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Synopsis
Shunned by her village, weaver Morag Cameron lives a solitary existence in the woods-until the night she finds a sorely wounded Highlander by the loch. Under her care, the handsome warrior slowly recovers his strength, but his memories have disappeared. Morag is torn. For if she helps him regain his past, she may sacrifice a life with the man she has come to love.
Wulf MacCurran wants nothing more than to claim Morag as his own, but his past holds too many dangerous secrets-secrets that put them both in mortal danger. He must discover who attacked him and left him for dead. Traveling to Edinburgh, Wulf and Morag find themselves swept into a mystery with the power to determine the fate of their passions-and change Scotland forever.
Contains mature themes.
Release date: December 2, 2014
Publisher: Berkley
Print pages: 368
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To Kiss a Kilted Warrior
Rowan Keats
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF ROWAN KEATS
ALSO BY ROWAN KEATS
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Chapter 1
Glen Storas
The Red Mountains, Scotland
March 1286
As the last rays of the setting sun gave way to purple dusk, Morag Cameron stared up at the roof of her cottage, where Magnus was replacing a section of straw thatching that had slipped away during the winter storms. “Surely you can’t see much in the gloaming. Are you not coming in to sup?”
“Aye,” he said, as he combed the bundles of straw with a stick driven with iron nails, ensuring the thatch was even and clear of debris. “I’ll be but a few moments longer. Would you fetch me the hazel spars?”
She gathered up the thin strips of hazel wood he’d split earlier and climbed the ladder.
He took them from her with a quick smile. “Thank you, lass.”
Leaning on the rungs of the ladder, Morag watched him work. Despite the coolness of the early March evening, he had shed his lèine from his upper body. His arms and chest were completely bare, and she was treated to a display of rippling muscles as he deftly twisted each of the hazel spars into thatch pins. He hammered the pins deep into the straw, securing the thatch, and then looked at her.
“Shall we eat?”
She nodded and descended.
He followed, hopping the last three rungs to the ground. The ropy contours of his back glistened with sweat, and she admired him when he stopped at the water barrel to wash straw dust from his hands and face. As water sluiced over his handsome face and trickled down the hard planes of his chest, Morag swallowed tightly. These were the hardest moments. The ones that wrung her gut with a mixture of longing and guilt. She and Magnus lived like a married couple—mending the bothy, living off the land, sharing every chore—but they were not wed. Magnus was not hers.
Indeed, he was not Magnus at all. He was Wulf MacCurran, a renowned warrior and cousin to the laird. Rather than eating bawd bree with her, he should be supping at Dunstoras Castle with his kin, dining on venison, haggis, and fine wine.
Had he not lost his memories in a fierce battle last November, he surely would be.
Magnus shook off the excess water and slipped his arms back into his lèine. The loose linen tunic properly covered his flesh, belted at the waist, but did nothing to disguise the magnificence of his form. There was no hiding his broad shoulders and brawny chest, and the cream-colored cloth tunic ended at his knees, so his powerful legs remained exposed to her gaze.
He opened the bothy door and ushered Morag ahead of him.
The bothy was small—a single room just big enough to hold a wood-framed bed, a central cooking fire, Morag’s upright loom, and a small table for preparing food—but it was tall enough to allow Magnus to walk about without grazing the roof, and it was a welcome warmth during cold winter nights.
She ladled stew into two wooden bowls, and they sat side by side on the edge of the bed as they ate.
Frowning, Magnus peered into his bowl. “You’ve made a fine meal, as always, but there’s little here to sustain a man. I’ll go hunting tomorrow. My work on the roof can wait until we add more meat to the stew.”
Morag eyed the bucket in the middle of the room. “So long as the hole is repaired before the next heavy rain, I’ll be content.”
He shifted on the bed, his heavy leg pressing briefly against hers, and Morag’s pulse leapt. A vision of him bearing her to the mattress, his lips locked on hers, sprang into her thoughts. She quickly buried the image, but not before her cheeks bloomed with heat.
It was an impossible vision. Not once in the four months he had lived with her had Magnus done more than kiss her. And even that kiss had happened only once. Five weeks ago, before he set out on a mission to aid a strange woman who’d knocked upon their door, he’d swooped in, given Morag the kiss of a lifetime, and then walked out.
