by Kira Morgan
Yet it did matter, immensely—which troubled her.
Even when Florie was a child, her mother had warned her constantly to guard her heart. Only at her deathbed did Florie learn why.
She’d placed the gold pomander in Florie’s young hands, confiding that the beautiful piece had been a gift, not from her foster father, but from her mother’s first love, her true love—a nobleman promised to another. The pomander would belong to Florie now, she’d said, for ’twas a precious reminder that had been purchased at the price of her heart.
Florie’s foster father, too, had shown her the perils of loving too deeply.
Nae, she’d not make the mistakes her parents had, and the fact that she cared enough about Rane to feel jealous meant that she cared too much.
Chapter 15
Lady Mavis emerged from the dim dovecote, raising one hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the rising sun. On the other gloved hand perched her hooded prize merlin. Its white-spotted gold feathers fluttered as it bobbed, eager to fly. Mavis checked to see that the tiny scroll was still firmly attached to the bird’s jesses.
It had taken weeks, but she’d finally managed to get rid of all the useless doves in the cote, replacing them with her modest menagerie of falcons. Marry, if Gilbert had paid closer attention, he might have noticed that her falcons had a distinct fondness for dove meat. But he was oblivious to most of Mavis’s pursuits, including, thankfully, the one in which she was about to indulge.
She carefully loosened the tiny leather hood and lifted it from the merlin’s head, exposing its keen, beady eyes. The bird hadn’t eaten for days, not since it had feasted upon Gilbert’s last dove, so ’twas hungry, which was good. Otherwise, it might become distracted.
The falcon was trained to fly at the same hour each week to a particular spot in Ettrick Forest, a remote, shadowed grove where an English spy waited with fresh meat. After supping till its belly was full, the merlin would fly home to Mavis’s glove, never knowing the great service it performed for Mavis and for England.
Mavis blew a soft breath onto the bird’s breast, ruffling its feathers, and the merlin tightened its grip on her glove, not enough to pierce the leather, just enough to pinch. Then she lifted her arm and spread her fingers to release the jesses, and the falcon pushed off into the sky, winging toward the woods.
Mavis smiled in satisfaction. She’d written just two words on the scroll, a name and a town—MARY and MUSSELBURGH—but they were priceless gems, leaked to her by her loose-lipped husband. And when they were delivered, she’d once more have the English royals in the palm of her hand.
Rane picked up a long, bark-bare stick and stabbed with uncharacteristic irritability at the glowing embers beneath the steaming basin of water. He’d suffered all day from a keen sense of frustration, both mental and physical. As if their continued usefulness had come into question, his neglected ballocks ached with a sort of bewildered hunger that lodged deep in his belly. And his thoughts…
Curse him, he’d thought of nothing but Florie from the time he’d awakened. Florie, with her fiery passions and quick wit… Florie, with her brutal honesty and tender heart… Florie, with her sultry eyes, honey lips, velvet flesh…
He jabbed at the fire, cracking a black coal that squealed in protest as he exposed the flaming heart within.
What the devil was wrong with him? He wasn’t some simpleton to let his loins dictate his actions. He had a brain. Not only that, but he had his choice of most any of the lasses in Selkirk… not that he let that affect his humility or his judgment. He didn’t believe in the curse. And he knew that looks were fleeting and lasses fickle. But the fact remained that, for whatever reason, he could fairly well swive whom he willed.
Why, then, should he be swept senseless by a fey sprite who was too short for his liking, too dark for his tastes, and an enemy of his lord?
Frigg’s arrows, he should never have touched her. For now not only did he crave her beyond reason, but ’twas clear from her reaction to their visitors yesterday, her morose mood last evening, and her pensive silence today that she suffered the pangs of jealousy. Because of that one kiss, Florie thought she owned him.
He shuddered. Possessive maids were dangerous. Rane tried to steer well away from them. But then, he’d never met a temptation quite like Florie.
He poked again through the embers, watching a bright spark rise against the violet of the twilight sky.
That kiss had been heavenly; the sensual play that followed, world-shaking. Her lips were soft and supple, her tongue delicate. From the first instant, he’d imagined what enchantments they might make upon the rest of his body.
