"I want to marry ye."
Rane felt the world stop. He'd heard those words countless times from countless adoring mouths. Lasses proclaimed their marriage intentions to him all the time. He knew 'twas meaningless, inspired by fleeting infatuation or spoken in the heat of passion. But Florie's sweet lips gave the phrase new meaning. 'Twas not easy for her, and that made it all the more precious.
He wanted to sweep her up into his arms with joy, ravish her mouth, kiss every strand of her hair, run his hands over every inch of her body until she had to beg for freedom.
He wanted to, but he resisted.
She didn't belong to him. She'd never belong to him.
Aye, they'd trysted, and it seemed to Rane that he'd never loved so deeply, so completely, never soared so close to heaven. Far beyond mere affection, far beyond lust, their very souls had mated. At the time it had felt like a marriage of their hearts, as though their spirits had become eternally entwined.
But that was when she'd been Florie the goldsmith's apprentice.
When Florie the noblewoman went hunting for love, lasting love, she'd surely aim for more prized prey.
Somehow he managed to smile through his pain. Somehow he summoned the strength to reply, even though his heart felt fractured into a thousand shards. "Don't worry," he said with a wink, his light tone belying the bitterness of his words. "I'm sure you'll be free o' the curse once you're free o'—"
Interrupted by a loud thunk upon the church door, Rane was saved from witnessing the disillusionment in Florie's eyes. And when the door swung open he instantly became her guardian, hauling her behind him and drawing his dagger.
But 'twas only Father Conan who barreled in, muttering and shoving the door shut behind him. "Keep me out o' my own church, will they?" he huffed.
"Father!" Florie called.
"They let ye in?" Rane asked.
"I'll be damned if I'll be barred from my own house," the priest said, pausing to make the sign of the cross so the Lord wouldn't take him too seriously about the damning.
He dusted off his sleeves and hobbled forward faster than Rane had seen him do in a long while. The priest's blood was obviously heated for battle.
"Layin' siege to a church!" he grumbled. "What in the name o' the Holy Mother is goin' on?"
Rane put away his blade. "Lord Gilbert's been delayed. In his absence Lady Mavis—"
"Mavis?" He stopped, his snowy brows shooting up. "Mavis! O' course!" the priest fumed. Rane had never seen him quite so full of wrath. "Who does she think she is? The bloody queen?" Resuming his pacing, he nonetheless began genuflecting again, mumbling words of contrition between bouts of cursing.
"Father," Rane said gently, "until this is over, I think 'twould be best if ye stayed away from here, out o' danger. 'Tis no place for an old man. Go home," he urged.
"Nae!" the priest roared, as much of a roar as his feeble lungs could muster. "I'll not stand by while this travesty o' sanctuary continues. A siege indeed! 'Tis an abomination in God's eyes! Nae, my work is here, and by God—"
He gasped, clutching one hand against his chest, and staggered back against the wall. Rane rushed forward, Florie close behind him.
"Father!" she cried. "Are ye all right?"
Rane grasped the man's bony shoulders, holding him upright. He didn't look well. His face was red, he wheezed, and his limbs trembled with agitation.
After a harrowing span of time, he finally calmed, blowing out a few long breaths. "I'll be fine."
Rane was not convinced, and from her meaningful look, neither was Florie. "Father," he said, "I pray ye go home. Ye should go somewhere…safe."
"But that's just it, lad," the priest rasped, lifting his quaking hand to place it over Rane's heart. "If one cannot be safe in a church…"
Rane clasped his hand over Father Conan's. The priest was right, of course. No mere mortal should be able to challenge God's authority.
"Besides," the priest continued, with a trace of a twinkle in his milky eyes, "ye're the one who dragged me back into this forsaken place. Are ye goin' to shoo me back out, then?"
Rane sighed, patting the Father's hand. He'd already appointed himself guardian to an outlaw. He supposed he could watch over a blind priest as well. "All right."
"Ye may be happy to know," the Father added with a sly grin, reaching into his robe to pull out a bulging satchel, "I've brought a little siege relief."
Rane gaped in amazement. The blessed Father had sneaked in a bundle of provisions.
