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

by Cathy MacRae

  The mead is even more potent than I thought.

  Water seeped into her footprints then disappeared in a flurry of froth. Choosing a gently rounded boulder, Maggie perched atop, tucking her skirts close to keep them from the teasing waves. Bending her legs, she rested her cheek on her knees, shoulders rounded, fingers trailing in the water pooled at the base of the rock.

  Her gaze moved from the stretch of sand to the clifftops rising above the harbor. Stars twinkled in the dark blue sky, mingling their white light with that of the moon on the gently waving grasses, glistening stone, and rippling water.

  Mine. This was given to me by a man who has no idea what real riches are. I have been here scarcely a day and already feel ties to this bit of land and water. Naught could entice me to leave.

  Warmth swept through her.

  And the people accept me.

  They like me.

  She hugged the thought to her, joy welling. Laughter and music drifted from the longhouse. The sea called from beyond the harbor.

  “May I join ye?”

  A spurt of annoyance flashed through Maggie at being disturbed, but Phillipe’s voice soothed the displeasure. She was too content to fuss, and she discovered she wanted to share this perfection with the Frenchman.

  “Aye. Choose a seat.”

  Phillipe’s hawk-like eyes glittered, his beard a shadow in the moonlight, hiding the lower half of his face. He propped a boot atop a boulder a few inches away. He met her gaze.

  “Ye are enjoying yourself.”

  A simple statement. Neither censure nor disbelief marred the words. A smile of delight slid across Maggie’s face. Lifting her head, she unwound and braced her hands to either side. She arched her back, face to the stars. “Aye. This will suit me well.”

  Phillipe cleared his throat, a low rumble of sound that ignited a pleasant shiver over her skin. “Have ye thought of the suggestions I spoke of earlier?”

  “Aye. Or, nae, though I dinnae know what else to say but to thank ye.” She admired the stars then let her gaze drop to the man next to her, seeing much to admire there as well. A faint bubble of laughter rose along with a sense of utter well-being.

  The mead. I drank too much mead. The thought both appalled and amused her.

  Her gaze followed the lines of his tunic stretched taut across his shoulders, then to the rolled cuffs which revealed strong forearms. He’d removed his chain mail, and she realized she’d never seen him without it before.

  I like ye better without the mail. Her eyes flew open wide. Had she spoken aloud?

  She drew a soft, shuddering breath and glanced away. With an effort, she forced her attention back to his question. “I see the merit in yer plan, and though I dinnae know where the funds will come from, I will do all in my power to pay in a timely manner.” She cast a furtive look at him beneath lowered lashes.

  Phillipe’s lips twitched.

  Damn! She pinched her lips together between her teeth to hold the words back. Saint Finnian’s beard! I willnae drink mead again.

  “I did not wish to add salt water to the list of grievances when I next clean and oil my armor.”

  “Of course.” Butterflies did somersaults in her belly. She had spoken aloud. “I cannae imagine brine improves the quality of steel.”

  “It does not,” he agreed solemnly. He studied his hands a moment then glanced up. “I like ye better with yer hair tousled and laughter on yer lips.”

  Maggie’s breath failed her. Words danced out of her reach. She swallowed. “I like dancing.”

  “Ye should always dance, m’lady. It becomes ye.”

  “I . . . I believe we are past m’lady. I am plain Maggie.”

  “Never plain . . . Maggie.”

  The bottom dropped from her stomach. Her name had never sounded so beautiful, so elegant—so sensual.

  The mead. ’Tis surely the mead.

  Heat rose, spreading up her neck and cheeks. Embarrassment. Longing.

  He is a mercenary. He will be gone soon, and I have much to do here. Spending time in the arms of a man nae my husband would be ill-advised.

  Her heart twisted against the words. She closed her eyes and fought her attraction to him.

  Phillipe remained motionless, asking nothing of her. Had she imagined the drop in his voice as he spoke her name? She swallowed. She would not embarrass herself further by acting like a swooning lass.

  “When will ye speak with Laird MacLean?”

