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

by Cathy MacRae

  Maggie leaned forward, noting the gold coin he held aloft.

  “A dinar of the Fatimid Caliphate—likely almost pure gold.” He traced a fingertip over the script in the outer circle. In the name of God this dinar was struck in Misr the year eight and fifty and three hundred.” He placed the coin back on the table and sat back in his chair.

  “Ye’ve a large number of silver coins which could have come from any place in Scotland, England—or France, for that matter. These gold coins arenae something ye come across every day.”

  He leaned forward again. “And that doesnae even address the matter of the jewelry. Most appears to be minor bits from a wealthy woman’s box, for the stones are unblemished, and the weight of the pieces substantial, but without the ostentatious goose-egg sized ruby or emerald accent piece such as I have seen elsewhere.”

  “Arbela’s wedding finery,” Alex laughed.

  “Does she still have the dragon’s-blood ruby necklace she inherited from her mother?” Phillipe asked.

  “A stone as large as a goose’s egg?” Maggie was skeptical.

  “Och, aye,” Alex replied easily. “That and others.”

  “Who wears such?”

  “As Phillipe said, she inherited it from our ma. She was a princess of Armenia.”

  Maggie went silent. It seemed incredible, yet, the men appeared unconcerned with the discussion of things she’d never dreamed of.

  Even the earl’s ma wouldnae know what to do with a ruby that big. And, I’ve never known a true prince before.

  “Are ye, then, a prince, Alex?”

  He shrugged. “Mayhap. Though it does me little good. Ask Phillipe. Bloodlines and successions are tricky things. His da, Bohemond IV, became Prince of Antioch because he was his father’s only living son, though his cousin Raymond-Roupen was the third Bohemond’s heir by primogeniture, being the son of Bohemond’s eldest, deceased son.” He grinned. “As for me, the barony of Batroun—Da’s barony—is in Amhal’s capable hands where it will remain as long as the region remains in the hands of the Roman church. I’m happy in Scotland. Despite Ma’s family ties, I claim no rights to the throne of Cilicia.”

  Phillipe touched her hand gently. “Remember what I told ye, mon coeur? I have no wish to resurrect my past titles. They are meaningless to me, and I have a brighter future without their burden.”

  Donal cleared his throat. “Is this the whole of the treasure?”

  “Nae, m’lord. ’Tis but a sample of the coinage and jewels. The rest is in a locked chest in my chamber. Howbeit, I almost forgot.” Maggie slipped a hand through a small slit in her gown to a pouch hidden beneath the cloth and withdrew the jeweled obelisk she had a peculiar reluctance to part with.

  “’Tis an unwieldy piece. Rather thick and awkward, I would think, for a brooch.” The glimmering crosses shone clear on the smoothly polished rubies and sapphires. Donal held out his hand and she hesitated only an instant before handing him the piece.

  The baron hefted it in his palm. “’Tis weighty, yet I dinnae believe ’tis because of the gold.” He turned the brooch over and studied a tiny flower carved into its back. He tapped it then flicked it with a fingernail. The brooch gave an answering click and shifted on hidden hinges to reveal a crack running its perimeter. Donal opened the locket. A clear, rather dull stone nestled within winked in the candle light. The baron stared at it, mouth ajar.

  “By the saints! ’Tis a reliquary!”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Phillipe shot to his feet, his chair scraping across the wooden floor. “Are ye certain?”

  Fingers visibly trembling, Donal carefully plucked the stone from the center of the brooch and held it to the candle light. Something long and slender rested within.

  “What do ye suppose ’tis?” Maggie murmured.

  Phillipe glanced at the baron who slowly, carefully, placed the shard back inside the brooch and clicked it shut.

  “There was a rumor many years ago of a relic of the cross—a splinter of wood with the healing power of our Lord. To keep it from being worn from the touch of many hands, ’twas embedded in a piece of crystal, the process of which is unknown to me.” Donal shook his head, eyes on the brooch. “As with many legends, the details changed over time, and the relic was hidden away for fear of it becoming lost or stolen, placed in a container of great beauty though of little value except for the precious treasure within.”

  Maggie touched the brooch reverently. “This contains a piece of the cross?”

