by Cathy MacRae
Maggie unlaced her gown and let it fall to the floor, then stepped into the tub. She slid beneath the steaming water with a sigh, her taut muscles easing in the heat. Her eyes closed as the salt spray on her skin rinsed away and the scent of roses filled the air.
I wouldnae have dreamed acquiring a treasure was such a burden. A blessing, for certain, but still a burden. ’Tis difficult to think I have such power over the people of Hola. ’Tis not my treasure to dispose of in a frivolous manner, but my duty to see it is well-spent for their benefit.
Maggie sighed, remembering the furtive hour they’d spent placing the bags of treasure within the fabulous chest the baron had sent her. The feet were carved to resemble paws, perhaps of a lion—tales of which Phillipe had entertained her with on the voyage from Hola to Movern. The rest of the cask was carved with figures drinking wine and making music. Decorating the outer rim of the top was a script unknown to her, which Phillipe told her was well-wishes for the owner of the chest.
She’d been intrigued with the cask, and pleased with the soft woolen cloak lined with fur that had been the rest of the baron’s gift.
The treasure had fit snuggly into the chest, the cloak folded atop the bags. A small key had fit the lock, and broad bands of metal, locked together with a crossbar, had further protected the chest against casual intrusion.
A knock at the door revealed a young woman of roughly Maggie’s age. She bustled inside as Maggie bid her enter.
“I’m Mòrag. We havenae much time, m’lady, but I think ye’d feel better for washing yer hair as well.” Once the maid was satisfied with her efforts, she spread Maggie’s locks over the edge of the tub, angled to catch the heat from the fire on the hearth.
Maggie relaxed, her muscles limp as Mòrag’s fingers soothed away tension in her scalp and neck. She closed her eyes, stealing a moment’s rest.
I was a simple laird’s daughter, my dowry monies spent, and now have more gold and silver coins than I can spend in a lifetime. Only yesterday I was determined to devote my life to aiding the people of Hola—alone. Joy bubbled in her chest. Now, I am to be Phillipe’s wife—Lady MacLean.
She snuggled deeper into the water, a smile playing about her lips. Should I tell him I’ve admired him since first we met? Aside from the mistaken notion he’d betrayed us to the MacNairns. Maggie giggled at the memory. She’d been angry and distrustful at the time. Nae. I willnae tell him now. Mayhap later.
The door opened and closed. Maggie opened her eyes and sat up. Water sloshed gently about her. Her eyebrows shot up as she beheld the pink and burgundy gown in Grizel’s hands.
“Ye do realize I have red hair. Verra red.”
Grizel held up the gown. “The dark burgundy will deepen the rich undertones of yer locks.” She gave Maggie a shrewd look. “Few with yer coloring can wear this. Most lassies with hair the color of yers settle for green or, too often, brown. I believe ’twill suit ye for a rare treat.”
The woman’s words rang a challenge, and Maggie grinned as she stepped from the tub. “Ye expect me to make an impression?” She grabbed a length of linen from Mòrag and rubbed her limbs briskly before donning a soft wool robe.
“I expect yer young man will not be able to put his eyes back into his head.” Grizel shrugged. “He seems kind enough, though there is a reluctance about him—nae for ye, lass, but for something in his past that tugs at him still.”
“And I will change that with this dress?”
“Ye will at least take his mind from it for a time. With the right words, a touch, he will soon decide his efforts are best spent on ye, not on whatever happened before he met ye.”
Mòrag placed Maggie in a chair and carefully combed her hair. The strands dried quickly before the fire and soon crackled to life in the girl’s hands. She and Grizel helped Maggie into the fine wool gown, its velvet bodice sliding luxuriously over Maggie’s thin linen shift. Wide bands of lace glimmering with metallic thread bound the neckline and cuffs, and at her elbows where sheer silk over-sleeves fell to points near the floor.
Under Grizel’s critical eye, Mòrag created a braid on either side of Maggie’s face which she bound behind her head then let fall to mingle with the rest of the coppery red curls. Grizel produced a silver filigree set with clear blue stones to nestle atop the braid.
“I am now a faerie princess,” Maggie laughed. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear, thrilled with the purely indulgent flow of the silk sleeves. “I’m indebted to ye, both.”
