MacFarland's Lass

by Campbell, Glynnis

  "I pray ye," she murmured. "I know what I'm doin'. And I trust ye'll be gentle. Please."

  'Twas all the convincing his starving body needed. Let Florie claim him, he thought. Let her own him. Later he'd sort out matters of the heart, carefully, tenderly. But for tonight, he'd let her possess him, heart and soul.

  In one drenching sweep, he pulled her from the bath, naked and slippery in his arms. While she clung to him, he quickly wrapped several linens about her against the chill. His gaze swept the perimeter of the sanctuary, seeking a place for their coupling. By the fierce raging in his braies, he'd be content to take her against the door of the church.

  But he was neither beast nor berserker. A church was no place for trysting.

  Nae, he'd take her into the forest and lay her upon a soft bed of moss, amid the sweet scent of spring clover and bay, beneath a thousand star candles. Their cries of release would be muffled by brush and branch, fern and leaf-fall.

  Stopping to gather several plaids for warmth, he carried her from the church, finding his way in the shadowy night with the unerring instincts of a woodsman.

  He found a place not far into the trees, a small clearing where the three-quarter moon shone softly down through the leafy elms and the grass grew thick and lush. Spreading the largest plaid, he knelt to lay Florie gently upon the forest bed, hovering close above her to keep the chill away.

  'Twas tempting to take her swiftly. His body was primed for the hunt, and 'twas clear her desires were likewise inflamed. But Florie was not a milkmaid to be quickly tumbled in the hay. Nor was she a worldly noblewoman accustomed to hurried trysts.

  So he took a deep, calming breath and willed himself to be patient.

  She shivered once beneath him.

  "Are ye frightened?" he whispered.

  "Nae, only cold."

  Her words were sweet invitation. "Let me warm ye," he murmured. Bracing himself on an elbow, he peeled back the layers of damp linen from her one by one until she lay naked in the moonlight. Then he dragged one of the plaids over her so that the soft wool caressed her bare skin. He quickly removed his boots, untied his hose, and pulled off his shirt, stripping down to his braies. The cold didn't begin to pierce his fiery Viking hide, but, not wishing to frighten Florie with the sight of his engorged staff, he ducked beneath the plaid before slipping his braies from his hips.

  He felt the heat of her before their flesh even touched, like the radiance from a glowing iron set by the hearth.

  "Let me warm ye, Florie," he breathed again.

  Then he stretched atop the full length of her until their bodies kissed in the most intimate of embraces. Everywhere their flesh touched, warmth bloomed between them, petals of fire opening and spreading and bringing instant heat to the cool spring night.

  Florie released an impassioned sigh, and he sucked it at once between his teeth, hissing like hot steel plunged into water. 'Twas a painful ecstasy, like searing flame in the midst of snow, yet he reveled in the fiery torment of her silken skin, urged on with nearly unbearable restraint to seek the deeper heat waiting within her.

  "Ah, Florie…" He cradled her head in his hand, then let his own drop weakly beside hers.

  As if the mere heat of feminine flesh upon him were not enough to tempt him to incaution, Florie began to move beneath him, luxuriating in the delicious friction with innocent impatience.

  "Oh… aye," she gasped. "Aye…"

  At her words, Rane's thoughts bolted like a wild beast, and 'twas all he could do to harness them. Yet somehow he managed, despite his fell frenzy of desire, to think of her needs first. He parted from her long enough to insinuate one hand between them, seeking out the soft, damp curls guarding her maidenhead. She moaned, instantly arching up to welcome his touch.

  "Aye… aye…" Her voice was sultry, beckoning, irresistible.

  "Nae." He needed to prepare her. She was such a wee thing. Marry, if he hurt her again, he'd never forgive himself. He needed time to ease the way.

  Yet she gave him none.

  "Aye," she insisted, thrusting her hips upward until his fingers trespassed into the sleek folds of her womanhood.

  He groaned. Ah, faith. He'd intended to moisten her, but she was already wet, slick with lust. His staff, drenched in that same nectar, surged in anticipation.

  "Aye," she gasped.

