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

by Cathy MacRae

  Phillipe glanced between the two men. His heart thudded in his chest. What drew him to Maggie? Was it naught but sympathy? No. It was something else. Something he’d dared not think too much upon, never mind speak aloud.

  “I . . . ’tis more than that. But I cannot offer more than my friendship and protection. I have no name to give her, and no means to care for her. ’Tis certain the church will not support marriage on my behalf.” He drew his shoulders back. “Before I leave her, I will see she is well-protected. I will find a solution.”

  “Lad.” Donal’s soft voice wavered between admonition and agreement. “The church isnae likely to support either of ye. A second marriage when both spouses yet live?”

  Pain shot through Phillipe’s chest. “’Tis not fair. She deserves more. She did not deserve to be set aside after only a year of marriage.”

  “Yet, none will give her fairness. Until she is safely bound to a strong man’s care, she will remain vulnerable, prey for men who would see taking a former countess as proof of their strength.” Donal peered at Phillipe. “Ye will ever be the son of my heart, Phillipe of Antioch. Ye have divested yerself of yer past life with just cause. I would help see to yer future if ye’ve a mind to humor an auld man.”

  Phillipe tilted his head. “What are ye considering, m’lord?”

  “’Twould ease my mind . . ..” He studied the map a moment. “Aha!”

  Alex leaned against the table, an eager look on his face. “We need someone we can trust at our northern shore. MacDonnell hasnae proven loyal.”

  Donal nodded. “Aye. Land, men, and supplies are yers if ye would provide this service, Phillipe. Deeded to ye and yer heirs, bound to the MacLeans as family in truth, making ye and yers as though ye were blood.”

  Phillipe exhaled sharply. “I do not deserve this. I am now, and will forever be, outside the church—the very center of my honor. I have lost my way. I have no place in your house. There is much for me to do before I am reconciled—if ever.”

  “I claim whom I wish, Phillipe. Ye have always been as a son to me. ’Twould please me to recognize ye now. I know yer heart—have known ye from yer time as a lad fostering at Batroun, through yer knighting and more. I am an auld man, but I am not yet in my dotage.”

  Phillipe leaned heavily against the sturdy desk. “What ye offer is beyond . . . I am content with your blessing as I am beyond my sire’s. This is far too much.”

  “I will determine the justness of my offer, lad,” Donal admonished. He pinned Phillipe with a stare. “Will ye accept my offer—take my name as yer own and become my son?”

  * * *

  Rain sluiced over the stones and collected in puddles on the abbey floor. Maggie wrapped her arms about her waist, hugging her cloak close. The roof of the storeroom had been maintained with thick thatching to protect the mead, and from her vantage point in the doorway to the great hall, she was dry enough. Colyn sat on a perch Narfi had lashed together so she could take the falcon with her when she was at the abbey. Giving the post two extra legs allowed it to stand almost anywhere, and Maggie had been pleased with his thoughtfulness.

  Narfi had blushed when she’d hugged him.

  The scent of mud hung heavy in the air, overpowering the delicate aroma of honey and apples. Behind her, men from Hola checked the final batch, preparing it to be moved with the rest to a stone building near the harbor to await shipping to Morvern. The ship was due to arrive in two to three days, and though the rain hindered their ability to transport the mead to the harbor, she doubted the dreicht weather would cause the ship to be late.

  At a corner of the abbey, opposite where a fallen slab created shelter from the rain, Dawe and Gunn maintained guard. On the promontory, two other men had built a small lean-to, their view of the waters surrounding the isle spectacular—and an easy point from which to keep watch. The other pair were likely sleeping, or perhaps eating. They would be expected to watch through most of the night. They were as safe as six men-at-arms could make them. Soon, thanks to Phillipe’s efforts, their jobs would be easier.

  Leana flounced onto an ancient bench that had likely sat at a dining table when the abbey was in use. At some point, the accoutrements of the hall had been either dismantled, taken to the longhouse to be used, or—in the case of the bench—set out of the way and forgotten. She scooped her skirts off the damp, dusty floor and tucked them about her feet.

  “Do ye miss him?”

