The Prince's Highland Bride: Book 6, the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  Maggie clenched her fists. “Nae. Ye worry over the bridewealth. Have ye already spent it, Da?”

  Dugal sat stone-faced a moment before his gaze slipped to the side. “’Twas to be paid in installments. But aye, the first has been used. I’ve had expenses. Will he want it back, do ye know?”

  “I was not informed. If ye’ve received no word from him, I wouldnae worry o’ermuch.” Richard dinnae miss a chance to bite a coin.

  Her da frowned. “He sent naught with his men. He’s washed his hands of ye, then?”

  Maggie shrugged, dislodging her discomfort a bit. Despite her lukewarm welcome, there was no place she’d rather be than on the banks of Loch Lomond. The wonderful room lost a bit of its magic.

  “He would have sent ye to the church. Paid for yer living. This wasnae acceptable to ye?”

  Maggie shook her head, words an impossible jumble of anger and dismay.

  Her da rearranged the items on his desk. “Tell me of yer dowry. I paid a sizeable pouch to see ye wed. ’Twas to see ye through yer auld age, ye ken.”

  He sounded almost apologetic to broach the topic, yet Maggie understood his concern. She’d paid scant attention to the details of her return to Castle Narnain, only too happy to shake the disapproval of those around her and begin the journey home. But the topic of her dowry was as clear in her mind as when Richard had spoken the words a fortnight ago.

  I willnae burden ye with returning the coin yer da sent as yer dowry. Instead, I’m giving ye the deed to an island which was forfeit to me in a game of chance in Glasgow a pair of years back. ’Tis too far away to be of any benefit to me. A rather useless bit of property—quite a fitting gift for a useless former wife.

  That she was now a landowner would not soften the blow that her da was without the monies he’d paid to have her wed an earl. Especially if the island—somewhere among the Hebrides—was as worthless as Richard had said.

  She raised her chin. “He has likely found other use for the coin, and instead, gave me the deed to land he owned, that I might have a place to live should my presence become too burdensome here.”

  Dugal’s face blossomed a mottled red. Maggie thought his nostrils flared. He cleared his throat twice.

  “He’d no right . . ..”

  Maggie lifted her chin. “Will ye be taking it up with Richard, then, Da? The fate of a few coins shouldnae leave ye in such a state.”

  “’Twas more than a few coins, lass, and ye well know it. The earl drove a stiff bargain to gain ye as a wife.”

  “And dinnae get what he bargained for.” Maggie sighed. “I fear he has done all he will, and considers me nae longer his concern.” The words stung as if a swarm of bees had somehow found their way inside her.

  “Where is this property ye say ye now own?” With a glimmer in his eye denoting either unresolved anger or burgeoning greed, Dugal leaned back in his chair.

  “I was told ’tis an isle in the Hebrides, a bit south of the Isle of Eigg, and not too far from the coast of the Ardnamurchan Peninsula. ’Tis a place called the Isle of Hola.”

  Dugal’s eyes shot skyward. “Isle of Hola? ’Tis a Norse word meaning hole. How do ye know ’tis naught but a stone plastered with bird dung?” he scoffed. “Nae land for tilling—and likely no harbor, either!”

  “It comes with a small income,” Maggie countered. “The Earl would not have accepted the title if it had no worth.”

  “’Tis no place for the Countess of Mar!”

  Maggie slowly shook her head sadly at the pieces of her life scattered about her.

  “Da, I’m no longer the earl’s wife. I am plain Maggie MacLaren, and yer wishing otherwise doesnae matter.” She placed a palm on his desk. “Da, I will never again be Lady Mar.”

  * * *

  Was this what it was like to be dead?

  Darkness surrounded Phillipe. He could not move his arms or legs, could not determine if he lacked the strength or if he was confined somehow. A coffin, perhaps? A sense of panic filled him, bubbling up through his chest. Phillipe fought against the rising scream, but a thready whine escaped despite his effort.

  Instantly, a flicker of light approached, trailing a thin line of smoke. The small brazier was placed near his head and the shadowed face of a woman entered his view. Her furrowed brow cleared slightly as she glanced over him. A tiny, hesitant smile crossed her lips as if encouraging a response from him.

  He gaped like a landed fish, words dying in the back of his throat in a gargle of sound.

