Captured by Desire

by Kira Morgan

  She let her eyes drift open, looking past his shoulder into the diamond-studded ebony sky. The night was cold. Her gasps made soft puffs of mist upon the air. But the heat of Rane’s body, of her own passion as she writhed hungrily beneath him, warmed her. ’Twas perfect, she decided, the cool evening, the jewel stars, the yielding bed of leaves, the scent of flower and moss and laurel. ’Twas a night she’d never forget.

  And then her yearning began to wax again. Just as she’d adjusted to Rane’s encroachment, accepted his full embrace, learned his dance, the hot core of her desire awakened. No longer was she the willing receptacle of his adoration. No longer did she await his pleasure. Nae, she began to strain upward of her own accord, greedily seeking, not to grant him his release, but to claim her own. Again.

  She clutched at him everywhere, digging her fingers into his shoulders and back, pressing her brow against his collarbone, unable to will where she touched him, what she did. All she knew was that she hungered, more fiercely than before, that she must feed this hunger, and that Rane was the source of her sustenance.

  Ah, God, she needed to be closer, closer. She wrapped her legs about his hips, drawing him into her body, into her soul.

  “Florie… I can’t hold on much…,” he gasped. Then he began to grunt hoarsely in her ear, a groan of pure animal need that inflamed her blood and charged her senses, driving her half-mad with pleasure.

  The sensation sharpened, intensifying until the torturous craving gripped her again, leaving her wanting for air, holding her still to endure what was to come. But this time the yearning ran far deeper…

  And then her body, her mind, her spirit splintered into a thousand pieces.

  Rane’s voice was almost a sob as he buried his face in her hair, lunging forward. The timbre of that one sound—at once sweet and bitter, powerful and vulnerable—moved her beyond the sphere of space and time, beyond the world, as if she danced on air among the diamond stars glittering overhead.

  And then they tumbled from the heavens together, like jewels spilling across the velvet sky—their bodies entwined, their breath mingling, their hearts pulsing in tandem—until they lay nestled again on the soft and welcoming earth.

  Slowly Florie became aware of the cool night once more, of the crisp smell of the forest. But this time the chill was diminished by Rane’s warm embrace. And now the air was redolent with the musky scent of their coupling.

  “Florie,” Rane breathed, bedewing her face with fine mist.

  “Rane,” she sighed in reply, amazed and sated and happy. Gloriously happy.

  ’Twas a brazen thing she’d done, surrendering her maidenhood so impulsively, and yet the moment and the man could not have been more perfect. She’d remember the union between her and Rane, her ravaging Viking, as long as she lived.

  If by chance a tear slipped out from beneath her lashes just then, ’twas surely a tear of gladness, she told herself. There was nothing to regret. Though soon Rane would go his way and Florie hers, she’d hold this precious memory in her heart forever.

  Chapter 17

  Florie could hardly think straight during Sabbath Mass. If she had, she might have noticed the telling smirk on Lady Mavis’s face, the quiet, calculating expression that, like the strange peace before a storm, foretold danger. But instead, thoughts of Rane intruded upon Florie’s prayers, and as she sat on the fridstool, wrapped in the sylvan scent of his cloak, the sensual remembrance warmed her cheeks, washed over her flesh, and threatened to melt her bones.

  She felt… transformed.

  ’Twas just as well he’d gone hunting again during the service, for already she yearned for him beyond all wisdom. She missed his sly smile, his wry words, his clever touch. Her lass’s body craved him again. But most troubling of all, there was a wistful longing for him where her heart resided.

  So lost was she in her brooding that she took no notice at first when the Father’s gentle words broke into her thoughts.

  “My child.”

  She started, then pushed back her hood, surprised to find Mass over and the sanctuary empty. “Aye?”

  “I crave a word with ye, lass.” The Father leaned upon his walking staff and frowned several times, as if he didn’t know how to begin. Then he said, “Ye know ’tis a serious crime o’ which ye’re accused.”

  “Aye.” She straightened. “And ye know I’m innocent.”

