To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (8 page)

He pressed his mouth against hers, demanding all she had to give. And when she opened to him with a soft mewl, he exulted.

Given free rein after so long under tight control, his muscles flexed with fierce sexual intent. He positioned one knee between her legs, leaned into her soft body, and rocked against the gathered material of her sark. Lost in the haze of his overwhelming need, he didn’t register the squeeze of her fingers on his forearm for a moment.

He was being too rough.

Wulf paused. His every breath a ragged draw, his every heartbeat a jolt of raw need, he gentled his hold on her. “Tell me what would please you,” he urged as his lips moved along her chin to the soft flesh beneath her ears.

“Don’t stop the kisses.” She gulped. “Just slow the motions below.”

Then she grabbed his chin and forced his lips back to hers. There was desperate hunger and need in her body, too. And he indulged her.

Sliding his hands down her generous hips and over the delicious roundness of her rump, he raised the hem of her sark until it bunched around her waist and the silky smoothness of her bare flesh was his to explore. He took a brief moment to savor the privilege, and then cupped her cheeks and hauled her up his body.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, an intimate hold that nearly undid him. He was already hard and aching, and the press of her feminine heat was almost more than he could bear. Blood pounded through his veins. The urge to take her fast and hard was fierce, but he tempered his desire. Pleasing Morag was far more important than pleasing himself.

But the effort took its toll.

His weak leg quivered with the strain.

Unwilling to risk a stumble with his precious woman in his arms, Wulf closed the gap between her back and the wall with a half step. He bumped the small table as he moved, but with his lips locked to hers and his hands kneading the exquisite curve of her arse, he barely noticed.

Until something crashed to the floor.

It was not the clink of pottery breaking or the dull thud of food falling. It was the sharp whack of wood on wood, followed by the rattle of contents spilling onto the floor.

Wulf froze.

Still breathing heavily, he pulled back from Morag’s mouth and glanced down. At his feet, and now at serious risk of being crushed, lay a scattering of wooden horses.

The toys he’d received from Elen’s father.

In an instant, the strange events of his day came flooding back, cooling his heated blood. The toys were a sharp reminder of how he’d failed Elen and his younger son, and a vivid reminder of the danger he presented to Morag.

Relaxing his hold on her, he gently lowered her to the floor.

“Why do you stop?” Morag asked. Her voice was husky with passion.

Unable to put his feelings into words, Wulf simply answered, “This is the wrong path.” Then he bent, scooped up the toys, and replaced them in the wooden box.

Morag’s dissatisfaction tugged at her pretty lips. She ran a light finger down his chest and over the hard muscles of his belly. “How can it be wrong if we both willingly choose it?”

He tucked the box into the bag, burrowing it deep in his clothing. Out of sight, but not out of
mind. “I am no longer willing. I have told you that we must wait until I can avenge my family.”

Silence descended on the room.

Even Morag’s breathing had stopped.

Wulf spun around, realizing the impact of his words. “Tomorrow we will visit Marcus Rose and likely learn the name of our man in black. Then we can return to Dunstoras. All will sort itself out then.”

Her eyes were dark pools in the pale, freckled oval of her face. She shook her head. “This is all we have, Wulf. This journey, this room, this moment.”

He cupped her chin, rubbing a thumb over the satiny flesh of her lips, still plump from his kisses. “Have faith, lass.”

She pulled away, her eyes still sad.

“Time once flown can never be recaptured,” she said softly. “Remember that.”

Then she pushed past him and grabbed the jug of wine.

*   *   *

Morag waited in the cart while Wulf knocked on the herald’s door. Standing all day at the market would be taxing, but she had paid for another day in the weaver’s stall and she fully intended to make use of it. Without the fuss caused by yesterday’s encounter with the king’s wardrober, chances were good that she could sell another three or four bolts of cloth.

Her gaze drifted across Wulf’s fine shoulders and down to his narrow hips. She sighed in
despair. Sleep had not come easily last eve, even with the help of the wine. How could it, with her body humming with desire and his body occupying a sizable portion of their new mattress?

Wulf knocked a second time but there seemed to be no response.

Morag glanced up at the sky. The sun had already dawned and the pink glow of early morn had given way to a robin’s-egg blue. Surely the herald and his wife had long departed their bed?

A grumpy thought settled on her brow.

Unless they had reason to remain abed.

