To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (12 page)

“Put that on first,” he said, his expression clearly reluctant.

The garment added large lumps to her
shoulders, back, and chest, making it a chore to tie the closures at the front, but Morag managed. When she was ready, he held up a large dark gray lèine. She lifted the hem and, with his help, wriggled into the wool tunic. She surfaced flushed and hot, feeling like she was swimming in cloth. “Surprisingly heavy, all this.”

Her father grunted, but said nothing. Instead, he held her hand as she slid her feet into large men’s boots that were stuffed with cloth. Because she could no longer bend enough to reach her toes, he tied the bootlaces. To keep them from falling off as she walked, he tied the last loop around her ankle.

Morag tested the disguise, bending over as much as she was able and shuffling around her father’s workshop. “Do I look like an old cobbler?”

Her father scowled. “You look like a fool.”

“That,” said Bran from the door, “is because the last bits have yet to be added.”

He held up two long hanks of gray hair and a satchel of cobbler’s tools. Using threads woven into Morag’s own braid, they attached the two skeins of gray hair to her head, and then topped the whole outfit with a black hooded cape. Bran belted the satchel of tools over one shoulder and under one arm, and then stood back to assess the final picture.

“Well?” Morag asked. The back of her neck was damp with sweat.

He wrinkled his nose. “Keep the hood low and avoid looking the guards in the eye.”

“This will never work,” Parlan said.

“It will,” insisted Bran. “Deepen your voice, lass. Pretend you’re a peevish old man like your da.”

Morag practiced walking and talking like an old man until Bran was satisfied, and then she set out for the castle. Certain that her disguise was as shoddy as her father believed, she tensed every time she passed another person. But no one pointed, stared, or shouted fraud, and the longer she walked, the more confident she grew. She walked through the market, right past the weaver she’d shared a stall with for two days, and he failed to recognize her. She even encountered two castle guards who were querying the vendors and passed them by without any bother. She arrived at the castle gate with blisters on her heels, a genuinely cantankerous tone in her voice, and a belief that she appeared to be an old man.

So long as she didn’t look up.

“State your business,” the guard said.

“Making a pair of boots for a prisoner,” she said gruffly.

“Are you now?”

She could hear skepticism in his voice, but she dared not confront him. “Aye.”

“I’ll have to check with the warden.”

Sweat was running down the back of her neck and between her breasts. Her heels were blistered and throbbing. Morag did not need to invent a peevish attitude. “Well, be quick about it. The man swings tomorrow, and boots don’t sew themselves.”

Then she waited.

*   *   *

Turning left was a mistake. The corridor Wulf chose led directly to the main guardhouse. He realized his error and pulled back sharply before stepping into the room, but he lost valuable time. Retracing his steps to the cross-corridor took longer than he wanted, thanks to the sword wound on his leg, which had scabbed in a manner that made moving awkward, and he was faced with another decision.

Straight ahead or left?

In the brief moment he hesitated, the decision was taken from him. Two soldiers appeared at the far end of the hall to his left. In the brief moment before they looked up, Wulf darted across the open space and down the corridor ahead. He preferred to be out of sight before the pair reached the cross-corridor.

Unfortunately, there were no archways to duck into or shadowed sections of the hall in which to blend. As the boot steps echoed even closer, Wulf
was forced to brazen it. With his back to the approaching guard he calmly continued down the hallway. He wore a guard’s tabard—with any luck, they’d pass him by.

He heard boot steps pause at the cross-corridor and tensed with anticipation.
Carry on, lads. Carry on.

But it was not to be.

“You there! Halt!”

Cursing the Fates, Wulf ran.

*   *   *

Today, of all days, the sun decided to make an appearance. Morag stood at the gate, burdened by a thick bundle of clothing on her back and a heavy satchel of tools over one shoulder. The first suggestions of sweet spring weather were untimely.

Morag wiped sweat from her brow with her sleeve, taking great care not to reveal her hands.

What was taking the warden so long? Had Bran been mistaken? Was Wulf not to be granted his last wish for a pair of boots? Was she about to be exposed as a charlatan and a sham? Her feet itched to run. It was all too easy to imagine failure—of being strung up alongside Wulf with the townspeople glaring at her with accusing eyes. Surely if her ruse had been effective, it would not take this long to be granted entry.

Morag swallowed thickly, her throat tight and dry. Despite the powerful urge to flee that cramped
her calves, she held her ground. She would never outrun the guard in her unwieldy disguise. Brazening it out was her only real option.