  “I believe ye, lass,” he was quick to assure her. Then he sighed thoughtfully. “But what ye don’t know is with whom ye barter.”

  “Lord Gilbert?” She thought she knew him rather well. He was like a lot of the nobles she’d met—haughty, stern, domineering. But surely he was reasonable as well. After all, it took a man of some character to act as sheriff.

  “Nae. Lady Mavis. She’s the one who steers your fate while Gilbert is away.”

  Florie was used to tyrannical noblewomen as well. “I’m not afraid o’ her.”

  “Ye should be.”

  “But I’m in the right, Father. I didn’t steal anythin’ from her. The piece was sold in error. And I returned her coin.”

  “Aye, lass, but ye see, Lady Mavis,” he said, visibly searching his mind for the right words, “Lady Mavis is like a hound that’s caught a whiff o’ some choice prey. She’ll give chase, lass, until she runs ye to ground.” He brought his bushy white brows together. “She’ll plague ye until she has what she wants.”

  Mavis might be persistent, but Florie was just as stubborn. “She can’t have my pomander.”

  Impatience twisted Father Conan’s normally cheery features, and his voice was uncharacteristically harsh. “Heed me well, lass. This is no petty quarrel ’tween quibblin’ sisters.”

  “I know that.”

  “Ye can’t be hopin’ for witnesses. No man would be fool enough to go against Lady Mavis.”

  “I know that as well.”

  “Do ye know she’d kill ye for the piece?”

  “Kill me?” Florie’s eyes widened, but she kept her tone light. “But she can’t. I’m in sanctuary, and until—”

  “Here’s what I advise,” the priest sighed. “Give her the thing and—”

  “Nae!”

  “Lass, ’tis but a bauble.”

  Never. She would never give it up. “’Tis more than that. ’Tis…”

  “Aye?”

  How could she tell him that her destiny resided in a chain of gold links? That the pomander represented her hope of escaping a troubled household where her drunk and delusional foster father, mistaking her for his dead wife, tried to crawl into bed with her every few nights? Faith, she couldn’t tell the priest that.

  She didn’t even try. Crossing her arms solidly over her chest, she insisted, “She can’t have it.”

  Despite his blindness, Father Conan seemed to gaze down at her with displeasure, disappointment, and disgust. “’Tis not only your life that hangs in the balance, lass,” he grumbled. “Ye’ve put our friend Rane at risk as well.”

  The priest’s words stole the wind from her proud sails. She hadn’t thought of Rane in that way before. Her shoulders dropped with the weight of the truth, and her arms unfolded onto her lap.

  The Father was right.

  Rane had already defied Lady Mavis by caring for Florie when the lady would prefer she starve. By holding him to his vow to help her escape, Florie was dragging him into her battle, making him an accomplice to her crime.

  She had to let him go. This wasn’t his fight. She could no longer put him in danger. He’d been too kind to say nay to her, too decent to abandon her or let her starve. But ’twas too much to ask that he aid in her flight, no matter what he’d promised.

  He’d done much for her already. She could ask no more of him. Aye, she would let him go, push him away if she must.

  Her heart seized with pain at the thought, and ’twas the magnitude of that pain that made her realize she must leave him, for whether she willed it or not, she had fallen in love with the cursed Viking.

  “Now I
’ve sent the lad on errands for the day,” the Father told her. “He’ll not return till nightfall. I want ye to think on things a while, lass. Ye’re a merchant. Surely ye can see ’tis not a sensible bargain—your life for a shiny trinket.”

  Floried sighed. Father Conan must think her a shallow lass. But of course, he didn’t know the entire story—why she’d come to Selkirk, whom she sought, why she couldn’t surrender the pomander… not that it would matter if he knew. There was nothing the priest could change. Lady Mavis wouldn’t care that the pomander was of utmost importance to Florie. After forty days Florie would still be tried and, according to Father Conan, be found guilty.

  Nae, there was no hope but to escape… on her own.

  * * *

  No regrets. She said the words over and over mentally as she tightened the laces of her bloodstained kirtle, as if repetition would make them true.

