by Kira Morgan
“Yet ye’re certain I have.”
She shrugged. “Ye said ye found them charmin’.”
“I find many lasses charmin’. I don’t bed them all.”
All this talk of bedding was warming Florie’s cheeks. Her mind, too, was beginning to dredge up visions of that sheer linen shirt torn away, of blond hair spilled across a bolster…
“Surely with that Viking curse o’ yours,” she said hoarsely, “ye could have any lass ye—”
“The curse I keep tellin’ ye isn’t true?”
“Well, they obviously think ’tis true,” she snipped, unable to conceal her rising temper.
He chuckled. “If ’twill smooth your feathers to know, lass, nae, I’ve not… wagged my yard at them.” She hated to admit it, but his words did relieve her in some small measure. At least until he added, “After all, every man knows ’tis a fool who’d swive sisters.”
Vexed anew, she scowled at the floor, sweeping her broom in irritated stabs at an imaginary patch of dirt and silently cursing shallow-pated men. “Maybe ye can convince the wee darlin’s to give up their sisterhood, then, so ye may swive whom ye—”
His hand closed abruptly over hers on the broom, and she jumped, unaware he’d left his spot in the doorway. She stopped sweeping, and their gazes locked. His fingers were warm, cupping her hand as perfectly as the setting of a jewel, and his eyes were even warmer, their blue-green depths lit by amusement.
His nearness was intoxicating, and she suddenly longed to toss the broom aside and continue where they had left off, to lean into his embrace and taste his passion again.
But she’d learned something from the sisters this morn, something that made Rane’s advances easier to resist. She’d learned she was no different in his eyes than any other maiden. He treated them with the same honor and kindness, the same sly smile and coy glances that he offered her. ’Twas evident Florie held no special place in his heart. And while ’twas what she claimed to want, the truth was Rane was special to her. Whether she willed it or not, ’twas more than mere lust that called her to him.
Yet she knew she must protect her heart at all costs. If that meant she couldn’t have the liaison she desired with Rane, so be it. She’d leave his seduction unanswered.
Rane, as if spying upon her mind, retracted his hand and nodded at the broom, retreating to safer discourse. “I see ye’ve taken your servant’s role to heart.”
“I’m only earnin’ my keep.”
He glanced about the room, clearly impressed. “Indeed, if ye continue to earn your keep so well, the Father may decide to keep ye longer.” Just then Methuselah peeked between Rane’s legs, slinking possessively around his calf with a shiver. Rane reached down to scratch the old cat’s grizzled head. “Though Methuselah may not be so pleased. Ye’ve despoiled his luxurious lodgin’s.”
Florie sniffed. Even the cat sided with Rane against her. “He’ll have to make extreme penance for the offense he’s done this holy place.”
“As will I,” he replied with a wink. “Come along, old man,” he said to the cat. “Let’s see if we can unearth an ax to split these timbers.”
Florie missed Rane as soon as he left. ’Twas absurd, she told herself. She preferred to work alone. She always had. Moreover, the fact that she could possibly care for a dullard so easily gulled by a pair of scheming wenches riled her. But as she carried the bundle of linens to be laundered outside, her foolish heart quickened in anticipation of setting eyes on the well-favored Viking again.
He was splitting timbers beside the church, swinging a heavy ax in his gloved hands as if ’twere feather light, his shoulders straining the fabric of his shirt, his back damp with sweat, his hair secured once again with the leather thong, exposing his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. He took no notice of her, so she watched in uninterrupted fascination.
He truly was splendid, no matter that his wits today seemed as soft as pure gold. ’Twas little wonder the sisters pursued him like adoring pups, their tongues all a-wag. The Viking son would one day make some lass a fine husband.
Handsome and healthy.
Good and generous.
Strong.
Comely.
Kind.
“Somethin’ amiss?”
Florie, enveloped in a sudden and overwhelming melancholy, only stared at him, deaf at first to his words.
“Florie,” he called again, resting his ax upon his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Everything, she thought.
Everything was wrong.
