by Kira Morgan
He had no right to seduce her. He knew that. Not while she was so weak, so vulnerable. But somehow, for the first time in years of seducing maids, Rane had been almost unable to stop himself.
’Twas irresponsible.
Unforgivable.
And uncouth.
Now all he had to do was to convince that snarling beast betwixt his legs.
He pressed a final kiss to the top of her slumbering head and sighed into her hair, maddened by the snare into which he’d let himself be dragged.
Still, seduction was not the most bothersome quandary on his mind. The thought that truly troubled him, the thought that shook him to the core, was the fact that through the entire painful ordeal, Florie had never screamed, not once.
And now he owed her a promise he dared not keep.
Chapter 10
Soft snoring woke Florie. She cracked open her eyelids and beheld Rane, dozing with his back against the fridstool, his arms crossed, his head nodding on his chest.
He looked terrible. Gone were the tresses that shone like a sheet of satin. His hair hung in dull locks, unwashed and unkempt. His chin was covered in dark stubble, and his eyes were limned with gray shadows.
She wondered if she looked as bad as he did, as bad as she felt. Sweat covered her body, and her own hair was oily to the touch. Her leg burned, but the pressure of the swelling had ceased.
How much of what she remembered was true and how much a dream, she wasn’t sure. The events of the past few days were as foggy in her mind as the Stirling moors. She knew neither how long she’d slept nor what day ’twas. She had vivid memories of being awakened again and again to endure the rinsing of her wound. And she recalled the agony of the scalding cloth.
But the thing she remembered most vividly was the impression that she’d let Rane kiss her, kiss her on the mouth. And she had no idea why.
Florie seldom allowed a man to touch her, much less kiss her. Such a thing seemed… predatory. And yet, in her recollection, Rane’s arms had felt, not threatening, but reassuring. The touch of his lips had not offended, but excited her.
She shook her head. Surely ’twas a dream, an absurd delusion of her fevered brain.
She lifted the back of her quaking hand to her brow. ’Twas wet there, but at least the unbearable heat had dissipated. And now she was famished.
She let her gaze drift over to the fridstool. There were two golden tarts there. If she could reach one of them…
She moved a quiet inch toward the pastry.
“What?” Rane burst out, coming alert so quickly that it startled the speech from her. He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, then looked at her and frowned. “Ye’re sweatin’.”
’Twas true, though not the most gallant thing to say to a lass. She scowled. “Ye need a shave,” she countered.
With the curious beginnings of a smile, he lunged forward, grabbing the back of her head and flattening his great palm against her brow. Marry! Did the man ask leave for anything?
“The fever, ’tis gone,” he said happily, releasing her. “How do ye feel?”
Giddy. She felt giddy. As if his lighthearted mood was contagious. But that feeling confused her. “Hungry,” she said instead.
He immediately retrieved both tarts from the fridstool and offered them to her. “Thirsty as well?”
She nodded, and he handed her his costrel.
Ale had never tasted so good. And when she bit off a flaky piece of tart, the chunks of spiced apple inside were remarkably sweet. Indeed, she was nearly finished with the pastry before she realized he was staring at her.
She looked down at the second tart, guiltily swallowing her last bite of the first. “This must be yours.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Take it.” Something mysterious shone in his eyes, a strange blend of contentment and relief and amusement that set her heart aflutter.
“But what will ye eat for supper?” Though she would dearly love to consume both tarts, her father had not raised a mannerless mop.
“Father Conan will come anon. I gave him coin for more food. Go on. Ye’ve not eaten properly for three days.”
She nodded and nibbled at the second tart. He was still watching her. His eyes looked bleary and careworn.
“Maybe ye should nap, then,” she said. “Ye look as if ye haven’t slept properly for three days.”
He rubbed the backs of his fingers over his jaw, grinning. “That wretched?”
