by Rowan Keats
Having drawn the mercenaries’ attention away from her, he wasted no time.
Wielding his bronze-hilted sword like it was an extension of his arms, he swung the huge blade with such speed that it hummed in the air. The first mercenary went down midstride, never having met Wulf’s steel with his own. The pockmarked leader had better luck. He parried Wulf’s next swing with his sturdy short sword, the sharp blades sliding along each other with sparks a-flying.
In terms of sheer power, Wulf had the edge. He delivered a series of heavy strikes that pounded his opponent’s defenses and forced the man back, leaving him less and less room to maneuver.
But the mercenary was aware of Wulf’s weak leg. His swings were calculated to extend Wulf on the left side, and eventually his strategy gained him the edge he needed—Wulf’s leg buckled slightly, allowing the mercenary to escape the torrent of blows. He ducked to the right and put the table between himself and Wulf.
Morag found herself staring at the man’s trew-clad legs.
Remembering the sharp yank on her hair, she felt for the wee knife she kept at her belt. A mere three inches long, and dull from cutting yarn, it was hardly a reliable weapon. But if she could aid Wulf at all, it would be worth the effort. Wrapping her fist firmly around the short handle, she drove the blade into the mercenary’s calf.
He howled.
But instead of hopping away or pausing to pull the small blade free, as she expected, he shoved the table toward Wulf and grabbed for Morag. Hauling her to her feet, he yanked her to his shoulder and laid his sword blade along her throat.
“Stand down or she dies,” he said to Wulf.
Wulf did not lower his weapon. He slowly walked out from behind the table, keeping a wide gap between them, and studied the mercenary with icy calm. “Step away from her now, and I may be persuaded to spare your life.”
The mercenary snorted. “Let us not waste words. Whether the girl lives or dies is up to me. If you value her at all, you’ll lay down your weapon.”
Morag stared at Wulf. Although she knew there was a chance she would die, she did not dwell on it. Balancing her weight carefully on one leg, she lifted her other boot slightly to hint to Wulf what she was about to do. Then she kicked backward, aiming for the wood-handled knife she’d planted in the mercenary’s leg.
Wulf surged forward at precisely the same moment. When the mercenary flinched from the sudden jab in his leg, Wulf knocked the sword from the man’s loosened grip with a solid strike of his pommel, narrowly avoiding a cut to Morag’s throat. Morag ducked clear and darted for the farthest corner of the bothy.
That should have been the end, but the pockmarked man refused to yield.
He feinted to the right, picked up his fallen comrade’s weapon, and attacked Wulf anew.
It was a pointless effort. Wulf was larger, stronger, and clearly angry. As their blade edges slid against each other, he hooked his quillon on his opponent’s crossguard and yanked the weapon free of the man’s grasp. It hit the iron cauldron with a loud clang and slid into the fire pit.
Even swordless, the pock-faced man’s resolve did not waver. He yanked his hunting knife from the sheath at his belt and took a slice at Wulf’s arm. The blow landed true, and blood bloomed on the sleeve of Wulf’s cream-colored lèine.
Wulf responded swiftly.
With a rueful but determined expression on his handsome face, he swung his sword one last time and took the man down. The wretch finally met his end. He stiffened under the blow, then collapsed, the light of life fading from his pockmarked face. As the fellow dropped to the ground, Wulf spun to face Morag. The look in his eyes was fierce, but protective, and her pulse fluttered.
“Are you injured?”
“Nay,” she said, easing away from the wall. Now that the danger was over, her arms and legs quivered like jelly.
He stepped over the two bodies and crossed the room with strong, purposeful strides. Fool that she was, she could not help but admire the play of muscles in his powerful legs as he gained on her. Few men were blessed with such a vigorous form.
Wulf halted in front of her, only inches away.
As serious as she’d ever seen him, he ran a callused thumb over the crest of her cheek.
