by Kira Morgan
Florie stirred faintly beneath the prodding spears of dawn and the sound of men murmuring. Lulled by the warm light and the low hum of voices, she almost let herself drift back to sleep.
“They were countin’ on venison for Midsummer’s Eve,” Rane was saying. “I promised Thomas…”
“It won’t be the first year they’ve done without,” the Father said. “Ye can’t blame yourself, lad.”
“I can’t let them go hungry,” Rane said. “I won’t watch them starve.”
“But poachin’? By my faith, Rane! In the forest o’ your own—”
“Who better to slip under his nose?”
Intrigued by the conversation, Florie pricked up her ears, still feigning slumber.
The priest sighed. “Ye can’t risk your life to fill their bellies. Ye know they wouldn’t want that.”
“I don’t have a choice at the moment. But I can at least make sure they’re fed till I can hunt again.”
Florie heard the soft jangle of coins.
“That should sustain them for a day or two,” Rane said.
“Bless ye, lad. I’ll see they get it.”
Florie’s heart softened. Father Conan was half right. Rane was a good man. But ’twas plain to Florie ’twas not some ancient curse that drew maids to the huntsman. ’Twas the man himself and his kind nature, his compassion, his generosity.
Still, the priest’s words were troubling. Rane was a poacher who apparently had every intention of continuing his criminal activities. Florie would be a fool to traffic with such an outlaw, particularly in light of her own predicament and her precarious standing with the guild.
She’d already ruined her chances of finding her father, at least on this visit, but if she ever hoped to restore her good name and return to Selkirk, she’d have to distance herself from men like Rane. Besides, ’twas obvious he had more pressing matters to attend to than playing nursemaid to her.
The men wandered out of hearing after that, and when the door opened and closed, Florie made the mistake of thinking she was alone. She threw the plaid back and rose up on her elbows.
“Ye’re a naughty lass, spyin’ on the Father and me.” Rane’s voice echoed in the sanctuary.
So did her gasp of surprise.
“Ach, love, did I startle ye?” he said with poorly concealed amusement.
“Nae,” she lied. “And I wasn’t spyin’.”
He clucked his tongue, striding toward her. Faith, did his eyes have to twinkle like that? ’Twas distracting. And the sight of his broad chest brought back all-too-lurid memories of their intimate encounter on the steps last night.
“I’ve bread and cheese,” he said. “Are ye hungry?”
She felt guilty accepting the food in light of what she’d just heard about the starving peasants. But she was ravenous, near dizzy with hunger. And the sooner she could regain her strength, the sooner she could leave. “Aye, a bit.”
She scooted upright to make a lap for the breakfast, but he set the fare upon the fridstool instead.
“First we wash,” he said, dipping a rag in the bucket of fresh water he’d drawn earlier.
She held out her hand for the rag, but he tipped up her chin to do the task himself.
’Twas entirely discomfiting. Not since she was a child had anyone washed her face for her. She was perfectly capable of doing it herself. She started to tell him so, but he wiped the very words from her mouth. When she tried to pull away, he secured her chin like one would a rebellious lad.
“Hold still, darlin’.”
She sat paralyzed between aversion and fascination, unsure whether ’twas torment or amusement to endure his ministrations, silent while he took extra care with the cut on her cheek.
He crouched so close to her as he furrowed his brows over the chore that she could discern each eyelash, as dark as wet wood, the faint stubble across his jaw, and the subtle upward curl at the corners of his mouth. Verily, he was the most comely man she’d ever met. His skin was as warm and tawny as gold, and, out of habit, she began to imagine what kind of worked chain might be worthy of such a setting.
“There was a lass beneath that filth,” he jested. “Hand.” He held out his hand for hers.
She placed her hand reluctantly in his, appalled to discover her nails were so dirty. He turned her hand over. The heel was red, scraped raw. He caught her other hand and turned it likewise.
“Ye fell.”
She nodded.
“I have balm that may help,” he said.
Balm? ’Twas but a patch of sore skin. ’Twould heal on its own. “Ye needn’t bother. I…”
Ignoring her, he carefully swabbed her hands with the wet cloth, then took a jar from the satchel at his hip and daubed a generous amount of its contents onto the injured spots. ’Twas soothing, his touch so gentle it almost tickled. When he finished, her hands, greasy with balm, were rendered useless.
She hungrily eyed the loaf of mashloch. “How will I…”
“I warn ye, wee sparrow,” he said, lifting a brow as he broke off a chunk of bread, “don’t get accustomed to such coddlin’.” He popped the morsel into her mouth. “’Tis only until ye heal.”
’Twas pathetic, she decided, having to be fed like a bairn. Yet Rane didn’t appear to deem it a burden. Indeed, he seemed to take great delight in serving her as if she were some ancient goddess and he, her adoring slave.
Until her tongue by chance happened to lap at the tips of his fingers. Then a duskier emotion shadowed his eyes, a look that frightened and thrilled her all at once.
Her heart hastened. “Enough,” she breathed, unsure herself what she’d had enough of.
’Twas just as well. Though they were meager portions, she’d already eaten half the cheese and more than her share of the bread. He helped her take a drink of ale, and when his thumb grazed her chin to catch a stray drop, she flinched away.