  He slipped a finger within her, letting his thumb circle over the delicate bud above. 'Twas difficult keeping his desires at bay while he prepared her to receive them. But Rane was not, as Florie had once accused him, a man with no finesse. He could be gentle, even under such enormous pressure.

  What he hadn't counted upon was Florie's eagerness and her unpredictability. As he pushed patiently inward, she suddenly thrust her hips up, plunging his finger deep within, impaling herself on him with a sharp cry.

  Silently cursing, he did the only thing he could—remained very still, waiting for her to adjust to the invasion. "I'm sorry, love," he breathed, though indeed 'twas not his fault. After a moment, in the hopes of distracting her from the pain, he resumed pleasuring her with his thumb.

  Very soon her gasps sweetened, breaking softly against his cheek. And when he finally moved within her again, she arched tentatively counter to his slow thrusts, looping her arms up around his neck in forgiveness and welcome.

  "Don't be sorry," she murmured.

  Her gaze rested upon his mouth, and he answered her wordless request, lowering his head to bestow a kiss upon her trembling lips.

  Then he withdrew his hand to guide his aching staff where it most longed to go. As he at last slid within her, she groaned in a slow ecstasy that echoed his own. And then he was lost…

  Florie had thought it couldn't get any better, but this…this union, this perfect melding of flesh with flesh like two metals blending, made her feel as if she touched heaven. He was so large within her that she should be torn in two, and yet somehow she accommodated him, stretching to a sensual tautness that left her even more sensitive to his movements. The momentary pain had vanished now, and there were no words to describe the sense of completion, of wholeness, of homecoming she felt as he gathered her against him, touching her everywhere, pulsing rhythmically into her as if 'twould make their hearts beat together.

  She let her eyes drift open, looking past his shoulder into the diamond-studded ebony sky. The night was cold. Her gasps made soft puffs of mist upon the air. But the heat of Rane's body, of her own passion as she writhed hungrily beneath him, warmed her. 'Twas perfect, she decided, the cool evening, the jewel stars, the yielding bed of leaves, the scent of flower and moss and laurel. 'Twas a night she'd never forget.

  And then her yearning began to wax again. Just as she'd adjusted to Rane's encroachment, accepted his full embrace, learned his dance, the hot core of her desire awakened. No longer was she the willing receptacle of his adoration. No longer did she await his pleasure. Nae, she began to strain upward of her own accord, greedily seeking, not to grant him his release, but to claim her own. Again.

  She clutched at him everywhere, digging her fingers into his shoulders and back, pressing her brow against his collarbone, unable to will where she touched him, what she did. All she knew was that she hungered, more fiercely than before, that she must feed this hunger, and that Rane was the source of her sustenance.

  Ah, God, she needed to be closer, closer. She wrapped her legs about his hips, drawing him into her body, into her soul.

  "Florie…I can't hold on much…," he gasped. Then he began to grunt hoarsely in her ear, a groan of pure animal need that inflamed her blood and charged her senses, driving her half-mad with pleasure.

  The sensation sharpened, intensifying until the torturous craving gripped her again, leaving her wanting for air, holding her still to endure what was to come. But this time the yearning ran far deeper…

  And then her body, her mind, her spirit splintered into a thousand pieces.

  Rane's voice was almost a sob as he buried his face in her hair, lunging forwar
d. The timbre of that one sound—at once sweet and bitter, powerful and vulnerable—moved her beyond the sphere of space and time, beyond the world, as if she danced on air among the diamond stars glittering overhead.

  And then they tumbled from the heavens together, like jewels spilling across the velvet sky—their bodies entwined, their breath mingling, their hearts pulsing in tandem—until they lay nestled again on the soft and welcoming earth.

  Slowly Florie became aware of the cool night once more, of the crisp smell of the forest. But this time the chill was diminished by Rane's warm embrace. And now the air was redolent with the musky scent of their coupling.

  "Florie," Rane breathed, bedewing her face with fine mist.

  "Rane," she sighed in reply, amazed and sated and happy. Gloriously happy.

  'Twas a brazen thing she'd done, surrendering her maidenhood so impulsively, and yet the moment and the man could not have been more perfect. She'd remember her union with Rane, her ravaging Viking, as long as she lived.

