In 1548 Scotland, the tiny vivacious Florie Gilder,
apprentice to the goldsmith to Princess Mary, flees with
her reclaimed pomander. Sold in error to Sheriff Frasier's
wife Mavis, Florie has no choice but to steal it back when
all offers to buy back the gold piece are refused.
Punishment for a thief is hanging, thus her flight into the
woods is precipitated while being chased by the guards.
Once being a favorite of the king prior to her marriage,
Mavis must take possession of the pomander, which holds the
ability to destroy her life, yet holds Florie's unknown
past.
Poaching deer to provide food for starving crofters, Rane
MacAllister seriously risks being discovered by his lord,
Gilbert Frasier. The fleeing Florie is mistaken for a deer
and injured by Rane's arrow. Horrified, he discovers the
reason for her plight and is obligated to take her to the
church where criminals are given 40 days of sanctuary. When
Gilbert is pressured by his wife and learns of Florie's
whereabouts, Rane is ordered to guard her until the 40 days
are up and then turn her over for trial. Nursing Florie
through near death with infection, the womanizing Rane
becomes completely enthralled with her and vows to save
Florie as he faces imminent death for aiding her.
This is one of those novels that once picked up is seldom
put down until finished; that was truly the case with me. I
was completely enthralled with the storyline and loved
Florie and Rane. This was a refreshing love story with a
new plot. Kira Morgan is an extremely interesting
novelist with a terrific imagination for a great story. She
is clever with words and keeps excitement throughout the
story.
A WOMAN ON THE RUN
Florie Gilder is a beautiful and celebrated goldsmith--and a
fugitive from the law. Thought to have stolen a precious
heirloom that is the key to her true heritage, she seeks
sanctuary in a church...only to be discovered by Rane
MacAllister. Chivalrous and charming, this broad-shouldered
archer is bound by oath to prevent this feisty “thief” from
escaping into the countryside. He does, but at a price.
A MAN ON THE HUNT
Florie chafes at being anyone’s prisoner, let alone that of
a man sent by her accuser. But Rane, alone with Florie in
this abandoned cloister, begins to conquer her guarded
heart--and ignites a fiery passion. Now as their enemies
gather to bring about their ruin, Florie and Rane will need
courage, wits, and, most of all, love, to survive being...
CAPTURED BY DESIRE
Excerpt
SPRING 1548
"Thief! Thief! Stop her!"
Lady Mavis Fraser’s sharp shrieks cut through the noise of
the Selkirk Fair like the blade of a claymore.
Luckily for the thief, clutching tightly to her prize as she
raced through the crowd--bumping a pie man, dodging a lady
with a monkey, and passing perilously close to a
fire-eater--most of the afternoon revelers were too drunk on
bayberry mead to pay her much mind.
But the shrill screams of outrage jangled Florie’s nerves
and doubled her panic, spurring her to run faster. Her heart
pounded with fear and amazement and, aye, to her shame, a
warped thrill of triumph.
She had what she wanted now. The precious gold pomander
rested safely in her palm. But at what price? Florie Gilder,
Respected Apprentice of the Goldsmith to the Princess Mary
Herself, with one reckless act of passion, had become a
common outlaw!
"Catch her!"
Florie knew she should stop running. She should never have
bolted in the first place. A wise lass would calm herself,
use diplomacy. ‘Twas only a simple misunderstanding, after
all.
But panic propelled her past stall after stall of tailors,
potters, jewelers, glovers, and cobblers, wreaking chaos as
she went. She elbowed aside a lad playing an hautboy, making
a discord in his music, and earned hisses from a cluster of
children as she barged between them and a puppet play. She
scattered a flock of tethered hens, then trod upon the hem
of a lady’s sassanette train.
Fortunately, Florie’s small size, which made her tiny
fingers perfect for crafting the most intricate gold
filigree, served her here as well. She was able to slip
easily under the noses of the Selkirk guards, now alerted to
the presence of a thief in their midst.
She scurried past the vendors of roast capon and oatcakes,
gingerbread and umble pies. But then, sparing one quick
glance over her shoulder, she spied a pair of determined
men-at-arms clearing a path toward her.
Lord Gilbert’s constables!
Her heart jabbed against her ribs.