He frowned and looked as if he might say something. Then he shook his head and drank from the costrel himself.
After an uncomfortably long moment where the only sound was Rane munching on his breakfast, Florie looked past her idle hands at the gory blotch staining her skirt. The garment would never be the same, she was certain, but ’twas worth an attempt to improve her appearance for her return to the fair. Using only the balm-free tips of her fingers, she dipped the rag into the pail and tried gingerly scrubbing at the mess.
Rane watched her without comment until he finished eating. Then he perused her handiwork and took the rag out of her hands.
“I fear ye’ve made it worse, lass.”
He was unfortunately right. Though the water diluted the stain, now it smeared over a greater patch of her kirtle, the way gold could be hammered and spread into thin foil.
“’Twill never wash out completely now ’tis set,” he told her.
She supposed he would know. He was a huntsman, after all. Likely all his garments were bloodstained.
“Take it off,” he suggested matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“Your kirtle.” He beckoned with a wave of his fingers. “Give it to me.”
“I think not,” she said indignantly, clutching to her skirts and smudging them with balm in the process.
“I’m sure ye’ve another.” He started digging through the pile of things she’d taken from the satchel. She’d forgotten about that kirtle. “Ah. Here.” He held up the garment, a large, shapeless thing of woad wool.
“I don’t wish to wear… that. I’ll wear my own clothin’.”
“’Tis a serviceable garment,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe not as fine as your own, but…” He perused her once from head to toe. “’Tis better than lookin’ like a slaughtered lamb.”
She grimaced. She did look gruesome. But she had no coin on her person to purchase the kirtle. And as she’d learned to neither a borrower nor a lender be, she never took anything without paying for it. “I can’t accept charity.”
He chuckled. “Why, lass, how do ye expect
to survive in sanctuary for forty days if not for charity?”
“I don’t intend to be here for forty days. Once I’m fit to travel, I’ll return to the fair.”
“The fair?” He narrowed confused eyes. “But lass…” His expression told Florie something was wrong. Gradually, understanding dawned in his face. “I see. Ye’re not such a good spy, after all. Did ye not hear what the Father said about the fair?” At the shake of her head he grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. ’Twas clear there was something he didn’t want to tell her.
By the look in his eyes, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. “Go on.”
“He went there this morn to seek out your servant.”
“And?”
“There are good tidin’s and bad.”
Florie steeled herself. “Aye?”
“I’m afraid your servant isn’t there.”
“What?” Her heart tripped. “What about my goods?”
“Gone as well.”
“Gone?” Shock drained the strength from Florie. All her worldly goods, her life’s work, a veritable fortune, were on that cart. God’s blood, she couldn’t lose her gold. If she lost her wares… She managed to rasp out, “Gone where?”
He shook his head. “The Father’s tryin’ to find out. It seems your servant left the fair yesterday, not long after ye did.”
Florie tried to choke down the news. So Wat had apparently wasted no time in abandoning her. But where had he gone?
Wat was simpleminded, as malleable as pure gold. Without a hand to mold him he was devoid of any design, incapable of deception, which was both good and bad. Left to his own devices, he’d carelessly sold her mother’s girdle. Now he’d been reckless enough to desert her. Was he so rash as to leave her goods to thieves and scavengers? The thought was staggering.
Bracing herself, she murmured, “What are the good tidin’s?”
“Those are the good tidin’s. The bad tidin’s are the fair was ransacked by a band of English soldiers in the night.”
“What?”
“They robbed the merchants and razed the clearin’. Your servant apparently had the good sense to flee before they arrived.”
Not good sense. Good fortune. Wat hadn’t the sense to come in out of the rain. Thank God he’d escaped, but the thought of English troops in the area sent a frosty shiver up Florie’s spine.
Rane caught her forearm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. His fingers were warm, even through her sleeve. “Don’t fret. He was seen headin’ north. He’s likely on his way back to Stirlin’.”
’Twas likely. Wat might not be clever, but Florie could depend on him to be cowardly. He’d probably started packing for home when Lady Mavis drew her first breath to scream.
“Ye, on the other hand,” Rane said, “are still in peril. ’Tisn’t wise for a wee Scots kitten to be limpin’ about while English dogs are on the loose.” He nodded toward the satchel. “In the meantime, accept a bit o’ charity.”
Florie perused the crude items again while Rane left to fetch fresh water. She supposed refusing the gifts would make her seem ungrateful. But the idea that she might need them…
Was it possible? Was she truly trapped here? And if so, for how long?
She’d boasted to Rane that she was afraid of nothing, but the news of roving English soldiers struck fear in her heart. Last year the English had thrust deep into the belly of Scotland, burning a path of devastation as they marched to the River Esk, killing men, women, and children alike. Even from Stirling she’d seen the smoke of Hertford’s massacre. ’Twas the reason Princess Mary had been whisked away to Dumbarton, and why there was talk in the queen’s solar about moving her again.
Nae, Florie dared not travel apace while the English army ranged the countryside.
