To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (7 page)

“Perhaps I can help,” came a deep voice from the other side of the crowd.

Morag looked up. The voice did not belong to Wulf. It belonged to a tall man with raven-black hair who pushed his way through the crowd and addressed Master Seamus with a rough smile.
“Causing my weavers grief again, Seamus? Have you naught better to do with your day?”

Morag stared at the black-haired man, her throat suddenly tight and dry. He hadn’t changed much since she’d last seen him—he still had the same square chin and square hands. A few new wrinkles around his eyes, perhaps, but that would be testing the memories of a lass of ten. Master Parlan of Edinburgh was none other than Parry Cameron, the man who’d deserted his wife and run off to parts unknown when she was a child.

Her father.

“You’re not doing all you can to prevent crime,” Seamus said. He pointed at Morag. “This woman is selling cloth that is clearly not of her own making.”

Her father’s vivid green eyes turned to Morag. He studied her for a long moment without comment, then said, “What cause do you have to call her a liar?”

Seamus scowled. “A woman does not have the strength to weave such tight and even threads. See for yourself. The cloths she sells are some of the finest I’ve seen.” He tossed Parlan a goading smile. “I’d say they’re fine enough to rival your own.”

The master weaver lifted one corner of Morag’s cloth, rubbing the smooth texture between his forefinger and thumb. “They are indeed fine,” he said slowly, a faint frown between his eyes. “The colors
are a close match to my own, as well.” He lifted his gaze and gave her another stare. “But I must disagree with your assessment that she’s not the weaver.” He held up his hands, palms forward to the wardrober. “What do you see, Seamus?”

Seamus squinted. “Calluses on the thumb and forefinger of both hands.”

Parlan nodded. “From pitching the shuttle and lifting the heddle sticks. This woman bears the same calluses. You owe her your regrets for maligning her good name.”

Seamus glanced at Morag, and she held her hands up for his inspection. He huffed and turned sharply away, marching away through the crowd. Not a word of apology was heard.

Morag’s father fingered her cloth again. “May I ask what good name Master Seamus has so shamefully cast aspersions upon?”

“You already know,” she said tightly.

His gaze lifted to her black hair, a mimic of his own, then returned to her face. “Tell me anyway, else I will not believe it.”

“Morag Cameron. I am the daughter of Jeannie Cameron of Dunstoras,” Morag confirmed, afraid to look at him too closely for fear that it would tarnish all her old memories. Finding her father again after all these years was not the boon she had imagined. The tale of his desertion was more romantic with his disappearance into thin air.

“How is Jeannie?” he asked.

“Dead and gone these past nine years,” Morag responded coldly. Her mother had hoped right up to the end that her winsome Parry might return.

“A shame, that,” he said. “She was a fine woman.”

“Too fine for the likes of you,” Morag agreed.

“I had to leave, and she would not come with me,” he said. “But I do not expect you to forgive my actions.” Parlan heaved a heavy sigh. “I’ll leave you to the selling of your cloth. Perhaps we’ll talk again before you leave Edinburgh.”

Morag nodded sharply, unable to speak. She was close to choking on unanswered questions.

Then for the second time in her life, she stood silently and watched her father walk away.

*   *   *

A small, elderly woman in a blue gown and a snow-white headdress answered the door to Wulf’s knock. She took one look at him, burst into tears, and ran back into the house, leaving the green door swinging in the breeze.

Wulf stood there, rooted to the spot.

It was not a typical reaction. Most women, even older ones, seemed quite willing to engage him in conversation. To the best of his knowledge, he did not often drive them to tears.

A moment later, a white-haired man with an equally white beard replaced the woman at the
door. “Wulf? We had no warning that you were coming. Please forgive Eleanor. She still grieves.”

Wulf let the awkwardness of the moment wash over him, then spoke candidly. “It is I who should make amends. It was not my intention to cause distress.”

“Nonsense. Come in, lad.” The old man opened the door wide and beckoned him inside.

Wulf shook his head. “I would be entering without right,” he said. “I do not remember you.”

The old man’s face lost all expression. “Not remember me? Do you jest?”

“Nay, I do not. A number of months ago I was attacked and left for dead. Although I have recovered most of my good health, my memories of the past have been lost. I do not know who you are, sir.”

