To Kiss A Kilted Warrior

by Rowan Keats

  He played her body as if it were a finely tuned harp, every touch a pluck on her heartstrings, every glide over her flesh a shiver-inducing note in a sensual melody. The slow build was powerful. Morag’s release, when it came, stole her breath away. The rapture came from somewhere deep and rocked her like never before. Waves of pleasure struck her again and again, pulling a sharp cry from her lips.

  “Wulf!”

  His release must have been equally euphoric. As he rammed into her with one last, fulfilling stroke, he let out a roar that shook the rafter beams. And when he was spent, he did not roll gracefully to the side as he’d done previously. He collapsed atop her like a rag doll.

  A very heavy rag doll.

  Morag could still breathe, because even in the throes of his ecstasy, Wulf had the presence of mind to fall slightly to one side. But his heated body was stifling nonetheless, and she gave him a gentle push.

  Obliging, he rolled.

  “If I die now,” he murmured, “it will be as a happy man.”

  Although a similar feeling warmed her chest, she gave him a mild slap. “Do not say such things. You invite death into our midst.”

  He opened one eye. “Are you superstitious, lass?”

  “I wasn’t before I met you,” she said. “But now I take no chances.”

  “Aye, well,” he said, pulling her atop his chest, “death will have to get in line. There are others eager to see me in the sod.”

  She frowned. Amazingly, she’d forgotten that for a few moments. “My da says there’s no way to trace the cloak back to its maker. He believes it was made somewhere on the continent.”

  Wulf opened both eyes. “How is it you never mentioned your da was head of the weavers’ guild?”

  Her cheeks heated. “’Tis a sorry tale, and I’m not much for sorry tales.”

  “I should like to meet him. Will I have the opportunity?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What words would you offer him?”

  Wulf’s gaze met hers, unwavering. “The truth. That if he dares to hurt you, he’ll face my wrath.”

  His determined stand for her, even if a wee bit misguided, warmed her heart. She drew a pattern on the hairs of his chest. “A kind gesture, to be sure. But unnecessary. He’s been most helpful since I’ve been in Edinburgh.”

  He waited for a moment to see whether she would add more, and when she did not he said, “Then we’ll head back to Dunstoras. Neither the arms nor the cloak have borne fruit.”

  Morag bit her lip. She’d come frightfully close to losing Wulf, and she had a healthy respect for the tingle on the back of her neck that suggested danger still lurked here. But Wulf would not be pleased if she failed to tell him all she knew.

  “There may be one last lead to follow,” she said.

  His eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”

  “My da reminded me about the Book of Arms.”

  “The one Marcus Rose mentioned?”

  “Aye. All arms granted by the king and all arms of those permitted inside the castle are recorded there. If we could examine that book, we might find the sigil.”

  The hint of interest died in Wulf’s expression. “It’s kept within the castle. We have no hope of setting eyes upon such a book.”

  She nodded. “It would be foolish for you or me to enter the castle. But I may know someone who could steal the book and bring it to us.”

  Wulf stared at her. “Surely you jest.”

  “Nay,” she said, smiling. “It will likely cost me every coin I earned from my cloth, but I know a man who can do it.”

  He frowned. “How do you know such a man?”

  She kissed his downturned lips. Then she rolled off him and gathered up her clothing. “It matters not. Are you game or no?”

  Wulf surged from the bed, snatched her to his chest, and gave her a hard kiss. “Aye, I’m game, but you’ll use none of the coin you earned. We’ll use the coin the laird gave me.”

  Morag smiled. Even better.

  “Get dressed,” Wulf said. “I want to meet this thief.”

  * * *

  Wulf did not like Bran.

  He did not like the man’s brash, confident demeanor, or his easy dismissal of the challenges of entering the castle. But he especially did not like how close the man stood to Morag, or the slow, deep smiles he regularly bestowed upon her.

