by Kira Morgan
Then, just as Father Conan voiced the final amen, all of a sudden her twitching toe was caught in Methuselah’s sharp claws, and she shrieked, drawing her foot back. She clapped her hands over her mouth in dismay as her cry echoed over the amen.
The sanctuary fell deathly still. She squeezed her eyes shut in dread. So much for her promise to remain silent.
“By my faith!” Lady Mavis wasted no time filling the silence. “What sort o’ godless whelp,” she announced with shaking self-righteousness, “would screech in the middle o’ Mass?”
’Twas upon Florie’s lips to give her answer, but what trouble the naughty cat had started, he unwittingly solved. He trotted from the fridstool with his ears flat, sidling up with ingratiating elegance to the Father’s cassock, and meowed loudly in complaint.
“Ah,” she heard the priest say, “Methuselah’s remindin’ me o’ two vital matters. First, ye may have wondered about our guest before ye.”
Florie gulped.
“As ye know, the church has always been a place o’ sanctuary for the oppressed, the outcast, the poor, the misguided—the wretched sinners among us. It happens our fridstool is occupied by one such unfortunate. I intend to pray on her behalf that she may find God’s mercy and redemption. And I entreat ye, as well, that ye look upon her not with scorn and contempt,” he said pointedly, “but with that same mercy in your heart that is the keystone o’ the house o’ the Lord.”
If Florie’s chin rose a bit smugly, she could hardly be blamed.
“Secondly, I have a request o’ ye good folk. As ye can surely see, though my poor old eyes are unable to appreciate it, this crumblin’ church stands in sad neglect. I have, maybe against sound judgment, deigned to return in the hopes o’ resurrectin’ what has fallen to ruin. But I cannot do so without the help o’ generous souls such as yourselves. Our most pressin’ need is concernin’ the vestry, where are kept the sacred articles o’ service. It must be guarded against intrusion. But alas, the vestry door has rotted away.”
Florie’s brows shot up. Rotted away? Rane had only yesterday confessed to the priest that he’d kicked in the door.
The priest continued blithely on. “The thing must be rebuilt. So I’d ask humbly that any among ye with a timber or two to spare donate it to the church. Our friend Rane has generously offered to perform the labor.”
Florie heard a definite collective sigh at the mention of the archer’s name, and she noted that several feminine heads swiveled, searching for the elusive Rane. She frowned. Maybe there was something to that Viking curse.
’Twas completely unexpected, the sharp pang of envy that gripped her at the thought. And yet ’twas undeniable. Somehow, whether through their mutual adversity or common affection or mere familiarity, she’d begun to think of the archer as her Rane. And suddenly she was loath to share him.
How many lasses before her, she wondered, had felt the brush of his gentle hand, tasted his tempting mouth, maybe even shared the warmth of his bed? The thought pricked at her mind like a lad prodding a hound with a stick as she watched the parishioners file out of the church.
Indeed, so preoccupied was she with not only the idea of all those admirers, but also the notion that she should even care, that she almost missed the furious bit of whispering at the church door. There, Lady Mavis accosted Father Conan, pointing vexedly in Florie’s direction, and at last loudly demanded audience with the outlaw.
Florie welcomed the opportunity. Mass was over. No one save the lady and a few of her faithful companions lingered in the nave. Let the lady come. After all, Florie was safe in sanctuary. Now was her chance to speak her mind.
Then she remembered her promise to Rane. She’d sworn she’d say nothing. But how could she sit silently by while the lady insulted her, threatened her, accused her of crimes she hadn’t committed? Rane, like her foster father, didn’t understand. Florie’s temper, like ale kept too long in the cask, would explode if she didn’t drain it off on occasion.
Still, Florie was a person of her word. She’d vowed she wouldn’t speak. Torn between defending her honor and keeping her oath, she at last settled on a satisfactory compromise. After all, there were other ways of making her point.
Lady Mavis gave a simpering smile for the benefit of her ladies. “I only wish to see if I might persuade the lass to return what she stole from me, Father, to erase the stain upon her soul so she may die without sin.”
