To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (16 page)

She was standing near the back wall of the cell, taking no comfort from the fat straw mattress or the chair provided. He barely recognized her now that she was mostly dry and her hair had been neatly braided. The weeping, defeated woman he had dragged here an hour ago had disappeared.

She met his gaze easily, even smiled when she saw the sword in his hand. Not a kind smile. More of a sneer.

He picked up her brat. His memory hadn’t deceived him. It was a lovely piece of wool, woven with brilliant colors and finished to a soft sheen. The queen would be pleased with such a gift.

“Bring this with you,” he said. “We journey to Kinghorn.”

A frown lowered her brow. “Why Kinghorn?”

“Your place is not to ask questions,” he answered, “but to do as I bid. Gather your brat, or weather the storm without it.”

She collected her brat.

“You will speak to no one, save to me,” he said, leading the way out. The guard brought up the rear. “The tale I have given the king is that you will weave a cloth for Queen Yolande in celebration of her birthday, a design of her own choosing.”

They reached the courtyard, where the king’s white stallion stood bridled and ready in the gusting rain, along with six other horses. Dunkeld put a hand on the woman’s arm. “You will have
opportunity to speak with others on our journey. I highly recommend you keep what you know to yourself. My reach is great—especially here in Edinburgh. Cross me in any way and I shall see your father and his family into hell. Is that clear?”

She nodded, but there was no cowering in her eyes, no fear for his retribution.

That gave Dunkeld pause. If she did not fear him, she would be difficult to control, and he did not want trouble. Not tonight. Tonight his focus had to be on his brother . . . and the crown.

“Good,” said King Alexander, walking past him into the downpour. “You are here. Let us be off.”

The king and his guards mounted, leaving Dunkeld no choice but to follow suit. If he begged another delay to return Morag to her cell, the king would leave without him.

He helped her mount, then leapt upon his own horse.

As they rode out of the castle gate, horse hooves clopping on the cobbles, Dunkeld shed his doubts and settled into a cool, calculating calm. As rain dripped off his hood and the wind snapped the wet edges of his cloak, he smiled.

This was his moment.

Everything he had done thus far had led here. His plan was finally coming to fruition. After tonight, events would unfold swiftly. The king’s council would be thrown into turmoil with Alexander’s
death. They would pray for the healthy birth of Yolande’s babe and bicker over who would rule during the minority. The queen would receive her dead husband’s last gift—a glorious necklace painted with lethal poison—and Dunkeld would encourage her to wear it at his state funeral.

Dunkeld’s smile grew.

Once the babe was dead, the council would send for young Margaret, the Maid of Norway. But Dunkeld had already seen to the fate of the young princess. She would not survive the journey to Scotland.

And in the midst of all the turmoil, he would be the quiet voice of reason. He would step into the breach and make the decisions others were too weak to make. Today the earls turned their noses up at the thought of him wearing the crown, but when all of Alexander’s heirs were buried in the ground, and the option was to send Scotland hurtling into political war, they would come crawling to him on their knees. He would be the only remaining blood heir.

They would beg him to be king.

Dunkeld’s gaze lifted to the sight of his handsome brother leading their party. Windswept and sodden, he still looked regal on his fine white steed. History would right itself tonight.

Justice was about to be served.

*   *   *

Wulf ran a hand over the stallion’s wet withers, his experienced eye looking for any sign of distress in the rented beast’s body. When he was certain the horse was in fine shape, he paid the farmer his coin and promised to return the animal in two days’ time.

The stallion was not a destrier built for battle. Nor was it a courser built for speed. It was a heavy stock animal bred to pull a plow, but it could gallop at a fine clip and hold Wulf’s weight with ease. It would do.

He was about to vault onto the beast’s back when he spied an old man walking down the path in the rain toward him. Not Elen’s father, but a familiar face just the same. One he hadn’t seen in a number of years.

“Bhaltair?”

The old man looked up. He wore an ankle-length lèine and a dark cloak, and sported a long white beard that reached past his belt. Rain dripped from his sharp nose. “Ah, there you are, lad.”

Wulf shook his head. The old druid had lived for years in an old ruin south of Dunstoras keep. To see him here was a surprise. “You are a long way from home. What brings you here?”

Bhaltair patted the stallion’s muzzle. “I follow the stars,” he said.

“They led you to Holyrood?”

He smiled. “They led me to you.”