"From the good folk o' Selkirk," Father Conan explained.
The four of them dined well that night, the three humans and Methuselah, despite the threat that surrounded them like a dark cloud. While Rane sipped at the smooth mead Dame Margaret had sent along, prayed softly with the priest by candlelight, and, after Father Conan dozed off, played at hnefatafl with Florie, he could almost imagine 'twas a pleasant, peaceful evening they enjoyed in their own cottage.
But 'twas only fantasy. And that was made clear when the peace was shattered sometime in the hours past midnight.
Rane's nose twitched. He was dreaming of venison roasting over the fire, a fat three-point buck he'd shot with a single well-placed arrow. The night was warm, the sky sprinkled with glittering stars. A gentle breeze tickled the flame higher, and Rane's mouth watered as the sweet wood smoke filled his nostrils.
'Twas Father Conan's coughing that woke him fully.
Rane opened his eyes. The sanctuary glowed with strange light. He craned his head to glance up at the candle, but it had gone out. He eased up on an elbow. The smell of his dream lingered, and for one brief instant he wondered if he was still asleep.
Then he saw the tendrils of flame curling beneath the door.
He sat bolt upright.
The church was on fire!
Grotesque shadows danced along the lower edges of the windows, and by the eerie yellow light Rane could see the rafters filling with smoke.
"Florie!" he yelled. "Father!"
Florie scrambled to her feet at once. "Oh, God!" she gasped. "Fire!"
The Father awoke and began wheezing, unable to catch his breath.
"We have to get him out," Florie said, mastering her panic, echoing Rane's thoughts.
Rane nodded. In his condition, the Father would not last long in the smoke.
He frowned. Where the bloody hell were the Fraser men?
'Twas impossible to leave by the door. 'Twas entirely enveloped in flame.
He glanced at the windows. He'd have to break one and hope he could lift the Father over the ledge and safely drop him onto the ground.
In an instant he swept up his bow, fitted it with an arrow, and shot through a brilliant blue pane.
But as soon as the window burst, the fire roared in like a dragon unleashed, lapping at the plaster with its fiery tongue as if it tasted ambrosia.
Rane cursed. The fire had been burning for some time, and the smoke was thickening with startling speed, the yellow cloud dropping lower and lower in the sanctuary. He snatched up the woolen plaids and handed them to Florie, indicating to her to cover her mouth, to breathe through the fabric. She nodded and helped the Father with a plaid.
Whether 'twas wise or not, Rane had to shoot out the other windows to see if there was a possible escape. He couldn't let them become trapped inside.
Thor's hammer! Where were the Frasers?
His five arrows quickly found their marks, splintering the glass. Just as swiftly, five snarling beasts of fire entered in through the portals. There was no exit.
Rane lowered his bow. Without help from the outside, there was no water to quench the fiery dragon's thirst, only wood and plaster to feed it.
And there was no escape but through the dragon's belly.
They were doomed.
Chapter 20
'Twas Florie who thought of the storage room. Soon it, too, would fill with smoke, but for a while at least, the closed room would protect the Father, who coughed uncontrollably now.
>
"Aye! Go!" Rane shouted, yelling to be heard above the ungodly howl of the fire.
They stumbled toward the haven of the storage room, and Rane hurried them through the passage. The ax he'd used to split wood for the vestry door leaned against the wall. He scowled at it, his thoughts racing. If he could hack open the church door before smoke overwhelmed the sanctuary, they might have a chance at escape.
"Where are ye goin'?" Florie asked in panic, somehow sensing he meant to leave them.
He hefted up the ax. "To kill the beast," he said.
"Nae!" she screamed.
Her cry clawed at his heart, but he couldn't afford to heed it. Every instant was precious.
He sent her one last look of fierce determination and fiercer love, a look that told her he was doing what he had to do. "I love ye, Florie," he said. "Never forget." Then he closed the door and squinted through the roiling smoke toward the fiery foe at the far end of the sanctuary.
He stalked toward the door like his fearless Viking forbears, letting rage fuel his advance until he was almost at a run. The orange dragon roared and bellowed in challenge, its fervor so intense that rivulets of sweat poured down Rane's face as he neared.
