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

by Cathy MacRae

  “Of course,” Phillipe replied. “I stand ready to assist in any way.”

  Captain Benicio nodded. “Welcome aboard.” He turned to the man at his side. “Prepare to cast off.”

  With a sharp salute, the man passed the command off to the crew with a bellow that belied his wiry frame. Phillipe stepped across the deck to the bow which was already chopping against the waves. The main sail caught the wind which had reversed course and headed out to sea.

  A great weight lifted from his shoulders as the shore grew distant. Phillipe watched the blue, crystal-clear waters rush beneath the hull—and smiled for the first time in many days.

  * * *

  The sailor jerked his hand from the befouled lines with a curse. The lateen sail snapped in the wind as it guided the ship across the sea. Phillipe snorted. The two men the captain had substituted for his lost crew were clearly inexperienced. Their clothing might be travel-stained and worn, but the cut and cloth were expensive. Had they come by it as cast-offs? Or had they relieved the previous owners of their finery at the point of a knife?

  Two inexperienced sailors are inconvenient, and I may have to pitch in sooner than I thought. But work is better than sitting on my arse all day.

  Now that he was away from Batroun, Cilicia and its intrigue seemed a distant memory. Work as a common sailor was a chance to pay for his passage, though he’d hoped to earn coin as a mercenary. He hurled a handful of orange pits over the side then wiped his palms against his trousers. One of the sailors eyed him askance and Phillipe recoiled at the depth of hatred in the man’s face.

  Whatever has set him off? I do not know the man.

  Changing his mind about helping the pair with their bumbling efforts, he strode toward the stern of the ship and climbed the aftcastle for a better view.

  Sunset lit the entire horizon in a blaze of orange. Stars twinkled to the east in a velvet expanse of deep blue sky. As the sun dropped low and night fell, Phillipe returned to the main deck, intent on claiming his portion of the evening meal before seeking a place to rest.

  The spot between his shoulders twitched as if anticipating the thrust of a dagger. His heart rate increased. He whirled about, dropping his weight slightly, scanning the ship around him. The watch was changing, the deck alive with shadows. A darkened form appeared before him and he retreated a pace, hands at the level of his waist, in ready reach of both sword and dagger.

  “Please, help me.” The man clutched his forearm to his chest. He staggered against the corner of the wall before he disappeared. A muted thud and low groan reached Phillipe’s ears.

  Idiot. The captain will be lucky if this pair makes it to Gibraltar.

  He shook his head, hoping whatever fate befell the man and his partner did not impair the ship. Striding after the injured man, he rounded the corner, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he spied the man huddled against the wall.

  “What have ye done?” he demanded.

  “Yer coin, Sardar.”

  Phillipe drew back, startled at the man’s clear voice. “Coin? What is this? Ye are not injured?”

  The man pushed to a standing position, a sneer on his face. “La, Sardar. I am not injured. But I cannot ensure the same for ye if ye do not part with the coins in yer bag.”

  Phillipe snorted. How dare the man hinder him with petty thievery? “Do not be ridiculous. ’Tis not worth risking your life for what little coin I have.”

  The man lifted one eyebrow. “’Tis well known the Sea Falcon does not carry common passengers, Sardar. Your hands are soft and ye carry yerself as a nobleman. Your clothing does not conceal the fact ye are used to commanding—not being commanded.”

  Phillipe made a rude gesture, filled with anger at the man’s audacity. “Depart. I will report ye to the captain and have ye removed at the next port. But I will not give ye coin.”

  Footfalls landed quietly behind him. Phillipe whirled, placing his back to the wall as a second man stepped from the darkness.

  “I told ye he would be arrogant,” the man said. A slender blade, winked evilly in his hand. “Mayhap he needs persuading.”

  The first man shook his head. “Kill him and toss his body overboard.”

  “I think a mark to ruin his looks for the afterlife is necessary.” The man lunged forward, his scimitar slashing at Phillipe’s face.

  Too late, Phillipe saw the attack. He drew back, but pain opened like a searing brand from his temple to the corner of his mouth. His fingers flew to his cheek. Warm blood slid over his hand. Rage eclipsed the pain.