Then he cupped her head in his large hands and slowly tugged her forward. His lips found hers in a passionate embrace that turned her world upside down. It was the kiss she had been longing for—hot and wild and dangerous—but it was also the kiss she knew should never happen. There was no chance for a life with Wulf. She was a woman branded as a harlot, and he was cousin to a laird and father to a bright young lad. His time with her would be brief; of that she was certain. Just long enough to break her heart, if she let him. But all her carefully reasoned thoughts took wing as his mouth slid roughly along hers. Instead, yearning mixed with wonder and breathlessness mingled with joy.
For a blissful moment, Morag simply surrendered to the sweet friction of their joined lips. There was nothing she wanted more than this man and this kiss. The sureness of his hands, the manly scent of his skin, and the sheer wonder of his firm lips on hers almost made her forget the two dead bodies lying on her floor.
Almost.
With a soft moan of regret, she flattened both palms against the solid planes of his chest and pushed. Had it been a matter of strength, her efforts would have been for naught—Wulf’s power far exceeded hers. But the moment he felt her resistance, he broke off the kiss and stepped back.
Morag pointed to the fallen men. “Even mercenaries deserve a burial.”
Wulf shrugged. “Not when they prey on women.”
“Aye, even then. Take them outside.”
“For you, I will.” He reached for the body of the pockmarked man, then said, “This is a fine cloak for a simple soldier.”
“I noted the same myself. Perhaps he stole it from some other hapless soul.”
He unpinned the cloak from the man’s neck and handed her the cloth. “Or perhaps he’s no simple soldier.”
Morag took the cloak, eyeing it for bloodstains. There were several small ones, but overall the cloth was clean. It was a fine, tight weave, brushed to a smooth finish. Not made in Dunstoras, likely. There were only three skilled weavers in the glen, including herself, and none of them made such simple but elegant cloth. Morag folded the cloak and set it aside.
Wulf heaved the body over his shoulder and headed for the door.
“What’s that?” she asked sharply, as a black-and-gold crest bobbed in front of her eyes.
He stopped and turned around. “What is what?”
She darted forward, pointing to the man’s sark. “This sigil. I’ve seen it before. On the night you were nearly killed. One of the men who attacked you wore it.”
Wulf frowned and lowered the man to the ground. “Are you certain?”
“Aye. I’d forgotten it till now, but I saw it clearly in the moonlight as they rode away.”
He crouched and fingered the crest. “It’s not familiar to me.”
“Perhaps the laird would recognize it.”
“Perhaps.”
Morag saw wariness creep over Wulf’s features. He returned to the castle every few days to visit with his son, Jamie, but save for that, he preferred to avoid his kin. “This is the first clue we’ve had to what happened that night,” she urged softly.
He took his knife and cut the crest from the dead man’s sark. “Aye, and I’ll follow it to its bitter end, have no doubt.”
“So you’ll go to Dunstoras?”
“Aye,” he said, pushing to his feet. “And you’ll come with me.”
“Nay,” she protested. “You know I’m not welcome there save on market day.”
He sent her a long, quiet look. “I cannot leave you here alone.”
“I’ve lived alone in these woods for over four years.”
“And today was very nearly your last. I’ll not hear your nays. You’ll come with me, and that is all there is to be said.”
Wulf sp
oke softly, but Morag did not mistake that softness for leniency. The set of his shoulders and the look in his eyes told her he would not give, no matter how long or how vociferously she argued. But walking into the village and facing the accusing eyes of her detractors made her stomach heave.
She met his blue-eyed gaze and nodded.
It seemed they both had reason to make this visit to Dunstoras a short one.
Chapter 3
The inner close of Dunstoras keep bustled with the quiet energy of souls replete with a midday meal. Villeins went about their tasks with purpose, but their paces were languid and their smiles frequent. Only a few short weeks after their return to the keep, few signs remained of the hardships the MacCurrans had endured as an outlawed clan.
Wulf placed a hand on the small of Morag’s back and guided her toward the stairs to the donjon. Even though he remembered nothing of his life within these walls, he felt a stir of pride when he gazed upon the tower. It was both a practical keep capable of withstanding a siege and a visual pleasure, with its pale gray walls pointing to the heavens.