She’d cleaved tenaciously to him and, like a suckling calf, responded with instinctive avarice. He could see her still in his mind’s eye, her lovely breasts pillowing against him until the crevice between deepened, beckoning him to their unplumbed shadows. Then, through her skirts, the warmth of her maid’s core, the sweet spot betwixt her legs that had grazed his staff and moved against his hand with earnest longing, catapulting him into realms of passion where he’d never ventured before…
His loins stung even now with raw need, and he growled in frustration.
’Twas absurd. Lust was no different than any other bodily craving. When a man needed warmth, he never questioned which cloak to wear. If a man had to piss, any tree would do. Any brewster’s ale could slake a man’s thirst. Likewise, when a man sought satisfaction, one lass should serve as well as another.
But the truth was that Florie was a rare lass. The desire he’d experienced with her yesterday was unlike any he’d known before. He’d never felt such a powerful bond with a maid, such a heady need to make her his and only his.
Ach! ’Twas nonsense, he decided, crumpling a dead leaf and tossing it onto the fire, watching it flare and turn to ash. ’Twas but long-forced chastity cramping his loins and twisting his reason.
He silently cursed and frowned at a wisp of smoke curling into the night. Past its swirling veil, at the far edge of the pond, betwixt rows of bent reeds, a fat stag brazenly lowered his head to drink.
Rane grimaced. His bow, of course, was out of reach. By the time he could get to it…
He sighed. Surely the deer mocked him. Just as Frigg mocked him. Just as Odin himself seemed to enjoy tweaking Rane’s destiny at his expense.
Aye, letting the temptress past his defenses had been a mistake… just as what he did now was a mistake. Kissing her yesterday had been irresponsible. Heating a bath for her today was asking for nothing but trouble.
Yet he foolishly crushed and sprinkled pungent laurel leaves into the simmering pot, then rose to his feet, unmindful of the deer that bolted away in surprise. He lifted the bail of the basin with a forked stick, already imagining Florie sluicing the warm and fragrant water over her lithe, bare limbs. Sighing in self-mockery, he trudged up the hill with all the enthusiasm of a felon headed for the dungeon.
Florie’s heart pounded as she perched the cake of soap atop the stack of freshly laundered linens and rearranged the flickering candles around the half-barrel for the third time.
She’d had an entire day to think about Rane’s kiss, to reflect upon her heartsick parents, to convince herself ’twas best to keep her distance from the handsome archer.
But every time she caught sight of him, her body responded of its own will, warming, yearning, remembering, as empty without his touch as a gold setting without a jewel.
Lord, she wanted him. Even if she couldn’t keep him. Even if ’twas for only a day.
She could set her emotions aside. She could. She wasn’t her mother, to engage in a hopeless romance with a man beyond her grasp. Nor was she her foster father, weak-willed and obsessive. Nae, Florie was in control of her heart. As in control as Rane.
After all, she lived in a man’s world. She’d learned early on that she could do anything a man could do—set gems, keep accounts, deal with overbearing patrons. She could sweat and swear and endure pain without a whimpe
r. Just like Rane.
And if that were true, she reasoned, then why not tryst just as freely?
Her heart skipped at the boldness of her plan. She scrutinized the stage she’d set in the narthex, praying that God wouldn’t think her use of this entryway of His house as sacrilegious. Surely He’d understand. After all, was it not the Lord who created man and woman? Was it not He who said, be fruitful and multiply? Was it not He who invented desire?
Still, she glanced toward the distant altar of the church and genuflected quickly, reconfirming her faith in a merciful God.
The half-barrel was already partially filled with cool water to balance what simmered over the fire outside. It had taken Rane five trips to the well to make a decent bath for Florie, and though the tub was of ample size for her, she feared ’twas too small for a Viking. Surely the archer’s impossibly long legs would become wedged into the barrel.
