ye know I cannot turn away one in need.”
“And what about this lass in need?”
The priest’s mouth turned down, and his face closed like the visor on a yeoman’s helmet.
Rane wrapped and replaced the cheese, then crouched beside the priest, resting a hand upon the man’s shoulder. “She’s not well, Father. She’s wounded and—”
Father Conan stiffened. “Then she has need of a doctor, not a priest.”
“Her first need is for protection.”
“Ye have a bow. Ye protect her.”
“Father, she’s asked for sanctuary.” Rane’s patience was dwindling. “I can’t take her confession.”
“Then find another church. Find another priest,” the Father muttered. “But don’t ask me to go into that devil’s den again.”
Rane rose, mouthing a silent oath. Indeed, he couldn’t blame the Father. King Henry’s men had left their mark. No one had entered the place in four years. Even the most devout of priests wouldn’t take up residence there.
As for conveying her elsewhere, the nearest sanctuary was miles away. Though Rane could carry her the distance if he heaved her across his back like fresh kill, ’twas too dangerous to move her. Nor did he imagine the nasty, ill-tempered priest who presided over the church at Selkirk could be persuaded to travel to hear the confession of a lone maiden in a moldering church purported to be cursed.
Rane clenched his fists, frustrated. “Father, I pray ye… There’s no one else.”
The priest’s chin quivered, partly with fear, partly with irritation. “I will… pray for her.”
Rane blew out an exasperated breath. “Evil spirits,” he muttered, his patience at an end. “Curses. The devil. If ye ask me, every one o’ those priests was the victim of either his own human frailty or the cruelty o’ fate.”
The Father blinked in surprise.
“Aye, even ye,” Rane continued, unable to halt his tirade, harsh though ’twas. “’Tis far too easy to blame your misfortune on the devil. Maybe God gave ye this affliction. Maybe He blinded ye to test your faith.”
’Twas the first time Rane had ever voiced his opinion on the matter, and perhaps later he would regret his candor. But at the moment he didn’t h
ave time to smooth the priest’s ruffled feathers. He didn’t trust the lass to stay where he’d left her. Every moment he was away, the threat to her grew. And he wasn’t about to abandon the lass he’d wounded by his own hand.
So with a pointed slam of the priest’s door, he trudged back along the overgrown path from the cottage to the old church.
What was he to do now? How would he explain to the lass that of all the wayside churches dotting the road from Falkirk to Selkirk, she’d managed to choose the one with the threshold no priest would cross?
“Ballocks.” Florie perched on the low fridstool with her bare legs stretched out before her. Damn her chemise! ’Twas stuck to her bloody bandages, stuck in such a way that when she tried to get up, it pulled painfully at the scab. And all her tugging at the linen had caused her only more pain and frustration. As she bent over the injury, she saw ’twas bleeding again.
“Ye’re not worryin’ that wound, are ye?”
She yelped in surprise. She hadn’t even heard the stealthy hunter come in. She hastily tossed her skirts back down over her legs, but not, she noted, before his smoldering eyes took a long drink of the sight.
He closed the door behind him. “Are ye?”
She gulped guiltily. How long had he been watching her? And what affair was it of his what she did with her own limb? She should have left while she had the chance, her wound be damned. Aye, she was worrying it, with good reason.
“Nae,” she lied.
The dubious arch of his brow said he didn’t believe her. “If ye worry at it,” he said, resting his bow and arrows against the wall, “the wound won’t heal.”
“I’m not worryin’ it,” she insisted.
One corner of his lip drifted up, and he started inexorably forward. “Let me see.”
“’Tis fine.”
She’d seen the lusty cast of his eyes a moment ago. ’Twas doubtless a dangerous thing to let him anywhere near her bare flesh. And yet here he came.
“The cloth is stuck fast to the wound, isn’t it?” he guessed, hunkering down far too closely beside her.
“Nae,” she hedged.
“Show me.”
She drew her leg up out of his reach, wincing. She refused to be cowed into submission, no matter how her heart quivered with the powerful giant so near. “I can take care of it myself.”
To prove her point, she braced her hands on the arms of the fridstool, preparing to get up despite the painful consequences.
He stopped her with a single hand on her shoulder. “Sit.”
She had little choice. Her strength was no match for his.
“I vowed to take care o’ ye, love,” he told her with a wink. “’Tis what I intend to do.”
She bit at her lip. Despite his casual endearment and coy wink, his words sounded more like a threat than a vow, and her heart skittered at the thought of him sliding his fingers along her thigh. “I don’t need your help. I’ll be fine.”
He ignored her words, nodding toward her leg. “Let me see.”
Heat crept into her cheeks. “I’ll find a doctor in the burgh.”
“I’d not advise it. We’ve only one doctor in Selkirk, and he’s a crack-pated butcher.” He took hold of the hem of her skirt and started to tug it upward.
“Wait!” She clapped her hands over her knees to hamper his progress. “What about the priest ye promised to fetch?”
He lowered his gaze. “In time, wee one.” He tugged again on her kirtle. “First your wound.”
“Nae!” She tightened her grip on her skirts. She was fast running out of excuses. “Nae… I…”
He paused and studied her, absently rubbing the fabric of her skirt between his thumb and finger. “Ye’re blushin’.” A half smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. “Ach, darlin’, I assure ye, ’tis nothin’ I haven’t seen already.”