Wulf pounded on the door a third time. To no avail. Not a sight nor a sound stirred from inside the herald’s home. Reluctantly, he returned to the cart. “Perhaps they left early for the day.”

“Ask the neighbors,” she said, pointing to the bothy closest to the herald’s. “They’ll know.”

He frowned at her. “You’re not still angry with me?”

Morag chose not to answer his question. She pointed to the neighbor’s bothy again. “Be quick. We are wasting my paid time in the weaver’s stall.”

He stared at her just long enough to let her know that he was calling on the neighbor by his own choice; then he marched across the courtyard.

This time there was no delay. The knock was answered promptly. The door opened, a short discussion ensued, and then Wulf returned.

His expression was suspiciously bland.

“Well?” she asked. “Where have they gone?”

“He does not know,” Wulf said. “Nor does he believe they will return.”

A short laugh escaped Morag’s mouth. “Of course they will return. They have belongings inside.”

“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “They packed up a wagon last night and departed. The neighbor says they had the aid of several men. When he tried to ask Marcus what was happening, one of these men encouraged him to go back inside and turn a blind eye.”

Gone?
“But he has the sigil!”

Wulf vaulted into the seat of the cart and gathered the reins. “Aye.”

She frowned. “It was our proof that someone attacked us. We have nothing else.”

“Save for the black wolf cloak.” Wulf’s lips were set in a grim line.

“The trail of the cloak will be much harder to follow,” Morag said. “It will be difficult to prove that it belonged to a specific man. Even if we identify its maker, there’s no guarantee it is unique. He might have made several similar cloaks.”

Wulf turned the cart and headed for the market. “Wolf pelts are not as common as they once were. I’m certain we can find its maker.” He tossed her a sharp look. “But you must not make inquiries yourself, no matter how tempting. Leave that to me.”

Morag saw worry in the creases ’round his lips. “You think the man in black had a hand in Marcus’s disappearance?”

He nodded. “I do. I doubt the wretch will be bold enough to cause you grief in a public market, but you must take care. Is there anyone among the weavers you can trust?”

Morag sat back to consider it.

Trust? Now, there was a curious word. There was definitely a man she could call upon to protect her. But give the man her trust? That was a whole different matter. Her father would help her. She felt quite confident in that. But how did you trust a man who would turn his back on his family and walk away?

“The head of the weavers’ guild is very protective of his people,” she said. “If I have need, I will beg his assistance.”

Wulf nodded, but she could tell he wasn’t satisfied.

Morag laid a hand on his arm. “I will be safe. Have no fear. It is you who should be wary.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I?”

“You forget,” she said dryly, “I was the one who dragged your bloodied body back from the loch.”

“I was mad with grief that night. I clearly made an error.”

“You were overrun. Even the strongest and bravest of men will be defeated if his enemy is too numerous.”

Pulling on the reins, he brought the cart to a halt. Then he turned to her, his expression firm. “I know it is a woman’s lot to fear for her man, but you cannot doubt my ability to protect you, lass. Not under any circumstance.”

Faced with the squared shoulders and fierce gaze of a very determined man, Morag simply nodded.

He then set the cart in motion again and turned onto the High Street, which was already teeming with shoppers and hawkers. Men bent low under heavy burdens, women carried baskets of food, and lads held armloads of packages. People were everywhere.

“My inquiries will keep me in the market for now,” Wulf said. “If you have need, send a lad to fetch me.” He pulled up in front of the weaver’s stall and leapt to the ground. Offering her his hand, he helped her alight.

Morag studied Wulf as he unloaded her cloth from the cart and set up her stall. By all rights, she should be wringing her hands with concern. If Wulf was right about Marcus’s disappearance, there was a faceless madman in the burgh with cause to harm them. But Wulf was clearly the sort of man who was strengthened by adversity. Never before had she seen him stand so tall or move with such surety. Even that night by the loch, when she’d watched him fight eight men, his shoulders had been bowed by grief, his chin low to his chest. But
not today. Today his limp was barely noticeable, his muscles flexed with loose readiness, and his gaze took in everything around him.

As Wulf guided the cart around the back of the stall and unhitched the pony, Morag greeted her stallmate and adjusted her bolts of cloth to show the pattern to best advantage. When Wulf returned, she snared his gaze. “A shame you can’t carry your sword.”

He smiled. “If I can’t openly carry a weapon, then neither can my enemies.”

