To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (17 page)

They peered over the ridge, hoping to spot the king, but there was only darkness. The mist and rain made it impossible to see more than a dozen feet down, and the bottom was much farther than that.

“Stay here,” Wulf said, brushing a kiss over her knuckles.

He handed her his sword, then leapt over the side and slid a way down the embankment. He reached a boulder that hung over a steep drop, and there he paused. “Sire! Can you hear me?”

He listened intently, but there was no answer. Just the wind and the rain and the low rumble of thunder over the sea. Unable to descend farther without losing his footing, Wulf climbed back up the embankment.

At Morag’s raised brow, he shook his head.

“How will we explain what has transpired?” she asked. “Dunkeld was right. If we bring our tale to the castle, no one will believe us innocent. They will accuse us of murdering the king.”

He nodded. “We will take Dunkeld’s body back to Dunstoras and let the king’s guard retrieve His Grace. If he is alive, they will find him in the morn, after the storm has passed. If he is dead—”

“But that’s not right,” she cried. “They might simply believe he lost his way.”

He frowned. “It eats at my gut that Dunkeld will never be seen as the murderous traitor he was, but I see no way to cast blame upon him. He was the king’s beloved brother. We are the only ones who know the truth.”

“Perhaps he carried something in his possession,” she said, turning to look at his horse. “Some document that outlines his plans.”

“He’d have to be a fool to pen such a document,” Wulf said dryly. “And Dunkeld was anything but a fool.”

“We cannot give up so easily.” She carefully approached Dunkeld’s injured mount, using soothing words and slow movements. It was still trembling badly, but it allowed her near. “Are you not worried about the words he uttered with his last breath?”

“Even Dunkeld cannot reach beyond the grave,” Wulf said.

“But he implied his evil deeds were already afoot.”

That he had. And dying men had no reason to lie.

She scooped up the reins and gently stroked the horse’s muzzle. “There now, laddie. The worst is done. Let me have a look at that wound.”

Wulf crossed to the horse, and while Morag cleaned the sword graze on its shoulder with the sodden corner of her brat, he went through
Dunkeld’s bag. As he expected, there were no incriminating documents tucked inside. But he found something else—the gold-and-ruby necklace that had been stolen the night Elen and Hugh were slain. Queen Yolande’s necklace. His gut churned as he stared into the velvet bag. If it was possible to hate an object, then he hated this necklace. It lay at the root of all his troubles.

He was tempted to throw it over the cliff.

But it was extremely valuable. The king had commissioned it as a gift to his bride on their wedding day, and at its center lay a large heart-shaped ruby. A rare gem that might well be the king’s last gift to his beloved queen.

Morag leaned over his arm, peering into the velvet bag. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” he agreed. Then he frowned. Beautiful.

What had Dunkeld’s last words been?
She’ll be so beautiful in death.
Had he been imagining the queen wearing this necklace as she died? It surely could not be a coincidence that he had it in his possession. But what harm could a necklace do?

Wulf shook the bag, listening to the jingle of fine gold links.

The necklace had been part of Dunkeld’s plan from the beginning. All the death and destruction he had wrought could be traced back to the night in November when it was stolen. But what had he
hoped to gain? Had his intent been to tamper with it in some way?

If so, how?

The pale blue face of his young son rose in Wulf’s thoughts. The necklace was not the only common thread in Dunkeld’s mad plan. Was it possible to coat a necklace with poison? If so, it would be a terribly effective weapon. The queen would drape the gem around her neck thinking it a glorious gift, only to sicken and die—her babe along with her.

Alexander’s line would die with that babe, just as Dunkeld predicted.

He lifted the velvet bag over his head and prepared to throw it.

“Wait,” Morag said, grabbing his arm.

“He poisoned it,” Wulf said hoarsely, the image of wee Hugh vivid in his mind.

“Aye,” she agreed. “He likely did. But if he did, that necklace is your way back into the good graces of the crown. Let them find it and the black wolf cloak amid his possessions. They will hearken back to Laird MacCurran’s tale of a man in black and give new weight to his testimony. Tomorrow we will surrender ourselves to the castle with our tale of Dunkeld’s treachery and beg them to test the necklace.”

Wulf lowered his arm. “A fine plan, if the necklace is truly poisoned.”