  If by chance a tear slipped out from beneath her lashes just then, 'twas surely a tear of gladness, she told herself. There was nothing to regret. Though soon Rane would go his way and Florie hers, she'd hold this precious memory in her heart forever.

  Chapter 17

  Florie could hardly think straight during Sabbath Mass. If she had, she might have noticed the telling smirk on Lady Mavis's face, the quiet, calculating expression that, like the strange peace before a storm, foretold danger. But instead, thoughts of Rane intruded upon Florie's prayers, and as she sat on the fridstool, wrapped in the sylvan scent of his cloak, the sensual remembrance warmed her cheeks, washed over her flesh, and threatened to melt her bones.

  She felt…transformed.

  'Twas just as well he'd gone hunting again during the service, for already she yearned for him beyond all wisdom. She missed his sly smile, his wry words, his clever touch. Her lass's body craved him again. But most troubling of all, there was a wistful longing for him where her heart resided.

  So lost was she in her brooding that she took no notice at first when the Father's gentle words broke into her thoughts.

  "My child."

  She started, then pushed back her hood, surprised to find Mass over and the sanctuary empty. "Aye?"

  "I crave a word with ye, lass." The Father leaned upon his walking staff and frowned several times, as if he didn't know how to begin. Then he said, "Ye know 'tis a serious crime o' which ye're accused."

  "Aye." She straightened. "And ye know I'm innocent."

  "I believe ye, lass," he was quick to assure her. Then he sighed thoughtfully. "But what ye don't know is with whom ye barter."

  "Lord Gilbert?" She thought she knew him rather well. He was like a lot of the nobles she'd met—haughty, stern, domineering. But surely he was reasonable as well. After all, it took a man of some character to act as sheriff.

  "Nae. Lady Mavis. She's the one who steers your fate while Gilbert is away."

  Florie was used to tyrannical noblewomen as well. "I'm not afraid o' her."

  "Ye should be."

  "But I'm in the right, Father. I didn't steal anythin' from her. The piece was sold in error. And I returned her coin."

  "Aye, lass, but ye see, Lady Mavis," he said, visibly searching his mind for the right words, "Lady Mavis is like a hound that's caught a whiff o' some choice prey. She'll give chase, lass, until she runs ye to ground." He brought his bushy white brows together. "She'll plague ye until she has what she wants."

  Mavis might be persistent, but Florie was just as stubborn. "She cannot have my pomander."

  Impatience twisted Father Conan's normally cheery features, and his voice was uncharacteristically harsh. "Heed me well, lass. This is no petty quarrel 'tween quibblin' sisters."

  "I know that."

  "Ye cannot be hopin' for witnesses. No man would be fool enough to go against Lady Mavis."

  "I know that as well."

  "Do ye know she'd kill ye for the piece?"

  "Kill me?" Florie's eyes widened, but she kept her tone light. "But she cannot. I'm in sanctuary, and until—"

  "Here's what I advise," the priest sighed. "Give her the thing and—"

  "Nae!"

  "Lass, 'tis but a bauble."

  Never. She would never give it up. "'Tis more than that. 'Tis…"

  "Aye?"

  How could she tell him that her destiny resided in a chain of gold links? That the pomander represented her hope of escaping a troubled household where her drunk and delusional foster father, mistaking her for his dead wife, tried to crawl into bed with her every few nights? Faith, she couldn't tell the priest that.

  She didn't even try. Crossing her arms solidly over her chest, she insisted, "She cannot have it."

  Despite his blindness, Father Conan seemed to gaze down at her with displeasure, disappointment, and disgust. "'Tis not only your life that hangs in the balance, lass," he grumbled. "Ye've put our friend Rane at risk as well."

  The priest's words stole the wind from her proud sails. She hadn't thought of Rane in that way before. Her shoulders dropped with the weight of the truth, and her arms unfolded onto her lap.

  The Father was right.

  Rane had already defied Lady Mavis by caring for Florie when the lady would prefer she starve. By holding him to his vow to help her escape, Florie was dragging him into her battle, making him an accomplice to her crime.

