MacFarland's Lass Read online

  As for Rane, he refused to let perfectly good game roam the forest, awaiting the pleasure of plump-bellied royals, while Scottish children starved to death.

  But anger ruined a man's aim as readily as fear. So he banished everything from his mind but the task at hand. His gaze flitted over every leaf twisting in the receding sunlight. His ear remarked upon every sparrow and mouse that stirred the brush. All the while, he stood as still as the elm trunk beside him.

  Still no deer approached the pool. And as the forest darkened, growing more and more inhospitable to his sharp eye, he began to believe he might fail the good peasants depending upon him.

  Then, from far off in the wood, he heard a noise. 'Twas more lurching than the usual timid footfall of a stag coming to drink. But the turmoil of the fair had likely left the woodland animals skittish. Wary deer were more challenging to hunt. But not impossible. Never impossible.

  His fingers circled with practiced ease around the leather grip of the longbow. He slowly raised it to eye level, hooking in and drawing back on the sinew until the bow arced and his thumb rested against his cheek.

  The thrashing grew louder. He narrowed his eyes against the fast-fading light, straining to see into the deep shadows of the wood.

  'Twas reckless to hunt this way, he thought, cursing the desperation that drove him to do so. Not only did he risk his life by poaching on royal lands, but 'twas also foolhardy to use a bow when he could barely discern his prey, much less get off a clean shot.

  Still, the animal was almost out in the open now. He heard the snap of twigs as it slowed, cautiously approaching the widening of the trail. Through the drooping branches, by the failing light, he at last caught a glimpse of what he thought was the broad side of a deer.

  The instant before he released the arrow, the creature moved forward out of the shadows, and he saw 'twas not a deer at all.

  But 'twas too late to prevent his shot, and only his lightning-quick reflexes prevented the bolt from landing with deadly accuracy.

  Still it sank with a sickening thud into flesh, and the piercing cry that followed staggered him as if he'd taken the arrow himself.

  Chapter 2

  The pain was shocking, intense. Florie's first thought was that a wolf had sprung at her from the brush, sinking its fangs into her thigh. She screamed, but the sound was cut off as she twisted and fell, colliding hard with the earth.

  Knocked breathless, for an instant she lay stunned. Then, fearing to be devoured, she kicked desperate heels into the decaying leaf-fall, scrambling, clambering, scraping dirt beneath her nails as she struggled to escape the unrelenting burn of the teeth embedded in her flesh.

  No beast snarled or sprang to finish her, but neither did the stabbing pain in her leg subside. She wrenched about to see what demon had her in its jaws.

  The sight left her faint with horror.

  An arrow pinned her through a trailing link of her gold girdle and her skirts, its steel head buried in her flesh, its thick shaft bobbing as she writhed in pain.

  The edges of perception blurred then. She felt herself tilting, fading, falling into a cavern of seductive oblivion.

  Rane's bowstring was still vibrating when the blood drained from his face and his arms dropped limp at his sides.

  "Bloody hell," he breathed.

  Casting off the bow, he charged forward into the open meadow, his heart hammering. He bolted for the trail, toward his fallen prey, hurtling along the pond's edge, around its perimeter, whipping past reeds and fern, snapping off bracken as he ran. When he reached his victim, he dropped his quiver to the ground and fell to his knees with a bitter cry.

  Guilt threatened to unman him, and he ground his teeth against a wave of self-loathing.

  Curse his hands, he'd shot a child.

  Then he peered closer by the fading twilight. Nae, not a child. A slight, slender lass.

  Though she lay as still as death, she wasn't dead. Thank Odin, he'd been able to redirect the arrow at the last moment, thus sparing her life.

  He turned her carefully toward him, and she revived with a wheezing gasp, reflexively scrabbling at the outside of her thigh, where his arrow obscenely protruded.

  "Nae!" he cautioned. "Leave it be!"

  Her eyes widened, and he instantly withdrew his hands, trying not to panic her, raising his palms in what he hoped was a placating gesture.

  The last thing he expected was the sting of a sharp needle through his open hand.

  He grunted in pain, drawing back his wounded palm. Blood welled from the puncture. He sucked a sharp hiss through his teeth.