She was trapped in a strange place, accused of a terrible crime, and somehow, incredibly, falling in unrequited love with a man she’d likely never see again.
“Nothin’,” she lied softly. “Nothin’s amiss.”
Chapter 13
Rane spent the entire day laboring on the vestry door, partly because it needed to be done, mostly to keep his hands busy, for they wanted nothing more than to curve about Florie’s waist and haul her close for a heated kiss, to caress the thick sable masses of her hair, to awaken her warm, willing flesh. And the fact that between spates of furious cleaning in the sanctuary Florie sat on the steps of the church, watching him as he split and sawed, measured and planed, sanded and hammered, only aggravated his lusty mood.
Why he couldn’t simply seize her and be done with it, he didn’t know. He’d never let conscience stand in his way before. But somehow, what he felt for Florie was different from the wanton play in which he normally engaged. He wanted more from her, more than just a harmless tryst, more than just a rollicking tumble in the grass. And frankly, that alarmed him.
By the time he’d cut new hinges out of a leather purse found among the wreckage of the storage room and tapped loose the lock assembly from the old door to secure it to the new wood, evening clouds were gathering, and he was no closer to assuaging his thirst for the enchanting lass. Indeed, his desire seemed to wax with the passing hours.
As he lugged the finished door through the sanctuary, he glimpsed Florie upon the fridstool, her skirts pushed up as she adjusted her loose bandage. The sight of her bare leg nearly made him drop the heavy door. ’Twas absurd, he knew. He saw that leg every day. And yet ’twas ever like the first time.
“I’ll change that when I’m done here,” he grumbled.
Mere days ago, she would have snatched her skirts down in horror. Now, to his chagrin, she continued to bend her wounded leg this way and that, completely without modesty. He wondered how long that immodesty would last if she knew what corrupt thoughts streamed through his mind at the sight of all that tempting flesh.
“All my movin’ about today must have loosened the bandage,” she said.
He glanced about the sanctuary. She had been industrious. Not a cobweb remained in the corners. The flagstone floor had been swept clean, and the wooden panels around the perimeter of the church gleamed with beeswax. She must have poked about in the storage room, for a half-dozen iron holders fitted with tall tallow candles stood about the nave like guards. The apse was littered with glazed earthenware bowls of all sizes, and beneath Florie’s sweetly curved bottom nestled what looked to be a brocade cushion.
How he envied that cushion.
“Rane.”
He grunted, forcing his eyes to her face. She was staring at his handiwork with a puzzled frown. He righted the door and propped it against the vestry passage. “What?”
“Did ye notice…” she began tentatively.
“Notice what?” All he’d noticed were the soft, silky planes of her thigh.
“The…” She pointed to the narrow vertical gap carved out at the bottom of the door near the hinge.
One corner of his mouth drifted up. She’d spotted his modification. “Ye mean… Methuselah’s doorway?”
Her jaw fell. “Ye didn’t!”
“I did.” He bit back a grin. “Couldn’t leave the old cat out in the cold, after all.”
As slow and sweet as honey, a conspiratorial smile poured over her face. Lord, �
�twas irresistible. “But the Father…”
“Is blind. I won’t tell him, if ye don’t.”
Then, as if prompted, Methuselah trotted up to the door, sniffed at it suspiciously, and wriggled through the crack.
Florie and he laughed together, and he felt the warmth of their mated laughter waft over him like a summer breeze. ’Twas an intimate moment, this secret they shared, a closeness he’d never experienced before with a maiden. Her guard relaxed, she reacted with abandon, giggling with joy, and he felt swept along on the tide of her delight.
“What’s all this levity in my church?” came the old priest’s voice from the entrance to the sanctuary, which only made them laugh all the harder.
Rane was too exhilarated to resent the intrusion, especially since it came with partridge pie and cool perry sent from Gwen, the miller’s daughter.
Florie, too, greeted the priest happily, raving about Rane’s excellent carpentry and pouring the Father’s drink for him.
And all the rest of the night Rane felt giddy, as if he’d become drunk not on the perry, but on that one sip of shared laughter.