“There’s only one way to know that,” she said slowly, shaking her head.

“I must touch it,” he said, realization a heaviness in his chest.

“Nay!”

Wulf brushed a raindrop from Morag’s chin. “We need to know the truth.”

Morag grabbed his hand. “This is madness. If it’s truly poisoned, it could kill you!”

“I’ll hold the necklace for the briefest of moments.” He peered into her green eyes, begging her to understand. “There’s no other way to be certain, lass. And we need to be certain. Our fate—and the fate of our clan—depends on proving Dunkeld duplicitous.”

Morag shook her head. “Don’t ask me to agree. I can’t.”

Her disapproval was evident, and Wulf knew he would not sway her. But he also knew that if they hoped to clear the MacCurran name and live a life without the constant fear of arrest, he had no choice. Tipping the bag, Wulf emptied it into his palm, then immediately poured it back into the bag.

“Why did you do that?” Morag said, aghast. “Are you mad?”

He tucked the velvet bag into Dunkeld’s pouch and quickly washed his hands in the rain. “If I sicken, we will know it was poisoned.”

“And if you die?”

He pressed a hard kiss upon her lips. “Tell me that you love me, and I’ll die a happy man.”

“I love you, Wulf MacCurran, but that was a witless thing to do.” Her tone was angry, but Wulf could see that she was genuinely frightened. As was he. He gathered her against his chest and planted a gentle kiss atop her wet head.

“Had there been any other way,” he said, “I’d not have touched the wicked thing. Leaving you is not my desire.”

A mild wave of nausea crested over him, and he released her, stepping away. Even in the pouring rain, he was suddenly stiflingly hot, his mouth dry. A second wave hit him, this one harder, and he bent over, retching onto the turf. Dear Lord, it had been only a moment since he touched the necklace. His gaze met Morag’s.

“I think we have our answer,” he whispered.

Then he dropped to his knees, overwhelmed by weariness. And an instant later, he collapsed facedown in the mud.

*   *   *

Morag rolled Wulf over on his back, shocked by the swift advance of the poison. His skin was already burning hot, his cheeks flushed. Desperate to protect him from the rain, she glanced around. The only trees in view were a league in the distance—
too far to drag him. All she had were the three horses and their cloaks.

They would have to do.

She walked each horse to one side of Wulf’s prostrate form, then draped the cloaks over the saddles, tying the corners with the reins. It was a flawed arrangement—water leaked in almost everywhere—but it shunted the bulk of the downpour away from Wulf. She huddled in the tiny lean-to and held Wulf to her chest. During the night he went from hot and dry to shivering and restless and back again. At one point he was so still and pale that she put her ear to his mouth, checking for breath. Fortunately, he was indeed still breathing.

Midway through the night, the storm broke.

The wind gentled and the rain eased to a light drizzle. With the skies calmed, Morag finally allowed her eyes to close. But not for long. The end of the storm would bring soldiers from the castle searching for the king, and she and Wulf had to be gone by the time they arrived.

When she awoke from her doze, Morag had the sense that something had changed. But the night was still dark and the horses still stood quietly beside her. It was only when she touched Wulf’s cheek that she realized he was cool to the touch and breathing the long, deep breaths of an effortless sleep.

She shook him gently. “Wulf?”

He opened his eyes, and Morag nearly wept with relief.

“How do you fare?” she asked.

“I live,” he said, struggling to sit up. “So I’d say I fare well. We should be off. If we are spotted by the king’s guard, our efforts will be for naught.”

“Are you certain you are well enough to travel?”

He pushed to his feet. “Aye. My belly heaves and my legs tremble like an old man’s, but I can sit a horse easily enough.”

She unfastened their cloaks from the saddles, and attempted to mount her horse. The blasted creature kept shuffling, and she couldn’t get a leg up. Wulf clasped her about the waist and lifted her into the saddle.

“When we return to Dunstoras, I shall teach you to ride,” he said.

Morag stared at him, a warm feeling in her belly. They had not spoken of their return, not since Wulf had regained his memories. He would return to his old life; she knew that much. But might he visit her from time to time? Might he actually teach her to ride?

“I should enjoy that,” she said happily.

