To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (4 page)

They all looked up as the ladies entered, halting what must have been a lively discussion—the laird had his arms folded decisively across his chest, his brother was red faced, and Wulf wore a thunderous look that did not bode well for his opponents.

“Please continue,” Lady Macintosh invited. “It would appear you’ve yet to reach a consensus.”

Niall threw up his hands. “Because your husband refuses to see reason.”

“I am the one who stands accused of a crime I did not commit,” the laird said simply. “If anyone should go to Edinburgh, it should be me.”

“You are still a wanted man,” Niall argued. “The king has allowed Isabail to give your clan a home, but he has yet to pardon you. You cannot walk through the gates of Edinburgh without a care. And as fortunate as I’ve been in freeing men from dungeons lately, I doubt even I can fetch you home from Castle Rock.”

Lady Macintosh took a chair before the fire and waved Morag into another.

Morag held back, uncomfortable. The solar was as fine a room as she had ever seen, the walls draped in tapestries, the oak chairs carved in patterns of ivy leaves and thistle. A flagon of wine stood on the table next to a platter of sweet delicacies that included candied fruit and tablet. The laird and Niall wore fine woolen tunics atop their lèines, looking every bit as elegant as Lady Macintosh. Even the herald, Sim, held his brat at his throat with a large silver brooch.

She did not belong here.

She tried to catch Wulf’s gaze with a small wave, but failed.

His attention was locked on the laird.

“And why, dare I ask,” said Isabail, “are we contemplating a return to Edinburgh? I’ve just unpacked my belongings.”

“I finally have a means to identify the man in black,” the laird said. He offered his lady the sigil Wulf had cut from their attacker’s clothing. “Sim
is not familiar with the sigil, but he believes a royal herald will know the mark.”

“The king’s marischal grants arms,” Sim said. “If the badge is of his making, he’ll know its owner.”

“Which is why I must speak with him,” the laird said. “I must know with whom this man is aligned.”

“There’s a price on your head,” Niall said sharply. “You cannot approach the marischal.”

“How do we know this badge has anything to do with the man in black?” Isabail asked, peering at the sigil.

Wulf answered, “Morag saw these same arms the night the queen’s necklace was stolen.”

All eyes swung to Morag.

Isabail frowned. “Was it not dark?”

Morag nodded. “Very. The clouds were thick that night and I had little chance to see details. But as they were riding away, the clouds parted and the moon shone on one man’s shoulder as the wind pulled at his brat.”

“There you have it,” the laird said. “If not the man in black himself, then a liegeman.”

“Even so,” said Niall, “your likeness hangs on every pillory post in the kingdom. The king’s men will arrest you on sight, and that would risk more than your life. The king is unaware that you’ve wed Lady Macintosh; if he discovers your association—”

“All is lost,” Aiden finished flatly. He spun away
from the table and stalked to the narrow window. “Yet the man in black
must
be found.”

“Then I’ll go to Edinburgh,” Niall offered.

“Nay,” said Wulf quietly. “I’ll go.”

Niall shook his head. “You’ve not yet recovered from your injuries.”

“After breaking him out of Lochurkie, you’re as notorious as the laird himself,” Wulf pointed out. “My lame leg will not endanger our cause. I’m not going into battle, just calling upon a royal herald.”

“My apologies, cousin,” said Niall, grimacing. “’Twas not my intent to cast a slur. You held your own at Tayteath. I am sworn, to protect the clan. It is my duty as a Black Warrior to go.”

“If the goal is to make quiet inquiries and return with facts that will prove our innocence to the king, I am the wiser choice.”

“You are not completely unknown,” pointed out Niall. “The men who attacked Morag this morn were sent by someone.”

“Aye,” said the laird. “Someone knows you are alive and likely fears the tales that you could tell.”

Morag stared at Wulf. He returned her stare, as calm and deliberate as ever. It was true. The men had come for
him
—and he knew it. That was why he would not allow her to remain at the bothy.

Wulf shrugged. “There’s no reward for my capture. I’m still the better man.”

Aiden shook his head. “I’m not convinced.”

Wulf stood taller. “I do not beg your permission, laird. I claim the right of vengeance. If that sigil leads to the man who murdered my wife and wee lad, it will be
I
who discover the filthy cur’s name. I am owed that right.”

