To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (11 page)

Hugging the thinning shadows along the wall, she pondered her next move. There weren’t a lot
of options. Only one, really—meet her father at the alehouse in Beggar’s Close and ask for his aid. But first she needed to hide her belongings and find someone to accompany her to the alehouse.

No small feat, given that she was something of a fugitive.

But she was a Highlander, and challenges that seemed impossible to others were the norm in the north. She grunted and darted across the street.

As long as she was alive, anything was
possible.

W
ulf was treated surprisingly well, for a prisoner.

He was given a large cell with a dry floor, a comfortable pallet, and even a small table and chair. A bucket of fresh water was provided, along with a platter of bread and cheese. But it wasn’t long before he discovered the reason for his pleasant treatment. One of his guards was quite talkative.

“You’re to have anything you desire, within reason,” the fellow said, as he handed Wulf a bowl of stew with a spoon. “The rights of a dead man. You’re to hang in the public square day after tomorrow.”

A chill fell over Wulf.

The day after tomorrow? That was much quicker than he’d anticipated. Two days would not be enough
time for Morag to get word to Aiden. There would be no opportunity for his laird to negotiate for his freedom or arrange a rescue.

The hanging was inevitable.

Unless he could break out on his own.

Wulf scanned the confines of his cell. As fine as the accommodations were, the label of
cell
was still accurate. There were no windows or midden chutes. The only way in or out was through the locked door, and that would involve overwhelming the guard.

Worthy of an effort, to be sure.

Because sitting here waiting to die was not an option he could stomach.

Refusing to coddle his injured leg, Wulf paced his cell floor. He prayed that Morag had remained safe, and was even now on her way back to Dunstoras. His greatest regret was leaving her unprotected. The man in black was still a danger, and should any harm come to Morag, Wulf would die a bitter man.

Wulf tested the bars on his cell door. They rattled, but did not come loose. He simply needed a plan to break out, and some luck in leaving the castle. Bribing a guard would have been an option, save he had nothing to offer.

The best option, then, was to use force.

And a moment of surprise.

*   *   *

It was Saraid who found Morag a place to hide her belongings. The tanner’s wee daughter, still grateful for the repairs to her rag doll, helped her bury the bags and Wulf’s sword in a patch of old dried grass. The grass lay along a fence in a nearly deserted area of the north side, and Morag was able to hide all of her precious items in the reeds between people passing by. With Saraid promising to stand guard, Morag headed for the market.

Although she now knew several of the weavers quite well, she avoided that section of the High Street. They would not welcome trouble, and in all likelihood they would abandon her at the first hint of impropriety.

But she knew someone with fewer qualms—the young lad Wulf had hired to watch her.

He’d run off without claiming his reward, so her goal was twofold: Pay him what he was owed and make inquiries. It might be a vain hope, but based on how thin the lad had been, she was counting on finding him near the food stalls.

Drawing her brat over her head to hide her dark hair, Morag wandered through the stalls, pretending to shop. She examined neeps and cabbage, carrots and onions, all of which were looking a little thin and limp this late in the season. To ensure she did not draw the ire of the vegetable vendors she parted with a coin for two apples, and another for some hazelnuts. The apples were in sorry shape—bruised
and dented—but still delicious. Morag ate one and held on to the other for appearance’s sake.

After wandering the market for the better part of an hour, she failed to spot the lad, and Morag gave some thought to other options.

There were few people she could trust. She was a stranger in a strange town and unlikely to gain aid from an honest citizen. If she couldn’t find the lad, she’d go back to the north side and look for help of a more scurrilous sort. The woman selling sexual favors might be an ally.

Morag was strolling past a baker’s stall for the third time when she caught a glimpse of sandy hair between the baskets of bread. She halted and watched the lad deftly nab a roll and stuff it into the front of his lèine. As he sauntered nonchalantly down the lane, Morag moved to intercept him.

“Hallo, laddie,” she greeted him, grabbing his arm before he could run. “You forgot to return for your coin.”

He squirmed madly against her hold, but when he realized her grip was firm, he calmed. “I cannot run afoul of the castle guards. Not without ending up in the stocks.”