Florie half expected to awaken the next morn to find the priest and the archer still engaged in their lighthearted argument about which God created first—the egg or the hen.
But the sanctuary was quiet, lacking the jollity of the night before. The only remnant of their pleasant supper was the linen rose Rane had cleverly folded for her out of a napkin.
She smiled. Where was the archer this morn?
When she swung open the church door, ’twas onto a surprising white sea of fog, a sea that rolled across the sward to obscure all but the highest branches of pine, poking out of the mist like masts of ships. She shivered, wrapping the plaid closer about her shoulders.
Somewhere beyond the cloudy veil, a scratching like the sound of a goldsmith’s filing echoed softly in the heavy air.
“Who’s there?” she called, though she instantly regretted her incaution. After all, the sound could be anything—wolves gnashing their teeth, mice gnawing on bones, English soldiers sharpening their swords for her neck.
To her relief, ’twas Rane who emerged from the fog, a dagger in one hand, a couple of small wooden objects in the other. He looked even more like an invading Viking this morn as he strode toward her, his brow furrowed, breaths of mist curling about him and silvering his hair.
“Good morn,” she managed, trying to convince her racing heart that Rane was neither pillaging Norseman nor seductive enchanter, but simply an ally. Never mind that he was as handsome as Lucifer, as well made as Adonis…
“Morn? ’Tis past midday.” He grinned, his teeth a bright contrast to the dull afternoon. “The Father’s already come and gone with bread and cheese.”
Florie didn’t care. She wasn’t hungry. All she’d thought about upon awakening was seeing Rane again. ’Twas a sickness, she decided, one for which she had no cure. No amount of reason convinced her pulse to keep to its composed pace when Rane was in sight.
“But never fear,” he continued, sheathing his dagger and reaching into his pouch for a linen bundle, “I fought Methuselah for his share and won.” He offered her the parcel of food.
Florie accepted the gift, noting the way his fingers lingered on hers. She glanced at his hand. “Ye seem to have suffered no scars for your battle with the cat,” she jested.
“’Twas more a battle of wits,” he replied with a saucy wink.
“Yet ye won?” she teased, arching a brow.
He gave her a devilish grin. A friend, Florie reminded herself, he was a friend. A friend with crystal eyes the transparent shade of aquamarine…
She unwrapped the bundle of hard cheese and bran bread. For one ungracious moment, her spirits sank. She wished she were back in Stirling, where she was accustomed to supping on venison pies and sweet lemon crokain, pickled salmon and roast Warden pears. But since a beggar could not choose his own meals, ’twas what she must content herself with. And if ’twas good enough for Rane, ’twas good enough for her.
“Thank ye.” Hoping her disappointment didn’t show on her face, she broke off a piece of the dark bread and nodded toward the wooden pieces he carried. “What do ye have there?”
He shrugged, then said enigmatically, “A cure for boredom.” At her frown he explained. “Ye’ll soon tire of chasin’ Methuselah, listenin’ to Father Conan’s sermons, and watchin’ me build doors,” he said, turning one of the curious carved figures between his fingers to study it.
Florie thought watching him build a door was anything but boring.
He handed her one of the pieces. ’Twas carved roughly in the shape of a man.
“A chess piece?” she guessed.
“Hnefatafl.”
She arched a brow.
“Hnefatafl,” he repeated. “’Tis an ancient game taught me by my father. This is a toefler, one o’ the warriors who guards the king.”
She frowned at the piece, which resembled the knight of a chessboard. The figure had a sword and a rough helm, but it lacked the articulated armor and grim battle features that would bring the warrior to life. She held a hand out for his dagger. “May I?”
He handed her the knife. ’Twas not as precise as her goldsmith’s tools, but ’twas sharp. The wood was less yielding than the soft gold to which she was accustomed, but she managed to gradually carve away little chips until she achieved the effect she desired.
So engaged was she that she didn’t notice how close Rane had drawn until he spoke.
“Faith,” he breathed, “’tis wondrous.”
