To Kiss A Kilted Warrior

When a Laird Takes a Lady

“The magnetic attraction between Aiden and Isabail is intense and sensual, culminating in sizzling love scenes. Keats’s ability to re-create medieval Scotland adds authenticity to this novel, which is rich with multidimensional characters and an engaging story.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Keats serves up a powerful story. . . . She not only weaves the era’s history, intrigue, and power plays into her plot, but also creates a wonderful, passionate romance.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A story that reels the reader in . . . and complex, intriguing characters who touch the heart.”

—The Romance Dish

Taming a Wild Scot

“Get ready for a rich, exciting new voice in Scottish historical romance! Rowan Keats captures all the passion and heart of the Highlands as she expertly weaves a wonderful tale of passion, intrigue, and love that you won’t want to put down. I’m already looking forward to the next book in what is sure to be a must-read series.”

—Monica McCarty,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Hunter

“Keats’s debut sets the stage for a rising star of medieval romance. She seamlessly weaves an unusual romance with the intrigues and power plays associated with the era, greatly enhancing the story’s emotional power.”

—
Romantic Times

“Lyrical writing . . . and a strong cast of characters will keep the reader engaged.”

—
Publishers Weekly

The Claimed by the Highlander Series

Taming a Wild Scot

When a Laird Takes a
Lady

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Rowan Keats, 2014

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

ISBN 978-0-698-16582-3

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Glen Storas
The Red Mountains, Scotland
March 1286

A
s the last rays of the setting sun gave way to purple dusk, Morag Cameron stared up at the roof of her cottage, where Magnus was replacing a section of straw thatching that had slipped away during the winter storms. “Surely you can’t see much in the gloaming. Are you not coming in to sup?”

“Aye,” he said, as he combed the bundles of straw with a stick driven with iron nails, ensuring the thatch was even and clear of debris. “I’ll be but a few moments longer. Would you fetch me the hazel spars?”

She gathered up the thin strips of hazel wood he’d split earlier and climbed the ladder.

He took them from her with a quick smile. “Thank you, lass.”

Leaning on the rungs of the ladder, Morag watched him work. Despite the coolness of the early March evening, he had shed his lèine from his upper body. His arms and chest were completely bare, and she was treated to a display of rippling muscles as he deftly twisted each of the hazel spars into thatch pins. He hammered the pins deep into the straw, securing the thatch, and then looked at her.

“Shall we eat?”

She nodded and descended.

He followed, hopping the last three rungs to the ground. The ropy contours of his back glistened with sweat, and she admired him when he stopped at the water barrel to wash straw dust from his hands and face. As water sluiced over his handsome face and trickled down the hard planes of his chest, Morag swallowed tightly. These were the hardest moments. The ones that wrung her gut with a mixture of longing and guilt. She and Magnus lived like a married couple—mending the bothy, living off the land, sharing every chore—but they were not wed. Magnus was not hers.

Indeed, he was not Magnus at all. He was Wulf
MacCurran, a renowned warrior and cousin to the laird. Rather than eating bawd bree with her, he should be supping at Dunstoras Castle with his kin, dining on venison, haggis, and fine wine.

Had he not lost his memories in a fierce battle last November, he surely would be.

Magnus shook off the excess water and slipped his arms back into his lèine. The loose linen tunic properly covered his flesh, belted at the waist, but did nothing to disguise the magnificence of his form. There was no hiding his broad shoulders and brawny chest, and the cream-colored cloth tunic ended at his knees, so his powerful legs remained exposed to her gaze.

He opened the bothy door and ushered Morag ahead of him.

The bothy was small—a single room just big enough to hold a wood-framed bed, a central cooking fire, Morag’s upright loom, and a small table for preparing food—but it was tall enough to allow Magnus to walk about without grazing the roof, and it was a welcome warmth during cold winter nights.

She ladled stew into two wooden bowls, and they sat side by side on the edge of the bed as they ate.

Frowning, Magnus peered into his bowl. “You’ve made a fine meal, as always, but there’s little here to sustain a man. I’ll go hunting tomorrow. My
work on the roof can wait until we add more meat to the stew.”

Morag eyed the bucket in the middle of the room. “So long as the hole is repaired before the next heavy rain, I’ll be content.”

He shifted on the bed, his heavy leg pressing briefly against hers, and Morag’s pulse leapt. A vision of him bearing her to the mattress, his lips locked on hers, sprang into her thoughts. She quickly buried the image, but not before her cheeks bloomed with heat.

