by Kira Morgan
“Come, darlin’,” he breathed. “Ye want it.”
“Don’t… call me… that,” she said weakly.
He dropped the mallet to the ground with a thud. Then, encircling her with one arm, he tipped her jaw to an accessible angle and let his mouth stop her ineffectual protests.
If Rane had learned anything from a lifetime of hunting, ’twas the art of pursuit. The rules were the same for beasts or maidens. He knew how to steal up on them unawares, to seduce them into complacency, easing gradually closer and closer. He could anticipate their every movement, always controlling the pace, always calculating the moment of attack.
As he did now.
He kissed her lightly, nipping at her lips until she sought his. Only then did he press closer, sweeping his mouth across hers, accustoming her to his touch. When she answered with kisses of her own making, he teased her mouth wider until he could venture within. Then slowly, carefully, he let his tongue explore, first her lips, with tiny flickering tastes, and finally her tongue, licking like lightning over its moist surface. He caught her quick sigh in his mouth, soft with surrender.
Emboldened, he pressed her close against the bulge in his braies while his tongue plunged and swirled and tangled with hers. Moving his hand along her cheek until his fingers were entwined in her hair, he brushed his loins subtly but purposefully across her belly.
He knew what came next. She’d release one last shuddering breath of surrender and melt into his embrace. Just like all the other maidens. And when she did, he’d whisper something sweet in her ear, some endearment to reassure her that even though she may feel helpless in his arms, he meant her no harm, that ’twas safe to feel powerless, for he’d take control of her pleasure.
And so he had… until she made that sound in her throat.
’Twas little more than a faint groan. But it circled his ear like some primitive mating call, deep and savage, sending a jolting bolt of desire coursing through his body. And suddenly he felt utterly out of control.
As if bees swarmed through his brain, his head spun in a frenzied buzzing, and lust poured through his veins like hot honey. Every muscle felt shocked to life yet weak with need. He sucked a harsh gasp through his teeth and felt the air rasp through his lungs. And his hands, his capable hands, his expert hands that had caressed and coaxed dozens of lasses to pleasure and fulfillment, now trembled uncertainly.
Florie, Rane realized, was like no quarry he’d ever pursued. And what had begun as prey now became predator.
Florie’s delicate hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer. She leaned into his chest, crushing the pillows of her breasts against him. And she began to kiss him as if she meant to devour him, opening her jaw wide to feast on his mouth and tongue, reveling in his flavor.
All the while she kept making those sounds, moans that were at once demanding yet helpless, deliberate yet fearful, expert yet artless. Sounds that were driving him wild.
Her hands slipped over his shoulders now, flattening upon his damp chest, and she arched her neck backward for his kisses, pressing her belly deliberately against the part of him that wanted her most. By Thor, he thought, he might well spill his seed in his braies if she continued.
With what was left of his wits, Rane momentarily pulled away, thrusting his thigh between hers to stop her inflaming movements. He dragged his hands down her back until he cupped her round bottom. Then he hauled her forward against his leg. She gasped as his thigh found the core of her need. Squeezing the muscles of her buttocks, he dragged her across his thigh as she writhed in wanton innocence against him.
Fortunately, not all his hunter’s instincts were lost in a sensual haze. He heard the snap of branches behind him in time to salvage Florie’s dignity. Or at least most of it.
Before the intruders could break through the trees, Rane tore his mouth from Florie’s and pushed her away. Lord, she looked breathless and disheveled and utterly seductive, vulnerable and bewildered.
There was no time to explain his sudden retreat. She’d learn soon enough that they had visitors.
Assuring himself with a glance that Florie’s disarray was not too incriminating, Rane caught up the sleeves of the linen shirt belted about his hips and slipped it up over his shoulders, forgoing the laces.
“Rane!” came a feminine cry from behind him.
Florie’s eyes widened.
He glanced down. Ballocks! He might as well have a bloody quarterstaff in his braies. Briskly, he unbuckled his belt, allowing his shirt to float down over the blatant manifestation of his lust. Then he turned to meet the interlopers.
