by Kira Morgan
She’d been so sure the English sergeant would come through for her, that the pomander would be safely in her hands by now, that she’d be able to melt the piece into oblivion before anyone was the wiser.
But ’twas not to be. That cursed wench still ranged the countryside somewhere with the damned thing. And Mavis wouldn’t rest until she saw both of them destroyed.
As if one failure weren’t painful enough, this eve, to keep her husband busy, Mavis had bedded with him. And though she’d prayed to God to make her fruitful, ’twas salt in her wound to know that, like all the other times before, she’d prove as barren as a hollowed pear.
In the dark hours before dawn, Florie stirred groggily from her slumber. Her foster father would no doubt be snoring off last night’s excesses, she thought, so she’d have to go downstairs and open the shop herself. Her eyes still half-shut with sleep, she threw back the coverlet and prepared to swing her legs over the edge of her goose-down pallet.
The needle-sharp jab of pain in her thigh stopped her, bringing her fully awake. She grimaced, sucking hard through her teeth.
She’d forgotten. She wasn’t in Stirling, in the comfortable house of her foster father.
When the pain faded, she rubbed at her eyes, groaning as the memories came filtering back. She was an outlaw now. She was wounded. And she was alone in a dark church outside of Selkirk.
God’s bones! What time was it? The last thing she remembered was supping with Rane and Father Conan. How could she have fallen asleep?
Wat must be worried ill. She must get back to him. She had to practice hobbling on her injured leg.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered.
The floor beneath her felt as frigid and hard as winter ground. Her leg throbbed. Her mouth was dry. And there was a soft scrabbling in the shadowy corner that she hoped was only Methuselah the cat.
Why anyone would call this a sanctuary, she couldn’t fathom. ’Twas cold and lonely and dismal. She’d already had to bargain for a swallow of ale and scrounge for food. Relying on the charity of strangers was insufferable. ’Twas a good thing she intended to leave, for she couldn’t endure one more day of such dependence.
Only yesterday she’d been a successful craftswoman with a goose-down bed, a fire on her hearth, meat on her table, a clean kirtle for every day of the week, and an audience with the queen. How she’d come to this, and how anyone could ever live thus for forty days, she couldn’t imagine.
’Twas no matter, she told herself. She wasn’t going to be here for forty days.
She perused the pile of plaids she’d cast off and frowned. They hadn’t been there before. Someone had draped them over her and lit the candle at her side. By its waxy glow, she spied a satchel left on the fridstool.
Her curiosity momentarily outweighed her caution. She opened the cloth sack and pulled out the contents: a wool kirtle, a ragged pair of hose, a horn comb, a bundle of dried sage, and a chunk of soap.
They were far coarser things than she was accustomed to, but more, she knew, than she had a right to expect. She sniffed at the fragrant clump of sage. Where had the offering come from? Who had been so charitable?
Then a sudden misgiving jarred her. Maybe ’twasn’t charity at all. Maybe she’d been charged for the items.
She patted her throat. Her pendant was still there. Her wrist and fingers were still encircled with gold.
Her pomander! Where was her pomander?
Tossing the sage aside, she dug through the plaids, frantic. Surely the Father had not bartered away her heirloom to purchase these trifles. Aye, he was blind, but certainly he could tell that piece was worth far more than the contents of the satchel.
Her fingers finally closed around a familiar link, then the pomander, and she exhaled in relief. She pulled the girdle out from beneath the cloth and fastened it securely about her hips.
Then she perused the gifts again. They were a kind gesture, though she wouldn’t be staying long enough to require them.
Using the fridstool to lever herself up, she gradually struggled to her feet, inch by arduous inch. Her thigh pulsed painfully as she stood, and she feared for a moment the pressure would open the wound again.
Balancing on her good leg and squinting into the dark recesses of the church, she focused on the door, determined to venture outside.
Filching a plaid to bundle about her shoulders, she pulled the candle from the sconce, then took a tentative step forward on her injured leg. Blood surged with excruciating force to her day-old wound, and she fought off a wave of dizziness as she shifted back onto her good leg.
