To Kiss A Kilted Warrior Read online

  Morag wanted to say yes, but her chest was still painfully tight. She’d gotten a taste of what her life would be like when Wulf was truly gone, and it stung. But she couldn’t tell him that. Over the past four months she’d come to rely on him. Not just to chop the firewood or snare the rabbits, but to wake her with a quiet smile and a pair of fire-warmed boots. To share a brief meal before settling in to the morning chores. When she’d peered down the wynd in both directions and seen no sign of him, a chill had settled around her heart. The chill of truth. Wulf was not hers. He belonged to Dunstoras and to young Jamie, and one day very soon he would realize it.

  “I will,” she said. “But not now.”

  He leaned over and tied something to her belt. “When you’re ready, then.”

  Morag glanced down. Hanging from her belt was the lovely brass spoon she’d admired in the market the day before. The smooth bowl gleamed gold in the morning sunlight, the knot pattern just as fine and delicate as she remembered. Hot tears sprang into her eyes. As gifts went, it was inspired. A perfect combination of practicality and beauty. And it brought a sweet ache to her chest that he’d taken the trouble to hasten back to the market at first light to surprise her with it. Even though he’d frightened her half to death.

  “Thank you. I shall treasure it.” She lifted her watery gaze to his and smiled. “I trust you drove a hard bargain?”

  “I paid only the price I was willing.”

  “As it should be.”

  And that was the last word she uttered until they arrived at North Queensferry many hours later.

  Chapter 5

  Wulf merged the cart into the line of pilgrims returning from Dunfermline Abbey. Three dozen or so. Some rode fine horses, one rode in a small curtained carriage, but most were on foot. Despite the lateness of the hour, the cold winter wind, and the anticipation of a lengthy wait for the ferry, an air of contentment hung over the crowd.

  “We’ll pass the night in the north village,” he said to Morag. She hadn’t spoken to him since early that morn, but the silence that lay between them was quietly content. With Morag seated beside him, her shoulders loose and her lips curved in a soft half smile, he managed to forget—for a time—all the troubles that haunted him.

  “Will they have room for us all in the village?” Morag asked, her voice a little husky from lack of use.

  “Not beds,” he said. “But for a ha’penny we can sleep beneath a roof that will hold off the rain.”

  She glanced up at the heavy gray clouds. “’Tis a bitter night for wet weather.”

  “Aye,” he said, as the cart inched forward. “But there will be hawkers with food as well. Queensferry is very hospitable to travelers.”

  “How long will it take to cross the firth?”

  “A half day. The boat is slow and stops at the isle of Innis Garbhach, about midway, to avoid rough seas.”

  “And when we reach the shore, how long before we arrive in Edinburgh?”

  “We’ll be in the city before they close the gates,” he said.

  “You must have visited often to know the route so well.”

  He glanced at her. “I accompanied the old laird a number of times on his visits to the king.”

  “You remember that?”

  “I do,” he said, surprised. “Though when I attempt to call the laird’s face to mind, I cannot.” Frustration replaced the mild pleasure of his vague memories. Would the mists of his mind never clear?

  Morag brushed a cool hand over his cheek, and he lifted his gaze to her face.

  “Your memories will return,” she said.

  “I am not so certain as you.”

  “You must be patient.”

  That coaxed a half smile to his face. “Patience is not one of my virtues, I fear.”

  “Nor mine,” she said. “That confessed, I wish to discuss a matter with which I’ve been remarkably patient.”

  Her tone implied a level of criticism, and Wulf’s brow rose. “Oh?”

  “Your wounds have been healed since yule, and yet you’ve made no attempt to bed me.”

  Wulf coughed. Although her voice was low it carried well on the night air, and it was almost a certainty that some of the pilgrims around them heard her words. “Such a topic is best saved for a moment alone.”

  “Your kisses suggest a strong desire,” she continued in her usual forthright way. “What stops you from acting on it?”

  “Morag,” he continued.

  “Is it my ill repute?”

  He shot her a hard look. “I do not let others choose my companions.”