Silence fell in the room. The tone of Wulf’s voice was colder than Morag had ever heard it. He never spoke of his family, and she’d feared he had no attachment to them, but that clearly wasn’t true. There was a depth of bitterness in his words that could be caused only by pain.

After a lengthy moment the laird heaved a sigh. “You are indeed owed the right. Go to Edinburgh with my blessing. Take the wolf cloak we discovered at Tayteath, as well. Leave no stone unturned in your efforts.”

Morag frowned. “Of what import is a wolf cloak?”

Isabail glanced at her. “’Twas the garment worn by the murderer on the night the necklace was stolen. We found it in the possession of his accomplice, Daniel de Lourdes.”

Morag’s memories of that night had narrowed to a few vivid details, and she could not recall if she’d seen such a cloak. But it was definitely possible.

Aiden and Wulf shook hands. “Bring me the bastard’s name,” Aiden said.

Without a glance in Morag’s direction, Wulf gave a short nod, spun on his heels, and left the room.

She swallowed tightly, suddenly hot with
discomfort. Her right to be in the laird’s presence had just left. “Was there aught else you required of me, laird?”

Aiden looked at her. Truly looked at her. Morag shivered, certain that his gaze saw more than her face and the clothing she wore. His cool blue eyes seemed to bore right into her soul, laying bare her every sin.

She held her breath.

“Nay,” he said finally. “You may go.”

Morag made her best attempt at a curtsy and strode from the room, her head held high.

*   *   *

“Magnus!”

He halted midstride and turned to face Morag. Her face was unusually pale, her freckles vivid against her fair skin. “You should call me Wulf,” he said.

The hand that had been about to touch his sleeve dropped away. A coolness stole over her expression, and she nodded.

Regretting the pain caused by his words, Wulf added, “I can deny the past no longer. Those two men came for
me
. They came for Wulf MacCurran. And until I put name to the wretch who laid me low, you will forever be in danger.”

She nodded. “I understand your need to go to Edinburgh. I wanted to wish you Godspeed on your journey.”

“There’s no need. You will be traveling with me.”

“Nay,” she protested. “I’ve goats to tend and cloth to weave. I cannot leave the bothy.”

“You can, and you will. It’s not safe for you to remain.”

She frowned heavily. “Did you not hear me?”

“The danger is real,” he said. “The only other choice would be for you to live here in the keep while I am gone.”

A hint of color returned to her cheeks. “That’s not possible.”

He nodded. “Which is why you will accompany me to Edinburgh. You’ve several bolts of cloth woven, so we will travel under the guise of tradesmen bringing the cloth to market.”

“And what of my goats?”

“I’ll have someone fetch them.” He grazed a thumb over the flush on her cheeks. There was danger in bringing Morag with him, but it should be a quick journey, and he felt more at ease knowing he would be there to protect her. “You’ll like Edinburgh. It’s a lively town.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You remember Edinburgh?”

He stiffened. “Aye,” he said slowly, realizing it was true. “Without difficulty.”

“A good sign, surely?”

It should be. Save he still could not remember
when he’d last been to the burgh or what had led him to visit. “Perhaps.”

As they exited the stairwell, Morag’s gaze slid across the great hall. “Will we bring Jamie along as well?”

Wulf watched his son diligently attack a spot of rust on a dirk. The lad’s sandy hair shook with the ferocity of his endeavors, and Wulf was struck with a pang of pride. Jamie was a fine son, coming into his own under Niall’s skillful tutelage. He deserved to continue his lessons with a doting uncle capable of teaching him the fine art of swordsmanship. Not to be shackled to a man with a lame leg and no memory of him.

“Nay,” he said abruptly. “We’ll travel faster with two.”

Morag was silent for a moment, and he felt the censure of her thoughts. But she wisely did not question his decision. “When do we leave?”

“At first light.”

Another frown settled on her brow. “And where will we pass the night?”

He grabbed her slender hand in his and tugged her toward the door. “The hay in the stable will make a soft bed.”

“Surely there is a chamber assigned to you?”

Aye, there was. The same chamber he’d once shared with his wife and sons. But sleep eluded
him in that room, and he chose not to spend the night there. “Come,” he coaxed. “We’ll rest better outside the watchful eye of the laird.”

Clearly dubious, Morag allowed herself to be drawn forward. “Is rest truly what you had in mind?”

He grinned. “What else?”