But how long would they remain? What if she were stuck here longer than a week or two? Marry, she couldn’t dwell on that possibility. Nor could she rely on her sot of a foster father coming for her, if by some miracle Wat made it to Stirling.
Considering her unfortunate predicament, she’d hoped to return home quietly and soon, before her real father could learn of her presence in Selkirk. The longer she remained, the more likely he’d hear about the thief taking sanctuary in the church. And if he happened to glimpse the pomander…
She shuddered, taking great care as she unfastened the golden girdle and set it beside her. She didn’t dare let the pomander out of her sight.
Changing into the kirtle was an awkward feat, even after she managed to stand, and she almost wished she’d had Rane’s assistance… almost. The woad garment was bulky and dragged along the floor, and the sleeves fell almost to her fingertips. But she managed to rein in its girth somewhat with the girdle, tucking the excess fabric beneath her when she lowered herself back onto the floor.
When Rane returned with the full bucket, he sat down beside her, cross-legged, close enough that their knees nearly touched. Then, without warning and much to her astonishment, he casually lifted her leg to drape it intimately across his lap.
She tensed instantly.
“Does that pain ye?” His brow creased in concern.
“Nae,” she said tightly, averting her eyes. Lord, his thighs were as hard as oak.
“Are ye sure?” His sleeve brushed her ankle.
She clenched her teeth, nodding curtly.
He smiled and shook his head, sweeping her voluminous skirts up to bare the bandage. “Are all men so repulsive to ye, or is it only me?”
She refused to look at him, and her denial was about as sincere as the forced apology of a child. “Ye’re not… repulsive.”
“Oh?” He ran his fingers pointedly along the top of her arch, making her recoil. “Indeed?”
She swatted at his hand. “Stop… touchin’ me.”
His eyes crinkled subtly at the corners. “Ye know, ye’re goin’ to have to grow accustomed to me touchin’ ye. I can’t very well change your bandages otherwise.”
She smoldered in silence.
After that, she would have sworn he took even more pains to offend her modesty, touching her here and there, everywhere and often, as he sliced away the bandage and cleaned the wound.
After a while she did become accustomed to it, for she had no other choice. She didn’t wince when he lightly pressed the edges of the wound with his knuckle to check for infection. She didn’t flinch when he dragged her skirts higher to access the injury. She didn’t squirm, even when he rested her heel across the bone of his hip.
But her pulse still quickened, and her cheeks flamed, and the breath snagged in her throat. Nae, his touch wasn’t repulsive in the least. Which made him far more threatening.
Rane felt he’d made some progress. The lass wasn’t snatching her limb back in horror.
He wondered how long she’d put up with this particular violation of her person. He wondered how long he could endure it—her feminine calf riding high upon his thigh, so close to the focus of his desire—and not crave comfort for the ache there. ’Twas an amusing, tormenting predicament.
She cleared her throat and tried to make conversation. “Where did ye learn your doctorin’ skills?”
He shrugged. “Necessity.” He grazed her ankle, lightly but intentionally, each time he payed out a length of bandage. “Accidents are part o’ the hunt.”
“Accidents?” Her eyes dipped with telltale desire, but she managed to keep her tone even. “I thought ye never missed.”
“I don’t,” he said, running his palm casually up the back of her calf, which made her blush prettily, then added, “But the same can’t be said of others.”
“Others?” she choked out.
“My fellow hunters.” He pressed his fingertips gently into the soft flesh at the back of her knee.
She bit her lip. “Stop…” she said tautly. “Ye mustn’t…”
He froze. “Aye?” he asked, all innocence. “Is somethin’ wrong?”
She hesitated, waging some inner battle. Then she shook her head.
Visibly distressed now, Florie could only gulp out, “Indeed?”
Rane battled back a smile. ’Twas highly entertaining, tantalizing her this way. He loved seducing lasses. Almost as much as swiving them. He had to admit ’twould give him great pleasure to gradually arouse the skittish lass, to awaken her passions until she fell hungrily into his arms.
Of course, he wouldn’t.
Despite his lascivious reputation, Rane was more protector than seducer. ’Twasn’t in his nature to traffic with maidens who couldn’t tell the difference between lust and love and gave their hearts too freely. Only experience taught a lass to live for the pleasure of the moment, to enjoy the thrill of the hunt.
’Twas the reason Rane eased his lusts upon seasoned wenches for the most part, who kept their hearts under lock and key. ’Twould be reckless to dally with someone like Florie.
But by Thor, he wanted her. Badly. And if she’d move her heel just a few inches to the left, she’d feel how badly.
Her eyes were closed now. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth. And there was a fretful crease in her brow.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ve yet to kill anyone.”
“What?” Her eyes flew open.
“With my doctorin’,” he explained.
“Oh.” Florie was definitely distracted. Faith, the lass could hardly think straight. He rather liked her that way.
Yet, inwardly cursing the meddlesome scruples that prevented him from slaking his hunger at once with her kisses, he did the noble thing and tied off her bandage. “There ye are.”
The lass wasted not a moment when he was done, extricating her leg from his lap at once and pulling her skirts down over his handiwork. “I suppose ye’ll be goin’ home soon,” she said breathlessly. “Your family must wonder what’s befallen ye.”
