A week ago, the stubborn wench would have disobeyed him. Now her eyes mirrored her trust. She froze as he willed, an urgent question in her gaze.
"Go into the sanctuary," he bade her. "Now."
She blanched, dropping the wooden piece onto the board, knocking over two more. "Who is it? Gilbert?"
"Mavis."
Rebellion flickered in her eyes then. "I'm not afraid o' that—"
"Go in," he warned, "or I'll never play with ye again."
Her jaw dropped.
"Go on," he insisted.
Muttering under her breath, she complied. But her skirts caught on the board as she rose, upsetting it and scattering wooden pieces over the step. He heard a soft curse as she succumbed to the urge to glance toward the approaching threat. Then she slipped through the church door, closing it firmly behind her.
As they rode up, Rane came to his feet and nodded his head in deference to Lady Mavis, who was flanked by four of her personal guard.
"That was her—the thief!" Mavis exclaimed without preamble. "Wasn't it?"
Rane saw no reason to lie. "Aye, my lady."
"She was outside the church." She regarded Rane expectantly, as if she spoke to a slow child. "Outside the sanctuary?"
"Aye."
"Yet ye did nothin'?"
"What would ye have me do, my lady?"
"I believe my husband charged ye, huntsman, with guardin' against her escape."
"She did not escape."
Mavis snarled an oath vile enough to spook her horse. "Damn ye, huntsman! Ye're tryin' my patience. Is she close to breakin'?"
"My lady?"
"The thief, bloody hell, the thief!"
"Breakin'?"
"Aye," she said, staring at the closed church door. "She's far from home. She has no allies. Surely hunger will loosen her tongue." She smiled smugly. "I expect a confession will be forthcomin'."
"Ye mean to starve a confession from her?" Rane asked incredulously.
"I won't wait forty days."
"But, my lady," Rane said, "she's been given the protection o' the church."
"The protection, aye. Not the sustenance."
So she assumed Florie received no food. "There are those who may show her compassion, my lady. Surely ye won't command them to withhold their mercy."
Mavis ground her teeth as if she wished she could command such a thing. But she was no fool. Even a noble couldn't contradict the church's doctrine of pity and absolution. She shifted angrily in her saddle. "I expect her to surrender soon."
Rane arched a brow. He expected Florie wouldn't surrender in a thousand years.
Mavis's brows converged then, and her mouth began to work, alternately pursing and thinning with the frantic, sinister turnings of her mind. The last time Rane had seen that expression on her face was two months ago, hunting game. Lady Mavis, humiliated by the fact that Gilbert had come back empty-handed after a hunt, had conspired to pass off Rane's deer as her husband's catch.
"Maybe," she muttered at last, a dark, desperate glimmer in her eyes, "there's another way."
Rane frowned. For the sake of Lord Gilbert's pride, he'd allowed him to claim the deer. But he wasn't about to let Mavis claim Florie.
Mavis straightened with sudden inspiration. "Huntsman," she said, "in my husband's absence, I can grant you leave to hunt in Ettrick."
Rane scowled. "Aye?"
Mavis's eyes flattened as her lips curved into an obsequious smile. "Let the wench escape," she said silkily. "You'll track her." Her eyes glittered. "And bring her down."
Rane blinked in disbelief. God's wounds! Could Mavis actually mean for him to chase Florie, to slay her in cold blood? She had no idea how close he'd already come to doing just that unintentionally. Nor how much it had sickened him.
His body began to tremble with suppressed rage. The idea of deliberately hunting down a maiden as if she were an animal…
Drawing himself up to his full height, he spoke through clenched teeth. "I won't commit murder for ye, my lady."
Mavis gasped at his gall. Then, spurring her horse forward and gnashing her teeth, she raised her riding crop and struck Rane hard across the cheek.
The leather whip stung like the devil, but Rane knew better than to duck the blow. Thwarting Mavis would only make matters worse.
She sneered. "If ye cannot corner this prey, archer, then perhaps my husband should find himself a more skilled huntsman."
Rane gave no answer. 'Twas oft better to be silent and misconceived than to speak and be understood too well.
With a threatening glare and a smart crack of her reins, Mavis wheeled about and rode with her men toward the road again.
