Captured by Desire

by Kira Morgan

“A very short leash,” he added, “to remind me to keep ye obediently at my heel until the queen decides what to do with ye.”

  With a mortified squeak, Mavis flung herself back into the farthest corner of the litter, where she sat in cowering silence, subdued for the moment.

  But though Mavis surely deserved such punishment and more, Florie was strangely dissatisfied. She’d treasured the girdle for such a long while, and to see the gold carelessly melted down…

  “Ye don’t approve?” Gilbert asked her gently.

  “’Tis only that the gold might be put to better use, my lord,” she said tentatively.

  “And what use would that be?”

  She wet her lips. Dared she tell him? “The crofters are starvin’,” she blurted. “Meat is scarce, and there’s nothin’ but what can be coaxed from the few wheatfields the English have left unburned. The ale’s so weak ’tis little more than water, and they must make bread from weeds.” She glanced over at the Father, who was nodding in approval. “Sell the piece, my lord,” she bade him, “and use the coin to purchase food for them.”

  Lord Gilbert said nothing but lifted his eyes, scanning the faces of the humble burghers surrounding him. Finally he sighed, and when he spoke, ’twas to himself. “I’ve been blind to their needs these past months,” he muttered. “Aye, they shall be fed. Rane.” He clapped the archer on the shoulder. “Are ye fit to hunt?”

  “Fit enough, my lord,” he bravely replied, though Florie saw to her dismay that the backs of his hands were red and blistered from fighting the blaze. “Though I lost my bow in the fire.”

  “I’ll have a new one made,” Gilbert told him. “Till Midsummer’s Eve, Rane McAllister, Ettrick Forest is yours. All game hunted therein shall belong to the crofters.”

  Another great cheer arose from the burghers, and it seemed at that moment that God smiled upon Gallows Hill. The sun suddenly streamed down, warm and healing and full of promise.

  But Florie hardly noticed. For Rane had immediately swept her into his arms, hugging her so closely against his bare chest that she thought she might gladly suffocate there. He swung her around until she was giddy and giggling, and even after he set her feet upon the ground again, her head spun wildly.

  With no thought for shame or propriety, he ran his bold hands over her everywhere, as if ensuring she was substantial, and just as improperly, she allowed him, smiling all the while. He tipped her head back in his hands and kissed the tip of her nose, then her brow, then each cheek, covering her face with so many enthusiastic kisses that soon she was squirming in unabashed delight.

  “Rane,” someone called distantly.

  He cradled Florie’s face between his great Viking hands, tipping her head to press warm lips to hers. Lord, his kiss left her breathless. He tasted of smoke and rosemary and desire…

  “Rane,” came the insistent voice.

  Florie groaned in complaint, standing on tiptoe to deepen the kiss, lifting her hands to place them brazenly upon Rane’s wide warrior chest. Her blood warmed and thinned and raced through her veins like molten gold poured into a mold, and her ears sang with the harmonies of yearning…

  “Rane!”

  He tore his mouth away in irritation. “What?” he snapped.

  Florie’s dazed annoyance vanished as soon as she saw the wee, pale, heart-shaped face frowning up at them. The lass was undaunted by Rane’s bark and only tugged harder at his braies.

  “Ach, Jossy,” he said in chagrin as ripples of light laughter coursed through the crowd. He hunkered down to speak to the lass. “What is it?”

  Florie stifled a grin as the tiny lass spoke to him in a voice loud enough to be heard in the next barony.

  “No more curse?” She stuck out her lower lip in a vexed pout.

  Rane took her tiny hand. “Jossy, poppet, there never was a—”

  “No curse?” Florie interjected. “But o’ course there’s a curse.” She peered solemnly down her nose at Jossy. “Ye still love Rane, don’t ye?”

  The lass glanced at Rane, then returned her gaze to Florie and nodded.

  “And even if he marries me, ye’ll still love him?” Florie asked.

  Jossy nodded.

  Florie scowled intently. “Even if he gives me bairns?”

  Jossy eyed her belly as if gauging that possibility. So, to her amusement, did Rane. Then the wee lass nodded.