  She had to let him go. This wasn't his fight. She could no longer put him in danger. He'd been too kind to say nay to her, too decent to abandon her or let her starve. But 'twas too much to ask that he aid in her flight, no matter what he'd promised.

  He'd done much for her already. She could ask no more of him. Aye, she would let him go, push him away if she must.

  Her heart seized with pain at the thought, and 'twas the magnitude of that pain that made her realize she must leave him, for whether she willed it or not, she had fallen in love with the cursed Viking.

  "Now I've sent the lad on errands for the day," the Father told her. "He'll not return till nightfall. I want ye to think on things a while, lass. Ye're a merchant. Surely ye can see 'tis not a sensible bargain—your life for a shiny trinket."

  Floried sighed. Father Conan must think her a shallow lass. But of course, he didn't know the entire story—why she'd come to Selkirk, whom she sought, why she couldn't surrender the pomander…not that it would matter if he knew. There was nothing the priest could change. Lady Mavis wouldn't care that the pomander was of utmost importance to Florie. After forty days Florie would still be tried and, according to Father Conan, be found guilty.

  Nae, there was no hope but to escape…on her own.

  No regrets. She said the words over and over mentally as she tightened the laces of her bloodstained kirtle, as if repetition would make them true.

  But her chest felt hollow, and unshed tears stung her eyes.

  She picked up the precious gold pomander, running her fingers over the carved initials, wondering if 'twas truly worth all she risked. Should she surrender the piece as the priest suggested, give up her quest for her noble sire, return to her life of dodging the advances of the worthless foster father she was forced to support?

  The image of the once talented goldsmith, unwashed and unshaven, snoring away the day while she labored at the workbench, made despair settle over her like a lead cloak. Nae, the only way she could bear the thought of going home to Stirling was if she held on to the hope that she might return to Selkirk one day and find her real father.

  Before she could change her mind, she stuffed the girdle into the satchel, along with her rings—the few she hadn't given to Father Conan to buy food for the peasants, and her brooch, which, she realized ruefully, still bore a rust-colored stain from stabbing Rane.

  The rest of the things she'd been given—the woad kirtle, the soap, the comb, the plaids—she left. No one would be able to claim later that she'd stolen a thing.

  Indeed, it felt more like she left beh
ind a part of her.

  Her heart ached at the thought, and an errant tear seeped from the corner of her eye. Damn! She dared not weep aloud, not while the priest was working in the vestry, putting away the Sabbath service. She wiped the drop away before it could fall, but 'twas not so easy to wipe away the bittersweet memories that barraged her mind, memories of Rane's wry smile, his sultry gaze, his healing touch…

  God's wounds, how could she ever bear to leave him after last night?

  To her dismay, tears welled up too quickly to stem the tide, so she let them stream silently down her cheeks, let them blur her vision, soften the world, and wash the sanctuary to a vague memory of stone and wood, glass and candlelight.

  She understood now. This was the feeling that had made her mother cry endlessly into her pillow, the feeling that had turned her father into a weeping drunkard. 'Twas far worse than any physical pain, worse than the arrow shot into her thigh, worse than the scalding she'd suffered. Surely her heart had cracked in two, for anguish flowed like blood from a wound, drenching her in despair.

  Indeed, the only thing that gave her the strength to shoulder the satchel and place one foot in front of the other toward the church door, the only thing keeping her from throwing herself onto the stones and sobbing her eyes dry, was the knowledge that to Rane she was like any other lass he'd tumbled. He could leave her without a backward glance.

  She wished she could say goodbye…and thank him…and tell him she'd never forget him. But there'd be no opportunity. And even given the chance, she knew she couldn't face him with the fact of her leaving. He might urge her to stay. And, God help her, she wasn't certain he wouldn't convince her to do just that, wisdom be damned.

  Nae, 'twas surely providence that the priest had sent Rane away this day, that the only witness to her escape was blind.

  Casting one cautious look back toward the altar as she reached the door, she made the sign of the cross, took a ragged breath, and crossed over the threshold…out of sanctuary.

  Her heart pounding, she scanned the twilit forest for danger, half expecting a pack of Hertford's marauders to come bursting out of the trees.