by Cathy MacRae
The yard quieted, the lack of sound eerie, threatening. Heads turned toward the hall.
“I have yer laird. Surrender the keep!”
Phillipe blinked away the sting of sweat in his eyes. A burly man wrapped in a woolen cloak advanced through the hall doors and shoved a slimmer man down one step—leaving his own head and upper body unprotected by his hostage.
Setting his heels to Avril’s flanks, Phillipe sent the mare charging across the yard, bending low over her side in hope of confusing the enemy long enough to gain the upper hand. The horse’s thundering hooves stunned the man to inaction, clearly not expecting a counter to his challenge. He grabbed for the man before him, but Phillipe’s sword sang through the air, the flat of the blade catching a stunning blow to the back of the burly man’s skull. His legs crumpled beneath him and he struck the MacLaren laird as he fell, sending him staggering down the final steps into the yard. Phillipe swept low and lifted the older man to the saddle before him. Within seconds, he raced away, swallowed by shadows.
He drew to a halt near the mews. Avril pawed the ground and snorted. Maggie appeared in the door’s opening, crossbow rigged for a quick shot. Phillipe lowered Laird MacLaren carefully to the ground. The older man’s legs trembled but he quickly recovered and stood.
“Step away, Da.” Maggie eyed Phillipe over the top of her crossbow.
The MacLaren captain rushed to his laird’s aid, pulling up short at the sight of the tableau. He lifted his hands, palms out.
“Does he threaten ye, m’lady?”
“I’m a bit worried the attack came on the morn our gates were opened earlier than usual.” Her lowered brow clearly indicated she was not convinced Phillipe had naught to do with the attack.
“Aye,” Phillipe agreed, voice steady to avoid being shot by Maggie’s crossbow. “Though ’twas not by my hand.”
Balgair stepped close, dried blood plastering his beard on one side of his face. “I can vouch for this laddie.” He indicated Phillipe with a jerk of his chin.
“Balgair is known to me,” Neacal, the commander added.
Maggie slowly lowered her crossbow, though she sent Phillipe a wary look before turning her attention to her father.
“Are ye skaithed, Da?” She leaned her weapon against the wall and strode to her father. Gathering his hands in hers, she raked her gaze over him from head to toe, as if daring him to deny an injury.
“I am a bit shaken, Daughter, but whole—thanks to this man.” His gaze fell upon Phillipe. “I owe him my life.”
Maggie’s sharp gaze slid to the Frenchman. He sat quietly atop his horse, neither acknowledging nor denying her father’s claim. The golden mare was flecked with sweat and she champed her bit, blowing great breaths in the aftermath of battle. With both Neacal’s acknowledgement and her da’s declaration, Maggie carefully disarmed her crossbow, though she was slow to relax her guard entirely.
Men surrounded her—more likely surrounded the laird. She searched their faces, noting with relief many she knew.
“Uilleam? Where is he?” She tensed, glancing into the yard, her gaze lighting on covered forms that would move no more.
“I will find him.” The Frenchman dismounted and led his mare away, pausing to speak to men, sparing each fallen form a quick glance. Maggie soon lost his tall, lean shape in the milling crowd. Her breath quickened as fear threatened to consume her.
Where is Uilleam?
Three more soldiers approached their group. One gave a short bow to her da then spoke in a low voice to the commander. Neacal nodded.
“The man who attacked ye has been taken into the hall under guard,” Neacal informed her da. “Do ye wish to question him, or shall I have him placed in the tower?”
“I will question him.” Dugal peered at Maggie. “Come with me.”
At her nod, he waved for his commander to accompany them. She gathered her crossbow and reluctantly followed the heavily armed group into the hall.
A stocky man sat in a chair in one corner of the room, scarcely visible through the soldiers surrounding him. He held his head in both hands, face toward the floor. Donal’s personal guard stepped closer, clearly reeling from their laird’s kidnapping minutes earlier.
“Who sent ye?” Dugal’s voice rang authoritatively.
The man groaned and swayed. A soldier grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back in his chair.
“Answer the MacLaren.”
