To Kiss A Kilted Warrior Page 21

  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.”

  They peered over the ridge, hoping to spot the king, but there was only darkness. The mist and rain made it impossible to see more than a dozen feet down, and the bottom was much farther than that.

  “Stay here,” Wulf said, brushing a kiss over her knuckles.

  He handed her his sword, then leapt over the side and slid a way down the embankment. He reached a boulder that hung over a steep drop, and there he paused. “Sire! Can you hear me?”

  He listened intently, but there was no answer. Just the wind and the rain and the low rumble of thunder over the sea. Unable to descen
d farther without losing his footing, Wulf climbed back up the embankment.

  At Morag’s raised brow, he shook his head.

  “How will we explain what has transpired?” she asked. “Dunkeld was right. If we bring our tale to the castle, no one will believe us innocent. They will accuse us of murdering the king.”

  He nodded. “We will take Dunkeld’s body back to Dunstoras and let the king’s guard retrieve His Grace. If he is alive, they will find him in the morn, after the storm has passed. If he is dead—”

  “But that’s not right,” she cried. “They might simply believe he lost his way.”

  He frowned. “It eats at my gut that Dunkeld will never be seen as the murderous traitor he was, but I see no way to cast blame upon him. He was the king’s beloved brother. We are the only ones who know the truth.”

  “Perhaps he carried something in his possession,” she said, turning to look at his horse. “Some document that outlines his plans.”

  “He’d have to be a fool to pen such a document,” Wulf said dryly. “And Dunkeld was anything but a fool.”

  “We cannot give up so easily.” She carefully approached Dunkeld’s injured mount, using soothing words and slow movements. It was still trembling badly, but it allowed her near. “Are you not worried about the words he uttered with his last breath?”

  “Even Dunkeld cannot reach beyond the grave,” Wulf said.

  “But he implied his evil deeds were already afoot.”

  That he had. And dying men had no reason to lie.

  She scooped up the reins and gently stroked the horse’s muzzle. “There now, laddie. The worst is done. Let me have a look at that wound.”

  Wulf crossed to the horse, and while Morag cleaned the sword graze on its shoulder with the sodden corner of her brat, he went through Dunkeld’s bag. As he expected, there were no incriminating documents tucked inside. But he found something else—the gold-and-ruby necklace that had been stolen the night Elen and Hugh were slain. Queen Yolande’s necklace. His gut churned as he stared into the velvet bag. If it was possible to hate an object, then he hated this necklace. It lay at the root of all his troubles.

  He was tempted to throw it over the cliff.

  But it was extremely valuable. The king had commissioned it as a gift to his bride on their wedding day, and at its center lay a large heart-shaped ruby. A rare gem that might well be the king’s last gift to his beloved queen.

  Morag leaned over his arm, peering into the velvet bag. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It is,” he agreed. Then he frowned. Beautiful.

  What had Dunkeld’s last words been? She’ll be so beautiful in death. Had he been imagining the queen wearing this necklace as she died? It surely could not be a coincidence that he had it in his possession. But what harm could a necklace do?

  Wulf shook the bag, listening to the jingle of fine gold links.

  The necklace had been part of Dunkeld’s plan from the beginning. All the death and destruction he had wrought could be traced back to the night in November when it was stolen. But what had he hoped to gain? Had his intent been to tamper with it in some way?

  If so, how?

  The pale blue face of his young son rose in Wulf’s thoughts. The necklace was not the only common thread in Dunkeld’s mad plan. Was it possible to coat a necklace with poison? If so, it would be a terribly effective weapon. The queen would drape the gem around her neck thinking it a glorious gift, only to sicken and die—her babe along with her.

  Alexander’s line would die with that babe, just as Dunkeld predicted.

  He lifted the velvet bag over his head and prepared to throw it.

  “Wait,” Morag said, grabbing his arm.

  “He poisoned it,” Wulf said hoarsely, the image of wee Hugh vivid in his mind.

  “Aye,” she agreed. “He likely did. But if he did, that necklace is your way back into the good graces of the crown. Let them find it and the black wolf cloak amid his possessions. They will hearken back to Laird MacCurran’s tale of a man in black and give new weight to his testimony. Tomorrow we will surrender ourselves to the castle with our tale of Dunkeld’s treachery and beg them to test the necklace.”

  Wulf lowered his arm. “A fine plan, if the necklace is truly poisoned.”

  “There’s only one way to know that,” she said slowly, shaking her head.

  “I must touch it,” he said, realization a heaviness in his chest.

  “Nay!”

  Wulf brushed a raindrop from Morag’s chin. “We need to know the truth.”

  Morag grabbed his hand. “This is madness. If it’s truly poisoned, it could kill you!”

