To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (14 page)

She laid a curled hand on his shoulder, rubbing her knuckles over his flesh. “Wulf. ’Tis I, Morag. Wake thee up.” She uttered the words in a low voice, not expecting a response.

So she gasped when he suddenly opened his eyes.

Then she beamed and threw herself atop his chest. “Och, Wulf, I cannot believe it! I feared you might never awaken.”

He stiffened beneath her.

Morag leapt back, worried that some injury yet plagued him. But the expression on his face was not a wince of pain. It was horror. He was staring at her like she’d crawled out of a dung heap.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “No.”

She put a hand on his forearm. “What is it?”

He shook off her hand and sat up. “No, it cannot be true. It cannot be real.”

“What cannot be real?” asked Morag. But in her heart she knew. His memories had not come back slowly, a bit at a time, as she’d expected. They’d come in a rush, all at once.

“You,” he shouted, leaping to his feet. He stumbled and stared at his legs—both injured—with a look of utter betrayal. “This. Everything.”

Morag got to her feet, trying not to feel as though her heart were breaking. But it was.

He lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes dark and tormented. “Because if this is real, then . . .” He put both hands to his face, rubbing and scrubbing as if he could erase whatever vision was in his thoughts. “No.”

But even in the midst of her heartbreak, she ached for him. Because she knew the course of his thoughts. Elen and Hugh and that terrible night in November.

He went completely still. “No.”

Then he sank to his knees in the hay.

For the first time since she’d met him, she saw Wulf’s shoulders curl in absolute defeat. His head hung low, a reflection of hopelessness that was the very opposite of the man she knew.

“Dear God,” he moaned. “Elen. Hugh. It was all real.”

But his despair was short-lived. An instant later his hands fisted, and he threw back his head. His face was still dark, but now it was rage that held court—a terrifying, bitter rage that made Morag take a step back.

He surged to his feet, raised his fists in the air, and howled like his namesake.

*   *   *

Most of the shop had been consumed by the fire. The entire front of the building, including the room that had been occupied by MacCurran and his woman, was gone. All that remained was blackened rubble.

Dunkeld eyed the destruction with satisfaction. He halted a passerby and pointed to the ruined building. “A tragedy, that. Was anyone injured?”

The sailor frowned. “I heard it said that a man and his wife perished within. But we’ve only just docked, so ye might be wise to query another.”

Dunkeld nodded.

A man and his wife. That certainly sounded promising. Before they set sail for England his brother-in-law’s men had assured him that
MacCurran had been slain—but he’d been disappointed by the service of others too often to take them at their word. He circled around to the back of the shop. The damage was not as severe here. A portion of the inner structure remained intact, and it was possible to enter. Rubble had been cast aside, and he could see the two tidier spots where the bodies had lain: one at the base of what was once a staircase, and one closer to the side door. All of it was consistent with the story his henchmen had relayed, and yet, Dunkeld wondered.

Two bodies would not account for the shopkeep.

Three bodies would have made him happier.

To his mind, that meant someone had escaped. He kicked aside several twisted hazel sticks that had once been spars on the roof thatch. There, covered by a thin layer of soot, was a wide drag mark, leading toward the door. Someone, or something, had been dragged out of the shop.

Dunkeld frowned.

Glancing over his shoulder, he spied the wynd behind the shop. Following the feeling in his gut, he left the burned shell of the building and trudged up the lane. The buildings on either side were warehouses, most with locked doors and no windows. Up ahead lay a few homes and a barn. Behind the barn, he could see the thin wisp of a cook fire rising up into the air.

It might be nothing.

Or it might be everything.

Dunkeld trekked up the lane and made his way quietly around to the back of the barn. When he peered around the corner he could see only the fire and a clay pot seated in the glowing coals. So he waited.

And he was rewarded.

A few moments later, a woman exited the barn by pushing aside a loose plank and bent to tend to the meal. A brat was draped over her head and shoulders, and he was unable to make out her features, but having followed her from Edinburgh wearing a similar disguise, he recognized the slim shoulders and curved rump.