In truth, although he had enjoyed teasing her about such things, he had never stolen more than a kiss. Not because he wasn’t interested in more—God knew he thought about it often enough—but because she’d known only disappointment from the men who’d previously courted her, and he did not desire to be another disappointment. He wanted to offer her a whole man, not a half.

“Naught else,” she tossed back sharply. “We’ll be lucky to pass a good night in a bed not our own.”

A flush rose in her cheeks as she realized she’d implied an intimacy between them. He caught her gaze and held it with his own, allowing the grin to slip away. “We’ll make the best of it, lass.”

T
en bolts of cloth. Morag frowned as she packed them in the back of the cart.

It was a telling tale that she had so little to show for her winter efforts. Last year she attended Saint Finan’s Fair in mid-March with fourteen—a far better offering. The hours lost to healing Wulf before yule were worthy ones. It was the hours lost since that gave her pause. Cloth was her only means of trade, and she would feel the pinch of her idle hands before the first harvest.

She glanced over her shoulder at Wulf. A heavy mist had settled in the glen overnight, and even though the sun had risen, fog still blanketed the keep. She could hear others working in the close, but she could not see them.

“Perhaps I am better to sell the cloth in the village,” she said to Wulf. “They know the quality of
my work here. If the buyers in Edinburgh are not as discerning, I may not earn the coin I’ll need to see me through the summer.”

He covered her hand with his big one and squeezed. Warm, reassuring . . . and gently coaxing. “We need to play the part of tradesmen. If we’ve nothing to trade, our journey will raise suspicions.”

She sighed and pulled away, covering her bolts with a tarp.

“If you take a loss by waiting to trade in Edinburgh, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Do not make assurances you can ill afford to keep,” she chided him, scrambling into the seat of the cart. “You have other commitments deserving of your coin.”

Wulf stared at her, his arms folded over his chest. “I make no vows that I cannot prove true.”

“That’s your pride talking,” she said. “Let’s be off. We’ve five days of travel ahead of us. We’ll see naught of Edinburgh with you standing there.”

“You’ve mastered the nagging tone of a goodwife, I see,” he said, leaping up beside her in an easy bound. Only a slight stiffness betrayed the weakness in his left leg.

“Not yet,” she retorted sweetly. “But be assured I will apply myself to the task with great determination.”

He took the reins in hand and encouraged the pony to set off. The cart rolled forward with a
series of creaks and groans, the hard plank seat biting into Morag’s rump.

“What are these leather straps on the seat?” she asked.

He leveled a look at her. “My sword. I’ve fastened the scabbard underneath.”

“Is it really necessary to bring a weapon along? Do you anticipate danger?”

“’Tis possible,” he admitted. “The crags and corries of the Red Mountains likely hide an outlaw or two. There may be fools who think robbing a cart headed to market will glean them an effortless bounty.”

A vision of parting with her cloth at knifepoint leapt into Morag’s thoughts, and a bloom of anger burned in her breast. “No one should benefit from my labors but I.”

“We’re in agreement then,” he said. “The sword stays.”

She’d no doubt resent the leather strap chafing her bottom within the hour, but she nodded. “The sword stays.”

As they approached the keep gate, a solitary figure waiting patiently in the early-morning mist became visible—young Jamie. A fine layer of moisture clung to every hair and fiber of his clothing. The lad had a small bundle in his hands and a resolute expression on his face.

Wulf pulled up.

“I cannot take you with me,” he said to the lad. “Not this time.”

“I know,” Jamie said. He took a step toward the cart and offered Wulf the bundle. “My training is paramount. I’m to begin swordsmanship on the morrow.”

Wulf took the package. “What’s this, then?”

“Uncle Niall says you’re going to Edinburgh to hunt for the man who poisoned Mum and Hugh.”

Wulf frowned. “Uncle Niall says more than he should.”

“Since you’ve no memory of our kin, I thought you could take those with you,” he said, pointing to the bundle. “To keep your will strong.”

“My will to avenge them does not suffer from my inability to remember them,” Wulf said strongly. “Rest assured, the man in black will pay.”

Jamie nodded, his expression easing. “Take them anyway.”

Wulf unwrapped the bundle to reveal a delicate silver locket and a small wooden horse.

“You gave that locket to Mum the day Hugh was born, and you carved that horse for Hugh last summer.”

Wulf stared at the two objects for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to his son. “I’ll take proper care of these and return them to you with the name of our enemy. I promise you that.”

