by Rowan Keats
With his last thrust, Wulf’s boot slid out from under him and he fell heavily, landing prone on the ground. He swiftly planted his sword and struggled to rise, but could not gain purchase in the wet sand. Facedown in a pool of his own blood, he tasted the end.
Ironically, it was his blood that saved him. He caught a brief reflection of his opponent as he swooped in, both hands on the hilt of his blade. When the man was balanced over him, and Wulf was certain the death blow was nigh, he nimbly rolled to one side and thrust his blade upward with great force.
He had the longer reach, and his blade buried itself under the blond man’s left arm inches before his opponent’s blade hit the dirt.
His opponent’s eyes went wide as he realized he’d been fooled.
As always when his blade took another man’s life, Wulf felt a moment’s pause. He lowered the blond man to the ground and withdrew his sword. Death was never a punishment to be dealt lightly, even when the choices were limited. As the light of life faded from the other man’s eyes, Wulf sighed.
He pushed to his feet. His injured leg was still bleeding and he bent to claim a strip of linen from one of the downed soldiers—one of the two he’d struck with his sword pommel. Both men remained motionless and would likely require the services of a healer.
As he tied the linen about his leg, Morag arrived. She fell to her knees at his side, pushing his hands away and taking over the task of wrapping the linen. “Thank God you’re all right. I thought for certain I’d be calling for the grave digger.”
He leaned against the wooden door and allowed Morag to tend to his wounds. How she had found him, he couldn’t fathom. But he was too weary to wonder long.
“Your wife suggested you were about to meet your maker,” a male voice said dryly. “But I see you had matters well in hand.”
Wulf stiffened as he met the gaze of a dark-haired man in a fur-lined cloak and brocade tunic. The man’s boots cost more than any single possession Wulf owned. How would he explain what had happened to such a man? Especially when the men wore the tabards of the king’s guard?
“These men are impostors,” he said firmly, hoping surety would lend weight to his tale. “They made no attempt to query me or arrest me.”
“Really?” The dark-haired man pushed over the body of the blond swordsman, frowning. “You appear to be right. I recognize this one. A hoodlum recently escaped from the castle dungeon.”
“I made an effort to avoid slaying them all.”
“So I see,” the other man said, as one of the men finally stirred. “Very generous of you, under the circumstances.”
Despite the hint of humor he detected, Wulf was still wary. “Wulf Cameron of Braemar,” he said, extending his hand.
The dark-haired man accepted his hand with a smile. “William Dunkeld.”
“Brother to the king,” Wulf added. Once again, a heretofore unknown fact had popped into his thoughts. His memories were truly a strange brew.
Dunkeld shrugged. “I am indeed, but born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
Morag finished tying up Wulf’s leg and stood up. She offered Dunkeld a broad smile. “A gentleman by any measure tonight, sir. You answered my call without hesitation, and for that I am eternally grateful.”
“It is your husband who is the hero, good woman. He defended himself most ably.”
Wulf glanced at the five bodies on the ground. “I must make a report to the constable, I merit.”
Dunkeld shook his head. “Have a physician see to that leg. I’ll fetch the constable and explain what happened. As I said, he’ll be familiar with this particular villain and will require little support from you to serve the records.”
Wulf frowned. It seemed a miracle to be able to walk away without facing the authorities.
“Truly,” Dunkeld said. “Tell me where you are staying, if you wish, and I will inform the constable. If he has need to speak with you, he can seek you out.”
Wulf gave Dunkeld the address of their room and thanked him again. Then he and Morag hobbled back to the candlemaker’s.
“A fine man, the king’s brother,” Morag said. “I would not have expected a nobleman to come to the aid of the likes of us.”
“Indeed.” Before they entered the candlemaker’s shop, Wulf ceased leaning on Morag and carried his own weight. “And we are quite fortunate it was he who chanced upon us—few others would have believed the dead men were not the king’s guards. But William Dunkeld commands a garrison of the king’s guard.”
Morag preceded him up the stairs to their room. “They were minions of the man in black, I presume?”
“They did not introduce themselves,” Wulf said dryly. “But I’m not a great believer in chance.”
“Sit down,” Morag ordered as she closed the door. “Let me properly tend to that leg.”
“Nay,” he said. “I fear it may be time to return to Dunstoras. The cloak cannot be easily traced, and the danger of remaining in the burgh is high.”
She put a cool hand on his brow. “Are you feverish? Did you truly suggest we turn tail and run?”
He skewed her a hard stare. His true desire was to continue the search for the sigil. But . . . “Keeping you safe may be more challenging than I anticipated.”
“Ah, so you retreat for me? How sweet. You make my heart stir.”
She flattened her hand on his chest and pushed. It was not nearly the force required to move a man of his size, but Wulf allowed himself to be guided to the mattress. Seeing her freckled face alive and well, knowing that he had succeeded in protecting her, left a warm feeling in his chest that far outweighed the ache in his leg.
As she peeled back the bloodstained linen and bent over his thigh, he smoothed a hand over her black hair. “You are beautiful,” he declared.
One of her eyebrows lifted. “More beautiful today than yesterday?”
