by Rowan Keats
He halted the horse.
Despite the druid’s urgings to ride hard and fast, Wulf had failed to reach the king in time to prevent his death. And that failure weighed heavily on him. While it was true that he’d had no knowledge of Dunkeld’s intent to murder his brother until that fateful moment upon the cliff top, the lost opportunity still nagged at him.
If only he’d gone straight to the cliffs instead of waiting in the woods . . .
Bhaltair raised a hand in greeting. “Hail, Wulf.”
“Have you returned to the glen for good?” Wulf asked. The old man had a large sack tied to his back, a wooden bowl hanging from its drawstring.
The old man nodded. “I will make my home in the auld broch once more.”
Unsure what news the druid might have heard, Wulf said, “The king perished at Kinghorn.”
Bhaltair nodded, a faint frown on his brow.
Giving voice to his regrets, Wulf added, “I did not place proper weight upon your words that night, and the fate of Scotland was sorely impacted.”
Bhaltair’s faded blue eyes met his gaze. “You believe you failed?”
“Did I not?”
The old man shook his head. “You averted disaster. Had you not confronted William Dunkeld and put an end to his treachery, the future of Scotland would have been a mere shadow of what it is destined to become.”
Wulf frowned. “Was Alexander’s death foretold?”
Bhaltair shrugged. “The stars are never that easy to read, lad. All I can tell you is that the events of that night played out as they should. Scotland’s current path may be a turbulent one, but it is a necessary one. Our nation shall define itself by the days to come.”
Wulf’s gaze lifted and he looked to the west, toward the auld broch. Deep in the tunnels beneath the ruin lay a treasure the MacCurrans had been tasked with protecting for centuries—the crown and sword of the last king of the Picts, Kenneth MacAlpin. Wulf remembered everything now, including the hiding place of the treasure.
“And what role will the treasure have in the days to come?”
Bhaltair smiled. “You know the answer to that as well as I. The legend says that the crown and sword will one day be needed by the true king of Scotland.”
“That suggests all the other kings were false.”
“Nay,” said the old druid. “The Stone of Scone assures that all who are crowned upon it are true, but one king will need the MacAlpin treasure to firm his claim on the throne—and that king will shape Scotland’s destiny for an eternity.”
“You are remarkably certain of that,” Wulf said dryly, “given the vagaries of the stars.”
Bhaltair tapped his walking stick in the dirt several times. “I listen to more than the stars.”
Morag yawned and snuggled deeper into Wulf’s embrace. Reminded that their journey was near an end, he saluted Bhaltair with a respectful nod, then said, “We have two possible heirs now—Yolande’s babe and the young maid Margaret—so I suspect the future you describe is still some way off. I’ll bid you adieu.”
Bhaltair stepped aside to let him pass. “Give my regards to the laird.”
Then Wulf spurred his horse into a canter and raced up the glen to the gates of the keep. Although she must have had questions about Bhaltair, Morag waited until they had ridden beneath the portcullis before she uttered a single word.
“Need we stay long?” she asked, glancing about the close with a frown.
“Be prepared to spend the night,” he answered. He had some convincing to do. But first he needed to speak with Jamie. Wulf slid down from his mount, and then cast about for a glimpse of his son. He spied the lad over by the stables, mucking out a stall. Aware that Morag longed for respite, he removed his brat, folded it, and laid it over the top of a nearby crate. Lifting her down from the horse, he gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Sit for a while and rest. I’ve a promise I must fulfill, and then we’ll find food and wine.”
Morag favored him with a hard stare, and then flopped down on the crate. “If I am tossed from the keep while you are gone, I will not return.”
“You will not be tossed from the keep,” he said. “I sent word of our victory.”
“Your victory.”
“Nay, ours. Have faith in me, lass.” He kissed the top of her head, dug into his bag, pulled out the box of carved horses, and crossed the close to the stables.
Jamie looked up as he approached, and Wulf met his gaze easily.