  “A book is not a trinket or a coin you can easily slip into your lèine,” Wulf said. He made no move to claim Morag in front of the other man. She was his, and he knew she would never betray him. “How will you pass the guards with it in hand?”

  Bran’s gaze left Morag’s face and turned to Wulf. “The game is to direct their attention elsewhere. Coax them into seeing what you want them to see.”

  “What is the largest object you have ever stolen?”

  The other man thought for a moment, then answered, “A horse.”

  “Anyone can abscond with a horse in the middle of the night,” scoffed Wulf. He gave Morag a smoldering look, and she crossed to his side and took his arm.

  Bran grinned. “Agreed. But not everyone can walk off with a man’s horse in broad daylight.”

  Skeptical, Wulf merely raised a brow.

  The cutpurse dug into his lèine and pulled out a small leather purse. He opened the drawstring and poured the contents into his palm. Five nuggets of gold winked in the mid-March sunlight. “If his eyes were on these, do you think he would be watching his horse?”

  “You intend to bribe the castle guards with gold?”

  Bran laughed. “These are only pebbles painted with gold, but nay. I’ve no confidence in the effectiveness of bribes. There’s always one honest soul who cannot be bought.”

  Wulf lifted Morag’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “Then be clear. What is your plan?”

  “As always,” the thief said. He raised his hand and beckoned to someone. “I’ll arrange a distraction.”

  At his signal, a woman carrying several leather-bound books in her arms stepped around the gangplank of the ship and walked toward them. She was rather difficult to miss, especially after she let the brat around her shoulders slip to her elbows.

  Wulf watched her path.

  The men on the gangplank stopped to stare.

  The woman wore a bright green gown with a scandalously low neckline. The mounds of her ample breasts were clearly visible above the books in her arms. She walked past them without stopping, but Wulf’s gaze remained on her until Morag jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

  “How many books was the lass holding?” Bran asked slyly.

  “Two,” Wulf said decisively.

  “Are you certain?” the thief asked. “Are you willing to stake your life on that answer?”

  “Three,” Morag said, with a note of absolute disgust in her voice. “There were three books.”

  Bran grinned. “We’d best hope there are no women guarding the castle.”

  * * *

  The old sailor met with Dunkeld in a dark wynd between two warehouses. With the setting of the sun, the docks had become nearly deserted, but with MacCurran’s luck of late it seemed wise to avoid being seen by anyone.

  “A book, you say,” Dunkeld said.

  “Aye,” the sailor said with his cap in his hands.

  “And where did this book come from?”

  The old sailor shook his head. “I cannot say. One instant the man’s hands were empty, the next he held a book.”

  Dunkeld grimaced. “Was anyone passing by at the time?”

  The sailor nodded. “A handful of lads. But if one of them gave him the book, I didn’t see him.”

  “And they took this book into the fishmonger’s shop?”

  “Aye,” continued the old sailor. He held out his hand, palm up.

  Dunkeld dropped a silver penny into his hand. “Speak one word of what you’ve seen, and I’ll make certain you can never speak again. Understand?”

  The old sailor’s gaze widened, but he nodded.

  “Go,” Dunkeld
dismissed him.

  When the sailor had vanished into the gloom, Dunkeld walked down the lane to the street fronting the docks and stopped not far from the fishmonger’s shop. The shop was closed, but candles burned in the windows, downstairs and up.

  What could MacCurran possibly want with a book? Most tomes were written and illuminated by monks, and few people had the skill to read them.

  Were he in MacCurran’s boots, he would have left the towns behind and returned to the Highlands. The sigil they had ventured to Edinburgh to identify was lost, the herald was dead, and every guard at every gate had a description of his face. What more would the man gain by staying? What more could he discover from a book?

  Dunkeld suddenly stiffened.

  Unless it was a book of arms.

  Dear Lord. There was such a book. William de Keith, the marischal of Scotland, maintained a detailed record with the help of several heralds. It was gloriously illuminated with every arms granted in the kingdom—and the arms of those who had sworn fealty to the king. It was very possible that the arms of Daniel de Lourdes and Artan de La Fleche were recorded there.