Then, gathering all his fury, all his outrage, all his strength, he charged the burning door, swinging the great ax with such force that when it struck, it shook the foundations of the church.
The door should have burst. The fact that it didn't meant that someone had sealed it shut. Someone meant for them to burn alive.
He shuddered with rage. The fire seared his skin, but he held on to the ax handle. He worked the blade free and backed away from the door, coughing as the ubiquitous smoke filled his lungs. 'Twas impossible to tell what damage he'd done. The door was so engulfed in flame that it flared brighter than the sun.
Again he rushed toward the door, blindly chopping at the burning oak. This time he thought he felt the wood yield, but as the beast sampled his flesh again, blistering his hands and scorching his brows, he was forced to retreat.
He doubled over with the force of his coughing. Tears streamed from his eyes as he blinked back the stinging smoke. He sank low, seeking whatever sweet air remained near the ground, took a deep gulp, then came up once more with the ax.
This time when he buried the ax in the door, sparks scattered, like teeth punched from the dragon's maw. Several of them lodged in his shirt, smoldering and burning tiny holes there.
The walls wavered in the unbearable heat like demon children taunting him, growing blacker and blacker as the smoke curled up against them. Then, over his head, an ominous rumble slowly ran the length of the sanctuary, as if the church itself groaned in anguish. Rane's gaze followed the sound as it traveled toward the altar.
"Nae," he choked out. Despair thicker than the ocher smoke smothered him. He couldn't even see the altar now. 'Twas completely enveloped in the dense cloud of Loki's breath. Surely Florie and the Father would suffocate.
He'd failed. Bloody hell, he'd failed.
His hair crisp, his clothing smoking, his skin charred, with one last bitter oath and the last of his failing strength, Rane stormed toward the door and embedded the ax deep into the wood.
'Twas the last thing he remembered.
"Rane. Rane. Wake up, Rane."
Sweet Valkyrie were calling him.
He wanted to wake up. Their voices sounded so soft, so gentle. But he had no strength.
Something poked at his side. He grunted. It jabbed him again, harder.
"Get up, ye worthless bastard."
Rane frowned. That was no Valkyrie. 'Twas Lady Mavis. He'd recognize her caustic whine anywhere. Even in Valhalla.
Nae, he decided, it must not be Valhalla, after all. Lady Mavis could never steal through the gates of the Viking heaven.
He felt a sharp blow to his ribs then, followed by several feminine gasps. He groaned, rolling onto his side in pain. Slowly he opened his eyes. They stung, and his throat stung, and against his will he began coughing, an ugly, hacking cough that rattled his bones.
"Where is she?" Mavis sneered.
Frigg, where was he?
He wheezed in a breath of cool, moist air. He was outdoors. He knew that much. The smell of wet earth permeated his nostrils. But his eyes were so dry, he could hardly see. A few raindrops struck his cheek and forehead. There must be clouds overhead. But the sky seemed so bright. Odin's wounds, he longed to close his eyes and return to blessed oblivion.
"Where is your doxy?"
She kicked him again, and this time he rolled onto his belly, fully awake and aware and in agony as memory rushed back too swiftly.
Florie. The fire. Bloody hell.
"Where is she?" he cried hoarsely, struggling to rise.
"Ye fool!" Mavis snapped. "Don't pretend ye don't know."
He peered through burning eyes at the fuzzy crowd of people gathered beneath the trees, then turned to see what was left of the church. The roof had collapsed. Someone must have dragged him to safety. But all that remained of the structure—the vestry, the altar, the nave, the storage room—were smoldering black beams and cracked stone. His heart seized. Had Florie survived the fire? Could they have possibly escaped the destructive inferno?
"Rane!" one of the maids sobbed. "Tell her what she wants to know."
'Twas the ladies of the burgh, keeping a safe distance from Lady Mavis, but present nonetheless. He staggered to his feet. Maybe one of them knew what had happened to Florie. "Have ye seen—"
"Answer me now, huntsman," Mavis barked, "or I'll string ye up in her stead!"