“The man in black is dead,” Wulf said briskly. “I promised you his name, so I will tell you he was William Dunkeld, bastard brother to the king.” He opened the box, took out the silver locket and the newer toy horse, and offered them to his son. “I also promised to return these.”
Jamie took the two items, staring at them for a long moment. Then he said, “Now Mum and Hugh can rest peacefully.”
Wulf nodded. “Aye.”
Then he folded Jamie into his arms and gave him a short, decisive hug. No awkwardness, no needless effusiveness, just a quick shot of genuine affection. “And because you’re still a wee lad, I’ve brought you a box of toy horses.”
He gave him the box.
Jamie frowned. “I don’t play with toys.”
Wulf smiled. “I know. As I recall, you were never a lad given to playing with toys. Hugh was the one who enjoyed such games. I suppose you’ll have to find some other use for them. Planning battle strategies with your uncle Niall, perhaps.”
Jamie stared at him for a moment, and then his eyes widened. “Da? Are you back for real?”
“Aye,” Wulf said. “I’m here. Let’s take a walk.”
* * *
Eyes closed, Morag tipped her face to the sun, enjoying the warmth of the bonny spring day.
“Good to see you’ve returned unharmed,” a feminine voice said.
She opened her eyes to find Isabail Macintosh standing before her. “My lady.”
Isabail’s gaze dropped to Morag’s hands and she frowned. “I spoke too soon, I see. What happened?”
Morag thrust her curled hands into the folds of her gown. She did not need pity from the lady of the keep. “It’s nothing,” she lied, hopping down from the crate.
Isabail took her arm and led her across the busy close. They dodged a man carrying a sack of grain, and stopped in front of the kitchens, where a woman with a long red braid was tending to one of the gillies. A wave of hot air from the open door struck Morag, and she sucked in a deep breath, savoring the scent of baking bread.
“Do you remember Ana Bisset?” Isabail asked her.
“The other woman who was with you the night you rode for Tayteath?”
“Aye,” Isabail said. “And a healer of some renown.” She tapped the redhead on the shoulder.
Ana smeared unguent on the gillie’s burned arm and then turned.
Isabail tugged one of Morag’s hands free of her skirts. “What do you make of this, Ana? Can anything be done?”
“Och,” said Ana, cupping Morag’s hand. “A very bad burn this was.”
Morag shrugged off the sympathy. “It doesn’t hurt,” she said.
“Not anymore,” agreed Ana.
“Well?” demanded Isabail.
Ana’s expression turned thoughtful. “How long ago did this happen?”
“A sennight ago,” Morag explained.
Ana exchanged a look with Isabail. “It might be possible to mend them. I can’t promise success, but it would surely be worthy of the effort.”
“Indeed it would,” said Isabail. “Morag is a talented weaver, and her hands possess a skill we’d be sad to lose.” She tossed a look at Morag. “Are you a superstitious lot?”
“A bit,” Morag admitted.
“A blindfold might be in order then,” Isabail said, smiling broadly. “Go with Ana. She’ll tend to your hands in one of the rooms upstairs.”
A blindfold? Whatever for? Morag looked at her hands, suddenly hopeful. If the healer could increase the stretch of her fingers, it would
be a miracle. She followed Ana up the stairs to the solar she’d entered on her last visit. Ana sat her in a chair in front of the fire and fetched a pail of water.
“Prepare yourself,” Ana said. “My healing skills are truly a gift from the gods.”
Then she closed the door and the healing began.
Chapter 18
Wulf returned to the crate to find Morag long gone.
He queried everyone in sight, but no one had seen her for some time. Not since Lady Isabail had happened by. He slowly scanned the inner close, praying that his reluctant lady hadn’t made a dash for the gate.
“Did you lose something?”
He spun to face his cousin Aiden, who was coming down the wide steps to the castle tower. He nodded. “A brave lass who does not deserve to be shunned by the laird.”
His cousin smiled. “Does she have raven-black hair, a dark blue gown, and a multihued brat?”