When her vision cleared and the ache diminished somewhat, she tried again. Step by agonizing step, she limped forward, blinking her eyes to keep her light-headedness at bay, biting her lip against the torturous pain. It took an eternity to traverse the twenty yards of the sanctuary, and by the time she reached the doorway, sweat glazed her face and she was exhausted.
Balancing carefully on her good leg, she strained to pull open the door. To her dismay, the moment she managed the feat a mischievous devil’s breath of a draft blew in, instantly extinguishing the candle’s flame and leaving her in utter darkness.
With a silent oath, Florie dropped the useless taper, then hobbled awkwardly into the doorway, straining to see in the moonless night. The sky was as dark as onyx, the air unseasonably chill. Despite the thick plaid, she shivered as the breeze sighed across her clammy skin.
At her next step, her ankle twisted upon the threshold, sending hot fire streaking up her thigh. She winced, holding her breath until it passed.
Perhaps exercising her leg wasn’t so pressing, after all, she thought. She could wait till dawn, when she’d actually be able to see where she was going rather than risk tripping and breaking her neck.
She clenched her teeth, biting back her doubts. God’s bones! She was the goldsmith to the queen, not some whimpering milkmaid. She could get past her pain and fear and do this.
She took one determined step.
Then something rustled at her feet.
Wolf! she thought at once. She dragged in a huge gasping breath as her toes curled back instinctively in her boots.
“Who goes!” a harsh voice suddenly barked, sending her heart vaulting.
The shock proved too much for Florie in her weakened state. Though she fought to stay conscious, her head began to spin and fog crept in at the edges of her vision. She faltered, then swayed. For an awful moment, she feared she’d topple.
With her last wisp of air, she managed a whisper of surprise. “Ye!”
“Florie?”
As she staggered dizzily forward, two large hands dug into her ribs, holding her upright.
“Florie!”
Her heart pounded wildly in her temples, her eyes rolled, and her bones melted like butter. As she sank, she remembered thinking vaguely that the archer shouldn’t be touching her like that. Then she slumped into shadow.
* * *
“Come on, wee nightingale. Wake up.”
Rane cradled the limp lass on his lap, buffeting her cheeks with soft pats, trying to rouse her. His heart was still lodged in his gullet.
“Ach, lass,” he chided, more worried than angry. “Where in Nott’s name were ye goin’?”
He knew the answer to that already. The headstrong maid was determined to return to the fair. ’Twas a good thing he’d prevented her. If her “powerful enemies” didn’t hunt her down in the dark, the wolves surely would.
He caught her by her adorable pointed chin and jostled her gently. She moaned.
“That’s it, love, come on. Wake up. Wake up.”
Finally she roused, jerking her head irritably away from his slaps. “I am!” Her voice came out on a hoarse squeak, but nothing had sounded so welcome to his ears. “I am awake! Stop—”
“Are ye all right?”
She tried to wriggle out of his tight embrace. “I was,” she said, “before ye scared the bloody hell out o’ me.”
“Ye?”
Lord, the lass had no idea how his own heart pounded. “What the devil are ye doin’ out here in the dead o’ night?”
She stiffened, then snapped, “What the devil are ye doin’ out here?”
She attempted to wrench herself away. Wary of her jabbing elbows, he tightened his grip.
“Unhand me, sirrah,” she muttered, struggling against his binding arms.
“Hold still.”
“Let go o’ me!”
“Not until ye hold still.”
“If ye don’t let go o’ me, I’ll scream!”
“Ye’re already screamin’.”
She emitted an exasperated growl and began fighting him in earnest, twisting violently in his grasp. But she’d left her pointy brooch behind, and he’d disabled her dangerous elbows. There was little she could do in her present position, and if Rane’s hunting had taught him one thing, ’twas patience. He’d happily wait till dawn with the lovely lass on his lap, her backside squirming warmly atop that part of him that most liked warming.
Gradually she weakened and finally, realizing the futility of her struggles, slumped back against his chest. Her voice was bitter. “I’m holdin’ still. Now what the hell do ye want?”
