by Rowan Keats
They trudged in silence for a while, wending a path up rocky hills, down grassy gullies, and through the thickest part of the forest. When they broke from the trees into a wee meadow filled with wildflowers, Wulf stopped and set her loom down.
“This is it,” he proclaimed. “The loch is over yon brae, and the auld broch is a half league to the east.”
Morag slowly spun around. Her imagination built a bothy with a pretty thatched roof and a painted door. It was perfect. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be by every other Sunday to do the heavier chores,” he said. “Until you’re settled.”
“I’m grateful for your aid,” she said. “But do not risk your uncle’s wrath on my account.”
Wulf shrugged. “Laird Duncan often has opinions that do not match my own. I follow my honor.”
“And your wife? Would she not be concerned to hear you offering your services to me?”
He smiled. “Nay. She’ll be of like mind to me. Elen is a practical lass. She’d see your loss as a loss for Dunstoras. There are too few weavers of any skill in the glen.” He pointed to the edge of the tree line. “Come. We’ll build a small shelter there to keep the rain off.”
It took them the better part of the day to fashion a lean-to that could weather a strong wind. By the time the sun slipped below the tops of the trees, Morag had a roof, a pallet, and a cooking pit. Wulf had given her plenty of advice on how to structure the bothy, and had even begun the task of gathering stones for the base.
“I must be off, lass,” he said, slinging his bow over his shoulder once more. “Will you fare well?”
Morag grabbed his hand. “Aye, I will. And I’ve you to thank for that. You’ve aided me more than you’ll ever know this day, and I doubt I’ll be able to return the gift.”
He gave her a serious look. “Survive, and that will be gift enough.”
Then he set off across the meadow.
Morag watched him until the verdant shadows of the woods swallowed him. He’d given his time and advice without asking for anything in return. He’d accepted her without judging. And he’d spoken of his wife with kindness and respect. What a truly intriguing man. Had he not already been wed, she might easily lose her heart to Wulf MacCurran.
* * *
Morag listened to the deep, even breaths of the man sleeping beside her in the bed. She had learned to call him Magnus—a necessary chore while Tormod MacPherson had held the glen, pledging to slay all MacCurrans—but in her heart, he was and always would be Wulf.
When she found him down by the loch, beaten and bloodied and near death, saving him had not been a conscious choice. Aye, the risks were great. But no greater than the risks he’d taken to support her when she’d been shunned. MacPherson’s men had stormed her bothy several times, never quite believing her tale of being wed to a lame farmer. Thanks to Wulf’s lost memories and the name he had assumed, that story had been impossible to dispute, and eventually the soldiers had ceased to bother them.
Morag sighed and rolled onto her back.
Wulf’s naked heat was only an inch away, a powerful temptation. She threaded her fingers together and laid her hands carefully—and safely—on her chest.
In some ways, things had been easier when MacPherson had commanded Dunstoras. Certainly she’d been less tormented by guilt. Healing Wulf and avoiding trouble had been all she worried about. But MacPherson and his army had vacated the glen a month ago, and the MacCurrans had returned to the castle, welcomed by the new owner, Lady Isabail Macintosh. Wulf ought to be living there now, surrounded by those who called him kin. But he’d chosen to stay with her, and no amount of discussion had thus far swayed him to change his mind.
She drew in a deep breath, savoring the warm, male scent that was uniquely Wulf. A mix of earth and spice that reminded her of sweet sage.
Perhaps she hadn’t tried hard enough. Lord knew, she dreaded the day he would depart. But she knew well that he wasn’t hers to hold. He never had been. All those Sundays when he’d stopped by to help her, he’d been nothing but respectful and friendly and eager to return home. It was she who had waited with anticipation for his arrival, she who had begged his opinion of her new cloth designs, she who had lain awake at night wishing she were Elen MacCurran.
Genuine sorrow pinched her nose tight. Terribly unfair, the fate of his wife.
A better woman would force Wulf to leave. Drive him away with cruel words—back to his kin. But she could not. Hurting him, even for his own good, was simply not possible. Not after all the kindness he’d shown her, not after all the counsel he’d given her.
Morag put her fingers to her lips.
Not if it meant losing a chance for one more kiss.
Chapter 2
Morag sat back and studied the cloth taking shape on her vertical loom. She ran her fingers over the soft pattern of green, blue, black, and red threads. The hues were aligned in neat vertical and horizontal bands of varying widths, and the result was every bit as unique and lovely as the fine twill weaves her father had been renowned for.
She gave a low sound of satisfaction and resumed her task, wending the woof swiftly through the warp, lifting and lowering the four heddle sticks as needed. She wove four threads of black wool, then twenty threads of blue.
Wulf had left the bothy immediately after breaking their fast to snare a hare for their supper pot. A good thing, really. His presence wreaked havoc upon her concentration. Instead of carefully tracking the thread counts, she found herself dwelling on the faint curve of his smile, or the splendid contours of his manly shoulders, or the rasp and rumble of his deep male voice. But market day was fast approaching, and a half-finished cloth would not buy them oats for their bannock or candles to burn after dark. Fortunately, with him gone, the cloth on her loom called to her, daring her to bring it to life.