Indeed, she thought, he didn’t look wretched in the least. The slight shadow upon his cheek made a stunning contrast to his fair features, the way topaz set off bright gold. Nae, though he appeared tired, he also looked more real, coarser, less like an angel now and more… human.
Faith, had she really kissed him? She wished she could remember.
Screwing up her courage, she picked idly at the tart, dribbling crumbs onto her kirtle. “While I was fevered…”
“Aye?”
“Did I…”
He lifted a brow, waiting for her to finish. When she didn’t, he guessed, “Talk in your sleep?” Then he gave her a devilishly coy grin. “Oh, aye. Ye revealed to me the mystery o’ turnin’ lead into gold. But never fear—your secret is safe with me.”
She could not help but smile at his nonsense. Turning lead into gold was the pursuit, she believed, of alchemists insidious enough to find a way to leech off of foolish noblemen’s coffers.
“Nae. I mean, did ye… and I…” She moistened her lips and furrowed her brow, intently studying the tart. “That is… did we…”
“Aye?”
She furrowed her brow at him, like a seer trying to read a particularly cloudy glass. But his expression revealed nothing. She shook her head. “I was fevered. Surely ’twas only a dream.”
“What did ye dream?”
A short laugh bubbled out of her. The whole idea seemed daft now. She frowned at the absurdity of it. “Nothin’. ’Tis utter tosh, I’m sure. I dreamt that ye… that we… kissed. Can ye fathom that?”
She waited for his laughter. It never came. She glanced sharply at him, and there was a wistful quiet in his eyes as he smiled at her.
“Kissed? But ye don’t remember?”
He leaned toward her suddenly, and for one terrible, wonderful instant, she imagined he intended to prove the truth of it, to kiss her here and now. But instead he reached out to brush a stray crumb from the shoulder of her kirtle. Though he seemed not to notice, his forearm chanced to graze her bosom, and she felt his touch as if ’twas flame.
Were he any other man, she would have clouted his errant hand. But she knew Rane meant nothing by it. He simply attended to her the way he had with the jordan, with a gesture that was casual, functional, pragmatic.
Her response, however, was far from casual. His brief caress left her flustered and fascinated and shamefully aroused. Her breast tingled from the contact, and suddenly she was certain they must have kissed before, for her body responded to his touch as if ’twere not the first time.
“I assure ye, lass,” he murmured with unabashed cocksureness, staring sensuously at her mouth, “if I’d kissed ye, ye’d remember it.”
But she did remember it. Or she remembered the dream. Her mind reeled with phantom memories. She recalled the strength of his chest and the comfort of his arms around her as he cradled her against his heart. His mouth, she thought, had tasted like the sweetest ambrosia, cooling her fevered lips, slaking her burning thirst. Her pulse had surged through her ears like the deafening roar of the sea, and his gasps had echoed hers as their breath mingled. She’d felt her spirit rise, as if it floated far from her tortured body, and for the first time she’d not felt panicked by his touch but honestly craved it.
’Twas well and good ’twas a dream, she decided. Those kinds of untamed emotions—reckless desire, unruly passion—were what led a person down the path of self-destruction and dependence.
But despite Rane’s denial and despite the wisdom of restraint, when Florie glanced at the inviting mou
th she’d dreamt of kissing, her blood flowed like molten gold, and she feared ’twould be perilously easy to lend credence to the dream.
Eager to alter the amorous bent of her thoughts, she searched her mind for some safe subject.
His scar. He’d shown her his scar. She nodded toward his shoulder. “How did ye get your wound?”
He ran a hand over the place. “This? It happened long ago. A baron’s son I took on his first hunt. The lad got so overeager, he fired at the first thing that moved.” He shook his head. “’Twas me.”
Florie’s eyes widened.
One corner of his mouth lifted ruefully. “I’m not certain which was worse, the lad shootin’ me or his father praisin’ him for his marksmanship.”
“Nae.”
“Aye.”
“What did ye do?”
He shrugged. “I pulled the arrow out and—”
“Ye pulled the arrow out?”