  Maggie wanted to tell her to not be presumptuous, but she had struggled the past fortnight to make even the barest headway against being called countess, and to be accepted as one of the people of the isle. Was it fair to use her status only when Leana provoked her?

  She pretended, instead, not to understand. “Who?”

  Leana faced away, but Maggie still imagined the young woman rolled her eyes.

  “He favors ye.” Leana didn’t bother to chase down Maggie’s stalling tactics. “I’ve said it before, and now he’s off to magically produce supplies and men to turn this pile of rocks . . .” she waved a hand about to indicate the ruined abbey, “. . . into a home worthy of ye.”

  “Into a home capable of protecting us all if necessary,” Maggie corrected. “And ’tis money, not magic, that will bring them here.”

  Leana tilted her head. “The earl did ye nae favors—neither in marrying ye, nor in sending ye home with naught but an isle in exchange for a year of fillin’ his bed.”

  “That’s quite enough, Leana!” Maggie’s face flamed, though the anger was divided equally between Leana for bringing up the past in such a manner, and the earl for making her words naught but the truth.

  “Phillipe risks much for ye.”

  Curiosity—and a small measure of dread—overrode her pique. “How so?”

  “’Twas something Balgair said.” Leana’s tone was flippant, daring Maggie to ask for more information.

  “Tell me. What did he say to ye?”

  “The twa met in Spain. In a brawl, actually.” She sent Maggie a look from beneath her brows, eyes dancing. “He’s a braw man, Balgair is. Talks a lot when he’s relaxed.”

  “Leana!” Too late, Maggie realized how Leana had come by her knowledge.

  Leana laughed. “I told ye Phillipe hadnae eyes for me—but Balgair does.” She tossed her braid over her shoulder. “’Tis a shame he’s gone. The men here . . ..” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “They arenae warriors.”

  “Sometimes that is a good thing. Not all men . . ..” Maggie stopped her scold. Why should she rebuke Leana for wanting a man she felt could protect her?

  “Phillipe was attacked aboard ship on his way to Spain. ’Tis where he got his scar. A lucky strike from a middlin’ fighter.” Her voice dropped low to mimic Balgair’s rumble then slipped back to her normal tone. “He says there’s more to Phillipe than meets the eye. He’s a well-trained warrior—as Balgair attests.”

  “I knew that. We’ve discussed this before.”

  “But something drove Phillipe from the Levant, of this Balgair is certain. He willnae say what, but Balgair said there is something in his recent past that has given him much sorrow.”

  Something was wrong at the inn. He wasnae happy when I found him speaking with Alex MacLean. Her heart leapt into her throat. He’s gone back to meet with him again—for me.

  Leana twisted to face Maggie, one eyebrow raised. “I’d bet ye a day of leisure this will become a place of beauty and service dedicated to its new owner.”

  Maggie frowned. “Mayhap I intend this to be a nunnery. In that case, its owner is still God.”

  Leana shook her head and settled again on the bench. “He will not like it if ye take vows.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “’Tis yer life, but I still believe the Frenchman would share it with ye if ye offered.”

  Maggie shook her head. She’d declined a lifetime at an abbey with the earl’s support. She’d scarcely take vows now. “’Tis much to think on. When he returns . . ..”

  Will he return? A sharp pain stopp
ed her breath. He promised. She turned her face to the sky and murmured a silent prayer for Phillipe’s safety.

  The rain ceased, becoming little more than a heavy mist. The dark orange of sunset pulsed just behind the silver veil. Maggie placed her forearm at Colyn’s breast and he stepped from his perch to the leather bracer. She moved from the doorframe and stepped in a puddle turned gold by the last rays of evening. Men bustled about, hauling the heavy amphora on low sleds that slipped easily over the stone floor, leaving them massed at the doorway to the yard.

  Gils paused, head drooping slightly with an apologetic air. “We will leave these here tonight and hope the morrow brings fair weather. Sloppin’ these great pots through mud is difficult, as well as dangerous. Much more likely to drop one or two when the goin’s rough.”

  His gaze caught hers then slid to one side. What did he not wish to tell her?