“I’ve other business to attend, so I’ll bid ye fare-thee-well. My lord baron is well-pleased tae have ye here, and looks forward tae seeing ye anon. I wouldnae rush to the solar if I were ye.” Grizel cast a glance at Mòrag. “Keeping the men waiting a moment or twa willnae hurt them. They will forget to fuss the moment they lay eyes on her.”
“I am more used to a crossbow as my weapon of choice,” Maggie noted. “Howbeit, a pretty dress may prove the better choice in this instance.”
She folded her hands before her in a studied pious gesture and inclined her head. “I am ready to speak with the baron.”
Chapter Twenty Eight
The trill of doves filtered through the open window in Baron MacLean’s solar. Sunlight lingered late on this summer’s day, finding its way into the high-walled courtyard just beyond the baron’s chamber. The delicate scent of lemons drew Phillipe to the window where he found a trio of trees with fruit ripening among the leaves.
Baron MacLean crossed to his side. “The trees are in pots so they can be brought inside once the winter winds arrive.”
Phillipe smiled. “Does the scent remind ye of the Levant?”
The baron nodded. “Arbela had the foresight to bring many things with us that remind me of our time there. Our cook has learned to use spices and vegetables from the east. Zora had a time battling with Cook over the new foods. My sister by marriage left everything she knew to come here with us. She is missed.” Donal paused as pain slid over his features.
“Zora ran your household well, and loved Alex and Arbela as if they were her own.” Phillipe allowed a small smile. “She took me under her wing as well. She set me straight on more than one occasion, though I never made the same mistake twice in her presence. I am sorry to hear of her passing.”
“She planted these trees for me.” Donal hesitated again, then seemed to reach a decision. He faced Phillipe.
“Ye favored Arbela. I knew this. Yet, yer da had other visions—visions I dinnae necessarily agree with. Howbeit, I dinnae see Arbela returning more than a casual friendship with ye, no matter ye had been raised together. Mayhap that is why she saw ye only as a brother. Mayhap, given more time, she would have grown to feel differently toward ye. But, Bohemond received an offer which would create an alliance, though it bound ye to the child-queen of Cilicia.” He shook his head. “By all that is holy, I’d never thought ye’d face the challenges ye did. I knew ye’d triumphed over the Seljuks and won the hearts of the Cilicians. I dinnae realize how quickly the tide would turn.”
The twinge in Phillipe’s heart did not distress him as it would have a month or more ago. However, he found his pride still wounded. “Do not worry, my father. All has happened as it has been ordained, to a future that is in God’s hands. I am content, and I have learned from the mistakes in my past.”
“Ye dinnae make mistakes, my son. Ye did as honor dictated and obeyed yer da. ’Tis my notion Baron Konstantin is far more to blame than ye.” He grasped Phillipe’s arm. “Know that I am glad ye are here, and I look forward to seeing ye happy in yer upcoming marriage.”
Phillipe laughed. “Marriage? Ye caught on, did ye?”
Donal MacLean snorted. “Ye wouldnae touch a woman without her full willing, and never so possessively unless yer heart was involved. Maggie MacLaren has had a rough patch nae of her making, but she is a bonnie lass, and possesses a caring heart. Much like ye, she followed where honor dictated, agreeing to marry the earl because ’twas her da’s wish. The earl d
oesnae care for any but himself. Had she borne a child, he would have most likely continued to amuse himself by treating her well enough, though I doubt he would ever have shown her a tenth the love ye carry inside ye. Ye are both lucky to have found each other.”
A knock at the door drew their attention.
“Enter.”
A guard at the portal admitted a serving lad laden with a tray of food and another carrying an assortment of drinks. Setting the trays on a table near a trio of chairs, they took their leave.
Phillipe tweaked the linen cloth spread over a silver tray. Scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and paprika drifted out. His mouth watered.
“Falafal? Spiced carrots? What must I bribe your cook with to leave MacLean Castle and come with me?” He reached beneath the cloth and grabbed a small, dark ball and bit into it. He closed his eyes.
“Heaven.” He dipped another ball into a creamy sauce seasoned with dill.
“Amazing.” He lifted the cloth further, breathing deep of the familiar scents, then grabbed a bit of thinly sliced meat atop a small, round flatbread.
