by Rowan Keats
“We’re in agreement then,” he said. “The sword stays.”
She’d no doubt resent the leather strap chafing her bottom within the hour, but she nodded. “The sword stays.”
As they approached the keep gate, a solitary figure waiting patiently in the early-morning mist became visible—young Jamie. A fine layer of moisture clung to every hair and fiber of his clothing. The lad had a small bundle in his hands and a resolute expression on his face.
Wulf pulled up.
“I cannot take you with me,” he said to the lad. “Not this time.”
“I know,” Jamie said. He took a step toward the cart and offered Wulf the bundle. “My training is paramount. I’m to begin swordsmanship on the morrow.”
Wulf took the package. “What’s this, then?”
“Uncle Niall says you’re going to Edinburgh to hunt for the man who poisoned Mum and Hugh.”
Wulf frowned. “Uncle Niall says more than he should.”
“Since you’ve no memory of our kin, I thought you could take those with you,” he said, pointing to the bundle. “To keep your will strong.”
“My will to avenge them does not suffer from my inability to remember them,” Wulf said strongly. “Rest assured, the man in black will pay.”
Jamie nodded, his expression easing. “Take them anyway.”
Wulf unwrapped the bundle to reveal a delicate silver locket and a small wooden horse.
“You gave that locket to Mum the day Hugh was born, and you carved that horse for Hugh last summer.”
Wulf stared at the two objects for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to his son. “I’ll take proper care of these and return them to you with the name of our enemy. I promise you that.”
Jamie stepped back. “Godspeed, Da.”
As they continued on, Morag took the locket and toy horse, wrapped them carefully, and tucked them into the front of Wulf’s lèine, next to his heart. For the first time she understood the value of his lost memories, and how vital it was that he retrieve them. Jamie’s mother and brother deserved to be remembered, especially by a man who had clearly loved them.
They passed beneath the gate and headed south down the glen. Wulf’s attention was on the path and the route ahead. But Morag kept glancing back, watching the figure of young Jamie MacCurran disappear into the mist.
* * *
The first three days were uneventful—long days in the cart broken up by occasional walking over rougher patches of terrain and even longer nights under the stars. Wulf’s leg did not fare well, growing ever stiffer with the long bouts of inactivity.
By the third evening, when they rolled into the bustling burgh of Perth, the muscles in his thigh were knotted so tight, he could barely breathe. He reined the cart to a halt before a small hut displaying an ale wand, and slid to the ground, gritting his teeth. Sharp pains drove up his leg to the scar that ran from his hip to his inner thigh.
“Why are we stopping here?” asked Morag. She eyed the steady stream of men who were ending their workday by paying for a ladle of ale.
Wulf gripped the side of the cart with a white-knuckled hand as he waited for the pains to subside. “The alewife will know who is willing to take in travelers.”
Her brows rose. “No sleeping on the ground tonight?”
“Not if we can find lodging.” Wulf pushed away from the cart and walked carefully to the alewife’s open door. The toothless old woman stood in the open doorway with a barrel of ale at her side and a long-handled scoop in one hand.
“Ha’penny a ladle,” she mumbled, holding out her hand.
He dropped the split coin into her palm and accepted the full ladle. The brew was dark and bitter, but it slid down his throat with a smooth kick. “A second for my wife, if you will?”
She gave him the ladle and he brought it to Morag, who drank deeply.
“My weary wife and I seek lodging for the night,” he said as he returned the ladle. Her gaze sharpened, and she gave him a thorough review before turning her attention to Morag. “Where ye be from?”
“Braemar,” he said.
She frowned and sold another ladle of ale to the lad behind him before she answered. “Take the next wynd to yer left, three doors down. The widow Uma might be willing to take ye in.”
“My thanks,” he said. Determined not to limp, he turned slowly and walked back to the cart. Taking hold of the pony’s harness, he tugged.
