Captured by Desire

by Kira Morgan

  Florie turned her head at the telltale creak of the bow. Her jaw slackened with amazement. Gone was the gentle lover of the night before. Rane’s sweet mouth was grim, his brow furrowed, his eyes piercing. He was a huntsman now—his legs braced in an archer’s stance, his bow drawn to its fullest arc, his arrow aimed to kill.

  A silent scream echoed through her soul. Time slowed impossibly in her perception, and the world tilted beneath her feet. She staggered back in shock. With sudden clarity, she saw Rane’s quartz-clear eyes narrowing on her. A tiny muscle jumped in his cheek, where his thumb nested, the same thumb that had brushed across her lips so tenderly once. She heard the stretch of sinew as his fingers flexed around the bow, heard herself drawing a long, jagged gasp.

  Her pulse pounding like a death tabor, she turned away then, moving as if she swam through liquefying amber, forcing her legs to run, reaching forward, straining to make it to the forest.

  She had no time to wonder at his betrayal, no time to question the hostility in his glare. She thought only of fleeing his savage weapon.

  But as she desperately surged forward, the trees seemed to draw away before her eyes, and she felt a sob of panic rise in her throat. She’d never make it. Already she could imagine the blunt pain of the bolt shot into her back, shoving her to the ground with killing force.

  But by some miracle, no shaft whistled toward her. And when she finally succumbed to morbid curiosity, craning her head around, she saw he’d dropped the bow and now pursued her on foot, closing the distance with astonishing speed.

  With a startled squeak, she whipped about. Faster! She must run faster!

  She could hear him now, drawing closer and closer, his normally silent footfalls pounding upon the sod with maddening regularity. The knave didn’t even bother to run. He knew she couldn’t match his long stride. Nor did he call after her. ’Twas clear he’d given up on that score. But they both knew her capture was inevitable. She was at a disadvantage in every way.

  Still she bolted forward, unable to make herself stop, too alarmed to yield. His steps grew louder, the measured crunch of leaves sounding smug against her panicked scuffling. She could almost feel the heat of his rage burning the path behind her like wildfire.

  Her heart hammered at her ribs. He was almost upon her now. Almost in arm’s reach. There was nowhere to flee, nowhere to hide.

  Then she found an escape.

  Ahead, to her left, the land fell away, making a steep embankment that extended down a score of yards or so.

  There was no time to think. She bolted toward the edge of the ravine, intending to run or slide or roll down the leafy slope, whatever it took to elude capture.

  But he must have guessed her strategy.

  “Nae!” he yelled, and in two strides he was upon her.

  He tackled her with all the force of a falling tree. Thankfully, as she went down he turned with her, taking the brunt of the fall upon his own back. But her wind and her dignity were knocked from her as she dropped, sprawled across his body as if he were a great pallet, inches from the edge of the ravine.

  There was no chance of escape now, not while he trapped her in his strong Viking arms. She squirmed in vain against his powerful body, her heart fluttering as wildly as a fledgling’s wings.

  “Hold still,” he muttered against her ear.

  “Nae! Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me—”

  His palm covered her mouth, silencing her cries, and she struggled desperately, fearing he would suffocate her with his hand.

  “Hush,” he murmured. “Quiet.” His voice was surprisingly gentle for someone who had just aimed a loaded bow at her. “I wouldn’t have shot ye,” he muttered against her ear, almost as if he convinced himself. “I wouldn’t have.”

  She didn’t believe him. She’d seen the intensity of his hunter’s gaze, and she didn’t want to see it again. At the very least, she’d not go down without a fight. Her arms trapped, her dagger out of reach, she resorted to the only weapon she had. Baring her teeth, she bit down, catching the meat of his thumb between her jaws.

  He cried out, snatching back his injured hand, and for one victorious moment Florie thought she might escape.

  But he rolled to his feet, dragging her with him, and, before she could get her bearings, hefted her up and slung her across his shoulders like fresh kill.

  The temptation to yell for help was strong. But ’twould avail nothing. No one in Selkirk would come to a felon’s aid, not when a brawny huntsman stood in their way.

