The pain was shocking, intense. Florie's first thought was that a wolf had sprung at her from the brush, sinking its fangs into her thigh. She screamed, but the sound was cut off as she twisted and fell, colliding hard with the earth.
Knocked breathless, for an instant she lay stunned. Then, fearing to be devoured, she kicked desperate heels into the decaying leaf-fall, scrambling, clambering, scraping dirt beneath her nails as she struggled to escape the unrelenting burn of the teeth embedded in her flesh.
No beast snarled or sprang to finish her, but neither did the stabbing pain in her leg subside. She wrenched about to see what demon had her in its jaws.
The sight left her faint with horror.
An arrow pinned her through a trailing link of her gold girdle and her skirts, its steel head buried in her flesh, its thick shaft bobbing as she writhed in pain.
The edges of perception blurred then. She felt herself tilting, fading, falling into a cavern of seductive oblivion.
Rane's bowstring was still vibrating when the blood drained from his face and his arms dropped limp at his sides.
"Bloody hell," he breathed.
Casting off the bow, he charged forward into the open meadow, his heart hammering. He bolted for the trail, toward his fallen prey, hurtling along the pond's edge, around its perimeter, whipping past reeds and fern, snapping off bracken as he ran. When he reached his victim, he dropped his quiver to the ground and fell to his knees with a bitter cry.
Guilt threatened to unman him, and he ground his teeth against a wave of self-loathing.
Curse his hands, he'd shot a child.
Then he peered closer by the fading twilight. Nae, not a child. A slight, slender lass.
Though she lay as still as death, she wasn't dead. Thank Odin, he'd been able to redirect the arrow at the last moment, thus sparing her life.
He turned her carefully toward him, and she revived with a wheezing gasp, reflexively scrabbling at the outside of her thigh, where his arrow obscenely protruded.
"Nae!" he cautioned. "Leave it be!"
Her eyes widened, and he instantly withdrew his hands, trying not to panic her, raising his palms in what he hoped was a placating gesture.
The last thing he expected was the sting of a sharp needle through his open hand.
He grunted in pain, drawing back his wounded palm. Blood welled from the puncture. He sucked a sharp hiss through his teeth.
The needle had pierced him deeply. But he supposed he should have known better. After all, only a fool approached a wounded animal.
Her left arm arced toward him again with whatever vicious weapon she wielded.
He lunged aside. "Nae, lass! I mean ye no—"
His words were cut short as her right fist clipped his jaw.
"Ach!"
The needle returned to graze his bare neck, leaving a stinging trail.
"Son of a… Lass, cease! 'Twas an acci—"
She ignored his command, attacking him again and again, as if she intended to fight him to the death. Damn! If she didn't stop thrashing about, she'd drive the arrow deeper into her thigh.
"Woman!" he finally bellowed, startling her into momentary submission. "Put away your weapon. I'm friend, not foe."
Florie didn't believe him for an instant. Whether he was Gilbert's man she couldn't tell. 'Twas too dark to make out his face or the color of his cloak. But the villain had shot her. Shot her!
She'd managed to wound him with her brooch pin. She'd heard his grunt, felt the point sink into his flesh. But she hadn't inflicted enough damage to stop him. And if she didn't… If he turned her over to the law…
Fighting for her life, she stabbed forward with the brooch again. This time he was prepared for her attack. He caught her wrist in a steely grip.
Thrashing against his punishing hold, she tried to pry his fingers away with her free hand. But he gave her wrist a sharp flick, and the brooch flew loose, skittering out of reach.
"Lie still," he commanded. "Ye'll only make it worse."
Worse? What could be worse? Florie wasn't about to surrender, regardless of the wave of dizziness that assailed her…regardless of the dire stain widening on her best brocade skirts…regardless of the drops of blood, her blood, dripping onto the leaves of the forest floor.
Summoning up one last, desperate burst of power, she reared back her closed fist and swung forward as hard as she could, aiming for his jaw. But he ducked easily out of the way, seizing that hand as well.
"For the love o' Frigga, lass, lie still!"
The edges of her vision dimmed, darkening as her bones dissolved into submission, and she vaguely wondered who the devil Frigga was.
God have mercy. Maybe the archer had dealt her a mortal wound and she was dying, for she felt as weak as a bairn, with neither the strength nor the will to move.
"Nae, nae, nae, nae, NAE!" he shouted, giving her wrists a reviving shake. "Not that still!" His voice, for all its vehemence, sounded distant, dreamlike. "Stay awake, do ye hear me?"