Loki, the lass could curse like a quartermaster. “I’ll tell ye what I don’t want, poppet. I don’t want to find your bloody corpse in the woods tomorrow morn because ye decided to flee, wounded and limpin’, into a pack o’ hungry wolves.”
“Who said I was fleein’?”
“Aren’t ye?”
“Nae.”
“Then where were ye goin’?”
“Just… out, gettin’ a breath o’ fresh air.”
He lifted a brow. Of course she’d been fleeing. This was the same headstrong lass who’d tried to crawl to sanctuary with an arrow in her thigh. Who’d refused to let him tend to her wound. Who’d protested when he’d tried to help her drink. The lass had a streak of willfulness a mile wide.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t let ye do that.”
“Oh?” She whipped her head around, and a hank of her hair slapped his cheek. “And how do ye intend to prevent me?”
“By reason if I can. By force if I must.”
He almost felt the hackles rise along her back.
“Heed me well, sirrah,” she said. “I’m not your servant, your child, or your dog. Ye can’t tell me where I may or may not go.”
The lass had a point. But her stubbornness was overriding her common sense. “’Tis for your own safety, love,” he explained. “As long as I’m carin’ for ye, ye’re just goin’ to have to trust me.”
“Trust ye? Trust ye? The man who shot me?”
He supposed he deserved that.
“Listen,” she continued. “I didn’t ask ye to care for me. I don’t want ye to care for me.”
Rane blinked, astonished, and a chuff of laughter escaped him.
Perhaps he hadn’t explained himself properly. Normally, with a cunning turn of phrase, he could coax a lass out of anything—her bad temper or her clothes. But something about this rebellious wench drove all his usual sweet persuasions straight out of his head.
“Now ye heed me well, brat,” he told her in no uncertain terms. “Ye’ve been gravely hurt. God willin’, ye’ll improve and be dancin’ a reel by month’s end. But at the moment?” He shook his head. “I’d wager it took all your strength just to cross the sanctuary. In your condition, ye’d be easy prey for the men who are after ye, as well as the beasts.”
Florie scowled. ’Twas true. Now she knew she’d be lucky to walk twenty yards before she fell down in another faint. But curse it all, she didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, least of all this knave who was holding her far too cozily on his lap.
Marry, she had to get rid of him.
“So what are ye doin’ out here?” she asked. “Poachin’?”
“In the dark?”
She smirked, reminding him, “That didn’t stop ye before.”
“Ach, lass!” He gave her a chiding squeeze. “Ye cut me to the quick. Such cruel words from such a pretty mouth.”
His comment rattled her. A pretty mouth? No one had ever told her she had a pretty mouth.
He clucked his tongue. “This is the thanks I get for watchin’ over ye?”
She frowned. Then she realized why he was on the steps of the church. “Ye were guardin’ the door.”
“O’ course.”
That took the wind from her sails. “Well,” she said with grudging courtesy, “ye needn’t go to such trouble.”
“’Tis no trouble.”
No trouble? That was hardly true. Staying an hour late in the workshop to finish a nobleman’s cloak pin was no trouble. But sleeping out of doors on a chilly night…
She shook her head in wonder. “Ye must be mad.”
“Mad?”
“’Tis cold enough out here to freeze your ball—” She cut herself off. Living with two men, she’d learned a colorful array of crude expressions, none of which, her foster father constantly reminded her, were appropriate for a young lady.
Rane chuckled. “Ye needn’t worry. My thick Norse hide keeps me warm enough.”
Heat rushed to her face. His arms were snug around her, and that place beneath her bottom that she feared he’d freeze felt warm as well. Too warm. ’Twas sinful, reclining upon this stranger’s lap. While he continued to trap her thus, it seemed as if he hollowed away at some fortress within her, like a stealthy sapper undermining the wall of her defenses.
“Ye, however, my tender Scots blossom,” he said, “should go back inside.”
Tender Scots blossom? Who spoke like that?
Before she could protest, he swept her up in his arms as naturally as if he’d done so all his life. Indeed, to her consternation, she fit in his embrace as snugly as a well-made ring on a man’s finger, almost like she belonged there.