  When he said naught else, Maggie nodded. “So be it. Half are already at the harbor. We’ve still a day or two until the ship from Morvern is expected.” She ignored the fluttering in her chest at the thought of Phillipe’s return. “Mayhap a better path could be constructed which would be easier to travel in all weather.”

  Gils sent her an encouraging smile and a bob of his head.

  Recognizing the silent request for permission to leave her presence, Maggie waggled her fingers at him. “Let’s see what Ingrida has created for our supper.”

  She tied the hood about Colyn’s head then linked arms with Leana. Together they trailed the men through the path leading between the cliffs. Smoke rose, thick and heavy in the water-laden air.

  It was not a cooking fire. She smelled only wood and peat, not the savory aroma of meat or fish. She dropped Leana’s arm, glancing wildly about for a suitable perch for the falcon.

  A bedraggled form loomed ahead, skinny arms flailing as he fled down the path.

  “Halt!” Tears blended with the mists, creating rivulets that ran down his face.

  “Narfi! What has happened?” Maggie’s heart tripled its speed. Colyn squawked and gripped her arm, wings spread to counter her movements.

  The lad glanced at her as the men from Hola bolted toward the longhouse. Dawe and Gunn reached for Maggie, but she stepped to Narfi and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Narfi’s eyes were wide with worry and fear. “A ship approaches, freya.”

  “A ship? The ship isnae due for three days.”

  “Nae the one from Morvern.” Narfi pulled Maggie’s crossbow and quiver from his slim shoulder and his voice dropped. “Pirates.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  Gunn swore. Dawe’s hands hovered over his weapons. Maggie instantly deposited Colyn on an upright boulder. He squawked a protest as his talons skittered across the rough surface. She stripped away the leather bracer and slipped it over Narfi’s forearm. As he’d seen Maggie do many times in the past fortnight, the lad quickly used it to retrieve the falcon. Maggie grabbed her crossbow and settled the quiver strap over her shoulder.

  “M’lady,” Gunn barked, “ye will go with Dawe to the abbey. We can secure ye there.”

  She sent Gunn a quelling look. “I willnae be secured. Ye may, howbeit, help me ensure the safety of the people of Hola.”

  Gunn swore again.

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “A woman and child are present. Mind yer tongue.”

  Gunn glanced at Leana and Narfi. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

  Maggie’s gaze slid back to the lad. “I thank ye for yer warning. Take Colyn and go to the caves with the others. Ye will be safe there.”

  “I can come with ye. Ye’ll need my help.”

  Maggie blanched. She would not allow this child to be harmed. “Nae. I need ye to care for the falcon. Dinnae fail me.”

  Narfi scowled. Colyn batted his wings. White pin feathers fluffed with the movement, mingling with the long gray flight feathers that would soon cover his wings. Determination slanted Narfi’s brow.

  Gunn gestured to the lad. “M’lady, we dinnae have time . . ..”

  Maggie frowned her impatience at the man’s insistence then spoke to the boy. “I must count on ye to care for Colyn if something happens to me.”

  Narfi gave a reluctant nod of acceptance, but Maggie wasted no time gaining further assurances. “Go to the caves. Take Leana with ye.”

  Narfi wheeled about and raced up the path, Leana at his heels.

  Maggie offered the MacLaren soldiers an arch look. “Coming?”

  They hurried down the trail, hesitating only long enough at the entrance to the field near the harbor to ensure no boats had entered the protected waters. A large bonfire lit the beach, crackling in the gloaming, sparks reaching high. Three men of Hola stood near the fire, eyes fixed on the harbor. Two MacLaren soldiers ranged farther distant, their gazes covering the cliffs. Gunn and Dawe approached one of the MacLaren soldiers who had been at guard on the promontory.

  Maggie joined them. “What news, Gawan?”

  The three soldiers sent each other questioning looks but did not challenge her right to be there. Callan arrived with a nod of apology for his lateness, his breath slightly quickened.

  “Baen and I spotted a ship some distance off shore to the south.” Gawan snorted. “Naught but MacDonalds and pirates that direction. This ship has a tall prow—and a striped sail. As soon as Igor caught sight of it, he scampered down to the longhouse and raised the alarm. Evan and Paden remain on the point with one of the older lads. They will send him with any further news.”

