To Kiss A Kilted Warrior (9 page)

“Thank you, Master Parlan.”

He nodded and turned to leave, but then changed his mind. “A woman should not come alone to an alehouse,” he said. “It will raise undue attention.”

“I will take proper care,” said Morag.

Her father departed, and she returned to her spot in the stall. Wulf might not be happy to learn she’d spoken to the master weaver about the cloth, but surely he would applaud the result. And if Wulf had already discovered the maker of the cloth, they need not go to the alehouse at all.

Morag wiped damp palms on the woolen skirts of her overdress. With any luck, the topic of Parlan’s relationship to her would never surface in the conversation. Wulf was not the sort to leave a stone unturned or a field unplowed. Given the merest hint, he would soon discover the extent of her sordid past, and he already had cause to pity her. And it was all too easy to imagine him reaching across the table to grab Parlan’s throat and demand some form of recompense for his desertion of his daughter.

She blanched.

No. Better that Wulf never discover her secret.

*   *   *

Mathias the dyer was easy to find. There were only a handful of dye houses on the north side, and his was the best known. Wulf ducked under the lintel and entered, his nose immediately
assaulted by the sharp scents emanating from the dozen vats laid out before him, at least one of which he was certain contained stale wine.

A man with heavily muscled arms was stirring a vat on the left, and Wulf sought him out. “Are you Mathias?”

The man looked up. “Aye. Who be asking?”

Instead of giving his name, Wulf held up the cloak. “A weaver in the market told me you are the only dyer capable of producing this deep shade of black.”

The dyer grabbed a corner of the cloak and peered at the cloth beneath the fur. “Aye, that’s my dye.”

“This is a very fine garment, crafted by a clothier with obvious skill. The weave is tight and even, and the fur pelts are sewn with great attention to detail. Surely you would remember selling wool to a maker of such finery?”

Mathias stopped stirring. “If you seek to find the owner of that cloak, you’ve come to the wrong place. I dye wool. That is my trade, and I’m skilled enough to make a fair living. But I do not make note of who buys my wool. I sell a lot of black wool, much of it to traders from Leith, who ship it all over Scotland. There is no way to know who made that cloak, not from its color.”

It was the answer Wulf had expected, but disappointment still settled heavy on his shoulders.
If the weaver was not from Edinburgh, the cloak would not be a useful clue to determining its owner. He thanked Mathias for his honesty, and left the dye house. The cool air outside was a balm to his chest, and he sucked in several deep breaths, coughing out the bitter stench of the dyes.

Back to the market.

It was hard to shake the feeling that someone was watching them, that the man in black had thus far been one step ahead of their every move. Wulf’s hand sought the rough surface of his staghorn dirk. If the cloak could not be traced to its owner, they would go back to the sigil. He remembered the arms quite clearly and could draw them, if necessary. Such a drawing could not be used as proof, but it would still identify their assailant. So long as the arms were familiar to someone.

Wulf turned down a narrow wynd.

The only person in sight was a solitary man standing at the far end of the lane, but Wulf’s hand tightened on his knife. In a town as busy as Edinburgh, no one stood. Everyone had a task, even if it was simply hawking goods from an archway. This man stood in the middle of the wynd, waiting.

For Wulf, presumably.

Wulf continued to walk forward, measuring every step, eyeing every archway for more assailants. Where there was one rat, there were usually more.

The man waiting for him had shoulder-length blond hair and wore the red-and-gold tabard of the king’s guard. He was also carrying a sword, which left Wulf at a disadvantage. The arrogant set of the blond man’s shoulders and his solid stance told Wulf he was trained to the long blade and would likely wield it with finesse.

To his left, in the shadows of a doorway, Wulf spied a soldier. A glance to the right confirmed there was another on the opposite side. Both carried swords, and both were primed for attack. Wulf’s heartbeat slowed and his thoughts settled into the cool calm of battle. Surviving this ambush would require that he set his opponents on their ears. And swiftly. Without taking his eyes off the blond man, Wulf took a quick step to the left, jabbed his knife into one soldier’s thigh, and disarmed him. A well-placed pommel strike to the head rendered the man unconscious.

With a short blade in one hand and a sword in the other, Wulf rolled the body into the street, and claimed the doorway as his. The others could come to him.