  “It appears it somehow made its way to yer isle, and now belongs to ye.”

  “It . . . it soothed me.” She glanced at Phillipe. “I was upset to think the abbey at Hola had been attacked in the past, and as I closed my hand over the brooch, my worries vanished.”

  He smiled. “Ye hold the true treasure, mon coeur. The rest is pretty coins and trinkets. The reliquary is a great responsibility.”

  “Should this not be relinquished to the church?”

  Phillipe hesitated. It was a good question, yet . . ..

  “The brooch has come to ye, though we do not know for what purpose,” he said. “’Tis a piece meant to be worn, to be accessible to any who need it, even when the request has not been made. Not hidden away or used only for those deemed worthy. We have other pieces we have pledged to return to the church. If ye agree, this will become an heirloom of our house.”

  Maggie stared at the brooch then closed her fingers over it. “Aye. I dinnae know how to allow others to benefit from this, yet I will do what I can.”

  Alex shifted in his chair. “Do others know of the treasure?”

  Maggie glanced at Phillipe. “I dinnae truly know. We did our best to place the bags within the chest without being seen. Howbeit, ’twas nae a simple job, for all the care we took.”

  Phillipe frowned. “’Tis one of the reasons we came directly here. There is but one longhouse on the isle, and all share its space. I did not like the thought of leaving the chest alone during the day. ’Tis well known a locked box invites curiosity.”

  “Ye discovered the treasure yesterday, and came straight to Morvern today?” Donal’s glance traveled from Phillipe to Maggie. They both nodded. “What reason did ye give for yer sudden departure? And with the chest?”

  Maggie blushed. Phillipe thought the color became her and he lingered on the sight a moment before replying. He placed his hand atop Maggie’s, squeezing gently.

  “We told them we were traveling to Morvern to wed.”

  Maggie returned Phillipe’s reassuring grip. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The baron beamed. Alex pushed his chair back and rose to clip Phillipe’s shoulder.

  “Congratulations! I’m verra happy to hear it.” Alex glanced between them, his grin as wide as if he’d brought them together himself. “Shall I call for Father Sachairi?”

  Maggie stifled a gasp. So soon?

  At her feet, Serkan shifted with a whine. She dropped her free hand to the pup’s head, giving him a soothing pat. He licked her fingers then shoved his head into her lap.

  Phillipe inclined his head. “’Tis up to Maggie. Do ye trust this priest? Neither Maggie nor I are overly fond of the self-righteous arm of the church at the moment.”

  Her eyes widened as a chill shivered through her.

  The baron chuckled. “Ye have scandalized yer bride-to-be, lad.”

  “Nae.” She shook her head. “We’ve each explained our pasts. What he said is nae lie, though I wouldnae have spoken it aloud.”

  “Dinnae fash. Despite a propensity to conjugate Latin verbs incorrectly, Father Sachairi takes his vows seriously. He is a fair man and willnae speak of anything ye tell him in confidence.” Donal rose and crossed to the door. Opening the portal, he spoke to a guard outside then rejoined the group at the table. “I have sent for him. Even if ye dinnae wish to begin the marriage process today, he will mayhap give us an idea where yer holy accoutrements are from.”

  “I shall retrieve them.” Phillipe rose and, placing
a kiss atop Maggie’s head, strode from the room. Alex gulped down the last of his wine then bolted after Phillipe.

  Donal motioned to the table. “Eat, drink. My home is yers.”

  “Thank ye, m’lord,” Maggie replied. “I find my appetite has been replaced by a swarm of dirdy-flichters which have taken up residence in my stomach.” Her smile only managed to lift a corner of her mouth. “This day has produced many surprises. Forgive me.”

  The baron waved away her concern. “Och, ’tis nae every day ye come across a hidden treasure and accept a marriage proposal from a man scarcely known to ye.”

  “I have known him longer than I knew my last husband before we wed.” She tried another grin with slightly better results. “I am a wee bit breathless over entering into matrimony, but only because I hadnae thought to do so ever again.”

  Maggie settled back in her chair, fingers ruffling Serkan’s ears. The pup groaned.

  “I find my decision to wed Phillipe a good one. He has shown me courtesy and encouragement, and is most agreeable to my opinions.”