He hefted Dunkeld’s body over his horse’s shoulders and then vaulted smoothly into his
saddle, displaying little of the trembles of which he complained. Pointing to the dark outline of trees to the west, he said, “We’ll head back the way you came and pray for a little more rain to dull our trail.”

He set off, and Morag
followed.

W
ulf’s heart was heavy.

From the distant trees, he and Morag watched the guards retrieve the king’s body from the beach below the ridge and head toward the castle. It was apparent from the solemnity of the group that he had not survived the fall.

“Had I not stopped to waylay Dunkeld, I could have saved him,” he said.

“Had you not stopped, you would have met the king’s guards as they rode to the castle,” Morag reminded him. “You would never have reached the cliff, and Dunkeld would yet be alive.”

“Bhaltair warned me that the fate of Scotland rested on my actions, and still I failed.”

Morag put a hand on his arm. “What more could you have done?”

He shook his head. “I know not. I only know
the king is dead, and I was not man enough to prevent it.”

Wulf turned away from the procession on the ridgetop and watched Morag. She collected her brat from the bushes on which it was drying, and tied it about her shoulders. Her fingers were still stiff and curled, but they had regained some flexibility. The sacrifices she had made on his behalf humbled him beyond measure. He did not deserve so fine a woman.

“This plan to ride into the castle is a little mad,” he said. “I cannot ask you to accompany me.”

She smiled. “I do not go because you ask it of me. I go because I love you.”

He closed the gap between them in a single fluid step and cupped her face in his hands. “If the queen is not swayed by my tale, it may mean the gallows.”

She covered his hands with hers. “I was a member of the king’s party, a weaver brought along to fashion a gift for the queen’s birthday. The guards will know me. My words will lend weight to yours.”

Wulf kissed her. Slow and hard and deliberate.

“Let us save Scotland together, then,” he said.

Wulf hid Dunkeld’s body in the hollow of a fallen tree. If all went well at the castle, he would reveal its whereabouts. If his explanation met resistance, it would be better if the body was never found. Morag could vow that Dunkeld had run
off, which would leave some measure of doubt regarding the events of the night.

They mounted their horses and left the trees. Crossing the cliff top, they passed the patch of mud that marked the loss of the king, and with solemn faces they rode down the path to the castle. The portcullis was lowered, despite the early hour of the day. Armed guards met them at the gate, denying them access.

“Begone,” the guards said. “The queen sees no one today.”

“I come with word of a plot against the crown,” Wulf said boldly. “I need not speak with the queen, but I must have an audience with the king’s
gardes du corps
.”

His forthright demand set the guards on their heels. They looked at one another, confused about what to do. But Wulf had no time to waste. He had to tell his tale before the queen had opportunity to touch the ruby necklace.

“Fetch one of the
gardes du corps
,” insisted Wulf. “Now.”

“And who are you to make such a request?”

“Tell the king’s bodyguards that Wulf MacCurran, champion of the outlawed Laird MacCurran, is at the gate.”

That got the result Wulf sought. One of the guards took off for the main door of the castle at a run.

They did not have long to wait. The young
sentry returned with a mail-clad knight bearing the tabard of the king’s guard. The knight eyed Morag before giving Wulf his attention. “Whatever games you play, MacCurran, this is not the day for it.”

“I am aware that the king has perished.”

A thunderous scowl darkened the knight’s face. “Be careful what words you toss about.”

“The king’s brother had a hand in his death,” Wulf said.

“You lie!”

“Dunkeld is the one responsible for the theft of the queen’s necklace. He wore a black wolf cloak the night de Coleville and my kin were murdered, a cloak that I believe he still possesses.”

The knight drew his sword. “Why do you trouble us with this crazed tale? Today of all days?”

“Because the queen’s life is in danger.” Wulf held up his hands to show they were empty of weapons. “Slay me if you must, but first hear me out. The gold-and-ruby necklace the king intended to gift the queen has been poisoned by Dunkeld. You cannot allow her to touch it.”

“A necklace cannot be poisoned,” scoffed the knight.

“Test it,” dared Wulf. “But beware. The poison painted on its surface is potent.”

“You are mad,” denounced the knight.