Lady Mavis must have reported the crime to her husband’s
men, who were naturally everywhere, since ‘twas Gilbert
Fraser, the Lord Sheriff, whose amber-colored glove was
displayed atop the pole at the fair’s entrance, signifying
his permission for the event.
“Ballocks,” she whispered.
At that moment, one of the constables locked gazes with her.
Florie, unable to hide the culpability in her wide eyes,
spun and bolted away.
She crashed through a circle of dice-casting peasants who
yelled at her in anger, careened past an old beldam selling
ribbons, and wriggled through a knot of spectators wagering
on a wrestling match.
She really must stop. Running was a sure sign of guilt.
Besides, what did she know about the countryside of Selkirk?
She’d get lost, and the men-at-arms would catch up with her
in no time.
But she could no more fight her instincts for
self-preservation than a vixen could keep from fleeing a
pack of slavering hounds.
Ahead, the way parted--leather goods down one lane,
kitchenware down the other. Deciding in haste, she bolted to
the right. The toe of her boot caught on an upright pole
hung with iron pots, knocking the lot over with a clamoring
like alarm bells.
“Sh?te!” she hissed, tearing away while the merchant shook
his fist at her.
At last she reached the end of the fair, where the crowd
began to thin and the trees to thicken.
She didn’t dare look back. She knew the guards pursued her.
Her only hope was to head for the forest and pray they’d
lose track of her in the afternoon shadows.
Just past the last stall, she darted into a copse of trees
overhanging a narrow deer trail. Fortunately, when she’d
gone to the privy earlier, she’d doffed her bright blue
apprentice’s smock. Now, clad in her kirtle of fawn-colored
brocade, Florie practically vanished among the shedding
sycamores as she moved swiftly down the path.
The cacophony of the fair gradually receded, yielding to the
still of the forest, but Florie’s jagged breathing and the
rapid beat of her heart seemed deafening as she scurried
through the wood.
The path constricted as it angled through the brush.
Branches reached for her like a brazen cutpurse, one of them
snagging her black velvet French hood and snatching it from
her head. She cursed as her dark waist-length hair tumbled
helter-skelter out of its pins, half-blinding her. Her heavy
skirts seemed to plot against her as well, dragging through
the mulch, catching on twigs, slowing her progress.
But she hurtled along as best she could, guided by spots of
sun that flashed through gaps in the thicket.
Before long, her mouth grew as dry as chalk, strands of her
loose hair clung to her damp face, and a javelin of pain
began to stab at her side, making her wince at every limping
tread. It seemed to Florie as if she’d run forever, that
she’d never stop. And she began genuinely to rue taking that
first fateful step.
Then she tripped over an exposed root, dropping the precious
pomander and landing hard on her hands and knees.
She knelt there, gasping for breath. Her cheeks were flushed
with heat, and runnels of sweat trickled down her neck. Her
lungs burned. Her palms stung. She had no idea where she
was. For a fleeting moment, the temptation to surrender--to
collapse onto the ground and simply wait for destiny to take
its course--was great.
Then she remembered the disparaging men of the goldsmith’s
guild. They’d belittled Florie when she’d taken over her
foster father’s trade, claiming that a lass was too frail
and weak-willed for the work. They’d admonished the master
goldsmith, saying he should have apprenticed a lad instead.
She wasn’t about to prove them right.
With a determined oath, she scooped up the pomander, secured
it quickly to the girdle of gold links about her hips, and
forced herself up again, staggering forward.
Anger and despair warred within her as the gorse thickened
and the trail narrowed, thwarting her escape. Then, just as
she began to fear the path would dwindle to nothing, it
blessedly opened up again. She plunged forward down the
gradual slope, faster and faster, tripping along
moss-covered stones, slipping through the sycamores, and
skidding on the leaf-fall.
So quickly did she descend the hill that she almost broke
through the trees when the path emerged unexpectedly upon
the main thoroughfare. Somehow she managed to slew to a halt
soon enough to avoid running into the open road and
revealing herself.
Leaning against an oak to rest, she pressed at the sharp
stitch in her side. Curse her luck! This close to the road,
she was no better off than when she’d set out an hour ago.