A valid point. And a reassuring one. “Might I suggest you begin your queries with the weavers from the Canongate? The black wolf cloak is an unusually fine garment, and they weave brilliant twill for the Aquitaine monks at Holyrood.”

He nodded.

“Now, away with you,” she said, waving him off. “You’re scaring off my customers.”

Giving her hand a last squeeze, he said, “I’ll return at noontide. Good fortune to you.”

And then he sailed into the crowd of shoppers, parting the throng by sheer will. No one stood in his way.

The moment he was lost to view, Morag nudged her stallmate. “I have need to speak with Master Parlan. How can I get a message to him?”

T
he weavers from the Canongate had set up a stall next to a baker. Unfortunately, the volume of shoppers visiting the baker did not benefit them—the crush of people vying for freshly baked goods choked the street in all directions and partially blocked the weavers from view.

Wulf used his size and a heavy-browed glare to advantage. He had soon cleared a path to the front of the stall, and he addressed the two men standing behind a table heaped with bolts of cloth. “Good day, sirs.”

The two men looked up eagerly.

“Seeking the finest wool in the land?” one of them asked boldly. “You’ve come to the right place.”

Wulf pulled the cloak from the front of his lèine and unfolded it. Only the shoulders were sewn with fur—the bulk of the garment was a heavy
wool weave. “I seek the maker of this cloak,” he said. “Does it look familiar?”

The man across the table scowled. “We’re in the trade of weaving and selling our own cloth, not aiding you in finding another’s.”

Wulf lifted a loose edge of the fur pelt and pointed to the wool cloth beneath. “So, this is not your cloth?”

The man grabbed a corner of the cloak, rubbing the material between his fingers and peering closely at the pitch-black threads. “Nay, ’tis not mine. This dark a color is difficult to achieve. It would require a talented dyer.”

“And where would I find such a dyer?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you seek the fellow?”

Wulf cultivated an easy smile. “The man who owned this cloak was slain by thieves. We found his body and buried it, but had hopes of delivering the rest of his belongings to his widow. To do so, we must discover who he was.”

The man’s frown did not ease. “A lot of trouble to see his belongings properly disposed of. Why not simply sell the goods and be done?”

Wulf did his best to look offended. “My own da died on the road. Had not another man delivered his belongings, we might never have discovered what became of him. I simply mean to return the goodwill.”

The weaver shook his head. “You’re a fool. But
if you’re a determined fool, find Mathias the dyer. He’s able to produce fine blacks like this.”

Wulf nodded his thanks, then flipped the man a denier for the trouble.

Glancing down the High Street, he considered his next move. A dyer would not be manning a stall in the market. He was more likely to have a bothy in the lower part of town, close to where the tanner and the candlemaker lived, but that would mean leaving Morag unprotected. As low as the risk was in the busy shopping area, he wasn’t prepared to do that.

So Wulf headed back to Morag’s stall.

“Stop that thief!”

He spun around just in time to see a young lad dart past him with a round of bread tucked tightly under one arm. The baker, unable to leave his stall unattended, was hopping up and down, pointing at the escaping thief.

Wulf snared the lad with a quick hand, latching onto the loose cloth at his neck and lifting him clean off his feet.

“Let me go,” the boy screamed, kicking.

The lad was filthy, covered in grime from head to toe. He had streaks of soot on his face and dark arcs under his fingernails, but it wasn’t the dirt that made the deepest impression. It was the boy’s weight. Or lack thereof. Light as down fluff. He was naught but skin and bone.

“Hold,” he said sternly to the squirming lad.

The boy grew still and wide-eyed.

Wulf lowered him to the ground, but did not release him. With a gentle push, he forced the lad back in the direction of the baker’s stall.

“Thank ye, sir,” the baker said. “The constable will take care of this young wretch.”

Wulf handed the baker a coin and selected two more rounds of bread from the table. “I’ll handle the matter.” He pointed to the crowd of shoppers. “You’ve enough to deal with.”

The baker nodded, grateful.

His hand still firmly on the lad’s neck, Wulf guided him through the throng and down the street. When they were out of the baker’s sight, he halted. He thrust the additional bread into the boy’s hands and released him.

“Wait,” he ordered, when the scrawny lad made to dash off.

The boy froze.

“I’ve work for you.”

A frown creased the lad’s brow. “What sort of work?”

“I’m in need of some aid,” he said. “I must leave my lady in the market, but fear she might attract unwanted attention.”