  So she tried her last weapon—reason. All the way back to the church, she tried to explain. ’Twas dangerous for her to stay any longer. She had to return to Stirling. She even promised that she’d disavow any knowledge of Rane, so none would know he aided in her escape, if only he’d let her go.

  He turned a deaf ear.

  Her hopes fell as he climbed the steps and pushed his way through the door, returning her to where she’d begun, to sanctuary.

  “Florie!” Father Conan was shouting when they entered. She had the sense he’d been calling her for some time.

  “She’s here,” Rane answered, his voice stern.

  “Ah, lass!” the Father sighed in relief, clapping a hand to his bosom. “I wondered where ye’d gone off to. I feared maybe Lady Mavis or—”

  “Father!” Florie seized the opportunity for an ally. “Help me, Father!”

  “What is it, lass?”

  “He tried to kill me!” she shouted in a rush, despite Rane’s tightening grasp. “Rane tried to kill me!”

  With a sigh of exasperation, Rane swung her off of his shoulders, setting her on her feet none too gently.

  “Rane?” the priest asked.

  “I told ye, Florie,” Rane said, “I wouldn’t have shot ye. I only wished to stop ye.”

  “I didn’t wish to be stopped.”

  “Ye put yourself in grave danger by fleeing. Ye’re an outlaw. Do ye know how long ye’d last in the forest, alone, at night?”

  The priest’s brows rose. “Is this true, lass? Were ye fleein’ sanctuary?”

  She couldn’t lie to a priest. “Maybe.”

  “Well then, lass,” he said with a puzzled frown, “what else would ye expect o’ the lad?”

  ’Twas an odd statement indeed, not at all what Florie anticipated from the affable priest.

  “What do ye mean?” she asked.

  “What did ye think Rane would do?”

  “I… I expected he might… protect me.”

  The Father straightened suddenly in surprise, turning his head toward Rane. “Did ye never tell her, lad?”

  When Rane didn’t answer, Florie turned to look at him. His face had darkened into an inscrutable scowl.

  “Tell me what?” She glanced back and forth between Rane and the priest.

  Rane’s expression reflected a confusion of rage and shame and frustration. With a growl, he turned on his heel and swept back through the door of the church, slamming it so hard that it echoed in the sanctuary and knocked dust from the ceiling timbers.

  Florie felt dread steal along the back of her neck. “What is it, Father?” she ventured. “What did he not tell me?”

  “Lass,” he said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. “Rane is huntsman to Lord Gilbert. He’s not here to protect ye. He’s here to prevent your escape.”

  Chapter 18

  Florie felt sick. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. Shaking, she staggered back, fumbling her way to the fridstool.

  “Lass,” the Father said, “are ye well?”

  Nae, she was not well. She would never be well. Rane’s betrayal tasted like bitter poison.

  “Fine,” she managed to choke out, straining to draw breath into her lungs.

  “Do ye not see, lass?” the priest said in soft concern. “Ye cannot leave. If ye do, Rane will pay the price o’ your crime. He’ll hang for thievery.”

  Against her wishes, images flew through her mind, nightmares of Rane swinging, gaunt and limp
, from a gallows, and then bittersweet visions of the past few days—Rane’s laughing eyes and flashing white teeth, his protective arms and gentle hands. She heard his voice in her head, soothing and warm, smelled his woodland scent, felt the power of his embrace.

  Had it all been a lie? Had he played her false only to keep her docile? To keep her in captivity? Or worse, only to coax her into his bed?

  She felt as if her heart had been kicked from her breast, that her chest lay empty, her soul hollow. Only a deep-seated nausea lingered to remind her she was mortal.

  Later, she’d be furious. Later, she’d rail and cast aspersions and curse his offspring for all eternity. And after that, she’d accept what she’d learned from her parents—’twas a fool who’d surrender her heart.

  But for now, she was stunned and aching. Unable to cease trembling, she hunched over her knees and fought the urge to retch.

  What words of solace the priest offered she didn’t know. The outside world faded from her awareness as a slow, killing frost crept into her bones.