  “Is it a religious choice, then? Do you think my body unclean?”

  “Don’t be foolish,” he snapped. “You are a beautiful woman. Any man would be honored to share your bed.”

  “Then why do you spurn me?”

  They finally arrived at the headland that overlooked the Firth of Forth, and Wulf steered the cart to the left, heading toward the simple wooden frames that offered cover for waiting pilgrims. When the cart was halted, he laid the reins on the seat beside him and faced Morag squarely.

  “I do not spurn you,” he said firmly. “An honorable man does not tread lightly with his intent.”

  “What role does honor play in this?” she asked dryly. “I am not the woman you will wed.”

  “Why not?”

  “You cannot present a woman branded as a harlot as the new mother to your son,” she said quietly. “He would be shamed.”

  He stared at her. “A man cannot be shamed by the actions of others. Only his own.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “I know the way of the world. What we have will soon come to an end. Why can we not simply enjoy our nights together?”

  Wulf cupped her chin in his hand. Her skin was cool and delicate. “Have faith, lass. I will not treat you ill.”

  She smiled and covered his hand with hers. “My faith in you has never been in question.”

  Her words rang with sincerity, but the sadness in her eyes robbed the moment of any pleasure. All faith aside, it was clear she did not believe they had a future together. And he could not offer a credible argument that would prove her wrong. Until he regained his memories and his life, such a future was impossible. All he offered was the danger of faceless assailants.

  He leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. Her skin was petal soft, her feminine scent a lure so strong it brought a sweet ache to his chest. But he did not succumb. He ended the kiss quickly and pulled back. “When the moment is right, we will be together. Not before.”

  Then he dismounted the cart and offered a hand to Morag. She eyed his hand for a long moment, clearly debating whether to accept his aid. In the end, she slid her fingers into his palm and took advantage of his strength to descend. Practicality over stubbornness.

  “Don’t mistake this for the end of our discussion,” she said once she had both feet planted firmly on the ground. Her brat had fallen off one shoulder, taunting him with a glimpse of the pale skin that dipped into the neckline of her gown. “I am a woman of great purpose when need be.”

  A smile rose to his lips. “True words indeed.”

  Annoyed that he saw through her ploy so easily, she tugged her hand free of his and tightened her brat. “Get on with you. Find us a place to lay our heads for the night.”

  “For you, lass,” he said gently, “anything.”

  * * *

  Crossing the firth was uneventful. The winds were mild and the waves low. Although she peered into the depths with great intensity, Morag saw nothing of the selkies rumored to inhabit the waters. She and Wulf were soon back in the cart and on the last leg of the journey to Edinburgh. Her excitement over the trip had worn thin after so many hours riding in the cart, and with the rhythmic rocking, Morag found her eyes drifting shut.

  “Lass, wake up.”

  The warm pillow beneath her head moved a bit, encouraging her to wake. “Hmm?”

  “Look up,” Wulf murmured in her ear.

 
Morag pushed away from his shoulder and sat up. “What is it?”

  He pointed. “Edinburgh Castle.”

  Her gaze tilted up, following his finger. High above them on a massive rock outcrop stood a mighty stone fortress. Dark stone against a pale gray sky. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and her heart beat heavily as she gazed upon the formidable walls. “Is that the king’s flag?” she asked, spying a gold pennant with a red lion rampant flying atop the tallest tower.

  “Aye.”

  “He’s in residence then?”

  Wulf nodded. “If you’re fortunate, perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of him.”

  Allowing her gaze to drop, Morag shrugged. “I’ve no desire to see the king. Such a grand life is beyond my reach and thus beyond my interest.”

  He arched a brow. “Surely you are curious about the man who garnered peace with the war-loving Norse and resisted the demand of the English king to pay homage?”

  “So long as taxes remain bearable,” she said, “what the king does matters not.”

  “You say that now,” he said, chuckling. “But women are forever sighing in lovelorn devotion when he passes them by.”

  “He’s handsome, I take it?”

  “So the women say.”