“Aye.”
“If she accomplished even half of what your message credited her with, consider her unshunned. I would be honored to call such a capable woman kith.” Aiden nodded toward the heavy oak door above him. “She’s inside, but I wouldn’t enter just yet.”
“Why not?”
“She’s a wee bit upset over the healing she’s received from Ana.”
Wulf frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that. He pushed past his cousin and surged up the steps to the door. His eyes struggled to adjust to the dim interior, but the sound of Morag’s voice was easy enough to follow, and he had no difficulty recognizing the sweetly feminine curves on the woman to the right.
“A warning would have been appropriate,” she snarled.
“What warning could I have given?”
“Anything,” shouted Morag. “You cannot simply do such things without notice. How am I to make peace with healing that involves strange swirls that run down your arms and heat that comes without a fire?”
“How are your hands?”
Wulf blinked and the shadowy shape to the left became a lovely redhead wearing a forest green gown.
Morag held up her hands—which to Wulf’s amazement were no longer curled or leathery. “They are fine. I don’t deny that.”
The redhead shrugged. “My job is done, then.”
Morag glared at the other woman with such disdain that Wulf feared for Ana’s life. He stepped forward and snagged Morag’s arm. “Thank you, Ana,” he said to the healer. “Morag is grateful, truly.”
His dark-haired beauty held on to her anger for a brief moment longer, then offered Ana a rueful smile. “He has the right of it,” she said. “I am indeed most grateful. A wee bit disconcerted, but assuredly delighted with the results. I will weave again, thanks to you.”
Ana gave Morag’s shoulder a light squeeze. “I am pleased I could help.”
As the healer walked away, Wulf took Morag’s soft hands in his and lifted them to his lips, one at a time.
“Lass, you didn’t wait for me.”
Her gaze swung toward him, and her eyes softened. “I saw you take a walk with Jamie.”
He nodded.
“Is all well, then?”
“Between him and me? Aye. Between you and me? Perhaps not.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”
He tugged her toward the stairs. “Come with me.”
She came, albeit a tad reluctantly. Up the stairs they climbed to the very top floor and then down the corridor to the door at the end. Wulf pushed open the door and escorted Morag inside. It was a small room, little bigger than the bed that stood within its four stone walls. But it had its own hearth, a tiny table, and two chairs. Sweet-smelling rushes were strewn upon the floor, and a tray of bread and cheese was warming by the fire.
“Whose room is this?” she asked.
“Ours,” he replied.
She blanched. “You mean the room you once shared with your wife?”
“Nay. This is a different room. One granted to you and me alone.”
She shook her head. “Nay.”
“Aye,” he insisted. “The laird has granted you leave to stay.”
“Truly?”
“I know you fear that the villagers will not accept you, but in time they will. Four years have passed since you were banished. There are many who barely remember why you were cast out. Those who still do will soon replace the tales of old with new stories of how you freed me from Edinburgh dungeon.” He pulled her close and kissed her gently. “Even Jamie has no issues with your presence. He knows that my feelings for you do not replace the feelings I had for his mother.”
She looked at him. “But you still grieve.”
“Aye,” he admitted. “And I will for some time. But that does not mean I do not love you.”
“Are you certain?”
He took her hand and splayed it on his chest, right over his heart. “As certain as the heart that beats within my chest. I loved Elen. She was a fine woman and a devoted mother, and I shall always hold her memory dear. But you and I have found each other in the darkness time and time again, lass. I’m not a great believer in destiny, but I do believe we were meant to build a life together now.”
Morag’s eyes glistened. “Can we truly weather the comments of viper-tongued gossips?”
“Aye, we can. So long as we stand together.”
He bent and scooped her off her feet. Ducking under the bed hangings, he laid her atop the plump feather mattress. Her lovely raven locks spread out over the pillows, and her multihued brat acted as a foil for her pale, freckled beauty. “This was the way I imagined I would take you,” he said gruffly. “With the honor and attention deserving of a wife. Will you wed me, Morag Cameron?”