Wulf tightened the baldric strapped around his chest and shoulder, making certain it was secure, as wet leather tended to stretch. “I’ve not the time to break bread with you,” he said. “I’ve just received word that a man I seek has ridden out of Edinburgh Castle.”

Bhaltair nodded. “You must go.”

Wulf leapt up on the horse. “Take care, old man.”

“The stars say this is a night of dramatic change,” Bhaltair said. “The fate of Scotland will be decided tonight.”

Wulf frowned. “Scotland?”

The fate of William Dunkeld for certain. That he intended to change. But slaying Dunkeld should have no bearing on the future of Scotland.

Bhaltair released the horse’s muzzle and stepped back. “They head for Kinghorn. This steed will not be fleet enough to give chase. You must travel for Leith, and take a boat around the headland to Kinghorn harbor. In the town, you will find a faster horse to take you into the hills.”

Wulf stared at him.

The old man was asking a lot to have him take that route based only on his word. What if Dunkeld was not headed for Kinghorn? On the other hand, Bhaltair was rumored to be a druid—a diviner and mystic of some renown. Wulf’s cousin
Niall and the Black Warriors swore they had witnessed him perform magic.

“Taking a boat around the headland on a night like tonight would be perilous,” he said.

“Aye,” Bhaltair agreed. “But everything you lay value to is at stake. The risks of not taking the boat are far greater.”

It wasn’t the old man’s words that convinced him. It was the flash of lightning that lit up the sky behind him as he spoke. For an instant Bhaltair was perfectly highlighted against the stormy sky, the ends of his long white hair floating despite the rain. As portents went, it wasn’t unusual, but it was dramatic.

“Then I’m for Leith,” he said.

The old druid smiled. “May your travels be swift and the aim of your sword be true, Wulf MacCurran. Godspeed.”

Wulf threw caution to the wind and urged his plow horse into a canter. It felt wrong to leave the old man standing in the downpour, but when he glanced back, there was no sign of Bhaltair. Just an empty path and the outline of Holyrood Abbey.

Trying not to lay meaning on that, he leaned over his horse and rode like a madman for the coast.

*   *   *

It was well past midnight when they reached the cliffs overlooking Kinghorn. The king’s party,
sodden and miserable, had slowed to a walk. The cliffs were muddy, and it was difficult to see in the driving rain.

Dunkeld kneed his horse to come alongside his brother. “The castle is almost within view, sire. Shall I send the guards ahead to prepare for your arrival? Dry clothing and a cup of hot mead are an absolute must.”

“Aye,” shouted Alexander, as another lightning strike rumbled through the air. His shoulder-length brown hair was plastered to his head, his beard aglitter with drops of rain. Weariness lay in every line of his face.

Dunkeld had to bite back a smile.

Really, this was going to be too easy.

Falling back, he waved to the guards bringing up the rear. “Go on ahead,” he told them. “Announce His Grace’s arrival and ensure a proper greeting.”

The guards urged their mounts into a canter and rode off into the fog and rain, passing the king and then swiftly disappearing from view. Dunkeld twisted in his saddle to glare at Morag. “Stay here,” he said quietly. “I’ll return momentarily.”

She stared back at him, her expression cool.

Dunkeld felt compelled to add, “Attempting to ride off would be foolish. You are not an accomplished rider and it would be easy to become lost or lose your footing on these slippery cliffs.”

Her stare remained cool and hard.

Although he worried she might try to flee, Dunkeld left her behind. He needed a moment alone with his brother, and that moment was far more important than any lass. Even MacCurran’s lass.

Encouraging his horse into a trot, he caught up to his brother. Walking alongside him, he waited for the best spot with the steepest drop to the beach below. The horses were already tired and a bit skittish from all the lightning. It wouldn’t take much to spook the king’s stallion. The beast was magnificent and strong, but high-strung.

“If you had your wish,” Dunkeld asked his brother, “what would you have the historians say about your reign?”

Alexander glanced at him. “What a curious question.”

Dunkeld shrugged. “I think about our father from time to time, and the legacy he left behind. Would he have been pleased to know that the songs sung about him mostly remember a bairn whose brains were dashed upon a stone?”

The king shook his head and droplets sprayed. “Nay, he would not. But the people favor an entertaining story and the grisly death of the MacWilliam’s infant daughter is one that begs to be retold.”

Dunkeld agreed. “What story will they tell of you?”