  The needle had pierced him deeply. But he supposed he should have known better. After all, only a fool approached a wounded animal.

  Her left arm arced toward him again with whatever vicious weapon she wielded.

  He lunged aside. "Nae, lass! I mean ye no—"

  His words were cut short as her right fist clipped his jaw.

  "Ach!"

  The needle returned to graze his bare neck, leaving a stinging trail.

  "Son of a… Lass, cease! 'Twas an acci—"

  She ignored his command, attacking him again and again, as if she intended to fight him to the death. Damn! If she didn't stop thrashing about, she'd drive the arrow deeper into her thigh.

  "Woman!" he finally bellowed, startling her into momentary submission. "Put away your weapon. I'm friend, not foe."

  Florie didn't believe him for an instant. Whether he was Gilbert's man she couldn't tell. 'Twas too dark to make out his face or the color of his cloak. But the villain had shot her. Shot her!

  She'd managed to wound him with her brooch pin. She'd heard his grunt, felt the point sink into his flesh. But she hadn't inflicted enough damage to stop him. And if she didn't… If he turned her over to the law…

  Fighting for her life, she stabbed forward with the brooch again. This time he was prepared for her attack. He caught her wrist in a steely grip.

  Thrashing against his punishing hold, she tried to pry his fingers away with her free hand. But he gave her wrist a sharp flick, and the brooch flew loose, skittering out of reach.

  "Lie still," he commanded. "Ye'll only make it worse."

  Worse? What could be worse? Florie wasn't about to surrender, regardless of the wave of dizziness that assailed her…regardless of the dire stain widening on her best brocade skirts…regardless of the drops of blood, her blood, dripping onto the leaves of the forest floor.

  Summoning up one last, desperate burst of power, she reared back her closed fist and swung forward as hard as she could, aiming for his jaw. But he ducked easily out of the way, seizing that hand as well.

  "For the love o' Frigga, lass, lie still!"

  The edges of her vision dimmed, darkening as her bones dissolved into submission, and she vaguely wondered who the devil Frigga was.

  God have mercy. Maybe the archer had dealt her a mortal wound and she was dying, for she felt as weak as a bairn, with neither the strength nor the will to move.

  "Nae, nae, nae, nae, NAE!" he shouted, giving her wrists a reviving shake. "Not that still!" His voice, for all its vehemence, sounded distant, dreamlike. "Stay awake, do ye hear me?"

  "Ye go to hell," she mumbled.

  He cursed under his breath, returning her arms to her sides, where they lay as limp and useless as empty sleeves.

  "Ach, lass," he murmured, as if to himself, "what were ye doin', stealin' through the thicket like that?"

  "Leave me alone."

  "If I leave ye alone, ye'll bleed to d—" He shook his head. "I'm not leavin'."

  From beneath eyelids growing heavier by the moment, Florie could faintly discern the man's silhouette as he crouched nearby. He was unbuckling his belt.

  Ballocks! Did the monster mean to swive her while she lay helpless?

  "Get the hell away from me," she managed to croak.

  He ignored her.

  She heard the sound of fabric being shredded. The brute must be tearing her clothes from h
er. Tears of rage and frustration and anguish welled in her eyes. "Bastard," she whispered.

  "Aye, I know. But 'twill be over in a moment. Lie still."

  "Nae!" she groaned. She wasn't about to let the lout have his way with her. She tried to curl her weak fingers into lethal fists. "Don't touch me."

  A dark fog crept in at the sides of her vision like a closing curtain. She fought to keep her eyes open.

  "I'll be swift as I can," he promised, "but ye have to hold still." He positioned himself beside her injured leg. "I'll carry ye to shelter afterward. There's a priest up the rise from here, not far—"

  A priest! That brought her instantly alert. "The church!" she blurted.

  Sanctuary! By strength of sheer will, she seized his wrist in one hand with such ferocity that she almost knocked him off his haunches.

  "Aye!" she cried, though her command came out on a weak wheeze. "The church… Go… Now…" If she could make it to the church… Pain gripped her again, and she winced, digging her fingers into the leather bracer around his forearm.

