Captured by Desire

by Kira Morgan

  Certainly one more suitable than a huntsman.

  That was what wrenched at his gut.

  Yet what else did he expect? If Florie was indeed a noblewoman, what right did he have to lay claim to her heart, much less her hand? Nae, he loved Florie, and because of that he wanted to see her content. If being embraced by noble kin and welcomed into a highborn family made her happy, who was he to destroy that happiness?

  He sighed resolutely into the quiet nave. Father Conan had oft told Rane he was too self-sacrificing, generous to a fault. He supposed ’twas too late to change now. Aye, he’d bear up and escort Florie to Stirling. And then he’d set her free.

  One day she might return to Selkirk to seek out her father. Maybe by then Rane would be recovered from his heartbreak. He hoped so, but he thought it unlikely.

  As the full moon crawled past the window, it cast a pool of colorful light onto the floor, slowly dragging it across the stones like a stained-glass carpet. Only when it reached the far wall and began to climb upward did Rane at last succumb to exhaustion.

  But his slumber was short-lived. In the dim hours before dawn he awakened to a curious noise outside. Instantly alert, he raised his head to hear better, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. The sound must have roused Florie as well, for she struggled up beside him.

  “What is it?” she murmured sleepily, scrubbing at her eye. “Time to go?”

  He shook his head, hushing her with a finger to her lips.

  There were men outside. He could hear scuffling and the metal clink of weaponry, and light flickered faintly through the windows. What the devil was going on? He checked to see his bow and arrows were within reach.

  “The English?” Florie hissed.

  Rane shook his head. He doubted it. Hertford’s men preferred chaos to stealth. But as he strained to hear, a diabolical possibility curled its way into his brain.

  “Stay here,” he murmured to Florie.

  “Nae,” she whispered back.

  He knew ’twas fruitless to argue with the imp, but to his satisfaction, from beneath her pillow she withdrew a sharp knife, gripping it before her in both hands. He trusted she’d use it if she had to. After all, she’d managed well enough before, armed with only a brooch pin.

  With a conciliatory nod, he rose to his feet and stole toward the door with Florie close at his heels.

  By quietly easing open the church door just a crack, he could see a sliver of the outside world. As he’d feared, a dozen well-armed soldiers milled about by the light of a single flaming brand. Thus far, no weapons were drawn.

  He closed the door softly.

  “Who is it?” Florie whispered.

  “The Frasers.”

  She swore under her breath.

  Rane rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “In the lord’s absence, Mavis is in command o’ the men-at-arms.”

  Her knuckles whitened around the knife, despite her steady voice. “Can they take me forcibly from this place?”

  Her calm and her courage caught at his heart, calling forth an intense protectiveness in him. “Nae,” he said, gently prying the knife from her hand and tucking it into her girdle, “not while I draw breath.”

  “But they’ll try?”

  He didn’t think so. After all, a church was sacred, and Lord Gilbert’s men feared God at least a little more than they feared Mavis.

  He shook his head. “It looks like they’re layin’ siege. I think she means to starve us out,” he told her. Then he patted the pack of supplies, winking to put her at ease. “Lucky for us, we’re well provisioned.”

  “But for how long?”

  “Lord Gilbert should return in a few days. He’d never allow such a travesty, even by his wife. ’Tis a blatant violation o’ the right o’ sanctuary.”

  Rane hoped he was right. Not only did he not know when Gilbert would return, but lately he wasn’t even sure he knew his lord at all. Mavis seemed to have blinded Gilbert to a lot of things. Rane prayed she hadn’t blinded him to mercy.

  Florie wanted to scream in frustration. If only they’d left yesterday while they had the chance…

  Now, with nearly half of her time in sanctuary elapsed and only enough provisions to last a week, they might not get another opportunity. She felt so damned helpless.

  She forced herself to swallow the panic that was wont to rise in her throat. If she and Rane were to face a siege together, she must be completely honest with him. And herself.

  Though she’d held out a slim hope of deliverance, she realized there was about as much chance of her drunken foster father riding to her rescue as there was of an angel coming to save her.