Just recalling his impressive size set Florie’s heart lurching and her thoughts careening back to yesterday. That incredible kiss. Rane’s massive arms wrapped about her. Her fingers filtering through his hair. His hands fondling her in places where, dear God, she’d never imagined…
She fanned a hand before her flushed face. Only a few days earlier, she would have recoiled from his possessive embrace. But what she’d once dreaded, she now welcomed. What she’d feared, she now desired. Her fingertips yearned to press into his supple flesh again. Her breasts ached to be crushed against his chest. Her mouth craved his kiss. She longed to run her palms over the sleek breadth of his shoulders, along the muscular length of his arms, over the wide expanse of his back…
A scuffling on the steps outside set her lascivious thoughts flapping off like startled doves. Her breath quickened as she hastily cast a handful of rosemary into the bath, sending pebbles of amber candlelight shimmering across the surface.
A glance assured her that her kirtle, stockings, and boots were out of range of any stray splashes from the bath, but though she smoothed the linen chemise that covered her head to heel, still she felt curiously vulnerable in the sheer garment and her bare feet. She clasped her hands before her, and her heart fluttered, half in anticipation, half in trepidation at what she dared, as Rane shouldered his way through the church door.
The plethora of candles seemed to alarm him, and as soon as he spied her in her chemise, he averted his eyes with a scowl.
“Hope ye like laurel,” he muttered, upending the basin of fragrant, steaming water into the tub, then swirling the hot and cold, laurel and rosemary, together with his hand.
She caught her lip beneath her teeth. Now that he was here before her, real, substantial, she began to doubt her ability to carry off her plot. He was too large for the barrel by far. His legs would have to drape over the side. And how she’d ever manage to get him out of his garments…
He shook the droplets from his fingers and turned to go. “I’ll be outside if ye—”
“Nae,” she blurted, determined to finish what she had started. “Nae.”
He stopped, and she could see him fighting the urge to look at her, as he had all day.
“Ye… ye needn’t leave,” she said.
His nostrils flared once, and his jaw clenched as he seemed to consider her offer. Then he sniffed and shook his head. “I’ll wait on the—”
“Nae. Don’t go. I mean…” Lord, already she sounded stilted. Her foster father was right—Florie was never more awkward than when she tried to converse. She’d meant to beckon Rane graciously, like a refined paramour, to reveal her intentions with leisurely elegance. ’Twas apparently not to be. “’Tis…’tis for ye,” she said lamely.
His brow furrowed in confusion.
“The bath,” she said. “’Tis for ye.”
The furrow deepened.
“My lord,” she added with a curtsy and a nervous smile.
His voice cracked on the reply. “I don’t need a hot bath. I’ll bathe in the pond come morn. And I’m not your lord.”
Her smile faltered. She hadn’t expected reticence on his part. “But… I want… to.” Lord, why couldn’t she speak properly?
He was silent a long while. Finally, he glanced down with an enigmatic smile, as if she’d made a jest only he understood. “I know.”
Maybe she hadn’t made herself clear. She clutched the edge of the tub. “I… want this.”
He let out a sigh, then lifted a brow. “And are ye accustomed to getting’ everythin’ ye want?”
’Twas a curious question. She answered him as honestly as she could. “Aye, most o’ the time.”
Laughter crept into his gaze. She knew not what he found so amusing. When you were the daughter of a drunkard, you learned to take care of your wants and needs yourself.
“Well, wee kitten, I fear I must refuse ye this time.” He turned to leave.
His words took her aback. For a moment she only stared at him in disbelief. How could he turn down such a generous offer? One that promised him pleasure? She frowned. Maybe, as her foster father often complained when Florie dealt with buyers, her approach was too direct.
What should she say, then, to entice him to stay? ’Twas on the tip of her tongue to make some vacuous remark about the weather when she remembered her foster father’s last words to her as she left for the Selkirk fair. For God’s sake, Florie, he’d drawled, if all else fails, use your womanly guile. Surely ye were born with some small measure of it.
Womanly guile. Aye. Like the noblewomen she’d heard in the marketplace, purring to their lords to purchase jewels for them. Or the sisters who’d simpered and giggled and blushed to gain Rane’s attentions. Or the pair of lasses who’d brought the tub. Womanly guile.
