"I won't have them starin' at me like I'm a two-headed ox," she declared. "I'll wait in the vestry."
"Nae. Ye must stay at the fridstool."
Frustration hardened her features. "Stay here. Drink this. Hold still. Rane, ye're not my master. I'm not some grovelin' hound to do your—"
He unpinned his cloak and whirled it about her shoulders, pulling the hood well over her face, muffling the remainder of her words.
"There," he said. "Now they can't stare. But heed my words, ye must remain on this spot. If Lady Mavis suspects ye've fled, she'll send her men to look for ye," he warned her. "Better ye sit where ye belong than have them drag ye, kickin' and shriekin', through the nave."
He didn't want to frighten her, but he doubted the men would hesitate to lug Florie forcibly out of sanctuary at Mavis's imperious command.
She sulked, folding the cloak about her until nothing was visible but the tip of her stubborn chin. "If she dares utter a word about—"
His hand shot out to snag the folds of the cloak beneath her chin in one fist, commanding her attention. "Heed me well," he told her sternly. "Ye'll say nothin'. Ye'll not speak. Ye'll not whisper. Ye'll not… hiccough."
Her fingers scrabbled at his wrist, trying to pry him loose. "And ye'll not command me."
"Thor's thunder, lass!" he hissed, releasing her. "I tell ye this for your safety." He sniffed, straightening the wrinkles his fist had left in the cloak, softening his tone. Why could he not be his normal charming self with her? Maybe because he cared too much what happened to her. "Promise me, Florie. Promise me ye'll be silent for once."
"Ye're a fine one to speak o' promises," she muttered.
He supposed he deserved that. And he supposed, as usual, Florie would do as she willed. With a sigh of defeat, he turned to go.
"Wait!" she said. "Will ye…will ye stay here?" she asked, trying to sound indifferent but failing.
Her sudden vulnerability caught at his heart. "I have somethin' to attend to. But fear not, wee dove," he said. "I won't let them have ye. I swear it."
Then, on impulse, he leaned forward, peeling back the hood of the cloak to press a light kiss to her forehead. 'Twas nothing indeed, only a tender gesture of comfort, and yet it tempted him to so much more. Her skin was fragrant and soft and warm, and he had no trouble imagining brushing his lips across more of it. She might not remember their kiss before, but he could think of nothing else. Only with great reluctance did he withdraw, tugging the hood forward over her face again.
He joined the Father, who awaited the arrival of his unwelcome guests at the door. Glancing back at the little felon huddled upon the fridstool, Rane was struck again by how small she seemed, swallowed up by his cloak. Small and defenseless.
"Pray, Father, do not under any circumstances let them take her from this place," Rane said.
The priest frowned. "And where will ye go?"
Rane narrowed his eyes slyly. "I suspect there's a deer in the forest who'd like nothin' better than to serve as supper for a certain man o' God and a fugitive in sanctuary."
Father Conan gasped. "Ye'd… poach? On the Sabbath? Right under Lady Mavis's nose?"
Rane's smile was grim. "Can ye think of a more opportune time? The entire Fraser household will be held captive here till the end o' Mass." He propped his quiver and bow in a shadowed corner of the narthex, within easy reach when he decided to slip out of the church. "Just make certain your sermon is…sufficiently thorough."
The old priest tried to look stern, but amusement stole into the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. "Rane, lad," he confided, "I'd recite the entire Gospel for a bite o' roast venison."
Rane's kiss meant nothing, Florie told herself. 'Twas only a brotherly gesture, meant to lend comfort. She was no fool. Besides, she was vexed with him, wasn't she? He still hadn't addressed the matter of his vow. And yet her forehead tingled with the touch of his lips, and her heart raced as she inhaled the familiar rosemary scent of his cloak.
No one had kissed her like that—softly, tenderly—since her mother died. Oh, aye, men had made advances, usually when they were rutting drunk, but she'd never allowed a man to touch her. Wat, who would have fondled any willing lass, quickly learned how unwilling Florie was. Even her foster father, occasionally mistaking Florie for his lost wife, exhibited no more than a sort of pathetic lust, which was easy to fend off.