It was an impossible vision. Not once in the four months he had lived with her had Magnus done more than kiss her. And even that kiss had happened only once. Five weeks ago, before he set out on a mission to aid a strange woman who’d knocked upon their door, he’d swooped in, given Morag the kiss of a lifetime, and then walked out.

Morag had spent the next few days pondering the deeper meaning of that kiss, wondering where it might lead. But when Magnus returned, everything had changed. He’d been withdrawn and thoughtful, consumed by what he had discovered on his journey. He’d found his kin while he was away, and learned the heartrending truth about the night he’d nearly died—that his wife and son had been slain by a murderer. One mere kiss meant nothing in the face of all that.

Morag was ashamed that she continued to dwell upon it.

But it had been a truly memorable kiss. Hot and passionate and full of sweet promise.

Magnus took the bowl and spoon from Morag’s hands and stood. He washed the bowls in a mix of sand and water, then rinsed them and put them away. “I know it’s your intent to work on your weaving at first light. Shall we retire for the night?”

Morag avoided his gaze. Better that he never know the direction of her thoughts . . . which at the moment had naught to do with weaving. “Aye.”

He banked the fire and blew out the candle. Darkness settled over the room, relieved only by the golden glow of smoldering coals in the fire pit. She untied her boots, removed her overdress, and slipped under the blankets. Magnus waited until she was lying with her back to him; then she heard him remove his lèine and join her on the bed. Not touching. But near enough to sense each other’s warmth.

This was how all their evenings ended, sharing the dark together in silence. Morag wanted more, and under different circumstances she would have asked for it . . . but her respect for him held her back. He was the most honorable man she had ever known. If he needed time, then she would give it to him. And if he never showed an interest in
another kiss, she would accept his decision. Sadly, but willingly.

Morag closed her eyes.

She owed that much to the man who’d once shown her more kindness than a shunned woman had the right to ask for. . . .

Dunstoras Castle
July 1282

“Morag Cameron,” declared Laird Duncan, staring down at her from his high-backed chair on the dais, “you are hereby banished from the village of Dunstoras, never to return, save to trade your goods and buy supplies on faire days. You may gather whatever belongings you can carry on your back, but by evenfall you must be gone from these walls. Do you understand?”

Morag glanced across the crowded great hall at Peadar, still hoping he would break his silence and speak for her. The young blacksmith knew the truth—that Tomas had wooed her with tireless devotion, promising her the sun and the moon and eventually, a lifetime of happiness at her side. She’d given Tomas her maidenhead the night he’d whispered that vow in her ear, believing him to be a man of his word. How wrong she’d been. The next morning, Tomas had put her aside with callous disdain, denying he’d ever made such a vow. But Peadar had heard his brother’s promise to wed her—he had the power to put an end to this mad
proceeding, if only he would tell the laird what he knew. But he did nothing. He stared at his hands, refusing to look up.

His silence was an unexpected knife in her gut.

She’d thought him a very different man.

In the months following Tomas’s betrayal, Peadar had proven himself an able friend, offering a sympathetic ear to her woes and a shoulder to cry on. They had become lovers only recently—after her heart had mended and the future once again held promise. He was kind to her, and respectful, and she had begun to believe that a marriage could be built on such a foundation. Until last Sabbath. That was when Tomas had discovered their alliance and accused her of seducing Peadar—as she had once seduced him. All lies, of course. But Peadar had not refuted his brother’s words.

Tears sprang to her eyes. What a fool she’d been.

She was no wiser than her mother, offering her heart to a faithless man. No one would speak for her. Her father was gone, her mother dead. She was a Cameron among MacCurrans, and without Peadar’s support, Tomas’s hateful words were taken as truth, even though they were merely jealous ranting.

She was alone.

Morag blinked rapidly to clear her eyes and faced the laird. She’d pled her case to him and Brother Francis as passionately as she could . . . to no avail. The testimony of Tomas and his friends had been too convincing. To them she was a fallen woman, a woman who incited
brothers to lust over her and then fight over her. But she was not that woman.

She stood straight. “I understand.”

“Then begone.”

She turned toward the accusing faces of the villagers—faces she’d known all her life. There was not a kind eye to be found in the room. Struggling to hold her head up, she crossed the wooden floorboards to the door. The crowd parted to let her pass.

How would she survive outside the castle walls? It was summer now, thank God. The nights were warm and there would be berries to pluck. But come winter she would suffer badly.

When she reached the bothy she had once shared with her mother, Morag packed a bag with as many of her personal belongings as she could—clay pots, wooden bowls, steel spoons, and clothing—and stuffed another bag full of woolen spools. She slung one bag over each shoulder and then tried to pick up her loom. But it was heavier than she thought. And awkward.