  “Even,” Florie intoned, “if he swears his undyin’ love to me every day for the rest of his life?”

  Jossy pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. Then she jutted out her chin and soberly nodded.

  Florie affected a heavy sigh full of regret. “Then I’m afraid there’s nothin’ I can do to break the curse.”

  With a smug smile, Jossy gave Rane an impulsive hug. Then she scrambled back to her disgruntled guardian, a man Florie feared would have his hands full when the spirited little lass grew to womanhood.

  Rane’s lopsided grin as he rose to tower over her again made her pulse race. “My undyin’ love?” he murmured as the crowd began to disperse. He lifted her chin and brushed his thumb across her lower lip, sending a delicious tingle through her that made her knees go weak. Then he narrowed his twinkling eyes. “And what do ye bring for barter, merchant?”

  She thought she’d tell him. Her heart. Her life. Her soul. But there were no words to fully answer Rane. ’Twould take a lifetime to say.

  So instead she said only, “This.” And she gazed tenderly into his chrysolite eyes shot with spikes of aquamarine, more precious than any gemstone. She tucked an errant strand of sooty hair behind his ear and lowered her eyes to his mouth, his luscious, seductive, irresistible mouth. Then, sliding her palms along his strong jaw, she cupped his face and rose up to bestow upon him a kiss he’d never forget.

  A kiss full of yearning and blessing and promise.

  A kiss of surrender and victory, of faith and honor, of untold adventure and blissful homecoming.

  A kiss the lasses of Selkirk would be talking about for years.

  Epilogue

  Florie straightened on the cushioned fridstool, one of the few remnants left from the fire, and pressed a hand to her aching back. She shouldn’t have remained for so long in one position, especially in her condition. But the work was almost complete, and once the bairn was born she’d likely be too busy for such diversions. Besides, ’twas the best gift she could think of to give Father Conan.

  The craftsmen Lord Gilbert had commissioned to rebuild the sanctuary at Mavis’s expense had spared no effort to make the otherwise modest church as beautiful as a jeweled crown, with vivid stained-glass windows from Paris, richly painted wood panels from Flanders, and the most stunning glazed enamelware from Majorca for the font and basin.

  Now that Princess Mary had been whisked away to France to live with her betrothed, out of the reach of the English army, Scotland might stand a chance of recovering from Hertford’s devastating attacks. Lady Mavis could no longer orchestrate his raids, for she’d been stripped of her wealth and exiled to a convent. For the time, at least, the Church at the Crossroads could be rebuilt without fear of vandalism.

  The intricate gold cross at the altar Florie had fashioned herself. ’Twas replete with twining vines set with pearl roses and a crown of topaz thorns for the Christ, enameled at the base with the likenesses of the four Evangelists and their symbols—the man, the lion, the ox, and the eagle. Indeed, so cleverly had she crafted the cross that the guildsmen of Selkirk had awarded it the status of masterpiece and welcomed her into the guild as a goldsmith in her own right.

  But though Florie was well pleased, she knew such treasures meant nothing to a blind priest. And so she now endeavored to employ her decorative skills to create an embellishment he could appreciate.

  Biblical scenes graced the new pillars of the church now, carved in deep relief, scenes of the birth and baptism and resurrection of Christ and figures of all the various saints, with special places of honor for Saint Hubert—the patron saint of hunters; Sa
int Dunstan—the patron saint of goldsmiths; and Saint Valentine—the patron saint of lovers.

  When she ran out of sacred themes, she carved depictions of animals—deer and doves and wolves and lions, roaring and resting and romping in spirals up the posts. And to her gratification, the Father had wept with joy when she guided his fingers gently over the carvings.

  But now she worked on the lesser figures at the base of the last pillar, and for this final scene she departed from saints and animals and biblical fare. She squinted as she leaned forward again to put the final touches on the scene. The tall Viking huntsman, his bow over his shoulder, his quiver of arrows upon his back, curved his arms affectionately about his wife’s swollen belly. She rested her head back upon his shoulder, gazing lovingly up at his smiling face. At the lovers’ feet, forgotten, its pieces scattered, was a hnefatafl board. In the distant background, the lasses of the burgh stopped at their labors to gaze fondly upon the couple, and from between two trees peered mischievous wee Josselin Ancrum.