Their emotions, however, couldn’t have been less matched. He seemed calm, casual, composed, while she fought the urge to leap from his smothering arms.
Still, to her chagrin, when he finally returned her to the sanctuary, bidding her a soft good night, tucking her into her bed of plaids, closing the door behind him to leave her blessedly alone again, by some perverse twist of her nature she felt strangely abandoned. The sanctuary, robbed of his presence, seemed cavernous and desolate.
’Twas absurd.
Florie was accustomed to being alone.
After her mother had died, driving her foster father to spend most days in an intoxicated stupor, Florie had learned to pass the time in virtual solitude. She worked by herself behind her bench, with nothing but gleaming gold and lustrous gems for company, for hours on end.
That solitude had served her well. Without the distractions of friendships, she’d excelled in the craft and managed to keep the goldsmith shop quite profitable.
But now she felt inexplicably lonesome. The archer had touched more than just her body. He’d touched a place inside her, a soft place she’d locked away the day she’d watched her mother’s coffin lowered into the earth. Like a burnishing cloth revealing the inner glow of a gem, his touch awakened long-lost emotions in her, emotions that both frightened and intrigued her.
’Twas those unsettling memories that kept her awake, along with a nagging awareness that while she lay snug in her cocoon of plaids, beyond the door Rane shivered in the cold. And ’twas that, nothing else, she told herself, that compelled her to make the grueling trek across the sanctuary once more to seek out her vigilant guard.
Chapter 7
This time the lass couldn’t startle him, for Rane lay wide-awake, staring up at the stars, unable to quiet his lusting mind or tame his rutting body.
’Twas Florie’s fault. That wee bit of a wicked faerie had worked some enchantment upon him to rouse his passions. Why else would she excite him so?
She didn’t have the blond tresses he generally preferred, nor did she possess voluptuous curves to fill his oversized hands. Her stature wasn’t even close to
matching his own, which he’d found had certain advantages in bed. In fact, her head barely reached the middle of his chest. Furthermore, she displayed no interest in him and, indeed, seemed to have a curious aversion to his touch.
By Freyja, she should be the last maid on earth to arouse him. But arouse him she did.
Indeed, as she slowly opened the door, he was calculating how many of the forty days ’twould be before he might ease his loins’ ache in willing woman-flesh.
“Rane?” Lord, even her soft voice excited him. He liked the way his name sounded upon her tongue.
“Hm?” he grunted, raising up on an elbow.
“I can’t sleep.”
She couldn’t sleep? Even now his cursed loins kept him awake, chafing within the confines of his braies. “What is it?” he asked tautly.
“I can’t sleep, knowin’ ye’re out here, freezin’…”
She trailed off, but he remembered her words from before. He wondered how she’d blush if he told her that, while the rest of him might crystallize with frost, his ballocks were in no danger of freezing.
Instead, he said the chivalrous thing. “Ye needn’t worry about me. I told ye, I have the blood of a Vi—”
“I won’t sleep.” She said it like a threat. “I won’t close my eyes until ye promise to come inside.”
He raised a brow. What a shrewd merchant she must be.
“And if ye refuse to come inside,” she continued, shivering, “I’ll s-sleep out here. If ye can endure the c-cold, so can—”
“Nae.”
He grabbed her wrist before she could make good on her promise. Lord, her bones were frail and feminine, so unlike the determined lass herself, threatening to sleep on the cold steps of a church so he wouldn’t have to suffer alone. Of course, he wouldn’t let her do it.
“Frigg’s bow! Ye’re a headstrong lass.” He blew out a sigh of feigned irritation. “I’ll come in, then,” he conceded. “I can see ’tis the only way I’ll get any sleep.”
He bedded down just inside the nave, bundled under the plaid that the lass stubbornly insisted he take. He stretched out with his weapon beside him and his back wedged against the church door. And he tried to think of anything but the bewitching dark-haired faerie with the sparkling brown eyes and silken thighs, sleeping but a dozen of his long strides away.