“Nay.” He frowned. “The same.”
She poured a bit of whiskey over the wound, and he grimaced. “Do you find disfavor with my response? Are you vexed?”
“What cause would I have to be vexed?”
A good question. To which he had no answer. He’d barely seen her all day. “None. Yet you seem a wee bit put out.”
She wrapped his leg with a clean linen strip, tied it neatly, and then stood up. “You very nearly died today,” she said, taking her flint from her purse and making a fire in the hearth.
“But I did not,” he pointed out.
“A fact for which I am most grateful,” she said. “But I willingly admit the notion of your passing is a distressing one. I am not vexed. I am simply aware that this night might have ended very differently.”
“Come here,” he commanded her.
She came to him, but her expression was uncertain.
When she stood between his parted legs, he took her hands in his. They were soft and gentle, like the woman herself. Morag made such a fine show of being strong and carefree that even he occasionally forgot that it was all a facade. “Lass, I’ve vowed to remain by your side the whole of this journey. It will take more than a madman with a sword to make me break my vow. You ken?”
She smiled. All the way to her lovely green eyes.
“The timing of your death is not within your control, Wulf MacCurran. No matter how strong your will.”
“I disagree,” he said. “You must have faith that I’ll not leave you unprotected. ’Tis my duty to see you properly cared for, and I’ll not let you down.”
“Even if we must stay in Edinburgh another day?”
He rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles, loving the tenderness of her skin against the roughness of his. “Do we have a reason to stay?”
She nodded. “Master Parlan has agreed to examine the cloak. He knows well the work of the weavers in his guild, and he may be able to identify the maker of the cloak.”
Wulf’s hands tightened on Morag’s. “You should not have made any such inquiries. The man in black is clearly watching our every move.”
“Tonight?”
“Nay, on the morrow.”
Wulf lifted Morag’s hands and kissed the knuckles on one hand and then the other. Remaining in the burgh was risky. Were it only him, he would stay without qualm, but he had Morag to protect. Yet, how could he deny a valuable clue to his enemies’ identity?
“We’ll stay,” he said. “But you’ll not return to the market. You must remain at my side.”
Sliding to her knees and leaning into him, she closed the gap between their faces to mere inches. It was an intimate pose, and Wulf’s blood heated instinctively, forging a fiery trail through his body.
“Remaining at your side,” she said huskily, “is not the hardship you imagine.” Her lips found the edge of his jaw. The kiss she bestowed on him was sweet, soft . . . and hot.
Wulf swallowed. “What of your cloth?”
“Sold,” she whispered, kissing her way to his neck. “All of it.”
He closed his eyes and drank in her uniquely feminine scent. Like heather blooms in late summer, it was equal parts sweet and spicy. Need coursed through his body, making him hard. He wanted her so badly, he was choking on his desire.
“What a shame it would have been.” Her teeth found his earlobe and she nibbled.
A ripple of sensation ran through him, raising goose bumps on his flesh. “What?” he croaked.
“Had we both died today without knowing each other as we are meant to,” she said, her breath hot against his neck.
Wulf released her hands, his palms damp with unrequited desire. There was a truth to her words that he could not deny. They were fated to be together; his gut was certain of it. But so many issues remained to be resolved before he could claim her. . . .
“It might well be my last wish that we lie together,” she said. “Would you truly deny me?”
A snort of laughter escaped his lips. “You would sink so low as to claim a deathbed wish?”
She pouted. “I will use whatever means I must to make you see reason. We are neither of us chaste. There is no valid cause to eschew our desire.”
Wulf cupped her head in both hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Our first time together will be all the sweeter for our denial.”
“We’ve already waited months,” she said, grimacing. “The sweetest moment is right now.” Pulling his hands away, she pressed a hard kiss upon his lips.
Her frustration was understandable, and he let her have her way for a while. He was just about to push her gently away when her tactics changed. The kiss softened from discontented attack to sensual play. She sucked his bottom lip into her mouth and nibbled on it.
A jolt of intense need went straight from his mouth to his groin.
Her tongue entered his mouth, sliding along his, then dancing away to tease the hot throb of his chewed lip. Wulf’s head swam. Every inch of his skin came alive with desperate want. The need to feel her against him, flesh to flesh, was echoed in every pounding of his heartbeat.
“Make me yours,” she said on a ragged sigh.
For a moment he resisted. She deserved so much more than a night on a candlemaker’s mattress. But in the next breath, he remembered the painful feeling he’d endured in the wynd when the realization had struck him that he might die. Life could be snatched away in an instant. Aye, Morag deserved to know the full extent of his love for her.
“You are mine, Morag Cameron,” he said. “And I am yours.”
Then he rolled her onto the mattress and seized the moment. If tonight was all they had, he would make it worthy of a lifetime.
* * *
As Wulf rolled her back against the mattress and covered her with his hard body, a moan of pure delight rumbled in Morag’s throat. The solid weight of him, tempered by his obvious care not to crush her, brought a sweet ache to her heart, even as it fluttered with excitement.
How long had she dreamed of this moment?