But Rane was different. He withheld nothing from her—neither his touch nor his emotions. He seemed to live life more fully, embracing it with body and heart. And for Florie, whose world was the narrow sphere of a goldsmith's shop, Rane offered a taste of adventure.
Lord, she thought, tucking her lip between her teeth, sometimes she longed to take that taste.
But that way lay ruin. She knew better than to let her emotions lead her actions. Every merchant knew the importance of keeping one's wits firmly engaged in any transaction. Her foster father's heartsick decline had proved the wisdom of that advice.
And yet a voice inside her, one that had been silent for years, whispered, Aye, Florie, aye.
Or maybe 'twas only the curious whisperings of the Fraser household, now filing into the church. One by one, they stopped and stared, hissing behind their hands and into one another's ears as she withdrew further into Rane's concealing cloak.
For Florie, accustomed to toiling in quiet obscurity at the back of her father's workshop, being on public display was more than unsettling. Before this swarm of murmuring strangers, she felt utterly naked. 'Twas an interminable ordeal of humiliation and disgrace.
"If only she'd confess her crime and surrender the piece," said a woman at the back of the babbling crowd, "she might save her soul."
Florie had met the lady only once, but Mavis's strident drawl was unmistakable. She didn't dare look, but she knew the lady would be wagging her beringed finger, her painted lips pursed in false compassion.
"Wherever are ye keepin' her, Father?" Lady Mavis inquired with false concern. "Where is the poor, misguided wench?"
Florie squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the suffocating press of the crowd. Do not speak, Rane had said. Do not speak.
"Gads!" Lady Mavis remarked in a loud whisper. "This is a rat's nest of a church, isn't it, my ladies? It must be crawlin' with vermin at night. I couldn't stay here a single day, let alone forty." She clucked her tongue. "Why would the miserable wretch abide in such filth, dyin' a slow death, when she could fall into the lovin' arms o' God with a simple confession?"
Florie bit her tongue. How could Rane expect her to be silent? Maybe he intended to speak in her defense. From the shadows of the hood, she scanned the back wall of the church where the archer had retreated. He was nowhere to be seen.
"Father Conan," Mavis inquired, "where have ye put the hapless wench?"
The Father's voice was laced with mild impatience at the stupid question. "On the fridstool, my lady, the seat o' refuge?"
Suddenly, Lady Mavis drew in an enormous gasp that seemed to suck all the air from the sanctuary. "Why, there she is, the miserable darlin'."
Florie stiffened.
Silent. She had promised to be silent.
Mavis widened her eyes at Florie, clasping a hand to her breast in a counterfeit show of sympathy. "Ach, sweetin', ye look half-dead already. Will ye not do the right thing and surrender to God's wi—"
"Introibo ad altare Dei," Father Conan chimed in loudly from the altar, effectively silencing Lady Mavis with the beginning of the Mass.
As soon as the congregation's attention focused on the priest, Florie breathed a relieved sigh. Soon, soothing syllables of Latin wound around the nave, and she let her hooded glance drift along the faces in the crowd until it lit again upon the figure of Lady Mavis.
The lady might have been pretty once, Florie decided, fair of skin and even-featured, just plump enough to be considered ripe. She was dressed with keen taste in garments of richly embroidered ocher velvet, which set off her bright gold hair. The gilt pendant and rings she wor
e, though neither excessive nor flamboyant, were expensive.
Yet nothing about the lady was pretty anymore. She appeared to have been born into a world that was a grand disillusionment to her, for resentment was etched into every feature. Her mouth was set in a permanent pout, as if nothing could ever please her, as if life had been an enormous disappointment and those around her inadequate to the task of repairing her ills. Even now, beneath brows gathered like the dark clouds of a pending storm, she looked out of eyes as hard as jet.
Somehow, though Lady Mavis could not possibly see through the thick layers of wool, her eyes seemed to fix with hatred upon Florie, as if by dint of will she might expose her, condemn her, curse her soul.
Unnerved, Florie scrabbled beneath the cloak until her fingers closed around her precious girdle, as if to ensure it remained on her person. She would never give the lady her heirloom, never.