“How did you know they were castle guards? You never looked around the corner.”

He shrugged. “No one else carries a sword inside the burgh walls.”

Morag held up the ha’penny she’d previously
offered him. “This is yours. You earned it.” She tucked it into his hand. “But there’s another just like it if you know a strapping lad who can accompany me to an alehouse.”

The boy frowned. “What about your man? Did the guards slay him?”

“Nay,” she said with a reassuring smile. He clearly felt guilty for running. “They tossed him in the dunny.”

“Och,” he said. “A shame, that.”

Morag tried not to let her fears of what Wulf might be enduring show on her face. Freeing him meant proving him innocent—and the only way to do that was to find the owner of the black wolf cloak. To find the owner of the cloak, she had to meet her father in the alehouse. And to get into the alehouse to meet with her father, she had to avoid frightening this boy. “So, do you know a lad?”

He nodded. “Bran could do it.”

“Would you take me to him?”

The expression on the lad’s face turned sly. “Your man promised me a full penny for watching you. Pay me that, and I’ll take you to Bran.”

There was no way to know for certain whether the lad spoke truth or lie, but she had little difficulty imagining Wulf making such an offer—he was a wee bit too generous with his coin—so she nodded. “I’ll pay you the penny . . . but only after I’ve met this Bran.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“You’ve run off on me once before,” she reminded him. “I’ve not the luxury of taking you at your word.”

Two bright spots of color flagged his cheeks. “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

With the morning nearly done and her eventide meeting with Master Parlan swiftly approaching, Morag followed the lad into the seedier streets of Edinburgh and prayed she was not being led astray.

*   *   *

Wulf was seated on his bed, reliving his night with Morag in delicious detail, when he heard boot steps approaching his cell. He leapt to his feet and flattened himself along the wall next to the door. This was it—his opportunity.

A meal at midday was unexpected, but he was ready to seize the moment nonetheless. When the guard entered to deliver the tray, Wulf would overwhelm him and escape. He would need to be quick, as there was usually a second guard in the corridor, but thanks to Morag’s tender ministrations his leg was mending nicely.

The boots halted and the grate of a key turning in the iron lock echoed in the cell.

Wulf tensed, ready to pounce.

“Stand where I can see you, MacCurran.”

It was a voice he recognized—that of William
Dunkeld, the king’s brother. Robbed of the element of surprise, Wulf stepped boldly into the candlelight. He waited until the door swung open and Dunkeld entered. Then he confronted the man. “Why let me go free only to send guards to arrest me in the middle of the night?”

Dunkeld removed his gloves, tucked them into the belt that cinched his dark green tunic, and beckoned to a guard in the corridor. The guard set a flagon of wine and two cups on the table, then departed.

“I took you at your word when I met you in the wynd,” he said, pouring the wine. “But I later received a report from a baker in the market who recognized you as Wulf MacCurran, cousin to the outlaw Aiden MacCurran.” He gave one cup to Wulf. “Out of concern for my brother’s safety, I had no choice but to have you arrested.”

Wulf eyed the wine in his hand. “Why are you here?”

Dunkeld smiled. “I was rather hoping you would tell me where I can find your laird.”

Wulf placed his cup on the table. “My chief is innocent of the charges made against him.”

“A common claim,” the other man said. “But the king has declared him guilty, and I am sworn to uphold the king’s decrees. Tell me where he is hiding, and I will beg His Grace for leniency. You might yet live to see a new moon.”

Wulf stood taller. “You insult me with such a bargain. I will never betray my kin.”

“I expected as much,” Dunkeld said. “You Highlanders are a proud lot. Willing to sacrifice your life for one another and for your honor. But are you as willing to sacrifice the life of another? That lovely raven-haired lass who begged me to come to your rescue, perchance?”

Wulf’s heart turned to ice in his chest. Although if Morag had done exactly as he had bidden and made for the gates, she should be halfway to Queensferry by now. He had to pray that Dunkeld was bluffing. “I compelled her to aid me on threat of death.”

Dunkeld eyed him. “Truly? She was very kind for a woman threatened.”

Wulf shrugged. “Ask her yourself. I’m sure she’ll relate the truth if you but ask.”