And they did.

The soldier across the wynd attacked without pause, cutting downward at Wulf’s shoulder. When the man was fully committed to his swing, Wulf sidestepped the sharp blade and stabbed his knife deep into the man’s forearm.

The soldier screamed and the sword fell.

Taking advantage of the man’s instinctive glance at his wound, Wulf slammed the flat of his hilt into the man’s face and took him out of the battle. With the odds greatly improved, he kicked the fallen soldier behind him and faced the blond man. This one did not rush in. He trod slowly, his blade held low and loose, his stance ready. There was no weakness in the hold his opponent had on his blade, no anger or fear to leverage. Just quiet, confident amusement.

“I was told you were courageous,” the blond man said. “I’m pleased to see that the tales were true. There is no joy in defeating a faintheart.”

Wulf did not waste breath on a reply. Why would he care one whit what a scurrilous rat thought of him? His time was better spent considering the man’s stance and determining which sword master might have schooled him. Each master had moves he was partial to, and if anticipated, those moves lost power. But the man’s stance gave nothing away. If he had studied with a master, he had adapted the moves to his own style, which would make him a challenging opponent.

Wulf had been tutored by a Frankish sword master, and he had honed his skills with the gallowglass mercenaries of Ireland. He knew that much of his past, even though he could not name the men who had instructed him. He also knew that
his skills had been tested many times—so many times that he no longer had to think about how he would move or what defense was best in any given situation. His reactions were ingrained, and he was confident that no matter what his enemy did, he could combat it.

Only his lame leg was a true disadvantage.

The blond man smiled. “Shout for help, if you choose,” he said. “It’s unlikely anyone will interfere.” He tapped his tabard with the hilt of his knife. “’Tis the duty of the king’s guard to keep the peace.”

Wulf’s answer was to swing his sword.

The blond man reacted quickly, parrying the cut and sliding away. “You’re strong,” he said. “Like a bull. Unfortunately, your technique is equally graceless and beastlike. So much wasted effort.” He made a lightning-fast thrust, coming within inches of Wulf’s chest before being turned away by Wulf’s blade.

Wulf weighed his options. The blond man was small and quick, which would cede him the advantage in a long, drawn-out battle. Wulf’s leg would not withstand a lengthy encounter. This duel would need to be won with strength.

“It may interest you to know,” the blond man said, “that after I slay you, I’ve been ordered to cut the heart out of your female companion.”

A cold lump landed in the pit of Wulf’s belly.
Morag would be defenseless against this cur. He could not leave her to face him on her own. No matter what it took, he had to win this battle. But allowing his fear for Morag’s safety to take hold of his thoughts would play directly into this man’s hands. Fear and anger were not weapons; they were weaknesses. He had failed Elen and Hugh because of his anger and grief. Letting history repeat itself would be a grave mistake. Wulf sucked in a slow breath, pushing aside the maelstrom of his thoughts. Nothing mattered except for this moment, this battle. The time to think of what lay beyond was after this man was beaten.

With his mind cleared, Wulf immediately felt lighter and more able. His shoulders loosened and his muscles warmed. Without effort several moves came to mind, and he selected one. He saw exactly what he would have to do to break through his opponent’s defenses. And then he struck.

Power and finesse met speed and agility.

Parry met thrust; cut met slash.

It was a dance of lethal, razor-sharp blades, and Wulf fell back on the reliability of his experience. He’d been here before, in a similar duel, and come out the winner.

Step in, slash, pivot.

Parry, thrust, block.

Wulf hit his opponent hard, slamming the full weight of his large body into every blow. He left
nothing behind for later. Pound after pound reverberated up his opponent’s blade, and he could see the toll the blows were taking in the grimaces of the other man.

But his foe was not without strategy.

The blond man focused his attack on Wulf’s left side, forcing him to lean heavily on his weak leg.

The muscles in Wulf’s thigh quivered under the strain, but he ignored the burning pain as best he could. His opponent was also strained. White flesh around his lips and beaded sweat on his brow encouraged Wulf to press even harder. The fury of his attack was such that the air around his blade hummed with the power of his swings.

The blond man gave up a foot of ground, and Wulf advanced.