  But her chest felt hollow, and unshed tears stung her eyes.

  She picked up the precious gold pomander, running her fingers over the carved initials, wondering if ’twas truly worth all she risked. Should she surrender the piece as the priest suggested, give up her quest for her noble sire, return to her life of dodging the advances of the worthless foster father she was forced to support?

  The image of the once talented goldsmith, unwashed and unshaven, snoring away the day while she labored at the workbench, made despair settle over her like a lead cloak. Nae, the only way she could bear the thought of going home to Stirling was if she held on to the hope that she might return to Selkirk one day and find her real father.

  Before she could change her mind, she stuffed the girdle into the satchel, along with her rings—the few she hadn’t given to Father Conan to buy food for the peasants, and her brooch, which, she realized ruefully, still bore a rust-colored stain from stabbing Rane.

  The rest of the things she’d been given—the woad kirtle, the soap, the comb, the plaids—she left. No one would be able to claim later that she’d stolen a thing.

  Indeed, it felt more like she left behind a part of her.

  Her heart ached at the thought, and an errant tear seeped from the corner of her eye. Damn! She dared not weep aloud, not while the priest was working in the vestry, putting away the Sabbath service. She wiped the drop away before it could fall, but ’twas not so easy to wipe away the bittersweet memories that barraged her mind, memories of Rane’s wry smile, his sultry gaze, his healing touch…

  God’s wounds, how could she ever bear to leave him after last night?

  To her dismay, tears welled up too quickly to stem the tide, so she let them stream silently down her cheeks, let them blur her vision, soften the world, and wash the sanctuary to a vague memory of stone and wood, glass and candlelight.

  She understood now. This was the feeling that had made her mother cry endlessly into her pillow, the feeling that had turned her father into a weeping drunkard. ’Twas far worse than any physical pain, worse than the arrow shot into her thigh, worse than the scalding she’d suffered. Surely her heart had cracked in two, for anguish flowed like blood from a wound, drenching her in despair.

  Indeed, the only thing that gave her the strength to shoulder the satchel and place one foot in front of the other toward the church door, the only thing keeping her from throwing herself onto the stones and sobbing her eyes dry, was the knowledge that to Rane she was like any other lass he’d tumbled. He could leave her without a backward glance.

  She wished she could say goodbye… and thank him… and tell him she’d never forget him. But there’d be no opportunity. And even given the chance, she knew she couldn’t face him with the fact of her leaving. He might urge her to stay. And, God help her, she wasn’t certain he wouldn’t convince her to do just that, wisdom be damned.

  Nae, ’twas surely providence that the priest had sent Rane away this day, that the only witness to her escape was blind.

  Casting one cautious look back toward the altar as she reached the door, she made the sign of the cross, took a ragged breath, and crossed over the threshold… out of sanctuary.

  Her heart pounding, she scanned the twilit forest for danger, half expecting a pack of Hertford’s marauders to come bursting out of the trees.

  But the woods were silent. She took a shuddering breath. If she could manage her fear and steal through the cover of the forest, avoiding the wolves and thieves and Englishmen that might lurk therein, maybe she’d gain enough distance from Selkirk by morn to travel safely on the main road.

  She had enough gold to pay for the journey, as long as she encountered no robbers, and if she kept to the…

  “Florie!”

  Her heart jumped into her throat. Nae, it couldn’t be.

  “Florie?”

  Christ’s bones! ’Twas Rane, returning.

  Sweet saints, he was as handsome as a Nordic prince, striding toward the church with supper as if he brought back the spoils of his latest conquest. Against her will, Florie’s heart fluttered, remembering his strong body against her, around her, within her…

  Ah, God, she mustn’t think of such things. She mustn’t. She’d made up her mind to go. She must be strong.

  “Good evenin’, wee fawn,” he called, his face wreathed in a glorious smile, oblivious to her anguish. “I’ve brought a surprise for supper.”

  Wee fawn. The endearment was like a knife plunged in her chest. Lord, she mustn’t listen or she’d be lost.

