by Rowan Keats
Morag stood a little taller. There was truth in the other woman’s words. “You needed water and food to continue your journey. Any good soul would have done what I did.”
Lady Macintosh’s eyebrows soared. “In the dark of the night? To complete strangers? I think not. And you did more than provide me with food. You gave me Wulf.”
Morag snorted. “Have you met the man? None can make him do aught that he does not desire to do.”
“True,” the other woman agreed. “But that night his desire was to please you, and you were in favor of aiding us.”
“His desire was simply to recover his memories,” Morag said, shaking her head. “As it is now.”
“Nothing was simple about that night,” Lady Macintosh said with a chuckle. “Will you accept my thanks for your help?”
“Of course, your ladyship.”
“Please,” the lady said, a faint frown forming on her brow. “Call me Isabail. You’ve seen me at my worst and shown me a kindness I can never repay. I should welcome your friendship.”
Morag glanced around, hoping no one had heard. “Nay, my lady, I cannot. I am shunned for promiscuity. It is beyond inappropriate for me to address you at all, let alone so familiarly.”
“So Tomas’s tale is true?”
Morag grimaced. “Less true than he would like to believe. But the outcome is the same. I am indeed shunned.”
“What brings you here, then?”
“I came with Wulf.”
Isabail took Morag’s arm. “Then I suppose I must drag you before the laird for retribution, or at least appear to. Come along. Let’s find Wulf and Aiden.”
Morag allowed herself to be tugged across the close to the keep stairs. Appearing reluctant was easy—she truly had no desire to meet the laird. Laird Duncan had been a harsh man, given to raging tirades. His son was likely not much different.
As they entered the dimly lit tower, Isabail paused to glance around the great hall. “He must be in the solar.” She took a step toward the stairs, then abruptly changed direction and headed for the large central hearth, where a lad sat diligently cleaning and polishing a set of bone-handled dirks.
“Jamie,” she called to the boy.
He looked up, and Morag’s heart took a tumble. She knew that face almost as well as she knew her own—it was a thinner, younger version of Wulf’s. A wave of guilt hit her hard. There could be no doubt—this was Wulf’s son.
A bright blue gaze met hers. “Aye?”
Isabail pulled Morag forward. “I thought you should meet the woman who saved your da’s life.”
He shot to his feet, looking solemn.
Morag swallowed. It was her fault this boy had been without his father for so long. Allowing Wulf to return to her bothy after he rediscovered his kin had been a mistake. A selfish mistake. “I’m sorry for your losses,” she murmured, her throat dry.
He nodded. “I’ve you to thank that my da did not die along with my mum and wee brother. I’m grateful to you.”
Morag flushed. How wrong it was to hear thanks spilling from the boy’s lips. Aye, she had saved his father’s life—and at some risk—but that was months ago. Wulf was healthy now, and he should be living in the keep with his son. “He’s still healing,” Morag said. “But he’s a strong man, and he’ll return to his duties anon.”
“Aye,” agreed Jamie, though his gaze dropped as he spoke, hinting at doubt.
He didn’t quite believe his da would come back to the keep, and who could blame him? Wulf had lived at the castle for only a fortnight after he was reunited with his kin. The failure of his memories to return, even under constant daily reminders of living among his family, in the home where he’d been raised, was a sore point.
“Well,” said Isabail as the silence grew uncomfortable, “let us leave Jamie to his work and seek out the laird.”
The women skirted the gillies sifting through the rushes for bones left by the hounds and climbed the stairs to the second level.
“He must miss his da,” Morag said.
“I expect so,” Isabail acknowledged. “But he doesn’t let on. He’s a quiet lad.”
“He’s had a rough time of it.”
Isabail nodded. “His mum and brother poisoned, his da missing for months, and a madman taking him prisoner at knifepoint. And yet he seems to be doing well. Niall has taken him on as a page and swears the lad will soon make the transition to squire. He learns quickly and is diligent.”
