by Kira Morgan
“I love ye, Florie.” He took another step.
“Nae.”
“I love your laughter. I love the way your hair shines in the sunlight.” Another step.
“I love your sleepy eyes in the mornin’ and your soft breathin’ at night.” Another.
“I love the way ye sulk when ye lose at Hnefatafl, and the way ye crow when ye win.”
Florie cursed the tears of misery that filled her eyes. If only he meant what he said… If only he truly loved her… But ’twas all deception.
“I love the passion ye have for your craft,” he continued, advancing slowly, “and the way your shoulders straighten with pride when ye speak o’ your work.”
She could shoot him now. He was close enough that she was fairly certain not to miss. But her eyes were so flooded with moisture, she could hardly take aim.
“I love your strength in the face o’ pain, and Odin mock me for a fool, I even love your stubborn spirit.” He was so close now that he needed only to murmur. “I love the way your hands disappear within mine.”
Her arms shuddered dangerously on the bow, but still he came toward her, unafraid.
“I love your breath upon my neck.”
He stood not three yards away now. If she released the arrow, ’twould kill him.
“I love the way ye taste,” he whispered.
He was staring at her mouth, and she swore she could almost feel his kiss.
“I love the welcome in your arms,” he breathed, “and the warmth o’ your body.”
He stopped directly before the bow, his chest a perfect target for the arrow.
“Kill me if ye will,” he said, “for if I don’t have your love in return, I’m better off dead.”
A tear spilled over, escaping down her cheek. Like gold over flame, her resolve melted, reducing her to a formless pool of emotions. Maybe she was bewitched, for despite the warnings in her head, despite every shred of sense that told her she was mad to trust him, her heart yearned to believe.
With a soft cry, she let the bow slip from her fingers. As the arrow clattered harmlessly upon the dirt, he stepped toward her, his arms open and welcoming. And, God curse her for a fool, she fell willingly into them.
Their kiss was sweet and savage and desperate, filled with the hunger of their lonely nights apart. Florie let herself drown in his pacifying embrace. ’Twas as if Rane’s lips sucked the very will from her, infusing her lungs instead with the elixir of desire. She drank it of her own volition, letting it numb her reason and assuage her fears. Their tongues spoke the language of love together, and a heady rush of desire coursed through her, humming in her ears, sizzling in her veins. Before long, her senses were spiraling out of control, like a whirlpool dragging her down to her doom. And still she let it happen.
“Oh, Florie,” he growled against her mouth, weaving his fingers through her hair. “Don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Rane,” she gasped, her lips at last revealing what her mind had so long denied. “I love ye so.”
As if her words were an incantation breaking a curse, he pulled abruptly away from her, his chest heaving, his nostrils flaring, his eyes piercing her with such intensity she feared she’d go up in flame.
“Indeed?” He looked as if his fate hung upon her answer.
“Aye, God help me.”
He closed his eyes in relief, and when he opened them again, they were filled with an emotion that made her knees weak. “God help us both.”
Then there was no time for words, for he drew her into another embrace, and his mouth swept down to claim hers once again. She no longer cared that she was foolish, no longer cared that she’d wagered her heart. All she knew was how divine Rane made her feel, how precious, how cherished, how beloved.
Casting aside propriety as easily as a cloak, she leaned into his arms, resting her hands upon his massive shoulders, arching back to let him deepen the kiss. His hand eased up her side, catching her under the arm, his thumb brushing over her kirtle, awakening the nipple beneath. She jerked at the lightning shock of his touch, and her senses began to rise as quickly as a raging river in a storm of passion.
She moaned as he cupped her bottom, squeezing gently, pulling her forward against the firm evidence of his lust with an answering groan. Her body tingled in memory, in anticipation, and she writhed greedily against him. Saints forgive her, she wanted him again. Inside her.