"Ye go to hell," she mumbled.
He cursed under his breath, returning her arms to her sides, where they lay as limp and useless as empty sleeves.
"Ach, lass," he murmured, as if to himself, "what were ye doin', stealin' through the thicket like that?"
"Leave me alone."
"If I leave ye alone, ye'll bleed to d—" He shook his head. "I'm not leavin'."
From beneath eyelids growing heavier by the moment, Florie could faintly discern the man's silhouette as he crouched nearby. He was unbuckling his belt.
Ballocks! Did the monster mean to swive her while she lay helpless?
"Get the hell away from me," she managed to croak.
He ignored her.
She heard the sound of fabric being shredded. The brute must be tearing her clothes from her. Tears of rage and frustration and anguish welled in her eyes. "Bastard," she whispered.
"Aye, I know. But 'twill be over in a moment. Lie still."
"Nae!" she groaned. She wasn't about to let the lout have his way with her. She tried to curl her weak fingers into lethal fists. "Don't touch me."
A dark fog crept in at the sides of her vision like a closing curtain. She fought to keep her eyes open.
"I'll be swift as I can," he promised, "but ye have to hold still." He positioned himself beside her injured leg. "I'll carry ye to shelter afterward. There's a priest up the rise from here, not far—"
A priest! That brought her instantly alert. "The church!" she blurted.
Sanctuary! By strength of sheer will, she seized his wrist in one hand with such ferocity that she almost knocked him off his haunches.
"Aye!" she cried, though her command came out on a weak wheeze. "The church… Go… Now…" If she could make it to the church… Pain gripped her again, and she winced, digging her fingers into the leather bracer around his forearm.
"Soon." He clasped a restraining hand over hers, his fingers sticky with blood.
"Now," she groaned. Leveraging against his wrist, she began to creep forward, determined to drag herself bodily up the hill if need be.
"Lass, be still! Ye'll drive the arrow—"
"Sanctuary!" she beseeched him.
"What?"
"Take me…to sanctuary." Lord Gilbert couldn't be far away. "They're comin'," she mumbled.
"Who?"
She gasped as searing lightning shot up her leg.
He squeezed her hand. "All right. I'll hurry, lass," he promised, "but the shaft's got to come out first." The cloth he'd torn he now rapidly wadded into his hand. Then he offered her his leather belt. "Hold this in your teeth."
She turned her head aside. She didn't want his belt. All she wanted was sanctuary.
But he pulled her jaw down with his thumb anyway, wedging the thick belt between her teeth. "Bite down."
She scowled. No one told Florie what to do. Then a strong wave of pain washed over her as he pressed the wad of linen against her wound, and she reflexively clamped down.
Blowing out a forceful breath and kneeling above her, the man curved his right hand around the shaft so 'twas braced under his arm. "Ready?"
Nae, she wasn't ready. But Lord Gilbert was coming. And this knave wouldn't let her go until the arrow was out. Praying the brute wouldn't betray her, that he'd keep his word, she ground her teeth into his belt and nodded.
"One… two…"
She fainted before he reached three.
Rane clenched his jaw. 'Twas probably best the maid was unconscious. He made quick work of extracting the arrow, and then compressed the cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding.
Shite! How could he have shot a woman? How could he have made such a grievous error in judgment? His face burned with shame. 'Twas the sort of mistake a lad of twelve might make, not a seasoned hunter. By Thor, if he'd lamed the lass, he'd never forgive himself.
His palm stung where she'd stabbed it, and his jaw ached from her punch. The lass, for her small size, had as much fight in her as a cornered wildcat.
But she'd grown quite still now, and her silence troubled him. If she slumbered too deeply, she might not wake.
"Nae!" he ordered. "Don't ye be nappin' on me!" He freed one hand to jostle her jaw, leaving a bloody smudge there. "Come on, wee one! Ye cannot claim sanctuary without confessin'. Wake up!"
Letting up on the pressure briefly, he pushed her skirts up to her thigh, baring the puncture in her flesh. She tried to force his invading hands away, murmuring vaguely in protest. But this was no time for modesty. Her lifeblood was seeping away. He pushed her hands aside and lifted her leg slightly, circling his leather belt around her upper thigh twice to cinch it tightly.
Damn! He had to keep her from drifting off again, at least till he got her wound properly bandaged.
"Pay heed, lass!" he barked. "Recite for me the Saint's days." He tore the stained linen into long strips. "Come on!"