They paused before the last door in the hall. Isabail knocked and then entered without waiting for a response. The door swung wide and Lady Macintosh ushered her into the solar.
Inside, four men stood in front of the fire.
They all looked up as the ladies entered, halting what must have been a lively discussion—the laird had his arms folded decisively across his chest, his brother was red faced, and Wulf wore a thunderous look that did not bode well for his opponents.
“Please continue,” Lady Macintosh invited. “It would appear you’ve yet to reach a consensus.”
Niall threw up his hands. “Because your husband refuses to see reason.”
“I am the one who stands accused of a crime I did not commit,” the laird said simply. “If anyone should go to Edinburgh, it should be me.”
“You are still a wanted man,” Niall argued. “The king has allowed Isabail to give your clan a home, but he has yet to pardon you. You cannot walk through the gates of Edinburgh without a care. And as fortunate as I’ve been in freeing men from dungeons lately, I doubt even I can fetch you home from Castle Rock.”
Lady Macintosh took a chair before the fire and waved Morag into another.
Morag held back, uncomfortable. The solar was as fine a room as she had ever seen, the walls draped in tapestries, the oak chairs carved in patterns of ivy leaves and thistle. A flagon of wine stood on the table next to a platter of sweet delicacies that included candied fruit and tablet. The laird and Niall wore fine woolen tunics atop their lèines, looking every bit as elegant as Lady Macintosh. Even the herald, Sim, held his brat at his throat with a large silver brooch.
She did not belong here.
She tried to catch Wulf’s gaze with a small wave, but failed.
His attention was locked on the laird.
“And why, dare I ask,” said Isabail, “are we contemplating a return to Edinburgh? I’ve just unpacked my belongings.”
“I finally have a means to identify the man in black,” the laird said. He offered his lady the sigil Wulf had cut from their attacker’s clothing. “Sim is not familiar with the sigil, but he believes a royal herald will know the mark.”
“The king’s marischal grants arms,” Sim said. “If the badge is of his making, he’ll know its owner.”
“Which is why I must speak with him,” the laird said. “I must know with whom this man is aligned.”
“There’s a price on your head,” Niall said sharply. “You cannot approach the marischal.”
“How do we know this badge has anything to do with the man in black?” Isabail asked, peering at the sigil.
Wulf answered, “Morag saw these same arms the night the queen’s necklace was stolen.”
All eyes swung to Morag.
Isabail frowned. “Was it not dark?”
Morag nodded. “Very. The clouds were thick that night and I had little chance to see details. But as they were riding away, the clouds parted and the moon shone on one man’s shoulder as the wind pulled at his brat.”
“There you have it,” the laird said. “If not the man in black himself, then a liegeman.”
“Even so,” said Niall, “your likeness hangs on every pillory post in the kingdom. The king’s men will arrest you on sight, and that would risk more than your life. The king is unaware that you’ve wed Lady Macintosh; if he discovers your association—”
“All is lost,” Aiden finished flatly. He spun away from the table and stalked to the narrow window. “Yet the man in black must be found.”
&
nbsp; “Then I’ll go to Edinburgh,” Niall offered.
“Nay,” said Wulf quietly. “I’ll go.”
Niall shook his head. “You’ve not yet recovered from your injuries.”
“After breaking him out of Lochurkie, you’re as notorious as the laird himself,” Wulf pointed out. “My lame leg will not endanger our cause. I’m not going into battle, just calling upon a royal herald.”
“My apologies, cousin,” said Niall, grimacing. “’Twas not my intent to cast a slur. You held your own at Tayteath. I am sworn, to protect the clan. It is my duty as a Black Warrior to go.”
“If the goal is to make quiet inquiries and return with facts that will prove our innocence to the king, I am the wiser choice.”
“You are not completely unknown,” pointed out Niall. “The men who attacked Morag this morn were sent by someone.”
“Aye,” said the laird. “Someone knows you are alive and likely fears the tales that you could tell.”