  Rane didn’t come back. But Florie was certain he stood guard outside the church, his lord’s obedient huntsman to the end.

  At suppertime she refused sustenance from the priest, having lost her appetite, though she was tempted to drown her hurt in the bottle of cider he brought. But that was her foster father’s way, and Florie was not her foster father. Nor would she weep pitifully like her mother. Instead, as the night closed like a burial shroud over her dying spirit, Florie huddled in the dark, trying to escape into sleep.

  Later she would gather the shreds of her trust and confront what lay ahead. But for now, her broken heart would let her do nothing but wallow in profound sorrow as she tried valiantly to fade into the oblivion of slumber.

  Mavis bit her lip as she gazed out her sunny window in the direction of the decrepit old church, tapping the rolled missive on the sill. If she managed to pull off this bit of subterfuge, she’d be restored to her former status as the English Crown’s most valuable spy.

  Her contacts had grasped the significance of the cryptic message she’d sent by falcon. According to their reply, they intended to make their way in numbers to Musselburgh to intercept Princess Mary before she could take refuge there. The return missive in Mavis’s hand requested she keep Gilbert’s men-at-arms occupied for the next few days so that the English troops could safely steal across Fraser land to claim the princess.

  Two birds with one stone—King Henry had taught her that expression, and it seemed apt now. She turned from the window with a smug grin and tossed the parchment onto the fire, where it smoldered and unfurled, glowing orange before it went up in flames.

  She knew exactly how she was going to keep the Fraser soldiers busy.

  Rane hitched up and tied his braies, then ran both hands back through his tangled hair. He bit out a weary curse, pounding the side of his fist against the oak tree he’d just pissed upon.

  Two days had passed since he’d spoken to Florie. Two long days and three interminable nights. God help him, he’d slept horribly for all of them. Dawn had never come this morn, unless one could call the roiling spring storm clouds visible in the east proof that the sun was somewhere in the sky. He felt as miserable as the bruised heavens looked, and even the expectant peace of the forest could not cheer him.

  He’d wanted to hurt Florie, to repay her for playing maliciously with his heart, for leaving him. But he hadn’t meant to threaten her with his bow and arrow. And he’d certainly never meant for her to find out about Lord Gilbert’s orders.

  Now she’d never trust him.

  If she had harbored regrets about their tryst before, surely now she wished she’d never met him. If before she questioned her affections, now she must loathe him.

  For two days they’d eaten their meals apart. For two days he’d seen only glimpses of her when the Father passed in and out of the church. ’Twas driving him mad.

  He picked up a stone from the path and cast it into the bushes. There was only one way to regain her trust, he knew. One way he might enter into her good graces again.

  He’d promised to take Florie home to Stirling. Maybe ’twas time to make good on that promise.

  ’Twas a great risk. Lord Gilbert would blame Rane for Florie’s flight and hold him accountable for the loss. If the lord felt merciful, Rane would be lucky to escape with his life and a lifetime of debt. But if Lady Mavis was of a mind to steer Gilbert by the ballocks, as she often did, Rane might hang.

  Not that that would stop him. He’d be happy to save Florie’s life even at the cost of his own. But he also wanted to prove to Florie that he’d never betrayed her trust.

  Would she believe him? Did she even care for him any longer? After everything they’d shared, it seemed impossible that she could have feigned her love for him all this time.

  Faith, she had seemed truly charmed by his company, pleasured by his kisses, gloriously thrilled by their moonlight lovemaking. They’d soared into the night together, howling their passion at the moon like kindred wolves, mated for life.

  How could she walk away from it all, turn him aside as if nothing had happened, as if their hearts had never entwined, as if their souls were not melded?

  ’Twas inconceivable that she didn’t love him, he decided—that as they’d consummated their lust beneath the stars she hadn’t experienced the same joy, the same passion, the same perfect oneness of mind, body, and spirit. That bond was undeniable, the magic between them unquestionable. After all, he thought with a self-mocking smile, was he not irresistible to all Scots maids?

  ’Twas obvious, then. Florie wasn’t guided by her heart. ’Twas not her heart that whispered in her ear, abandon him. Her heart was too kind, too gentle for that. Nae, that insidious advice came from her head.