She frowned in confusion. "Nae."
By Odin, she was a stubborn lass. "Aye! Now! Be a good lass," he commanded, "or I won't take ye to the church."
'Twas an outright lie, of course. After what he'd done, he'd carry her to St. Andrews if she liked. But the lass didn't know that.
She moaned in protest, then conceded on a breathy rasp. "Saint… Saint Valen…"
"That's it, darlin'. Saint Valentine." He wrapped the cloth quickly about her limb. Faith, her skin was softer than a hart's. To think he'd marred that flesh…
"Saint Swith…" she murmured.
"Saint Swithin's, right." He knotted the bandage over the wound. "And next?"
"Sain…" She started to drift off.
He patted her cheek. "Come on, sweetheart, stay with me."
He reached under her then and carefully scooped her into his arms. She was lighter than the stags he was accustomed to packing. He prayed she wouldn't bleed to death before he could get her to safety.
"Wait!" she cried. "My pomander."
He frowned, scanning the ground. A long chain of links lay coiled there like a golden serpent, its neck broken where his arrow had bent the metal. An ornament the size of a small apple hung from it. He tucked the damaged treasure into her hands, and she clasped it to her bosom in relief, instantly relaxing toward slumber again.
"Nae! Stay with me!" he commanded, giving her a shake. "Where were we? Saint Swithin's. What comes next?"
She groaned.
"Don't ye faint again. Don't ye dare faint. Saint Swithin's."
"Cris…"
"Saint Crispin's, aye." Rane's long strides served him well as he rounded the pond. "Hold on, lass," he murmured, though her head already fell limp against his shoulder.
Her long tresses spilled over his arm like a dark waterfall. By the day's last faint light he saw that her face, beaded with sweat, was as fair and sweet as a newborn fawn's. She was hot and damp, as if she'd been running a long while.
Climbing the rise, he studied the strange golden girdle she clutched to her breast. 'Twas cleverly worked, very expensive. Indeed, she was adorned all over with ornaments and chains and rings of gold. The lass was obviously a maid of not only considerable beauty, but considerable wealth.
Why such a lass would require sanctuary, he couldn't imagine. Maybe she was fleeing a cruel father or a brutal lover. Or maybe she'd crossed paths with one of the rabid packs of English soldiers that plagued the Borders. He shook his head. To think she might have escaped one danger only to fly into another…
"Come, wee fawn," he said, jostling her. "What's after Saint Crispin's?"
She tried to answer, though her eyes were closed. Her forehead creased, and her lips moved, but no sound came out.
He furrowed his brow, wondering who she was and what she was doing in the middle of the forest.
If she died, he'd never know.
He would have preferred to take her to Father Conan's cottage. The abandoned church could hardly be called a sanctuary. When he reached the steps, he frowned up at the rotting door with misgiving.
The Church at the Crossroads had been constructed before Rane was born, but it hadn't been used in four years. A victim of King Henry's raiding, the church had been desecrated by a band of English soldiers who'd robbed the sanctuary and murdered the resident priest, leaving a missive pinned to the door, Thank your Cardinal for this.
Since then, people claimed the place was cursed by King Henry himself. Indeed, misfortune had befallen all five priests who'd presided over the church since. Father Conan, the most recent, had been struck blind and lived in seclusion now, leaving nothing but vermin to inhabit the sanctuary—vermin and, some whispered, evil spirits.
Rane didn't believe in such nonsense. Vermin might dwell within, but surely they were only the earthly sort. With a dismissive snort, he mounted the steps.
The door creaked open under his shoulder. Rane swept through the entrance, past the cobwebbed narthex, and into the dim nave. The faint scent of sweet incense had long ago faded under the musty odor of decay, and the vivid colors of the arched window above the chancel were dulled beneath a patina of dust.
Suddenly something streaked like a dark shadow across the altar dais.
"Shite!" he hissed in surprise, wincing as the oath echoed among the rafters.
'Twas only Methuselah, Father Conan's cat. The ragged old creature hunkered down in fear and squeezed through a crack in the vestry door while Rane silently cursed his rattled nerves.
He carried the lass forward, placing her gently upon the stones before the altar. He cast off his cloak, removed his leather jerkin, and then pulled his outer shirt over his head, rolling it into a makeshift pillow, which he tucked carefully beneath her head.
A fat candle slouched in an iron holder beside the altar. He blew the dust off, then trimmed the wick with his gutting knife and used his flint to light the tallow. As the candle sputtered to life, shadows danced like devils along the crumbling plaster walls and over the blackened beams above.