Alexander grinned. “I should like them to remember that I outwitted the Norse and reclaimed the Western Isles. But they might prefer to recall that I once rode to Kinghorn in the middle of a stormy night to visit my new bride on the eve of her birthday.”

“Both good tales.”

Dunkeld judged this spot to be as good as any. The embankment was especially steep here, and large boulders lay at the bottom. So he palmed his dirk and prepared to jab the king’s
horse.

W
ulf did not question why a man with a fine bay stallion waited for him when he stumbled from the boat. He was too ill from the turbulent seas to dwell upon it. He simply mounted, threw a coin at the man, and rode off.

Compared to the wild pitching of the boat under his feet, the horse was an easy ride, even in the mud. He passed the castle, a lovely stone hold standing high and proud on the headland, and climbed into the hills beyond. Torches were ablaze at the castle, suggesting the king had not yet arrived, and he encouraged his mount to greater speed.

His challenge would be to avoid the king’s guard.

The only logical way to do that would be to lay an ambush along the king’s route, and pray for an
opportunity that allowed him to attack Dunkeld alone. He found a perfect spot in a small copse of trees along the ridge overlooking the rocky beach, and reined in his mount. The path to the castle led right past him, and even in the driving rain and heavy fog he was certain he would spy their passing.

Waiting proved difficult.

The wind tore at him, rain poured down from the skies in sheets, and his horse churned the ground at his feet into a thick ooze of mud.

But Wulf held to his plan.

And he was rewarded. In between the occasional flashes and crashes of lightning, he heard the rumble of horses cantering toward him. He peered through the gloom, waiting for a glimpse of the riders. Four mounted men tore past him, not a dozen feet from where he was hidden in the trees. All four wore the red-and-gold capes of the king’s guard and displayed weary faces eager to reach the comfort of the castle.

Dunkeld was not among them.

Wulf frowned. Neither was the king.

He stared up the path. Elen’s father had reported that Dunkeld was in a small party. How many were left to come? His heart thumped a slow, steady rhythm in his chest. For some reason, Bhaltair’s odd words at Holyrood were echoing in his head.
The fate of Scotland will be decided tonight.

Were Dunkeld and the king alone?

And if they were, what did that mean?

The four guards who rode by did not look to be panicked or angry—merely determined to reach the castle. Their pace had been quick but not frenzied. So nothing had happened to the king.

Not yet
, a whisper in his head said.

Dunkeld might be the king’s trusted brother, but he was also the man in black. The man who had poisoned the king’s courier, stolen the queen’s necklace, and murdered Wulf’s family. His reasons remained unclear, but all of it seemed to revolve around one person—the king.

Was he reading too much into Bhaltair’s warning?

Perhaps.

But Dunkeld was not the man King Alexander believed him to be.

Wulf urged his horse out of the trees and onto the path. Not entirely certain what his intent was, he set out across the ridgetop. If he encountered a large group of the king’s guard, his hopes of slaying Dunkeld would be dashed. Still, his gut was telling him to ride, so he rode.

*   *   *

Morag’s experience with horses was limited to a handful of rides on the back of Wulf’s destrier, and this miserable midnight journey across the land. Were it daylight, she might have been tempted to
whirl about and make a break for freedom. But not tonight. In the storm she would swiftly become lost.

Staying where Dunkeld told her to stay was not her only option, however.

He and the king had disappeared into the darkness together, and something told her Dunkeld was up to no good. Morag knew nothing of court intrigue or political maneuvering, but she knew a lot about liars and deceivers. Men who swore devotion with one breath and demanded a shunning the next. And she knew Dunkeld should not be alone with the king.

Morag prodded her horse with her heels and sent a prayer skyward.

Now would certainly be a fine time for Wulf to appear.

*   *   *

Wulf was nearly upon Dunkeld and the king when a flash of lightning revealed them riding along the ridgetop. The wind was howling and the rain was lashing sideways, so the king’s head was down, buried beneath the hood of his cloak. He did not see what Wulf could see—Dunkeld’s hand raised, the shining tip of a dirk aimed at his horse’s flank.

Wulf shouted a warning, but the wind carried it away. And in a flash, the world went dark again, the king lost to him in the darkness.

Wulf spurred his horse forward, praying he was mistaken. He’d seen them for only a moment. Perhaps he’d only imagined the dirk in Dunkeld’s hand. But he feared the worst. Dunkeld was a madman—his continued persecution of Clan MacCurran was evidence of it. If he was bent on doing harm to the king, he would be difficult to stop.