Morag said nothing until they turned down the wynd. Once they were out of sight of the alehouse, she said quietly, “Rub the leg as you walk. ’Twill warm the muscle.”
Annoyed that she’d seen him favoring the leg, he ignored her comment. “We’ll eat, sleep, and get an early start in the morn.”
“Nay,” she said.
He stopped and turned. “What did you say?”
“This is the first time I’ve been in a burgh. I want to walk about, meet people.”
“And who will watch your cloth while you go about? These people are strangers—they’ll take what’s yours without a care.”
She scowled at him. “Let us meet the widow Uma. If she seems an honest woman, we can leave the cloth with her. I did not agree to travel all this way so I could see the inside of a bothy.”
Although the dull ache in his leg continued to plague him, Wulf considered her words. Walking would be good for his leg, and would likely help him sleep. “Fine.”
He knocked on the wooden door of the third hut, and took a step back when a small elderly woman answered the door. No sense intimidating her.
The widow Uma was indeed willing to take them in for the night. She offered a bed and a bowl of stew for supper. Their bed was a plump straw mattress as sweet-smelling as any in Dunstoras Castle, and Wulf gave his approval of the arrangements with a soft grunt. The widow did seem to be a trustworthy sort.
When the cart was unpacked and their bellies were full, Wulf and Morag set out for the village square. Market day at Dunstoras was a busy event, but nothing compared to a trade day at one of the richest trading burghs in the kingdom. Perth was a thriving inland port that drew ships from the continent, as well as goods from the numerous craft guilds.
Even with the sun on the wane, the stalls in the square were a hive of hawking merchants, craftsmen, and fishmongers. Many of the stalls were down to their last few items for trade, but that didn’t dampen Morag’s enthusiasm. She insisted on peering into every stall, eyeing the goods with lively reactions ranging from awe to surprise.
“Spanish silk,” she said breathlessly, running her fingers lightly over the material.
He grumbled. “Had I the coin to drop for luxuries, I’d spend it on a jug of French wine.”
He bought two pastries from a baker and handed her one. They were cold and not near as tasty as they’d have been earlier in the day, but a delightfully buttery treat nonetheless. He retrieved a crumb from the corner of Morag’s mouth and offered it to her on his finger.
She grinned and licked it off.
Wulf swallowed tightly, a hot jolt of desire bursting in his loins. But Morag was oblivious to the moment—she had spied another interesting stall and scurried away. He drew in a slow, deep breath, shook off the edgy feeling in his gut, and followed her.
A cloth merchant’s stall still had a good number of bolts for sale, and Morag was peering at each of the offerings with a critical eye.
As he came up behind her, she whispered, “Not to be prideful, but none of these is as good as my own.”
He agreed. The colors were duller, the weaves looser.
“How much for this one?” Morag asked, holding up the corner of a red-black-and-yellow cloth.
“Three shillings a yard.”
“What?”
“Ye heard me,” the merchant growled. “Buy or move on.”
Morag took a decisive step back. “I definitely will not buy at that price. That’s—”
Wulf grabbed her arm and dragged her away before she could enrage the merchant. The plan was to mak
e a quiet trip, attracting little notice. Causing a furor in the market would not be a good start.
“Can you believe that man?” huffed Morag. “Three shillings. He’s a thief. The cloth wasn’t even properly waulked.”
They stopped in front of a leather goods stall displaying purses and gloves. The glover looked up hopefully as Morag picked up a pair of heavy men’s gloves. “Now, this is fine work. And just your size, I’d guess.”
Wulf pried her away from the gloves, leaving a disappointed vendor. “Only men of arms have need of such gloves,” he said.
She took his right hand and turned it palm up, running a finger over the thick calluses on his thumb. “You could use such gloves when you practice with your sword.”
The effect of her touch was instantaneous. Sweet, burning desire surged through his groin, and for a brief moment he imagined all the places such a touch might lead. Wild, wonderful places. Then he shook her hand free of his. “A peasant doesn’t own a sword,” he reminded her. “And therefore has no need for gloves.”