She blew out a calming breath and clasped her hands before her, trying to smooth her jagged nerves, though ’twas akin to pouring honey over thistles. “Wait.”
Miraculously, her soft syllable made him comply. Maybe she did possess womanly guile, after all.
“Forgive me if I’ve offended ye,” she murmured. “I only meant to repay your kindness.”
He half turned and eyed her suspiciously from under his brows. “Repay my… to balance the accounts, ye mean?”
“Aye. Nae.” She swallowed. Maybe ’twas true. Partly. But there was more to it than that. She wanted to relive what she’d felt yesterday, to be close to him, to touch him. Her lids dipped as she glanced at his mouth, remembering the taste of his kiss.
His face darkened. “I’ll be outside, guardin’ the door,” he said gruffly, lifting the latch.
“Wait,” she pleaded. Maybe she wasn’t being alluring enough. She slipped forward, insinuating herself into the space between Rane and the door, looking up at him with what she hoped were tempting eyes. “Guardin’ the door?” she breathed, letting her gaze trail down his throat, where his pulse throbbed. “Against whom? A blind priest?” She lifted intrepid fingertips to toy with the lacing of his jerkin. “Nae. Stay with me. ’Tis cold outside.”
His nostrils flared again, and his mouth turned solemn. “What game do ye play at, lass?”
“Game?” she whispered, puzzled. After all, she’d seen this tactic work effectively on many a lord in the marketplace. “’Tis no game.”
He closed his fingers about her wrist. “I’m well acquainted with the wiles o’ women, Florie.”
Rane clenched his jaw. The damned lass was trying to seduce him. And succeeding. She was well aware of what she invited. She’d kissed him. She’d tasted his passion. She knew well what beast she called forth. And what ’twould lead to. The wicked wanton wanted him.
And, Odin help him, he wanted her worse.
The subtle smoldering in her gaze sent lust rippling through his blood. Sporting with the lass—kissing her, caressing her—was one thing, but this was no harmless play. At the moment, he had no trouble imagining taking her here, now, ravishing her before the altar on the stone floor of the church, like his heathen ancestors before him.
But he’d also realized the truth the moment he�
��d walked in and set eyes on her, standing like an angel in that diaphanous wisp of a gown beside the gleaming array of candles, her eyes shining with hope. He liked Florie too well to break her heart, which he’d inevitably do. Better he should refuse her now than hurt her later. Besides, he had his own suspicions regarding the maid.
“Ye’re a virgin,” he murmured, “aren’t ye?”
She blushed, lowering her gaze, and lied through her teeth. “Nae.”
“Florie?”
She didn’t answer.
He gave her a rueful smile and pointedly removed her arm from his chest. “Enjoy your bath.”
Florie crossed her arms in challenge, and the enticing temptress vanished like mist, replaced by the familiar stubborn sprite. “If ye won’t avail yourself o’ the bath, then neither shall I.”
He shrugged. “So be it.”
Her jaw dropped.
He turned away.
“Wait!” she cried.
Curse his foolish heart, he did.
“Ye’d waste a perfectly good bath?” she asked in disbelief.
“Nae. Ye’d waste a perfectly good bath. I never asked for one.”
She had no answer for that. After a moment, he stepped toward the door again.
“Wait!”
He stopped again.
“Ye drive a hard bargain,” she groused, then continued with a sigh. “Very well. I concede. Ye’ve won.” Rane didn’t believe her surrender for a moment. Sure enough, she followed with, “But I pray ye don’t leave yet, for I fear I may need assistance gettin’ into the tub.”
The only thing that kept him from laughing aloud at her transparent ploy was the vision her words inspired—Florie at her bath, slipping off her garments, baring her creamy flesh, her supple breasts, the dark tangle of curls below…
He bit down against a painful wave of longing. Nae, he had no intention of remaining in the sanctuary, within sight of her alluring curves, within hearing of her every sensual splash and sigh of contentment. His own lucid musings were torment enough. With any luck, on the steps of the church, the brisk eve would chill his heated blood, and by the time she was finished and her bath cooled, so would his ardor.