  “I’ll hold the necklace for the briefest of moments.” He peered into her green eyes, begging her to understand. “There’s no other way to be certain, lass. And we need to be certain. Our fate—and the fate of our clan—depends on proving Dunkeld duplicitous.”

  Morag shook her head. “Don’t ask me to agree. I can’t.”

  Her disapproval was evident, and Wulf knew he would not sway her. But he also knew that if they hoped to clear the MacCurran name and live a life without the constant fear of arrest, he had no choice. Tipping the bag, Wulf emptied it into his palm, then immediately poured it back into the bag.

  “Why did you do that?” Morag said, aghast. “Are you mad?”

  He tucked the velvet bag into Dunkeld’s pouch and quickly washed his hands in the rain. “If I sicken, we will know it was poisoned.”

  “And if you die?”

  He pressed a hard kiss upon her lips. “Tell me that you love me, and I’ll die a happy man.”

  “I love you, Wulf MacCurran, but that was a witless thing to do.” Her tone was angry, but Wulf could see that she was genuinely frightened. As was he. He gathered her against his chest and planted a gentle kiss atop her wet head.

  “Had there been any other way,” he said, “I’d not have touched the wicked thing. Leaving you is not my desire.”

  A mild wave of nausea crested over him, and he released her, stepping away. Even in the pouring rain, he was suddenly stiflingly hot, his mouth dry. A second wave hit him, this one harder, and he bent over, retching onto the turf. Dear Lord, it had been only a moment since he touched the necklace. His gaze met Morag’s.

  “I think we have our answer,” he whispered.

  Then he dropped to his knees, overwhelmed by weariness. And an instant later, he collapsed facedown in the mud.

  * * *

  Morag rolled Wulf over on his back, shocked by the swift advance of the poison. His skin was already burning hot, his cheeks flushed. Desperate to protect him from the rain, she glanced around. The only trees in view were a league in the distance—too far to drag him. All she had were the three horses and their cloaks.

  They would have to do.

  She walked each horse to one side of Wulf’s prostrate form, then draped the cloaks over the saddles, tying the corners with the reins. It was a flawed arrangement—water leaked in almost everywhere—but it shunted the bulk of the downpour away from Wulf. She huddled in the tiny lean-to and held Wulf to her chest. During the night he went from hot and dry to shivering and restless and back again. At one point he was so still and pale that she put her ear to his mouth, checking for breath. Fortunately, he was indeed still breathing.

  Midway through the night, the storm broke.

  The wind gentled and the rain eased to a light drizzle. With the skies calmed, Morag finally allowed her eyes to close. But not for long. The end of the storm would bring soldiers from the castle searching for the king, and she and Wulf had to be gone by the time they arrived.

  When she awoke from her doze, Morag had the sense that something had changed. But the night was still dark and the horses still stood quietly beside her. It was only when she touched Wulf’s cheek that she realized he was cool to the touch and breathing the long, deep breaths of an effortless sleep.

  She shook him gently. “Wulf?”

  He opened his eyes, and Morag
nearly wept with relief.

  “How do you fare?” she asked.

  “I live,” he said, struggling to sit up. “So I’d say I fare well. We should be off. If we are spotted by the king’s guard, our efforts will be for naught.”

  “Are you certain you are well enough to travel?”

  He pushed to his feet. “Aye. My belly heaves and my legs tremble like an old man’s, but I can sit a horse easily enough.”

  She unfastened their cloaks from the saddles, and attempted to mount her horse. The blasted creature kept shuffling, and she couldn’t get a leg up. Wulf clasped her about the waist and lifted her into the saddle.

  “When we return to Dunstoras, I shall teach you to ride,” he said.

  Morag stared at him, a warm feeling in her belly. They had not spoken of their return, not since Wulf had regained his memories. He would return to his old life; she knew that much. But might he visit her from time to time? Might he actually teach her to ride?

  “I should enjoy that,” she said happily.

  He hefted Dunkeld’s body over his horse’s shoulders and then vaulted smoothly into his saddle, displaying little of the trembles of which he complained. Pointing to the dark outline of trees to the west, he said, “We’ll head back the way you came and pray for a little more rain to dull our trail.”

  He set off, and Morag followed.

  Chapter 17

  Wulf’s heart was heavy.

  From the distant trees, he and Morag watched the guards retrieve the king’s body from the beach below the ridge and head toward the castle. It was apparent from the solemnity of the group that he had not survived the fall.

  “Had I not stopped to waylay Dunkeld, I could have saved him,” he said.

  “Had you not stopped, you would have met the king’s guards as they rode to the castle,” Morag reminded him. “You would never have reached the cliff, and Dunkeld would yet be alive.”

  “Bhaltair warned me that the fate of Scotland rested on my actions, and still I failed.”

  Morag put a hand on his arm. “What more could you have done?”