She heaved a sigh and continued to the next stall. The sun was nearing the horizon and the daylight was growing dim. Several of the merchants were packing up what remained of their goods.
This time the stall she paused before was rented by a hammerman. Metal goods ranging from fire pokers to cups were strewn across the display. The hammerman was wrapping his wares in burlap and placing them in a large woven basket.
Morag was drawn to a brass spoon with a smooth bowl at one end and a leather loop threaded through a hole at the other. She picked it up and held it to the last golden gleams of daylight. The handle was etched with a knot pattern that closely resembled the one on his sword.
“How much for this?” she asked.
The hammerman glanced up. “Three pence.”
“Oh.” Morag held on to the spoon for a moment longer, then laid it back on the display table. “’Tis lovely. A bit too fine for the likes of me, though. Good day to you.”
Then she turned and offered her hand to Wulf. “Shall we head back?”
“Aye.” He threaded her arm through his and together they strode back to the widow’s house.
Unwilling to burn any more of their hostess’s candles than necessary, and knowing they intended to make an early start the next morning, Wulf and Morag settled in quickly for the night.
In the dim light of the banked fire, Wulf watched Morag remove her overdress, leaving only a white linen sark covering her generously curved body. She combed out her long black hair, as she did every night, and stretched out on the mattress, her back to him. It was the same routine they’d followed for the past four months. And it had the same effect on him—slowing his heart to a heavy thud in his chest, shortening his breaths to unsatisfying gulps, and creating a throbbing ache in his groin that demanded to be eased.
But, as always, he held his needs in check.
Theirs was an odd relationship. Like a husband and wife, they shared a bed, but without any of the intimacy such an event normally entailed. In the beginning it had been because of his injuries, but of late it was his honor that held him back.
It certainly wasn’t a lack of desire.
He’d spent many a night lying next to her, listening to her soft breathing, inhaling the sweetly feminine scent of her body, and envisioning every kiss he would bestow should he ever have the good fortune to truly bed her. Not every night, thank the stars. In the beginning, his only concern had been to heal. But as his injuries lessened, he’d begun to notice the gentle curves and delicate beauty of his benefactress. Normally, an unspoken admonition was all it took to tame his wild thoughts, to ruthlessly shut out those hot, sweet dreams. But not tonight.
Wulf stretched out beside Morag and stared up at the thatched roof. The mattress was not wide, but he made a point of ensuring no point of his body touched hers. His imagination refused to let go of the thoughts that had seduced him since Morag had licked the pastry crumb from his finger. The wet heat of her lips on his skin continued to torment him. Every taut muscle in his body urged him to snatch her to him and make real those vivid dreams he’d had since becoming aware of her as a woman.
Of which there were hundreds.
But taking her was impossible. With his past life lost and his leg a lame appendage, Morag deserved better. She deserved a man who could leap to her defense, not hobble. She deserved a man who knew his purpose in life and could be a full and willing partner.
He was not that man.
Not yet.
But the identity of the man in black was the answer to his prayers. If he confronted the wretch who had slain his wife and son, who had brought the king’s wrath down upon his clan, and who had ambushed him in the wood and left him for dead, his memories would return. There could be no doubt.
He had failed his kin, and the loss of his memories was God’s punishment for that failure. Vengeance fulfilled was the only way to reclaim his life.
And give him the right to court Morag.
He rolled over on his side, away from the warm woman whose beauty called to him with every waking moment. Memories he might not possess, but steely determination he had in spades.
* * *
Morag was shaken awake by someone before dawn. Darkness yet prevailed, but she made out the thin figure of Uma crouched beside her. Her face was impossible to see, but the angry tone of the old woman’s voice was unmistakable.
“If ye’re thinking to rob me,” she said, “I’ll have none of it. You’ll pay me what you owe, or I’ll be calling for the bailiff.”
Morag sat up, shaking the grogginess of sleep from her head. “Rob you? What do you mean?”
