by Rowan Keats
She smiled. “Och, now. That’s only because you’ve never seen me swived.”
A chuckle broke from his lips. “Are you game, then?”
“Aye. I like a man who finishes what he starts.”
He nudged her legs wider apart and gave her a wicked grin. Positioning himself at the apex of her thighs, he drove in hard and deep.
Morag took him fully, wrapping her legs around him as he entered, and lifting her hips to give him all that she had. Heart and soul.
As he was with everything, Wulf was a skilled lover. He wove delight through her as ably as she wove cloth—with a series of smooth, deep strokes that reached some hidden spot inside her and made her body sing. A thin film of sweat broke out on both their bodies as he pumped into her and ground against her mons.
The tension in her belly grew again, promising an even bigger release. Morag urged Wulf on with her heels and soft, eager moans. In perfect unison, breath equally ragged, they met each other stroke for stroke and beat for beat. When they reached the peak, they reached it together. The sound of Wulf’s low growl of satisfaction was all it took to send Morag spiraling into oblivion.
As she slowly came back to the moment, Morag snuggled close to Wulf’s body. The solid thump of his heart echoed in her ear, and she found true contentment for the first time since her father had deserted them.
Love truly could heal wounds.
Chapter 10
Dunkeld strode down the corridor, his gold cape flapping behind him. MacCurran had not recognized him. There had been nothing in his eyes to suggest hatred or bitterness. But the man had seen him clearly the night the queen’s necklace was stolen; he was certain of it.
What kind of devilry was at play?
He had thought the throne room was empty when he entered, but as he approached the carved wooden chair with its lion feet and its seat above the squared Stone of Scone, Dunkeld spied a man standing beneath the fan of halberds hanging on the wall.
A brown-haired man with a cup of wine in hand.
“Your Grace,” Dunkeld said, offering a bow.
His brother waved at the side table. “I am indulging in a glass of fine French wine,” he said. “Join me.”
Dunkeld poured himself a glass. “I thought you were headed for Kinghorn.”
Alexander nodded. “I had hoped to depart today, but my council is insisting on a review of the succession plan. The earls descend upon Edinburgh as we speak.”
“Are matters not settled?” Dunkeld took his cup across the room and ran a hand over the arm of the throne. “Have they not already agreed that young Princess Margaret is your heir?”
“They have,” the king acknowledged. “But with Yolande quick with child, they are eager to name a new heir. One who is already on Scottish soil and not the offspring of a hated Norse raider.”
“What is there to discuss?” Dunkeld asked. “If a child is born to Yolande, you will have a new heir.”
Alexander nodded. “They fight over who would guide that heir during the minority should I pass prematurely, as my father did.”
Our father, Dunkeld was tempted to snap. But he held his tongue, as he’d done for so many years. Because the best reward would be seeing the look on his brother’s face when he realized all his offspring were in the grave, and he was at Dunkeld’s mercy.
“Fear not,” Dunkeld said. “I am, as always, willing to serve Alba.”
Alexander’s smile faltered. “We’ve discussed this, William. I cannot name you a guardian of Scotland. The earls are reluctant to see a chance-bairn of my father gain influence over the throne. Had he acknowledged you, it would be different. But he did not.”
Hot rage seared through Dunkeld’s veins, and his fingers clenched around the arm of the throne. He was the eldest son. It should be he who sat upon the Stone of Destiny, not Alexander. His mother was no serving girl; she was the daughter of an earl. A Comyn. He had been born to her after the childless Queen Joan had passed and before his father’s marriage to Marie de Coucy. She and his father had never been wed, but the pope would have granted legitimacy to him and his sister Marjorie had MacCurran not interfered.
Dunkeld forced himself to release the arm of the throne and turn slowly to face his brother.
“You could sway them, if you chose.”
“There is no need,” Alexander said. “You already hold a privileged position in my retinue.”
Aye. As lackey and bootlicker. But those roles would not satisfy him any longer. “My desire is only to see Scotland avoid the turmoil a lack of clear heir would cause,” he said smoothly. “The bickering among the earls prior to your birth was unprecedented.”
Alexander nodded and took a long swallow of wine. A sad look passed over his face. “To see two sons in the grave is a blow beyond imagining. I never thought to find myself without a male heir.”
Forcing a sympathetic frown to his face, Dunkeld left the throne and walked to his brother’s side. He put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “A tragedy, to be sure. But I’m confident Yolande carries a son.”
The king covered Dunkeld’s hand with his own. “I pray that you are right.”
“She is young and healthy. And Father produced a son late in his life. There can be no doubt.”
Alexander turned away and placed his cup of wine on the table. “She has brought me back from the edge of despair,” he admitted. “Her beauty and grace have enthralled me, and if she delivers a son, I will honor her as no king has honored his queen before.”
Staring at the king’s back, Dunkeld barely contained a grimace. Alexander imagined himself in love with Yolande, and had spent countless hours in her company—and in her bed. Dunkeld did not see the woman’s appeal. Her English was poor, and she was constantly chattering to her handmaidens in French. And she was too thin.
But none of that would matter in a few days.