“The lad panicked and ran. I couldn’t very well lie there, bleedin’.”
Florie gulped. What strength Rane must have.
“Like your wound, mine festered. The surgeon drew out the infection with scaldin’ garlic water. Now I’m as hale as ever, save for the scar.”
“’Tis hardly noticeable.” Florie remembered too vividly the small mark in the midst of a glorious expanse of golden skin. And now that she thought about it, she also recalled the way his chest felt beneath her palms, firm but yielding, warm and supple. ’Twas far too tangible a memory to be the invention of her imagination. She’d never had such a lucid dream before.
Oh, aye, she realized, she had kissed Rane. And she did remember it now. Every inch of her body remembered it.
Yet he denied the truth. Why?
The answer was obvious, knowing Rane’s nature. ’Twas the honorable thing to do. Florie had been feverish, only half aware of her actions. Rane, as always, was protecting her, this time from her own impulsiveness.
Marry, Father Conan was right. Rane was a good man.
“More ale?” he offered.
Their fingers interlaced on the costrel, and Florie was suddenly struck by the inextricable connection forged between the two of them. They’d gone to hell and back together. They’d shared not only pain but passion—blood and sweat and curses and kisses. Never had she been so intimately joined with another.
’Twas a heady feeling. And yet it left her dangerously weak… like her foster father, after her mother died.
The memory quickly sobered her. She took a drink and returned the costrel. She couldn’t afford to indulge in flighty diversions, no matter how pleasant.
She was not like her foster father. She wouldn’t make the mistakes he had. Her heart was her own. Her fate might rest in the archer’s hands now, but soon she’d stand on her own again.
Independent.
Strong.
Self-reliant.
Aye, there was much she desired of Rane. But there was only one thing she needed of him, one thing he owed her.
“Ye know,” she reminded him softly, “I never cried out.”
He didn’t answer immediately, tipping the costrel back for a drink instead. He wiped the foam from his stubble with the back of his hand.
“Ye didn’t,” he finally agreed. “Ye were very brave.”
But he said nothing more, and when she summoned the courage to gaze upon him, his face was dark, secretive, his mouth grim, his eyes shadowed.
She glanced away, her heart racing.
The decision to flee Selkirk had not been made lightly. After all, Florie had come here on a mission—to find her father, her real father, and escape the drunken nightmare that life with her foster father had become. Though her mother had never disclosed the nobleman’s name, Florie knew that he’d once resided in Selkirk. She was certain that, armed with the distinctive gold pomander, she could find him.
Leaving now meant abandoning her quest for him and returning to her foster father, who didn’t remember who she was half the time. But she was willing to do that, for there would be another fair in Selkirk after harvest. She could come back then, after all this unpleasant business was forgotten. Better she should return safe to Stirling than linger here for her trial. If she could return to Stirling…
God’s eyes, did Rane mean to cheat her? The reality of the kiss she may have doubted, but she remembered well his pledge. Could he possibly intend to deny his promise? Betrayal lodged like a hangman’s knot at her throat.
But she never learned his thoughts, for at that very instant, Father Conan waddled in through the church door with supper.
Florie, full from the tarts, let the men eat most of the fish skink and oatcakes. She conversed very little, except to reassure the priest that she was feeling much better after her bout with the ague. At heart, however, she felt sick. What if Rane broke his word and refused to help her?
Bloody hell, she hated depending on anyone. She’d seen what it had done to her foster father. He’d devoted himself wholly to her mother, and it had destroyed him. When death took her, he’d crawled into a tankard of ale and never emerged.
And yet she had no choice but to trust Rane, for the more she thought about it, the more she realized how few options she had.
She couldn’t leave on her own, not while she was wounded and English blackguards roved the countryside.
She dared not go to trial, for with the merchants scattered, no guildsman remained to speak on her behalf or defend her honor.
She was alone, helpless, doomed to be tried and condemned.