  The woman nodded, touching a finger to her lips. Her calm warning reassured him and he concentrated on drawing deep, reviving breaths.

  She tapped his shoulder and his eyes flew wide. Shaky as a new-born colt, Phillipe struggled to move, his arms and legs doing little to respond adequately to his need to rise. One hand bumped against something cold and firm lying next to him. Startled, Phillipe stared at the corpse of a man of much the same size and coloring as himself.

  His stomach protested and he rolled to the side, retching. He heaved until he trembled with the effort, but nothing rose from his empty belly.

  Phillipe wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. Give me a moment.”

  He sat, head and shoulders hunched forward until the bout of dizziness faded.

  “We cannot linger.”

  The woman’s voice, barely a whisper, spurred Phillipe to greater efforts. He straightened, then shifted so his feet hung off the single-plank table.

  “Lusine, is it?”

  “Yes, m’lord.” She handed him a bundle of clothes. “Put these on.”

  He glanced at the silk tunic hanging from his shoulders, embroidery filled with the glitter of crystals and gold. “’Tis a far cry from my prison garb,” he noted.

  “The baron was magnanimous,” she replied. “The Bishop was prevailed upon and gave ye your last rites.”

  “Nothing too good for the late King of Cilicia.” Phillipe grimaced as Lusine tugged the shirt over his head. The clothing with which he replaced his kingly tunic was of coarsely woven camel’s hair. Repeated washings had softened the garment, but failed to remove the animal stench. Lusine expertly placed the embroidered tunic over the dead man’s head, smoothing it past an incision that ran the length of the wasted body.

  Propping himself against the table, Phillipe pulled on the loose trousers and slipped his feet into a pair of worn boots. He tilted his head in the dead man’s direction.

  “A wretched soul from the prison?”

  “Aye. None will miss him. We are fortunate he resembles ye so much.”

  Phillipe stiffened. Fortunate because if anyone checked the coffin and the deception was discovered, Lusine would be among the first to pay.

  “Has my man compensated ye well?”

  “He gave me an advance.”

  Phillipe sent her a questioning look.

  Her voice sharpened. “Further compensation is unnecessary. I wish only to keep my life.” Lusine returned his look for a hard moment before she resumed her task. “Peter was not so lucky.”

  Phillipe’s gut clenched, too late to avoid the pain of learning Peter had died because of him.

  He pushed his grief aside. “I will help ye.”

  “Nae. I have prepared many bodies for burial. This one is no different.”

  Yet Phillipe noted how her hands trembled. To prepare the body of a king was no small undertaking. That the task had been given to the prison’s healer and not his personal physician told Phillipe Konstantin was putting on a public face of shock and mourning, but doing little to actually honor the dead king.

  “I have done what I could to change his features to resemble yours. In another day’s time, even your father will be unable to recognize ye. Time is no friend of the dead.”

  She shoved a sturdy cloak and small pouch at Phillipe. The bag clinked dully. He stared at it a moment, then handed the pouch back to Lusine.

  “Ye will need this more than I.”

  She waved it away. “Where
would one such as I acquire such wealth? What I have been given is enough.” Her eyes held his in a solemn gaze. “My life will be my reward.”

  Phillipe nodded and tied the pouch to a piece of frayed rope he cinched about his waist. Lusine motioned to a dark corner of the room. “Hide yourself there. Ye’ll find a sword and dagger on the bed. There are guards at the door. Men will arrive upon my request to put the body in the casket. Once they have left, and the guard with them, ye must flee. Go left through the door, follow the passage to the stairs. They will lead ye to a courtyard. Someone will meet ye there. Ye have six hours ’til dawn. Do not waste them.”

  Phillipe stepped behind a drapery hiding a narrow bed and a table scarcely large enough to support a trencher and mug. He silently strapped the well-worn scabbard about his waist, slipping the surprisingly sturdy blade from the sheath for inspection before settling it into place. A plain gray gown hung from a peg, marking the area as Lusine’s private area, an insight on the solitary life she must lead.

  Footsteps shuffled in the outer portion of the room. Coarse masculine laughter sputtered amid words Phillipe could not discern. A sharp word from Lusine silenced them and Phillipe was glad to see she apparently enjoyed a modicum of respect.

