by Rowan Keats
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.
He pressed his mouth against hers, demanding all she had to give. And when she opened to him with a soft mewl, he exulted.
Given free rein after so long under tight control, his muscles flexed with fierce sexual intent. He positioned one knee between her legs, leaned into her soft body, and rocked against the gathered material of her sark. Lost in the haze of his overwhelming need, he didn’t register the squeeze of her fingers on his forearm for a moment.
He was being too rough.
Wulf paused. His every breath a ragged draw, his every heartbeat a jolt of raw need, he gentled his hold on her. “Tell me what would please you,” he urged as his lips moved along her chin to the soft flesh beneath her ears.
“Don’t stop the kisses.” She gulped. “Just slow the motions below.”
Then she grabbed his chin and forced his lips back to hers. There was desperate hunger and need in her body, too. And he indulged her.
Sliding his hands down her generous hips and over the delicious roundness of her rump, he raised the hem of her sark until it bunched around her waist and the silky smoothness of her bare flesh was his to explore. He took a brief moment to savor the privilege, and then cupped her cheeks and hauled her up his body.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, an intimate hold that nearly undid him. He was already hard and aching, and the press of her feminine heat was almost more than he could bear. Blood pounded through his veins. The urge to take her fast and hard was fierce, but he tempered his desire. Pleasing Morag was far more important than pleasing himself.
But the effort took its toll.
His weak leg quivered with the strain.
Unwilling to risk a stumble with his precious woman in his arms, Wulf closed the gap between her back and the wall with a half step. He bumped the small table as he moved, but with his lips locked to hers and his hands kneading the exquisite curve of her arse, he barely noticed.
Until something crashed to the floor.
It was not the clink of pottery breaking or the dull thud of food falling. It was the sharp whack of wood on wood, followed by the rattle of contents spilling onto the floor.
Wulf froze.
Still breathing heavily, he pulled back from Morag’s mouth and glanced down. At his feet, and now at serious risk of being crushed, lay a scattering of wooden horses.
The toys he’d received from E
len’s father.
In an instant, the strange events of his day came flooding back, cooling his heated blood. The toys were a sharp reminder of how he’d failed Elen and his younger son, and a vivid reminder of the danger he presented to Morag.
Relaxing his hold on her, he gently lowered her to the floor.
“Why do you stop?” Morag asked. Her voice was husky with passion.
Unable to put his feelings into words, Wulf simply answered, “This is the wrong path.” Then he bent, scooped up the toys, and replaced them in the wooden box.
Morag’s dissatisfaction tugged at her pretty lips. She ran a light finger down his chest and over the hard muscles of his belly. “How can it be wrong if we both willingly choose it?”
He tucked the box into the bag, burrowing it deep in his clothing. Out of sight, but not out of mind. “I am no longer willing. I have told you that we must wait until I can avenge my family.”
Silence descended on the room.
Even Morag’s breathing had stopped.
Wulf spun around, realizing the impact of his words. “Tomorrow we will visit Marcus Rose and likely learn the name of our man in black. Then we can return to Dunstoras. All will sort itself out then.”
Her eyes were dark pools in the pale, freckled oval of her face. She shook her head. “This is all we have, Wulf. This journey, this room, this moment.”
He cupped her chin, rubbing a thumb over the satiny flesh of her lips, still plump from his kisses. “Have faith, lass.”
She pulled away, her eyes still sad.
“Time once flown can never be recaptured,” she said softly. “Remember that.”
Then she pushed past him and grabbed the jug of wine.
* * *
Morag waited in the cart while Wulf knocked on the herald’s door. Standing all day at the market would be taxing, but she had paid for another day in the weaver’s stall and she fully intended to make use of it. Without the fuss caused by yesterday’s encounter with the king’s wardrober, chances were good that she could sell another three or four bolts of cloth.