Florie bumped into the church door behind her, stunned silent.
She remembered when she was a lass, she and her mother had made a game of spinning in the meadow, twirling ’round and ’round, giggling with delight, until they were too giddy to stand. ’Twas how she felt now. She could neither walk nor speak nor think straight.
Her eyes felt weighted, her lips tingled, her blood seemed vitalized by the most wonderful elixir, and her body… Marry, her body felt on fire. Thoroughly drunk on desire, she couldn’t even muster the strength to be civil to their visitors.
Fortunately, Rane seemed to suffer no such affliction, though his voice sounded more strained than usual. “Good morn.”
“Rane!” This time the voice came attached to a figure emerging from the woods.
A loud gasp ensued, followed by a second voice chiming in dramatically, “Oh, Rane! If I’d known ye were only half-dressed…”
Florie frowned and turned her gaze upon two of the loveliest creatures she’d ever seen. They had to be sisters, so alike were they in form and feature. Their skin was as pale as pearls, and blond curls peeked from their fashionable gable hoods of velvet studded with sapphires. Their twin kirtles, one of azure, one of emerald, embroidered with figures of leaves and flowers, marked them as nobility, as did the presence of a pair of servants in matching blue tabards who struggled behind them with several large timbers.
Much to Florie’s consternation, she despised the beautiful noblewomen at once.
“My ladies,” Rane replied, sketching a slight bow.
“Tut-tut, little sister, avert your eyes!” the first one cried, though Florie noted that the maid could not seem to look Rane over thoroughly enough herself.
The younger sister shielded her eyes with delicate fingers through which she kept peering at every possible opportunity.
“Please forgive my vulgarity,” Rane apologized, laying a hand across his heart, which did little to conceal his undress. “Ye’ve caught me… at my bath.”
He’d invented that, likely to protect her or maybe to hurry the ladies along. But he was wrong to beg their forgiveness. ’Twas they who had intruded upon him. They should be the ones begging his pardon.
“Oh, Rane,” the young sister gushed, “ye could never be vulgar.”
“Not even if ye were completely unclothed,” the older added.
Then both sisters gasped and giggled in unison, covering their errant lips and blushing prettily. Florie nearly choked on incredulity, wondering if they’d practiced this particular speech.
Unable to listen to more of their simpering, Florie decided upon an excuse to quit them. “I’ll fetch your bathwater, then,” she muttered, limping awkwardly down the steps.
As if for the first time, the elder sister seemed to notice Florie. A tiny frown marred her perfect brow. “Why, Rane, is this a new servant?” she asked, her voice tainted slightly with something unpleasant.
Florie’s hackles rose at that. A servant? God’s eyes, she’d presented jewelry to Princess Mary in the queen’s solar!
Suddenly she wished she’d already fetched the bucket of water that she might douse the sugary wenches and melt them. But then, she supposed the mistake was understandable. Florie had left her jewels within the sanctuary, and garbed in nothing but the oversized woad kirtle, she likely did resemble a servant. Still, the lady’s condescending air nettled her.
&nb
sp; Rane didn’t seem to know how to answer the lady, and the truth struck Florie with the weight of a millstone. Nae, she wasn’t a servant. She was less than a servant. She was an outlaw, which was far worse.
Better they should think her his maid.
Before Rane could respond, she blurted, “Aye. My ladies.” She dropped into a respectful curtsy, wincing as pain shot up her injured thigh.
“Hm.” The older sister cast one last appraising glare, then dismissed her, which suited Florie well. While Florie lowered the bucket into the well, the lady returned her attention to Rane. “We missed ye at Mass yesterday,” she pouted.
“Aye,” the younger said, aping her tone. “We missed ye, Rane.”
“We fretted that maybe ye had a malady.”
“Or a malaise.”
“Or an ague.”
The ladies regarded each other and emitted sad sighs together. Florie ground her teeth, trying in vain not to listen, and began to bring up the full bucket.
“I prayed for ye, Rane,” the youngest added.