Morag had spent the next few days pondering the deeper meaning of that kiss, wondering where it might lead. But when Magnus returned, everything had changed. He’d been withdrawn and thoughtful, consumed by what he had discovered on his journey. He’d found his kin while he was away, and learned the heartrending truth about the night he’d nearly died—that his wife and son had been slain by a murderer. One mere kiss meant nothing in the face of all that.
Morag was ashamed that she continued to dwell upon it.
But it had been a truly memorable kiss. Hot and passionate and full of sweet promise.
Magnus took the bowl and spoon from Morag’s hands and stood. He washed the bowls in a mix of sand and water, then rinsed them and put them away. “I know it’s your intent to work on your weaving at first light. Shall we retire for the night?”
Morag avoided his gaze. Better that he never know the direction of her thoughts . . . which at the moment had naught to do with weaving. “Aye.”
He banked the fire and blew out the candle. Darkness settled over the room, relieved only by the golden glow of smoldering coals in the fire pit. She untied her boots, removed her overdress, and slipped under the blankets. Magnus waited until she was lying with her back to him; then she heard him remove his lèine and join her on the bed. Not touching. But near enough to sense each other’s warmth.
This was how all their evenings ended, sharing the dark together in silence. Morag wanted more, and under different circumstances she would have asked for it . . . but her respect for him held her back. He was the most honorable man she had ever known. If he needed time, then she would give it to him. And if he never showed an interest in another kiss, she would accept his decision. Sadly, but willingly.
Morag closed her eyes.
She owed that much to the man who’d once shown her more kindness than a shunned woman had the right to ask for. . . .
Dunstoras Castle
July 1282
“Morag Cameron,” declared Laird Duncan, staring down at her from his high-backed chair on the dais, “you are hereby banished from the village of Dunstoras, never to return, save to trade your goods and buy supplies on faire days. You may gather whatever belongings you can carry on your back, but by evenfall you must be gone from these walls. Do you understand?”
Morag glanced across the crowded great hall at Peadar, still hoping he would break his silence and speak for her. The young blacksmith knew the truth—that Tomas had wooed her with tireless devotion, promising her the sun and the moon and eventually, a lifetime of happiness at her side. She’d given Tomas her maidenhead the night he’d whispered that vow in her ear, believing him to be a man of his word. How wrong she’d been. The next morning, Tomas had put her aside with callous disdain, denying he’d ever made such a vow. But Peadar had heard his brother’s promise to wed her—he had the power to put an end to this mad proceeding, if only he would tell the laird what he knew. But he did nothing. He stared at his hands, refusing to look up.
His silence was an unexpected knife in her gut.
She’d thought him a very different man.
In the months following Tomas’s betrayal, Peadar had proven himself an able friend, offering a sympathetic ear to her woes and a shoulder to cry on. They had become lovers only recently—after her heart had mended and the future once again held promise. He was kind to her, and respectful, and she had begun to believe that a marriage could be built on such a foundation. Until last Sabbath. That was when Tomas had discovered their alliance and accused her of seducing Peadar—as she had once seduced him. All lies, of course. But Peadar had not refuted his brother’s words.
Tears sprang to her eyes. What a fool she’d been.
She was no wiser than her mother, offering her heart to a faithless man. No one would speak for her. Her father was gone, her mother dead. She was a Cameron among MacCurrans, and without Peadar’s support, Tomas’s hateful words were taken as truth, even though they were merely jealous ranting.
She was alone.
Morag blinked rapidly to clear her eyes and faced the laird. She’d pled her case to him and Brother Francis as passionately as she could . . . to no avail. The testimony of Tomas and his friends had been too convincing. To them she was a fallen woman, a woman who incited brothers to lust over her and then fight over her. But she was not that woman.
She stood straight. “I understand.”
“Then begone.”
She turned toward the accusing faces of the villagers—faces she’d known all her life. There was not a kind eye to be found in the room. Struggling to hold her head up, she crossed the wooden floorboards to the door. The crowd parted to let her pass.
How would she survive outside the castle walls? It was summer now, thank God. The nights were warm and there would be berries to pluck. But come winter she would suffer badly.
When she reached the bothy she had once shared with her mother, Morag packed a bag with as many of her personal belongings as she could—clay pots, wooden bowls, steel spoons, and clothing—and stuffed another bag full of woolen spools. She slung one bag over each shoulder and then tried to pick up her loom. But it was heavier than she thought. And awkward.