The man’s head lolled to one side, the dark centers of his eyes huge. He blinked then squinted. His mouth worked, gaping open and closed like a fish out of water. Spittle drooled from one side.
“Ma . . . Mac . . .M’Nair . . ..”
“The MacNairn?” Dugal’s brows shot together in a scowl. “I thought we’d kept them on our border.”
The soldier prodded his captive with the butt of his spear, but the man gave no further answer.
“I have found your brother.” Phillipe’s low voice startled Maggie. She whirled, his relaxed mien calming her racing heart. “He is injured, but I think not too severely. The healer is with him now.”
“Take me to him,” she demanded.
Phillipe gave a nod of acquiescence and led her into the yard.
Dawn had at last broken over the trees, bathing the air with peaceful light. Those who had fallen had been removed from the yard, leaving only those who awaited the healer’s care. Phillipe headed toward a small cluster of men who stepped aside to admit Maggie to the man in the center.
Uilleam spared her a half-grin, but his jaw clenched tight and his eyes were over-bright. His pallor and the sheen of sweat on his brow spoke of blood loss as well as pain.
“Ye spared us some losses with that crossbow of yers, Sister,” he rasped.
Maggie’s eyes misted. “Och, ye would do the same for me.” She sought the healer’s gaze, needing encouragement.
The older woman gave a curt nod. “The lad has a great gash on his arm, fortunately ’twas nae his sword arm. ’Twill heal with time and care. I have stitched the wound closed. Make certain he doesnae use it for at least a sennight and report to me immediately if he becomes feverish.”
The woman gathered her things and moved to the next person awaiting her care.
“Ye will do as she says,” Maggie stated, raising her brows for emphasis.
Uilleam waved his other hand briefly to indicate he’d heard her. Maggie was well aware the gesture did not mean he would heed her.
“Help him to his room. I will tend him there.”
Two men lifted Uilleam, arms about his waist as they gave him a moment to gain his feet.
He beckoned her close. “Ye must take care.”
“I always do, Willie.” Maggie nudged a lock of hair from his forehead and stroked his head as if he were six again.
Uilleam grabbed her hand, his look fierce, chest heaving. “Nae. Ye dinnae know . . .. The man who did this, who led the MacNairns here.”
“Dinnae fash, Willie. Whatever it is will wait.”
“He wasnae simply reiving.”
Maggie stilled. “What was he after, if not our sheep or cattle?”
“He was after ye, Maggie.”
Her head whirled, suddenly full of the insults she’d endured since she’d arrived home.
Da was right. No offers of marriage, but proposals to establish me as mistress—or worse—seem to be in abundance. Despair warred with anger. I willnae sit idly by, unable to walk outside the walls of the keep for fear of being spirited away. And I willnae bring a battle to the doors of Narnain Castle again.
She glanced up, meeting Phillipe’s gaze. He waited several feet away, but the look in his eyes told her he’d heard Uilleam’s words.
“Will ye be leaving soon for the isle?” she asked.
“Aye. Unless your father changes his mind, I see no reason to linger.”
Maggie gave a short nod. “Good. Give me a few minutes to pack. I will be going with ye.”
Chapter Twelve
Rain dripped fro
m the canopy of leaves overhead. Maggie shrugged deeper into her plaide. Droplets beaded on the thick wool and joined together in rivulets that ran across the weave. The falcon chick huddled silent beneath the covering on the cage Maggie had fashioned from lashed sticks. Its leather bottom was easily removed for cleaning, the structure sturdy enough to provide protection as they traveled.
Satisfied the wee bird was as dry and comfortable as possible, Maggie shifted her gaze to her traveling companions. Gunn and five of the original six who’d set out for Hola the day before formed her guard. The sixth had fallen in the fight at the castle. Dawe, a childhood friend, easygoing and with a watchful eye to her care, was one of the five. His da, Callan, one of the MacLaren’s own bodyguards, had been added at the laird’s insistence when Maggie had refused to back away from her decision to travel to Hola. She doubted much escaped his eagle-eyed gaze, and wouldn’t be surprised if he had established some means of communicating with her father at Narnain Castle.