  He frowned up at the lit window above the fishmonger.

  But that book was kept in the castle. Behind high stone walls and locked doors. It was nearly impossible for that book to be the one MacCurran was peering at.

  Near impossible, but not impossible.

  Dunkeld wrapped his cloak around his body and strode off down the street. It was time to make use of his brother-in-law’s men. Neither MacCurran nor that book could be allowed to see morning.

  * * *

  Morag turned another page, then sat back. “Och, what does this mean?”

  Wulf stared at the illuminated arms in the upper right corner of the page: a tower with a raised sword in the middle. His gut tightened as he noted the large black mark that ran through the image. “Those are—nay, were—the arms of Laird MacCurran. They’ve been struck from the record.”

  “But he’s been unjustly accused.”

  “The king does not believe it so,” Wulf said heavily. Although he knew the MacCurrans had been outlawed and he had seen the hardship that proclamation had wrought upon his clan, there was something stark and undeniable about the mark through Aiden’s arms.

  He quickly scanned the other arms recorded on the parchment, then turned the page. There was no sign of that sigil they remembered from their attacker’s tunic, and they were three-quarters through the record.

  “Keep looking,” he said to Morag. “I’ll fetch us some food from the tavern.”

  Morag glanced up. “We’ll find it. I’m certain.”

  “I’ll return anon.” He bounded down the stairs, nodded to the fishmonger and his wife, who were supping on garvie stew, and left the building. With the moon on the wane the night was dark, and he walked swiftly.

  It bothered him that he sought the name of the man in black so desperately that he was willing to risk harm to Morag. A sane man would have packed up the cart and headed for home. But every time he thought of what the man in black had stolen from him, a dark rage roiled in his gut. It did not matter that he could not picture the faces of Elen and Hugh. They’d been his kin, his beloved wife and son. He owed them justice, and the only way to deliver that justice was to find the man who had murdered them.

  He entered the tavern and pushed his way through the throng of patrons to the barmaid. An older woman with faded red hair and tired eyes, she barely looked at him as she asked, “Aye, what will it be?”

  “Some bannock and honey,” he said. “And a pint of ale.”

  She served him swiftly, if a little brusquely.

  Imagining her with a surly husband and ungrateful children, he left her an extra penny and gathered up the food.

  No sooner had he passed into the cool night air than the scent of smoke caught his nose. Not the mild wisps of a cooking fire, but the thick smell of burning daub. Wulf’s eyes lifted to the fishmonger’s house, and his heart dropped into his boots.

  The lower half of the building was aflame.

  Tossing aside his purchases, he ran.

  Chapter 14

  At the first significant whiff of smoke, Morag swiftly grabbed their bags, Wulf’s sword, and the book, her heart pounding. She raced across the room and tore open the door to the hallway. Fat plumes of smoke billowed into the room, choking her, and hot air carried the crackle of fire to her ears. The smoke was so thick, she immediately shut the door.

  And spun around.

  Once again, she was faced with a madcap escape. She flew to the window and hammered against the shutters. They did not open. Dropping her armload to the floor, she tried again. To no avail. The shutters were locked tight, which made no sense. She’d opened them earlier in the day.

  But there was no time to dwell on that.

  She grabbed up her belongings and ran back to the door. Covering her nose and mouth with her brat, she braved the wall of gray smoke on the other side of the door. The smoke seemed thickest at eye level, so she bent forward and crept in the direction of the stairs.

  Her eyes watered madly, and despite the brat, she coughed as smoke burned a path into her chest. She found the stairs, and, almost crawling, she felt her way to the bottom. It was there that she discovered the body of the fishmonger’s wife. Already terrified, Morag took one look at the dirk protruding from the poor woman’s chest and moaned.

  This was no ordinary fire.

  Someone was determined to see her die.