She choked down a crumb of oatcake. ’Twas unthinkable. Rane had to help her. She had no other ally.
After supper, the priest groped for his staff and limped toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow is the Sabbath, and I plan to say a Mass o’ thanksgivin’ in the sanctuary. ’Tis time these old church walls echoed with the word o’ God again.”
His words jarred Florie from her brooding. When the door closed behind the priest, she whipped about toward Rane with a look of horror. “Mass? I cannot go to Mass like this.”
“Like what?”
“Look at me.” Her hair hung in strings, her kirtle was rumpled, and she was certain the stink of fever was upon her. She’d never attended church in anything less than her best attire, decked in velvet, tastefully adorned with precious gems. And though her foster father thought it a waste of water, she always took a bath on Saturday evening, just like her mother always had, so that, in her mother’s words, she would be sinlessly clean for the Sabbath.
Rane did look at her, a far too thorough perusal that took her breath away and somehow, despite her sweat-stained kirtle and sickly pallor, made her feel impossibly beautiful. ’Twas ridiculous. And yet the appreciation in his eyes seemed genuine.
“I… I must have a bath,” she explained.
His eyes widened. “A bath?”
“In Stirlin’, I always bathe before the Sabbath.”
“Ye’re not at your house in Stirlin’, lass. Ye’re in a church, an abandoned one at that. Here there are no tubs, no bath linens, no servants to heat water.”
She frowned in frustration. Sanctuary was becoming damned inconvenient. But she wasn’t about to give up. “I’ll bathe in the pond.”
He snorted. “Darlin’, ’tis full night.”
She glanced out the west window to the darkness beyond. “I don’t care. I won’t appear like this on the Sabbath.”
“Appear before whom?” He sent her a one-sided smile. “No one worships here, save the mice.”
“I’ve always bathed before the Sabbath,” she insisted. “I’m not about to cease just because ’tis… difficult.”
“Difficult? ’Tis nigh impossible.”
Florie jutted out her chin. “I’ll bathe in the pond.”
Rane mouthed what she was certain was an expletive, drumming his fingers upon the fridstool, staring at her with mild irritation.
She didn’t expect him to understand. After all, h
e was a man. Stubble and sweat and mud only made him look more… manly.
He blew out a frustrated breath. “I can’t allow it.”
“I didn’t ask your permission.”
“Nonetheless, I’ll not allow it. Ye have an open wound. I didn’t labor so hard to cleanse it of infection only to have ye foul it again in pond muck.”
She ran a hand through her hair, unwittingly mimicking his favorite gesture. She supposed he had a point. “Then I’ll lower myself into the well.”
He coughed. “Into the well? Into the water we drink? I’m sure ye’re as sweet as clover, love, but—”
“Curse it all!” she cried, at her wits’ end. “I cannot live like this!”
“Ye cannot live otherwise, my lady,” he said gently. “Indeed, ye should count yourself fortunate to have provender and a plaid against the chill. There are those who perish in sanctuary for want o’ food.”
’Twas the last thing Florie wanted to hear. That she might starve to death. And that she was helpless to do anything about it. The idea terrified her and made her all the more desperate to secure her escape.
“Well, I won’t have long to worry about that, will I?” she asked, glancing sidelong at him. “After all, ye’ve promised to help me escape, haven’t ye?”
He didn’t reply. His eyes grew shuttered, just as they had the first time she’d asked him about the promise. An unwelcome frisson of fear skittered along her spine.
She spoke as evenly as she could. “Ye said ye would.”
He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she saw him swallow uncomfortably.
She took a deep breath to steady herself, but ’twas ragged and strained. “Ye promised that if I didn’t scream—”
“I…”
He clenched his fists and his jaw, tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing, like a warrior deciding whether to advance or retreat, his scowl growing blacker by the moment.
Finally he shot to his feet. This time she heard his curse. ’Twas most foul. Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the sanctuary, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 11