He rode furiously toward the king, hoping he could reach him in time.

Another lightning bolt lit up the night sky, and Wulf peered ahead.

The pair on the ridge was much closer now, but what he saw this time shot an icy spear into his gut. Morag, on a horse, colliding with Dunkeld. No sign of the king or his fine white steed. What was Morag doing here? Why was she not safe with Bran, making preparation to return to Dunstoras? The world went dark again, and Wulf raced toward the battle on the cliff top.

Morag was no match for Dunkeld.

Time passed too slowly, the only sounds in his ears the horse’s labored breathing and the pounding of its hooves on the muddy ground. And then suddenly they rose up out of the mist and rain—Dunkeld and Morag, no longer on horseback, but slipping and sliding in the mud. Dunkeld’s fist swung. Wulf saw Morag’s head snap back, and she fell heavily to the ground. In the blink of an
eye, his past and his present collided. Despite his grief over his lost wife and son, he loved Morag. More than life itself.

A rage like he’d never known filled his heart, and he drew his sword.

“Dunkeld!” Reining hard, he leapt off his mount. “You black-hearted wretch. Prepare to meet your maker.”

The man in black glanced up, took one look at Wulf’s face, and grabbed for Morag’s hair. He hauled her to her feet and laid his sword to her throat. “Come no closer, or she dies.”

Morag’s head lolled against her captor’s shoulder, her eyes half-closed. Her left cheek bore the rosy red imprint of Dunkeld’s fist, and Wulf had to stem a rush of hot anger. “Is that how a prince does battle, Dunkeld? With a woman as his shield?”

Dunkeld backed up, edging closer to his skittish mount. “I can’t speak for princes,” he said. “But it’s how wise men do battle.”

“Traitors and craven curs, perhaps,” Wulf said. “But not wise men.”

A faint smile settled on Dunkeld’s lips. “Shall we let history be the judge? I suspect that when I reach Kinghorn Castle and inform the queen that Wulf MacCurran has murdered her beloved husband, it will be you who is seen as a craven cur, not I.”

Wulf pointed the tip of his blade at Dunkeld’s
heart. Rain spattered on the polished steel and ran down the edge in a stream. “You mean
if
you reach Kinghorn Castle.”

“Nay, I mean
when
.” Dunkeld dragged Morag back another step. “You and I both know that should you make a single move toward me, it will take but an instant to slit your woman’s throat. I will not hesitate. She will die in your arms, with her blood on your hands.”

Wulf refused to let that chilling image surface in his thoughts. Morag would not die.

Not this night. Not while he still had breath in his body.

“A meaningless threat,” he jeered. “I care naught about the woman. I am here for vengeance. You poisoned my wife and son at Dunstoras, and tonight you pay the price.”

Doubt flickered in Dunkeld’s eyes, but even as Wulf watched, he shook it off. Water spraying, he took a determined step toward his horse and reached for the dangling reins. “Four months is a long time to delay vengeance.”

“I was injured,” said Wulf, scowling. With Dunkeld’s blade so close to Morag’s tender skin, there was no room to free her. He needed an opening. “Your reprieve ends now.”

Wulf tensed, ready to strike. The best opportunity would come when Dunkeld leapt upon the horse, but Wulf would need to be quick. The cur
would slit Morag’s throat and toss her aside before he raced for Kinghorn; that was a certainty. He had nothing to gain by letting her live.

Wulf got his chance.

Thanks to Morag.

She chose that moment to open her eyes with a gasp, and stiffen in Dunkeld’s grip. Her sudden movement startled Dunkeld, and the sharp sword against her throat drooped. Only an inch, and only for an instant, but it was all the opportunity Wulf needed. He pounced.

The length of Dunkeld’s weapon was his downfall.

Wulf struck the tip of his opponent’s blade with a powerful downward whack, taking the sharp edge away from Morag’s neck. She did the rest, ducking out of the man’s hold and scurrying away. Once he knew she was safe, Wulf let the slow burn of impending justice flow through his veins. This bastard had murdered Elen and Hugh, and quite likely the king. There was none more deserving of death than he.

His muscles warm and loose, Wulf attacked.

Dunkeld was no weakling. He had spent a lifetime with a sword in his hands, but he was not the warrior Wulf was. Wulf felt as if he had been born with his blade in his hand. The fit and weight of it in his palm were perfect, and every swing came as natural as breathing.