Her maid, Leana, only a year or so younger than Maggie, had tossed together a bag of her belongings with alacrity, eager to tread beyond the shores of Loch Lomond. Maggie suspected there was a broken heart amongst Leana’s reasons for the journey, but Maggie had not pried the information from her. ’Twas enough to have the woman along as a chaperone. Maggie knew her reputation lay in tatters, no need to flaunt the issue by traveling as a lone woman in the small party, though she was perfectly capable of caring for herself and was certain anyone showing her undue interest would be met by MacLaren swords—and an invitation to harass their laird’s daughter at their peril.
Balgair, she had learned, was a Graham, and as such was an ally and could be trusted. Phillipe, the Frenchman, was a complete mystery, though he had proven himself by saving her father’s life and helping repel the attack from the hated MacNairns.
Maggie sat alone, the men giving her plenty of space as they had the past two days. Leana huddled beneath her plaide only a few feet from Maggie. The drumming of the rain and misty shadows separated them as much as if they’d sat on opposite sides of the fire. A fire that smoked and sputtered beneath a crude leafy shelter that kept some of the rain at bay. Poor it might be, the shelter allowed them a bit of warmth. Maggie hoped the rain ceased soon—for both her own comfort and to avoid the prospect of languishing in Oban until a boat could be hired to take them to Hola.
They would reach Oban Bay on the morrow, and from there by boat enter the Sound of Mull—and then to the open water between Mull and—hopefully—her new home.
What would she find? A large rock devoid of soil or plants, suitable only for nesting sea birds? Or a varied, fertile land of mountains and valleys, sandy beaches and plunging cliffs? Surely the deed to a barren rock would not be worth a nobleman’s wager. She wanted to envision a haven suitable to raise sheep and plow a bit of land for a garden, with porpoises in the bay and sea birds crying overhead. But the name Hola was Norse for hole in a rock, and no amount of wishing could disperse the image of a monolith rising from the waves, white foam beating against the forbidding, unforgiving, inhospitable stone.
The rain pattered to an end. Maggie sighed and pushed her plaide away from her head. Phillipe rose and, shifting his cloak more firmly about his shoulders, stepped around the men sitting near the fire and halted next to Maggie. She glanced up, startled to find him close. His short, black beard glistened, wet from the rain, and his dark eyes glimmered above an almost hawkish nose.
“May I join ye?” He swept a hand to one side, indicating the end of the fallen tree she sat upon. Maggie stared at the wet, crumbling bark a moment then, gathering her wits, cast a swift glance at Leana who appeared to pay them no attention.
“Aye.”
He gave a slight nod then seated himself upon the trunk, leaving a space between them. He unfolded a small bit of cloth to reveal three chunks of meat.
“I sliced these from the hares before they were spitted over the fire. Your eyas will not benefit from cooked meat.”
“Eyas?” Maggie battled the tremors racing just beneath her skin. She sat poised on the edge of the tree trunk, leaning a bit forward—and toward Phillipe. Folding her hands beneath her plaide to banish the temptation to trace the scar partially hidden beneath his beard, she settled, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“An eyas is a chick taken from his nest for training.” Phillipe motioned to the covered cage, his attention on the bird. “Has he been fed today?”
“I caught a mouse early this morning. I am teaching him to step to my hand.” Maggie uncovered the cage, leaving a corner of the cloth partly shielding the box. The chick fluffed his feathers, droplets of mist glistening on his downy coat, then shook the moisture away and fixed Maggie with a beady gaze.
“Very good,” Phillipe acknowledged. “Each thing ye teach him should lead to another.”
As if scenting the bits of meat in Phillipe’s hand, the fledgling falcon perked up, tilting his head as though to catch the scent. Phillipe handed one piece of rabbit to Maggie.
“From your hand only.”
Maggie placed a leather gauntlet on her left hand then untied the opening to the cage and carefully picked up the trailing end of the jesses attached to the wee bird’s legs. After working the leather straps between her fingers to secure them, she placed the meat in her fist, leaving only a small portion protruding from between her fingers. She gave a low whistle. The bird cocked his head in response and gave a demanding cry. Placing her hand through the open door, Maggie held the morsel a few inches away from the chick and whistled again.
