Magnus resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. Praise did not sit easily upon his shoulders, and inwardly he scoffed at her description. And yet, as he grasped the hilt firmly in his palm, all sense of discomfort vanished. He raised the weapon high, and his muscles rose smoothly to the challenge, lifting the blade like it was simply an extension of his arm. He might not recognize the sword, but it seemed to know him.
But accepting the sword and accepting the mission to escort Isabail and her companion to Tayteath were not the same thing.
“This adventure might test my sword arm, but it will not test my memory,” he said. “I do not see how going to Tayteath will give me what I need.”
Morag’s face was a mask of blandness.
As he stared at her, the truth sank in—she did not want him to recover his memory. Not if it meant that he would leave her side. With this mission to rescue a young lad, she was hoping to tame the restlessness in his soul. To calm him enough to stay.
He should be angry, but he wasn’t.
If he were honest, he’d admit that he could have left many times over the last month. His memories were stubbornly eluding him, but his health had improved every day. He was held here by his fondness for Morag, not by anything else. But just as she made no direct plea for him to remain at her side, he was not ready to openly acknowledge his affections for her. They shared a bed each night, but had never shared a kiss.
He needed to be certain of who he was before he could stake a claim on Morag. And he might need to sort that out without the benefit of his memories. If his knowledge of the past never returned, he would have to carve out a new identity. One of his own making.
“I will go,” he said finally.
She nodded.
“But,” he said, laying the sword upon the woodpile. “I would have a boon from you before I leave.”
“What boon?”
He cupped her face in his hands and tugged her close enough that he could count the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes widened, but she did not pull away. Drawing in a breath, inhaling the same sweet fragrance that he fell asleep to each night, he lowered his lips to hers.
Kissing her was the culmination of many dreams. He had resisted the lure of her earthy, carefree loveliness for so long that the connection of their lips was like lighting a bonfire in his chest. A surge of heat and passion overwhelmed him, burning a fiery path from his lips to his groin. His hands tightened their hold on her, and he deepened the kiss.
She tasted so much sweeter than he had imagined. The urge to scoop her up and carry her into the bothy was fierce. Making mad, passionate love to her became a need he could barely resist. But resist he did. A kiss would have to do for now.
He slowly, reluctantly, withdrew.
Morag stared back at him with flushed cheeks and a smoky look in her green eyes.
“Do not do anything foolish while I am gone,” he said.
She settled back on her heels, smiling faintly. “What would constitute foolish?”
He gathered the sword and strapped the leather baldric to his chest. “Trading your cloth at the castle, taunting the soldiers when they ride past on patrol, taking a bath in the loch, climbing the tall oak in the—”
She threw up her hands. “Och. You mean I’m to have no fun at all.”
“I mean that I want you to be here, safe and sound, when I return,” he countered firmly. He caught her chin, pressed another quick kiss to her lips, and then let her go. “And I will return. I promise.”
Their eyes met and held for a long moment.
And then he left.
* * *
In the dark hour before dawn, even under a bright winter moon, it was easy to imagine the entire world was asleep. Aiden peered into the obscurity of the forest around their fire and listened to the snores of his men. They had pushed long and hard before stopping for the night. He would wake them as soon as the horizon began to glow with a new day.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move, and he turned his head to look closer. A vague shape, low to the ground, gained detail as he stared. A head, a large body, and a tail. He stood straighter.
A large white wolf.
And where there was one wolf, there were generally others. He drew his sword. Making himself as large as possible, he advanced toward the wolf. Most wolves preyed upon the weak and the helpless. In the face of strength and purpose, they usually turned tail and ran. Not this one. The fur on its neck stood on end and a vicious snarl escaped its maw.
Aiden firmed his grip on his sword.