She heard the guard returning, and bit her lip.

“Been a bit of a fuss in the dungeon,” he said, “and the warden very nearly denied the prisoner his last wishes.”

A fuss? What sort of fuss?

“But word came from the king himself, and the wretch will have his boots. Come along.”

*   *   *

Wulf was escorted to his cell. The two trussed-up guards were given a scathing reprimand and sent on their ways before he was tossed unceremoniously into the room. His boot tip caught in the wooden floorboards, and he fell heavily upon his injured leg. Damn his wound. Were it not for that, he might have stood a chance of escaping. But there was no value in bemoaning the Fates. His time was better spent developing a new plan.

He gently massaged his leg around the wound. Despite his rough landing on the floor, the thick scab continued to protect the knitting flesh. He could thank Morag’s tender care for that.

He frowned.

Footsteps echoed in the hall once more.

Wulf leapt to his feet. If the opportunity presented itself, he would make another dash for freedom. Or hobble for freedom, as the truth might
be. He grimaced. It mattered not. Either way, he had no intention of dying quietly.

“Stand back where we can see you, ya bleeding cur,” the guard called from the other side of the door.

Wulf glanced around the cell. There was nothing to throw—all extras had been removed from his cell, including the chains. All that remained was the table, his bed, and his blanket.

He fisted his hands.

If they were his only weapon, so be it.

The key grated in the lock and the door swung open. Two guards with halberds and a third with a sword stood at the entrance. He was about to rush the man with the sword, when a hunched old man with long gray hair shuffled through the doorway.

“This here’s the cobbler,” the guard said. “He’s going to take your measurements and stitch you a new pair of boots. You’ll be swinging tomorrow in fine style.”

The guard slammed the door and locked it. “Harm the cobbler, and your belongings, meager as they might be, will be given to his family in recompense.”

The guards marched off, and silence fell.

As he stared at the bent figure of the cobbler, Wulf relaxed his hands. He had no cause to hurt
an old man. “Take the measurements if you must,” he said.

The old man straightened and threw back the hood of his cloak.

As a thick black braid and a lovely pale face were revealed, Wulf’s heart tumbled to the bottom of his stomach. No!

Morag should be on the road to Dunstoras, not here, where danger lay in store for her.

She closed the gap between them, shuffling awkwardly in overlarge shoes, and reached for his face with both hands. Her fingers were hot on his skin, her touch fiercely claiming. There were many words she could have uttered—he could see a war of choices in her eyes—but she said nothing. Just pulled his head down until his lips met hers.

The kiss began with anger and a little desperation, but almost immediately it softened into a sweet need that blossomed between them. A tear escaped one of her eyes and rolled down to their lips.

Wulf cupped her head and deepened the kiss. He would take the memory of this kiss with him to the grave. Slanting his head, he pressed his lips against hers and encouraged her mouth to open. It was a salty kiss, and sweet at the same time. He would have let it continue for a lifetime, but Morag pulled away.

Raising her hands to her hair, she untied two shanks of long gray hair from her braid. “We must hurry. I have directions on how to reach the postern gate.”

Wulf frowned. “How will we escape?”

She shook off her heavy cloak, then bent to untie her shoes. “Not we.
You
. You will depart dressed as the old cobbler. With any luck, the padding I wore will mimic your size and hunching will disguise your height.”

He stared at her. “You expect me to leave you behind in my cell? Never.”

She straightened. “It is the only way to avoid the noose.”

Wulf snorted and took a step back. “You must think me a sorry excuse for a man. When have I ever given you reason to believe I would trade my life for yours?”

Her stare was hard. “My life is not at stake. They will not hang me for your crimes.”

He threw up his hands in frustration. “They’ll still punish you for abetting my escape. I will not leave you locked in here while I enjoy freedom.”

“The risk is low that they will punish me,” she said. “I will simply say you coerced me into donning this disguise and aiding you.”

Another snort. “Coerced? How?”

She smiled. “You threatened to send the rest of
your evil clan after my family. Promised to see my father slain and his good name forever tarnished.”

Wulf blinked. “Your father? What father?”

Morag flushed. “Aye, well, I forgot to mention that. I learned shortly after we arrived here in Edinburgh that Master Parlan, the head of the weavers’ guild, is my da.”

“Forgot?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

She waved her hands. “’Tis a long tale, and I’ve not the time now to share it. We must be ready when the guards return. Suffice to say my da will appeal to the king on my behalf and arrange to set me free. I will not remain in this cell for long.”