The frown deepened. “What would you have me do?”

“Watch her stall for me. Discreetly. And if she
looks to be in trouble, run to fetch me.” Wulf eyed the lad’s bare feet. “You’re remarkably fleet of foot.”

The lad scowled. “Not fast enough.”

“There’s a denier in it for you.”

Shock knocked the scowl from the boy’s face. “Truly?”

“Aye.” Wulf held up the coin. “Even if no one bothers her. Do you know Old Horse Wynd on the north side, down by the loch?”

He nodded.

“Good.” Wulf pointed to Morag’s stall, which was just visible on the other side of the wide street. “That’s the lass who may have need of me.”

“And all I need to do is keep a lookout?”

“Aye.”

The boy tore off a bite of one of the breads, and sighed with genuine pleasure. “I’ll do it.”

“Good lad.”

Wulf watched Morag discuss her craft with a prospective buyer, her hands mimicking the weaving of threads, an eager look upon her face. Then he patted the boy’s shoulder and set off to find the dyer.

*   *   *

“A large man and a dark-haired woman,” the blond man confirmed. “They knocked on the herald’s door just after sunrise this morn.”

Dunkeld poured a cup of wine. “MacCurran?”

“The neighbor said they named themselves
Cameron, but the man matches the description you gave me of MacCurran. There are few men of his size with brown hair and a slight favoring of the left leg.”

Dunkeld remembered the man well. One didn’t easily forget a warrior capable of battling a group of eight men and very nearly coming out the winner. “Any sign of other MacCurrans?”

The blond man shook his head. “They appear to be alone.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the market.”

He took a deep swallow of his wine. “Wait until there are fewer witnesses and then bury the cur in the ground.”

The blond man smiled. “With pleasure.”

“Don’t underestimate this man,” Dunkeld warned. “He is a formidable foe.”

The blond man snorted. “He has a weak leg.”

“That’s what Artan said when our spy returned with news that MacCurran still lived,” Dunkeld pointed out dryly.

The blond man drew his sword in a slow, deliberate move. “Not to tarnish the reputation of a dead man, but Artan was not the swordsman I am.” He tilted the blade, catching the reflection of the firelight in the gleaming edge of the blade. “A man who has trained with Spanish masters is rarely
beaten by a woodland churl, no matter what size blade he wields.”

“I care not for the details of how you will defeat him,” Dunkeld said darkly. “Do what you must. I will not tolerate failure.”

The blond man resheathed his sword and offered a deep bow. “I will bring a full complement of men. The deed will be done; have no fear.”

He backed out of the room, leaving Dunkeld to his thoughts.

The grand culmination of his plan was about to unfold, and every heartbeat in his chest sang with excitement. Were it not for his vow to see the MacCurran clan destroyed, he would be humming a victory tune. The end of Alexander’s reign was nigh.

His brother’s three children by Queen Margaret were all dead, two by Dunkeld’s hand. An assassin was on his way to Norway to ensure the king’s young granddaughter never set foot on Scottish soil, and come the nineteenth of March, the new queen and her unborn child would fall dead as well.

Poison was truly the great sword of justice.

Dunkeld plunked his cup on the oak tabletop, frowning. The loss of Daniel de Lourdes had been a huge blow. De Lourdes had perished at the hand of Aiden MacCurran a few short weeks ago, while attempting to recover the lost necklace of Queen
Yolande. Dunkeld had spent several wonderful nights at Tayteath with Daniel, and it pained him to imagine his handsome young lover broken and bloodied upon the rocks. But it especially pained him to lose such a valuable resource. The man had been a gifted poison maker. His ability to disguise death in tasty foods had been superb, and his knowledge of unique ways to deliver poison into the body was unparalleled. The king’s physician had deemed the deaths of Alexander’s two sons to be from unfortunate illness, and no finger of blame was ever pointed. Quite an accomplishment, given that they had been heirs to a crown.

Crossing to the window, Dunkeld threw open the wooden shutter and drew in a deep breath of cool air.

Amazingly, it seemed de Lourdes might aid him from the grave. At Dunkeld’s behest, the young man had painted a very potent poison on the back of the queen’s ruby necklace—a necklace that Isabail Macintosh had recently returned to King Alexander after locating it at Tayteath. Had the queen’s necklace not been out of his hands for several months, Dunkeld would be truly content. It was impossible to know what had befallen it in that time. The poison had been strong enough to slay the former Earl of Lochurkie four months ago. But was it as potent now?