The old woman rose to her full height, gray hair hanging in a long braid over her brat-covered shoulder. “Yer man is gone, flown in the night. The cart as well.”
Morag’s heart flipped. “That’s not possible.”
“See for yourself,” she said, holding out her hand. “But first ye must pay me for the lodging and the food.”
Scrambling to her feet, Morag cast about for her belongings—the burlap bag containing her meager supply of clothing and the bolts of cloth she’d left at the foot of the bed. Neither remained. Only a single ocher-colored gown lay on the mattress, neatly folded beneath her boots.
All else was gone. Including Wulf himself.
But there must be some explanation.
“You are mistaken,” Morag told the widow. “He would not leave me here. He’s merely attending to a task.”
Uma snorted. “Why take the cart then?”
Why indeed? ’Twould be faster to walk than to harness the pony for a short jaunt across the village. “He surely had his reasons,” Morag said with a confidence she did not truly feel. After all, why would he insist on her accompanying him if his intent was to abandon her? “Let us give him some time to return before assuming the worst.”
“I’ll give you till the bells of St. John’s ring at terce,” Uma said darkly. “If he’s not returned by then, you’ll be facing the bailiff.”
Morag forced a smile. “That’s very fair.”
She slipped the gown over her linen sark and quickly braided her long black hair, tying the end with a piece of wool twine. The widow warily watched her every move, no doubt expecting her to make a run for the door. When her boots were laced and the wrinkles were brushed from her gown, Morag faced her hostess.
“I’d like to look outside. Will you accompany me?”
Uma tightened her brat around her shoulders and nodded.
The old woman opened the door, and together they advanced into the lane. Dawn was breaking, and to the east the sky was a dark purple. The only people moving in the streets were those fetching water from the well. As Uma said, there was no sign of Wulf or the cart.
Morag took a deep breath of cool air and slowly let it out. If Wulf did not return she’d require some sort of payment to satisfy the widow. But what? She had no coin or possessions. Glancing at her feet, she grimaced. The only thing
she owned worth trading were her boots—which were almost new. Going barefoot in winter was not an option, however.
Beneath her boots the cart tracks were frozen in the mud. Why worry? Wulf would return.
Morag took the widow’s arm and led her back to the bothy. “Let me put the fire on and brew you some tea while we wait.”
The old woman accepted her help, but warned her, “There’ll be no tea for you until you pay me.”
“I can wait,” Morag responded agreeably.
She had just poured boiling water into a wooden cup lined with tea leaves when the sound of a creaking cart came to a halt outside the door. Moments later Wulf stepped into the bothy, filling the space with his large body. In his hand he held two steamy pasties.
He offered one to Uma and gave the second to Morag with a smile. “Are you ready to depart?”
Morag stared at him until the smile faded from his face. “Is all well?” he asked.
Did he truly believe a pasty made up for her rude awakening? Wretch. How dared he be so blithe?
“The good widow is seeking her due,” Morag said. “She was about to take me before the bailiff.”
“Och, now,” the widow said, her mouth half-filled with pasty. “I promised to wait until terce, and I live by my word.”
Wulf pulled the purse from the front of his lèine and presented the old woman with her coin. “Thank you for opening your home to us, Widow Uma. May I hope we’d be welcome on our return journey?”
“Aye,” she responded happily. “As long as I have no other lodger.”
Wulf pointed to the door. “Then shall we make way, wife? The hours pass swiftly and we’ve a long day ahead.”
Morag snatched her multihued brat from her bed and tossed it over her shoulders. Then she bade the widow good day and marched out to the cart. Without a word to Wulf, and without taking his proffered hand, she climbed onto her seat and stared stoically ahead.
He climbed up alongside her.
“You’re fasht with me,” he said. “But I merely rose early, packed the cart, and fetched you something to break the fast.”
“You should have woken me.”
“Aye,” he said softly. “I can see that I should have. Will you accept my apologies, lass?”