“It was potent enough to kill the Earl of Lochurkie
when he touched it.” Wulf had no proof the earl had been killed by the necklace, but it was possible. The man had been poisoned while in possession of the wretched thing. “If you value the queen’s life, and the life of her unborn child, you will search Dunkeld’s belongings immediately and confiscate it.”

The knight stared at him.

Then he pivoted on his heel and stalked off.

“Were we successful?” Morag asked quietly.

“Perhaps,” he answered. The door to the guardhouse swung open and a dozen armed soldiers spilled out. They marched toward the gate. “Or perhaps not.”

Wulf and Morag were dragged from their mounts and led into the castle at pike-point.

The inside of Kinghorn Castle was an opulent space. Arched ceilings, marble floors, and massive tapestries that covered whole walls surrounded them. The great hall was lit with hundreds of candles and a huge hearth that roared with a well-fed fire. Everywhere they looked there were cushioned chairs and carved tables. But the high table that would normally have seated the royal family was today serving as a resting place for the king of Scotland.

His body had been washed and garbed in silks.

His brown hair and beard shone golden in the candlelight.

Next to the table, on her knees with her veiled head bowed in prayer, was Queen Yolande.

Wulf and Morag stood silently, witnesses to her grief. Today was her twenty-third birthday, but instead of celebrating with joy, she was enduring the tragic loss of her husband. A slender woman given to wearing fine satin weaves, Yolande made no attempt to disguise the slight roundness of her belly. She was indeed quick with child, as the rumors had suggested.

The queen genuflected, then rose to her feet with the help of her spiritual adviser, the royal chancellor William Fraser. She turned to face them and waved a slender hand to indicate that they should advance.

With Morag’s hand clasped tightly in his, Wulf stepped forward and bowed deeply.

“Your Grace.”

“You may rise,” she said, her French accent thick.

When Wulf’s gaze lifted to her face, she said, “My guards say the necklace is indeed poisoned. Had I laid it upon my skin, I would now be dead.”

Wulf said nothing.

“How do I know it was not you who poisoned it?” she asked.

“The clan MacCurran has always been loyal to the crown, Your Grace. The night your necklace was originally stolen, my wife and wee bairn were
slain, felled by the same poisoned soup that killed de Coleville. My laird has always maintained that the culprit was not a MacCurran, but a man wearing a black wolf cloak. A cloak that William Dunkeld has been known to possess.”

She nodded. “Such a cloak was found with the necklace.”

“The king gave Dunkeld his trust, Your Grace, and he was betrayed.”

“You think Dunkeld had a hand in my Alexander’s death?”

“I do,” he said.

“Why should I believe you? Dunkeld was a faithful brother to my husband. You are the champion of an outlaw.”

“Was he truly faithful?” Wulf shrugged. “He had everything to gain from the king’s death. Especially if every other heir to the crown was dead. What do the MacCurrans gain by the king’s death? Nothing. Men without power do not change the fate of a nation, Your Grace. Bastard brothers to a king, on the other hand, can change everything. Ask the king’s guards who sent them back to the castle, leaving the king alone. Was it me? I daresay not.”

“But how can we be certain he had a hand in this? Dunkeld is nowhere to be found.”

He shrugged. “Rats will run, Your Grace.”

The queen tipped her head toward Morag. “And
you, madam? My guards have informed me that you are the daughter of a respected guild master and that you rode with my Alexander and his brother this past night. Tell me what you witnessed.”

“I saw Dunkeld stab the king’s horse in the flank.”

Yolande shook her head. “What reason would he have to do such a thing?”

“I believe that Dunkeld aspires to wear the crown himself, Your Grace. He sent the guards ahead to the castle so he could be alone on the cliff with the king. And now the king is dead. Does that not say everything that needs to be said?”

“Perhaps.”

“Surely the injury to the king’s mount can be verified?”

Yolande glanced at the captain of her guard, and he nodded.

“It appears the horse did suffer a wound such as you describe.”

Wulf saw Morag’s shoulders straighten. “I am a mere weaver, Your Grace, and I know my word cannot stand against that of a nobleman. But I swear to you that what I saw is true. Dunkeld attacked the king.”

“It will be up to the Guardians of Scotland to officially rule on Dunkeld’s guilt,” Yolande said.
“But I am satisfied that I know the truth.” The queen wriggled a ring from her middle finger and held it out to Wulf. “You have proven yourself a worthy champion this day, MacCurran. Take this ring as a sign of my gratitude.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

She turned, intending to walk away.