Rane watched them disappear like wraiths into the mist. He glanced down at the toefler piece still clenched in his fist, the wooden Lord Gilbert that he now realized was far too kindly carved. The real man had neither eyes to see nor the ballocks to control his nagging shrew of a wife. Lady Mavis had blinded him to the plight of his own starving people, and now she sought to twist his justice as well.
'Twas clear that with Lord Gilbert away, without his tempering hand to restrain Lady Mavis, Rane's nights as a guard and Florie's days of sanctuary were numbered.
Florie dabbed gingerly at Rane's cheek. 'Twas her fault, she knew—the red welt last evening and the resulting bruise that swelled darkly under his eye this morn. He refused to explain exactly how he'd earned such a harsh blow, evading her questions with jesting, but she knew it must have been in her defense. And the thought of that wretched Lady Mavis raising a hand to strike Rane made her want to rip out the she-devil's hair.
She suppressed most of her rage, but Rane still winced as she pressed the damp linen against his tender flesh.
She flinched in empathy. "It pains ye."
Remarkably, the corner of his lip drifted up as he shrugged. "Only when ye touch it."
"I'm sorry."
His smile widened. "'Tis a jest, Florie."
His humor was lost on her. She furrowed her brow and dipped the rag in the rosemary water again, murmuring, "How men can jest at such things, I don't understand."
"'Tis only a bruise."
"Earned on my account," she muttered. "I swear, if that cursed shrew comes near ye again, I'll wrap my hands around her scrawny neck and—"
"Ye'll do nothin' o' the sort," he insisted, taking the cloth from her and dropping it back into the basin.
"But she has no right to—"
"She's the wife o' the sheriff. She has every right," he said, clasping both her hands within his. "But enough about the Frasers, eh, lass?"
Once, Florie would have felt trapped by his gesture. Now his touch was comforting. As she watched, he brought her knuckles to his lips and bestowed upon them a tender kiss.
'Twas an innocent enough gesture, but for Florie, it felt anything but innocent. His moist breath upon the backs of her fingers warmed her to her toes.
"Besides," he said, "ye couldn't get these hands around her fat neck." He smiled. "They're far too small," he whispered, tilting one hand back to look at it, stroking the inside of her palm with his thumb.
The way he was touching her soothed her, the way petting soothed a cat. Her voice came out on a soft, throaty murmur. "They're not too small. For a goldsmith…small hands are…useful."
"I can see that," he breathed, though by the smoky cast of his eyes, he was likely imagining her hands plying another trade altogether.
A hot flush stole up her cheek at the thought, and yet she made no move to withdraw from his enthralling caress.
His gaze dipped momentarily to her lips, and he flashed her a mischievous grin. "Ye know, my mother always gave my bruises a kiss. She assured me 'twould speed the healin'." He lifted his brows, affecting such a guileless, wide eyed expression that she nearly laughed aloud.
"Did she?"
"Oh, aye," he assured her with mock solemnity.
Her eyes were drawn instinctively to his mouth—his wide, elegant, sensual mouth with its seductive upward curve. Faith, she wanted to kiss him. She'd wanted to kiss him for days now, from the moment he'd first given her a taste of his passion.
But he turned his head aside, presenting his injured cheek instead, like a brave young lad trounced in his first scuffle. Though she'd hoped for more, the playful innocence in his eyes was irresistible. With a brief smile, she inclined her head to bestow upon his cheek a chaste kiss of healing.
Her lips had scarcely grazed his cheek when he captured her face of a sudden between his hands. His touch was not ungentle, but 'twas uncompromising. Gone was the childlike light in his face. A glimmer of danger gleamed in his eyes now, danger and promise.
She gasped softly. Their mouths inches apart, she felt his intent as if 'twere a living thing.
"Ye want it as well," he whispered, and there was no need to clarify. "Ye want this."
She did. There was no denying it. Deep in her heart, she had wanted to be caught, to be claimed. She knew she trod too near the hunter's snare. Aye, a part of her fell willingly into his trap.
Her breath quickened as he lowered his gaze to her parted lips, coaxing them farther open with the edge of his thumb. Anticipation sped her pulse as he eased forward with incredible stealth. From beneath weighted eyelids, she watched him moisten his lip with his tongue, and an intense craving ignited her senses as rapidly as flame touched to thatch.