“We will wait upon Lady Maggie, if ye please.” The baron’s firm reprimand halted Phillipe’s foray. Mouth full, Phillipe pivoted on a heel as Donal nodded to the doorway.
Maggie, hair aflame and curling to her waist, gowned in burgundy velvet trimmed with pink silk, gave him a hesitant smile. He swallowed and strode to the door, hands held out in welcome.
“I’ve seen ye as the red-haired young woman bravely holding a distressed falcon chick, hands bleeding, stubborn, kind. And as the warrior woman who, with her crossbow, drove back raiders who breached her castle’s gates. Now, I see ye, Lady Maggie, gowned befitting royalty, outshining the best efforts of seamstress and maid.”
Her cheeks flamed but she did not drop her gaze. “Which do ye prefer?”
Phillipe halted before her and grasped her hands. “I prefer the Maggie who is fierce in her passions, be it protection of the defenseless, determination to meet life on her own terms . . ..” He bent his head, mouth to her ear. “Or the willingness to meet me in all purposes of our lives together.”
Her fingers gripped his, tightening as her chest rose with a deep inhale of breath. Phillipe placed the proper space between them then raised her hands and kissed her fingers. Her gaze fluttered to his, exchanging a silent promise.
Phillipe pivoted to her side and faced Baron MacLean. “My lord, may I make known to ye Lady Maggie MacLaren, the woman who has consented to be my bride?”
A shiver rippled down Maggie’s spine, shedding a bit of the heat and passion of Phillipe’s words and touch. He made her feel beautiful. Wanted. Desired.
She drew a breath to clear her head and shifted her attention to Baron MacLean. His grin broadened the lower half of his face, crinkled his eyes, beetled his brows. Clearly the introduction pleased him.
Baron MacLean fisted his hands on his hips. “Lady Maggie, I am pleased to make yer acquaintance. ’Tis my great joy to meet the woman who has turned my Phillipe’s head. Ye are most welcome here.”
Maggie dipped into a curtsy. “Thank ye, m’lord.”
“Och, no formalities, lass. We are about to become family. Ye may call me Donal if ye wish.”
“Then ye must call me Maggie.”
“I am Alex . . ..” A man’s voice from the doorway was interrupted by the yip of a dog. “Damn, pup! Get by!”
A blur of dark fur streaked into the room, clipping the backs of Maggie’s knees as it barreled past. Phillipe caught her before she did more than wobble, pulling her against him protectively.
“Serkan! Sit!”
The dark-haired man at the door and the furry pup locked gazes. The young dog tilted his head to one side, tongue lolling from his mouth as he panted gently. One ear tipped forward, the other stuck straight up in the air. His rich sable coat overlaid with black contrasted with his three white feet, and a pale tuft of fur blazed like a star on his chest. Neither man nor dog moved for several moments.
With a small whine, Serkan closed his mouth, shifted his gaze, and sat.
“Good lad.” The man gave a grunt of satisfaction. He lifted a rueful grin to the others in the room. “He’s a bit head-strong, but smart as a whip.”
Maggie glanced at the pup. Something tugged at her memory. “Didn’t he belong to the innkeeper’s wife?”
“Aye, Moibeal bid me take him with me the last time I was there. I havenae the time to train him—not much, anyway. But we’ll muddle through. He’s got great bloodlines—half Aidi as his sire came with us from the Levant. Excellent livestock protector.”
“Big paws to fill,” Phillipe remarked. “I remember Toros.”
“Both Toros and Garen reside with Arbela. I’ve placed a pup or two with our herders and they’re hard workers. This laddie is large enough to be part wolf and has a bit of mischief in him, aye, my lad?”
The pup’s tail beat the floor in a rapid tattoo, his lips pulled back in a canine grin.
“Ye used to be a good hand with the dogs, Phillipe. Ye should take him.”
Phillipe sent Maggie a sidelong look. “We shall think on this. Howbeit, we have things of greater importance to speak of at this time.” He gestured to a chair next to the table. “Please, have a seat.”
Maggie took the proffered seat. Serkan sprang to his feet and padded over to her. Placing his chin on her knees, he stared at her and Maggie didn’t know whether to be intrigued or annoyed.