As Mavis cast cunning eyes in her direction, Florie, smiling grimly and raising her chin in challenge, slowly opened the edges of the cloak to reveal her mother’s girdle, gold and brazen and winking like a taunt at her hips.
Lady Mavis flushed as purple as amethyst. Her cheeks quivered, and she sputtered in rage. Were it not for Father Conan’s placating grip upon the noblewoman’s arm, she might have barreled forward to strangle Florie with her own hands. But despite the lady’s apoplexy, or maybe because the priest was blind to it, he didn’t bow beneath her demands. Florie saw him smile, shake his head in apology, and make the sign of the cross.
Mavis hissed across the nave, “I’ll see ye hang if ye don’t starve to death first.” She wheeled with a regal sweep of her skirts and slammed the door on her way out, hard enough to crack one of the hinges.
When she’d gone, the priest came to lend Florie reassurance. “Don’t let Lady Mavis’s overbearin’ nature frighten ye, m’lady. She can’t violate the sanctity o’ the church.”
But his words were meager comfort, and Florie wondered if she hadn’t been unwise to goad the lady. She’d seen the threat in Lady Mavis’s eyes. She didn’t seem the sort to let stone church walls or the slow wheels of justice or even God’s will interfere with her thirst for vengeance.
Florie had to escape. Very soon. Aye, she’d wait until she was healed and the English were gone. But then she must flee Selkirk.
Rane’s grip wavered as he aimed his quarrel behind the shoulder of the grazing stag. He compressed his lips into a grim line, deciding he must have a wish for death, or an affinity for irony, to flagrantly poach in Ettrick Forest by the full light of day while the Frasers attended Mass not half a mile away.
Yet what could be more favorable? Florie was protected by a sanctuary full of witnesses, and as long as they stayed within, no one could mount guard over the forest. By God’s good grace, Rane would find enough game to feed a few families until next Sabbath.
But there was another reason Rane hunted. He needed to prove to himself that his unfortunate accident with Florie hadn’t ruined his hunting skills.
A half mile into the woods, a break in the canopy of trees allowed enough sunlight to keep a patch of meadow growing. A scattering of fresh deer spoor marked the narrow trail running along its perimeter. No doubt the tender clover provided a tasty feast for the forest dwellers.
Climbing a sturdy elm with a split trunk, he chose a vantage point in the crook, rested his bow upon his thigh, and waited.
He heard the soft foraging of the beast long before he saw it—the subtle rustle of reeds nuzzled aside to gain access to the young clover beneath. Rane eased an arrow into the bowstring and slowly pulled back. To his relief, his arms remained as steady as stone.
In another moment the deer’s moist nose would emerge from behind the brush, and Rane would be perfectly positioned to take the unwary animal.
Cautiously, the stag appeared, its pale antlers mimicking the branches of the surrounding trees. It stepped cautiously forward, froze, swiveled its long ears about to listen for sounds of danger. But Rane was absolutely silent.
Another step and the creature would be completely exposed. It lowered its head to nibble at the sweet clover.
Now! Rane thought. He should loose his arrow now. One deer could mean the difference between life and death for a crofter’s family. The animal was out in the open, a broad target, unaware ’twas being stalked. One well-aimed quarrel would kill it instantly, and he could have it gutted and skinned before it grew cold. Now!
But when the stag l
ifted its head and looked straight at him, its gaze wide and guileless, its flank smooth and unblemished, Rane saw only Florie, innocent and untouched, and his aim faltered.
He swallowed hard. He could do this. He must do this.
He closed his eyes tight, then, with renewed determination, opened them again. The stag’s eyes were alert now, its ears forward, its haunches poised to bolt.
But though Rane clenched his jaw and furrowed his brow and cursed silently, demanding it of himself, he could not force his fingers to let the arrow fly. And then his arms began to shake.
“Bloody hell!”
His oath startled the deer, and it bounded away. Horrified and angered by his body’s betrayal, Rane dropped the bow to the ground as if ’twere made of molten lead.
“Ballocks!”