The old man was silent for a long moment. Then he exited the house and closed the door behind him. The breeze caught at his fine red tunic, fluttering the hem of the heavy brocade.

“A part of me envies you,” he said. He pointed up the close. “Let us walk while we speak.”

Wulf nodded and accompanied the man down the path. He purposely shortened his gait to match his companion’s.

“How did you find us, if you have no memory?” the old man asked.

Wulf explained.

“What a curious thing,” the elder said. “You know the house, but not the family who dwells there.”

“How
do
I know the house?” Wulf asked.

“You’ve been here many times,” he said. “Not for some years, however. Not since you and Elen were wed.”

Elen was the name of his deceased wife. Wulf’s gaze met the old man’s. “You are Elen’s father?”

“Aye. Edmund MacBain, jeweler.”

Wulf allowed that to sink in. It explained the tears of the man’s wife, and the dark circles of sorrow that cradled the old man’s faded blue eyes.

“I regret that I failed them,” Wulf said honestly. He could not picture Elen’s face, nor that of their wee lad, Hugh, but he did sincerely regret not being able to save them from the cur who murdered them. The loss of his wife and son was a hard lump in his gut that never went away.

He knew the story of what had happened that night—Aiden had told him everything, answering every question Wulf had with quiet, painful truths. He knew that he’d rushed out of Dunstoras keep, mad with grief, determined to find and slay the bastard who’d murdered his wife and son. And he knew he’d met a group of men down by the loch and come out the loser.

“I’ve sworn to avenge their deaths, and I will not stop until I succeed.”

The old man put a hand on Wulf’s sleeve. “It must be difficult to make such a vow when you’ve no memory of those whom you are avenging.”

Wulf shook his head. “It is enough that they looked to me to keep them safe, and I let them down.”

The old man sighed. “Such a tragedy. And how does Jamie fare? We’ve not seen him since he was a bairn.”

“He’s a strong lad,” Wulf said. “He took the loss of his mum and wee brother hard, but he’s coming into his own now. He’ll make a fine warrior.”

“Good, good.”

They walked for a while in easy peace, and then Wulf said, “Tell me about Elen.”

“She was a good wife,” Edmund said. “Orderly. She managed your household by frugal means and still maintained a full complement of servants. And she made you smile. You were ever a serious lad, having to care for your sisters and your mother from a young age.”

Wulf halted abruptly. “I have kin in Edinburgh?”

Elen’s father shook his head. “No longer. Your mother and eldest sister passed the year after you and Elen were wed. An illness that also took a longtime retainer. Your other sister died in childbed. She was wed to a Macgregor.”

“And my father?”

Edmund frowned. “You rarely spoke of him. He was injured in the Battle of Largs, but the circumstances of his death I do not know. All I can say is that any mention of him made you angry. Perhaps because he left your mother without means.”

They circled a stone dovecote splattered with bird droppings and headed back the way they’d come. Wulf was grateful for the other man’s unique view into his past. His lack of memory, no matter how much the older man might envy it, was a knot in his gut he could not unravel. It prevented him from assuring the jeweler that the memory of his precious daughter would forever be honored—and it prevented Wulf from shouldering the burden of her loss.

“Elen lives on in Jamie,” he told the old man. “He is orderly as well, and commands respect from his peers. It might comfort you to know that the lad is faithful to her memory. We laid flowers on her headstone on her name date.”

Edmund smiled. “A fine lad indeed.”

They stopped before the bright green door of the cottage. Edmund turned thoughtful and then said, “I have something which rightly belongs to you. Give me a wee moment and I’ll fetch it.”

Wulf waited patiently, and when the old man returned he accepted the small wooden box.
Inside were six small wooden horses, very similar to the one Jamie had given him at Dunstoras, but older and clearly worn from use. “Did you make these?” he asked Edmund.

“Your father fashioned them,” the old man said. “For you when you were a wee lad. Elen kept them, thinking to gift them to your firstborn, but they were left behind when you took Elen to Dunstoras.”

“Jamie’s a young man now,” Wulf said. “Too old to play with such things.”

Edmund shrugged. “Perhaps his son will enjoy them one day.”