  Boards creaked and Phillipe imagined the men hoisting the body of the dead man from the table and into the casket. He hoped the dim light and the finery that adorned the man’s body would keep his identity safe.

  He recalled the gleam of gold on the fittings of the casket and wondered how much it pained Konstantin to pay for such tribute—and how long before the gold handles and embellishments disappeared into the baron’s coffers.

  The door slammed shut and silence filled the room. Phillipe slipped soundlessly from behind the curtain and across the floor, a hand on the hilt of his sword, the roughness of the stone noticeable through the thin soles of his boots. Hearing no sounds beyond the closed door, he pulled the surprisingly heavy panel open an inch or so. A guttering torch dimly lit the passage, but he saw no other signs of life.

  After repeating a Pater Noster, he asked God to watch over Isabella and thanked Him for releasing her from their union.

  I was not a good choice of husband for her, nor was I the king she needed at her side. I have been declared dead by the Holy Church, and therefore Zabel is now a widow and free to remarry. Phillipe of Antioch, the late King of Cilicia, no longer exists.

  Chapter Five

  “An island?” Dugal’s outrage was clear. He stormed to his feet, sending his chair skittering backward. He paused, settling a belligerent gaze on Maggie.

  She held firm. “Aye. An island. Mayhap I should go find what exists there. It could be worth something.”

  Dugal folded his arms over his chest. “Ha! The earl wouldnae give away something of worth. I doubt the small income is much. He has cheated me out of a grand bit of coin.” He leveled a finger at her. “And ye are now without a dowry.”

  Maggie’s eyebrows rose. “I was unaware ye wished to trot me through the market again.”

  “What do ye think will become of ye? As my daughter, ye have some protection, but as a cast-off wife, ye will attract all manner of men. Nae of them good.”

  “All manner of men?” Maggie puzzled over his words, choosing to ignore his less than flattering note of her new status. “I am not appealing as a wife if I cannae bear bairns.”

  Her da’s finger jabbed the air before her nose. “Dinnae expect me to speak of such things to my own daughter.” His face and ears reddened, the hue creeping to the very pinnacle of his sparsely-populated pate. He drew back and re-crossed his arms.

  Maggie was fascinated. She’d never seen her da in such a state. “Mayhap ye should speak of them, Da, if ye would warn me from such men.”

  His jaw clamped shut, evidenced by the tick that leapt along his cheek and the warning glitter in his eyes.

  Maggie’s lips formed an ‘O’ of understanding as his meaning became clear. “Och, those men. Dinnae fash. I have no wish to become a man’s mistress. Such women have an uncertain future, and, truth be told, bed play isn’t sufficiently compelling to give my life into a man’s hands without adequate compensation.”

  “Margaret Ellen MacLaren!” Dugal’s eyes bulged and his lean cheeks blanched.

  Maggie hid a tiny smile at provoking him to her full name.

  “Da, I dinnae wish to wed again. There is nae point . . ..”

  “Nae point? Will ye stay here and someday be a nurse to yer brother’s bairns? Grow old alone? Maggie, lass, ye need a man.”

  Maggie choked. “I dinnae need a man, Da. I require only a roof over my head. The rest I can work for. I can take care of myself.”

  Dugal collapsed into his chair and for a moment Maggie feared she’d gone too far. It was clear neither he nor her ma knew what to do with her. It would quickly become public knowledge she’d been sent home in disgrace—and defied the church as well. The priest’s words rang in her head. Shame on ye, woman, for refusing to obey yer husband! Women such as ye are outside the favor of God.

  Maggie wasn’t certain how she’d endure the looks of pity, contempt, or calculated speculation from some men.

  She sprang to her feet. “I willnae be a burden to ye. Come spring, I will find my way to the Isle of Hola and make it my home.”

  Her da remained silent a moment, then waved her back into her seat. She stepped behind the chair, hands gripping the upper edge.

  “I willnae deny the loss of yer dowry puts me in an awkward spot to find ye another husband.” Dugal lifted a hand, forestalling her protest. “I willnae force ye into another marriage, but ye must see the practicality of it. Mayhap there will be a man who requires a mother for his bairns and ye can be of use to him. I will keep my ears open. The MacFarlanes arenae too distant, nor are the MacNabs. The MacGregor laird is wed, though he has no bairns yet.” He tilted his head. “That we know of . . ..”