  She took a deep breath. “There’s something I must tell ye.” Ashamed, she couldn’t meet his eyes. “My foster father won’t be comin’ for me.”

  He sighed, turning to sit beside her. “I know.”

  Startled, she glanced up. “How could ye know?”

  He rested his arm across his upraised knee. “I don’t believe that fellow Wat returned to Stirlin’.”

  Florie gulped. That possibility, too, had nagged at the back of her brain for days. Hearing it voiced made it all the more real.

  He explained. “He dared not stay in Selkirk, for fear o’ being charged as an accomplice to your crime. Yet he could hardly return home, havin’ failed in his mission to protect ye.”

  “Ye think he fled with my goods.”

  Rane nodded.

  Of course, Wat had fled. But even if he had gone to Stirling, even if he’d alerted her foster father, Florie knew her foster father would never have been able to crawl out of his cups long enough to come free her… if he even remembered he had a daughter.

  “We’ll be fine,” Rane told her, wrapping a consoling arm about her shoulders. “We have a roof over our heads. We have food and drink aplenty. If we grow cold, we have each other.” He arched a mischievous brow. Even such grave circumstances could not destroy his good humor. “And if we grow bored o’ the company, I seem to recall a hnefatafl board around here somewhere.”

  She could not help being coaxed into a smile. Indeed, were it not for the serious intent of the men outside, she might enjoy being imprisoned with her handsome archer.

  Though ’twas yet early, falling back to sleep was impossible, particularly when Rane kept constant surveillance, getting up to listen at the various windows and peering out the church door. Even Methuselah sensed the tension, slinking from the vestry with flattened ears before climbing with uncharacteristic affection onto Florie’s lap.

  As edgy as the cat, despite his reassurances to Florie, Rane finally decided to speak with Gilbert’s men, to learn their purpose, begging her to stay well back from the door for safety’s sake.

  What he’d guessed was true. Mavis had ordered the men-at-arms to surround the church. ’Twas of some comfort that they did so reluctantly. The captain of the guard was apparently well acquainted with Rane, and he thought laying siege to a church an outrage, particularly with English troops ranging the Borders and threatening the tower house. But the man was also loyal to Lord Gilbert and, in his lord’s absence, to Lady Mavis, and so was compelled to carry out her orders.

  According to Rane, no one was to be allowed in or out until Florie surrendered herself.

  Understandably, Florie lost her appetite. After a sip of ale and a long time spent in prayer, she tried to keep herself preoccupied, using the knife to amend the vengeful carvings she’d made in the church beams, altering the gruesome saints to look less like Rane. Meanwhile, Rane rummaged through the storage room, though Florie doubted he’d find much. Surely no one had set aside provisions for the event of a siege on the church.

  But ’twas not supplies he sought. He searched for an exit. Sometimes old churches had secret passages leading from them. She joined him in the hunt, hauling rusty tools and rotting cloth away from the walls, scraping at crumbling mortar, feeling for drafts of air.

  After several hours, Florie’s hands were scratched and raw, and she sneezed
for the twelfth time as a puff of mold exploded from one of the damp bags. Despite their enterprise, they were no closer to freedom. Obviously, the builders of the church hadn’t anticipated a need to ever have to escape from it.

  Halfway through the day they shared one of the capon pies Rane had packed for the journey, and Florie couldn’t help but think how much better ’twould have tasted in the shade of an elm along the road to Stirling. Still, ’twas sustenance, and she wondered grimly if there might come a day when even a morsel of oatcake would seem a welcome banquet.

  Rane passed her the ale, and though she was thirsty, she took only a swallow. After all, it might have to last a long while. As she handed the costrel back, she heard a disturbance outside the sanctuary—angry voices erupting. Rane shot to his feet and went to listen at the west window. Florie followed him. The men were shouting all at once, but interspersed with their barks were the high-pitched voices of maids.

  With a puzzled frown, Rane motioned for her to stay while he went to the door. But Florie was not content to wait, so she listened from a dark corner of the apse, well enough out of harm’s way, close enough to hear the conversation between Rane and the captain of the guard.