“If I may, Your Grace?”

She paused.

“If you believe Dunkeld guilty, a pardon of my laird’s crimes would not be undue,” he said carefully. “If you have the power to influence such a thing, I would beg that favor.”

She faced him. “I cannot return his lands. They have been forfeited.”

Wulf nodded. “I understand.”

“But I can speak to the council regarding a pardon. I’ll see it done immediately.”

Wulf bowed deeply.

As the soft swish of her satin skirts over the marble floor faded away, he straightened. Morag rose, too, and he grinned at her. This moment held a magic that the death of Dunkeld had not. His clan no longer had to hide. They were redeemed.

The moment they left the hall, Wulf grabbed Morag about the waist and spun her around until they were both a little dizzy.

“Are you ready to go home, lass?”

*   *   *

They did not immediately set out for Dunstoras.

Morag begged for an opportunity to return to Edinburgh, and Wulf could not deny her. Especially when she told him her reason.

“You cannot solve all the ills of the world,” he said, shaking his head.

“True enough,” she agreed. “But I can solve this one.”

The first real test of the queen’s influence came at the cow gate. When he broke out of Edinburgh Castle, all the city guards had been given his description and told to slay him on sight. But he was no longer a wanted criminal. And his possession of the queen’s ring was enough to convince the guards at the gate of his new status.

They scowled, but made no attempt to detain him.

Morag sighed with relief and led them into the busy market on the High Street. She spied young Tim hiding between the breadbaskets at the baker’s, and swiftly nabbed him. “If you continue this way,” Morag scolded him, “you’ll end up in the stocks.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been worse places.”

“Maybe you have,” she acknowledged. “But I’ll not sleep a wink for worry if I leave you to fend for yourself.”

She handed him to Wulf. “I pray this works out.”

He smiled at her. “Tim has nimble fingers and
small hands. He’s young enough to be swayed from his thievery, and he’ll make a fine jeweler’s apprentice. Elen’s father will see him well cared for; have no fear.” Then he marched the lad off toward the east gate.

Morag shopped while she waited for Wulf to return.

As she wandered the stalls, apples and bread and nuts went into her bag and coins went out. She would miss the easy availability of fruit when she got home. There were no orchards in the glen, and berries were usually gone by the first frost.

“Morag,” called a voice.

She stiffened, but did not turn. She had nothing to say to the man. Instead she continued to peruse the offerings of the vegetable vendor, pretending she had not heard her father call her name.

“Morag,” he said, much closer to her now.

She paid the vendor for a small sack of hazelnuts and tucked them into her sark.

He grabbed her arm and forced her to turn around. “Listen to me.”

“Nay,” she said. “Whatever your story, it is of no interest to me. I grew up without a father, and I am a better person for it.”

“You cannot believe that.”

She glared at him. “I do.”

He let go of her arm. “I made a terrible mistake. I admit that. I should never have left.”

“There was no mistake. You simply started again. Everything new and fresh.”

He raked a hand through his raven-black hair. “There was nothing simple about it. I loved you, and I loved Jeannie. But I let my pride dictate my choices. I wanted to be respected and admired for my skills—lauded for my brilliant weaves. I thought such accolades would make me happy. I was wrong.”

“Do you think I care what makes you happy?”

“No,” he admitted with a short, bitter laugh. “But my regrets run deep. The image of you standing in front of the bothy, watching me walk away, still haunts me. I betrayed you that day, and for that I am truly ashamed.”

Morag shook her head.
No.
She wasn’t ready to forgive him.

But deep in her gut she was still that little girl waiting for her father, and it stirred her to know he clung to a similar memory. So she offered him a tiny opening. “I am bound for Dunstoras this morn, and it’s unlikely that I’ll find myself in Edinburgh again.”

He stared, digesting her words.

“Perhaps someday I’ll find myself in the glen,” he said carefully.

She softened just a bit. “Perhaps.”

Then she walked away. If he truly did come to Dunstoras, she would meet with him. In time, with
repeated meetings, there might be ground on which to build a friendship. Beyond that, she couldn’t commit.