It was only when he caught sight of the smile on his opponent’s face that Wulf realized he’d been lured forward by a ruse of weariness. Two more soldiers leapt forward from behind the wall at his back and he suddenly found himself surrounded.

M
orag sold her last bolt of cloth at an unimaginable profit.

Two tailors had appeared before her stall at the same time, both proclaiming her cloth to be just what they were seeking. The two men bickered over who was the worthiest for some time, slowly driving up the price. In the end, one of them paid a full six deniers for the green-black-and-white cloth. She paid her stallmate his share and pocketed the rest.

Happy with how the day had gone, she sat near the cart quite contentedly, waiting for Wulf to return. That was when she noticed the sandy-haired lad across the High Street. He was slight of build and in sore need of a bath, so she barely took note of him in the beginning. But he remained nearby, watching her surreptitiously from behind a barrel of salted pork.

Each time she caught his eye, he pretended to wander off, but he didn’t go far.

Curious, Morag crossed the street and confronted him. “Why are you watching me?”

“I’m no’ watching you,” he protested.

She crossed her arms over her chest and pinned his gaze with steely purpose. “Is someone paying you to spy on me?”

“Nay,” he said. “Course not. What kind of fool job would that be?”

His cheeks turned a furious shade of red, which was visible even beneath the streaks of grime on his face. He did not seem a very worrisome spy, not the sort an assassin would hire.

“Was it a very large man who set you on me?” she asked. “Wearing a lèine and a multicolored brat?”

The flush in his cheeks deepened. “I’m no’ watching you.”

Morag took his arm. “Take me to him. This very instant.”

The boy dug in his heels. “Nay.”

She fished about in her purse and pulled out a ha’penny. “Take me to him and you’ll earn your coin.”

His gaze locked onto the coin. “He’ll not be happy that I’ve been found out.”

Aware that the arm she was holding was painfully thin, Morag gentled her grip. “Fear not; he’s
not the sort to throw his fist about. I’ll make certain he knows what a fine job you’ve done.”

The fight drained out of him and he nodded.

“Now show me where he is,” Morag urged.

*   *   *

The moment he realized he was surrounded, Wulf leapt back and to the right, thrusting the blade of his sword backward under his arm. The sword went deep into one of the soldiers. Wulf then spun the wounded man around, using the soldier’s faltering body as protection. With a quick toss of his dirk, he took down the second soldier, too.

But the maneuvers cost him.

The blond man took advantage of Wulf’s split concentration and attacked. His sword sliced across Wulf’s right thigh, tearing into the muscle and flesh with ruthless aim.

It took every bit of willpower Wulf possessed to launch himself to the left and save his leg.

The battle was once again one-on-one, but Wulf was bleeding now. The doorway was at his back, his foe pacing in front of him with a satisfied smile.

“I had hoped this would be a challenging duel,” the blond man said. “Sadly, you are only half the man I thought you were.”

“I feel no shame. Were it just the two of us,” Wulf said, “you’d already be lying in the sod.”

The wound on his leg was shallow, but a steady rivulet of blood trailed down his leg. Blood loss
would soon make his head swim. He needed to end the battle swiftly and decisively, while he still had the strength to make a killing blow. He knew his opponent as well as he would ever know him.

The moment was now. Wulf attacked.

*   *   *

Morag knew what she would see before she turned the corner. The clang of steel against steel and the slither of sharp blades passing along their edges were all too recently played in her ear. She grabbed the young lad by both shoulders, stared him firmly in the eyes, and said, “Fetch help. Quickly now.”

The boy took off, but she wasn’t convinced he would return. Morag peered around the wattle fence into the narrow wynd. What she saw was chaos. At least three bodies lying in the dirt, and Wulf covered in blood, dueling for his life.

Fearing the sight of her would distract him, she pulled back. She needed to seek help, but where? The castle guard might save him only to arrest him. But surely that was better than watching him die?

She darted across the street and up the next lane. A pair of guards were often standing at the entrance to the north gate. If only she could—

She barreled into a man coming around the corner. A tall fellow with shoulder-length dark hair, blackened mail, and a gold cloak. She nearly lost her footing when they collided, but he put out a quick hand and steadied her.