Jamie stepped back. “Godspeed, Da.”

As they continued on, Morag took the locket and toy horse, wrapped them carefully, and tucked them into the front of Wulf’s lèine, next to his heart. For the first time she understood the value of his lost memories, and how vital it was that he retrieve them. Jamie’s mother and brother deserved to be remembered, especially by a man who had clearly loved them.

They passed beneath the gate and headed south down the glen. Wulf’s attention was on the path and the route ahead. But Morag kept glancing back, watching the figure of young Jamie MacCurran disappear into the mist.

*   *   *

The first three days were uneventful—long days in the cart broken up by occasional walking over rougher patches of terrain and even longer nights under the stars. Wulf’s leg did not fare well, growing ever stiffer with the long bouts of inactivity.

By the third evening, when they rolled into the bustling burgh of Perth, the muscles in his thigh were knotted so tight, he could barely breathe. He reined the cart to a halt before a small hut displaying an ale wand, and slid to the ground, gritting his teeth. Sharp pains drove up his leg to the scar that ran from his hip to his inner thigh.

“Why are we stopping here?” asked Morag. She eyed the steady stream of men who were ending their workday by paying for a ladle of ale.

Wulf gripped the side of the cart with a white-knuckled hand as he waited for the pains to subside. “The alewife will know who is willing to take in travelers.”

Her brows rose. “No sleeping on the ground tonight?”

“Not if we can find lodging.” Wulf pushed away from the cart and walked carefully to the alewife’s open door. The toothless old woman stood in the open doorway with a barrel of ale at her side and a long-handled scoop in one hand.

“Ha’penny a ladle,” she mumbled, holding out her hand.

He dropped the split coin into her palm and accepted the full ladle. The brew was dark and bitter, but it slid down his throat with a smooth kick. “A second for my wife, if you will?”

She gave him the ladle and he brought it to Morag, who drank deeply.

“My weary wife and I seek lodging for the night,” he said as he returned the ladle. Her gaze sharpened, and she gave him a thorough review before turning her attention to Morag. “Where ye be from?”

“Braemar,” he said.

She frowned and sold another ladle of ale to the lad behind him before she answered. “Take the next wynd to yer left, three doors down. The widow Uma might be willing to take ye in.”

“My thanks,” he said. Determined not to limp,
he turned slowly and walked back to the cart. Taking hold of the pony’s harness, he tugged.

Morag said nothing until they turned down the wynd. Once they were out of sight of the alehouse, she said quietly, “Rub the leg as you walk. ’Twill warm the muscle.”

Annoyed that she’d seen him favoring the leg, he ignored her comment. “We’ll eat, sleep, and get an early start in the morn.”

“Nay,” she said.

He stopped and turned. “What did you say?”

“This is the first time I’ve been in a burgh. I want to walk about, meet people.”

“And who will watch your cloth while you go about? These people are strangers—they’ll take what’s yours without a care.”

She scowled at him. “Let us meet the widow Uma. If she seems an honest woman, we can leave the cloth with her. I did not agree to travel all this way so I could see the inside of a bothy.”

Although the dull ache in his leg continued to plague him, Wulf considered her words. Walking would be good for his leg, and would likely help him sleep. “Fine.”

He knocked on the wooden door of the third hut, and took a step back when a small elderly woman answered the door. No sense intimidating her.

The widow Uma was indeed willing to take them in for the night. She offered a bed and a bowl
of stew for supper. Their bed was a plump straw mattress as sweet-smelling as any in Dunstoras Castle, and Wulf gave his approval of the arrangements with a soft grunt. The widow did seem to be a trustworthy sort.

When the cart was unpacked and their bellies were full, Wulf and Morag set out for the village square. Market day at Dunstoras was a busy event, but nothing compared to a trade day at one of the richest trading burghs in the kingdom. Perth was a thriving inland port that drew ships from the continent, as well as goods from the numerous craft guilds.

Even with the sun on the wane, the stalls in the square were a hive of hawking merchants, craftsmen, and fishmongers. Many of the stalls were down to their last few items for trade, but that didn’t dampen Morag’s enthusiasm. She insisted on peering into every stall, eyeing the goods with lively reactions ranging from awe to surprise.

“Spanish silk,” she said breathlessly, running her fingers lightly over the material.

He grumbled. “Had I the coin to drop for luxuries, I’d spend it on a jug of French wine.”