She remembered the taste of him. Oh, God, she remembered. Mint and ale and rosemary. She could feel his breath upon her now, his mouth only a hair's breadth away. And still he lingered over the moment, a skillful hunter patiently tracking his prey.
Finally, when she thought she could endure no more, he touched his lips lightly to hers. Her soft gasp drew cool air between their mouths.
"Aye," he breathed in warm reply.
As if he commanded her body from that one point of contact, he gently nipped at her mouth with his lips, drawing her forward, stealing her will from her bit by inconspicuous bit, like a kitchen lad thieving silver.
Somewhere in the maelstrom of her thoughts was the vague fear that maybe she was losing control of not only her senses, but her heart. Yet she could assimilate only a growing desire for more of him.
Slowly his fingers slid back through her hair as he pressed closer and closer, forcing her mouth to his seductive dance. Then one hand lowered possessively to the back of her neck, as if to prevent her flight from what he next intended.
But flight was the last thing on Florie's mind, and though the sudden shock of his hot tongue inside her mouth startled a squeak from her, in the next moment she was replying to his ravishment with a hunger of her own.
Rane had meant the kiss as subterfuge, partly because he knew Florie's anger at Lady Mavis would only get her into more trouble, and partly because she was asking too many questions about Lord Gilbert. If she persisted in her pursuit of what had happened last evening, she might stumble upon the truth, that Rane was Gilbert's vassal. And that she must not discover.
So he had to distract her. And in his experience, the surest way to distract a lass was to seduce her.
He never doubted his qualifications. He was an expert hunter, after all. Patient. Stealthy. Subtle. Maids yielded to his stalking the same way prey did, never realizing they were vulnerable until 'twas too late.
That was the truth of what the Father called his Viking curse. 'Twas no bewitchery, but rather a natural talent he'd honed from his skill with the bow—a gift for observation, intuition, and empathy. He proposed to employ those talents now, to bring Florie slowly to the brink of yearning until she forgot all about Lady Mavis.
For a bit, he was successful. He tantalized her with his forthright gaze and practiced hands. He anticipated her every response, prolonging her passion, edging her inexorably onward.
But then the wanton lass answered his kiss with an ardor he'd never expected, and like a hungry hound unleashed, his restraint shot away, out of control.
Suddenly, he was the one distracted. His loins seized, flooded with simmering desire. His arms, no longer tempered by forbearance, surrounded her like a plundering army, dragging her close in conquest. And he completely forgot why he'd meant to seduce her.
Her tongue swept boldly across his, and he plunged his own deeper, reveling in the honey-sweet recesses of her mouth. Her fingers slid up along the sides of his throat, and a wave of mad pleasure surged through his skull as they found the sensitive crevices of his ears. A groan was torn from his chest, and lust roared to life in the urgent quickening within his trews. His head swam as if awash in the pealing of a hundred bells.
'Twas madness. She left him vulnerable, threatened, out of control. For Rane to feel that way with a lass…'Twas like a hunter feeling menaced by a fawn. And yet he was rendered powerless by Florie.
She moaned softly into his mouth, her moan like an elixir of desire, intoxicating him beyond constraint. His hands, unfettered by reason, pressed and caressed and explored her lovely form as a blind man's might. And Florie, lost in her own haze of passion, granted him leave.
He traced the exquisite contours of her neck, resting his thumb lightly against the hollow of her throat, feeling her pounding pulse, an echo of his own throbbing heart. He followed the delicate bone outward, slipping his fingers beneath the edge of her kirtle and chemise to cup the perfect sphere of her shoulder, then sliding downward along her arm. All the while, their tongues coupled and their breath mingled, their passion like a wild thing set free.
He inhaled sharply as she moved closer, pressing her belly against his jutting staff so shamelessly that he feared to explode with want of her.
Holding back his own need, he let his hand come between them at the waist of her kirtle, then eased his palm down until his fingers pressed at the fabric between her thighs.
She broke from the kiss then, puffing in sweet distress against his cheek as he circled his fingertips firmly over the place he knew her yearning centered.