  Donal plucked a dark red cherry from the nearly denuded tray. He held the fruit up as if inspecting it for flaws. “A good sight more than mutual respect is needed to create better than a polite marriage. I expect Phillipe to be courteous to any woman, regardless of age or relation.” He slid his gaze to Maggie.

  Heat rushed her skin. The baron smiled. “Of course, I would also expect Phillipe to choose a wife based on more than a pretty face.” He popped the cherry into his mouth, spitting the pit into his hand before dropping it to his trencher where others lay. “Dinnae rely on the earl to have prepared ye for marriage to Phillipe.”

  Maggie raised a brow. “Shouldn’t I be having this conversation with my ma?”

  Donal laughed. “Fair enough. I raised the lad to be honorable, and his honor led to his death, but for the grace of Almighty God. I also raised him to be truthful, and he willnae hide himself from ye. He is nearly as much my son as is Alex. I wish only the best for him.”

  “I understand ye feel protective. But he has done naught to force us to wed. ’Tis of our own free will. Ye shall be content with that.” Her brow arched higher. “The rest is nane of yer business.”

  “Good!” The baron brushed his hands together as if ridding them of more than the crumbs of his late dinner. “Ye are verra welcome in this family, Maggie MacLaren. Ask whatever ye will. If ’tis in my power to grant, ’tis yers.”

  Maggie lifted her chin. “I ask for help keeping the treasure secure, and in providing protection for the people of Hola. Phillipe and I will handle the rest.”

  “Done. Phillipe and Alex are excellent strategists and will devise a plan to provide protection without overburdening the isle’s resources. If foodstuffs are required to supplement those on the isle, I am pleased to provide such.”

  Phillipe and Alex strode through the door. Alex set a large cloth bag on the table with a muted clatter, but Phillipe drew to a halt, his gaze on Maggie and the baron.

  “Is aught amiss?”

  Maggie smiled. “Nae. The baron is quite generous in both his praise of ye and in his offer of help.” She crossed to his side and took his arm. “I am interested to see what the priest has to say about our trinkets.”

  Phillipe’s hesitation spoke of his intent to question her further as soon as they were alone, but he returned her smile and patted her hand. “Let us see what we have. Light a few more tapers, Alex. The night is closing in.”

  The yellow glow of candles replaced the encroaching gloom of evening. Maggie and Phillipe unwrapped the silver flagon and the twelve small silver cups. Taking a quartered lemon, Maggie sprinkled it with salt then gently rubbed the surface of the flagon. A few minutes later, she cleaned it with a swipe of a cloth.

  “My God! What have ye done?”

  Maggie whirled at the gasp from the door. Phillipe gripped her wrist, yanking her behind him. She teetered off-balance a moment before she regained her footing. Stepping around Phillipe, she noted a slender man dressed in a simple brown robe, tufts of white hair sprouting from his head just above his ears, dark eyes wide. He gazed open-mouthed at the flagon in her hands.

  “’Tis a bit of silver we discovered yesterday,” she replied, voice low and soothing. “Do ye recognize it?” She glanced at the baron who gave her a solemn nod. Placing the flagon on the table, she took a step back, indicating permission for the priest to examine the piece.

  He swept to the table, intent on the flagon. He reached out then drew his hands back. “Twelve cups—one for each apostle,” he whispered. “The wine jug decorated with biblical scenes.” His hand quivered as he finally touched the flagon.

  “Ye know of this?”

  He turned tear-filled eyes to her. “Aye. ’Tis the lost relics of Saint Donan who was martyred in the year of our Lord, six hundred and seventeen, along with fifty of his followers, on the isle of Eigg.”

  Maggie turned to the baron. “How far is Eigg from Hola?”

  “I doubt ’tis as much as ten miles distant.”

  She’d known the flagon and cups were stolen—as was the rest of the treasure. But to hear Father Sachairi’s words . . ..

  “The silver is in too fine of shape to have been in the water for more than six hundred years. Are ye certain?”

  “Have ye more? Mayhap a cross?”

  Maggie exchanged a startled glance with Phillipe. He opened the second bag on the table and withdrew the metal cross. The blood drained from Father Sachairi’s face, and for a moment, Maggie thought he might collapse. He inhaled deeply and stretched his hand over the cross.

