Rane felt the knot jerk and tighten around his neck as he dropped off the cart. For a nightmarish moment, the strangling tension about his throat was intense, unbearable.
But an instant later, his feet hit the ground.
Stunned, he simply stood there in disbelief, choking. No one moved. Or spoke. Or breathed. Then someone prodded the executioner, and he rushed forward, grabbing the rope.
Someone snickered.
As the executioner loosened the knot about his throat, Rane coughed reflexively.
A few onlookers giggled.
Rane glanced dazedly down at his feet, planted solidly on the earth, then up at the oak branch.
Soon the entire assemblage was roaring with laughter. He glanced at the executioner.
"Ye're a tall one," the man said with a sheepish shrug. "I must have measured wrong." He winked, sending everyone into gales of helpless mirth.
Only Florie wasn't laughing. She was as white as alabaster, and her eyes pooled with unspilled tears. With a decisive sniff and wiping at her nose with the back of her hand, she passed Methuselah to Father Conan. She opened the satchel at her hip, and Rane knew, without ever seeing it, what was inside. And what she intended.
Florie licked the raindrops from her lips, looking pensively at the girdle of gold links, her heirloom, her legacy. She took a quavery breath. The very meaning of her existence resided in that girdle.
But because of it, she'd almost lost Rane. She'd almost lost the chance at a future filled with love. And what could possibly be as meaningful as that? Certainly not a piece of gold that had never been hers to begin with, the relic of a love that was no more and a bloodline that made no difference.
Aye, she would cast away the promise of prosperity and wager her fate upon this untamed son of Vikings. For love.
Giving Rane a tremulous smile, she turned toward Mavis's litter and knelt in the mud.
"Nae," he called hoarsely to her, knowing all that she was about to sacrifice.
She glanced back at him, smiling again. "I want to, Rane. I want this."
Then, bowing her head before Lady Mavis, who was near apoplectic with dismay at her foiled spectacle, she offered up the gold girdle in both hands. "My lady, I wish to buy the life o' your prisoner."
Mavis didn't think twice. Her eyes wide with alarm, she reached out, planning to snatch the prize before anyone could see it.
"Wait!" Gilbert barked.
A panicked whimper escaped her as he gestured angrily toward the girdle. "Ye'd kill a man over this trinket?" he demanded. "Ye'd execute my best huntsman to put another bauble about your hips?"
Mavis, her eyes fixed on the pomander, her fingers itching to seize it, answered him as calmly as she could. "Nae, Gilly. I'd execute the thievin' wench who stole it from me. But he let her escape and—"
"Escape! Escape? Ye mean from the fire ye set?"
The crowd gasped, and Mavis felt fear clog her throat. Her mind whirring, she tried to think of something, anything, that would distract Gilbert from the pomander long enough for her to wrest it from the wench.
"Ach, Gilly," she said on a feigned sob, pressing a hand to her bosom, "how could ye think such a thing? I'd never set fire to a church."
"Nae!" he spat. Then, so softly that only she could hear, he bit out, "Ye likely left that task to one o' your English friends."
"Wha—?" Her heart plummeted.
With one hand, Gilbert tore the curtain from her litter, and Mavis recoiled with a squeak, feeling as if he'd ripped the clothing from her body.
"Free my huntsman," Gilbert commanded the executioner over his shoulder, his cold stare never leaving Mavis. "Lady, ye've been nothin' but trouble from the time I brought ye home to wife."
Mavis glanced about at the gawking peasants, wishing she could banish them with a wave of her hand, the way King Henry always had. "Gilly," she said between her teeth, "this is hardly the proper time and—"
"I indulged ye, knowin' ye weren't happy here. I allowed ye to spend your coin freely, hopin' to keep ye entertained. I gave ye servants to order about, prize falcons for your amusement, gold for ye to squander at the fair. I see now, however, that ye're no happier. I've only let ye become an even more spoiled child."
"I'm not a child," Mavis protested, unfortunately sounding just like a child.
He hauled her swiftly up against him, burying her face in his doublet, holding her there in the crook of his arm. To onlookers, it likely appeared to be a lover's embrace. To Mavis, 'twas suffocating.
"And now," he whispered in her ear with deadly calm, "I've proof ye've been consortin' with the enemy."
Mavis stiffened. She'd feared Gilbert might discover the truth about the lass and her trinket. She'd never expected he'd discover the truth about her.