“I thank ye for your kind prayers, my ladies,” Rane replied, beaming, “but as ye can see, I’m quite well.”
They tilted their heads and smiled appreciatively, and Florie’s fists tightened around the rope of the bucket as she hauled it to the top of the well.
“Oh, I’d almost forgotten,” the older sister said, fluttering her hands. “The reason we came. Father Conan mentioned that ye had need o’ timbers for a new vestry door.”
Loosing the brimming bucket from the rope, Florie hefted it from the well by the bail.
“’Tis so generous of ye to offer your strong back,” the younger said, her eyes dipping with transparent desire, “when the Father is so crippled.”
Florie feared her fingers might snap the bail in half.
“’Tis generous of ye, ladies,” Rane protested. “I thank ye on behalf o’ the Father.”
With a sharp clap of her hands, the lady in azure commanded her servants to stack the timbers at the church door.
“Actually, Rane,” she confided, taking several steps nearer, “there is another reason we came.”
The younger lady, at her sister’s heels, nodded. “Indeed, we feared for your safety.”
Rane sniffed. “My safety?”
“Aye,” the elder replied, her eyes widening. “Did ye not know?”
“Know what?”
“About the…” The lady looked about her for witnesses, then hissed, “the outlaw.”
To his credit, Rane remained mute.
“Aye,” she whispered, warming to the subject. “There’s a fugitive takin’ sanctuary inside the church.”
“A dangerous fugitive,” the younger added.
Rane coughed then, though Florie was almost certain the sound concealed a laugh.
“We saw her at Mass. A horrible creature,” the first continued with a shudder. “’Tis a female, but not such as my sister or myself.”
“Indeed?” Rane managed a frown, but Florie thought she detected crinkles of laughter at the edges of his eyes.
“She is o’ monstrous proportions,” the younger breathed, “an old hag with an enormous hunched back and…” She pressed a hand to her forehead as if she might swoon.
“Oh, poppet!” the eldest said, patting her sister’s arm. “Ye mustn’t fret so.” Then she said solemnly, “I caught a glimpse o’ her face—ugly as sin.”
Rane scowled, pressing his lips together, and this time Florie was certain he bit back laughter. “I appreciate your concern, my ladies.”
The lass in azure sidled even closer to him. “Ye are our dear, dear friend, Rane, after all, and since we knew ye’d be laborin’ inside the sanctuary…”
“Aye,” the younger purred, fluttering her eyelashes. “We couldn’t bear it if anythin’ should happen to ye.”
Florie feared if she clenched her jaw any harder, she’d crack it.
“I assure ye, gentle ladies,” Rane said, “I can protect myself from… monstrous lasses.”
Florie doubted that. This pair of monstrous lasses had him drinking up their flattery and dining from their fingers like a spoiled hound.
“Oh, we never doubted that,” the older sister said with a coy grin. “After all, Rane, ye’re so strong and capable…”
“And brave and cunnin’…”
Florie couldn’t listen to another word. She dropped the bucket with a thud, nearly splashing water over the sisters’ blue satin slippers. They gasped. In unison, of course.
“If ye need anythin’ else… master,” Florie drawled, “I shall be within the sanctuary.” She picked up her overlong skirts. “And don’t worry on my account, my ladies,” she said pointedly to the sisters. “I know how to protect myself from monstrous lasses as well.”
As she limped up the steps of the church she heard the ladies murmur, “Rane, how do ye put up with such an impertinent servant?” and “He’s done it for charity, poppet. See? She’s a cripple.”
Florie slammed the church door with a satisfying bang, half hoping ’twould fall off its hinges again.
Now she’d done it, Florie thought as she hobbled toward the altar. Her leg was throbbing again. Still, when she thought about it, the pain was nothing compared to what she felt in her heart.
She knew she had no right to feel anything. After all, Rane didn’t belong to her. Even if she had kissed him. Even if he had carried her to sanctuary and helped her with the jordan and saved her leg from festering.
She let out a sharp sigh. In another week or so, she’d leave this place and never return. She must remember her intentions. ’Twas foolish to develop anything more than a fleeting liaison with the man.