Twenty threads of black, twenty-four of green, four of red.
Each spool of wool that fed her loom was dyed by her own hand, using the tinctures her father had developed, and watching the vivid pattern emerge sent a wave of pure joy washing over her. There was nothing so rewarding as seeing the image in her head take shape on the rack.
With a sigh of contentment, she threw herself wholeheartedly into her weaving.
So lost in her design was she that when the door to the bothy crashed open, Morag fell off her stool.
Heart pounding, she scrambled to her feet and faced her intruders. Two armed strangers stood in the doorway, garbed in the tunics and trews of Lowlanders. She’d spied many such men in the glen when Tormod MacPherson had held Dunstoras Castle for the king, but his mercenaries had departed weeks ago, replaced by Highlanders loyal to Isabail Macintosh. Without taking her eyes off the intruders, she sent a quick prayer skyward. Now would be a fine time for Wulf to return.
“On what authority do you enter my home unbidden?” she demanded, doing her best to tame the quaver in her voice. Chances were poor that they held any authority at all, but she could hope.
The larger of the two men answered, “My own.”
Morag could see little of his features, just a halo of bright sunlight around the dark silhouette of his form. But there was no disguising the threat he posed. She tossed aside her shuttle and grabbed the long-handled broom leaning against the wall. Not the most intimidating of weapons, but it was the only thing within easy reach. “And who might you be?”
“My name matters not,” he said. “Yield and your life will be spared.”
Morag swallowed tightly, her throat suddenly dry. A cotter living off the land was rarely in possession of coin, so there was only one other thing these men might be seeking from a woman alone in the woods . . . and she wasn’t willing to give it over. But her hopes of besting two armed men in a battle of strength were slim.
She steadied her grip on the broom.
There was still a slight chance they could be persuaded to leave. “What is it you seek? I’ve no coin, but I’ll willingly give all the food and water that I have.”
The leader stepped closer, and his features surfaced out of the gloom. A pockmarked face, long tawny hair, and an ankle-length dove gray cloak. He carried his weapon with the unconscious ease of a hardened soldier, but it was the cold cruelty in his eyes that made Morag’s heart sink. In his mind, her fate was already sealed.
“We’ve no interest in your food,” he said. Signaling to his cohort to go left, he advanced another step.
“Food is all I’m prepared to give,” she said firmly. The bothy was small—a fact she often rued, but not today. The door was a mere four paces away, but the fire pit and a heavy iron cauldron lay between her and escape. “My husband will return anon. You’d best be away.”
He grinned. “Your husband? You mean the strapping lad with the lame leg?”
Her heart flopped. Dear Lord. Had they already encountered Wulf? Laid him low in some shadowed part of the wood? “You won’t want to vex him,” she said, her palms suddenly cold with sweat. “His tolerance for lackwits is low.”
A snort of laughter filled the bothy. “We watched him hobble up yon hill. He won’t be so difficult to best.”
Morag breathed a sigh of relief and banished the image of Wulf falling victim to a well-placed sword with the same determination with which she had built this bothy. Stone by stone. Thatch by thatch. Wulf had regained most of his strength these past four months. He was a far cry from the badly injured man she’d dragged home from the edge of the loch last November. While it was true that his left leg hadn’t fully recovered, he was yet a formidable warrior.
“Give me the broom,” the pockmarked man coaxed, stretching out his hand, palm open.
Morag slapped his fingertips. Hard.
“He’ll be sore enough to discover that you’ve given me a fright,” she warned. She would not be able to keep them at bay for much longer. If only she knew when Wulf would return. How long had he been gone? One hour? Two? “But if you harm me, he’ll not quit until he sees me avenged.”
Morag jabbed her stick toward the leader, urging him to step back. He held his ground. His eyes were not on the broom, but on her face, and Morag knew he was gauging his best moment to snatch the broom from her hands. She pulled back sharply, terrified of losing her weapon.
“Get thee gone,” she snarled.
Her only hope of escape was to run. Backward was not an option—the roof thatching was thick and firmly attached. Wulf had seen to that once he was on his feet. So it had to be forward. But was she sufficiently fleet of foot to round the fire pit and elude the two men?
And what would she do if she miraculously succeeded?
She had no plan for such an event. No hidden weapon, no place to hide.
Morag bit her lip. Foolish lass. She’d never truly worried about brigands and thieves. In the beginning, Wulf had kept a watchful eye upon her and ensured that her part of the forest was well protected. Under MacPherson’s rule, she’d been so occupied with Wulf’s recovery that escape had never crossed her mind. These days the glen was a quieter place, but Lady Macintosh’s men were too busy with repairs to the keep and the village blackhouses to be riding regular patrols.
Her gaze flickered to the open door, and back to the pockmarked man.
He smiled. “Too late for that, lass.”
Without further warning, he stepped toward her, grabbed the broom, and yanked it away, skinning her palms. Tossing the stick aside, he thrust a hand into her long black hair, snaring a sturdy hold. Then he pulled her to his chest with a forceful tug.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she did not surrender her freedom willingly. Fighting with wild desperation, she raked her fingernails across his face and dug into his eyes with her thumbs. The mercenary loosened his hold on her. Morag bolted for the door.