  “A ringed cross . . . typical, yet . . ..” He gripped the cross in both hands and turned it over. “Aye. A hunting scene.” Father Sachairi stared at the cross then lifted his gaze to Maggie.

  Awe settled over the old priest’s face. “I was a lad when I left Eigg to become a priest. ‘’Twas accepted by my family to do so, for my ancestors from Iona rebuilt the monastery on Eigg after Saint Donan and his muinntir were killed.”

  “’Twas a long time ago, Father,” Maggie said. “Yet, it seems ye recall the tale well. Would ye tell us?”

  He nodded. “’Twas a time when the isle was known as Eilean nam Ban Mora.”

  “Isle of the Big Women?” Maggie’s brow furrowed. “Giants?”

  “Respected women. Women of consequence,” he corrected. “The isle was ruled by Queen Moidart, and her warriors were Pictish women. ’Twas said Saint Donan arrived on Eigg, spreading the Christian faith among the Picts. Queen Moidart, who laid claim to the isle, was angered. Whether by his religion, his popularity among the islanders, or because he’d built his monastery on a prime piece of grazing land . . ..” The priest shrugged. “Mayhap a bit of all of it. ’Tis said she ordered the islanders to rid the isle of Donan and his followers, but they refused. She then dispatched her warriors in defense of the isle.”

  “The monks would have stood no chance against warriors,” Maggie exclaimed.

  “When the queen’s forces arrived, they found the monks singing mass. Donan requested they be left to finish, and the respite was granted. As soon as the liturgy was finished, every one of the monks was slain, and the monastery was burnt to the ground.”

  Silence filled the chamber. Maggie bit her lip, holding back tears for men long dead. The priest had woven his tale well, making the horrific act seem as fresh as if it had happened only a handful of days past.

  “That night,” Father Sachairi continued, “at midnight, unearthly voices were heard chanting, and lights rose from the remains of the building. ’Tis said the women warriors, unable to resist, followed the lights up the path to the loch where they hovered just over an island in the middle of the water.”

  The priest’s eyes flashed in unholy vengeance. “Every warrior tamely walked into the loch, eyes fixed upon the lights, and drowned.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Firelight filled the tavern’s room with a thick yellow glow, unable to penetrate the
soot-darkened windows. Smoke hung low over the tavern tables, rushing in and out of the large chamber as the doors opened and closed. Pausing a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, the Earl of Mar allowed his man servant to tug his rain-beaded cloak from his shoulders. He pulled his gloves from his hands, finger by finger, then set them atop the carefully smoothed wool in the servant’s arms.

  “Find the innkeeper and secure a room.” The earl fished a small coin from the purse tucked inside the waist of his trousers and held it for the servant’s taking. His gaze lit on a heavy-breasted tavern wench who cast a look in his direction then tossed her black hair over her shoulder in invitation. The earl settled the snug fit of his trousers and strode to an empty table, his two men-at-arms following at a discreet distance.

  The girl sashayed near. “What’ll ye ’ave, m’lord?” Her eyes flashed shrewdly, her manner welcoming as she rolled a shoulder enticingly. The neckline of her gown slid a notch closer to the tip of one full breast.

  The earl’s lips curled. Beneath the table, his cock swelled. “Yer sole attention for an hour, to begin with,” he purred as he rolled a copper coin between his fingers.

  “Och, ’twill take more than a copper to gie ye what ye’re askin’. I risk me job if I’m gone from me duties too long.”

  “Ye dinnae make more than a copper with yer current duties,” the earl scoffed. “And I’m offering to pay to touch what ye so obligingly display.”

  The girl bit her lower lip, clearly undecided. The earl added a second coin. She brightened.

  “Ye’ll find me in yer room, m’lord, at yer convenience. T’awd besom can find another lass to fill me shoes for an hour or twa.”

  Movement at the doorway caught the earl’s attention. His brow lifted. An interesting development. He waved the girl away. “Bathe first. I’ll be with ye in an hour’s time.”

  The man at the door commanded the attention of the entire room as the noise level dropped to near silence and men shrank back to give him and his men space, clearly unwilling to present the man any cause for complaint.