But for the moment, she intended to make herself useful. ’Twas the way she dealt with the unpleasantness of her life. After her mother died, she’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into her work, and it had given her great solace.
The vestry, she thought. ’Twas a mess. The blind priest likely had no idea that cobwebs hung from every corner, dust lay thick upon the Christmas service, and Methuselah had made a bed for himself out of altar cloths. While the vestry door hung shattered on its hinges, she might as well trespass there and tidy the place.
The first thing she did was chase the old cat from his nest with a hiss. Then, winding her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and rolling back her long sleeves, she got to work. Echoes of the sisters’ ingratiating voices haunted her, however, the whole time she labored.
“Oh, Rane,” she mimicked with thick sarcasm, piling the dirty service linens in the middle of the floor, “if I’d known ye were only half-dressed…”
She wondered if Rane was so stupid as to be gulled by such empty flattery.
The cope, maniple, and chasuble hanging on pegs she took out of the room, shaking them until dust rained down over the flagstones.
Stealing into the storage room opposite, which was in even worse condition than the vestry, Florie managed to locate a broom. She swept away the webs and the worst of the dust from the furnishings. Then she used the damp cloth to scrub the chests and table until they gleamed and the grain of the dark wood was visible again.
Next she went to work on the floor, sweeping up cat hair and mouse droppings and dead flies, chipping up globs of wax from the stones with a hoe she found in the storage room.
She’d wash the linens in well water later, when the ladies were gone, after they were done admiring their… what was it they’d called him? She lay a palm upon her bosom, sighing in mockery. “Our dear, dear friend.”
She rolled her eyes, then brushed back a stray lock of hair to survey the work she’d done. ’Twas far from perfect. The wood needed a coating of tallow, burnished to a soft luster, and the stone floor could use a thorough scrubbing. But the worst of the mess was gone. And once she laundered the linens and folded them away into one of the chests, Methuselah’s attempts to turn the vestry into his own opulent den would be thwarted.
She picked up the broom one last time
to sweep away the dregs of the dust, wondering how much longer the ladies were going to keep Rane from his work. “Oh, Rane,” she purred, “’twas so kind o’ ye to offer your strong back. Ye’re so brave.” Then she muttered, “Stupid wenches, fawnin’ over him like a Viking god.”
A low chuckle told her she was no longer alone. She whipped around in horror. Curse the hunter’s stealth! He’d stolen up on her again. Holy saints, how long had he been listening?
Surely long enough to hear the part about the Viking god. She bristled to think she’d said such a thing. Yet gazing at him now, as he propped one arm against the top of the vestry doorway—the contours of his chest visible beneath his thin shirt, his long hair escaping the leather tie to soften the square line of his jaw, his face washed clean and comely and swathed in an amused grin—her heart fluttered, and she found it difficult to believe he was not indeed divine.
“Ye disapprove o’ my companions?” he inquired.
She tore her gaze away from his magnificent body with difficulty. She remembered how it felt against hers. “’Tisn’t my place to approve or disapprove.”
“Still, ye think them, what was it? Stupid?”
Nae, she didn’t think them stupid. Indeed, they were brilliant. After all, they’d managed to garner a good hour of Rane’s attentions with little more than the sway of a skirt and the flutter of an eyelash.
“Nae,” she admitted with a sigh, “they’re not stupid.”
“I find them charmin’,” he pronounced, proving her point.
“O’ course ye do,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the inexplicable bitter edge to her voice, an edge that almost sounded like… jealousy.
He did notice. “That upsets ye,” he remarked, his grin widening smugly.
“Nae,” she lied. “’Tis no matter to me at whom ye wag your tongue.” Under her breath, she added, “Or your yard.”
He choked on a laugh. “My what?”
She felt her cheeks pinken. “Nothin’.”
He grinned. “Ye think I’ve bedded them.”
“Have ye?” she blurted.
“I thought ’twas no matter to ye.”
“’Tisn’t.” Her grip tightened on the broom.