He glared down at his trusty weapon, then at his quivering hands. He didn’t want to think about what had just happened. Surely ’twas only a passing malady, a short-lived impotence. And yet dire eventualities managed to seep into his thoughts like poison.
If he couldn’t hunt, he couldn’t eat. ’Twas all he knew how to do. The Fraser household relied upon his talents, as did the crofters for whom he poached this year. If he lost the will to hunt, not only would he go hungry, but he’d doom half the burghers to certain starvation.
Nae, he thought, ’twasn’t possible. ’Twasn’t tolerable. He couldn’t let one small turn of fate unman him. Choking back a lump of nauseous dread, he seized his bow and arrow and tromped back through the forest.
’Twas the lass, nothing else. Like the goddess Frigg, Florie safeguarded the woodland creatures by thwarting his aim. Once she was healed, once she was out of his life, he could purge himself of this debilitating weakness. Marry, then he’d load Lord Gilbert’s tables with so much meat, the household would think every day a feast day.
Aye, as soon as Florie returned home, he’d be able to hunt.
Yet a part of him wished the lass wouldn’t go.
’Twas admittedly ridiculous. After all, she didn’t want to stay in Selkirk. All she spoke of was returning home.
Still, he knew there’d be a hollow place in his heart when she left. Maybe ’twas only that he was accustomed to her company after so many days. Or maybe ’twas the bond her sickness had forged between them. Maybe ’twas but the sorrel shine of her eyes, the rosy cast of her lips, the saucy angle of her chin, the inviting curve of her waist. Maybe, he thought ruefully, ’twas only that he’d been so long away from a wench’s bed.
But nae, none of these rang true. He felt things for Florie that he’d never felt for another before. Not just a need to protect her. Not just a desire to take her in his arms. He felt… drawn to her, as if by magic.
A crow cawed at him from the high branch of an alder, as if to mock his superstitions. The bird was right. No faerie spell or Scots bane or Viking curse bewitched him. He was beginning to sound as fanciful as Father Conan. ’Twas his own heart that took the reins, his unwise heart, for only a fool would allow himself to be drawn to that which had the power to unman him.
“Take this,” Florie whispered to the priest late that afternoon, after Rane had changed her bandages and she was certain he was out of hearing. She wiggled loose one of her gold rings and pressed it into the Father’s palm. “’Twill pay for what I’ve already eaten and buy our supper for the next several days.”
She’d seen Rane return after Mass, his bow across his back, his hands empty, and she’d guessed at once where he’d gone. That his hunt hadn’t been successful was no surprise. According to Father Conan, game was scarcer this year than any other in memory.
“Now mind ye,” she added, “’tis gold and pearl and o’ decent quality. Do not take less than a mark for it. And Father,” she said softly, “I pray ye speak not a word of it to Rane. I wouldn’t want to insult his pride.”
She told herself ’twas because she couldn’t afford to insult him. Her foster father had reminded her endlessly that one must never give offense to a man from whom one might stand to gain. Certainly she had everything to gain from Rane.
But she knew ’twas only half of the truth. Indeed, she cared for Rane’s feelings. Whether she wanted him there or not, the stealthy archer was beginning to steal his way into her heart.
Chapter 12
Florie dreamt they were coming for her, Lady Mavis and the whole Fraser household. They had formed an ugly mob, and men-at-arms charged the door with an enormous battering ram. The pummeling was relentless, and the walls of the church shuddered, threatening to collapse about her.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
She started awake and sat up, her pulse racing, glancing toward the door, expecting it to splinter before her eyes. But there was only silence.
’Twas just a dream. An inane dream, she realized. Why would anyone storm the door of a church? ’Twas never barred.
Pound.
She nearly jumped from her skin. Someone was pounding at the door. She drew her good knee defensively up to her chest, watching the door shudder.
Pound. Pound.
She twitched again, then cursed her own cowardice. ’Twas ridiculous, she thought. No one had a battering ram at the door. There was a reasonable explanation for the noise.
She struggled to her feet and made her hesitant way across the sanctuary. The pounding grew louder and more threatening as she closed in on the door.
Mustering up her courage, she took a deep breath and snatched open the door all at once.