The king intended to gift the necklace to Queen
Yolande on the occasion of her birthday, three days from now. De Lourdes had assured him that the necklace need only lie upon the queen’s bare skin for a few minutes before the poison did its evil deed.

But after all this time, would it do what Dunkeld needed it to do?

Hands flat against the smooth stone on either side of the window, Dunkeld peered into the cobbled courtyard of the castle. If the necklace failed, he’d simply find another way to slay the queen. A convenient fall, perhaps. But the necklace was a perfect weapon. Who would suspect evil lurked in such a beautiful gem? If history repeated itself, no blame would be laid. The queen would simply sicken and die. Just like young prince David, young prince Alexander, and the Earl of Lochurkie.

And when all of the king’s heirs were gone, Alexander would have no choice but to name his bastard brother as the next monarch, else he would send the country into leaderless turmoil.

It was true that Dunkeld had complicated his plan by involving the MacCurrans, but the lure of crushing his enemy had been too great to resist. Arranging the theft of the queen’s necklace while under MacCurran’s roof had given him the means to outlaw his enemy while also giving de Lourdes a chance to paint the gem with poison.

All should have worked perfectly.

Except he’d failed to anticipate the actions of two men: Wulf MacCurran chasing him into the woods and spying him hoodless, and the Earl of Lochurkie seizing the necklace and secreting it off to an ally in Baron Duthes’s household.

The necklace had been recovered, fortunately, and he had believed Wulf MacCurran dead until this past month. Dunkeld’s fingers clawed against the stone as he peered outside. MacCurran clearly thought to reveal Dunkeld’s involvement to the king. Why he had waited this long to cause him grief was impossible to know, but his coming to Edinburgh—to the town Dunkeld knew intimately—was a huge mistake.

A mistake MacCurran would pay for with his life.

*   *   *

Morag’s father answered her message in person. He returned to the marketplace just before noon, but did not come alone. A young man accompanied him—a swarthy, well-dressed lad who hung on every word the master spoke.

“I had hoped to speak with you alone,” she said, as the pair stopped in front of her stall.

Parlan shrugged. “This is my apprentice, Douglas. Where I go, he goes.”

She studied the young man’s face, trying to decide whether she could risk discussing the cloak
in front of him. He was not an attractive lad; his ears were overlarge and his nose had a decidedly bulbous tip. But he had clear, open eyes that held no guile.

Morag leaned in. “I have need to identify the maker of a particular cloth,” she said. “But it must be done discreetly. Are you willing to help me?”

Her father frowned. “Of what importance is this cloth?”

Morag chewed her lip. She could lie and give the same story Wulf had given Marcus, but that had not served the herald well. “It is a cloak that once belonged to an assassin.”

Her father started, pulling back. “Surely you jest.”

“I do not. Nor will I hide the danger inherent in aiding me. If you choose not to help, I will not fault you, but you are my best hope of identifying who made the cloak.”

Parlan glanced around him, his gaze darting from face to face in the crowd of shoppers. When his view fell upon Douglas, he paled noticeably. “Dougie, get along back to the loom. We start a new cloth on the morrow. Tie and weight the warp in the pattern we discussed.”

“But you said I could see the market.”

Parlan’s expression changed from that of gentle teacher to uncompromising master. “Go.”

The corners of the young apprentice’s mouth drooped with disappointment, but he nodded and withdrew, his feet retracing the steps he’d just taken.

Parlan turned his glare on Morag. “Are you mad? How dare you involve me in such a quest?”

“Follow your lad, if that is your wont,” she responded. “I ask your aid only because as head of the weavers’ guild, you would surely recognize the talents of your best craftsmen.”

She did not mention the past; nor did she wield her claim as his daughter. Thinking of him merely as guild master was easier than stirring up those old memories. It meant less anger in her belly, less pain in her heart. And truthfully, she did not want him to think that all would be forgiven if he did her a good deed—her resentment ran too deep for that. He had never once sent word to her after abandoning her and her mother.

She returned his stare, calm and even.

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Show me the cloth.”

“I do not have it,” she admitted. “If you are willing to examine it, I will meet you later, in a place of your choosing, to show it to you.”

A wave of obvious relief washed over his face. “Meet me at the alehouse in Beggar’s Close tomorrow eve. I’ll look at it then.”