  With a shake of her head, Maggie left him to his plans.

  She skirted her ma’s solar and grabbed a cloak from her room, then hurried down the stairs. Snowflakes drifted down in casual playfulness, only to melt on landing. Maggie tilted her face to the sky, smiling at the crystalline touch on her cheeks. Tugging her cloak close, she wandered the path to the loch. Rimmed with frost like the touch of a faerie’s paintbrush, the edges of the water sparkled in the sunlight.

  ’Twill soon be full winter and the roads impassable, snow in every tree and glen.

  Winter had always been her favorite time of year, but the thought of being stuck in the keep during the months ahead gave her pause. Betwixt her ma’s bouts of commiseration and her da’s worry over her future—and lack of dowry—she could only hope this winter would be a short one.

  * * *

  Phillipe slipped through the dark passageway, following Lusine’s directions. Fresh air burst upon his face like the bestowing of new life as he entered a small courtyard open to the night sky. A stair in the corner led to the top of the wall. He climbed cautiously then took his bearings from the view.

  Sis Castle was riddled with tunnels and little-known passageways carved into the rock beneath the richly appointed upper levels. Rooms for the Queen and her court filled with silk tapestries, dyed woven rush carpets over smooth wood and tiled floors. Colorful mosaics, intricately carved and gilded screens, marble, and semi-precious stones. Fountains, palm fans, and iced drinks. All the things he had taken for granted and now swore he would not miss.

  A boy, no more than eight or nine years of age, appeared from behind a languishing palm tree. He waved a thin hand before disappearing into a shadowed crevice. With only the slightest hesitation, Phillipe followed.

  The boy’s step did not falter as he led Phillipe through a labyrinth of tunnels. Though still weak and a bit lightheaded, Phillipe maintained pace with the lad.

  Voices and footsteps rose and faded, but they did not encounter anyone. Torches flickered in worn sconces, placed far enough apart that shadows which hid the uneven floor fell
in broad swaths between them. The light ceased abruptly. Walls closed in on three sides. The ragged hem of the boy’s tunic swung to the side as he pivoted around what appeared to be a thick column of stone. No light reached here, and Phillipe’s instant of alarm vanished as a draft of warm air touched his cheek. He slipped through the gap scarcely large enough for the boy and encountered his first taste of freedom.

  The rippling roar of torches on the wall snapped in the wind soaring up from the sea. The tramp of booted feet echoed off the stone, and an occasional low-pitched shout and murmured response drifted to his ears.

  “The road lies there, Sardar,” the boy said, lifting a skinny arm to point to the left.

  Phillipe pulled a large coin from his purse and placed it in his young guide’s hand.

  “May God protect ye,” he said, closing the boy’s fingers over the coin.

  “And ye.”

  Before Phillipe could question him further, the boy disappeared like a djinni.

  Setting his sights on the coast, he set his feet to the faint path ahead and blended with the shadows among the rocks.

  He risked pausing in a tiny village south of Sis where he found a sturdy horse in a single-railed paddock patiently awaiting his morning feed. Leaving a coin in the wooden trough as compensation, Phillipe wrapped a bit of rope about the horse’s neck then quietly walked the animal to the outskirts of the cluster of huts before springing onto its unbrushed back. The unshod hooves thudded softly against the hard-packed earth, kicking small stones into the low shrubs that dotted the landscape as Phillipe urged the beast to a greater pace.

  “We must make haste, harousse. I must be far away by first light.”

  As if the beast understood—or perhaps found himself enjoying the freedom—he tossed his head and redoubled his efforts. Phillipe bent low over the muscular neck and crooned encouragements into furry ears.

  “I will call ye Beaudoin, which means my brave friend,” Phillipe said sometime later as he walked along the dusty streets of the next village, munching a meat roll to break his fast. The horse trailed behind, nuzzling Phillipe’s shoulder. Phillipe shrugged away from the velvety nip of the thick lips. “I will find ye a bit of grain, but not too much. We have many miles ’til we make the coast. But for now, we must appear unremarkable. Look. Here is a stable where ye may rest a moment.”