Maybe she should just surrender herself to the authorities.
Perhaps Lord Gilbert would be more reasonable than his wife.
She’d seen him earlier when he’d stopped by her stall, a
comely man of forty winters or so, and his face had not
seemed unkind. His neatly clipped dark beard revealed a
penchant for order, his carefully selected jewels a
preference for restraint--things Florie admired.
Perhaps he’d grant her mercy. After all, she was a respected
merchant. And she hadn’t precisely stolen the pomander.
She’d only reclaimed it.
But she doubted that even the guild would concur with her
reckoning of the incident. As her foster father oft
complained, Florie’s uncompromising nature might serve her
well when it came to crafting exquisite jewelry, but ‘twas a
curse when it came to marketing what she made.
This incident was certainly proof of that.
Yet what else could she have done? The pomander was too
important to let it fall into the hands of a spoiled
noblewoman. Within the precious piece dwelled the secret of
Florie’s past and the key to her future.
From the very first, when she’d decided she could no longer
live in the shadow of her dead mother, her foster father had
warned her against going to Selkirk, against opening old
wounds.
But she hadn’t listened to him. He wasn’t her real father,
after all, and she had to find the one who was.
It didn’t matter that ‘twas the first fair she’d been to on
her own, did it?
Or that her bargaining skills weren’t quite polished yet?
Or that her uncompromising nature would drive her to commit
a seemingly criminal act where a noblewoman screamed at her
and lawmen chased her through the woods?
She blew out a breath of dismay, shaking her head.
‘Twas hard to believe that only a fortnight ago, Florie had
been welcomed into the Queen’s private solar at Dumbarton
Castle. There, surrounded by the Ladies of the Court, she’d
had the honor of presenting a gold pendant to young Princess
Mary.
As always, Florie hadn’t been allowed to take credit for the
work, even though she’d designed and crafted every part of
it, from the brightly jeweled bouquet of flowers to the
filigree butterfly that perched upon them. She was, after
all, only a lowly apprentice. ‘Twas her foster father who
claimed the title of Master Goldsmith to the Princess.
But Mary’s delighted cooing and the gleeful squeals of her
companions, the Four Maries, had been reward enough. The
Queen had expressed her appreciation with a nod and an
approving smile that promised future commissions.
Now the memory made Florie wince. She wondered what future a
known felon could possibly have in the Royal household. And
as far as finding her real father now...
How could things have gone so wrong so quickly?
Stupid Wat! This was his fault. She wouldn’t have brought
the servant along at all if her foster father hadn’t
insisted on his coming for her protection. Protection,
faugh! He might be as brawny as an ox, but what Wat
possessed in the way of intimidating bulk, he more than made
up for by a dearth of wits.
Only moments ago, Florie had left the booth to answer the
call of nature at the public jakes. Yet in her brief
absence, Wat had managed to wreak havoc. She should never
have trusted the hulking halfwit to watch over her goods.
Somehow the dolt had sold her mother’s pomander, the one
piece she’d handed to him for safekeeping.
As for Florie, she’d simply attempted to secure the
pomander’s return. Which was only reasonable.
She’d been more than fair in her dealings with Lady Mavis.
She’d civilly explained how the sale of that particular
piece had been an error. She’d managed to conceal her
impatience, offering to substitute a beautiful girdle--one
with a lovely little jeweled looking glass attached--in an
equal exchange, even though the girdle was worth much more
than the pomander.
But the nasty termagant rejected her generous offer. Which
naturally left Florie no choice but to take the pomander
back by force. To her credit, as she snatched it and turned
to flee, she even tossed back to Lady Mavis the coins she’d
laid out for the piece.
But now Florie was branded a thief and a fugitive. And
contrary to her foster father’s belief in him, she knew the
coward Wat was unlikely to rush to her defense. Considering
the tongue-lashing she'd given him for selling the pomander
in the first place, he'd probably retreated somewhere to
lick his wounds.
While Florie stood there, catching her breath and wondering
how she’d ever restore her reputation in the guild, a soft
rumbling sounded in the distance.
Horses. At a gallop. Coming nearer.
As the thrumming grew louder, she peered cautiously down the
road from behind the oak. And gulped.