Now the belt had to be loosened. Rane prayed the maid would lose no more blood. He blew out a bracing breath and knelt beside her. Easing her skirts up, he bared her slim leg, which was now deathly pale. The bandages had stanched the flow, but whether they would hold…
Slowly, cautiously, he unbuckled the belt.
Almost at once, fresh blood oozed through the linen. The lass groaned, but didn't fully waken, as sensation returned to her limb.
He muttered an oath, wadding a fistful of her chemise and pressing it firmly against the wound. She'd rail at him for ruining her fine garments, he supposed, but he'd gladly bear her temper later if it meant her survival now.
While he waited for the flow to cease, his gaze roamed over her features again. Who was this lass thrust into his path?
She wasn't from Selkirk. He knew the maids of Selkirk. Such a bonnie face he'd remember. In the candlelight her skin had an ethereal sheen, almost as if she weren't human, but some fey creature. Her face was heart-shaped, and her pointed chin had a dimple. Her dark brows and long lashes had a distinct upward tilt to them. Her mouth was small, and her lips looked soft enough to kiss a wee bairn without waking it.
He lowered his gaze to her slim throat, from which hung a delicate gold filigree pendant, and the fine collarbone above her bosom, where her pulse beat. Her gown dipped low upon her shoulders, revealing the gentle swell of her modest breasts. The well-made garment hugged her snugly, delineating her tiny waist and the subtle flare of her hips. Below, where his hands pressed, touching her as intimately as a lover, her skin was silky smooth.
Under different circumstances, he might have wished to pursue such a lass. But at the moment, all he could think about was saving her life. Besides, he doubted she'd harbor any tender feelings for the man who'd shot her.
If only she hadn't wandered into his sights… And if only he hadn't been so desperate for game…
Now he held her life in his hands.
The bleeding finally slowed, to his relief, sealing the injury. The narrow-headed shaft had gone deep but straight, thankfully leaving a wound that would require no stitches. Still, blood stained her skirt, the flagstones, her face, and his hands. Anyone stumbling upon the scene at the altar would think some unholy sacrifice had been made on the spot.
He blew out a weighted breath. One more task remained. He needed a priest to grant the lass sanctuary.
Could he convince Father Conan to come? Almost a hermit, the blind old priest lived closeted within his cottage nearby, seldom venturing out. Indeed, if Rane hadn't made a habit of bringing him food once a week, he doubted the man would see himself properly fed. As for getting him to set foot in the cursed church again…
He glanced at the lass, noticing the way her dark lashes lay gently upon her cheek, how her sweet lips parted in slumber. She looked so tiny, so defenseless. He dared not abandon her to fetch the Father, not while she lay helpless and danger lurked outside.
Rane was not a man to turn aside from those in need. Indeed, 'twas his own soft heart that had gotten him into this plight from the beginning. He'd already failed the hungry crofters. He'd not add to his faults by failing the lass.
Still, a huntsman couldn't hear her confession or grant her the right of sanctuary. Only a priest could do that.
A faint commotion outside interrupted his thoughts and brought him to his feet.
Riders. Several of them.
Were they the lass's pursuers?
He lunged for the candle, extinguishing its flame between thumb and finger, throwing the sanctuary into darkness again.
In a single movement he drew his knife and faced the door, his legs braced apart. 'Twas a pity he'd left his bow in the grass—'twas a far more formidable weapon. Outside, men's voices rose and fell on the air, their speech indistinct.
They rode past a number of times but never breached the door, probably because they believed in the curse of the church. Eventually they rode off. Still, Rane doubted they'd give up the hunt. The lass was a prize worthy of pursuit.
He frowned, sheathing his knife. With mounted trackers on the maiden's scent, venturing into the dark woods tonight was out of the question.
Rane would have to see to her safety himself. He might have no authority to grant her the protection of the church, but till morn he could at least offer her the defenses of his sharp ear and his keen eye.
To one side of the chancel sat the fridstool, the low stone chair that served as the seat of refuge. Surely she'd be safe enough there for the night. None would dare drag her from such a holy place. Not with Rane standing guard.
And he intended to stand guard. Piercing a woman's flesh with his arrow had shaken him more than he cared to admit. Now that he'd borne the lass to safety, a nausea born of shame grew in his gut. The sooner he could put this mortifying episode behind him, the better.