Morag dragged the loom out of the bothy and down the lane, leaving a trail of twin grooves in the dirt. She headed toward the small wooden bridge that spanned the burn. Once she crossed, she would be out of the village. Unfortunately, it would not be an easy goal to reach—some thirty or forty villagers had lined up on either side of the lane, each with at least one rotted vegetable in hand. They meant to see her off with a vengeance.

Had she been willing to relinquish her loom, she could have made a dash for safety.

But weaving was all she knew. She had no skills to work the land; nor did she know how to make ale or uisge beatha. To have any hope of survival, she needed this loom. Morag stiffened her shoulders, bowed her head, and tightened her hold on the wooden frame. She would not leave it behind. No matter how difficult the trial.

As soon as she came within range, the villagers began calling her names and pelting her with their spoiled vegetables. Neeps and parsnips and onions, mostly. A few were soft, leaving juicy remains clinging to her clothing and face and hair, but most were hard at the core and delivered bruising blows. Not as brutal as a stoning, to be sure, but painful nonetheless.

“Jezebel!”

“Whore!”

A neep hit her in the face, and Morag stumbled.

Her fingers slipped, and she lost hold of the loom, the frame slamming to the ground. Fearful that a vindictive soul would stomp on the wood and break it, she scrambled to regain hold of it. Her pause allowed a volley of projectiles to hit her from every side, and Morag had to bite her lip to stop from crying out. Her legs wobbled, and her resolve took a beating. She was about to drop to her knees in the dirt when she felt a sturdy hand grab her elbow. Suddenly there were no more vegetables, and the crowd’s jeers fell silent.

Morag looked up at her savior.

It was Wulf MacCurran, the laird’s most formidable warrior. Taller than all those around him by a full head, the laird’s nephew commanded respect by his very size. He’d clearly been out hunting—two fat capercaillies hung from his belt, and he carried a long ash bow in his free hand. He likely didn’t know she’d been banished.

“You ought not to aid me,” she said quietly to her protector.

“She’s been cast out,” said Tomas, pushing through the crowd to the front.

“Aye,” Wulf said. “That I can see. But the lass will face difficulty enough on her own. There’s no need to punish her further. Get along home, now, the lot of you.”

The big warrior did not often involve himself in village disputes—he spent most of his time training in the lists and providing for his young wife and bairns—so his words this day carried a great deal of weight. With disgruntled expressions but nary a complaint, the crowd dissipated. Even Tomas dared not contest Wulf’s judgment. In no time, Morag stood alone with Wulf in the lane.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve eased my lot considerably.”

He slung the bow over his shoulder, then took one of her bags and the loom from her hands. “There’s a clearing in the forest a league from here that would make a fine spot for a bothy. If you work hard, you can build it
before the heavy frosts come.” He led the way across the bridge.

Morag stared after him in stunned disbelief. Build a bothy? By herself?

An image of a wee bothy in the woods lept into her mind, and hope sweetened the air in her chest. Why not? She scrambled to follow the big warrior. She was able enough. And the supplies necessary lay freely around her. All she needed was a small room with a fire pit—she could expand it over time, if that was her desire.

Wulf shortened his strides to allow Morag to catch up.

“Why are you aiding me?” she asked warily. There had to be a reason.

He shrugged. “A man does not stand to watch a woman suffer.”

“Even a woman branded a harlot?”

He halted and looked down at her. His eyes were a brilliant shade of blue that stood out against his sun-darkened skin. “You can live your life as others see you, lass, or you can live your life as you see yourself. Are you a harlot?”

She shook her head. “I am a weaver.”

“Then be a weaver,” he said, marching forward through the bracken.

Morag followed him. “That is certainly my intent. But who will buy cloth woven by a harlot?”

“’Twill not be easy to make your way,” he
acknowledged. “You may need to trade farther afield. But if you craft the finest cloth in the glen, even those who vilify you will eventually come ’round.”

“I already craft the finest cloth in the glen,” Morag said matter-of-factly.

He smiled as he helped her over a moss-covered fallen log. “Then make your cloth impossible to resist.”

Morag chewed her bottom lip. When her father—also a weaver—had walked out, never to return, he’d left behind almost everything he possessed. Including his notes on creating dyes. Her mother had kept them, convinced they would eventually draw her husband back to her. An unrequited longing. The notes lay in a bundle at the bottom of Morag’s bag, still tied with a yellow ribbon. But they need not remain that way. Her father’s cloth had been renowned throughout the Red Mountains, the colors unparalleled. If her cloth came close to matching his . . . ?