The Mass seemed to drone on and on, far longer than any she'd attended in Stirling. The stone fridstool was not nearly as comfortable as her cushioned workbench. Though her thigh felt much improved—Rane had assured her she'd be turning cartwheels down the nave in a fortnight—her hips ached from sitting. She shifted on the fridstool, flexing her feet back and forth beneath the cloak, trying to keep the blood flowing.
Then, just as Father Conan voiced the final amen, all of a sudden her twitching toe was caught in Methuselah's sharp claws, and she shrieked, drawing her foot back. She clapped her hands over her mouth in dismay as her cry echoed over the amen.
The sanctuary fell deathly still. She squeezed her eyes shut in dread. So much for her promise to remain silent.
"By my faith!" Lady Mavis wasted no time filling the silence. "What sort o' godless whelp," she announced with shaking self-righteousness, "would screech in the middle o' Mass?"
'Twas upon Florie's lips to give her answer, but what trouble the naughty cat had started, he unwittingly solved. He trotted from the fridstool with his ears flat, sidling up with ingratiating elegance to the Father's cassock, and meowed loudly in complaint.
"Ah," she heard the priest say, "Methuselah's remindin' me o' two vital matters. First, ye may have wondered about our guest before ye."
Florie gulped.
"As ye know, the church has always been a place o' sanctuary for the oppressed, the outcast, the poor, the misguided—the wretched sinners among us. It happens our fridstool is occupied by one such unfortunate. I intend to pray on her behalf that she may find God's mercy and redemption. And I entreat ye, as well, that ye look upon her not with scorn and contempt," he said pointedly, "but with that same mercy in your heart that is the keystone o' the house o' the Lord."
If Florie's chin rose a bit smugly, she could hardly be blamed.
"Secondly, I have a request o' ye good folk. As ye can surely see, though my poor old eyes are unable to appreciate it, this crumblin' church stands in sad neglect. I have, maybe against sound judgment, deigned to return in the hopes o' resurrectin' what has fallen to ruin. But I cannot do so without the help o' generous souls such as yourselves. Our most pressin' need is concernin' the vestry, where are kept the sacred articles o' service. It must be guarded against intrusion. But alas, the vestry door has rotted away."
Florie's brows shot up. Rotted away? Rane had only yesterday confessed to the priest that he'd kicked in the door.
The priest continued blithely on. "The thing must be rebuilt. So I'd ask humbly that any among ye with a timber or two to spare donate it to the church. Our friend Rane has generously offered to perform the labor."
Florie heard a definite collective sigh at the mention of the archer's name, and she noted that several feminine heads swiveled, searching for the elusive Rane. She frowned. Maybe there was something to that Viking curse.
'Twas completely unexpected, the sharp pang of envy that gripped her at the thought. And yet 'twas undeniable. Somehow, whether through their mutual adversity or common affection or mere familiarity, she'd begun to think of the archer as her Rane. And suddenly she was loath to share him.
How many lasses before her, she wondered, had felt the brush of his gentle hand, tasted his tempting mouth, maybe even shared the warmth of his bed? The thought pricked at her mind like a lad prodding a hound with a stick as she watched the parishioners file out of the church.
Indeed, so preoccupied was she with not only the idea of all those admirers, but also the notion that she should even care, that she almost missed the furious bit of whispering at the church door. There, Lady Mavis accosted Father Conan, pointing vexedly in Florie's direction, and at last loudly demanded audience with the outlaw.
Florie welcomed the opportunity. Mass was over. No one save the lady and a few of her faithful companions lingered in the nave. Let the lady come. After all, Florie was safe in sanctuary. Now was her chance to speak her mind.
Then she remembered her promise to Rane. She'd sworn she'd say nothing. But how could she sit silently by while the lady insulted her, threatened her, accused her of crimes she hadn't committed? Rane, like her foster father, didn't understand. Florie's temper, like ale kept too long in the cask, would explode if she didn't drain it off on occasion.
Still, Florie was a person of her word. She'd vowed she wouldn't speak. Torn between defending her honor and keeping her oath, she at last settled on a satisfactory compromise. After all, there were other ways of making her point.
Lady Mavis gave a simpering smile for the benefit of her ladies. "I only wish to see if I might persuade the lass to return what she stole from me, Father, to erase the stain upon her soul so she may die without sin."