When Yolande and her unborn child were dead, his brother would turn to him for solace—as he had done upon the deaths of his two sons. That would be the moment to press the issue of adding Dunkeld to the list of successors. Not now.
“We shall all honor her,” Dunkeld said, raising his glass. “Long live the king.”
It was clear that MacCurran had to die. Whether or not he had recognized Dunkeld, only a fool would allow such an obvious risk to his future to exist. He knew where MacCurran was staying—the man had kindly given him that information—and now it was time to tighten the noose about the miserable wretch’s neck. And raise his estimation in the eyes of the king at the same time.
“I have some rather encouraging news, sire,” he said. “I’ve stymied a MacCurran plot against your life. One of the MacCurran’s finest warriors has been found hiding in the burgh. He slayed a number of your guards in north town this day, but his arrest is imminent.”
Alexander frowned. “Here in Edinburgh?”
“I’m afraid so. Their boldness knows no bounds, Your Grace.”
“You serve me well, brother. As always.” He crossed the room to Dunkeld’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder. “A strong message must be sent to those who would do us injury. A public hanging is warranted, I believe.”
Dunkeld smiled.
“I would agree, sire. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
* * *
At the first stomp of boots on the stairs, Wulf rolled from his bed and snatched up his sword from the floor. His wound throbbed, but his immediate thought was for Morag’s safety.
“Lass,” he called quietly. “Rise up.”
She sat up, her black hair spilling over her naked shoulders. “What is it?”
“Do as I say, quickly now,” he said. “Take the blanket and your gown and go out the window. Move swiftly. Head for Dunstoras and don’t look back. You ken?”
Boot steps echoed in the hallway.
Morag surged to her feet and rushed for the window. Although she was rarely without a word of argument, this night she did exactly as he bade and climbed out the window without a f
uss. She dropped to the dirt just as the door to their chamber burst open and six armed guards poured into the tiny room.
Like the men he’d fought in the wynd, these men also wore the tabard of the king’s guard, but this time no one drew a sword. They merely put hands to hilts and readied themselves for battle. One of the guards addressed him.
“Wulf MacCurran, lay down your weapon. By order of the king, you are to be taken to Edinburgh Castle, where you will be held until your hanging for crimes against the crown.”
He eyed the soldiers one by one and debated his chances for escape.
The captain of the guard accurately guessed his thoughts. “I have another dozen guards downstairs. Escape is impossible. Come quietly, or we will be delivering you to the castle in a shroud.”
Wulf laid his sword on the floor and kicked it behind him. Going peacefully would allow Morag the chance to properly disappear. She was a resourceful lass, and with any luck she’d hire a man to take her back to Dunstoras to share the news of his capture with Aiden.
Two guards grabbed his arms and roped them behind his back. They allowed him to slip his feet into his boots, and then they marched him down the stairs and out of the candlemaker’s shop.
The candlemaker shook his head as Wulf passed. “An outlaw. I thought myself a good judge of face.”
The night was still dark, and although Wulf quickly scanned the wynd for sign of Morag, he saw nothing. He prayed that she’d made good her escape and was now well away from the shop. The candlemaker would not hesitate to call for the authorities if he spotted her.
But where would she go? Whom would she turn to for help?
Wulf closed his eyes briefly.
It would not do him well to worry. Morag had survived years on her own in the woods. He had to have faith that she would find her way to Dunstoras.
Else he would go quite mad.
* * *
A gown, a thick woolen brat, and a fat purse. Morag grimaced as she assessed her possessions. A pair of boots would have been nice, as her toes were like ice, but boots could be bought. The door to the candlemaker’s shop opened, and she flattened herself against the wall of the neighboring bothy, grateful that the bright March moon cast long shadows.
The soldiers marched Wulf down the street. He stood a head taller than all of them, his shoulders broad and sure despite the lack of brat. Although her fear for his safety was a hard lump in her belly, she was proud of the image he presented as they led him away. Had any prisoner ever looked so fierce and undaunted?
With her bottom lip between her teeth, she watched until he disappeared around the corner. The last bit of warm feeling vanished with him, and she tugged the brat tighter around her shoulders. She had to do something—but what?
It was yet the middle of the night. Good citizens of Edinburgh were abed. She glanced at the door to the candlemaker’s shop. Her boots and her spare gown were inside, along with the food she’d bought in the market. The practical side of her demanded she recover those items, but her gut said attempting to do so would be too risky.
The candlemaker would throw her to the wolves if he caught her. He owed her no loyalty. Especially now that he thought Wulf an enemy of the crown. The king was beloved here. As a young man, he’d refused to swear allegiance to the English king, and that had made him a hero to most Scots. The candlemaker wouldn’t care that Wulf was falsely accused. Nor would he care that Morag was justly due the belongings left in their room. He would happily sell their goods and pocket the coin.
Were it not for the black wolf cloak, Morag would have walked away from the candlemaker’s shop and never looked back. But it was their last clue to finding the man who had murdered Wulf’s kin.
She tried to convince herself that the cloak had been confiscated by the guards, but she did not believe it. None of the soldiers had been holding satchels as they marched down the lane. It was still in their room; she was certain of it. But how could she retrieve it?