  “Custard tarts,” he tempted.

  She bit her lip. Custard tarts. She loved them, but they’d never be as sweet, as tempting as Rane’s kiss. God’s wounds, how would she live without that kiss?

  A sob lodged in her throat.

  Sweet Lord, she must not weaken, must not veer from her course, for both their sakes.

  ’Twas the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she managed to tear her gaze away from him. Focusing tearful eyes on the forest ahead, clenching her fists with diamond-hard resolve, she slowly descended the steps.

  Dread prickled along Rane’s spine. Something was wrong.

  All day long, he’d thought of nothing but the goldsmith. He hadn’t even cared that his hunting was fruitless. His mind was distracted by visions of Florie with her limpid gaze, her satiated smile, her shapely body. She’d left him completely and deliciously helpless last night, beaten him at his own game of seduction.

  Yet he’d surrendered happily. She’d caught him like a coney, in a snare of lust and trust and affection stronger than any he’d experienced before. And today his heart was full of joy, full of wonder. Full of hopeless adoration.

  Aye, he’d decided at last, the mighty hunter had fallen. Rane was in love.

  The confession was a relief. For too long he’d cast his net wide, sweeping up all the feminine creatures who chanced past, enjoying their fleeting company yet willing to cast them aside like undersized fish if they grew too demanding.

  With Florie, ’twas different.

  Though she claimed his very soul, though he was certain in his mind he’d fallen into a situation of mortal danger, still he couldn’t convince his heart. Florie made him happy, deliriously happy. And if he must yield as her captive to prolong that happiness, so be it. If he must be possessed to possess her, he would.

  ’Twas that vow that put a skip in his step as he hurried toward the church, toward… home. Then he smiled to himself. When had he begun to think of the crumbling old sanctuary as home? ’Twas Florie who made it seem so, bringing warmth and comfort to the barren walls and shining light into the shadowy corners.

  But now, as he neared the church and the lass he—aye—loved, the melancholy shadows haunting her eyes filled him with misgiving.

  “Darlin’?”

  She said nothing, only stared steadfastly at the path ahead and descended the steps. Her cool manner chilled him to the bone.

  “Florie.”

  Still she didn’t answer, though there was a trembling in her chin that bespoke a temptation to reply. His throat thickened. By Loki, wh
at was wrong? Was she angry with him? Did she blame him for the loss of her maidenhood? Unaccustomed panic raced through him at the thought that she might not care for him as he cared for her, that she might regret what they’d done, that she might… leave him.

  “Florie!” His voice was rough with dread this time. “Where are ye goin’, lass?”

  A slim part of him hoped that he misread her expression, that she stepped into the woods only to relieve herself, that she’d afterward tweak his nose and call him a silly want-wit, and they’d both laugh about the misunderstanding.

  But ’twas obvious from her averted glance ’twas more than that. She carried her satchel, and she’d donned her bloodstained kirtle. Oh, aye, she planned more than a brief visit to the bushes. His heart thudding ominously, he watched her as, step by steady step, she walked out of his life.

  Did she intend to desert him, then? Without a word? Without a farewell glance? His chest began to throb with a deep-seated ache, as if a horse had kicked him in the ribs. How could she simply walk off as if they’d never met, never talked, never, for the love of God, kissed and wept and laughed and sworn and made love together?

  He wouldn’t let her. He refused to stand idly by while she slipped through his grasp. Not now—now that he knew he loved her.

  Thor’s rod! He’d be damned if he’d let her leave.

  “Florie!” he commanded. “Nae!”

  The stubborn lass ignored him. He dropped the tarts into the dust and slipped the bow from his shoulder.

  “Stay!”

  She kept walking, her step quickening slightly. She was almost to the trees.

  He bellowed an oath so foul it made her flinch, but still she stayed to her course.

  Then he did what any hunter about to lose his prey would do. He swiftly slipped a quarrel from his quiver and nocked it into his bow, drawing back and taking aim.

  “Stay where ye are,” he warned.