  "Soon." He clasped a restraining hand over hers, his fingers sticky with blood.

  "Now," she groaned. Leveraging against his wrist, she began to creep forward, determined to drag herself bodily up the hill if need be.

  "Lass, be still! Ye'll drive the arrow—"

  "Sanctuary!" she beseeched him.

  "What?"

  "Take me…to sanctuary." Lord Gilbert couldn't be far away. "They're comin'," she mumbled.

  "Who?"

  She gasped as searing lightning shot up her leg.

  He squeezed her hand. "All right. I'll hurry, lass," he promised, "but the shaft's got to come out first." The cloth he'd torn he now rapidly wadded into his hand. Then he offered her his leather belt. "Hold this in your teeth."

  She turned her head aside. She didn't want his belt. All she wanted was sanctuary.

  But he pulled her jaw down with his thumb anyway, wedging the thick belt between her teeth. "Bite down."

  She scowled. No one told Florie what to do. Then a strong wave of pain washed over her as he pressed the wad of linen against her wound, and she reflexively clamped down.

  Blowing out a forceful breath and kneeling above her, the man curved his right hand around the shaft so 'twas braced under his arm. "Ready?"

  Nae, she wasn't ready. But Lord Gilbert was coming. And this knave wouldn't let her go until the arrow was out. Praying the brute wouldn't betray her, that he'd keep his word, she ground her teeth into his belt and nodded.

  "One… two…"

  She fainted before he reached three.

  Rane clenched his jaw. 'Twas probably best the maid was unconscious. He made quick work of extracting the arrow, and then compressed the cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding.

  Shite! How could he have shot a woman? How could he have made such a grievous error in judgment? His face burned with shame. 'Twas the sort of mistake a lad of twelve might make, not a seasoned hunter. By Thor, if he'd lamed the lass, he'd never forgive himself.

  His palm stung where she'd stabbed it, and his jaw ached from her punch. The lass, for her small size, had as much fight in her as a cornered wildcat.

  But she'd grown quite still now, and her silence troubled him. If she slumbered too deeply, she might not wake.

  "Nae!" he ordered. "Don't ye be nappin' on me!" He freed one hand to jostle her jaw, leaving a bloody smudge there. "Come on, wee one! Ye cannot claim sanctuary without confessin'. Wake up!"

  Letting up on the pressure briefly, he pushed her skirts up to her thigh, baring the puncture in her flesh. She tried to force his invading hands away, murmuring vaguely in protest. But this was no time for modesty. Her lifeblood was seeping away. He pushed her hands aside and lifted her leg slightly, circling his leather belt around her upper thigh twice to cinch it tightly.

  Damn! He had to keep her from drifting off again, at least till he got her wound properly bandaged.

  "Pay heed, lass!" he barked. "Recite for me the Saint's days." He tore the stained linen into long strips. "Come on!"

  She frowned in confusion. "Nae."

  By Odin, she was a stubborn lass. "Aye! Now! Be a good lass," he commanded, "or I won't take ye to the church."

  'Twas an outright lie, of course. After what he'd done, he'd carry her to St. Andrews if she liked. But the lass didn't know that.

  She moaned in protest, then conceded on a breathy rasp. "Saint… Saint Valen…"

  "That's it, darlin'. Saint Valentine." He wrapped the cloth quickly about her limb. Faith, her skin was softer than a hart's. To think he'd marred that flesh…

  "Saint Swith…" she murmured.

  "Saint Swithin's, right." He knotted the bandage over the wound. "And next?"

  "Sain…" She started to drift off.

  He patted her cheek. "Come on, sweetheart, stay with me."

  He reached under her then and carefully scooped her into his arms. She was lighter than the stags he was accustomed to packing. He prayed she wouldn't bleed to death before he could get her to safety.

  "Wait!" she cried. "My pomander."

  He frowned, scanning the ground. A long chain of links lay coiled there like a golden serpent, its neck broken where his arrow had bent the metal. An ornament the size of a small apple hung from it. He tucked the damaged treasure into her hands, and she clasped it to her bosom in relief, instantly relaxing toward slumber again.

