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

king’s flag?” she asked, spying a gold pennant with a red lion rampant flying atop the tallest tower.
    “Aye.”
    “He’s in residence then?”
    Wulf nodded. “If you’re fortunate, perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of him.”
    Allowing her gaze to drop, Morag shrugged. “I’ve no desire to see the king. Such a grand life is beyond my reach and thus beyond my interest.”
    He arched a brow. “Surely you are curious aboutthe man who garnered peace with the war-loving Norse and resisted the demand of the English king to pay homage?”
    “So long as taxes remain bearable,” she said, “what the king does matters not.”
    “You say that now,” he said, chuckling. “But women are forever sighing in lovelorn devotion when he passes them by.”
    “He’s handsome, I take it?”
    “So the women say.”
    “Handsomeness is not the best measure of a man.” Morag eyed the open width of the south entrance as they approached. A pair of armed guards stood on either side of the wooden barbican, querying all who dared to pass beneath the portcullis. Most were permitted entry, but as she watched, one man with a small herd of goats was turned away. “Have we the proper writs to enter?”
    “Leave the talking to me,” he responded.
    As the line of people slowly moved forward, Morag threaded her fingers and placed her hands in her lap. Even a slight tremble might betray her nervousness, and she did not want to be the reason they were turned away. But it was difficult not to worry. The laird of the clan MacCurran was outlawed, as were all Black Warriors, and if they failed to pass inspection at the cow gate, she and Wulf might find themselves chained in the bowels of the mighty keep on Castle Rock.
    Wulf halted the cart alongside one of the two guards. “My wife and I have come to trade in the market.”
    “Name?”
    “Wulf Cameron of Braemar.”
    The burly soldier stared at him, then let his eyes drift over to Morag and the cart. “What goods do you trade?”
    Leaning back, Wulf lifted the tarp covering the bolts of cloth. “The finest woolens in Scotia.”
    The soldier grunted. “Let’s see your papers.”
    Wulf pulled a folded parchment from the front of his lèine and handed it to the man. Morag sat still as a pole, trying not to fidget as the soldier received the parchment. What was written on the paper, she had no notion. But it must have satisfied the guard, for he folded it and handed it back to Wulf. “You have leave to enter.”
    Morag released the breath she was holding, as calmly as she could.
    When Wulf had driven the cart under the portcullis and farther up the hill toward the main street, she whispered, “Wulf Cameron? Where did you get papers to uphold that claim?”
    “Lady Isabail’s herald.”
    “But it’s a lie.”
    He shrugged. “She holds a number of secrets from the king, not the least of which is that shewed my cousin. She believes in his innocence and is as committed as we to seeking the truth.”
    Morag dried her damp palms on her skirts. “I can only hope the ruse never comes to light. It would cause her endless grief if we were discovered.”
    “Our visit will be short,” Wulf said. “There will be little risk.” He turned the cart onto the High Street that ran the length of the ridge extending east from the castle.
    “What of my cloth? Will I truly be able to sell it here?” she asked. High Street stretched far into the distance.
    “Aye,” he said. “If you do not, the guards at the gate will be suspicious.”
    The cart fell into a deep rut and Morag was flung against Wulf’s arm. She briefly savored his warm strength before pushing away. “So we’ll stay a few days, at least.”
    “As few as we can,” he agreed.
    “Shall we seek out lodging first? Or the herald?” She allowed her longing for a brief respite to color her words. After five days of travel, a chance to wipe the grime from her face and hands would be most welcome.
    “The herald,” he answered. “The