  But the focal point of the scene was the tiny brooch perched over Florie’s heart. ’Twas fashioned in the shape of an archer’s arrow, an arrow she painstakingly covered now with gold leaf.

  “Florie.”

  She turned toward his voice. Faith, even after all these months, Rane still had the power to make her heart throb when he entered a room. His shirt was open, revealing the golden chain and antlered pendant she’d promised to craft for him. His tawny skin glistened, and though she knew ’twas but perspiration from the spring heat, in her mind’s eye he was suddenly a marauding berserker, swimming from his dragon ship onto the English shore, emerging from the sea, naked and golden and dripping. She smiled at him, her eyes dipping languidly, and she thought ’twas a wonder that she could feel such desire for him in her present state.

  “I thought I’d find ye here,” he said, flashing her a dazzling smile.

  “I’m almost finished.” Eager now to be done, wondering in the back of her mind how indecent ’twould be to make love to him in their favorite copse of the wood by the light of day, she bent forward again, coaxing the thin sheet of gold onto the wooden arrow.

  He walked toward the altar with a frown. “They still haven’t scrubbed the bloodstain from the flagstones.”

  “I told them not to.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I like it. It represents sacrifice. And sanctuary. And it marks the place where I first fell in love with ye.”

  “Fell in love with me?” he said in mock disbelief, a coy twinkle in his eye. “Ye mean while ye were stabbin’ me with your brooch? And jabbin’ me with your pointy elbows? And cursin’ me for dressin’ your wound?”

  She grinned and returned to her work. “I don’t have pointy elbows.”

  He chuckled, and as she worked he ambled about her, circling the pillar to inspect the menagerie of beasts and saints and people she’d carved upon them. “These are amazin’.”

  His praise made her blush with pleasure. She pressed the gold leaf over the arrow tip, trimming it carefully to preserve the remnants of precious gold, and glanced up at Rane. He carried a wrapped parcel. “So what did Lord Gilbert give ye?” She’d almost forgotten. The lord had summoned Rane to the tower house to give him a gift in honor of their firstborn.

  He smiled, that secretive, mischievous smile she’d come to both adore and be wary of, and then he held forth the package.

  She put away her tools and took the parcel upon her lap, or what was left of her lap. “What is it?” she asked, untying the cord that bound the thing.

  But he only grinned, crossing his arms over his chest like a conquering hero.

  When she first spied the gleam of gold, she was surprised. Why would the lord give Rane a gift of gold when he was married to a goldsmith? But as she unwrapped the lovers’ cup, the breath caught in her chest.

  ’Twas an exquisite piece. Yet there was something familiar about the work, the intricate designs about the rim, the cabochon rubies around the base, the style of the figures circling the bowl of the cup.

  She studied them more closely. On one side was carved a perfect rendering of Rane with a deer slung across his shoulder and Florie cradling an aquamanile of gold in her arm. Lord Gilbert’s crest figured subtly into the tower house in the background.

  But, to her amazement, on the other side of the cup was a reproduction of her goldsmith shop in Stirling, and standing hand in hand were the figures of her parents, her foster father with his once proud stature, her mother with her shy beauty.

  ’Twas impossible. Who could know…?

  And then she saw the stamp at the bottom. Her foster father’s mark.

  Her heart stuttered. “How came ye…”

  She lifted her eyes, and suddenly ’twas as if the figure on the cup had come to life. There he was, walking toward her through the nave, with Wat shuffling behind him. His beard was trimmed, his eyes clear, his jaw held rigid to keep his chin from trembling with emotion.

  “Father?”

  She hadn’t seen him sober since her mother died, hadn’t heard from him since she’d left long months ago for Selkirk. Yet here he was, strong and hale and as handsome as she remembered from her childhood. And curse her frail condition, seeing him thus brought instant tears to her eyes.

  Rane softly explained, “Lord Gilbert said to tell ye that he owed your foster father a debt, that bringin’ him to Selkirk and carin’ for him was the least he could do to repay him for guardin’ his dearest possession for so long.”