“I will do that.” The king’s brother downed his wine. “As soon as we’ve found her. I’ve men searching for her as we speak.” He waved a hand at the wine. “I’ll leave the wine. On the king’s orders, you are to have anything you desire these next two days.”

“I desire freedom.”

Dunkeld threw a half smile. “Anything except that. Were I you, I would consider revealing your laird’s whereabouts. I cannot promise my guards
will treat your woman with all due respect when they find her.”

Wulf’s blood raged at the threat, but he kept his expression calm. If even one hair on Morag’s head was harmed, he’d tear Dunkeld’s body apart with his bare hands. But he could not say that without giving the man greater reason to find her, and that would be a mistake.

“Do what you will,” he said coldly. “I will not betray my laird.”

Dunkeld nodded. “So be it.”

Then he left.

When silence fell upon the cell once more, Wulf grimly did another tour of the room, determined to find a loose brick or a poorly fitting door hinge. Dunkeld might be generous with his wine and comforts, but he was definitely ruthless. If he had the opportunity, he would not hesitate to abuse Morag to get what he wanted.

There was no way Wulf could let that happen.

He would escape this rat hole or die trying.

*   *   *

Bran was nothing like Morag expected. Given his name, she expected a ruffian with hair of a similar shade to her own. But Bran was neither dark haired nor a ruffian.

His hair was a deep gold, like the sun just before sunset, and it was neatly trimmed to his
collar. Morag studied him closely as the sandy-haired lad tugged on his sleeve to get his attention. A lean fellow of good height, he stood at the corner of two busy wynds, greeting lady shoppers as they passed and offering to carry their burdens home. Most women denied him, but smiled at his charming chatter. They did not notice him deftly plumb their purses as he plied them with pretty words.

A pickpocket.

Morag tucked her purse well inside her sark. The wretch would not have any of
her
hard-earned coin.

As the young lad tugged again on his sleeve, Bran spun around to face him. “Are ye mad, wee Tim? I’ve only an hour left before the market is near empty.”

Tim pointed to Morag.

Bran’s gaze lifted. “And who’s this?”

“Morag Cameron,” she said, offering her hand. “I have need to hire a companion this eve, and Tim suggested you might be the man I seek.”

A slow smile spread across Bran’s face as he took her hand. “I’m flattered, lass, but I don’t offer my favors for a fee. You’re a pretty enough thing. If you but ask, I’m sure you’ll find yourself a willing companion.”

He held her hand for longer than was proper, and Morag had to gently tug for her freedom. “Not that sort of companion. I need a bodyguard of sorts.”

Bran’s attention wandered. Two female shoppers were passing by, their arms laden with purchases and their purses hanging at their belts.

“I’ll pay three deniers,” Morag said.

Bran’s head turned, his gaze returning to Morag. “Three deniers? That’s a lot of money.”

“I need a man who can be discreet and who can swiftly guide me away should trouble arise.”

A frown marred Bran’s handsome face. “What sort of trouble might there be?”

“Castle guards,” said Tim.

Bran’s eyebrows soared. He stared at Morag, daring her to deny Tim’s declaration, but she could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t complicate their arrangement, so she remained silent.

“Where do you need to go?” Bran asked, crossing his arms over his chest. His lèine was faded in color, but clean, and Morag detected no unpleasant odors.

“The alehouse in Beggar’s Close.”

“I know the place,” Bran said, his frown easing. “Not too quiet, not too rowdy. A good place for a private meeting.”

“Will you accompany me?”

He ran a thumb along his jaw. “How can I be certain you’ve got the coin to pay? I see no purse.”

“You’ll have to take it on faith.” Morag flipped Tim his penny. “But I’m a woman of my word. Isn’t that right, Tim?”

The lad grinned. “Aye. That you are.”

She turned her cool gaze back to Bran. “Do we have a deal?’

He gave her another slow smile. “Meet me in front of the alehouse at sundown. I’ll see you get in and out without a fuss.”

They shook hands on it and then Morag departed.