  Phillipe feinted to his right then whirled left, catching the man with the blade off-guard. Drawing his dagger, he plunged it upward through the base of the man’s jaw. The tip reached the top of his skull, coming to a jarring stop, a tingle shooting through Phillipe’s arm.

  The other man rushed Phillipe from behind, the whistle of a blade announcing his attack. Ducking, Phillipe whirled and shouldered into the charge, grappling the assassin around his waist, using the force of the attack to lift the man to his shoulder. With a slight stagger beneath the weight, Phillipe ran the few steps to the rail and heaved the man over. He landed in the sea with a splash.

  “Man overboard!” The cry from the lookout high on the mast drew a flurry of excitement from the deck.

  “Merde!” Phillipe snatched his dagger from the deck and wiped it on the first man’s cloak.

  The bosun skidded to a stop before Phillipe, eyes wide as he glanced from the dead man to Phillipe.

  “Guard!”

  Phillipe’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his jaw. Two burly sailors with truncheons gripped in their meaty hands hustled up, wary-eyed. Captain Benicio strode through the gathering crowd.

  “I will handle this,” he said, dismissing the group. The appointed guard waited a few steps away.

  The captain stared at the man sprawled on the deck, a trickle of blood staining the wood.

  “Amhal vouched for ye.”

  “They attacked me. I do not know them. They demanded coin.”

  Captain Benicio frowned then nodded. “Ye have proven yer worth as a fighter. The issue is closed. Gill, the cook, will tend your wound.”

  A throb as if wasps resided in the side of his face returned with the memory of the wound. Phillipe fought the accompanying lightheadedness and followed the captain below deck where he roused the cook to other duties.

  “Gill is handy with needle and thread and has set more than his share of bones,” Captain Benicio said by way of introduction. Phillipe stared at the enormous man’s thick hands and couldn’t imagine him handling needle and thread with any form of delicacy.

  Gill swung his legs over the side of his hammock. “Ye could not wait until I had a full hour’s sleep?” he grumbled, raising one hand to scratch his armpit. He peered at Phillipe then grunted. “’Twill not be pretty now nor a year from now. Captain, whisky for me, wine for our friend, if ye please.”

  Phillipe downed the proffered drink and braced himself.

  Chapter Seven

  Narnain Castle, Loch Lomond

  Mid-April, 1225

  Maggie threw back her shawl, letting the sun warm her head. Uilleam kept pace beside her as she hurried to put space between herself and the keep.

  “Avoiding Ma again, eh, Maggie?” He chuckled. “Some things dinnae change.”

  Maggie landed a solid thunk with her fist on her brother’s shoulder and wondered when the bony points had gained so much muscle. Or, for that matter, when he’d grown taller than her.

  “’Tis good to have ye home, Brother.”

  Uilleam rubbed his shoulder, the familiar teasing grin on his face. “Ye have a peculiar way of showing it. Ye still pack quite a punch—for a lass.”

  “I can still put ye on yer arse,” Maggie warned him. She sent him a sidelong look and wondered if she could. Or if he’d challenge her statement. His long-legged stride was full of strength and self-assurance, no longer the lanky youthfulness of the last time she’d seen him, almost
a year and a half earlier. He might be seventeen years of age, three younger than Maggie, but he was quickly becoming a man.

  “’Tis good to know.” Uilleam nodded. “I dinnae like the look the man gave ye in the hall.”

  Maggie bit back a scathing reply aimed at the injustice of arrogant, domineering men and instead tossed her head. “I could have my choice of any man in the keep—or out of it. I’m nae in such dire straits, howbeit.”

  “Maggie!” Uilleam’s voice growled low, and Maggie glanced at him in surprise. She halted and placed a hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry, Willie. I forget ye’ve just arrived. I’ve become used to the looks and less-than-veiled invitations. Dinnae fash. No one dares more.”

  Uilleam’s brow furrowed, hiding the bright blue eyes which had lasses dancing to his tune across the Highlands. “I dinnae like it. None will disrespect my sister and boast of it on the morrow.”