“Hold, lass,” he said gruffly. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”

Morag grabbed his arm. “My husband has been attacked. Please, sir, I beg you: Help me.”

The man took one look at her face and made up his mind. “Show me.”

Praying she wasn’t too late, Morag lifted her skirts and ran back to the narrow wynd where she’d left Wulf, the stranger running at her heels.

*   *   *

Wulf stumbled, nearly falling to one knee in the blood-smeared dirt. His shoulders sank, heavy with defeat, and he sensed his opponent coming in for the coup de grâce. With a roar of raw determination, he pushed back to his feet and made one final flurry of cuts and slices. But his opponent played it safe, staying just beyond solid striking distance. Clearly he preferred to wait until Wulf was too weak to fight.

With his last thrust, Wulf’s boot slid out from under him and he fell heavily, landing prone on the ground. He swiftly planted his sword and struggled to rise, but could not gain purchase in the wet sand. Facedown in a pool of his own blood, he tasted the end.

Ironically, it was his blood that saved him. He caught a brief reflection of his opponent as he swooped in, both hands on the hilt of his blade. When the man was balanced over him, and Wulf was certain the death blow was nigh, he nimbly
rolled to one side and thrust his blade upward with great force.

He had the longer reach, and his blade buried itself under the blond man’s left arm inches before his opponent’s blade hit the dirt.

His opponent’s eyes went wide as he realized he’d been fooled.

As always when his blade took another man’s life, Wulf felt a moment’s pause. He lowered the blond man to the ground and withdrew his sword. Death was never a punishment to be dealt lightly, even when the choices were limited. As the light of life faded from the other man’s eyes, Wulf sighed.

He pushed to his feet. His injured leg was still bleeding and he bent to claim a strip of linen from one of the downed soldiers—one of the two he’d struck with his sword pommel. Both men remained motionless and would likely require the services of a healer.

As he tied the linen about his leg, Morag arrived. She fell to her knees at his side, pushing his hands away and taking over the task of wrapping the linen. “Thank God you’re all right. I thought for certain I’d be calling for the grave digger.”

He leaned against the wooden door and allowed Morag to tend to his wounds. How she had found him, he couldn’t fathom. But he was too weary to wonder long.

“Your wife suggested you were about to meet
your maker,” a male voice said dryly. “But I see you had matters well in hand.”

Wulf stiffened as he met the gaze of a dark-haired man in a fur-lined cloak and brocade tunic. The man’s boots cost more than any single possession Wulf owned. How would he explain what had happened to such a man? Especially when the men wore the tabards of the king’s guard?

“These men are impostors,” he said firmly, hoping surety would lend weight to his tale. “They made no attempt to query me or arrest me.”

“Really?” The dark-haired man pushed over the body of the blond swordsman, frowning. “You appear to be right. I recognize this one. A hoodlum recently escaped from the castle dungeon.”

“I made an effort to avoid slaying them all.”

“So I see,” the other man said, as one of the men finally stirred. “Very generous of you, under the circumstances.”

Despite the hint of humor he detected, Wulf was still wary. “Wulf Cameron of Braemar,” he said, extending his hand.

The dark-haired man accepted his hand with a smile. “William Dunkeld.”

“Brother to the king,” Wulf added. Once again, a heretofore unknown fact had popped into his thoughts. His memories were truly a strange brew.

Dunkeld shrugged. “I am indeed, but born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

Morag finished tying up Wulf’s leg and stood up. She offered Dunkeld a broad smile. “A gentleman by any measure tonight, sir. You answered my call without hesitation, and for that I am eternally grateful.”

“It is your husband who is the hero, good woman. He defended himself most ably.”

Wulf glanced at the five bodies on the ground. “I must make a report to the constable, I merit.”

Dunkeld shook his head. “Have a physician see to that leg. I’ll fetch the constable and explain what happened. As I said, he’ll be familiar with this particular villain and will require little support from you to serve the records.”

Wulf frowned. It seemed a miracle to be able to walk away without facing the authorities.

“Truly,” Dunkeld said. “Tell me where you are staying, if you wish, and I will inform the constable. If he has need to speak with you, he can seek you out.”

Wulf gave Dunkeld the address of their room and thanked him again. Then he and Morag hobbled back to the candlemaker’s.