He'd hardly be missed. Rane spent half his nights betwixt the willing thighs of some maid or other in the burgh anyway, dragging back to Lord Gilbert's tower house in time for breakfast and some good-natured jesting from his fellows. No one would question his absence.
As he placed the lass gently beside the fridstool, she shivered in her sleep. He tucked her skirts in around her. Rane's Norse blood served him well against the cold, but the abandoned church was a chill and hearthless place. On the morrow he'd bring plaids for the lass's comfort. Until then, his wool cloak would have to suffice.
After she was snugly cocooned in his garment, he pulled out his leather costrel of ale, took a hearty swig, and then sat back against the fridstool to watch over her. Retrieving his belt, he ran his thumb over the dents her teeth had made in the leather. They'd serve as a bitter reminder of what his carelessness had cost.
In silence, he watched and waited until the deepening sky beyond the stained windows grew completely black…until Methuselah emerged from the vestry to go on his evening hunt…until distant wolves howled at the stars. The lass's pursuers never returned.
He must have drifted off after that, for he was startled awake in the middle of the night by the sound of rough breathing. He leaned close to the lass sleeping beside him. She was quivering. He reached out, found her hair, and traced his way to her forehead. She wasn't fevered, thank Odin, just cold.
Unfortunately, he had no more spare garments to give the lass. He'd lent her his shirt and cloak already, and he'd torn a good portion of his linen undershirt to make bandages. There was only one way to keep her warm.
He slipped beneath the cloak and stretched out beside her. Careful of her wound, he drew her small body back against his chest, enclosing her in his arms, stopping her shivers with the steam of his breath.
Despite their disparate size, she fit perfectly into the circle of his embrace. Her hair, soft and fragrant under his chin, grazed his chest where his shirt gapped away. Her body felt lissome and yielding beneath his arm, and where her buttocks were nestled against him, his loins, oblivious to his honorable intentions, warmed and stirred of their own accord.
There was nothing like the comfort of a lass in one's arms.
Still, Rane wasn't a man to be ruled by the beast betwixt his legs. He'd sworn to take care of her, to protect her. And he intended to do just that.
He tightened his arms about her. For now he'd shield her from the cold. Then, when the time came, he'd protect her against whatever whoresons had chased her into sanctuary.
Lady Mavis Fraser, quivering with frustration and rage, paced her drafty solar. The leather soles of the new shoes she'd bought at the Selkirk Fair clapped against her heels. She clenched her fists in her ocher velvet skirts as she wheeled, making them swirl about her like a swarm of angry hornets. She couldn't stop reliving her harrowing ordeal at the fair earlier with that horrid wench, an ordeal that her husband had refused to address with the proper concern at supper.
Her anger, of course, only masked a far more vulnerable emotion—nerve-racking dread. She'd recognized that pomander at the goldsmith's booth, not because she'd seen it before, but because she'd heard something about such a piece months ago from her husband's most trusted maidservant. At the time, Mavis had discounted the woman's account as the ramblings of an old crone bent on destroying her marriage. But today, there the thing had been, as real as her own hand, the entwined letters on the lid as familiar to her as the lines in her face. And Mavis had suddenly realized that if, by some chance, the owner of the pomander were still alive…
She'd wasted no time in purchasing the piece, not even quarreling over the price. She intended to have it melted down at once, so that no one would ever know it had existed.
But that damned wench had arrived then, and the instant Mavis caught sight of the dark-haired lass with the hauntingly familiar brown eyes, she realized the danger was even more immediate and grave than she'd imagined. The possessive brat and her bauble could well be the undoing of all Mavis's ambitions.
Of course, Gilbert mustn't learn any of that. One's past indiscretions had no bearing on the future. He must be told only that a gold piece had been stolen from Mavis. He was a simple man who saw only black and white, right and wrong. He hated to be bothered by what he deemed trivial. And at the moment, with the boy King Edward sitting on the English throne, Princess Mary avoiding his advances in Scotland, and the Borders under frequent attack because of it, a gold trinket seemed indeed trivial.
But for Mavis, it meant everything.
She twisted the wedding ring upon her finger, and the topaz flanked by gold initials appeared to wink at her with bemused scorn. Frowning, she turned it inward, clenching her fist around the gem as if to crush it.
Once, she'd been naive enough to believe she was untouchable. For years she'd been the secret darling of King Henry himself—a beloved spy who'd managed to charm her way into the Scots court, returning to Henry to appease his appetite for bed sport and information about the Scots royals. In the folly of her younger years, Mavis had even imagined one day bearing Henry a son and convincing him to take her to wife.