Her plan, as madcap as it sounded, might actually work. The king was a known proponent of family loyalty, and would likely judge in Morag’s favor if she explained that she set him free to aid her father. And Wulf had already done his part to shore up her tale by telling Dunkeld that he’d threatened her life. Still, he hesitated. Leaving Morag behind simply did not sit well.

She grabbed his arm. “If not for yourself, do this for Jamie,” she said. “The lad should not have to bury his father alongside his mother and brother.”

Her words were quiet, but they struck him hard.

Wulf pictured Jaime standing at the gate as they departed for Edinburgh—alone and resolute. Morag
was right. A lad should not have to carry such burdens. And he’d promised Jamie justice, which he had not yet delivered.

“Convince me you’ll be safe,” he said hoarsely.

“My father is a respected man in Edinburgh, and he’ll stand for me,” she said firmly. “Live, and you can come to my rescue. Die, and the man in black wins.”

Wulf sighed deeply.

Then he peeled off his lèine and exchanged it for the cobbler’s tunic.

D
unkeld grabbed the only thing handy—an inkpot on his desk—and threw it at the guard’s head. “Don’t tell me how you’ve failed me,” he roared. “Find the woman and find her swiftly.”

Ink sprayed all over the guard’s face, and the inkpot rolled away on the floor. He did not attempt to wipe the drips away. “No one has seen her since the eve before we arrested MacCurran, my lord. She has not returned to the market to sell cloth, and she has not returned to the candlemaker’s shop.”

“Not even to collect their belongings?”

The guard’s gaze dropped to the floor. “The candlemaker says nothing remains.”

“So she did return,” snarled Dunkeld. “And you failed to catch her.”

The guard frowned. “She has not approached
the candlemaker’s shop since we began watching.”

“Were you watching the back of the shop, as well as the front?” he demanded.

The guard was silent.

God preserve him from incompetent dullards. “Search the town from one end to the other. Leave no door unopened and no barrel untipped. I want that woman found by nightfall. Now get out!”

Dunkeld sat down at his desk and stared at the arc of ink drops across his parchment. If he couldn’t find the woman, he needed some other way to press MacCurran into revealing his laird’s location. Some other thing he valued more than his life.

“Sir William?”

Dunkeld looked up. It was the warden of the castle, his lips turned down, his hands tightly clasped together in front of his body. Not the stance of a man with good news.

“What is it?” he snapped.

“I believe we may have found the woman you seek,” the warden said. “The one with the black hair and fair complexion.”

Dunkeld’s eyebrows soared. Not at all the bad news he was expecting. “Wonderful. Where is she?”

The warden could not quite meet his eyes. “She’s in a cell in the dungeon.”

A grin bloomed on Dunkeld’s face. “She’s been arrested for some act of vagrancy?”

“Not precisely,” the warden said.

Irritated by the man’s noncommittal tone and vague explanations, Dunkeld barked, “Spit it out, man. What is your news?”

The warden paled. “The woman is in MacCurran’s cell, my lord, but MacCurran himself has vanished. It appears he has escaped.”

Everything in Dunkeld’s world grew cold and still. It was as if winter ice had flowed through the thick castle walls, doused the blazing hearth, and wrapped around his heart. “Escaped his cell? Or escaped the castle?”

“Both,” the warden admitted. “I’ve had men scouring the castle for the past hour. There are no signs of him.”

Rage poured through his veins, melting away his stiffness. He surged out of his seat and around his desk. Grabbing the warden’s tunic with two hands, he yanked the man to him, nose-to-nose. “You do not simply lose a prisoner the king has announced will hang on the morrow. You will make His Grace the laughingstock of Edinburgh.”

“We continue to search.”

“Searching is not enough,” roared Dunkeld. “Find him. Spread the word far and wide. I want every citizen of this burgh looking for him.”
Unclenching his fists, Dunkeld shoved the man away. “I want the woman brought to me. Now.”

The warden stumbled, but recovered his footing. “I’m under orders to present her to the king. Her father, Master Parlan, has petitioned His Grace to have her released.”

Dunkeld’s eyebrows soared. “On what grounds? She abetted a known criminal in his escape.”

“He swears MacCurran threatened them, that they had no choice but to aid him.”

Utter madness. How could his brother be fool enough to even consider such an argument? “Then bring me the guards who were on duty when MacCurran escaped.”

“I’ve queried them myself, sir. They were the victims of an elaborate ruse.”

Dunkeld pinned the other man with a sharp stare. “Do not present me with excuses. I do not accept any reason for embarrassing my king. Unless you are volunteering to serve their punishment, I would be wary of defending these men.”