Morag dragged the loom out of the bothy and down the lane, leaving a trail of twin grooves in the dirt. She headed toward the small wooden bridge that spanned the burn. Once she crossed, she would be out of the village. Unfortunately, it would not be an easy goal to reach—some thirty or forty villagers had lined up on either side of the lane, each with at least one rotted vegetable in hand. They meant to see her off with a vengeance.
Had she been willing to relinquish her loom, she could have made a dash for safety.
But weaving was all she knew. She had no skills to work the land; nor did she know how to make ale or uisge beatha. To have any hope of survival, she needed this loom. Morag stiffened her shoulders, bowed her head, and tightened her hold on the wooden frame. She would not leave it behind. No matter how difficult the trial.
As soon as she came within range, the villagers began calling her names and pelting her with their spoiled vegetables. Neeps and parsnips and onions, mostly. A few were soft, leaving juicy remains clinging to her clothing and face and hair, but most were hard at the core and delivered bruising blows. Not as brutal as a stoning, to be sure, but painful nonetheless.
“Jezebel!”
“Whore!”
A neep hit her in the face, and Morag stumbled.
Her fingers slipped, and she lost hold of the loom, the frame slamming to the ground. Fearful that a vindictive soul would stomp on the wood and break it, she scrambled to regain hold of it. Her pause allowed a volley of projectiles to hit her from every side, and Morag had to bite her lip to stop from crying out. Her legs wobbled, and her resolve took a beating. She was about to drop to her knees in the dirt when she felt a sturdy hand grab her elbow. Suddenly there were no more vegetables, and the crowd’s jeers fell silent.
Morag looked up at her savior.
It was Wulf MacCurran, the laird’s most formidable warrior. Taller than all those around him by a full head, the laird’s nephew commanded respect by his very size. He’d clearly been out hunting—two fat capercaillies hung from his belt, and he carried a long ash bow in his free hand. He likely didn’t know she’d been banished.
“You ought not to aid me,” she said quietly to her protector.
“She’s been cast out,” said Tomas, pushing through the crowd to the front.
“Aye,” Wulf said. “That I can see. But the lass will face difficulty enough on her own. There’s no need to punish her further. Get along home, now, the lot of you.”
The big warrior did not often involve himself in village disputes—he spent most of his time training in the lists and providing for his young wife and bairns—so his words this day carried a great deal of weight. With disgruntled expressions but nary a complaint, the crowd dissipated. Even Tomas dared not contest Wulf’s judgment. In no time, Morag stood alone with Wulf in the lane.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve eased my lot considerably.”
He slung the bow over his shoulder, then took one of her bags and the loom from her hands. “There’s a clearing in the forest a league from here that would make a fine spot for a bothy. If you work hard, you can build it before the heavy frosts come.” He led the way across the bridge.
Morag stared after him in stunned disbelief. Build a bothy? By herself?
An image of a wee bothy in the woods lept into her mind, and hope sweetened the air in her chest. Why not? She scrambled to follow the big warrior. She was able enough. And the supplies necessary lay freely around her. All she needed was a small room with a fire pit—she could expand it over time, if that was her desire.
Wulf shortened his strides to allow Morag to catch up.
“Why are you aiding me?” she asked warily. There had to be a reason.
He shrugged. “A man does not stand to watch a woman suffer.”
“Even a woman branded a harlot?”
He halted and looked down at her. His eyes were a brilliant shade of blue that stood out against his sun-darkened skin. “You can live your life as others see you, lass, or you can live your life as you see yourself. Are you a harlot?”
She shook her head. “I am a weaver.”
“Then be a weaver,” he said, marching forward through the bracken.
Morag followed him. “That is certainly my intent. But who will buy cloth woven by a harlot?”
“’Twill not be easy to make your way,” he acknowledged. “You may need to trade farther afield. But if you craft the finest cloth in the glen, even those who vilify you will eventually come ’round.”
“I already craft the finest cloth in the glen,” Morag said matter-of-factly.
He smiled as he helped her over a moss-covered fallen log. “Then make your cloth impossible to resist.”
Morag chewed her bottom lip. When her father—also a weaver—had walked out, never to return, he’d left behind almost everything he possessed. Including his notes on creating dyes. Her mother had kept them, convinced they would eventually draw her husband back to her. An unrequited longing. The notes lay in a bundle at the bottom of Morag’s bag, still tied with a yellow ribbon. But they need not remain that way. Her father’s cloth had been renowned throughout the Red Mountains, the colors unparalleled. If her cloth came close to matching his . . . ?
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 wit
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