"Ye've been passin' messages to the English," he hissed, "tellin' them the whereabouts o' the Scots soldiers. Givin' them information about my comin' and goin'."
"Nae," Mavis breathed.
"The queen feared ye were disloyal. She'd hoped to curb your spyin' by sendin' ye away to the Borders. But it didn't cure ye, did it?" He lowered his voice to a deadly growl. "Ye told the English that the princess was bein' moved to Musselburgh."
Mavis swallowed, her thoughts racing. What had happened? Had the ambush worked? Had Hertford's men found Princess Mary? Had they finally brought the stubborn Scots queen to her knees?
Gilbert chuckled humorlessly. "There's just one problem. I lied to ye. The princess isn't there. Ye sent the English into a trap this time."
Mavis, who'd spent a lifetime deceiving men, wasn't about to confess to a crime for which she might hang. "Gilly, my love," she said, turning a stricken gaze up to him, "I don't know what ye're talkin' about."
"I'm not your love," he snarled. "Ye never cared for me. Ye only hoped to use me."
"'Tisn't true, Gilly. I love ye," she choked out. "I want to give ye sons and grow old with ye."
"Aye, that ye do. Like that bastard Henry, ye'd do anythin' to secure your future," he said, shaking his head, "includin' stealin' away the future of another. Do ye even know what ye're takin' from this lass, or is it only another costly bauble for your amusement?"
Mavis pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling.
Gilbert released her and gestured toward the wretched girdle, which winked in mockery now as the sun filtered through the clearing clouds. "This piece was never for the sellin'. The lass said it belonged to her father, her noble father, whom she seeks. So ye see, Mavis, the lass may be as highborn as ye are."
Mavis blinked. Gilbert didn't know the whole truth yet, then. His words had given her one last slim hope. She sighed in feigned exasperation and fluttered her hands in surrender. "Oh, very well. The lass can have it back, then. Now that I see the piece again, I find I don't like it all that well anyway." She placed her palm on Gilbert's chest and stared sweetly into his eyes, willing him to look at her. "Come, Gilly, let's just put all this nonsense about spyin' and fires and hangin' behind us, and…" She trailed off as she saw she'd failed to gain his attention.
Florie was too busy staring at her beloved Rane to notice that the lord sheriff had grown silent and was studying the girdle in her hands.
Rane's weary eyes were rimmed with red. His hair hung like wet, charred twine over his face. His neck was raw where the rope had throttled him, and his chest was covered with scrapes and bruises. But faith, he was the most beautiful man in the world. And, thank God, he was alive to hear her say it. Which she intended to do, from this day forward for the rest of her life.
His lips lifted in a grateful smile as he returned her stare, but then he glanced up at Lord Gilbert, and his brow furrowed.
She followed his gaze.
The sun had pierced holes in the gray clouds like arrows shot through silk, and in her hands the gold girdle glittered in the brilliant light. Lord Gilbert's eyes narrowed upon the pomander, and he spoke so softly that surely only Florie could hear him.
"I know this piece."
Florie blinked. Maybe he'd seen it at the fair. Or one similar. Aye, the pomander was unique in all the world, but in her experience, most men couldn't discern the difference between rubies and red glass.
He slowly drew his gaze upward to look at Florie's face, as if he sought something there. "Ye said your mother gave it to ye?"
"Aye, my lord, upon her death," she said. "She said it belonged to…"
Suddenly 'twas as transparent as the rain-washed air. The same dark hair that, in her mother's words, seemed nearly black but shimmered like claret in the sun. The same fair skin. The same tilt of the eyes. Why hadn't she noticed it before?
"My father," she breathed.
He was still staring at her, but his gaze had gone to another time, another place, maybe to memories he wished he could revisit, sorrows he wished he could repair.
Florie's thoughts raced and tumbled one over the other as she considered the import of her discovery. Was her search truly over? Had she found her father? 'Twas a most astonishing miracle.
Now that she'd found him, she realized she could begin her life anew. She'd never have to return to Stirling. She could remain in Selkirk and live in a tower house, her father's tower house. She could have a hundred servants at her beck and call. She could wear the finest silks and have a daily bath if she so desired. Best of all, she could be free of the burden of her foster father, of toiling long hours over a worktable to ensure he was steeped in enough ale to keep him numb.
'Twas such a temptation.
Yet if she stayed, if she revealed that Lord Gilbert was her true father, if she embraced a new life, she'd also inherit the hindrances of that life. Noblewomen didn't sully their hands on common labor. Could she bear to give up her craft entirely? Would she have to curb her forthright tongue for propriety's sake? And, God's wounds, did she truly want Lady Mavis for a foster mother?