She pulled him down on the bed beside her. “Only if you promise to occasionally resurrect a strong, simple warrior by the name of Magnus.”
“I am and always will be that warrior,” he vowed. “The warrior whom you rescued from near death, the warrior who loves to watch you weave, the warrior who is blessed to love the bravest woman in all of Scotland.”
She smiled.
“Now kiss this warrior,” he demanded.
And she did. Slowly, deeply, and passionately.
* * *
Morag set aside her fears about the future, and kissed Wulf with all the love she’d held for him since the beginning of time. It would not be easy enduring the gossip. But building a bothy in the woods and carving a life from the wilderness hadn’t been easy either. Yet, with Wulf’s help, she had survived that challenge and grown stronger from it.
With his help, she would survive this, too.
She opened her mouth to the insistent press of his, and she drank of his passion. Although each and every intimate moment they’d shared had been a delight, this kiss was sweeter than any before—because she no longer felt like he’d be snatched away from her. The past had ceased to haunt them. Time was no longer their enemy. The future lay whole and bright before them, and she intended to make the most of it.
His hand found her breast, his thumb grazing over her already taut nipple.
A moan escaped Morag’s lips.
Dear Lord. He knew just how to touch her, just how to bring her alive. In an instant she was ready for him, hot and wet and welcoming. A familiar tension—the most exquisite ache she’d ever known—was building in her belly, and she desperately wanted to feel him inside her. To hold him as close as a woman could hold the man she loved.
“Show me the stars,” she whispered.
“Every night for eternity,” he promised.
And then he kissed her. Slowly, deeply, and passionately.
Epilogue
Wulf knocked on the iron-hinged door and waited for a response.
When the door swung open, he was greeted by the laird, who was attired in a simple linen lèine belted at his waist. “Did you bring it?”
“Aye,” Wulf said, handing Aiden the swath of brightly colored cloth.
His cousin stepped back into his chamber and shook out the folded cl
oth. He studied the pattern with a thoughtful expression. “She designed this just for me?”
“Aye.” It had taken Morag weeks to design and weave the cloth. Determined to craft something unique and special for the laird, she’d spent countless hours at the loom, sometimes discarding a whole day’s work as she sought perfection. The finished cloth was a vibrant mix of blue, green, white, and red, which Morag assured him were meant to capture the beauty of Dunstoras: blue for the waters of the loch, green for the forest, red for the mountains at sunset, and white for the winter snows that graced the glen in January.
Wulf thought her view of Dunstoras was perfect.
It was a fine piece of weaving, and the laird seemed pleased.
“Will you wear it?” he asked.
Aiden grinned. “I will indeed.”
“Best you hurry, then,” Wulf urged him. “Else you’ll miss the entire celebration.”
Aiden’s grin fell away. “She would not dare to begin without me.”
“Your wife is a woman unto herself,” Wulf said. “She bade me remind you that Dunstoras still officially belongs to her, and that if you disappoint her by being late, she will do what she must.”
Aiden swept the brightly hued cloth over his shoulder and pinned it at his throat with a heavy silver brooch. “Vixen,” he muttered.
They descended the stairs together, passed through the empty great hall, and exited into the close. Summer was but a whisper away, and the vines that clung to the tower were flush with new green leaves. The sun shone in a rare all-blue sky, its warmth giving many a waiting villager reason to fan themselves as they waited silently within the castle walls.
Wulf glanced about, found the freckled face of Morag, and tossed her a reassuring smile. She’d feared the laird would not like her gift. An unfounded concern, but even after a month of living in the keep, she was still a little nervous about her acceptance.
With a quick point of his finger, Wulf drew Aiden’s attention to the woman standing before the door of the kirk. Isabail’s white-blond hair was braided down her back and entwined with gold thread—the same gold thread that decorated the neckline and hem of her midnight-blue gown.