  Maggie’s voice squeaked. She shivered lightly as if touched by a cool breeze. Blood flowed thick through Phillipe’s veins, deepening his voice, thickening his cock. He didn’t dare move for fear of drawing her attention to his state of arousal. How had his intentions veered so far off course?

  I like ye better without yer mail. Sweet Jesu! Had she really said that? Or did the sight of her affect his ability to think? Thank God he hadn’t spoken the first words that rose to his tongue.

  I would like ye better without your clothes, flushed beneath my kisses.

  He reined his thoughts back to the original conversation.

  “I will sail with the birlinn on the morrow and make landfall at Morvern by evenfall.”

  Did she frown? What flashed in her eyes?

  “I do not know when to expect an audience.” Other than immediately when the Baron receives my request. He did not think he would be kept waiting. Their relationship had been too deep for political posturing between them. Whatever was taking place at MacLean castle, Phillipe did not imagine the baron would shunt him to the end of the line.

  “Do ye trust me to form an alliance with Baron MacLean?”

  With Maggie’s thoughtful nod, his reservations of the task faded, replaced by the sight of the woman before him. ’Twas nigh impossible to look at her and not be overwhelmed by the urge to care for her, to sweep her into his arms and press his lips against her hair.

  But he’d given up the privilege of caring for another, of offering himself without restraint. Atonement was not something he found within his grasp. He would not drag her into the sins of his past. He would see to it she had as bright a future as he could arrange for her. That would have to suffice.

  A deep ache wallowed low in his belly, carving an empty place only Maggie could fill. His hands twitched, restrained from touching her only by the force of his will. His body leaned forward as if swayed by the wind. A little closer and he could smell her—kiss her.

  No. He drew back, muscles resisting. He managed a small smile. “Thank ye for allowing my help.”

  Maggie blinked owlishly. Her lips parted and closed. He glanced away, gathering strength to treat her as a business partner, not as the woman he wanted more than any other before. He’d once been in love with a woman he could not have, then married against his will to a child whom he’d protected and cared for rather than loved. Maggie—lovely Maggie was completely different and touched him as no other woman had.

  “For now, ye should have some funds available after the sale of the cyser. Ye should consider enlarging the orchard and increasing the production of the bee hives for more mead in the coming years. ’Tis a fine brew and I believe ye can create a demand for it beyond Morvern’s shores.”

  Maggie clutched her skirt, fingers kneading the rough cloth. What would she look like draped in fine silks with jewels to match the fire of her hair? Once, he could have given her such things.

  “I will speak with Asatrus and Gils on the morrow and see what must be done.” She stared at him, longing on her face, bared by moonlight. “Ye will return?”

  Hesitancy rode her voice.

  “Aye, m’lady. Ye have my word.”

  She frowned. “I dinnae wish ye to call me that.”

  “The children call ye freya—lady.”

  “They are bairns.” She lifted her chin. Her eyes flashed. “Ye arenae a bairn.”

  “Nae, sweet Maggie. I have not been a child for many years.” He smiled at the challenge she offered. Did she know how little restraint remained in h
is control? “Upon my honor, I will return.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Phillipe reached deep within, seeking calm buried beneath a jumbled mass of fear, destroyed expectations, and anger. Each slap of a wave against the ship’s hull reminded him of his flight from Cilicia and the life he left behind.

  All is as God wills.

  He’d spoken to Balgair as if this were the holiest truth. Yet, he’d lived his life as it suited him, not always in the service of others as he’d been taught. His vows as a knight and as a king had sworn self-sacrifice to those in need. If his imprisonment in Sis Castle had been punishment for neglecting the good of the people of Cilicia, then it was on his head, not God’s. He rather doubted The Almighty had a hand in Konstantin’s demand for his death.

  Helping Maggie could be a step toward atonement. One step in whatever time was granted him to do some good with his life. His narrow escape from death had to be for some greater purpose. To achieve this goal, he would be forced to face something that disturbed him more than Konstantin and his assassination plot. He would reveal his inadequacies and failures to the man who’d always been like a father to him. Phillipe was not certain he could survive the sorrow and disappointment in Baron MacLean’s eyes.