Morag stared at Wulf. He returned her stare, as calm and deliberate as ever. It was true. The men had come for him—and he knew it. That was why he would not allow her to remain at the bothy.
Wulf shrugged. “There’s no reward for my capture. I’m still the better man.”
Aiden shook his head. “I’m not convinced.”
Wulf stood taller. “I do not beg your permission, laird. I claim the right of vengeance. If that sigil leads to the man who murdered my wife and wee lad, it will be I who discover the filthy cur’s name. I am owed that right.”
Silence fell in the room. The tone of Wulf’s voice was colder than Morag had ever heard it. He never spoke of his family, and she’d feared he had no attachment to them, but that clearly wasn’t true. There was a depth of bitterness in his words that could be caused only by pain.
After a lengthy moment the laird heaved a sigh. “You are indeed owed the right. Go to Edinburgh with my blessing. Take the wolf cloak we discovered at Tayteath, as well. Leave no stone unturned in your efforts.”
Morag frowned. “Of what import is a wolf cloak?”
Isabail glanced at her. “’Twas the garment worn by the murderer on the night the necklace was stolen. We found it in the possession of his accomplice, Daniel de Lourdes.”
Morag’s memories of that night had narrowed to a few vivid details, and she could not recall if she’d seen such a cloak. But it was definitely possible.
Aiden and Wulf shook hands. “Bring me the bastard’s name,” Aiden said.
Without a glance in Morag’s direction, Wulf gave a short nod, spun on his heels, and left the room.
She swallowed tightly, suddenly hot with discomfort. Her right to be in the laird’s presence had just left. “Was there aught else you required of me, laird?”
Aiden looked at her. Truly looked at her. Morag shivered, certain that his gaze saw more than her face and the clothing she wore. His cool blue eyes seemed to bore right into her soul, laying bare her every sin.
She held her breath.
“Nay,” he said finally. “You may go.”
Morag made her best attempt at a curtsy and strode from the room, her head held high.
* * *
“Magnus!”
He halted midstride and turned to face Morag. Her face was unusually pale, her freckles vivid against her fair skin. “You should call me Wulf,” he said.
The hand that had been about to touch his sleeve dropped away. A coolness stole over her expression, and she nodded.
Regretting the pain caused by his words, Wulf added, “I can deny the past no longer. Those two men came for me. They came for Wulf MacCurran. And until I put name to the wretch who laid me low, you will forever be in danger.”
She nodded. “I understand your need to go to Edinburgh. I wanted to wish you Godspeed on your journey.”
“There’s no need. You will be traveling with me.”
“Nay,” she protested. “I’ve goats to tend and cloth to weave. I cannot leave the bothy.”
“You can, and you will. It’s not safe for you to remain.”
She frowned heavily. “Did you not hear me?”
“The danger is real,” he said. “The only other choice would be for you to live here in the keep while I am gone.”
A hint of color returned to her cheeks. “That’s not possible.”
He nodded. “Which is why you will accompany me to Edinburgh. You’ve several bolts of cloth woven, so we will travel under the guise of tradesmen bringing the cloth to market.”
“And what of my goats?”
“I’ll have someone fetch them.” He grazed a thumb over the flush on her cheeks. There was danger in bringing Morag with him, but it should be a quick journey, and he felt more at ease knowing he would be there to protect her. “You’ll like Edinburgh. It’s a lively town.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You remember Edinburgh?”
He stiffened. “Aye,” he said slowly, realizing it was true. “Without difficulty.”
“A good sign, surely?”
It should be. Save he still could not remember when he’d last been to the burgh or what had led him to visit. “Perhaps.”
As they exited the stairwell, Morag’s gaze slid across the great hall. “Will we bring Jamie along as well?”
Wulf watched his son diligently attack a spot of rust on a dirk. The lad’s sandy hair shook with the ferocity of his endeavors, and Wulf was struck with a pang of pride. Jamie was a fine son, coming into his own under Niall’s skillful tutelage. He deserved to continue his lessons with a doting uncle capable of teaching him the fine art of swordsmanship. Not to be shackled to a man with a lame leg and no memory of him.