Lord Gilbert Fraser himself charged down the lane with a
half dozen men, the amber-colored crest of his snapping
pennant unmistakable. She whipped back behind the oak trunk,
frozen in breathless waiting while they passed in a flurry
of flapping tabards and horseflesh, close enough to choke
her on the rising silt.
Only when they were well past the bend in the lane did she
dare peek again through the branches to the road beyond.
That road was the same western passage she’d come in on
three days past. She tried to remember what shelter lay
along the route--an inn, a tavern, a crofter’s cottage,
anyplace she might hide until tempers cooled and the
incident faded in memory. Faith, where could she go?
A stream ran along the south side of the road for several
miles, she recalled. At one point it deserted that course to
pass through a sunken lea, opened up into a large round
pond, then narrowed again at the far bank to wind its way
through the wood. Up the rise from that pond, near the
crossroads, stood an old wayside church.
Sanctuary.
She could claim sanctuary. By law, churches were obliged to
protect outlaws for forty days. She wouldn’t stay that long,
of course. She’d just take shelter until tensions settled
and reason prevailed.
Bolstered by hope, she pushed off the tree and hastened
forward, skirting the edge of the main road. How far was it?
A quarter of a mile? Half?
Lord Gilbert would pass this way again, realizing his prey
couldn’t go far on foot. How long would he ride before he
wheeled about?
She didn’t dare wait to find out. Dismissing the painful
throbbing in her chest, she sprang forward like the quarry
in a foxhunt, racing her pursuers and the setting sun.
~
Rane MacAllister stood motionless behind the cluster of
elms. His bow lay at rest across his thigh, but an arrow was
nocked at the ready. ‘Twas almost sunset. Soon they’d
arrive.
Invisible flies nipped at the quiet water of the deep pond,
making tiny ripples across its surface. A squirrel had come
to drink its fill, and a fox, fooled by Rane’s masking scent
of rosemary, had fearlessly approached the water, unaware
that a hunter lurked not ten yards away.
Rane wasn’t interested in the fox. He saved his talents for
provender, chiefly deer.
The lowering sun winked through the elm branches, and Rane
shifted the slightest bit to the left to keep his eyes in
shadow, imperceptible. Garbed in the muted greens and browns
of the forest, his fair hair blending with the pale bark of
the elms, he was nearly invisible. Now he had only to watch
and wait.
And brood.
‘Twas a dangerous game he played, poaching in Ettrick
Forest, the Royal wood guarded by Lord Gilbert Fraser,
Sheriff of Selkirk.
After all, Rane was Gilbert’s own huntsman, well-respected
in the nobleman’s household. Chosen for his keen eye and
steady hand, Rane had put food on the Fraser table for nigh
seven seasons.
‘Twas a point of pride with Rane that, unlike other archers
who crippled prey with wounds that were grievous but not
mortal, he almost always felled game instantly with a single
arrow through the heart.
Still, only years of practice steadied his arm now, for the
peril of committing such a crime would have set most men’s
limbs to trembling.
He scanned the trees on the far side of the pond, at the
narrow break that marked the end of the deer trail. No
creature stirred the brush yet. But he knew they’d come.
They always came to the water at twilight.
The shadows grew long. Soon the Selkirk Fair would close. He
swallowed down the acrid taste of apprehension, a taste to
which he was unfortunately becoming accustomed. By God’s
grace and his own fleet hand, he’d have a stag slain and
dressed and be gone by the time the first burghers passed by
on the main road.
For if he didn’t, if anyone caught him with his prize...
He frowned. ‘Twas too late to think about the penalty for
poaching. He’d already weighed the consequences when he’d
decided he had to do something to feed the starving
crofters.
Between the English King Henry VIII’s years of relentless
razing of the Borders and the massacre done by his men at
the River Esk last fall, Scotland had suffered wounds from
which it might never recover, wounds that were felt most
deeply by the helpless poor. Yet the nobles had done little
to relieve the suffering of their subjects. Even now, Lady
Mavis was likely ambling through the Selkirk Fair, wasting
her husband’s coin on some frippery or other.
As for Rane, he refused to let perfectly good game roam the
forest, awaiting the pleasure of plump-bellied Royals, while
Scots 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. But 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, and 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.
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