The ladies gasped and sobbed and carried on at Lady Mavis's words. But her threat was meaningless to Rane. If Florie was dead, he didn't care if she tore him limb from limb.
He turned in a slow circle, perusing the faces of the onlookers, searching for her familiar countenance. His gaze landed on the captain of the guard, who shifted uneasily from foot to foot, twisting his doffed coif in his fists.
"Did ye…" Rane asked him, squinting in confusion, "did ye set the church afire?"
"Nae!" he replied vehemently, casting a wary glance toward Lady Mavis, rushing to explain before she could hush him. "We were lured away by a pair of English spies. 'Twas…somebody else who did her biddin'. 'Tis unholy, unholy to do such a thing, to set fire to a—"
"Silence!" Mavis screeched, her eyes wild like a frightened mare's. "Ye'll hang beside him, ye treasonous patch!" She was breathing heavily now, as if simultaneously excited and terrified. "Besides, 'twas likely…lightnin' that started the fire."
Rane's mind might be dazed, but he could read Mavis's crafty eyes well enough. The rumble he'd heard last night might have indeed been thunder, but the fire had been no accident. Mavis had ordered it set, which meant…
She'd intended to kill Florie.
His heart sank into his gut like a lead weight. Were it not for the kernel of rage burning at the pit of his belly, he might have dropped to his knees in surrender, let himself drown in a mire of despair. But as he narrowed his eyes at the spoiled, simpering witch who had violated sanctuary, who had set fire to a church, who had—Thor curse her—slain his love, anger and injustice smoldered inside him, sparking, then flaring, then exploding into a conflagration to rival last night's blaze.
With a bellow of blinding fury, he charged toward the evil hag.
His scorched fingertips grazed her worthless neck, leaving black marks, but that was all. Before he could throttle her, the men-at-arms came at him from all sides. To his credit, it took several of them to subdue him, despite his diminished strength. But subdue him they did, much to the captain's regret. They tackled him to the ground, splaying him on his back in the mud. While they held him down, the rain spattered his cheeks like scornful spittle.
And his only gratification, one for which he'd undoubtedly pay later, was witnessing the ugly grimace on Mavis's face as she staggered back in shocked horror.
After that, he put up no resistance. He had neither the strength nor the hea
rt for it. They shackled him and forced him to trudge to the tower house in the mud while all around him the heavens wept, soothing his burns but not drowning his pain.
Nothing could do that.
Between the black storm clouds and the dim interior of the tower cell where Rane was chained, 'twas impossible to tell the time of day. Chill air whistled through the tiny slit in the outer wall, bringing with it slashes of wind-whipped rain. It must have been a squall like this that had extinguished the fire and saved his life two—or was it three—days ago. If only it had come an hour earlier… If only…
He squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head over his bent knees. 'Twas pointless wondering what might have been. He'd already spent hours racked by remorse. Remorse for not letting Florie go while she had the chance. For persuading the Father to come back to a church that was, Rane was convinced now, indeed cursed. For being unable to save them from a fiery death.
He'd go willingly to the gallows, for 'twas the only way to unburden himself of his torturous guilt.
A rattle at the door made him lift his head. The captain of the guard stepped in, his jaw set in bitter disapproval even as he let Lady Mavis into the cell.
Though every bone ached with the effort, Rane struggled to his feet. He might be chained to the wall, but he'd be damned if he'd let Mavis play lord over him.
Indeed, to his satisfaction, her smug countenance faltered perceptibly as he towered above her, looking down his nose with loathing and silent domination.
"He can't get loose?" she asked uncertainly, and Rane relished the note of fear in her tremulous voice.
The captain yanked on the chains to assure they were secure. "Nae, my lady."
Her lips curved then into a tenuous smile he supposed she thought was alluring. But he knew a whore's bait when he saw it.
"I've decided to forgive ye," she said, indicating her throat with trembling fingers, "for that bit of knavery ye engaged in."
Bit of knavery? If the men-at-arms hadn't prevented him, he would have strangled her with one fist.
MacFarland's Lass Page 25