“Ye chewed the hem of my cloak, ye rascal. Ye willnae touch this gown.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Serkan collapsed against her, his body sliding down her leg until he curled at her feet. Alex sent her a triumphant grin. She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Ye willnae pawn yer bowsterous laddie off so easily.” She scratched Serkan’s ears and the pup groaned. Alex laughed.
Phillipe handed Maggie a trencher and she carefully filled it, curious and slightly anxious over the unusual fare. Phillipe’s explanations did little to enlighten her, for she had no idea how fried chickpeas would taste, nor did she have knowledge of eggplant or shawarma meat. But it smelled wonderful, if odd, and tasted better than she’d imagined.
Donal refilled the goblets with a dark red wine that flooded Maggie’s mouth with notes of cherry, dried fig, and vanilla, and reminded her of the casket it must have aged in.
“A fine Spanish wine,” Phillipe said, raising his cup in toast. “And my compliments to your excellent cook.”
“Noted. Now that we’re fed and relaxed, why dinnae ye tell me what brings ye here.”
Maggie set her knife aside and wiped her fingers on a damp scrap of linen. “I thank ye for yer hospitality, m’lord—Donal. May I start at the beginning?”
“Certes.” Donal settled back in his chair. “Please begin.”
Maggie described the ownership of the isle, but left out the fact the earl had likely cheated her da out of a great deal of money. She reasoned the baron would have—at least by now—heard of her marriage and annulment, and did not waste time giving details.
“I know of Hola,” Donal said. “Damn fine mead. I would push to increase production if I were ye, Maggie.”
Maggie nodded. “Aye. ’Tis foremost on my plan for the isle. ’Twas a hefty undertaking as I had nae resources when I arrived on the isle. Howbeit . . ..”
The baron stretched his legs before him. “Phillipe asked for men and materials to provide a defense of yer isle, my lady, which I gladly provided. I confess I know little of growing apple trees.”
“I’m nae here to request help to grow the orchard, my lord,” Maggie said, finding herself on formal footing with the baron as she formed her request. “I find myself unexpectedly possessed of quite enough coin to see this done, and am willing to settle my account with ye for that which ye’ve already generously provided.”
“Then, what do ye ask?”
“I need help storing a rather large treasure.”
Phillipe untied a leather pouch from his belt and set
it on the table, the clink of coins audible.
Donal’s eyebrows shot up and he straightened. “What is this?”
“Phillipe and I discovered this in a cave on Hola. Pirates arrived at the isle a few days ago, demanding a tribute of mead.”
The baron’s eyes narrowed.
Alex slapped a palm against the arm of his chair. “Bastards!”
Donal sent him a reproving glance.
Maggie ignored them both. “It appears the pirates have done this for quite a number of years, receiving up to one-half of each season’s mead. Howbeit, years ago when the pirates first arrived, they simply demanded the Treasure of Hola, which the people took to mean the only thing they had of value.”
“The mead.” Donal frowned. “They dinnae know of this treasure?” He motioned to the bag.
Maggie untied the strings holding the bag closed and slowly poured the contents onto the table. Candlelight gleamed on the gold coins and sparkled across the surfaces of the jeweled pins, pendants, and rings.
Donal stared at the pile then glanced at Phillipe. “These are from the Levant. They arenae Celtic in design.” He gestured to the treasure. “May I?”
Maggie nodded. “Certes. There are also bits of silver broken, Phillipe suspects, into pieces for use as payment for services or goods. And a few verra old pieces which may have once belonged to a monastery or chapel.”
The baron grunted. “We can have Father Sachairi take a look at those later. He has a vast knowledge of the history of the area, though his Latin translations are a bit suspect.”
Donal gently spread the coins and jewelry across the table and studied them piece by piece. “This gold dirham was struck in Nishapur. Gold is a verra precious commodity, yet in verra low demand in the Levant. Too pure, and it distresses easily—see how worn the edges are? If it stands up to much use, ’tisnae likely worth much.”
He fingered a silver-colored coin, a smile teasing his lips. “A Crusader coin. All but worthless. ’Tis a denier made of copper with a bit of silver. Five of these would buy ye a fat chicken.” He inhaled sharply. “Och, but these are a find.”