  A thousand ways to speak to the baron of the past three years paraded through Phillipe’s mind. Starting. Stopping. Tempting him to abandon the task. Telling him how much easier it would be to travel north. South. Anywhere except Morvern. He stepped to the rail, gripped the wood until his knuckles whitened.

  I will do this.

  It helped to remember he’d already spoken to Alex, who’d encouraged him to return to Morvern.

  Ye are more a brother to me, Alex, than any my father sired.

  For a time, his thoughts returned to Maggie. She’d been tipsy on mead the previous night, her normal restraint delightfully absent. He smiled. It had led to an interesting conversation.

  She likes me without my mail shirt. His smile widened. Her blunder showed plainly on her face, cheeks flushed with embarrassment when she realized she spoke aloud. He’d struggled to keep from responding—keeping the words to himself nigh impossible.

  I would love to see her naked. The statement would not have been a lie. Though, ’tis not the thing to say to a woman such as she. Such words make me no better than the men who pursue her.

  She was completely unexpected, her sweetness mingled with a strength of spirit that captured his heart.

  If life had been different; if he hadn’t followed his father’s decree and married Zabel; if he hadn’t once given his heart to Arbela . . ..

  Had he not done those things, he would not have left the Holy Land. Would not have traveled to Scotland. Would not have met Maggie.

  Evening wind swept through the strait, pushing the birlinn faster. It skimmed the tops of the waves, making short work of the distance to Morvern. Tall masts appeared as the boat rounded the point, each rooted within the bowels of ships resting at the quay. Birds wheeled overhead, fighting for the discarded bits of fish from the vessels that had returned from fishing. The birlinn shouldered between two larger ships and bumped gently against the protective camels, empty barrels lining the pier. Sailors hurried about, securing the vessel. Not waiting for the boarding plank to be placed, Phillipe leapt across the narrow space and stalked up the pier.

  He retrieved his horse from the stable near the docks, delighted with her welcoming nickers and the gentle nudge of her nose in search of a treat. He pulled a bit of carrot from the pouch at his waist and she took it daintily. Her golden coat shone in the evening light, an indication of the care she’d received in his absence. After checking the girth on her saddle, he mounted the horse and rode up the winding road to the castle.

  Torchlight flickered on the walls of MacLean Castle as he approached. Darkness would fall soon. People hurried about, the end of their day beckoning them homeward. The guards at the gate let him pass, but their scrutiny followed him like the warning tip of a blade against the back of his neck. He handed Avril to a stable lad, slipping him two coppers to assure she had extra oats, then strode to the imposing double doors of the great hall.

  Maggie’s face rose before him, reassurance for his next steps. One of the doors swung open, disgorging several people who spared him a curious glance as they passed. Aromas of roasted meats, the spice of cinnamon and cumin rose from platters on the tables in the hall and escaped the still-open door.

  Instantly, Phillipe felt at home.

  He stepped through the doorway, scanning the room, gaze settling on the people seated at the high table. Alex and a woman Phillipe did not know, her face drawn and thin. Two young boys, one perhaps two years of age, the other a handful of years older, sat between the woman and a man seated in a carved wooden chair, mid-table.

  Baron MacLean.

  His dark hair was shot with strands of silver, the once-red beard losing its battle to gray. He laughed at something a woman to his left said, the sound creating a swell of remembrance.

  How many years did I enjoy at Baron MacLean’s table? How many years of hearing his voice as I grew from a green youth to a knight?

  He clenched his fists, warding off the pain of loss, bracing against what was to come.

  Phillipe strode, chin up, shoulders square, to the head table. The baron half-rose from his seat, his chair legs scraping against stone. Silence fell.

  Alex rose to his feet, his grin wide. “Welcome, Phillipe. ’Tis good to see ye.”

  The baron braced his hands on the table. His gaze questioned, faltered. “Phillipe?”

  Phillipe dropped to one knee. “I beg your blessing, my father.”