“The laird will likely be inside,” he said.
Morag halted abruptly, a frown upon her face. “I cannot simply march up to the laird and speak my piece.”
“Aye, you can.”
She shook her head. “I’ve not the right to be heard.”
“Your right is assured. You are with me.”
“That may have worked at the gate,” she said. “But the laird is no weak-kneed lad to be cowed by a fierce stare. He knows I’ve been cast out.”
Wulf turned his fierce stare on Morag. “You have news of importance. He will see you.”
“Then you go. Speak with him first. If he agrees to hear me, send a lad to fetch me. I’ll wait for you in this very spot.”
Wulf frowned. This very spot was a muddy patch in the middle of the close. Unprotected. Vulnerable. “Are you certain? I am reluctant to leave you alone.”
Morag did not falter under his steely gaze. “I’m certain.”
“Then I will bow to your wishes.” He scanned the close. There were no obvious dangers to Morag—no glaring matrons, no rood-wielding holy men. “The laird will want to hear the tale from your own lips, but first I must find him.”
“Perhaps he’s lingering in the donjon after the midday meal?”
“Perhaps.” Wulf drew Morag into the shade of the stable. He cupped her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Remain here in the shadows, and like as not you’ll go without notice until I return.”
She sighed. “Just be quick.”
He dropped his hand, gave her a short smile, and jogged across the close to the donjon. He had no intention of remaining in the keep any longer than was necessary. Inside, a dozen gillies were cleaning away the tables after the midday meal, but other than that the hall was empty. Not a sign of the laird to be seen.
Waylaying a young lass on her way to the kitchens with an armful of soiled linens, he asked, “Where might the laird be?”
She pointed to the stairs. “He and Niall went up a few moments ago. To the solar.”
She turned away, clearly thinking he knew where the solar might be. Which he had, only a few months past. But no longer. Since his return, he’d limited his exploration of the keep to the great hall and a chamber on the third floor. “Where is the solar?” he asked.
She halted and turned back to him, a furious blush in her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Master Wulf. I forgot for a wee moment. On the second floor, at the end of the hall.”
He tossed her a smile of forgiveness, then took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. Niall answered his knock.
“Now, there’s the lad we need,” the lean soldier said, opening the door wide. “We could use your help with the plans for the new wall.”
“I’ve a better topic for discussion,” Wulf said, entering the well-appointed room that served as a retreat for the laird and his family. High-backed chairs placed before the fire, colorful tapestries on the walls, and sweet-smelling rushes on the floor lent an air of warmth and welcome. To those who belonged.
He dragged his gaze away from the room’s comforts and crossed the planking to a table where Aiden was bent over a sketch of the castle’s defenses. He tossed the sigil under the laird’s nose. “What clan does this represent?”
Aiden straightened, staring at the black-and-gold symbol with a frown. “The head of a bear on a broken shield? I know not.” He picked up the scrap of cloth. “Why do you ask?”
“We were attacked by two men this morn, and one wore these arms.”
Both Aiden and Niall stiffened at the word attacked.
Niall asked, “Since their identities are still a mystery, I assume neither man survived?”
Wulf shook his head. “They would not surrender.”
Aiden offered the scrap to Wulf. “’Tis likely they were simply thieves.”
“Nay,” disputed Wulf. “Morag spied those same arms on the night the queen’s necklace was stolen.” The same night his wife and wee son were slain. But he couldn’t bring himself to utter those words.
The laird gave the sigil a second look. “She’s certain?”
“Aye. She’s in the close, if you wish to query her accounting of that night.”
Aiden nodded. “That I will. But first we must determine to whom the sigil belongs.”
“You’re of a mind that it belongs to the man in black,” guessed Niall.
“Wulf chased the murderer out into the night,” said Aiden, his fists tightening on the cloth. “Is it not likely that he was felled by the wretch? This is the first real clue we’ve had since we found the black wolf cloak. Fetch Lady Isabail’s herald and we will plumb the bottom of this well of deceit.”