As Mavis cast cunning eyes in her direction, Florie, smiling grimly and raising her chin in challenge, slowly opened the edges of the cloak to reveal her mother's girdle, gold and brazen and winking like a taunt at her hips.
Lady Mavis flushed as purple as amethyst. Her cheeks quivered, and she sputtered in rage. Were it not for Father Conan's placating grip upon the noblewoman's arm, she might have barreled forward to strangle Florie with her own hands. But despite the lady's apoplexy, or maybe because the priest was blind to it, he didn't bow beneath her demands. Florie saw him smile, shake his head in apology, and make the sign of the cross.
Mavis hissed across the nave, "I'll see ye hang if ye don't starve to death first." She wheeled with a regal sweep of her skirts and slammed the door on her way out, hard enough to crack one of the hinges.
When she'd gone, the priest came to lend Florie reassurance. "Don't let Lady Mavis's overbearin' nature frighten ye, m'lady. She cannot violate the sanctity o' the church."
But his words were meager comfort, and Florie wondered if she hadn't been unwise to goad the lady. She'd seen the threat in Lady Mavis's eyes. She didn't seem the sort to let stone church walls or the slow wheels of justice or even God's will interfere with her thirst for vengeance.
Florie had to escape. Very soon. Aye, she'd wait until she was healed and the English were gone. But then she must flee Selkirk.
Rane's grip wavered as he aimed his quarrel behind the shoulder of the grazing stag. He compressed his lips into a grim line, deciding he must have a wish for death, or an affinity for irony, to flagrantly poach in Ettrick Forest by the full light of day while the Frasers attended Mass not half a mile away.
Yet what could be more favorable? Florie was protected by a sanctuary full of witnesses, and as long as they stayed within, no one could mount guard over the forest. By God's good grace, Rane would find enough game to feed a few families until next Sabbath.
But there was another reason Rane hunted. He needed to prove to himself that his unfortunate accident with Florie hadn't ruined his hunting skills.
A half mile into the woods, a break in the canopy of trees allowed enough sunlight to keep a patch of meadow growing. A scattering of fresh deer spoor marked the narrow trail running along its perimeter. No doubt the tender clover provided a tasty feast for the forest dwellers.
Climbing a sturdy elm with a split trunk, he chose a vantage po
int in the crook, rested his bow upon his thigh, and waited.
He heard the soft foraging of the beast long before he saw it—the subtle rustle of reeds nuzzled aside to gain access to the young clover beneath. Rane eased an arrow into the bowstring and slowly pulled back. To his relief, his arms remained as steady as stone.
In another moment the deer's moist nose would emerge from behind the brush, and Rane would be perfectly positioned to take the unwary animal.
Cautiously, the stag appeared, its pale antlers mimicking the branches of the surrounding trees. It stepped cautiously forward, froze, swiveled its long ears about to listen for sounds of danger. But Rane was absolutely silent.
Another step and the creature would be completely exposed. It lowered its head to nibble at the sweet clover.
Now! Rane thought. He should loose his arrow now. One deer could mean the difference between life and death for a crofter's family. The animal was out in the open, a broad target, unaware 'twas being stalked. One well-aimed quarrel would kill it instantly, and he could have it gutted and skinned before it grew cold. Now!
But when the stag lifted its head and looked straight at him, its gaze wide and guileless, its flank smooth and unblemished, Rane saw only Florie, innocent and untouched, and his aim faltered.
He swallowed hard. He could do this. He must do this.
He closed his eyes tight, then, with renewed determination, opened them again. The stag's eyes were alert now, its ears forward, its haunches poised to bolt.
But though Rane clenched his jaw and furrowed his brow and cursed silently, demanding it of himself, he could not force his fingers to let the arrow fly. And then his arms began to shake.
"Bloody hell!"
His oath startled the deer, and it bounded away. Horrified and angered by his body's betrayal, Rane dropped the bow to the ground as if 'twere made of molten lead.
"Ballocks!"
He glared down at his trusty weapon, then at his quivering hands. He didn't want to think about what had just happened. Surely 'twas only a passing malady, a short-lived impotence. And yet dire eventualities managed to seep into his thoughts like poison.
MacFarland's Lass Page 14