The warden swallowed. “I understand, my lord.”

“I hope that you do.” Dunkeld returned to his desk and picked up his quill. “The marischal’s men will continue to build the viewing platform next to the gibbet. Tell your men it’s in their best interest to find MacCurran before tomorrow’s hanging.”

The warden’s eyes widened, but he did not reply. He simply nodded and departed.

Dunkeld looked at his quill for a moment, then snapped it in two. At every turn, the MacCurrans miraculously slipped from his grip and wreaked havoc on his plans.

He flung the remains of his quill across the room.

His brother was no better. The man was too soft to be king. Releasing the woman was further evidence of his weakness. He should have crushed the MacCurrans long ago and proven his might. Instead, he let that lazy lout Tormod MacPherson take over Dunstoras. MacPherson was loyal, but he’d failed to hunt down Aiden MacCurran and his band of traitorous outlaws. Dunkeld gripped the edge of his desk and, with a howl of rage, flipped it over, sending it crashing to the floor.

Relying on others to do a job well only caused grief. Enough nonsense. As he’d done with the theft of the necklace, it was time he took matters directly in hand.

He was the rightful king of Scotland.

He was the one who should determine the lay of the future. And by God and all that was holy, he would make it so.

*   *   *

Exiting via the postern gate, Wulf scaled down Castle Rock to the level ground below. He was now outside the town walls, and with every soul in Edinburgh hunting for him, it made little sense
to attempt to reenter. Instead, he made the short trek to Leith, the busy port on the Forth of Firth that served Edinburgh’s trading needs.

Down near the docks, where strange faces were the norm due to the constant arrival and departure of ships, he found a room. It was above a fishmonger’s shop, and the odor was only just bearable, but it was exactly what he needed—a secluded place.

When he was settled and certain no one had followed him, he sent a message to Master Parlan at the weavers’ guild. A few hours later, a gentle knock sounded. Praying that Morag’s confidence in gaining her freedom had proven true, he yanked the door open.

The hood pulled low over her face might have hidden her identity from casual onlookers, but it did nothing to fool him. He’d recognize that delicate chin and those full pink lips even in the gloom of midnight. All of his fears for her safety washed away in an instant, and with his heart full, he snatched her into his arms.

As her soft heat melted against him, his lips found hers. Hard and fast and needy. Leaving her behind had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, and even now he wasn’t convinced it had been the right decision. He poured all of his regret into his kiss. But the hot blend of their mouths soon made him forget the worry that had eaten at his gut
from the moment he left her in the dungeon. She tasted so unbelievably sweet and fresh. Like summer berries warmed by the sun’s heat.

He kicked the door closed, scooped her up, and carried her to the bed.

Lowering her onto the mattress, he paused in his plunder of her lips. “Were you followed, do you think?”

“Nay,” she said. “There was no sign of any guards when my father collected me from the castle. The king promised me freedom and he’s been true to his word.”

“I love you, Morag Cameron. Never again shall I let anything part us. Tonight I pledge my troth to you. Every sigh that leaves your lips, every groan that rumbles in your throat, I shall earn. You will cry to the heavens, beg the Lord for release, and find ecstasy in my arms—this I swear. Because only then will I be able to say I am worthy of you.”

Her eyes shone with a brightness he’d never seen before and a tremulous smile curved her lips.

He burned the image of her looking just like that into his thoughts, then tugged his lèine over his head and joined her on the bed. For a while, at least, they would hold the rest of the world at bay. Time was theirs, and he intended to make the most of it.

Peeling back the layers of her clothing, he feasted on the sight of her glorious body. So
perfect, so womanly, his Morag. Few who met her and experienced her bold, brazen exterior would guess at the soft, gentle soul that lay beneath. But he knew all of Morag, and loved her contradictions. He would have her no other way.

He bent his head and captured the peak of one full breast in his mouth. The first low moan escaped her lips, and he smiled. There would be a thousand more before the night was through, if he had his way. Laving her nipple with his tongue, he gave every effort to bringing her pleasure. He teased that tender flesh into a nub of need and want, determined to hear her scream.

When she was writhing against the sheets, he turned his attention to the other breast. And then to her navel. Burying his face against her belly, he drank in her scent. Every moment of the last four months that he’d lain next to her—wanting her—ached deep in his soul. In a right and proper world, he would have spent those months grieving for Elen, but the world was what it was. He could not grieve what he could not remember. Unfairly, perhaps, he’d gone on to create new memories, and the memories he’d made with Morag were real and vivid and treasured.