Wulf closed the lid, nodding.

“Should you return to Edinburgh with young Jamie,” Edmund said, “I hope that you will stay with us awhile. I have no sons, and what I have will pass to him one day.”

“You have my word,” Wulf promised.

The old man smiled, patted Wulf’s arm, and then entered the house.

Wulf stared at the green door for a long moment before turning on his heel and leaving the small close behind.

A
handful of cold coins settled into Morag’s palm, and she barely restrained a grin as she handed off a half bolt of cloth in return.

“Five shillings,” she whispered to her stall companion. “She paid five shillings.”

“Aye, and you owe me a shilling eight,” he grumbled.

She gave him one of her shillings and dug into her purse for the pence. “But that still leaves me with three shillings four,” she said, amazed.

“No need to crow about it,” he said. “Adopt a more circumspect demeanor. The other weavers are already looking askance. I’ve no desire to end up in the middle of another row.”

Morag schooled her excitement and tucked the money away. “I’ve not thanked you for defending
me to Master Seamus. It was very kind of you to do so.”

He skewed her a hard look. “I did not defend you. I stood in defense of us all.” He waved a hand at the weavers around them. “The king’s wardrober is an important man, to be sure, but he has no right to say what the weavers’ guild can or cannot do.”

She nodded. “Still, you have my thanks.”

“Accepted,” he said, turning away to face a customer.

Morag had sold another half bolt by the time Wulf appeared at the stall. When she spied his head above all others in the street—clearly walking in her direction—her first reaction, as always, was a sigh of admiration. He truly was a braw man. A face defined by sharp but even features, a pair of shoulders wide enough to carry the heaviest of loads, and a strong stride that belied the slight stiffness in his leg. Of course, she was not the only one who noticed. He turned the heads of many a female shopper as he wove through the crowd to reach her.

That, plus the memory of how she’d had to face Master Seamus’s accusations without the benefit of his support, added a crisp edge to her words when she asked him, “Where have you been?”

He looked at her without answering, his expression impossible to read. His thumb brushed over her cheek, sending a tiny spark fluttering to
her belly. “The sun has painted more freckles upon your cheeks.”

Morag scowled. She hated that her skin so easily gave way to such blemishes. And it annoyed her that his compliment softened her heart toward him in an instant. “I’ll be more careful to stand in the shade.”

“Nay,” he said softly. “I like them.”

“You may like them all you desire,” she retorted. “But I will still do my best to avoid more.”

He smiled and glanced at her display. “You’ve sold some cloth, I see.”

“Two bolts,” she said happily.

“A very successful day. Shall we buy some food and adjourn to our rooms for the eve?”

Morag bit her lip. There were still a few hours of daylight left, but the volume of shoppers had definitely waned. She turned to her stallmate. “May I pay you now to assure my spot in your stall tomorrow?”

He nodded.

She paid him the tuppence, then swept her cloth into her arms and faced Wulf. “Aye, let’s away.”

Wulf relieved her of the cloth and pointed down the High Street. “You lead; I’ll follow.”

Morag celebrated her sales of the day by purchasing bread, wine, and some strips of dried pork for their dinner. Wulf was oddly distant, offering his opinion of her choices when prompted, but saying
little else. She waited until they were climbing the stairs at the candlemaker’s before commenting on it.

“Is all well?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I am impatient to know what Marcus discovers.” Sliding the bolts of cloth to the floor, he opened the door to their chamber and waved her inside.

Morag stopped short. She blinked as she studied the plump new mattress laid across the bed frame. “Lord, please tell me you didn’t spend our hard-earned coin on a mattress.”

“Is it not a sight better than the old?”

Morag dropped her purchases on the bed and spun to face him. “You bought a mattress?”

“Nay,” Wulf said. He grabbed the wine and poured two cups. “I merely shamed the candlemaker into buying one.”

Relief poured through Morag, but the moment was fueled by the frustration she’d endured for most of the day, and she lashed out. “Why did you let me think, even for a moment, that you’d bought it? We’ve no money for such extravagances, and I near expired with fear we’d wasted precious coin.”

He downed his wine as she ranted.

“And why did you take our papers with you this morn? Why did you not leave them with me? I doubt the leatherworker had need to see your credentials.”