T
o Morag’s relief, as she approached the torchlit door of the alehouse, Bran stepped out of the shadows. Some of the male patrons were gathered outside, a few of them leering in her direction, and she was decidedly uncomfortable until Bran joined her.

He took her arm in his and tugged open the door. “I’ve already taken a wee look inside. There are no castle guards to be seen.”

Morag threw him a hard look. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“Why not?” he responded with a smile. “I’ve a beautiful lass on my arm, a wee bit of danger in the air, and soon to have a cup of ale in hand. The makings of a fine eve.”

“Have you been stealing purses?” she asked.

He gave her a wide-eyed look. “Robbing sotted
merchants with overflowing purses on a night when you’ve demanded discretion? Of course not, sweetling.”

She heaved a sigh. “Cause me any grief and you’ll not see a single coin from me.”

He winked at her. “Never fear, lass. I have the situation well in hand.”

Morag shook her head. Lord save her from overconfident men. “Over there,” she said, nodding to a table in the back. A solitary man sat with his back to the wall, watching the door. Even hooded, she recognized her father.

She slid onto the bench opposite him, and dragged Bran with her. “No names,” she cautioned her father.

“Aye,” he agreed. His gaze scanned the room before returning to her face. “You’ve my coloring, but your features are your mother’s.”

“I’m not here to discuss my mother,” Morag said sharply. She handed him the cloak. “Look closely at the weave. I need to know who made this garment.”

Parlan drew the cloth close to his face. As he examined the material in the smoky, candlelit room, Bran hailed a passing barmaid with a wave of his hand and ordered a pitcher of ale.

“Well?” Morag prompted her father.

“It’s a fine twill,” he said. “Not all of the weavers in the guild can manage such an even weave, but a number of them can, including myself. There
is nothing about the cloth to suggest who the weaver is.”

Morag snatched the cloak from his hands. “But how many of them weave cloth this true of color, with this smooth a finish? How many of them sell their cloth to makers of fur-topped cloaks?”

“I do,” he said. “As do any of my apprentices who’ve passed the mastery test. At least a dozen men in all. There may be more.”

A heavy sigh tugged Morag’s shoulders lower. Not the answer she’d been hoping for. The barmaid thunked a pitcher of ale on the table. “A penny.”

Bran held out his hand to Morag. “Pay the maid, sweetling.”

She glared at him for a long moment before digging into her purse for a coin. As the maid strode off, she hissed at him. “Order nothing more. My purse is thin enough as it is.”

“You can’t begrudge a man a cup of ale,” he said.

“I can, and I do,” she said. “And if you attempt to part me from my hard-earned coin by nefarious means, I shall hunt you down; I swear it.”

He grinned. “Lass, we have a deal, and I’ll live by it. I’ve no need to rob you. There are plenty other fish in this sea.”

Her father grabbed her hand. “I’ve heard the man you traveled to Edinburgh with has been arrested,” he said quietly.

She nodded.

“Plans are afoot to have a public hanging in the square the day after tomorrow,” he added.

Morag’s breath caught in her throat. “Nay.” She gasped. “Surely that can’t be true. There’s been no trial.”

“He was tried in absentia
for treason, along with other members of his clan,” her father said, his eyes sad. “Last November.”

“But a man has the right to face his accusers,” she protested. “How can that be a rightful trial?”

Her father shrugged. “The king defines justice.”

Bran handed Morag a cup of ale. “Drink up, lass. You’re looking a wee bit pale.”

“The day after tomorrow?” she asked, still shocked.

“Aye,” her father confirmed.

“But what can I do to stop it?” she asked.

“There’s nothing that can be done.”

Bran picked up the cup of ale and pressed it to Morag’s lips. “I must disagree. There’s always something you can do, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

Parlan scowled at Bran. “Who are you?”

Morag took a sip of ale. “He’s a—”

“Friend,” supplied Bran smoothly. “One with some knowledge of Edinburgh. If you want to avoid a hanging, you’ve no choice but to set him free.”

Hope bloomed in Morag’s chest. “Is that possible?”

Bran winked at her. “If you know the right sort
of people and you’re willing to pay the price, anything is possible, lass.” He turned to Parlan. “I overheard you say you have experience with fashioning cloth. Do you know any tailors?”