Blithe pleasure and sweet frustration warred within her as she sought to touch more of him. She stroked and kissed and lapped at what delicious skin was bared to her, but ’twas not enough. She clawed at his garments, seeking access to the supple flesh underneath, like a wild animal feeding on prey, until she grew near feverish with longing. Then she let her fingers trace his ribs, his abdomen, and lower, until she finally pressed her bold palm against his full, pulsing cock.
He gasped. Then he grunted deep in his throat, opening her mouth with his tongue, invading with almost violent thirst until she grew dizzy with desire.
“I need ye,” he muttered against her mouth.
“Then take me,” she breathlessly replied.
Without a word, he swept her off her feet and carried her into the wood.
She would have let him savage her like a plundering Viking, so keen was her desire. And he would have done so, she sensed, were it not for the short walk into the forest that cleared his thoughts and tempered his need.
He found their soft, grassy meadow and spread his cloak for her. Then, instead of claiming her quickly, Rane lingered over each moment, as if each precious jewel of time was to be enjoyed for its own sake. He forced her to an almost painful leisure, and yet that made their lovemaking all the more poignant.
He laid her atop the cloak and undressed her slowly, unlacing her kirtle and peeling back the edges, kissing every inch of her skin until his mouth hovered over the sensitive tip of her breast. Then, with the wicked hint of a smile, he sighed lightly upon the crest, watching it stiffen as she gasped in anticipation. When at last he ended her torment by flicking his tongue out to wet her nipple, she moaned, arching up into his mouth.
He let his hand follow a wandering path up her leg then, caressing the back of her knee, leaving tingling traces of his touch along her skin, easing her kirtle higher and higher. He contacted the nearly healed scar left by his arrow on her thigh and, moving down her body, placed a gentle kiss there, then one higher, then one higher.
Dear God, she thought, her heart drumming, if he continued…
But ’twas precisely what he intended. He slipped her hem up an inch and kissed her, then another inch, then another. Her face burned as she wondered where he would stop, imagining what ’twould be like if he didn’t.
He didn’t. Higher and higher his kisses progressed until she squirmed in discomfort, tempted to say nae to him yet biting her lip to keep from uttering the words.
Then he dragged back her kirtle, exposing her completely, and Florie, somehow ashamed and yet aroused by her own wanton urges, burrowed her head in the folds of his cloak.
“How beautiful ye are,” she heard him say.
She squeezed her eyes tighter. She’d seen herself down there. ’Twas nothing but a nest of black curls. And yet the ragged edge to his voice told her he spoke the truth. He thought she was beautiful.
She felt a warm current of air then as he blew gently upon her, and she quivered as her body responded, tightening and swelling and straining toward him.
“Let me touch ye,” he murmured.
Her eyes still shut, she nodded.
He parted her legs slightly, stroking the insides of her thighs with the backs of his fingers, then spanned her waist with his hands. He ran his thumbs side by side from her navel down to the beginning of her downy hair, then separated them to spread her nether lips. For a long while he tugged gently at her pliant folds, flirting with the spot that ached most for his touch. Then he slipped his thumbs inward to glide along the sleek inner recesses.
She brought
her hand up to her mouth, biting at her knuckles as her body strove upward on its own, seeking more and more contact.
As if he knew what she craved, he slid a moist finger, bit by bit, inside her. ’Twas her own body that made the motion, rocking insistently against his hand.
“Ah, wee cricket,” he said, his chuckle low and seductive, “ye tempt me beyond reason.”
God, she hoped so, for she had left reason behind long moments ago.
“Let me taste ye,” he whispered.
She gasped. Surely he did not mean…
Before she could fret and say nae to him, indeed before she could even tell him aye, he spread her legs wider. Then he lowered his head and covered her with his mouth, searing her flesh with his warm lips in the most wicked kiss. She tossed her head back, making fists of her hands. Never had she felt so alive, so awakened.
And then he feasted upon her.
His tongue was like fire and honey and lightning all at once, burning her, soothing her, shocking her. She moaned, thrashing her head across the cloak in mindless ecstasy. As his tongue circled and stroked and suckled at her, desire rose so rapidly within her that she could scarcely catch her breath.
