To Kiss A Kilted Warrior Read Online Free

his inner beliefs than living in a castle.
    Wulf abruptly pushed to his feet, his hands fisting. He attempted a smooth stand, but his left leg betrayed him, quivering in protest. The hare hanging from his belt swung wildly as he stumbled. It was a lean offering for Morag’s stew pot, but he’d been lucky to snare anything this close to the bothy after MacPherson’s army had decamped. Two hundred men trudging east toward MacPherson land had scattered the wildlife far and wide.
    He stilled the swing of the hare and retraced his steps along the pebbled beach.
    With his hunt complete, logic suggested he return promptly. The sooner the rabbit was in the stew, the more savory it would become. But of late, Morag had been staring at her loom with wistful intent. Cloth was her primary offering on market days, but the looks of longing he’d caught on her face told him weaving was more than simply a trade for her. She drew pleasure from it. If his presence caused her to forgo her weaving, she’d come to resent him in time. And resentment was not the emotion he wished to cultivate in his lovely, dark-haired benefactress.
    But how long should he stay away?
    He glanced up.
    It was midday now, the sun high in the sky. Wasthe morning enough? It was hard to know. Although she rarely sat at the loom while he was present, when she did, she displayed an incredible talent he could barely fathom. Changing colored threads without pause, moving sticks up and down, and sliding the shuttle from one side of the loom to the other at blurring speed clearly required a quick mind and nimble fingers. The cloth that developed at the top was, to his mind, a miracle.
    His feet turned in the direction of the bothy.
    One peek inside the hut would settle the issue. If she was yet enthralled in her weaving, he’d grab a bannock and some cheese, and head back into the wilds.
    At the bottom of a woodland hill, about two furlongs from the bothy, he paused and frowned. In the soft mud of the path, the print of a boot heel was clearly outlined. It was too small to be his boot heel and too big to be Morag’s. And given the heavy downpour of last eve, such a crisp print could only have been made that day.
    Wulf’s gaze lifted.
    There was no sign of movement in the trees, but his heartbeat quickened anyway. Morag was alone. And he’d left his sword hidden in the woodpile behind the bothy.
    He set off at a run.
    Or as close to a run as he could manage. His leftleg proved uncooperative, wobbling with every stride and sending shards of excruciating pain to his hip with every attempt to hold his full weight. He was forced to slow to a hobbled jog, and even then the pain was biting. Still, he made it to the clearing in good time, pausing at the edge of the trees.
    The door to the hut hung open, the interior a dark shadow.
    The open door was not, of itself, a bad omen. Morag might simply have chosen to partake of the sunshine and the unusually warm day. But he could not hear the
clack-clack
of the loom in operation; nor could he hear her humming, as she was wont to do when busy with a task.
    He skirted the clearing until he reached the back of the bothy, then quietly dug between the stacked firewood for his long sword. Wrapped in several layers of burlap to protect it from the elements, the bronze-hilted weapon was exactly where he had left it. It settled into his palm with an ease that made his blood sing. Even in the absence of his memories, one thing remained true—he was born to be a warrior.
    The sharp crack of wood on wood reverberated inside the bothy.
    Wulf’s grip tightened on the sword. ’Twas not the sound of something falling, but the sound of something thrown with great force. But asominous as that sound was, it did not prepare him for what he heard next.
    “Wulf!”
    His heart sank into his boots. The raw desperation in Morag’s voice could not be mistaken. She was in dire straits. Oblivious to the cramps that shot up his leg, Wulf ran for the cottage