  “Handsomeness is not the best measure of a man.” Morag eyed the open width of the south entrance as they approached. A pair of armed guards stood on either side of the wooden barbican, querying all who dared to pass beneath the portcullis. Most were permitted entry, but as she watched, one man with a small herd of goats was turned away. “Have we the proper writs to enter?”

  “Leave the talking to me,” he responded.

  As the line of people slowly moved forward, Morag threaded her fingers and placed her hands in her lap. Even a slight tremble might betray her nervousness, and she did not want to be the reason they were turned away. But it was difficult not to worry. The laird of the clan MacCurran was outlawed, as were all Black Warriors, and if they failed to pass inspection at the cow gate, she and Wulf might find themselves chained in the bowels of the mighty keep on Castle Rock.

  Wulf halted the cart alongside one of the two guards. “My wife and I have come to trade in the market.”

  “Name?”

  “Wulf Cameron of Braemar.”

  The burly soldier stared at him, then let his eyes drift over to Morag and the cart. “What goods do you trade?”

  Leaning back, Wulf lifted the tarp covering the bolts of cloth. “The finest woolens in Scotia.”

  The soldier grunted. “Let’s see your papers.”

  Wulf pulled a folded parchment from the front of his lèine and handed it to the man. Morag sat still as a pole, trying not to fidget as the soldier received the parchment. What was written on the paper, she had no notion. But it must have satisfied the guard, for he folded it and handed it back to Wulf. “You have leave to enter.”

  Morag released the breath she was holding, as calmly as she could.

  When Wulf had driven the cart under the portcullis and farther up the hill toward the main street, she whispered, “Wulf Cameron? Where did you get papers to uphold that claim?”

  “Lady Isabail’s herald.”

  “But it’s a lie.”

  He shrugged. “She holds a number of secrets from the king, not the least of which is that she wed my cousin. She believes in his innocence and is as committed as we to seeking the truth.”

  Morag dried her damp palms on her skirts. “I can only hope the ruse never comes to light. It would cause her endless grief if we were discovered.”

  “Our visit will be short,” Wulf said. “There will be little risk.” He turned the cart onto the High Street that ran the length of the ridge extending east from the castle.

  “What of my cloth? Will I truly be able to sell it here?” she asked. High Street stretched far into the distance.

  “Aye,” he said. “If you do not, the guards at the gate will be suspicious.”

  The cart fell into a deep rut and Morag was flung against Wulf’s arm. She briefly savored his warm strength before pushing away. “So we’ll stay a few days, at least.”

  “As few as we can,” he agreed.

  “Shall we seek out lodging first? Or the herald?” She allowed her longing for a brief respite to color her words. After five days of travel, a chance to wipe the grime from her face and hands would be most welcome.

  “The herald,” he answered. “The sooner we find him, the sooner I will have the name of the man in black.”

  Morag heaved a sigh. “Where then?”

  “Beyond these burgages,” he said, pointing to the left. “Down the third vennel, according to Sim.”

  They followed the public passageway down the hill and found themselves in a small courtyard surrounded by a half dozen whitewashed bothies. Wulf reined the pony to a halt and eased out of his seat. The hours that had passed since the ferry had already stiffened his leg.

  He nodded toward the sign hanging in front of one of the bothies—a square board painted with a trumpet. “This must be the place.”

  With a stiff gait, he crossed the courtyard to the door and knocked.

  The door was opened by a plump woman wearing a dun-colored gown and a white brèid over her hair. “Aye?”

  “I’m seeking Marcus Rose,” Wulf said. “I’ve an introduction from a fellow herald.” He held out a sealed parchment.

  She took the parchment and closed the door.

  A moment later, a tall, thin fellow in a saffron tunic and dark hose opened the door. His hairline had receded substantially despite a youthful face. “Sim sent you?”

  “Aye.” Wulf pointed to the cart. “My wife and I would beg a moment of your time.”

  Marcus frowned, but after a moment he opened the door wide and beckoned them both inside. “I’ll have my Becca heat some tea.”

  The inside of the bothy was much finer than Morag’s humble abode. A carved bed frame, four high-backed chairs before the fire, and a rug in the living area. No chickens or goats welcome here.