She startled Rane as much as he startled her. He slipped with the wooden mallet and caught the tip of his thumb.
“Shite!”
She might have cursed back at him, but all the breath had been sucked from her lungs.
Rane the Viking’s son, like some ancient warrior, stood before her, filling the doorway, bared to the waist, in all his bronze glory. His hair was pulled back, bound with a leather tie, revealing his massive shoulders and the flexing muscles of his chest. His skin, as golden as honey, was dusted with a light film of perspiration. And as she stood in open-mouthed awe, a droplet of sweat trickled down the side of his throat, past his arrow scar, and across the wide expanse of his breast toward one dark nipple.
Flustered, she forced her eyes back up to his face. But at the moment he was sucking on his injured thumb, and something about the sight sent another wave of heat rippling through her, discomfiting her even more.
Now flushed and faint, she dropped her glance to the ground, but the image of Rane standing so close, so naked, so beautiful, would live in her mind forever.
“Sorry,” he said, withdrawing his thumb with an audible smack. “Did I wake ye?”
The absurdity of his question helped to sober her, but she was still reeling from the effects of the sensual heat roiling off of him like steam off of a simmering crucible.
“I’m repairin’ the door,” he told her. “It looks like someone slammed it right off its hinges.”
“Lady M-Mavis,” she managed to murmur.
Misunderstanding her stammer, he reached out to cup her chin. She held her breath. His hand was rough and dusty from labor, but ’twas as warm as malleable gold. “Ye needn’t fear her, love.”
She shivered. Lord, what ailed her? ’Twas not the first time he’d called her that. ’Twas not the first time she’d seen a half-naked man—men wrestled every May at the Stirling fair in their hose and boots. Nor was it the first time a man had touched her, though ’twas the first time a man had touched her and not suffered a cracked pate.
“I’m not afraid o’ Mavis,” she croaked. “Remember? I’m not afraid of… anythin’.”
He studied her closer. “But ye’re tremblin’. Are ye chilled?”
She gulped and shook her head. It took most of her willpower to keep her eyes trained on the stone steps. It took the rest to fight off an overwhelming desire to wrench her jaw from his grasp… or pitch forward into his warm, golden, naked embrace—she wasn’t sure which.
She closed her eyes, hoping to
dispel his disturbing image. “I’m just… weak, I suppose… from the wound.”
This was ridiculous. She could certainly look at Rane. He was only a man, no different from any other. But when she lifted her eyes to meet those beryl-brilliant orbs, her lids dipped with something other than indifference.
* * *
Rane recognized the smoldering in her eyes. Desire. Pure, raw, unadulterated desire. The feminine question for which he always had a ready answer. And this morn that answer came swiftly and with great force, heating his blood and deepening his breath, rising so quickly it dizzied him.
“Ah,” he said, realizing the truth. Florie wasn’t afraid or cold or weak. She was aroused. He’d forgotten his state of undress and the effect it had on the lasses.
Not that he let it bother him. Indeed, gazing into Florie’s smoky chestnut eyes, limpid yet filled with longing, he wished he’d forgotten his braies as well.
“’Tisn’t that at all,” he murmured, “is it, wee fawn?”
She swallowed visibly. Still cradling her chin, Rane loosed one finger to rest alongside her throat. Beneath his fingertip, her pulse pounded.
“Your heart’s throbbin’,” he whispered.
Her nostrils flared with a quick inhalation.
“And your breath is short.”
Her eyes drifted shut, and her lips parted infinitesimally, enough to reveal the moist recess within, warm and welcoming.
Rane felt his own pulse race. “’Tis… somethin’ else.”
He stared at her mouth—her soft, pouting lips that were made for kissing. He was going to kiss them. Soon. And she was going to let him.
“Nae,” she breathed, as if she read his thoughts.
“Ye said ye feared nothin’.” He brushed his bruised thumb lightly over her lower lip.
“I… I…”
“I remember how ye taste,” he murmured. Sweet. Warm. Willing. His loins tensed with the memory.
She made a soft moan, sharpening his lust to a fine point.