'Twas not unthinkable. The king flitted like a bee from flower to flower, after all, and Mavis had been beautiful and beguiling once.
But that had never happened.
Her fingers fluttered up to her throat, remembering what had befallen a few of his other wives. She supposed she should be glad the king had slipped her grasp and that she'd had the foresight, upon Henry's death, to let the Scots queen marry her off to the newly widowed Lord Gilbert Fraser.
Unfortunately, Gilbert, while a respectable catch, was also lord sheriff of the remote and savage burgh of Selkirk, which meant Mavis was effectively exiled from the Scots court. She'd lost not only Henry's protection, but also her contacts.
She shivered, silently cursing the crude tower house she was forced to live in now. Its only saving grace was its location along the Borders, which helped Mavis from becoming completely useless. There were a few ambitious Englishmen who'd made use of what bits of information she could pry out of her husband about the movements of the Scots royals.
But when that information led to a few well-planned English attacks, Gilbert became more tight-lipped, claiming he did so for Mavis's protection. After all, he'd told her with a loving kiss, she couldn't be held accountable for what she didn't know.
She remained unmoved by his gesture, as she'd learned to be with any overtures of affection, because last year, when King Henry had died, Mavis had discovered the bitter truth about men. She'd been little more than a cog in Henry's machine. He'd never acknowledged her service to the Crown. He'd left her no coin, no title, not even a bastard to raise.
She enjoyed precious little royal protection now. Once the favorite of a king, she'd been reduced to the lowly wife of a sheriff. Mavis had learned a painful lesson: if she wanted anything in this world, she'd have to seize it herself.
Starting with that gold pomander.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
"My lady?" Gilbert called.
She straightened. Perhaps her husband was finally ready to give her the attention she deserved.
Improvising, she snatched off her gable hood, loosening a few strategic strands of her honey hair. She withdrew a soft lawn napkin from her bodice and unlatched the door, letting it swing slowly open.
"Aye?" she said with a sniff, dabbing at invisible tears.
Gilbert frowned and entered the solar, closing the door behind him. "Do not weep, love," he said gently. "If ye can describe the piece, I'll have another made for ye."
"But I don't want another," she said, pursing her lips into a pout. "I want that one."
He sighed and came up behind her, placing placating hands upon her shoulders. "My men could not find the lass."
She twisted away from him. "Then they didn't look hard enough."
"They scoured the grounds. She just disappeared into the woods." He shook his head. "Maybe the English got her."
Mavis rounded on him, curling her lip. "She's a thief! Ye cannot let her… disappear!"
"Be reasonable, darlin'." He spoke to her in patronizing tones. "'Tis only a bauble."
"'Tisn't the point!" she cried, wadding the napkin in her fist. She was seething now with desperation, but she dared not let him know. She turned her back and let her shoulders droop, feigning hurt. "They were laughin' at me, Gilly," she said on a sob. "Ye should have seen them. The entire fair saw her snatch that girdle away from me as easy as stealin' a sweet from a bairn."
This time when Gilbert came up behind her, she let him comfort her while she wept softly into her napkin. She knew her husband's weaknesses all too well. If there was one thing he couldn't abide in his domain, 'twas disharmony.
"The folk here don't like me, Gilly. They've never liked me."
"Ach, 'tis not true, darlin'."
But she knew 'twas true. And with good reason. She didn't like them.
These vile Scots were as rough and stubborn as jackasses. If they would simply give up Princess Mary to be wed to King Edward, the killing would stop, no one would go hungry, and Mavis could focus on securing her future.
"'Tis true," she countered. "They hate me, and now they don't respect me either."
That touched a nerve. Gilbert's hands tensed upon her shoulders. "O' course they do."
"Not if a thief can get away with stealin' from me and pay no consequences." She drove the knife deeper. "And if they don't respect me, Gilly, how long will it be before they don't respect ye?"
That did the trick. And after a long and pensive silence, Gilbert gave her shoulders a decisive squeeze. "My men will find her. I'll round up my constables and have them look for her in the morn."
"The morn?" Mavis blurted out, turning to him, then carefully tempered her voice. "But she may be halfway to Edinburgh by then."
"They'll find her," he vowed, giving her a light kiss on the brow.
Mavis bit her lip as he exited the solar. Gilbert's promise wasn't good enough. Immediate action was necessary. Though she had few friends among the Scots here, there were still those among the English who were interested in Mavis's connections, who valued the unique usefulness of her position, who would, for a price, come to her aid tonight.