Wulf’s eyebrows soared. “Our papers?”

“Aye, our papers,” she said, jabbing a finger at the solid muscle of his chest. “Where are they?”

He grabbed her finger and planted a quick kiss on the tip. “Lass, you’ve clearly found me wanting today. For that, I beg your forgiveness. But do me the kindness of starting the tale at the beginning so that I might fully understand my failing.”

Morag sagged, her anger dissolving with his gentle words. “I was nearly hauled off to the bailiff again.”

His quiet stare demanded further explanation, and she gave it. The simple act of sharing her misadventure eased her frustration, and by the time she got to the part where her stallmate spoke for her, she managed a smile. “Of course, that was not the biggest surprise.”

Wulf broke the bread into several large chunks and handed Morag a piece sopped in red wine. “Oh?”

She ate the dripping bread before responding, not entirely certain she was ready to share what she’d discovered. “He’d sent for Master Parlan, the head of the weavers’ guild, and Master Parlan spoke for me as well. Between the two, they set the king’s wardrober on his ear.”

“Weavers stand up for their own, it would seem.” He poured himself another cup of wine.

“Aye.” She bit into a strip of salted pork and closed her eyes. “Och, this is a taste of heaven.”

“A good man would provide you with such fineries on a regular basis.”

Her eyes popped open. As she suspected, he was watching her with a faint frown. “You already provide more than I deserve. You are a good man, Wulf MacCurran, but a good man is not in my future. The poor decisions of my past have seen to that.”

“Why do you repeatedly suggest I would spurn you because of the past?” he asked. “Have I given you reason to believe such nonsense?”

“Nay,” she said, smiling faintly. “You are free with your praise and you show me only honor and respect.”

He sat back, a satisfied expression on his face. “Then let us not discuss the matter again.” Extending his brawny legs with a ripple of lean muscle, he tipped his wine cup to his mouth and downed a full portion in a single swallow.

Morag enjoyed the sight of him relaxed and half-sotted. The strange air of distance had finally fallen away, leaving him loose and carefree. More like the Wulf of old. The wine added a slight flush to his cheeks and left a warmer than usual glint in his eyes. Perhaps it was the awareness of how easily the day could have gone awry—how very possible it had been that they would have spent the night in gaol instead of reclining on a brand-new straw mattress, but as she stared at Wulf, Morag was convinced she’d never seen him look handsomer.

“Would you kiss me?” she asked of him.

Instantly, the air of carelessness vanished. His gaze sharpened and his eyes darkened with an undeniable flare of passion. But he did not move toward her, or even flex a muscle.

“Nay,” he said. When she stiffened with his rejection, he added, “For if I start, I will not stop.”

“Would that be so wrong?”

“Aye, it would.” He lifted a hand and tucked a loose tress behind her ear. “I care for you, Morag Cameron. And a man does not misuse a woman he cares for.”

She arched a brow. “A kiss is misuse?”

He smiled. “You know full well we don’t speak of kisses.” The smile slid away. “I can’t ask you to wed half a man—and without my memories I am but half of who I was.”

Hearing the word
wed
fall from his lips tumbled Morag’s heart in her chest. Wedding Wulf was a dream she indulged on a regular basis, and his suggestion that it was possible gave her a temporary surge of hope. But whores did not marry knights. “And what if they never return?”

“They must.”

She stood up and brushed bread crumbs from her skirts. “Your memories change nothing that is real, Wulf. You are still cousin to the laird, still the finest warrior in his clan, and still father to a lad who needs a steady hand to guide him. Even
should your memories never return, you will still be those things.”

“I don’t deny those truths,” he said. “But to forge a new life, I must first settle the old. I must avenge my kin, reclaim my clan’s honor, and ensure the ghosts of my past can do you no harm.”

“You might yet achieve those goals without your memories.” Indeed, Morag was certain Wulf could do so. He was a very determined man. She unknotted her belt and removed it, the wool of her gown now loose against her body.

“I might,” he agreed, watching her.

“Or you might regain your memories,” she said, lifting the heavy woolen dress over her head, “but never find the man who dealt you those vicious, cowardly blows.”