  As Rane opened the door, a great feminine cheer arose.

  “Nae!” a man-at-arms was bellowing. “No one may enter the sanctuary, my ladies. Lady Mavis has forbidden it.”

  “Then let him come out to us,” one maid suggested.

  The others joined in with enthusiasm. “Aye! Aye!”

  “He’s done no wrong!”

  “Let him go free!”

  “Rane, save yourself!”

  Florie saw Rane raise his hands in apology, quieting the crowd. “Ladies, thank you, but I couldn’t leave this place in good faith, even were the guards to allow it.”

  Guilt laid a heavy hand on Florie’s shoulder. If it weren’t for her, she realized, Rane could march free, straight into the adoring arms of any of the dozens of maids cheering outside.

  “I’ve promised to protect the lass in sanctuary,” he declared, “and I intend to do so as long as I have breath in my body.”

  Florie’s throat swelled. No wonder half the burgh had shown up to come to his aid. Rane was their champion. No minstrel had spoken nobler words, no knight a more gallant vow. She sighed and heard her sigh echoed on several maids’ lips.

  “But Rane, what can be done?” a lass called. “We couldn’t bear to lose ye.” The other maids voiced their distraught agreement.

  “I’ll save ye, Rane!” a tiny voice intruded. “I have a claymore!”

  Florie blinked. The voice belonged to a lass who couldn’t have been more than four summers old. Lord, was no Scotswoman safe from that Viking curse? The lass swung her miniature wooden sword, narrowly missing the captain’s kneecap, and was hastily disarmed by her blushing guardian.

  ’Twas then Florie slowly realized the true meaning of Rane’s amorous curse. Aye, she and Rane might be two individuals alone, under siege, but the well-loved archer had a whole army of soldiers at his disposal. He had the maids of Selkirk.

  As if they heard her thoughts, the lasses all chimed in with offers to help.

  Rane hushed them with an upraised palm. “My thanks to all o’ ye. But if ye wish to lend me aid,” Rane announced, “find Lord Gilbert. Send word to him that he’s needed at home. At once.”

  Florie smiled at his genius.

  “Aye,” the captain of the guard added, clearly condoning Rane’s strategy. “Run along and fetch the lord, then. He’ll put the matter to rights.”

  ’Twas obvious no one was very loyal to Lady Mavis, save perhaps her own obsequious ladies. ’Twas also apparent that Rane the huntsman was held in high esteem, not only by the Scotswomen, but by everybody, from the gruff captain of the guard to an innocent child, from a blind priest to… a goldsmith’s apprentice. And that made her heart fill with pride, admiration, and, aye, love.

  Florie realized she hadn’t truly loved anyone since her mother was alive. Oh, aye, she’d cared for her foster father, but that was far more pity than love. The truth was she was afraid of love. After all, she’d loved her mother, and her mother had died. Her mother had loved a nobleman, and he’d deserted her. Her foster father had loved too well and, deprived of that love, had become destitute.

  Love had always seemed a destructive force. And Florie, who’d once told Rane she feared nothing, had been secretly terrified to open her heart.

  Yet love had served Rane well. She could tell by the cheer that arose when he blew a kiss and waved a fond farewell to the devoted crowd.

  Because of Rane’s love, the crofters’ bellies were a little less empty.

  Because of his love, the Father’s faith had been restored.

  Because of his love, dozens of burghers came to his aid.

  And now Florie found herself willing to trust, willing to risk her heart… because of his love.

  Despite the horde of beautiful lasses gathered in his name, when Rane turned away from the door, his eyes shone for Florie alone. “Naughty lass,” he accused, clucking his tongue, “listenin’ at doors again. I suppose ye still have a low opinion o’ my friends?”

  “Nae.” She grinned up at him. “And I don’t believe it anymore.”

  He brushed the hair back from her forehead. “Don’t believe what?”

  “I don’t believe in the curse.”

  He lifted a brow, then shook his head. “Now would be a good time to believe in it. After all, I’m countin’ on those ‘enthralled Scotswomen’ to come to our rescue.”

