To Kiss A Kilted Warrior Read Online Free Page B

weapon, and attacked Wulf anew.
    It was a pointless effort. Wulf was larger, stronger, and clearly angry. As their blade edges slid against each other, he hooked his quillon on his opponent’s crossguard and yanked the weapon free of the man’s grasp. It hit the iron cauldron with a loud clang and slid into the fire pit.
    Even swordless, the pock-faced man’s resolve did not waver. He yanked his hunting knife from the sheath at his belt and took a slice at Wulf’s arm. The blow landed true, and blood bloomed on the sleeve of Wulf’s cream-colored lèine.
    Wulf responded swiftly.
    With a rueful but determined expression on his handsome face, he swung his sword one last time and took the man down. The wretch finally met his end. He stiffened under the blow, then collapsed, the light of life fading from his pockmarked face. As the fellow dropped to the ground, Wulf spun to face Morag. The look in his eyes was fierce, but protective, and her pulse fluttered.
    “Are you injured?”
    “Nay,” she said, easing away from the wall. Now that the danger was over, her arms and legs quivered like jelly.
    He stepped over the two bodies and crossed the room with strong, purposeful strides. Fool that she was, she could not help but admire the play of muscles in his powerful legs as he gained on her. Few men were blessed with such a vigorous form.
    Wulf halted in front of her, only inches away.
    As serious as she’d ever seen him, he ran a callused thumb over the crest of her cheek.
    Then he cupped her head in his large hands and slowly tugged her forward. His lips found hers in a passionate embrace that turned her world upside down. It was the kiss she had been longing for—hot and wild and dangerous—but it was also the kiss she knew should never happen. There was no chance for a life with Wulf. She was a woman branded as a harlot, and he was cousin to a laird and father to a bright young lad. His time with her would be brief; of that she was certain. Just long enough to break her heart, if she let him. But all her carefully reasoned thoughts took wing as his mouth slid roughly along hers. Instead, yearning mixed with wonder and breathlessness mingled with joy.
    For a blissful moment, Morag simply surrendered to the sweet friction of their joined lips.There was nothing she wanted more than this man and this kiss. The sureness of his hands, the manly scent of his skin, and the sheer wonder of his firm lips on hers almost made her forget the two dead bodies lying on her floor.
    Almost.
    With a soft moan of regret, she flattened both palms against the solid planes of his chest and pushed. Had it been a matter of strength, her efforts would have been for naught—Wulf’s power far exceeded hers. But the moment he felt her resistance, he broke off the kiss and stepped back.
    Morag pointed to the fallen men. “Even mercenaries deserve a burial.”
    Wulf shrugged. “Not when they prey on women.”
    “Aye, even then. Take them outside.”
    “For you, I will.” He reached for the body of the pockmarked man, then said, “This is a fine cloak for a simple soldier.”
    “I noted the same myself. Perhaps he stole it from some other hapless soul.”
    He unpinned the cloak from the man’s neck and handed her the cloth. “Or perhaps he’s no simple soldier.”
    Morag took the cloak, eyeing it for bloodstains. There were several small ones, but overall the cloth was clean. It was a fine, tight weave, brushed to a smooth finish. Not made in Dunstoras, likely. There were only three skilled weavers in the glen,including herself, and none of them made such simple but elegant cloth. Morag folded the cloak and set it aside.
    Wulf heaved the body over his shoulder and headed for the door.
    “What’s that?” she asked sharply, as a black-and-gold crest bobbed in front of her eyes.
    He stopped and turned around. “What is what?”
    She darted forward, pointing to the man’s sark. “This sigil. I’ve seen it before. On the night you were