  “Och, Uilleam. Ye arenae my Wee Willie any longer, are ye?” She smiled, pushing her heart-felt gratitude to the wide curve of her lips. “I know I make light of it, but it doesnae good to pay too much notice. ’Tis mostly those men passing through, so, gone soon enough. The MacLaren men dinnae pay me much mind. Their wives wouldnae tolerate such an affront,” she added with a laugh.

  Uilleam’s face relaxed into a light frown and he raked fingers through his dark red hair. Maggie gazed at him fondly and wondered—for at least the hundredth time—why it had seemed fair to bestow long dark lashes and thick wavy locks on her brother while her own bright hair hung in tight curls that stood out from her head of a morning, and defied her maid’s best efforts to keep it pulled back in a braid. Her sturdy frame and long legs had seemed better suited to a lad than a lass—until Willie had grown up.

  “What are ye going to do, Maggie? Da seems to think ye should remarry. Ma danced all around my question—in her usual fluttery way. I love them both, but . . ..”

  “I love them, too. Dinnae forget they have successfully run this clan for more years than we’ve been alive. I . . ..” She halted, a sudden catch in her throat. “I’ve caused a bit of trouble, though ’twasnae intentional.”

  She held a hand up, forestalling Uilleam’s words. Despite her best efforts to find a place where she could make a difference, increasing discomfort thwarted her existence at the MacLaren keep. After she’d married, others overtook her vacated areas of responsibility. Maggie’s status was now uncertain. Unmarried lasses whispered and tittered behind their hands, pretending knowledge of things beyond their ken. Married women chatted of bairns and the vagaries of men—and fell silent when Maggie walked into the room. She craved something purely her own, and the Isle of Hola called to her as nothing else did.

  “I have a plan to create a home for myself and nae longer be underfoot.”

  Uilleam tilted his head, curiosity widening his eyes. “Tell me.”

  Maggie took his hand and led him to a boulder. She sat and patted the stone next to her. He folded his long legs, stretching the fabric of his trews tight across his thighs, and sat beside her.

  “I have an island.”

  Uilleam’s eyebrows shot upward. “Did ye win it in a card game?”

  Maggie laughed. “Almost. The Earl of Mar won it, and gave it to me in lieu of the money from my dowry when I returned home.”

  The earl’s parting words still stung, but time had softened them somewhat. She shrugged them away.

  “’Twas a frightfully snell winter, and there hasnae been a chance to plan a trip. The isle is near the western coast, just off the Ardnamurchan Peninsula. But ’tis mine, Uilleam, and I mean to live there.”

  “Do ye know aught more than where ’tis? There’s a gey wheen of rocks in those waters with naught but roosting places for sea gulls and puffins.”

  “Puffins? I’d like that.”

  “Maggie, be serious. What if ye get there and find naught?”

  “But, what if the isle is perfect?”

  “Perfect? How?”

  Maggie sighed, a thoughtful gesture that brought all her dreams flooding back. “Sunshine. Grass. Trees. A place for a croft—a small one. Mayhap a tiny harbor. Porpoises and puffins.”

  “Ye wish to hide away.”

  His words evoked surprise, dismay, sympathy. Maggie’s neck heated.

  “I dinnae need a large clan and the attendant difficulties. I wish to live simply and nae see my failures in everyone’s eyes each day.” The lump in her throat returned. “I have few expectations regarding my life.”

  “Ye cannae live alone, Maggie. Pirates and Vikings still roam the area. Ye’ll need protection.”

  “I can still put ye on yer arse,” she reminded him.

  “I believe ye could try—and mayhap win. But ye cannae rely on wrestling every shipload of Norsemen that stumbles upon yer island.”

  “I can shoot a crossbow.” Her humor, sidelined earlier, returned.

  “Not fast enough to pick off an entire boatload of warriors,” Uilleam countered, a slight grin twitching at one corner of his mouth.

  “I’m faster with a long bow.”

  “Why don’t I go with ye?”

  Maggie blinked. “Go with me?”

  “Ye dinnae believe Da or I would let ye go alone?”

  “Let me?” Maggie bristled, pushing against the stricture.

  “Let ye. Watch ye. It doesnae matter if ye were a lad or a lass. Traveling alone is asking to be robbed or worse.” He leveled a meaningful look. “And as a lass, there is a lot worse.”