“Nay,” he said abruptly. “We’ll travel faster with two.”
Morag was silent for a moment, and he felt the censure of her thoughts. But she wisely did not question his decision. “When do we leave?”
“At first light.”
Another frown settled on her brow. “And where will we pass the night?”
He grabbed her slender hand in his and tugged her toward the door. “The hay in the stable will make a soft bed.”
“Surely there is a chamber assigned to you?”
Aye, there was. The same chamber he’d once shared with his wife and sons. But sleep eluded him in that room, and he chose not to spend the night there. “Come,” he coaxed. “We’ll rest better outside the watchful eye of the laird.”
Clearly dubious, Morag allowed herself to be drawn forward. “Is rest truly what you had in mind?”
He grinned. “What else?”
In truth, although he had enjoyed teasing her about such things, he had never stolen more than a kiss. Not because he wasn’t interested in more—God knew he thought about it often enough—but because she’d known only disappointment from the men who’d previously courted her, and he did not desire to be another disappointment. He wanted to offer her a whole man, not a half.
“Naught else,” she tossed back sharply. “We’ll be lucky to pass a good night in a bed not our own.”
A flush rose in her cheeks as she realized she’d implied an intimacy between them. He caught her gaze and held it with his own, allowing the grin to slip away. “We’ll make the best of it, lass.”
Chapter 4
Ten bolts of cloth. Morag frowned as she packed them in the back of the cart.
It was a telling tale that she had so little to show for her winter efforts. Last year she attended Saint Finan’s Fair in mid-March with fourteen—a far better offering. The hours lost to healing Wulf before yule were worthy ones. It was the hours lost since that gave her pause. Cloth was her only means of trade, and she would feel the pinch of her idle hands before the first harvest.
She glanced over her shoulder at Wulf. A heavy mist had settled in the glen overnight, and even though the sun had risen, fog still blanketed the keep. She could hear others working in the close, but she could not see them.
“Perhaps I am better to sell the cloth in the village,” she sa
id to Wulf. “They know the quality of my work here. If the buyers in Edinburgh are not as discerning, I may not earn the coin I’ll need to see me through the summer.”
He covered her hand with his big one and squeezed. Warm, reassuring . . . and gently coaxing. “We need to play the part of tradesmen. If we’ve nothing to trade, our journey will raise suspicions.”
She sighed and pulled away, covering her bolts with a tarp.
“If you take a loss by waiting to trade in Edinburgh, I’ll make it up to you.”
“Do not make assurances you can ill afford to keep,” she chided him, scrambling into the seat of the cart. “You have other commitments deserving of your coin.”
Wulf stared at her, his arms folded over his chest. “I make no vows that I cannot prove true.”
“That’s your pride talking,” she said. “Let’s be off. We’ve five days of travel ahead of us. We’ll see naught of Edinburgh with you standing there.”
“You’ve mastered the nagging tone of a goodwife, I see,” he said, leaping up beside her in an easy bound. Only a slight stiffness betrayed the weakness in his left leg.
“Not yet,” she retorted sweetly. “But be assured I will apply myself to the task with great determination.”
He took the reins in hand and encouraged the pony to set off. The cart rolled forward with a series of creaks and groans, the hard plank seat biting into Morag’s rump.
“What are these leather straps on the seat?” she asked.
He leveled a look at her. “My sword. I’ve fastened the scabbard underneath.”
“Is it really necessary to bring a weapon along? Do you anticipate danger?”
“’Tis possible,” he admitted. “The crags and corries of the Red Mountains likely hide an outlaw or two. There may be fools who think robbing a cart headed to market will glean them an effortless bounty.”
A vision of parting with her cloth at knifepoint leapt into Morag’s thoughts, and a bloom of anger burned in her breast. “No one should benefit from my labors but I.”