Because this woman deserved to be treasured.

It still flooded him with amazement that she’d dragged him all the way from the loch to her bothy—no small feat, given his size—and risked
everything to heal him. MacPherson had been combing the glen, routing out MacCurrans, and she had bravely laid claim to him as a Cameron, lying to the soldiers who occasionally stopped by her bothy to search for outlaws. It was a testament to her boldness that they accepted her tale.

Wulf flicked his tongue into her navel.

Sweet, madcap Morag. He’d be dead several times over if not for her bravery.

How could he not love her?

He kissed his way lower, down one hip to the delicate skin of her inner thigh. Then he gently coaxed her legs apart and gave her the most intimate kiss a man can give a woman.

She arched, the small of her back rising off the bed, her hands clenched in the sheets. As his tongue made merry with the nub of her mons, he watched Morag’s reaction.

Her eyes were closed, her head tilted to one side. A rosy flush had swept across her breasts and a glow of passion brightened her cheeks. Her guard was down, her defenses crumbled. It was a view of the woman rarely seen, as she had much to defend herself against. Wulf closed his eyes too, holding the image dear to his heart, but respecting Morag’s need to always be seen as strong and capable.

Alone with her in their bed, he felt the walls could come down. He would never abuse the trust
she gave him here, never hurt her as she feared. But so long as he had her trust he would use it to delight her. Tease her, taunt her, drive her mad. As he did now. Every caress, every kiss, was for her. He coaxed her body to the brink of fulfillment and then watched her scream his name as she came apart.

Wulf kissed his way back to Morag’s mouth.

He held her gently to his heart as the ripples slowly eased and she returned to him. It filled him with awe every time he realized this woman was his. With Morag at his side, he could accomplish anything.

Even finding the man in black who could restore his good name.

*   *   *

William Dunkeld stood across the street and stared at the window above the fishmonger’s shop. He wore a hooded cloak of dark blue that reached to his boots. It was not a fancy garment. Quite worn and weathered, in fact. He’d stolen it from a chest in the servants’ quarters during the supper hours.

His foolish brother had indeed granted MacCurran’s woman clemency, moved to misplaced compassion by her tale of being coerced. Dunkeld had lobbied hard to see her remain in gaol, but the king had been swayed by the master weaver, a man who commanded a great deal of respect in the burgh, even from the king’s own wardrober.
Now the lass was in possession of a pardon from the king—a document that had driven Dunkeld’s pursuit of her into the shadows. His brother would not be pleased to know that he continued to pursue Morag Cameron as a liar and a traitor.

But all was not lost. The woman’s relationship to Master Parlan had proven her downfall. It had been an easy matter to watch the guild house for sign of her. He’d known the moment the cart had been readied that he was about to be rewarded, and he had been right. The woman had climbed into the cart and driven off for the gates only a few moments later. Even hooded, he recognized her.

And voilà.

She’d entered this shop and gone upstairs.

If he wasn’t mistaken, he had just located the hiding place of an escaped outlaw. Wulf MacCurran was in that room above the shop—he’d stake his life upon it.

Dunkeld rubbed his gloved thumb along his chin. The question was, what to do with his newfound knowledge. He could pound on the door of the constable of Leith and demand the man arrest MacCurran. But he had lost faith in his brother’s ability to see justice served.

No, he would not involve the constable. Or the king’s guards. This would be best handled by men provided by his brother-in-law, Alan Durward. Englishmen. That way, the English could be blamed if
the game went sour. Durward had close alliances to the English crown and was as eager as Dunkeld to see the MacCurrans fall. And as a long-serving ward of the king’s door, Durward knew how to be discreet.

Dunkeld eyed the faces of the passing sailors and fishermen. But first he needed a spy. Someone who would keep MacCurran in sight and report on his movements. As an older fellow passed by, his face a little gaunt with hunger, his clothing frayed at the cuffs and neck, Dunkeld reached out a hand.

“My good lad,” he said. “Would you care to earn a coin or two?”

*   *   *

Morag woke up with the sun in her eyes. It entered the room through a thin gap in the shutters and inconveniently lay right across her face. She was loath to move, though, with her body comfortably nestled in Wulf’s arms, her rump warmly pressed into his groin, her head resting on his muscled upper arm. He was breathing the deep, slow draws of sleep, and if she moved, she would wake him. Given that he’d spent the night working hard to bring her pleasure, that seemed a wee bit cruel.