  “Da isnae going to want ye to leave again so soon.” Maggie wavered between wishing to take him with her and wanting to be free from male interference—no matter how well-intentioned.

  “Och, he’ll bluster, but ye need help. ’Tis right I help my favorite sister.”

  Maggie ruffled his hair. “I’m yer only sister, ye wee ramscallion. And thank the good Lord there’s only one of ye.”

  Uilleam ducked out of her reach then stood. “Aye, that’s what makes ye my favorite. I’ll go speak with Da. When would ye want to leave?”

  “Last month, though the roads then were impassable. I could be ready to go within a sennight, and ’twould be best we dinnae linger and give him a chance to change his mind.”

  “Good point, Sister. Ye were always the brighter one.”

  “And ye the pretty one,” Maggie replied, repeating the litany they’d shared since the first time Uilleam as a bairn had unleashed his heart-melting smile on her young heart.

  He tossed her a jaunty salute then headed back down the trail, his boots pushing the new grass flat, leaving faint imprints in the wet ground.

  Maggie pulled her wrap closer. Spring found difficulty gaining hold over the winter’s chill, though birds sang in the trees and flowers bloomed in profusion in the glen. Water burst from the rocks, swollen with melted snow that even in late April still capped the mountain peaks.

  Men on horseback had traded throughout MacLaren land for the past month, though it would be weeks before the roads dried enough for wagons to make the trek around Loch Lomond to Narnain Castle. It didn’t matter. Maggie did not wish to take much with her. The MacLean laird controlled a substantial village on the northern side of the Straight of Mull, on their route west to the Isles, and she could purchase necessary items there. Traveling alone was dangerous, she knew, but she hadn’t found anyone she wished to travel with—until Uilleam.

  She raised a hand above her eyes as she noticed a falcon soaring far overhead, a dark stain against an otherwise cloudless sky. It dropped abruptly, gaining speed that left Maggie’s heart racing. A bird she hadn’t seen a moment before entered the falcon’s path, struck with killing force before Maggie had a chance to draw breath in surprise. The two birds hurtled toward the earth, prey and predator locked together.

  With a scream of defiance, the falcon smote the air with its wings. It flared above the rocks and banked toward a cliff face not many steps away from Maggie. She watched as it landed near a shelf almost indistinguisha
ble from the crags around it. Another falcon perched on what had been an eagle’s nest in past years, a ramshackle affair that likely clung to the rocks with little more than ancient bird splat and tenacity.

  Maggie wanted to share her find with Uilleam, but he was too far down the path for recall. She hugged the knowledge to herself, speculating on the number of eggs in the nest and how many would survive to become adults.

  A nesting pair of Peregrines. I havenae raised a chick in years. Longing rose in her, but she squelched the urge. I’ve more pressing concerns, and will be gone by the time these eggs hatch. ’Tis no idle matter to commit time to training a falcon.

  With a last pang of regret, she followed Uilleam’s footsteps to the keep. Humming softly to herself, oblivious to her surroundings, a man who’d stepped from the trees caught her off guard.

  He halted directly before her, eyes calculating, arms loose at his side.

  “Is this where ye meet yer lovers, lass?”

  Maggie shook her head. “Dinnae do this. Find a woman who wishes to play. I am not her.”

  “I think ye can be persuaded.” His grin promised her easy capitulation. Maggie wagered he’d accosted women before. He took a step toward her. Maggie countered his move, keeping her distance.

  He scowled. “Dinnae back away, lass. I can be accommodating. Ye’ve laid with a man before. What’s the difference this time? Ye know I’ll not leave ye with a bairn to consider.”

  Anger flashed through Maggie. If he knew she was barren, he also knew she was the laird’s daughter. He was arrogant, a bully—and stupid. He’d picked the wrong woman.

  “My only answer to ye is to keep to yerself. I’ll nae have ye.” Her final warning.

  Anger flushed his face. He scowled and took two swift steps toward her. His hands came up, gripped her throat. Maggie tightened her neck, bowed her head and body forward, and ducked beneath his arm and to the side, slipping smoothly from his grasp. She continued, taking several steps away before she stopped and faced her attacker.

  A look of bewilderment crossed his face, his hands still before him, holding naught but air.