Such thoughts gave her pause. But the one that brought her to her senses as swiftly as a splash of cold water, the one that convinced her to hand the pomander to Lord Gilbert without a word and only the slightest indication in the meeting of their eyes that they shared a secret, was the realization that if she chose Gilbert, she would lose Rane.
Her father glanced down at the pomander, tracing his fingers over the letters—F and G—and Florie suddenly realized they didn't stand for Florie Gilder, but Gilbert Fraser.
"Ye're certain ye wish to give this up?" he murmured.
Though he spoke no further word, his message was clear. If Florie wished him to acknowledge her as his daughter, he would. She could see now why her mother had loved the handsome nobleman. Florie supposed she'd only half believed the tales her mother told, suspecting her real father had used the young, naive, pretty lass to ease his lusts, then cast her aside on a whim. Indeed, she sometimes wondered if in seeking out her father, she wished to punish him in some way by giving a face and a name to his sin.
No more. Now she believed. Now she saw Gilbert's dilemma. Just as he was caught now in a miserable second marriage to a demanding shrew, a union ordained by the queen, so he'd been caught before. Abandoning her mother hadn't been a choice. It had been an unavoidable tragedy. She couldn't blame him for the machinations of royalty.
Nobles, she thought, were like the warriors in hnefatafl. They had no will of their own. Their destiny was controlled by their overlord. They moved about the board of life, advancing and losing ground, making sacrifices, living and marrying and dying according to the wishes of another.
Nae, she decided, she wanted no part of it.
"Ye keep it," she said, smiling gently, a smile that told him she forgave him for the past.
"Is there…" he began, pausing to clear his throat, obviously deeply affected by the fact that, unlike his current wife, Florie yearned for neither his land nor his title. "Is there anythin' else I can do for ye?"
"Aye," Florie answered, coming to her feet as Gilbert held out his hand. "There is one thing."
The burgh maids had straggled up now, having scrambled after the racing horses as quickly as they could to see what transpired with their hero on Gallows Hill. Now, gasping and clasping their hands to their pounding hearts, they whispered among themselves, utterly baffled by the curious turn of events.
Rane set his hand upon her shoulder, and Florie covered it with her own, swallowing hard. 'Twas a reckless thing she dared, a petition that went against all her parents' warnings, a wager on which she staked everything. 'Twas foolhardy and audacious and ill-considered. But for the first time in her life, she intended to listen to her heart, to close her eyes and step off the cliff of reason.
"I wish to marry your huntsman, my lord," she said, her heart throbbing. "And I wish for your blessin'."
Gasps sounded all around them. But Florie held her breath. There was only one response she awaited, and 'twasn't Gilbert's. Fortunately, she didn't wait long. In the next instant Rane's chuckling sigh of consent blew past her ear, sending a relieved shiver through her.
"'Tis agreeable to ye, Rane?" Gilbert asked.
She could almost feel his grin. "Oh, aye, my lord."
At once, plaintive feminine weeping filled the air—the burgh maids, Florie realized, mourning their loss. She almost pitied them—almost. But the soft sound was more bittersweet than sad, and soon the enthusiastic cheering of the men-at-arms overshadowed their sniffling. Florie grinned. Later, without a doubt, the men would be more than happy to console the grieving lasses.
After a space, Gilbert held up a hand for silence. "I grant permission for this marriage, then. We'll have the weddin' feast at the tower house. May ye both enjoy the blessin's o' true love." His voice was tainted with sadness at the end, and Florie felt sorry for him. Gilbert had had to walk away from his true love, and he knew the price he'd paid.
"Gilly," Mavis ventured meekly, aware of her tenuous position. "Let them keep the piece as a weddin' gift."
Gilbert's jaw tensed, but he turned a grim smile on his wife and said in a deceptively friendly tone, "Nae, I've decided to give ye your prize, after all, since ye worked so hard to earn it." He weighed the piece in his hand. "Only since ye don't like its design, I'm goin' to give it to the armorer to melt down into a new one." He spared a wink at Florie, then thoughtfully stroked his beard. "I'm goin' to have him fashion it into a collar o' sorts for ye," he continued, "the kind the hounds wear, permanently fitted with a leash o' gold links."
Mavis's eyes went as round as her mouth.
"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 MacFarland, 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.