  Maggie clenched her fists, drawing on the pain as her nails bit into the soft flesh to slow her racing heart. “Where are the women and children?”

  Callan jerked his head to one side. “They’ve gone to the caves.” He glanced quickly about then lowered his voice. “There’s somethin’ goin’ on. They dinnae bother fleeing when our ship approached. Why now?”

  “We came from the north,” Maggie mused. “And our birlinn carried a white sail.”

  Callan nodded. “Aye, but still, ’tis somethin’ amiss.”

  The sun melted into the horizon, turning the sea to molten gold edged in sable. The bonfire on the beach burned brighter. The MacLarens kept away from the flames, their gazes on the harbor. Tension hung in the air.

  Maggie glanced at each man, noted their stern faces. Hands hung loose, lightly flexed at their sides. If their ears could have moved, they would have swiveled to catch the sounds of the evening, parsing the bleat of the sheep on the far distant hill and shush of wind over the cliffs from the slap of water against the rocks—and against the hull of the ship sliding into the harbor.

  Callan stepped before her, shielding her from sight of those aboard the birlinn as it glided ashore with a soft crunch of wood against stone. Maggie took a step to the side, but remained within Callan’s shadow.

  A red and white sail stretched across the ship’s yard, casting a shadow over the rippling water. A man stood at the bow, legs splayed to counter the roll of the ship. Two men leapt over the side, boots clattering on the pier, then parted as the first man—possibly their leader—joined them.

  The three men of Hola shrank back. Callan tensed. Maggie restrained him with a touch to his arm. “Nae. If they keep secrets, let us discover what they are. Give this a moment to play out.”

  “I estimate ten to twelve men aboard,” Dawe murmured.

  Callan’s shoulders relaxed. The odds were fair. Maggie removed her hand and rested it lightly on the stock of her crossbow, reassured by its solid, familiar form. She breathed deep, settling into a watchful state, every muscle alive, sight sharpened.

  Flanked by his two comrades, the first man reached the shore.

  * * *

  Phillipe glanced at the wooden crates stacked to one side of the merchant ship, tied fast with sturdy rope to create a makeshift stall for Avril. She tossed her head, silver mane flowing like silk over her golden neck, and Phillipe felt a jolt of pride.

  A beautiful reminder of a friendship renewed. Baron MacLean had been
pleasantly surprised to discover Phillipe had purchased the horse and withdrawn his offer of his choice of beast from the MacLean stables. The baron’s Andalusian stock was prime horseflesh—but the half-blood Turkoman horse recalled his life in the Levant. And Arbela.

  I am pleased she has found a husband to love. He grinned. Alex had assured him if it was necessary to remind Caelen MacKern how to treat his wife, Phillipe would be invited to attend the lesson.

  Mayhap ’tis best I do not visit Arbela until more time has passed.

  His thoughts turned to the baron’s generosity. Land. The wherewithal to support a family. Would that include Maggie? In Scotland, according to Alex, simply stating one was a husband or a wife was considered binding. It seemed untoward to join with a woman without the church’s blessing. Would Maggie accept such an irregular marriage?

  Contentment swept over him, dispelling the mild regret which had been simmering since the past evening meal. His last meal with the MacLeans and his final words with the baron.

  Tend to the isle, Phillipe. I count on the shipment of mead. Donal MacLean’s grin attested to whose table at least part of the mead graced. Take what time ye need. The land will be waitin’ for ye.

  He had a chance at a new life with people he loved. What more could he ask?

  The hollow clop of hooves on wooden planks caught Phillipe’s attention. A flash of bristling red beard passed with a murmur of gentle encouragement to the sturdy horse crossing to the ship’s deck.

  “Balgair?”

  The man peered over the horse’s neck. A grin split his face. “Aye?”

  Phillipe fell into step as his friend led his horse to a second make-shift stall. “Ye were heading back to Oban, mayhap your home.” He did not frame the statement as a question, simply let the implied query dangle.

  Balgair tugged the knot securing his horse inside the stall then waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Och, why linger for weeks in search of a bit of work that may or may not be suitable? I have a friend who needs me help.” His grin returned. “Dinnae fash. I’ll be out of yer hair before ye grow weary of me.”