  And her head could be reasoned with.

  Rane squared his Viking shoulders. If he wanted the lass, he’d just have to fight for her like his ancestors before him. Fueled by hope and iron resolve, he lengthened his strides toward the sanctuary.

  He couldn’t have been absent from the steps more than a few moments. Yet as he emerged from the wood and glanced at the church, he saw that in this brief time everything had changed. His bow and quiver were no longer propped against the wall, and the door to the sanctuary stood open.

  He halted in his tracks. From the dark doorway emerged the silvery tip of a quarrel. ’Twas aimed at him, though it strayed frequently from its mark. And squinting behind the wavering shaft nocked into his own half-cocked bow stood Florie.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she called hoarsely.

  He didn’t intend to, not with the way that arrow dipped and bobbed in her unsteady grip. If she let fly the shaft, there was no telling where ’twould end up. In his experience, an unpracticed archer was far more dangerous than a seasoned one. At this distance, at least, he was in little peril. Florie hadn’t the strength to draw the bow completely. She’d be fortunate to send the quarrel flying more than a dozen yards.

  “Stay there,” she said, her voice trembling almost as much as the arrow.

  He didn’t move a muscle. He wondered what Florie intended. Surely she didn’t mean to kill him. On the other hand, if she truly believed he meant to hold her in sanctuary until Lord Gilbert came for her…

  She took a hesitant step across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind her, then made her tense way down the steps. Rane gulped as the bow swung toward him. Her full satchel hung from one arm. ’Twas apparent she meant to succeed this time. And ’twas apparent she’d not hesitate to shoot anyone who stood between her and escape.

  Anyone but the man who loved her. Surely she’d not shoot him. He had to believe that.

  Silently praying for the first time that there was truth to the ancient Viking curse, Rane drew himself to his full height and called her name softly. “Florie.”

  “Nae!” Florie cried, her agitation making the bow wobble wildly.

  She’d waited all morn to steal away, listened a
t the door since dawn for sounds of Rane’s daily trek to the woods to empty his bladder. The bow and arrow had been an afterthought. She thought she’d be gone before he could come after her, before he’d even realized she’d left. But when she found his weapons on the threshold, she’d decided to arm herself as a precaution.

  Never had she imagined she might have to shoot him, nor how difficult ’twould be.

  She’d devoted hours over the last few days to despising the duplicitous archer, imagining fearsome punishments for his treasonous soul. She’d even carved reliefs of tortured figures into the wooden beams of the church to keep her hands busy, telling Father Conan they were depictions of martyred saints. She’d convinced herself she would be well rid of the lying coward. Indeed, she almost hoped he would be hanged in her stead.

  But now that he stood before her in the light of day…

  Against the gray mist of the forest, his flesh looked golden and warm and alive. His voice sounded deep, sweet, and impossibly tender. His eyes were dewy with… It must be the cool morning air. But ’twas so painfully easy to imagine they shone with love.

  A sob lodged in her gullet. Her limbs quaked like a newborn foal’s. God help her, despite his cruel betrayal, despite her broken heart, she couldn’t fire the arrow.

  He took a step toward her.

  “Nae!” she shouted, needing to bluff, even if she hadn’t the will to shoot.

  “Florie.”

  “Do not.” She clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt, and her breath came in shallow gasps. If he took another step…

  “Wee fawn.”

  “Nae,” she sobbed.

  “I would never have let him take ye.”

  She tightened her grip on the bow. Even now the bastard lied to her.

  “Ye must believe me,” he said.

  “Why?” she burst out, anger rising to drown her pain. “So ye can ply me with more empty promises?”

  “Nae.” His eyes slowly traced the length of her, as if he memorized every curve. She shuddered under his perusal, as if he touched her everywhere he looked. “Ye must believe me… because I love ye.”

  Florie’s chin began to tremble. She clamped her lips together to still it. Hell, Rane did not fight fairly. ’Twas unspeakably cruel to taunt her so. Aye, she may have been stupid enough to believe him once, but no longer.