Higher and higher she climbed, her muscles straining, her mouth open in disbelief. And when she at last crested the pinnacle, she plummeted from the cliff so gracelessly and with such abandon that surely only Rane’s steadying hands kept her from crashing to the earth.
She should have felt mortified. After all, she’d completely lost control. She lay mostly naked before a man she’d known but a fortnight, splayed in the sunlight in wanton disarray for all the world to see. She should have hidden her face in disgrace.
Instead, she felt strangely free of shame and gloriously content. Indeed, she hadn’t the strength to feel anything but quiet satisfaction.
Eventually she found the will to open her eyes. When she did, Rane was looking upon her in a sort of fond wonder that warmed her heart and her bones and her soul.
“Ah, Florie,” he sighed, “what ye do to me…”
She managed to rise up on her elbows to see exactly what she did to him. Aye, there was his proud member, stretching his braies as if they were a banner announcing his desire.
And as miraculous as it seemed, her own passion was already rising again. She wanted him… now.
“Come, huntsman,” she bade him softly. “Come claim your prey.”
He came into her gently, slowly, gazing into her eyes, as if to make the moment last forever. He coiled his fingers through her hair, brushed his lips across her forehead, whispered endearments in her ear, all the while keeping up a leisurely rhythm that belied the storm to come. His nostrils flared with restraint, and sweat beaded his forehead as he eased deeply into her body.
Florie didn’t mean to take command. ’Twas only that her body began to move on its own, at a quicker pace. She wrapped her legs about his hips and writhed upward, seeking his length, pulling back only to take more of him inside.
He didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, he shuddered in pleasure, sucking air between his teeth as she forced him to a faster gait. She felt his buttocks flex beneath her heels as he took up the chase, and suddenly she was careening toward release again.
No longer did she pay heed to his movements. Burying her head against his shoulder, she clung to him, giving her body free rein. As her desire focused more and more intensely upon the place where their bodies joined, she became dimly aware of his rasping breath against her ear, in tandem with hers. Then she heard him gasp out, “Let me look at ye, Florie.”
’Twas almost impossible, but somehow she managed, even in the throes of ecstasy, to open her eyes, to meet his wondrous gaze. What she saw there was almost indescribable, a joy so intense, a torment so fierce, a knowledge so clear that it touched her very soul.
She didn’t remember falling. Nor could she clearly recall receiving his seed. What impressed itself upon her memory was the look in his eyes as they drank passion together, the look of pure love. Never would she forget that look.
She must have dozed a while, for when she woke, Rane had laced her kirtle and snuggled her into his cloak. He was fully dressed now, reclining upon his elbow, watching her. For once, there was not a glimmer of a smile in his eyes.
“What?” she whispered.
“We need to talk,” he said, lifting the satchel she’d unwittingly dragged along, “about this pomander.”
She swallowed, gathering the cloak about her and sitting up. Of course. ’Twas naive of her to imagine their lovemaking had solved everything, that she could bask in the warm afterglow of their coupling forever and forget her cares. Of course Rane would try to talk her into surrendering her heirloom.
“’Tis mine by rights.”
He frowned thoughtfully, replacing the satchel. “’Tis a piece o’ jewelry, Florie. Would ye truly throw away…” He tenderly clasped the back of her head, touching his forehead to hers, commanding her gaze. “This.” Lord, his eyes were so beautiful, so cherishing. “… for a bauble o’ gold?”
’Twas tempting to yield to him. Nae, she’d not barter what she felt for Rane for a hundred gold pomanders. But this pomander was not just a bauble. ’Twas her past and her future.
“Ye don’t understand,” she said.
He lowered his hand. “I understand that ye cannot abide the injustice of it,” he told her. “’Tis one o’ your qualities I admire. But there are times when a man prizes somethin’ above justice, when somethin’ is more dear to his heart.”
“Oh, Rane, ye are more dear to my heart than all the gold in the world.”
“Then you’ll—”
“Nae.”