Lowering his head, he caught the lacing of her kirtle in his teeth, pulling the tie free, loosening the garment. He let his free hand drift from her bare shoulder across the creamy sweep of her bosom, then lower, groaning at the fawn-soft ecstasy of her flesh. His palm grazed the tender bud of her nipple, making her cry out softly, and as the responsive nubbin stiffened, so too did the restless animal in his braies.
Sweet Freyja, she'd had but a taste of his seduction, and already she was climbing toward the point of release. Never had he encountered a lass so responsive. Her breath came rapidly, she clutched at his shoulders, and such bittersweet desperation graced her face that he could scarcely keep from taking her, here and now.
Almost…
Almost…
A sudden thud on the church steps outside split them faster than a quarrel leaped from a bow.
Rane, breathless and disoriented, responded with a vile oath.
Bloody hell! Who dared interrupt them?
Odin! His ballocks ached. His blood boiled. His body burned with need.
He fought off the urge to throttle the intruder, instead raking his fingers back through his disheveled locks, wishing he could arrange his tangled thoughts as easily as his hair.
A glance at Florie told him her mind was no better ordered than his own. Her eyes were drowsy with desire, her cheeks flushed, her mouth swollen with kissing. And her brow was furrowed with bewildered frustration.
But if she was lost in lusty oblivion, he at least was accustomed to clandestine encounters. His instincts took over. He swiftly picked Florie up by the waist, plopping her down upon the fridstool, yanked her loosened kirtle back up over her shoulder, and gave her a reviving pat on the cheek. Then he scrambled a prudent distance away and flung one of her plaids over his lap, hiding the obvious manifestation of his mood.
Not a moment too soon, for when the door swung open, Carol the cooper's daughter and Velera the chandler staggered in, bearing a great wooden half-barrel between them.
Though his blood seethed with unspent lust and tempered rage, he couldn't blame the intruders. And he was too chivalrous to allow the lasses to carry their heavy burden by themselves. So as covertly as he could, Rane repositioned the incriminating lump in his braies and rose awkwardly to come to their aid. Hopefully, they'd notice nothing, which was more than could be said of Florie, whose eyes had widened with horror at his bold adjustment.
"Goodwife Carol. Mistress Velera," he croaked. "Allow me." He hobbled forward. "'Tis far too heavy a thing for such delicate flowers."
"Ach, Rane MacFarland!" Carol cooed, blushing, clearly pleased by his compliment. "Always so courteous. Isn't he, Velera?"
"Oh, aye," she agreed, gladly surrendering the half-barrel to him. "Courteous." Then she narrowed suspicious blue eyes at him, and for an awful instant he feared his perfidy was discovered. "What's wrong with your eye?" She elbowed Carol. "What's wrong with his eye?"
Carol gasped. "Gads! What's happened?"
Before he could reply, her gaze traveled past his shoulder, alighting upon Florie.
"Ach!" she huffed, lowering her voice to a whisper. "'Tis that wicked, miserable, thievin' wench, isn't it? She's attacked ye. Oh, Velera, look what the wretched grig has done."
Velera pursed her mouth, tossed her pale blond tresses, and began pushing back her sleeves. "I'll blacken her eye for ye, Rane. 'Twouldn't be the first time I—"
"Ladies," he said, blocking Velera's way. "Be at ease. 'Twas no fault o' hers. I…lost my footin' in the woods and caught a branch, 'tis all."
Velera looked soundly disappointed, as if she dearly wished to beat Florie to a bloody pulp. Carol, however, wasted no time on rancor.
"Ye poor, poor man," she soothed, sidling up for a better look at his bruise. "Rosemary water's what ye need. I can fetch rosemary from—"
"There's no need. I've plenty o' rosemary," he said.
"Ach, o' course," she said with a giggle, toying with a lock of her nut-brown hair. "'Tis the scent ye wear to throw off the deer."
If only, he thought, he could throw the lasses off his scent so easily. By Thor, every fiber of his being longed to take up where he'd left off with Florie.
He hefted up the tub, which made a good shield for his still rigid staff. "What's this for?"
Carol brushed up against him. "Why, Rane, when we heard ye were laboring so tirelessly on the old church…"
"Hammerin' and sawin'…and pantin'…" Velera chimed in dreamily. "And sweatin'…"
"We wondered how the two of us might…ease your sufferin'."