He bought two pastries from a baker and handed her one. They were cold and not near as tasty as they’d have been earlier in the day, but a delightfully buttery treat nonetheless. He retrieved a crumb
from the corner of Morag’s mouth and offered it to her on his finger.

She grinned and licked it off.

Wulf swallowed tightly, a hot jolt of desire bursting in his loins. But Morag was oblivious to the moment—she had spied another interesting stall and scurried away. He drew in a slow, deep breath, shook off the edgy feeling in his gut, and followed her.

A cloth merchant’s stall still had a good number of bolts for sale, and Morag was peering at each of the offerings with a critical eye.

As he came up behind her, she whispered, “Not to be prideful, but none of these is as good as my own.”

He agreed. The colors were duller, the weaves looser.

“How much for this one?” Morag asked, holding up the corner of a red-black-and-yellow cloth.

“Three shillings a yard.”

“What?”

“Ye heard me,” the merchant growled. “Buy or move on.”

Morag took a decisive step back. “I definitely will not buy at that price. That’s—”

Wulf grabbed her arm and dragged her away before she could enrage the merchant. The plan was to make a quiet trip, attracting little notice. Causing a furor in the market would not be a good start.

“Can you believe that man?” huffed Morag. “Three shillings. He’s a thief. The cloth wasn’t even properly waulked.”

They stopped in front of a leather goods stall displaying purses and gloves. The glover looked up hopefully as Morag picked up a pair of heavy men’s gloves. “Now, this is fine work. And just your size, I’d guess.”

Wulf pried her away from the gloves, leaving a disappointed vendor. “Only men of arms have need of such gloves,” he said.

She took his right hand and turned it palm up, running a finger over the thick calluses on his thumb. “You could use such gloves when you practice with your sword.”

The effect of her touch was instantaneous. Sweet, burning desire surged through his groin, and for a brief moment he imagined all the places such a touch might lead. Wild, wonderful places. Then he shook her hand free of his. “A peasant doesn’t own a sword,” he reminded her. “And therefore has no need for gloves.”

She heaved a sigh and continued to the next stall. The sun was nearing the horizon and the daylight was growing dim. Several of the merchants were packing up what remained of their goods.

This time the stall she paused before was rented by a hammerman. Metal goods ranging from fire pokers to cups were strewn across the display. The
hammerman was wrapping his wares in burlap and placing them in a large woven basket.

Morag was drawn to a brass spoon with a smooth bowl at one end and a leather loop threaded through a hole at the other. She picked it up and held it to the last golden gleams of daylight. The handle was etched with a knot pattern that closely resembled the one on his sword.

“How much for this?” she asked.

The hammerman glanced up. “Three pence.”

“Oh.” Morag held on to the spoon for a moment longer, then laid it back on the display table. “’Tis lovely. A bit too fine for the likes of me, though. Good day to you.”

Then she turned and offered her hand to Wulf. “Shall we head back?”

“Aye.” He threaded her arm through his and together they strode back to the widow’s house.

Unwilling to burn any more of their hostess’s candles than necessary, and knowing they intended to make an early start the next morning, Wulf and Morag settled in quickly for the night.

In the dim light of the banked fire, Wulf watched Morag remove her overdress, leaving only a white linen sark covering her generously curved body. She combed out her long black hair, as she did every night, and stretched out on the mattress, her back to him. It was the same routine they’d followed for the past four months. And it had the
same effect on him—slowing his heart to a heavy thud in his chest, shortening his breaths to unsatisfying gulps, and creating a throbbing ache in his groin that demanded to be eased.

But, as always, he held his needs in check.

Theirs was an odd relationship. Like a husband and wife, they shared a bed, but without any of the intimacy such an event normally entailed. In the beginning it had been because of his injuries, but of late it was his honor that held him back.

It certainly wasn’t a lack of desire.

He’d spent many a night lying next to her, listening to her soft breathing, inhaling the sweetly feminine scent of her body, and envisioning every kiss he would bestow should he ever have the good fortune to truly bed her. Not every night, thank the stars. In the beginning, his only concern had been to heal. But as his injuries lessened, he’d begun to notice the gentle curves and delicate beauty of his benefactress. Normally, an unspoken admonition was all it took to tame his wild thoughts, to ruthlessly shut out those hot, sweet dreams. But not tonight.