It was MacCurran’s woman.

Seizing the moment, Dunkeld drew his dirk and dived around the corner. But he was an instant too late. The woman picked up the pot and ducked back inside the barn. The plank swung back into place, leaving Dunkeld staring at a pine knot. He leaned in, trying to hear through the wooden barrier but caught only vague murmurs from within. Snatching the woman outside the barn was one thing. Rushing headlong into a room he couldn’t see was quite another. Who knew what lay inside? MacCurran might have called upon aid from his brethren.

He lowered his dirk.

Perhaps it was time to make use of the constable.

*   *   *

“Eat some soup.”

Wulf turned away from the bowl Morag offered. His stomach was too tight to eat, his head too full of the memories that were suddenly his again. Memories that were so sharp they left a gaping hole in his heart. The miserable events of the night kept playing over and over in his head.

There had been music and wine and food to celebrate the visit of the king’s courier, Henry de Coleville. Sixteen courses, the third of which had been Elen’s favorite—eel soup. Wee Hugh had been one of the first to fall ill. Wulf had left the high table to see to him when Elen, too, fell ill. The poison had been virulent, taking hold quickly, and it was only minutes later that he was clasping his wee bonny boy to his chest, blue lipped and lifeless. The memories were fresh, like those moments had happened yesterday, even though he could also remember all the events of the past four months.

A part of him wanted simply to grieve. To let the bitter weight of his memories press him into the earth. Elen had been a good wife and a fine mother. The moment she realized the danger lay in the eel soup, she knocked the spoon from Jamie’s hand and sent his bowl flying. She hadn’t
deserved to die, especially in such a cruel way. Hugh passed so quickly, the wee lad barely knew he was ill, but Elen had known she was dying, and she had reached for him, weeping.

Wulf swallowed tightly.

“I know who the man in black is,” he said, his voice rough. “I need a sword and a dirk.”

“I saved your sword from the fire,” Morag told him.

“Where is it?”

She remained silent, and he spun around to glare at her. “Damn you, Morag. Are you with me or against me?”

Morag stood taller. “I am with you, as I have always been. But I won’t applaud your desire to rush into battle without adequate preparation. That’s what nearly got you killed down by the loch.”

“My wife and son need avenging,” he roared. “Would you have me turn my back on justice?”

“Nay,” she said softly.

“You have no idea how hard it is for me to stand here, knowing what I know. Knowing that I’ve had the chance to claim justice and failed to take it.”

She stared back at him, frowning. “Who is—”

“In the name of the king,” came a loud male voice from outside. “Lay down your weapons and surrender!”

Wulf stiffened.

“The barn is surrounded. Come out peacefully and you will survive another day!”

No. He fisted his hands. It couldn’t end this way. Not when he finally had his memories. Not when he finally knew who the man in black was.

Morag grabbed his hand and tugged.

Wordlessly, she pointed to a stack of grain sacks on the opposite wall, and pulled him toward them. Behind the sack, hidden beneath a woven mat of hay, was a trapdoor. He tugged on the iron ring, lifted the door, and stared into the hole. On the ground below lay his sword and the bulk of their possessions. Beyond that, a dark tunnel.

A smuggler’s egress, likely leading down to the wharves.

Without a torch, it would be a difficult journey, but surely better than what lay in store for them outside the barn.

Wulf jumped into the hole, then offered his hand to Morag. He closed the trapdoor behind them, pulling the rope that replaced the hay mat as he did so. Then he gathered up their belongings and, with her hand firmly in his grip, led the way down the dark, dank tunnel toward the firth.

*   *   *

In the dark, with Wulf’s warm hand wrapped gently around her burned palm, Morag could almost forget the past hours. How many times had he held her like this with fondness in his heart?

But that man was gone. He was no longer her gentle warrior, content to chop her wood and thatch her bothy. She’d seen the last of that quiet man who polished his sword by the fire as she worked on her loom. He no longer wanted her soup, or her advice.

He was once again the Wulf MacCurran who’d ridden after the man who had poisoned his family and fought like a man possessed when ambushed by that man’s disciples. He was once again the grieving husband of Elen and father of Hugh.