“Aye. And I’m handy with a needle myself.”

“Very helpful,” Bran said. “We’ll have need of a disguise.”

Her father’s frown deepened. “I cannot be involved in this matter. I am a respected man, with many who depend on me.”

“So, yet again you would abandon me,” Morag said quietly. “I am your daughter, and I require your aid. Can you truly walk away without shame?”

His green gaze met hers.

“I have many regrets,” he said. “Perhaps I should have taken you with me, but your mother would not have welcomed that.”

“Why did you not stay? We had a good life until you left.”

He shook his head. “Dunstoras is a small hold. I could not afford a proper loom; nor could I sell all the cloth that I wove. A burgh was better suited to my craft, but your mother refused to leave Dunstoras.”

“I make my living there,” she said.

He nodded. “You weave excellent woolens. But I should show you my loom. Then perhaps you would understand.”

“Will you aid us or no?” asked Bran.

Morag’s father stared at the scarred wooden tabletop for a long moment. Then he sighed and nodded. “Aye, I’ll aid you.”

“Good,” Bran said, leaning in closer. “Then this is what we shall do. . . .”

*   *   *

It was obvious the guards had been warned that Wulf might make an attempt to escape. The evening meal was delivered by two guards, one of whom carried a razor-sharp halberd. Wulf was asked to step into view, but well back in the cell, before they unlocked the door. But the challenge only made him even more determined to secure his freedom.

As he ate his meal, he lay on the bed, walking through several options in his head. He’d barely eaten half his stew when someone quietly approached his cell door. The torches in the corridor flickered as the person passed, but there were almost no sounds of booted feet. Just a slight pad on the wooden floor.

Wulf sat up.

He could see a dark shape through the window of his cell door. Tall and lean, almost certainly a man. “Who goes there?” he asked.

The man didn’t answer the question, but he did respond. “Apparently, you’re a prisoner of some import. The nephew of a laird, or some such. I’m
here to gather your last requests. What final tastes of life would you enjoy before they string you up?”

Wulf surged to his feet. “I need nothing. Begone.”

“Don’t be so hasty, lad,” said the man on the other side of the door. Wulf could see him better now. Golden shoulder-length hair and a firm chin. An unfamiliar face, but the tabard he wore confirmed he was a guard. “They intend to part you from this world. Why not part them of some coin before you go? Request anything at all—a fine meal, French wine, a brocade tunic, or a new pair of boots. Name your desire and I’ll see it granted.”

“I want nothing.”

“Think of those you leave behind. The one who comes to collect your remains. Do you not want her to benefit?”

The image of Morag taking his body home to Dunstoras, walking the pony with a shroud-covered form in the back of the cart, came clearly to mind. Although his intent was to escape, if he failed, would he not want Morag to claim as much as she could?

“Leather boots, then,” he said. “And a fur-lined cloak.”

The man on the other side of the door chuckled. “That’s a fine call, sir. I’ll make arrangements straightaway.”

And then, as silently as he’d arrived, the man disappeared.

Wulf closed his eyes and pictured Morag the way he always wanted to remember her—lying in his arms, her face flushed with passion, her eyes half-lidded with utter contentment. What a night they’d had. A thousand times more satisfying than the many dreams he’d enjoyed while lying next to her. She had fit so perfectly against him. Her soft body, so sweetly curved and generous in all the right places, had far exceeded his imaginings. But it had been her throaty cries of his name as she found her release that shook him to the core.

For the first time, his name had sounded just right to his ears. He was Wulf MacCurran, Morag was his woman, and they were meant to forge a life together.

But first he had to escape this cell.

Wulf paced the floor, picturing the two guards who’d delivered his meal. The halberd was a formidable weapon, with a sharp ax fastened at the end of a long pole. Compared to a simple pike it was expensive to produce, but very effective in beating back attackers. The long pole kept the guard out of range, and the ax made approach near impossible. The man with the food would be easy enough to subdue. Wulf’s size would be an advantage there. But the pole . . .

His gaze fell upon the flagon of wine standing on the table, and the pewter cup alongside it. A
cup that was small enough to hide behind his back, and solid enough to break a man’s nose.