But it wasn’t an easy win.

The rain and the mud made the duel a challenge for both men. Wet hands and slippery footing played havoc with their aim and stole power from their hits. Neither of them scored a single slice in the first few minutes of engagement. Dunkeld’s strategy was defensive—he parried and blocked far more often than he attempted a strike. But Wulf’s intent was to take the man down. His movements were spare to conserve energy, but he leveraged every true opportunity.

Men without honor made difficult opponents, however.

Dunkeld was willing to sacrifice anything to win, even his horse. Just as Wulf swung his blade, his opponent ducked to the left and tugged on the reins. The horse stepped into the arc of Wulf’s swing, and he had to swiftly adjust his aim to avoid decapitating the creature. As it was, the edge of his blade clipped the animal’s shoulder, and it squealed in pain. Not a serious wound, but enough to cause the horse to rear up, flailing its front hooves.

Wulf stumbled back, one foot sliding wildly in the mud.

Dunkeld took advantage, attacking Wulf’s sword arm with a vicious slice.

His ploy might have succeeded, save that the cur neglected to factor in Morag. From somewhere
behind Wulf, she lobbed a great glob of mud at Dunkeld’s face, hitting him just above one eye. Half blinded by the dripping ooze, he swung wide of his target, and Wulf was able to regain his footing.

Dunkeld swiftly wiped his face with his sleeve and snarled at Morag, “I’ll see you into hell for that, you ill-favored jade.”

“Not if I see you into hell first,” she shouted back.

She certainly did her part. As Wulf attacked with the strength of his sword arm, she continued to pelt Dunkeld with mud. But the villainous wretch barely took note after the first hit. His attention was locked on Wulf, his determination to triumph written in every tight line of his face.

“No MacCurran will best me,” he vowed. “Not Duncan, not your laird, not you.”

Wulf said nothing.

“I am the rightful king of Scotland, and I will wear the crown.”

“You are a traitor and a maligner,” Wulf contested. “You will
never
wear the crown.”

Dunkeld lashed out with his blade, the tip catching the sleeve of Wulf’s lèine, slicing through the sodden material with ease. But he drew no blood.

Wulf held his blade loosely in front of his body, the tip high, waiting for the right moment. Rain dripped off his nose and chin, and his hair was
plastered to the sides of his face, but none of those discomforts burrowed into his thoughts. All that mattered was the occasional narrowing of Dunkeld’s eyes, and the slight tensing of his muscles before he made a move. Wulf knew the instant Dunkeld decided to feint and stab.

And he met the man’s attack with an attack of his own.

Their blades collided and slithered along their edges, sighing in the rain.

Only one blade met its intended target. The other passed to the right of Wulf’s face, narrowly missing his ear. Wulf felt his sword strike true, felt the resistance that told him he’d made the right call. Dunkeld’s face registered shock, his eyes wide, his lips slack.

The man in black dropped to his knees in the mud, releasing his weapon.

“Nay,” he said softly. “This not how it should end.”

“You brought the end about yourself,” Wulf said. “You betrayed your king.”

Dunkeld’s gaze dropped to his chest, and his hands wrapped around Wulf’s blade. “I will still win.”

Wulf frowned. How did dying upon another man’s blade constitute a win?

A crooked smile lifted one side of Dunkeld’s face. “If I cannot wear the crown, then neither shall
any child begat of my brother. They are all doomed. I’ve seen to it.”

Wulf grabbed Dunkeld’s shoulder. “What have you done?”

Dunkeld laughed, and choked on his blood. “Everything.”

Wulf squeezed hard. “Tell me what you have done.”

But Dunkeld had retreated into his own thoughts. When Wulf let go, he fell to the ground, smiling. His eyes were unfocused, staring sightlessly into the darkness. “So beautiful she’ll look . . . in death.”

And then he died.

Wulf stared at his nemesis for a long moment, watching the rain splatter on his pale face and pool in the mud around him. He had hoped this death would bring him peace. That the memories of that night in November would lose their sharpness once the man in black was gone. But the ache in his chest was as painful as ever.

Morag slipped her hand into his and hugged his left arm.

“We must find the king,” he said, threading his fingers with hers.

She pointed to the edge of the cliff where the turf was churned into a muddy bath. “There. I fear it will not be good news. Dunkeld stabbed the king’s horse in the flank, and the frightened beast
tossed the king from his saddle. It followed him over the side a moment later.”