He cursed. “’Twill cost one of our lives. Ye know that now. At the end o’ forty days, either ye or I will hang from the gallows.”
She sat up straight. “Then we’ll leave. Both of us. This very night. I have my things. We can—”
“Leave behind the starvin’ crofters? Who’ll hunt for the nobles? Who’ll care for Father Conan?” he said gently. “Would ye let them perish as well for your precious gold?”
She hung her head. She couldn’t let Rane believe she was so selfish. Not after all they’d shared. Not after all he’d promised. She knew she took a great risk, telling him her secret. But he’d earned the right to know.
“’Tis more than just a trinket,” she told him softly. “’Tis the key to my real father.”
At his silence, she took a shuddering breath, then told him the full story. “In Stirlin’, long ago, a young merchant lass lost her heart to a nobleman, her heart and her maidenhood. The man claimed to love her. He bought her velvet gowns, ribbons for her hair, and had commissioned for her the most amazin’ gold piece—a pomander with a heart-shaped lid that hung from a girdle of chased links.”
She swallowed. “Ere long, he got her with child. ’Twas then she discovered he couldn’t take her to wife, for he already had a betrothed. For days she wandered the streets, outcast and heartbroken. ’Twas by pure chance that the goldsmith who’d crafted the piece recognized his own handiwork hangin’ from the girdle about her swollen waist and, takin’ mercy upon the distraught and abandoned young lass, offered for her hand.”
Florie lowered her eyes to her hands in her lap. “He said he’d marry her and claim her bastard child as his own. But he was never the child’s true father. Her true father was the nobleman, the one who’d commissioned the gold piece, a man who came from Selkirk.”
Rane’s eyes softened. “’Tis ye. Ye’re the child, the daughter o’ the nobleman,” he murmured. He gave a low whistle. “And ye need the piece to prove your birthright.”
She nodded.
“Do ye know his name?” he asked.
“My mother never told me, and my father… my foster father… didn’t wish for me to seek him.”
“Why did ye not tell me sooner, lass? I might have taken the piece, sought out your sire for ye.”
“And brought my father here to meet me—a common outlaw t
aking sanctuary in an abandoned church?” She shook her head. “He’d believe I was a thief, that I stole the piece… like everyone else does.”
Rane squeezed her hand. “Not everyone.”
She gave him a smile of gratitude, then stared down at his hand enclosing hers. “Ye know, I offered the lady a fortune in gold to give it back to me of her own free will.”
“’Tisn’t about the value o’ the thing. Mavis is an arrogant, greedy, stubborn wench. And ye’ve given her pride a crushin’ blow.”
“I couldn’t surrender it,” she said. “I still can’t. As long as I keep the pomander, I can return to Selkirk one day.” She sighed. “If I lose it…”
“Ye’ll lose your father forever.”
“Aye.” She met his eyes. “Ye understand, don’t ye?”
He nodded.
“Then ye’ll… let me go?”
He was quiet a long time, and she began to worry that he didn’t understand, after all; that he would insist she sacrifice the pomander. But he finally bowed his head in agreement. “We’ll leave at first light.”
Hope flickered in her heart. “We?”
“Someone has to keep the wolves and Englishmen at bay,” he said, sighing in feigned annoyance. “And I’ve seen ye with a bow.”
Chapter 19
Rane bedded down beside Florie that night in the sanctuary, but his sleep was troubled by doubts.
He wasn’t worried about the crofters anymore. Florie had unfastened the gold pendant about her neck, taken off her bracelet, removed her rings, one by one, and dropped them into his palm, insisting he give them to Father Conan. She’d said they should bring in enough to see the crofters fed through winter.
Nae, what kept him tossing and turning half the night was the knowledge that Florie was the daughter of a nobleman.
Rane understood well why Florie desired to claim her heritage. Doing so would elevate her to a life of privilege. She’d wear velvet and silk. Servants would bow and scrape to her. She’d never have to blister her hands with menial labor again. Eventually her noble father would wish her to marry, and when that time came, he’d find her a rich, powerful, titled, suitable husband.