She swallowed. He needn’t remind her of that fact. She clung fiercely to the last bit of cloth guarding her modesty as her gaze darted over his sinewy forearms and broad shoulders. She wondered if he might resort to bodily restraining her. If he did, she’d fight, but she knew she hadn’t a breath of hope against him.
After a long moment of impasse, to her immense relief, he withdrew, shaking his head and settling himself patiently on the floor beside her. He snagged the costrel from his hip and uncorked it. “Ale?”
She nodded, uncertain of his game, yet grateful for any reprieve from his physical attentions.
But the knave didn’t immediately offer it to her. Instead, he swirled the ale lazily around in the costrel. “Ye’re a merchant, aye? I’ll tell ye what I’ll do. I’ll make a bargain with ye,” he said, a faint sparkle in his shrewd gaze. “Ye let me treat your wound, and I’ll give ye a drink.”
She lowered her brows. “That isn’t a bargain,” she told him. “’Tis extortion.”
He gave her a maddening shrug.
She bit the inside of her cheek. The rogue might think he’d gotten the best of her, but she’d learned a trick or two from her foster father about haggling. One way or another, she’d get her way.
“Give me my drink first,” she said. “Then I’ll let ye look at it.”
He thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Fair enough. One swallow. More later.” He passed her the costrel.
She took one swig. Then stole another. But just as she would have nervily downed the rest of its contents, he wrested the vessel away.
“Enough, darlin’,” he chided, popping the stopper in.
Darlin’. Did he have to keep calling her that? Nobody called her that. Every time he did it, her silly heart fluttered inexplicably, which only increased her irritation.
“With no food in your belly, lass,” he added, “ye’re likely to drink yourself into a stupor.”
“I’d think ye’d prefer that,” she muttered. “Then ye could paw me at will.”
“Paw ye?”
“’Twould seem to be your wont.”
“Indeed?” By the subtle crinkling of his eyes, her words appeared to entertain him. “I assure ye I’ve never pawed a lass in my life.” He tucked the costrel back into his belt. “Caressed maybe. Fondled. But pawed?”
Florie’s ears burned. The last thing she needed to hear was a full accounting of the scoundrel’s debauchery.
“Maybe,” he whispered, leaning far too close to her, close enough that she could see blue crystals in his pale green eyes as he arched an amused brow, “ye’re afraid ye might enjoy it.”
Outrage brought the blood rushing to her face. “Ye swaggerin’ son of a—”
Her oath was cut short by a sharp cough at the church door. Her guardian’s knife was out and flipped backward in his hand, poised for throwing, before Florie could even look up. Marry, did he always attack first and identify his target later?
’Twas but a hunched old man in a ragged brown cassock. A ring of rusty keys hung from his belt, and he hobbled in with the aid of a long, gnarled stick. The priest pushed back his cowl, revealing a wrinkled face, a shock of white hair, and a milky stare that marked him as a blind man.
“Father,” the archer said, sliding his knife back into its sheath. “Ye came.”
The priest shivered once, then crossed himself. “Even old fools can mend their ways, Rane.”
Florie glanced up at her meddlesome defender, who rose to meet the priest. Rane. So that was his name. It suddenly seemed appalling that, before this moment, she couldn’t even name the man taking such liberties with her person.
The old priest took a slow breath of musty air and croaked, “I fear I’ve been away too long.”
He extended his wrinkled hand, and Rane took it, drawing the old priest into a hearty and completely irreverent embrace. Florie’s eyes widened. Did the archer treat no one with the proper decorum?
“Bless ye for comin’, Father,” he said.
The wizened priest somehow managed to extricate himself from Rane’s smothering hug. “So where’s the lass who seeks sanctuary at this forsaken place?”
Rane frowned. “Back? Ye can’t go back. Not yet.”
“Sirrah,” Florie said, weary of the archer’s tyrannical nature, no matter how handsome he was. “I may go wherever and whenever I will.”
“Not while ye’re under my protection.”
“I didn’t ask for your protection. I don’t want your protection.”
“Ye need me.”
“I don’t need anybody!”
“Indeed? Well, ye needed me badly enough last night.”
The Father’s brows shot up in astonishment at the possible implication of the archer’s words. “Rane, do ye hold the lady here against her will?”
“Nae,” Rane said.
“Aye,” Florie interjected.
The priest shook his head. “I’m told nigh a dozen maids asked after ye last evenin’ at the fair, Rane. Leave it to ye to tumble the one who doesn’t favor ye.”
Florie’s jaw dropped. “Tumble? I didn’t—”
“Ye misunderstand, Father,” Rane said, rushing to her defense. “’Tis not the way of it at all.” He grimaced, then rubbed at the back of his neck, as if trying to decide how to proceed. Finally, he lowered his shoulders with a deep sigh. “’Tis in truth a very grave matter.”
A shadow drifted across his eyes, liked a grim cloud eclipsing the sun. His hand tightened subtly into a fist at his side, and a muscle twitched once along his cheek. Gone was the cocksure knave, replaced by a somber penitent.
The priest, blind though he was, detected Rane’s darkening mood. He crept closer, his brow furrowed with concern. “What is it, lad?” he whispered, resting a fatherly hand upon Rane’s forearm.
Rane covered the priest’s hand with his own and spoke so softly, she had to strain to hear. “I was huntin’ last night.”
“Indeed?” The priest raised one snowy brow. “Well, ’tis your trade, after all, Rane.”
Rane exhaled heavily. “Without sanction.”
Florie stilled.
The priest let his breath out on a soft whistle. “Poachin’.”