  "Nae! Stay with me!" he commanded, giving her a shake. "Where were we? Saint Swithin's. What comes next?"

  She groaned.

  "Don't ye faint again. Don't ye dare faint. Saint Swithin's."

  "Cris…"

  "Saint Crispin's, aye." Rane's long strides served him well as he rounded the pond. "Hold on, lass," he murmured, though her head already fell limp against his shoulder.

  Her long tresses spilled over his arm like a dark waterfall. By the day's last faint light he saw that her face, beaded with sweat, was as fair and sweet as a newborn fawn's. She was hot and damp, as if she'd been running a long while.

  Climbing the rise, he studied the strange golden girdle she clutched to her breast. 'Twas cleverly worked, very expensive. Indeed, she was adorned all over with ornaments and chains and rings of gold. The lass was obviously a maid of not only considerable beauty, but considerable wealth.

  Why such a lass would require sanctuary, he couldn't imagine. Maybe she was fleeing a cruel father or a brutal lover. Or maybe she'd crossed paths with one of the rabid packs of English soldiers that plagued the Borders. He shook his head. To think she might have escaped one danger only to fly into another…

  "Come, wee fawn," he said, jostling her. "What's after Saint Crispin's?"

  She tried to answer, though her eyes were closed. Her forehead creased, and her lips moved, but no sound came out.

  He furrowed his brow, wondering who she was and what she was doing in the middle of the forest.

  If she died, he'd never know.

  He would have preferred to take her to Father Conan's cottage. The abandoned church could hardly be called a sanctuary. When he reached the steps, he frowned up at the rotting door with misgiving.

  The Church at the Crossroads had been constructed before Rane was born, but it hadn't been used in four years. A victim of King Henry's raiding, the church had been desecrated by a band of English soldiers who'd robbed the sanctuary and murdered the resident priest, leaving a missive pinned to the door, Thank your Cardinal for this.

  Since then, people claimed the place was cursed by King Henry himself. Indeed, misfortune had befallen all five priests who'd presided over the church since. Father Conan, the most recent, had been struck blind and lived in seclusion now, leaving nothing but vermin to inhabit the sanctuary—vermin and, some whispered, evil spirits.

  Rane didn't believe in such nonsense. Vermin might dwell within, but surely they were only the earthly sort. With a dismissive snort, he mounted the steps.

  The door creaked open under his shoulder. R
ane swept through the entrance, past the cobwebbed narthex, and into the dim nave. The faint scent of sweet incense had long ago faded under the musty odor of decay, and the vivid colors of the arched window above the chancel were dulled beneath a patina of dust.

  Suddenly something streaked like a dark shadow across the altar dais.

  "Shite!" he hissed in surprise, wincing as the oath echoed among the rafters.

  'Twas only Methuselah, Father Conan's cat. The ragged old creature hunkered down in fear and squeezed through a crack in the vestry door while Rane silently cursed his rattled nerves.

  He carried the lass forward, placing her gently upon the stones before the altar. He cast off his cloak, removed his leather jerkin, and then pulled his outer shirt over his head, rolling it into a makeshift pillow, which he tucked carefully beneath her head.

  A fat candle slouched in an iron holder beside the altar. He blew the dust off, then trimmed the wick with his gutting knife and used his flint to light the tallow. As the candle sputtered to life, shadows danced like devils along the crumbling plaster walls and over the blackened beams above.

  Now the belt had to be loosened. Rane prayed the maid would lose no more blood. He blew out a bracing breath and knelt beside her. Easing her skirts up, he bared her slim leg, which was now deathly pale. The bandages had stanched the flow, but whether they would hold…

  Slowly, cautiously, he unbuckled the belt.

  Almost at once, fresh blood oozed through the linen. The lass groaned, but didn't fully waken, as sensation returned to her limb.

  He muttered an oath, wadding a fistful of her chemise and pressing it firmly against the wound. She'd rail at him for ruining her fine garments, he supposed, but he'd gladly bear her temper later if it meant her survival now.

  While he waited for the flow to cease, his gaze roamed over her features again. Who was this lass thrust into his path?