* * *
Morag was not one to fidget.
She knew her own mind and rarely had reason to debate the wisdom of her actions. But today she stood in an uncomfortable spot. The path past the stables was a popular route for villagers seeking baked goods from the keep kitchens. As yet another pair of women passed her by with furtive glances and heavy frowns, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Why had she promised Wulf she would remain? The terms of her shunning were clear—she was permitted to live in the glen, but she was not to visit the village or the castle save on faire days, and then only so long as was needed to trade her cloth for necessities.
Morag hollowed out a spot in the hay pile and leaned against the stable wall.
The other problem with her chosen spot appeared a moment later. Tomas the bread baker strode past her, heading for the kitchens. The burly young man failed to notice her in the shadows until he was nigh on past her. Then he drew up short, a shocked expression on his face.
“What are you doing inside the keep?” he demanded.
Morag held her ground, although every instinct told her to run. “I’ve accompanied Wulf MacCurran on a matter of some urgency.”
He scanned the close. “A fine story, save there’s no Wulf about to verify its truth.”
“He’s gone inside to fetch the laird.”
“You grow bolder with every lie,” he scoffed. “Get thee gone before I call for the warden.”
Morag straightened and faced the young man she’d once hoped to wed. “If ever there was a bold liar, Tomas, it was you. It was your viper-tongued falsehoods that led to my shunning.”
His hands fisted and his face boiled red. “They were not falsehoods. You lay with me and then you lay with Peadar. You fucked my brother not three months after you swore you loved me.”
Amazingly, his words still cut deep, even after all this time. They were a bitter reminder of how young and foolish she’d been, and how misplaced her faith. Tomas had melted her heart with honeyed words, a crooked smile, and a whispered vow of marriage—only to spurn her the very next day, gloating over how easy she’d been to gull. Taking solace in Peadar’s arms had been another mistake, but it had been Tomas who had shattered her girlish illusions. “’Twas you who s
purned me, Tomas. After I lay with you and spoke those words, you told me you’d never wed me. Indeed, you said you’d have nothing further to do with me.”
“Because you’re a whore.”
“Nay, I was simply a foolish girl charmed by a man who only wanted to slip his cock between the legs of every girl in the village.”
His nostrils flared. “You took payment.”
“I took nothing,” Morag refuted strongly. “You gave me that brooch as a gift—before I slept with you.”
“You are a lying quim,” he snarled. “And the warden will support my claim.”
“What’s going on here?”
Morag spun around. A lovely blond woman stood immediately behind her, having just exited the stables. It was a woman she recognized, having last seen her a month ago, looking rather bedraggled. Nothing like she looked now. Today her hair was elegantly coiffed and her dark burgundy gown was unstained and wrinkle free. “Lady Macintosh,” she acknowledged, offering a light curtsy.
The lady’s cool blue gaze bored through her for a moment; then she nodded. “Morag, is it?”
“Aye.”
Lady Macintosh turned her attention to Tomas. “And you are the baker’s journeyman.”
“Aye, your ladyship,” he said, bowing. “Tomas.”
“What seems to be the difficulty? Your raised voices can be heard clear across the close.”
Tomas responded before Morag had a chance to speak. “This . . . person . . . is not to be within the keep walls save on faire days, by order of the laird.”
Lady Macintosh’s eyebrows rose delicately on her face. “Truly? The current laird made this ruling?”
“Nay,” Tomas admitted. “The old laird.”
The lady smiled nicely. “Then I shall take this situation in hand personally, and resolve it. Thank you, Tomas. You may return to the kitchens.”
He hesitated, clearly interested in adding to his arguments, but the lady’s dismissal left him no options. He bowed and departed.
“I owe you a great debt,” the lady said quietly. “Were it not for the aid you lent me that night, all of this”—she waved her hand at the keep around them—“might belong to the Comyns, and young Jamie would likely have lost his life.”