  A fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth. Golden light danced on the walls of the baron’s solar, highlighting shelves filled with books. Paintings hung in heavily carved frames. A costly rug of a design Phillipe recognized softened and warmed the stone floor. A tray of food and drink lay on a small, ornately worked table on one side of the room, the level of whisky in the flask lowered to a comfortable level. Donal MacLean, Alex, and Phillipe sat in cushioned chairs before the fire. Phillipe’s confession left him hollow, drained. Exhausted.

  Donal’s low rumble broke the silence. “The only grief is that ye dinnae come to me sooner, Phillipe. And that I wasnae there to help ye. I question yer decision to nae speak to yer da, but . . ..” Donal raised a hand, quelling Phillipe’s attempted protest, “I understand how close to death at the hand of the Regent ye came, and I dinnae know if I would have acted differently.”

  Phillipe stared into the glowing coals at the base of the fire. “I should have done more to prevent their hatred.”

  Donal raised an eyebrow. “’Tis an important lesson, lad. People react when their families and religion are threatened. The church split a hundred and seventy years ago and never reconciled. Should ye change yer beliefs to suit others? ’Tis the larger sin, I believe. I willnae say ye are without fault, but ’tis past, and ye will learn from it. Come.” He rose and strode to his desk then motioned Phillipe to follow.

  Curious, and a bit lighter of heart, Phillipe stood and moved to the baron’s side. Donal sorted quickly through a stack of scrolls. With a grunt, he pulled one to the center of his desk. Unrolling it with care, he weighted the corners, holding it open. Phillipe studied the map over the baron’s shoulder, but it was of a place of which he had no knowledge. Scotland?

  Donal tapped a spot in an area marked as the Sea of the Hebrides. A land mass lay to the east, a scatter of islands to the west and south.

  “Lady Maggie’s isle lies here.” He pointed to a dot scarcely discernable on the map. “’Tis just south of Eigg . . ..” His finger slid to the right. “And west of the peninsula.” Silent a moment, a thoughtful tilt to his head, he mimed an arc along the northern edge of the land mass protruding into the sea then halted.

  “Why did ye join her entourage, Phillipe? From all accounts, she is a fair lass, but to claim an isle—especially one such as Hola which is little more than a
n inconvenient bump in the sea—and attempt to hold it on her own?” His brow furrowed. “A few warriors and a ruined abbey arenae enough to protect her. She’d have been safer under her da’s eye surrounded by high walls and scores of warriors.”

  “She chafed under the judging eyes and whispers of her clan and wished to claim her dowry, the one thing she believes she has control of. The isle is largely worthless, sir. Other than the notoriety of casting for the once-Countess of Mar, what would draw men to the place?”

  Donal shrugged. “I know only that the entire region is riddled with pirates. We’ve routed them from our shores, but ’tis akin to chasing rats from the pantry. There are skirmishes from time to time, and if they’ll brave my wrath, what keeps them from Hola?”

  “’Tis why I asked for your help restoring the abbey . . ..”

  Alex rose and joined them. “’Twill be some time before the abbey is adequate, Phillipe. Even then, ye will need more soldiers to defend it.” He tilted his head. “Is Hola capable of supporting such a force? How long will ye remain on the isle?”

  “As long as Maggie . . ..” Phillipe hesitated.

  Alex and his father exchanged looks. “Another damsel in distress, eh?” Alex’s voice teased.

  Phillipe’s neck heated. “What do ye mean? I’ve seen her skill with a crossbow and know she is cool-headed in battle. Lady Maggie is capable of taking care of herself.”

  Alex scoffed. “Ye’ve always had a heart for those who need yer help. Remember the cobbler’s daughter? She was, what, twelve summers to yer seventeen?”

  “Her father was ready to sell her to put food on their table.” Phillipe’s gaze narrowed. “Her entire family was starving.”

  “And so were ye until we realized ye took yer own food from the table—and what ye could wheedle from cook when she heard yer rumblin’ stomach—and gave it to the lass.” Alex glanced at his father. “Da was happy to assist once he set the man straight about his daughter. And what of Zabel? Ye’ve said ye did everything ye could to ensure she was protected before ye escaped.” He shrugged. “Lady Maggie may be older, but she is in dire need of protection whether she will admit it or nae.”