  Florie saw her foster father’s eyes were filled too as he left Wat and came forward to take her hand, helping her up from the fridstool. Too moved for words, he tucked her arm beneath his own and then, with a sniffle, escorted her toward the altar.

  “I hear this altar cross is somethin’ to behold,” he said. “A masterpiece, I’m told.”

  A sob caught in her throat, and she could hardly speak. “’Tis not as expert as… as my father’s work.”

  “Nae, your talents were always far superior,” he told, “and your eye far more ingenious.” He indicated the detailing at the feet of the Christ. “Ah! See how ye’ve used tiny rubies here to represent the blood o’ Christ. Brilliant.”

  He continued in his praises, but Florie couldn’t absorb them all. Her heart was too full of love and hope and joy. As he rambled on, his arm was for once steady and supportive beneath hers.

  Even Wat ventured forward to admire her work, mumbling in contrition, “I’m sorry I couldn’t save your goods, m’lady.”

  Her foster father explained. “Wat limped home after thieves ransacked the cart.” He clapped Wat on the shoulder. “He was lucky to escape with his life.”

  Florie nodded. “That’s all right, Wat. ’Twas only gold.” The bairn stirred within her, and she absently rubbed her belly. “I’ve somethin’ much more valuable now.”

  The poor child, she thought, smiling—’twas already restless. ’Twas likely a boy, then, who’d no doubt share the Viking curse of his father.

  She turned to glance at her irresistible husband. He gave her an endearing crooked grin and a seductive wink. Her breath quickened and her heart melted as she let her eyes roam over the magnificent Scots archer who’d hunted and tamed her, the gentle Norseman who’d claimed her body and touched her soul, a man more precious than all the gold in the world.

  Josselin Ancrum is a Scottish beauty who has combat in her blood… Sir Andrew Armstrong is an Englishman and a peerless swordsman…

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  Seduced by Destiny

  Available in mass market in March 2011.

  Queen Mary’s Coronation Procession

  The Royal Mile, Edinburgh

  September 2, 1561

  Drew scanned the crowd with an uneasy scowl, wondering how quickly the Scots would string him up if they found out he was English. Fortunately, he’d played the part long enough to be fairly certain he could convince even the most dubious Lowlander that he’d b
een born and bred in the Highlands. The rare Highlanders who ventured this far south had never heard of his hometown of Tintclachan, which was no surprise, since he’d invented the village and placed it in a vague, remote part of the country.

  ’Twas a necessary deception. Traveling as a Highlander along the eastern coast of Scotland, he could steal from the purses of those who’d stolen his father from him, exacting a fitting but bloodless revenge.

  His uncles would have doubtless preferred he join the English army and kill every Scot in sight. Drew had considerable skill with a blade, but like his father, he’d never had the heart for violence. And now, with Queen Elizabeth on the throne, battles along the Borders were rare. Still, to keep his uncles content, Drew let them believe the coin he sent them was won on the English tournament circuit with a sword.

  He thought his disguise was reasonably convincing. He’d let his hair grow a bit shaggier than was fashionable, and he usually went a day or two without a shave. He owned a pair of sturdy knee-high boots and a long, belted saffron shirt with a short leather jacket, beneath which he wore trews, even in summer, for he’d never quite accustomed himself to the Highland habit of going bare-arsed.

  He’d spoken so long with a brogue that he could hardly remember how to speak proper English. After three years of living the lie, he almost believed it himself.

  “And ye have the ballocks to call yourself a Scotsman!” cried the lad beside him unexpectedly.

  Drew stiffened.

  But the lad was yelling at someone else, a half-drunk red-bearded fellow who was carrying on about the new queen in a loud bellow. “I’m more Scots than some Catholic tart who’s been livin’ in France all her life!”

  The lad gasped, then spat, “Ye take that back!”

  “I won’t!” snorted the redbeard.

  The lad gave him a hard push.

  The man stumbled back a step, spilling a few drops of his ale, but continued his tirade. “What gives the wench the right to sail into my harbor and tell me how to say my prayers?”