Read Online To Kiss A Kilted Warrior by Rowan Keats - Free Book Online

the rabbits, but to wake her with a quiet smile and a pair offire-warmed boots. To share a brief meal before settling in to the morning chores. When she’d peered down the wynd in both directions and seen no sign of him, a chill had settled around her heart. The chill of truth. Wulf was not hers. He belonged to Dunstoras and to young Jamie, and one day very soon he would realize it.
    “I will,” she said. “But not now.”
    He leaned over and tied something to her belt. “When you’re ready, then.”
    Morag glanced down. Hanging from her belt was the lovely brass spoon she’d admired in the market the day before. The smooth bowl gleamed gold in the morning sunlight, the knot pattern just as fine and delicate as she remembered. Hot tears sprang into her eyes. As gifts went, it was inspired. A perfect combination of practicality and beauty. And it brought a sweet ache to her chest that he’d taken the trouble to hasten back to the market at first light to surprise her with it. Even though he’d frightened her half to death.
    “Thank you. I shall treasure it.” She lifted her watery gaze to his and smiled. “I trust you drove a hard bargain?”
    “I paid only the price I was willing.”
    “As it should be.”
    And that was the last word she uttered until they arrived at North Queensferry many hours later.

Chapter 5
    W ulf merged the cart into the line of pilgrims returning from Dunfermline Abbey. Three dozen or so. Some rode fine horses, one rode in a small curtained carriage, but most were on foot. Despite the lateness of the hour, the cold winter wind, and the anticipation of a lengthy wait for the ferry, an air of contentment hung over the crowd.
    “We’ll pass the night in the north village,” he said to Morag. She hadn’t spoken to him since early that morn, but the silence that lay between them was quietly content. With Morag seated beside him, her shoulders loose and her lips curved in a soft half smile, he managed to forget—for a time—all the troubles that haunted him.
    “Will they have room for us all in the village?” Morag asked, her voice a little husky from lack of use.
    “Not beds,” he said. “But for a ha’penny we can sleep beneath a roof that will hold off the rain.”
    She glanced up at the heavy gray clouds. “’Tis a bitter night for wet weather.”
    “Aye,” he said, as the cart inched forward. “But there will be hawkers with food as well. Queensferry is very hospitable to travelers.”
    “How long will it take to cross the firth?”
    “A half day. The boat is slow and stops at the isle of Innis Garbhach, about midway, to avoid rough seas.”
    “And when we reach the shore, how long before we arrive in Edinburgh?”
    “We’ll be in the city before they close the gates,” he said.
    “You must have visited often to know the route so well.”
    He glanced at her. “I accompanied the old laird a number of times on his visits to the king.”
    “You remember that?”
    “I do,” he said, surprised. “Though when I attempt to call the laird’s face to mind, I cannot.” Frustration replaced the mild pleasure of his vague memories. Would the mists of his mind never clear?
    Morag brushed a cool hand over his cheek, and he lifted his gaze to her face.
    “Your memories will return,” she said.
    “I am not so certain as you.”
    “You must be patient.”
    That coaxed a half smile to his face. “Patience is not one of my virtues, I fear.”
    “Nor mine,” she said. “That confessed, I wish to discuss a matter with which I’ve been remarkably patient.”
    Her tone implied a level of criticism, and Wulf’s brow rose. “Oh?”
    “Your wounds have been healed since yule, and yet you’ve made no attempt to bed me.”
    Wulf coughed. Although her voice was low it carried well on the night air, and it was almost a certainty that some of the pilgrims around them heard her words. “Such a topic is best saved for a moment alone.”
    “Your kisses suggest a strong