And in some ways, she was pleased for him.

She had known this day would come, had steeled her heart against it. But her preparations had not been enough.

The look on his face as he’d asked her,
Are you for me or against me?
, had nearly ripped her heart out. She’d always stood for him. From the moment she first spied him at Dunstoras, she’d held nothing but admiration for the handsome young warrior. And the day she’d been shunned, when he had called a halt to the abuse of the villagers and then carried her loom into the woods, would forever be etched in her memories. She had loved him for such a long time.

She could forgive Wulf anything.

Even this.

But letting him go was going to hurt far more than she’d imagined. She could already feel the ache in her heart, and he was not gone yet.

She sucked in a shaky breath.

But before that, she had to stop him from repeating the mistake he’d made down by the loch. Yes, he was grieving. Yes, his family deserved justice. But justice would not be served if he confronted the man alone.

They reached the end of the tunnel, and Wulf shoved open the door. It opened on a rocky shore, just below the docks. As it was noon, the tide was out, and they were able to walk up the beach to the path leading into the town.

When they were once again on even ground, Wulf turned to her. He lifted her hand and stared at her curled fingers. “You paid an unbearable price to pull me from the fire, and my regrets are legion.”

“I merely did what I had to do.”

He shook his head. “You did far more. I owe you everything, lass. My health, my freedom, and my very life. Were it not for you, I would not be standing here on the brink of avenging my kin. You’ve done so much for me,” he said, kissing the tip of each finger. “I cannot ask more. Pay Bran to accompany you back to Dunstoras. From here I must go alone.”

“No,” she argued. “Alone is the choice that lost you four months of your life.”

He gave her a half smile. “Is that how you see it?”

“Do not repeat the error of that night. Come
back to Dunstoras with me. Tell the laird what you know. Together you can defeat this man, no matter how powerful he is.”

His gaze met hers. “The man in black is William Dunkeld, the king’s brother.”

She had guessed as much from Wulf’s earlier comment about failed opportunity. She nodded. “Not an easy man to accuse.”

“Especially if you are an outlaw and an escapee from Edinburgh dungeon,” he agreed. His face darkened. “But I must see justice done.”

“How? He commands an entire garrison of the king’s guards, and you are but one man. And any hope of proving his duplicity is gone. I was unable to save the Book of Arms.”

Wulf’s gaze turned to the burned shell of the fishmonger’s shop. Then, without a word, he marched in that direction.

She grabbed his hand, trying to halt him, but failing. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, just continued to walk. When he reached the ruins, he began digging through the rubble, unconcerned that several people had taken note of his actions.

“Are you mad?” she asked. “Dunkeld has set the constable on us. We should not be here.”

He tossed aside a roof beam and several half-burned planks of flooring. Working swiftly, he soon
uncovered the remains of the fallen staircase. Morag pointed to the spot where she’d made the difficult decision to release the book. A blackened heap was all that remained of the fishmonger’s mattress, but Morag could see several sticks of wood that had once been a table.

Wulf kicked aside a sheaf of burned thatch and found what was left of the book—the heavy leather binding had not been completely destroyed, but the bubbled black sheets between turned to ash the instant his fingers touched them.

Their last hope of connecting William Dunkeld to the murders was gone. All they had now were Wulf’s memories—which would never gain credence while Aiden MacCurran stood accused of the crimes.

Having found what he sought, he turned to leave, but his boot caught a corner of the burned table and it tipped.

Wulf froze, and Morag wondered what he’d seen.

A moment later, she knew. He bent and pulled something from beneath the table. A carved horse. She had saved the box from the fire, but one of the toys must have fallen loose. His hand trembled, just barely, and then he shoved the carved figure into the front of his lèine.

His face was calm—suspiciously so. There was
no sign that he’d been disturbed, but she knew the toy had rocked him. He left the shop and strode into the street without a word.

Morag followed him, but there was a distance between them she couldn’t bridge. He looked at her, but didn’t really see her—his memories had pulled him to another place and time.