He smiled.

Now, that might work.

*   *   *

“You said nothing about a wig last night,” snapped Morag’s father. “How do you expect me to find such an item?”

“Hush,” Morag said, nodding to the people around them who’d stopped to stare. The market was very busy as vendors set up their stalls in the predawn gloom, so surprisingly few eyes had turned, but it was enough to alarm her.

Parlan realized his error, and despite the true nature of his anger, added loudly, “No one carries figs this time of year. Expect to be disappointed.”

The curious eyes dulled and conversations around them resumed. Morag released the breath she’d been holding. “Assuming we can find a wig, I think it’s a fine plan for gaining entry,” she said. “But I’m unclear on how I’ll escape the castle myself.”

Bran shrugged. “There’s an element of risk, to be sure. But the king is a renowned family man. If you appeal to him directly, and explain the nature of your involvement, you will walk out of the castle without challenge.”

“You are mad,” Parlan said. “No one will believe she is an old cobbler.”

Bran gave a crooked smile. “Perhaps. But unless you’ve a better plan, my idea stands. Time is short.”

Morag’s father tightened his lips and said nothing.

“Let’s be off then,” Bran said. “You’ve each got your tasks. I’ll find the wig. Meet back here at noontide.”

Parlan set off for his workshop, clearly reluctant. Morag grabbed Bran’s arm before he disappeared into the crowd. “I understand why I’m doing this, and I understand why my father is doing this, but I don’t understand why
you
are willing to risk life and limb, Bran.”

He returned her stare. “I’m not the one freeing a condemned man from Edinburgh dungeon.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you sneaked into the castle last night disguised as a guard to arrange Wulf’s last requests, and you’re fetching the tools I’ll need to appear as a cobbler. What do you gain?”

“Coin,” he responded. “You promised me a fat purse.”

“You earn good coin here in the market, with little risk. I find myself unconvinced of your reasons for aiding me.” And for some reason, Morag knew it was important that she understand.

He peered into her face, then shrugged. “If you must know, then here is the sorry tale. My brother died in Edinburgh dungeon. It happened a
number of years ago, and I blame my youth for my lack of conviction, but I had the chance to save him, and I did not.”

His cocky smile faltered.

“He was a cutpurse. Like me, but not as gifted. He was nabbed in the market, around this time of year. He was sorely abused by the guards, and I promised I would free him, but I lost my courage. Never made the attempt. Three months later he caught consumption and died.”

Morag squeezed Bran’s arm. She did not know what to say. She did not condone theft, and she generally believed that those who committed crimes should pay. But such a tale did not reflect justice, and it was hard to see his brother’s death as right. “That’s how you know the corridors of the castle.”

“Aye, and the route to the postern gate.” He wagged a finger at her. “Don’t think you can swindle me out of my coin because of a sad tale, though, lass. If I earn it, you must pay.”

“I’m a woman of my word.”

He smiled. “So I’ve heard.”

*   *   *

When the closest guard slid the tray of food onto the table, Wulf struck.

With an aim perfected by months of hunting in the glen, he pitched the pewter cup at the second guard’s head, hitting him square in the face. The tip of the halberd dropped and Wulf rushed in. He
snatched the weapon from the disoriented guard’s limp hands and jabbed the first guard in the gut with the blunt end, robbing him of breath and sending him to the floor.

A solid thump on the head knocked both men out, and only moments after the key had turned in the lock, Wulf was free. He dragged both men across his cell to the pallet, tied them with strips of sheet he’d torn during the night, and gagged them for silence. Best he give himself plenty of time to escape; he had no knowledge of the castle layout, and it might take time to make his way to the outer wall.

With any luck, these two would not be missed until the next meal.

Wulf donned one of the guard’s tabards and slipped into the corridor. Lit torches hung in wall brackets every few feet, and he moved quickly until he reached a cross-corridor.

Which way?

He glanced down each of the three possible routes. All he saw were more torches. No stairs to indicate a way out. Choosing decisiveness over knowledge, Wulf turned left and strode down the hall.

*   *   *

Morag’s father handed her a thickly pillowed vest.