  “What brings you to see me?” Marcus asked, as Becca added tea leaves to a pot of boiling water over the fire.

  “This.” Wulf handed the herald the sigil cut from their attacker’s tunic. “Lady Macintosh’s herald is unfamiliar with these arms and suggested you might be able to identify them.”

  Marcus took the scrap of cloth and studied it. He grew very still as he stared at the bear’s head, and Morag was certain he was going to name its owner. Instead he looked up and shook his head. “I do not know this mark. Whence did you get it?”

  Sitting back in his chair, Wulf accepted a cup of tea. “It was found on the body of a man slain by wolves,” he lied smoothly. “We have been tasked with returning the possessions to his family.”

  “Indeed,” Marcus said slowly. “What possessions might these be?”

  “A very fine wool cloak and a Spanish sword,” Wulf said. “Not a great legacy, but meaningful to a widow or son.”

  Morag was impressed by the ease with which Wulf spun his tale. Sincerity rang from his words, and were she Marcus she would have wholeheartedly believed their mission was to restore the cloak and sword to their rightful owner.

  “Perhaps I could be of more aid,” Marcus said. “If you left this with me, I could compare it to those recorded in the Book of Arms maintained by the marischal.”

  “That would be most helpful.” Wulf downed the last of his tea and stood. “We’ll return in two days hence to review what, if anything, you’ve discovered.”

  Marcus nodded. “The Book of Arms is wonderfully illuminated. I’m certain I’ll find something useful. If not this exact sigil, then some other clue.”

  The sun was still high when they made their way back to the cart. Wulf helped Morag onto the seat, but did not join her on the bench. “Better for my leg to walk,” he said.

  “Shall we find an inn?”

  He nodded. “Not in the High Street, however. We need a quiet spot, one less frequented by the king’s
guards. Perhaps in the north quarter, near the loch.”

  Not familiar with the burgh, Morag allowed Wulf to guide the cart down the narrow streets. But as they entered the long narrow wynd that bordered the loch, she frowned. No gardens or whitewashing here. The bothies were pressed tightly together, and most were in sore need of fresh thatching. The citizens in this part of town wore weary expressions and clothing grayed with age.

  Wulf stopped the cart before a building displaying an iron horseshoe. “The blacksmith will know of a cottager willing to take us in.”

  He ducked inside the barn, leaving Morag in the cart. She glanced about, a tingle of alarm running down her spine. A blind man stood in front of the smithy, his hat in his hand. Two doors down, a woman leaned against a hewed post, her skirts hiked up to display an ankle. And across the wynd another man with a hood pulled over his head was selling a pair of women’s boots that were clearly not his own.

  Heartbeat quickening, Morag clasped the hilt of the knife at her belt and waited for Wulf to return.

  * * *

  With arrangements made to board the pony and store the cart, Wulf traded the dim confines of the blacksmith’s barn for the gray chill of an early March afternoon. He immediately spied the empty seat of the cart and halted abruptly, his throat dry.

  “Morag?”

  “Aye.” She popped up on the other side of the cart. In her hands was a cloth doll with one eye missing and a torn arm oozing dried grass stuffing.

  He circled the cart to find a wee lassie at her knee. “Who have we here?”

  “This is Saraid,” Morag said, nodding to her soot-smudged young companion, who looked to be about six years of age. “Her da works for the tanner.”

  “The smithy says the tanner has rooms to let.”

  Morag smiled at the young girl. “That’s what Saraid told me as well.”

  “But the odor in a tannery is near unbearable,” Wulf said. “So we’ll try the candlemaker instead.”

  Wulf unhitched the pony and walked it into the barn. While he gave the creature a good rub and saw it fed, Morag took a needle and thread from her pouch and mended the doll’s sundered limb. Grinning broadly, the lass took the doll. She thanked Morag profusely and then darted off to resume her task of gathering piss pots from neighboring bothies. An unpleasant task, to be sure, but the urine was used by the tanner to finish his leathers.