"And we decided your poor achin' bones might have need of a soothin' bath." Velera dipped her eyelashes.
"And maybe two attentive maids to keep ye company." Carol ran a finger down the length of his arm.
Any other day, Rane would have welcomed the comely lasses with open arms, stripped down to his skin, and happily let them scrub his back, his chest, his ballocks, whatever they wished. But today, his desires focused solely on Florie. Indeed, he'd rather resume his thus far chaste fondling of the bewitching felon than suffer the far more sensual pleasures the pair of maids offered.
"I thank ye for your kindness," he told them, "but…" 'Twas on the tip of his tongue to decline their gift. Then he remembered Florie's fondness for bathing before the Sabbath. "I must finish this door before it grows dark. Afterward, I assure ye, I shall be very glad o' the tub."
"Then we shall be very glad to wait while—" Carol began.
"Ach, nae! I wouldn't even consider havin' ye wait for me." Carol's face fell, and he gave them his best frown of concern. "I couldn't bear the thought o' what might befall two o' my favorite lasses, walkin' home in the dark o' the wood."
"But—" Velera said.
"Nae. I'll hear none of it," he said sternly. "Ye're too precious, too temptin' a sight to outlaws who might frequent the forest at night." When they would have protested again, he flashed them a grateful grin. "But I cannot thank ye enough for the gift o' the tub. I shall treasure it and…and think o' ye two lovelies each and every time I sink my achin' body into the warm water."
They could do little but smile weakly. No doubt he'd painted a picture vivid enough to sustain their lurid fantasies.
"Sweet Carol. Precious Velera. What a pair of angels ye are," he sighed. "Hurry along now, for I won't rest easy till I'm assured ye're safely home."
Their faces befuddled with an odd mixture of pleasure and disappointment, they murmured fond farewells and left.
Now, he thought in relief. Now he'd finish what he'd begun.
But when he turned to Florie, he knew instantly 'twas not to be. She sat on the fridstool with her good knee drawn stiffly up to her chest, her arms crossed tightly around it, her countenance bleak. In his experience, when a maid wore that stricken expression, neither reason nor cajoling nor seduction would coax her back into an amorous mood.
A moment ago, Florie had felt deliciously swept away by her passions, as if she soared on some wild charger into the heavens, where the promise of even greater ecstasy awaited. Like a starved waif, she'd feasted greedily on Rane, unable to stop her delirious craving, unmindful of the recklessness of her behavior, wanting more and more and more…
Then they had appeared.
She supposed she had no right to be angry. They were certainly welcome in the sanctuary. 'Twas a church, after all, a place of worship, open to everyone. Faith, Florie was the one in the wrong, expressing such carnal desires within God's house. Still, what she'd shared with Rane hadn't felt wrong. Indeed, nothing had felt so right in a long while.
But as she waited restlessly for the lascivious maids to leave, that destructive emotion reared its head again. Jealousy.
'Twas not as if Florie owned Rane, she reasoned. Even the priest had told her the handsome archer was…how had he termed it? Generous with his affections.
Rane offered Florie a safe way to appease her sexual curiosity, by offering her a brief, insignificant, harmless encounter she could recollect in her lonely days to come. What did it matter if he had one lover or a hundred, if Florie was only another name notched into his bow? As her foster father was fond of saying, 'twas better to drink the dregs of another's pint than to be left with none at all. She didn't require Rane's fidelity. She only craved his arms about her. Her heart had nothing to do with it. What did it matter that others found delight in his embrace?
Yet it did matter, immensely—which troubled her.
Even when Florie was a child, her mother had warned her constantly to guard her heart. Only at her deathbed did Florie learn why.
She'd placed the gold pomander in Florie's young hands, confiding that the beautiful piece had been a gift, not from her foster father, but from her mother's first love, her true love—a nobleman promised to another. The pomander would belong to Florie now, she'd said, for 'twas a precious reminder that had been purchased at the price of her heart.
Florie's foster father, too, had shown her the perils of loving too deeply.
Nae, she'd not make the mistakes her parents had, and the fact that she cared enough about Rane to feel jealous meant that she cared too much.