  She smiled and nestled into his embrace, her ear against his chest, listening to the strong, steady pulse that beat there. She had to say the words now, while the feeling was powerful, before she lost the courage, before she resorted to mumbling them against his chest.

  “Rane.”

  “Mm.”

  With a hard swallow, she drew back enough so that she could gaze up into his eyes, his darkly crystalline eyes that were far more beautiful than any gemstone. She took a slow, shaky breath, and then she told him.

  “I want to marry ye.”

  * * *

  Rane felt the world stop. He must have heard those words a hundred times from a hundred different adoring mouths. Lasses proclaimed their marriage intentions to him all the time. He knew ’twas meaningless, inspired by fleeting infatuation or spoken in the heat of passion. But Florie’s sweet lips gave the phrase new meaning. ’Twas not easy for her, and that made it all the more precious.

  He wanted to sweep her up into his arms with joy, ravish her mouth, kiss every strand of her hair, run his hands over every inch of her body until she had to beg for freedom.

  He wanted to, but he resisted.

  She didn’t belong to him. She’d never belong to him.

  Aye, they’d trysted, and it seemed to Rane that he’d never loved so deeply, so completely, never soared so close to heaven. Far beyond mere affection, far beyond lust, their very souls had mated. At the time it had felt like a marriage of their hearts, as though their spirits had become eternally entwined.

  But that was when she’d been Florie the goldsmith’s apprentice.

  When Florie the noblewoman went hunting for love, lasting love, she’d surely aim for more prized prey.

  Somehow he managed to smile through his pain. Somehow he summoned the strength to reply, even though his heart felt fractured into a thousand shards. “Don’t worry,” he said with a wink, his light tone belying the bitterness of his words. “I’m sure you’ll be free o’ the curse once you’re free o’—”

  Interrupted by a loud thunk upon the church door, Rane was saved from witnessing the disillusionment in Florie’s eyes. And when the door swung open he instantly became her guardian, hauling her behind him and drawing his dagger.

  But ’twas only Father Conan who barreled in, muttering and shoving the door shut behind him. “Keep me out o’ my own church, will they?” he huffed.

  “Father!” Florie called.

&n
bsp; “They let ye in?” Rane asked.

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll be barred from my own house,” the priest said, pausing to make the sign of the cross so the Lord wouldn’t take him too seriously about the damning.

  He dusted off his sleeves and hobbled forward faster than Rane had seen him do in a long while. The priest’s blood was obviously heated for battle.

  “Layin’ siege to a church!” he grumbled. “What in the name o’ the Holy Mother is goin’ on?”

  Rane put away his blade. “Lord Gilbert’s been delayed. In his absence Lady Mavis—”

  “Mavis?” He stopped, his snowy brows shooting up. “Mavis! O’ course!” the priest fumed. Rane had never seen him quite so full of wrath. “Who does she think she is? The bloody queen?” Resuming his pacing, he nonetheless began genuflecting again, mumbling words of contrition between bouts of cursing.

  “Father,” Rane said gently, “until this is over, I think ’twould be best if ye stayed away from here, out o’ danger. ’Tis no place for an old man. Go home,” he urged.

  “Nae!” the priest roared, as much of a roar as his feeble lungs could muster. “I’ll not stand by while this travesty o’ sanctuary continues. A siege indeed! ’Tis an abomination in God’s eyes! Nae, my work is here, and by God—”

  He gasped, clutching one hand against his chest, and staggered back against the wall. Rane rushed forward, Florie close behind him.

  “Father!” she cried. “Are ye all right?”

  Rane grasped the man’s bony shoulders, holding him upright. He didn’t look well. His face was red, he wheezed, and his limbs trembled with agitation.

  After a harrowing span of time, he finally calmed, blowing out a few long breaths. “I’ll be fine.”

  Rane was not convinced, and from her meaningful look, neither was Florie. “Father,” he said, “I pray ye go home. Ye should go somewhere… safe.”

  “But that’s just it, lad,” the priest rasped, lifting his quaking hand to place it over Rane’s heart. “If one cannot be safe in a church…”