His brow furrowed and his lips tightened. But his eyes remained locked on the sway of her soft linen sark against the contours of her body. “I will not rest until I do.”

She shook out her gown and folded it neatly beside the bed. Every movement floated the light material of her sark, sending the linen drifting across her backside and along the curves of her breasts. Breasts that were full and heavy with a longing to be touched. Breasts that were teased by the gentle rasps of linen over their sensitive peaks.

“Vengeance is a hard taskmaster,” she said, lifting the hem of her sark to her knees, and then
kicking off her boots. “Those who serve him end up alone and bitter.”

She glanced at Wulf.

His attention was riveted on the woolen hose covering her lower legs, and she smiled. With a slow, purposeful hand she untied the garter above one calf, and allowed the wool stocking to slip down her leg. A flick of her foot and the material sailed across the floor, leaving a bare ankle and pink toes.

It was not a particularly graceful ankle—her skin was not the pampered flesh of a lady—but the sight of it had a visible effect on Wulf.

His entire mien shifted slightly. He went from relaxed to ready in a single indrawn breath. From casual companion to hungry predator. His awareness of her was etched in every taut muscle and every short breath, and the only thing holding him in check was the bond of his honor.

But Morag wanted that bond to slip.

One day soon, Wulf would awaken with all his memories returned—she was certain of it. And when he did, he would remember all the commitments he had to his old life and all the reasons he could not—and should not—be with her.

He would walk away.

Because that was what men did.

They had their reasons—no doubt valid ones—but those reasons rarely softened the blow. Morag was already steeling her heart for the day Wulf
would walk away from her, never to return. But she still wanted tonight. She wanted Wulf just like this, with the flush of hot desire painted on his face. And she wanted all the pleasure that desire promised. She wanted his body next to hers, rocking in a rhythm as old as time. She wanted him to tease her body to the limits of bearable need and then offer her the heavy pulse of satisfaction. She wanted to lose herself in the dream, however brief, of having Wulf for her own.

Morag untied the second garter and slid the stocking slowly over the curve of her calf. His gaze followed the path of her fingers with hot, dark intensity.

Because right now, in this moment, he was indeed hers.

*   *   *

The stocking dropped to the floor.

Perhaps it was the wine. Or perhaps he was simply weary of resisting. Either way, Wulf suddenly found himself in the fiercest battle of his life. He wanted Morag like he’d wanted nothing before—every inch of his skin burned with need. Every muscle ached with want. And every breath begged for the taste of her on his tongue.

If she’d been a different woman with a different past, the battle would have been easier won. But Morag had been sorely used by dishonorable men, and if he succumbed, he would become one of that number.

His heart pounded like a drum in his chest.

She deserved so much more than he could offer her. What other woman could claim to be as bold, as brave, or as gifted? His lovely lass had survived four years alone in the woods, had built her own home out of daub and wattle, and had woven cloth so fine it could attract the attention of the king’s wardrober.

Mere words could not define her.

And were she an ordinary-looking lass with a pious demeanor, his honor would play a louder tune. Instead, she had bright green eyes with a hint of laughter always buried in their depths, and a sweet bow-shaped mouth that curved with sinful charm. And her body could tempt an angel into hell.

Shadowy glimpses of her curves taunted him from the voluminous folds of her sark.

He was no angel.

Wulf surged from the bed, caught Morag about the waist, and buried his face in the delicate curve between her shoulder and neck. The room was so small, it was done in a single movement. One step, one touch, and he was lost.

His hands sank into the cool linen folds of her sark until they reached the warm heat of her body. The same warm heat he slept next to each night, that shaped his dreams and lingered in his thoughts all day. He’d never allowed himself to touch more than her face, or an occasional guiding at her back or hands. For good reason. He knew precisely how
weak his will would become once that barrier was breached.

His big hands cupped the soft fullness of her breasts, his thumbs flicking across the peaks. Her nipples budded instantly, eager for his caress, and a low moan escaped her lips. And that was all it took to silence the lingering whispers of his conscience. A need so intense it was akin to pain seared through his veins, demanding he take what had been denied him so long, and take it now. His fingers clenched, and with eyes closed, he unerringly found the sweetness of her lips with his.

It was less a kiss than a plunder.