He bobbed his head and lifted his wings, a motley collection of down and partially unfurled pin feathers. His big orange toes gripped the perch lashed the width of the cage, but he overbalanced forward, his tail too stubby to provide adequate counterbalance. He beat his wings and righted himself, then carefully stepped from the stick to Maggie’s proffered glove. Catching sight of the meat, he grabbed it in his beak, shielding his action with his wings, a posture meant to keep other animals from stealing his food.
“Ye are doing well with his training,” Phillipe said.
Maggie glanced up, uncertain if the warmth around her heart began with the wee bird’s acceptance of her or with Phillipe’s words of encouragement. His dark eyes glowed.
“There . . . there is much I dinnae remember, things I must learn.”
“Do ye plan to keep him, then? ’Tis not a bad thing. Many chicks die their first year because they are not good hunters. Giving him a year to prepare himself could save his life.”
Maggie worried her lower lip and dropped her gaze. “I would like him to fly free. But that willnae be for some time. Mayhap later. If the isle . . ..”
She hesitated. If the isle was hospitable. If the isle did not disappoint. If, if, if.
“Ye have not seen the isle?”
The words fell soft, gentle, hardly even a question. Maggie hazarded a look at the man beside her. His dark eyes rounded with sincerity, deep pools of warmth—and not a hint of derision or impatience. Her heart sped, her breathing shortened.
She shied from the unfamiliar sensations sliding through her. “I was told it provided a small income, but I dinnae know more.”
Phillipe’s eyebrows rose slightly.
Embarrassment slid through her at her lack of knowledge. Yet, how could she know more of the isle when the earl had told her so little? To tell the Frenchman of this was something she could not do. “Mayhap some time ye could tell me of the Holy Land?”
He blinked and a hooded look fell over his face. Before Maggie had a chance to regret changing the subject, his lips tilted up. “Mayhap, if time permits, we can exchange stories.”
Maggie blanched. “If time permits.” The words choked her, but she could scarcely decline. She would simply avoid raising the subject again.
The falcon shifted his weight on her glove and gave another demanding cry. Maggie flinched and stared at the bird. “Och, he’s finished this bit. Should I give him more?”
> Phillipe handed her a second piece, slipping it to her with his hand turned palm down in a fashion to keep the keen eyes of the chick from realizing where the food came from. She quickly tucked it into her fist, poking a bit through her fingers, and whistled the alert for food. The bird dug in as though famished.
“Feed him what he wants now. When ’tis time to train him to fly and hunt, ye will not feed him so much.”
“I call the bird he, though I dinnae truly know,” Maggie mentioned, keeping her gaze on the falcon. The Frenchman’s gaze warmed her overmuch.
“Ye are likely correct. Males are considerably smaller than the females, and he is old enough his size should tell us. Will ye name him?”
She shrugged. “I havenae thought of it.”
“Fleeing your home and fighting a battle does take up time.”
Maggie flashed a look of surprise then grinned to see the gentle humor on his face. “Aye, that it does. Give me an Armenian name for him.”
Phillipe appeared as startled as she at her request. She knew her question would draw an unfavorable response from him. Why did she wish to know more about him? ’Twas unreasonable. They would part in a matter of days, and she would not prove the gossips correct and engage in an affair with a man to whom she was not wed.
“Hakan is a common name in the East meaning one who rules.” Phillipe answered as though her request did not dismay him, but she saw his eyelids narrow in the instant before he glanced away. He shrugged. “Mayhap ye would consider Colyn? ’Tis French meaning one who brings triumph.”
Embarrassment heated Maggie’s cheeks. She would in the future steer clear of his past in the Holy Land. She grabbed the suggestion of a French name as if he’d offered a rope to a drowning swimmer. “Of course. Colyn is verra nice. Thank ye.”
Phillipe settled his gentle smile on her then rose. “Balgair has built two small shelters for ye and your maid. May they keep the rain from disturbing your sleep. Get some rest, my lady. We’ve a long journey ahead.”
Phillipe made his way to the picketed horses, his mind on the red-haired young woman by the fire. Avril lowered her muzzle into his cupped palm, her breath warm on Phillipe’s chilled skin.