She glanced up at him, knowing full well her father would disagree. He’d tell Florie her work was grotesquely coarse. Still, the genuine amazement in Rane’s eyes sent a flush of pride through her. “’Tis crude,” she argued halfheartedly.
“Nae.” His expression was serious. “’Tis ingenious.”
Flustered by his praise, she set the finished piece upon the church step. “What’s the other one?”
“This is Hnefi, the king.”
She studied that one as well, deciding it needed a more ornate crown and maybe a scepter. This time, she was all too aware of Rane’s attention as he watched her sculpt the tiny piece. Her grip faltered, and she slipped with the dagger, pricking her finger.
“Shite!” she hissed before she thought, dropping the knife.
He seized her hand to look at it before she could pop her finger into her mouth, as was her habit when she nicked it at her workbench.
“My dagger’s too large for such fine work,” he muttered. Then, before she had time to be shocked, he licked the pad of his thumb and pressed it to her bloody finger. At her stunned expression he explained, “To stop the bleedin’.”
It sent her thoughts reeling to think that his spit mingled with her blood. ’Twas distressingly… intimate.
When the flow ceased, they agreed that Rane would roughly carve the figures and explain the game to her. Later, when he found a smaller knife, Florie could refine the pieces.
The carving took most of the day, but when ’twas finished, Rane sat cross-legged before her, placing a plank marked with squares on the step between them.
He rubbed his hands together eagerly, placing the king in the center square of the board. “Hnefi goes here on his throne. And his warriors,” he said, placing the lighter wood pieces in a diamond shape surrounding the king, “guard him. These toeflor,” he explained, arranging the dark pieces in a symmetrical pattern along the four edges of the table, “are the opposin’ warriors. They’re charged with capturin’ the Hnefi before he can escape to one o’ his castles.” He indicated the four corners.
“But there are twice as many toeflor.”
“Ah, but the king’s guard is quite powerful. Ye’ll see.”
She did see. Halfway through the first game, even though he obliged by giving her the larger dark army, his guard had surrounded and removed over half of her pieces.
Frowning, she moved one of her warriors tentati
vely forward, keeping her finger on the piece.
“Are ye certain ye wish to move him there?” Rane asked.
She studied the board. “Fairly certain.”
“Hm.”
She bit the corner of her lip, unsure whether Rane meant to assist or hinder her. “Would ye move him there?”
He sniffed. “Maybe not. Not yet. Not while the Hnefi advances on that corner, that unprotected corner.”
“Ah.” She put her piece back and moved another to block the Hnefi’s escape.
He moved a light piece beside her dark and captured another of her men.
“Dastard!” she cried, swatting at his arm. “Ye weren’t helpin’ me. Ye’ve taken another!”
“Aye, but if I hadn’t warned ye, my Hnefi would be in that far corner now.”
She sighed. He was right. She may have sacrificed a piece, but she hadn’t lost the game. Not yet.
“Aha!” she said, finally hemming in one of his pieces and snatching it triumphantly from the table.
He slid one of his toeflor across the board and returned the favor.
“Damn!” she said, clapping her hand across the curse too late.
He chuckled, taunting her by wiggling her captured piece between his fingers.
So they continued to play the game, no sooner ending one round than they began another, advancing and attacking and seizing the wooden pieces with all the ferocity of real kings at war. ’Twas little wonder, Florie decided, that the ancient Norsemen sailed so eagerly to battle, if they played this game with half the ruthlessness Rane did. As a victor he was irritatingly arrogant, but ’twas not long before Florie, fueled by revenge, finally managed to outmaneuver his pieces and dominate the board.
Naturally, after she won a round he sought retribution, and so they continued, like warriors obsessed, hour upon hour. When the Father brought supper, they resumed the game in the sanctuary, scarcely pausing to eat and hardly mindful of the priest’s attempts at conversation. Finally, Father Conan abandoned hope and left them to their vice.
Ere long the cat streaked past for his evening prowl. A distant wolf howled at the materializing stars. The half-moon rose, then peaked, finally starting its descent. And still Rane and Florie waged war by candlelight.