As she watched, the candles in the window went out. The candlemaker and his wife had returned to bed.
She could not climb back through the window she had escaped from—it was too high above the ground. The only way in was through the front door, but the candlemaker and his wife slept in a bed to the right of the large vats of tallow. Creeping past them would not be an easy feat.
Her feet like icicles, Morag hopped the fence between the two bothies and made her way back to the courtyard behind the candlemaker’s shop. The shutters on the window she had escaped from hung open, just as she’d left them—a temptation that called to her.
If only she were taller . . .
A quick search of the courtyard proved there was no convenient ladder lying about . . . but there was a rain barrel. Unfortunately, it was half-full of water and beyond Morag’s strength to lift. Her attempt only rolled it an inch to one side.
Morag straightened and studied the barrel.
Perhaps that was the answer—walking it instead of lifting it. If she could aim the barrel in the general direction of the window, turn it one way and then the other, she might be able to maneuver it into position.
Morag put her back into the effort.
Tipping the barrel was easier than lifting it, but it was still extremely heavy. It rolled only a few inches each time she tried. Sweat beaded on her brow and dampened her sark under her arms as she labored, but she slowly made progress toward the window.
The good news was that her toes were no longer freezing. The bad news was that the sky in the east had begun to lighten, heralding the advent of dawn. If she didn’t hurry, there would soon be witnesses to her raid.
Morag dug deep and found every last bit of strength she possessed. When she was close enough that she thought she might be able to leap from the barrel to the window, she stopped. Her arms were aching and her breath was ragged, but she didn’t rest. She climbed atop the barrel, balancing upon the curved edge. The wood dug into the soles of her feet, but she was able to steady her balance with her bared toes. The distance to the window appeared greater than it had from the ground.
But the day continued to brighten.
Morag took a deep breath, eyed the windowsill with resolve, and launched herself into the air. She caught the windowsill with her fingers, and hung there for a moment, quite pleased with herself. Then she pulled herself up—or tried to. Her arms were exhausted from rolling the barrel, and her muscles trembled badly. She managed to pull herself halfway up before her arms gave out, and she fell to the ground.
Morag rested for a moment, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. The eastern sky was lavender now. She didn’t have much more time.
One more attempt, and then she’d have to give up the cloak.
Rubbing her arms gently and walking around the water barrel at an even pace, she calmed her breathing. When her arms were no longer feeling limp and weary, she climbed the barrel again and balanced on the edge. Her legs were stronger than her arms. Her efforts would be best served by a hearty push.
Morag bent her knees a little.
In her mind’s eye she saw the cloak just inside the room, waiting for her. Next to her boots.
Then she leapt.
This time she hooked her arms over the sill. She freed her feet of her skirts and used her bare toes to help her scale the wall. Combined with her slightly rested arms, it was enough to launch her over the edge. She rolled into the room, taking care not to make any loud noises.
Conscious of the passing time, she swiftly found the cloak—and Wulf’s sword, which was lying on the floor, near the mattress. Then she tucked all of their belongings into a bag, stuffed her feet in her boots, and slipped back out the window. With the sword’s baldric slung over her back and a heavy bag in her arms, her movements were awkward, but Morag made the best of it. She held the sword tip high as she leapt to the ground. A hint of gloom still held the day at bay, and she darted for the narrow wynd to the left.
Hugging the thinning shadows along the wall, she ponder
ed her next move. There weren’t a lot of options. Only one, really—meet her father at the alehouse in Beggar’s Close and ask for his aid. But first she needed to hide her belongings and find someone to accompany her to the alehouse.
No small feat, given that she was something of a fugitive.
But she was a Highlander, and challenges that seemed impossible to others were the norm in the north. She grunted and darted across the street.
As long as she was alive, anything was possible.
Chapter 11
Wulf was treated surprisingly well, for a prisoner.
He was given a large cell with a dry floor, a comfortable pallet, and even a small table and chair. A bucket of fresh water was provided, along with a platter of bread and cheese. But it wasn’t long before he discovered the reason for his pleasant treatment. One of his guards was quite talkative.
“You’re to have anything you desire, within reason,” the fellow said, as he handed Wulf a bowl of stew with a spoon. “The rights of a dead man. You’re to hang in the public square day after tomorrow.”
A chill fell over Wulf.
The day after tomorrow? That was much quicker than he’d anticipated. Two days would not be enough time for Morag to get word to Aiden. There would be no opportunity for his laird to negotiate for his freedom or arrange a rescue.
The hanging was inevitable.
Unless he could break out on his own.
Wulf scanned the confines of his cell. As fine as the accommodations were, the label of cell was still accurate. There were no windows or midden chutes. The only way in or out was through the locked door, and that would involve overwhelming the guard.
Worthy of an effort, to be sure.
Because sitting here waiting to die was not an option he could stomach.
Refusing to coddle his injured leg, Wulf paced his cell floor. He prayed that Morag had remained safe, and was even now on her way back to Dunstoras. His greatest regret was leaving her unprotected. The man in black was still a danger, and should any harm come to Morag, Wulf would die a bitter man.