“A fine man, the king’s brother,” Morag said. “I would not have expected a nobleman to come to the aid of the likes of us.”

“Indeed.” Before they entered the candlemaker’s shop, Wulf ceased leaning on Morag and carried his own weight. “And we are quite fortunate
it was he who chanced upon us—few others would have believed the dead men were not the king’s guards. But William Dunkeld commands a garrison of the king’s guard.”

Morag preceded him up the stairs to their room. “They were minions of the man in black, I presume?”

“They did not introduce themselves,” Wulf said dryly. “But I’m not a great believer in chance.”

“Sit down,” Morag ordered as she closed the door. “Let me properly tend to that leg.”

“Nay,” he said. “I fear it may be time to return to Dunstoras. The cloak cannot be easily traced, and the danger of remaining in the burgh is high.”

She put a cool hand on his brow. “Are you feverish? Did you truly suggest we turn tail and run?”

He skewed her a hard stare. His true desire was to continue the search for the sigil. But . . . “Keeping you safe may be more challenging than I anticipated.”

“Ah, so you retreat for me? How sweet. You make my heart stir.”

She flattened her hand on his chest and pushed. It was not nearly the force required to move a man of his size, but Wulf allowed himself to be guided to the mattress. Seeing her freckled face alive and well, knowing that he had succeeded in protecting her, left a warm feeling in his chest that far outweighed the ache in his leg.

As she peeled back the bloodstained linen and bent over his thigh, he smoothed a hand over her black hair. “You are beautiful,” he declared.

One of her eyebrows lifted. “More beautiful today than yesterday?”

“Nay.” He frowned. “The same.”

She poured a bit of whiskey over the wound, and he grimaced. “Do you find disfavor with my response? Are you vexed?”

“What cause would I have to be vexed?”

A good question. To which he had no answer. He’d barely seen her all day. “None. Yet you seem a wee bit put out.”

She wrapped his leg with a clean linen strip, tied it neatly, and then stood up. “You very nearly died today,” she said, taking her flint from her purse and making a fire in the hearth.

“But I did not,” he pointed out.

“A fact for which I am most grateful,” she said. “But I willingly admit the notion of your passing is a distressing one. I am not vexed. I am simply aware that this night might have ended very differently.”

“Come here,” he commanded her.

She came to him, but her expression was uncertain.

When she stood between his parted legs, he took her hands in his. They were soft and gentle, like the woman herself. Morag made such a fine show of
being strong and carefree that even he occasionally forgot that it was all a facade. “Lass, I’ve vowed to remain by your side the whole of this journey. It will take more than a madman with a sword to make me break my vow. You ken?”

She smiled. All the way to her lovely green eyes.

“The timing of your death is not within your control, Wulf MacCurran. No matter how strong your will.”

“I disagree,” he said. “You must have faith that I’ll not leave you unprotected. ’Tis my duty to see you properly cared for, and I’ll not let you down.”

“Even if we must stay in Edinburgh another day?”

He rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles, loving the tenderness of her skin against the roughness of his. “Do we have a reason to stay?”

She nodded. “Master Parlan has agreed to examine the cloak. He knows well the work of the weavers in his guild, and he may be able to identify the maker of the cloak.”

Wulf’s hands tightened on Morag’s. “You should not have made any such inquiries. The man in black is clearly watching our every move.”

She shrugged. “I spoke to the head of the weavers’ guild and I am a weaver. There is nothing sinister in that. We agreed to meet at an alehouse to discuss the cloak.”

“Tonight?”

“Nay, on the morrow.”

Wulf lifted Morag’s hands and kissed the knuckles on one hand and then the other. Remaining in the burgh was risky. Were it only him, he would stay without qualm, but he had Morag to protect. Yet, how could he deny a valuable clue to his enemies’ identity?

“We’ll stay,” he said. “But you’ll not return to the market. You must remain at my side.”

Sliding to her knees and leaning into him, she closed the gap between their faces to mere inches. It was an intimate pose, and Wulf’s blood heated instinctively, forging a fiery trail through his body.

“Remaining at your side,” she said huskily, “is not the hardship you imagine.” Her lips found the edge of his jaw. The kiss she bestowed on him was sweet, soft . . . and hot.