Praying that Wulf was somewhere nearby, she screamed his name.
“Wulf!”
* * *
Wulf stared at his reflection in the calm, sunlit loch. It was a handsome enough face, pleasantly square and even. And it was familiar. Comfortingly so. But he struggled with the knowledge that it belonged to a man he didn’t really know. He’d adopted the name of Magnus when he’d awoken with no memories, but Wulf MacCurran was his true name. He was cousin to the laird and father to a fine lad, but four months after an attack that had left him near dead, he still could not remember one moment of the life he’d led before waking in Morag’s bed.
Dipping a hand, he scattered the image and scooped up some water.
The water was icy cold as it slid down his throat, despite the hint of spring in the air.
The Fates had reunited him with his clan last month, which should have brought peace to his lost soul. Instead, it had left him more unsettled than before. Nothing about Dunstoras was familiar, even though he’d been assured by all that he and his family had roomed there before the hateful night that stole his life away. So he had returned to Morag’s bothy. Chopping wood, hunting for food, and repairing her home gave him purpose—a purpose that seemed more in line with his inner beliefs than living in a castle.
Wulf abruptly pushed to his feet, his hands fisting. He attempted a smooth stand, but his left leg betrayed him, quivering in protest. The hare hanging from his belt swung wildly as he stumbled. It was a lean offering for Morag’s stew pot, but he’d been lucky to snare anything this close to the bothy after MacPherson’s army had decamped. Two hundred men trudging east toward MacPherson land had scattered the wildlife far and wide.
He stilled the swing of the hare and retraced his steps along the pebbled beach.
With his hunt complete, logic suggested he return promptly. The sooner the rabbit was in the stew, the more savory it would become. But of late, Morag had been staring at her loom with wistful intent. Cloth was her primary offering on market days, but the looks of longing he’d caught on her face told him weaving was more than simply a trade for her. She drew pleasure from it. If his presence caused her to forgo her weaving, she’d come to resent him in time. And resentment was not the emotion he wished to cultivate in his lovely, dark-haired benefactress.
But how long should he stay away?
He glanced up.
It was midday now, the sun high in the sky. Was the morning enough? It was hard to know. Although she rarely sat at the loom while he was present, when she did, she displayed an incredible talent he could barely fathom. Changing colored threads without pause, moving sticks up and down, and sliding the shuttle from one side of the loom to the other at blurring speed clearly required a quick mind and nimble fingers. The cloth that developed at the top was, to his mind, a miracle.
His feet turned in the direction of the bothy.
One peek inside the hut would settle the issue. If she was yet enthralled in her weaving, he’d grab a bannock and some cheese, and head back into the wilds.
At the bottom of a woodland hill, about two furlongs from the bothy, he paused and frowned. In the soft mud of the path, the print of a boot heel was clearly outlined. It was too small to be his boot heel and too big to be Morag’s. And given the heavy downpour of last eve, such a crisp print could only have been made that day.
Wulf’s gaze lifted.
There was no sign of movement in the trees, but his heartbeat quickened anyway. Morag was alone. And he’d left his sword hidden in the woodpile behind the bothy.
He set off at a run.
Or as close to a run as he could manage. His left leg proved uncooperative, wobbling with every stride and sending shards of excruciating pain to his hip with every attempt to hold his full weight. He was forced to slow to a hobbled jog, and even then the pain was biting. Still, he made it to the clearing in good time, pausing at the edge of the trees.
The door to the hut hung open, the interior a dark shadow.
The open door was not, of itself, a bad omen. Morag might simply have chosen to partake of the sunshine and the unusually warm day. But he could not hear the clack-clack of the loom in operation; nor could he hear her humming, as she was wont to do when busy with a task.
The sharp crack of wood on wood reverberated inside the bothy.
Wulf’s grip tightened on the sword. ’Twas not the sound of something falling, but the sound of something thrown with great force. But as ominous as that sound was, it did not prepare him for what he heard next.
“Wulf!”
His heart sank into his boots. The raw desperation in Morag’s voice could not be mistaken. She was in dire straits. Oblivious to the cramps that shot up his leg, Wulf ran for the cottage door at full speed. When he entered, it took precious long moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Masking his inability to see well, he halted just inside the door, planted both feet wide, and challenged his opponent with cold, lethal intent.
* * *
Morag made it as far as the table before the smaller of the two mercenaries grabbed her skirts and whipped her off balance. She collided with the table, then spun sideways into the wall. Pain exploded in her skull, and black spots filled her vision. The dirt floor rose up to meet her and she hit it hard, all the air in her chest expelling with a low moan.
A guttural roar of fury came from the door of the bothy. Both mercenaries spun around at the sound, and Morag took advantage of their surprise. She rolled under the table. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the mighty warrior filling the open doorway. Her heart leapt. Wulf. He’d come for her, just as she’d prayed. But this was a version of Wulf she hadn’t seen since the night he was attacked and left for dead—bristling with rage, every muscle pumped and ready. His lips were a grim slash on his face, his eyes dark with lethal fury.