  Morag closed her eyes briefly and struggled to regain her composure. She had to escape, and escape swiftly. The fire was raging at both ends of the shop. Long tongues of flame were reaching across the ceiling. If she didn’t break free soon, this shop would be her funeral pyre.

  But where to go?

  Her eyes popped open. Nearby, on this side of the shop, there was a chute the fishmonger used to dispose of the unwanted fish parts. It was narrow, but it should be just wide enough for her to squeeze through.

  If she could find it.

  Down on her hands and knees, dragging Wulf’s sword and their bags, Morag crawled across the wooden floor of the shop. The Book of Arms was large and extremely awkward to carry, and she dropped it several times. Wave after wave of unbearable heat struck her, and beads of sweat ran down her face. The next time the book slipped from her grasp, Morag let it fall. As valuable as it was, she could not lose her life trying to keep it. The bags and the sword were burden enough, and the smoke was suffocating. Were it not for the brat tied over her nose and mouth, she would never have made it.

  But she did.

  She shoved open the door of the chute, gulping in the cool air. Then she tossed her belongings outside and pitched herself down the chute, landing headfirst in a slippery pile of fish guts. For a moment she just lay there, coughing and wheezing like an old woman.

  Then she remembered Wulf.

  She needed to find him—and warn him.

  With any luck, he was still at the tavern enjoying a pint of ale. Morag scrambled to her feet, slipping and sliding in the slimy fish parts. Brushing off the worst of the gunk, and turning her soot-covered brat inside out, she picked up her belongings and carefully made her way around the back of the burning shop. The back wynds would be safest.

  * * *

  Several sailors had already begun a line of buckets to douse the fire when Wulf reached the fire-engulfed shop. He stared at the closed shutters of the second-floor window, willing them to open.

  “Morag,” he shouted.

  But the roar of the flames was surprisingly loud, and he couldn’t be sure she could hear him. And as he stared at the shutters he realized there was a stick jammed between them, preventing them from opening.

  Wulf’s pulse began to pound.

  He swiftly scanned the faces of the people on the street, hoping that Morag had already left the shop. But there was no sign of her freckled face and long dark hair. He had to go in. But not through the front door. Fire had already overwhelmed
the entrance. The iron fish that hung above the door was swimming in a pool of fire, its head glowing bright red.

  Wulf jogged around the right side of the shop. The very back of the building had not yet caught fire, and the side delivery door stood half-open. Smoke poured out, but here there were no flames.

  He tugged the door wide.

  “Morag!” he called.

  There was no reply, save for the crackle and snap of burning wood.

  Wulf pictured the stairs to the second floor and drove through the smoke in that direction. Half a dozen steps in, he stumbled over a body and his throat clenched. Dear God.

  No.

  He dropped to his knees, feeling with his hands until he found wool clothing and an arm. An arm that was too muscular to be a woman’s. Relief flooded him. It wasn’t Morag.

  He regained his feet and moved forward. The smoke was so thick and the heat so unbearable that he could no longer be sure he was headed in the right direction. But his fear for Morag drove him on. He was about to call her name once more when something slammed against the back of his head. Dazed, he spun around.

  Two very large men garbed like seamen stood before him, holding short wooden clubs. They gave him no chance to recover, diving on him. They pummeled him again and again. Wulf fought back as best he could, but the smoke defeated him. As he used his fists to beat back his attackers, he sucked in a deep fiery breath and choked. He went down with another solid blow to his head.

  His last thought was a desperate hope that Morag had somehow escaped. Then everything went black.

  * * *

  Morag skirted wide around the back of the burning shop. Although the fire was currently contained to the front, numerous sparks were floating in the air above the wynd, brightening the night. A villager raced past her, no doubt headed for the main street, where a crowd had gathered and the fire-dousing efforts were in full swing. Just as she was about to dart across the dark lane, the delivery door of the fishmonger’s shop burst open and two burly men carrying short poles ran out. They paused and bent over, hands on their knees as they looked back at the smoke-filled doorway. Sweat made trails in the soot on their faces.