Too often to recall. And none of those dreams measured up to reality. Wulf was not a timid lover. He was the man she caught glimpses of whenever he forgot momentarily that his leg was injured and his memories were gone—strong and sure and confident.
He grabbed her hands, threaded his fingers with hers, then forced them above her head. With her body pinned to the mattress, barely able to move, he proceeded to ravish her. The sweet assault on her senses began with her mouth—hot lips fiercely demanding all she had to give—but did not stop there. One of his knees pushed between her legs, and his heavily muscled thigh exerted a firm but gentle dance of pressure against her mons.
A thousand tiny sparks of pleasure shot through her body with every press, and Morag nearly swooned with ecstasy. Her fingers clenched around his and she writhed against the mattress. A yearning so deep it seemed impossible to satisfy bloomed hot and heavy in her belly, and her entire body burned.
She wanted him inside her. Nay, needed him inside her. The sweet ache demanded it.
Morag lifted her hips off the mattress, meeting his press with an earthy appeal of her own. Her gown was a nuisance, a barrier between her and a fulfillment that she was desperate to see met.
As his lips left hers and claimed the tender skin beneath her ear, she sucked in a ragged breath and implored, “Unclothe me.”
She would have been more specific, but the gentle bite of his teeth on her earlobe stole all rational thought. A mewl of raw need was all she could manage.
But he granted her wish.
Releasing her hands, his fingers adroitly found the hem of her gown, and with a smooth yank he tugged it and her sark up and off. Morag swiftly did the same for him, tossing his lèine aside and running her hands over the naked expanse of his shoulders and chest.
Was there ever a man more finely made?
None that she had seen.
He was not perfection—too many scars marred his smooth flesh for that—but he was an ideal man just the same. Broad shoulders above a muscled chest and stomach that put most other men to shame. All that wood chopping and hiking through the glen had banished the softness he’d developed during his recovery.
Morag’s gaze lifted to Wulf’s face.
As much as she admired his form, it was his face she loved most. When driven to anger, he could cultivate as fierce a mien as she had ever seen, but at this moment, every sharp angle, every taut muscle, every glint of his gaze reflected desire.
Desire for her.
It was not the first time she’d seen desire on his face—he was open in his admiration for her—but it was the first time she’d seen that desire unrestrained. And the unmitigated heat of it thrilled her right to her toes. His eyes were like hot coals.
Morag lay back on the mattress and smiled at him. “Do you like what you see?”
He did not smile in return. “Like? Nay.”
She scowled at him. “You lack charm, sir.”
Leaning in, he kissed the tip of one breast and then the other. “Adore would come close, but even that word does not do my admiration justice.”
Her irritation fell away. “You are forgiven then.” She slid her hands up his arms, savoring the hills and valleys of his shape. The ropelike pattern created by the firelight was entrancing. “I’m getting cold. Come warm me.”
He slid his body alongside hers, his heat immediately banishing the chill of the air. Their legs entwined without conscious thought, and he picked up a lock of her hair, lifting it to his nose. “Everything about you is bonny, lass. From tip to toe. Even the way you smell.”
The light play with her hair sent a thrill down her spine, and Morag shivered with delight. At this moment, with the knowledge that they had survived and the future seeming bright, it was almost possible to believe he was truly hers. She certainly wanted it to be so. Perhaps he was right, and they could find a way to make it work.
She closed her eyes.
Opening her eyes again, she stared into his gaze.
He ran a finger along her cheekbone and down to her lips. The roughness of his skin was a delightful contrast to her softness, sending another shiver of need coursing through her body. She opened her mouth and encircled his finger, sucking on it. Her tongue dallied with the tip, while her eyes made sinful promises.
A faint smile curved his lips.
“You, lass, are a tease.”
She released his finger, and sank her hands into his thick hair, pulling his face toward hers. “Nay, not a tease. Never that.” She kissed him hard. “I mean every kiss I give.”
He returned the kiss with heated passion and a wild hunger that was barely restrained. His mouth plundered hers, a deeply sensual act that was both a taking and a giving.
One of his hands found her breast, plumping and squeezing the swollen weight until Morag thought she might die of want. Just when the tension in her belly was bow-tight, he transferred his mouth from her lips to her nipple, and Morag squealed.
Her feminine parts grew hot and damp, and she wriggled suggestively against Wulf’s thigh. She wanted more. She wanted all of him.
And Wulf delivered. His hand slipped down between her legs, his thumb rubbing circles on her mons while his fingers tested her readiness. The firm swirls of his thumb were masterful. Ripple after ripple of glorious pleasure racked her body, shortening her breath and bringing her closer and closer to the pinnacle of her desire.
Thrashing with need, she gripped the sheets with a tight hand. “Aye, Wulf. Aye.”
He sank three fingers inside her, even as his thumb continued its teasing play.
And the wave of desire crashed over Morag, sending her reeling. Every inch of her body rejoiced and her feminine parts hummed.
Wulf kissed her gently.
When the ripples subsided and Morag opened her eyes again, he brushed the damp hairs from her face. “I’ve never seen you more beautiful than this very moment.”