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

by Cathy MacRae

  “Ye have given me your trust and your heart.” Phillipe groaned as the stroke of her hand increased. “Naught could be better than this.”

  Maggie stilled. “Did ye hear a shout?”

  “I hear my heart pounding in my ears, love. Naught else.” He silently cursed the interruption as Maggie patted him absently, her head tilted in a listening posture. “Give me a moment whilst I look.”

  He rose to his feet and inhaled deep as his cock vied with his brain for attention. Slipping on his trews, he managed to get them seated properly, then slid his feet inside his boots. Awareness of his wife’s approving appraisal of his still mostly-naked form did nothing to lessen the tightness of his breeches, yet her distracted manner concerned him.

  Accepting his tunic as she handed it to him, he pulled it over his head, leaving the strings to trail untied at his neck, then strapped his sword belt about his waist. Once away from their shelter between two large boulders, the brisk air raised hen’s flesh on his arms. Sunlight peeked from the thinning clouds and fog parted enough to see the beach below. Seals plunged about, sliding off their rocks with enough racket to raise the dead.

  What on earth could cause such a ruckus? He stepped closer to the edge, urging the wind to sweep away the fog lingering over the water. His boots sank silently into the soft soil.

  A flash of black, stark against the gray mist, caught his attention. Amid the barks of the seals came the creak of wood.

  Asatrus assured me his boats could not sail into the harbor at the rookery.

  Dread came over him. Asatrus is not a sailor. Asatrus is a mazer.

  He spun on a heel to warn Maggie. A flash of steel winked above an instant before it struck his head and darkness ended the pain.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Maggie gathered her clothing. Something was not right. The sky promised a beautiful day—eventually—with the sun peeking through clouds paling from pink to white. The mists had thinned, though they still drifted above the ground and fluttered from the crevices of the cliffs like shreds of funeral shrouds. Despite the sunshine and the flowers tended by busy bees, something dangerous lurked nearby. The nearby birds had fallen silent and the otherwise normal pleasantries of a late spring day could not dispel her worry.

  She dressed quickly, pulling her kirtle and surcoat over her thin chemise. She slipped her dagger into the front of her bodice, wishing she had something more substantial with which to protect herself.

  I wasnae thinking of my crossbow when we slipped out of the longhouse this morn.

  The memory of what had been on her mind brought a flush of heat to her cheeks, but was not enough to settle her fears. Another wave of uneasiness swept over her and she glanced toward the edge of the overlook where Phillipe had headed . . . a dark silhouette, shoulders wider than Phillipe’s, the height not as tall, stood over a crumpled form. Maggie hobbled to the edge of the sheltered area for a better look, one boot partially on, the other dangling from her hand.

  Phillipe lay sprawled on the ground.

  “Nae!”

  The attacker stepped away, ignored as Maggie’s gaze focused on Phillipe’s unmoving body. Without a second thought, she lifted her skirts and charged across the field. Rough hands grabbed her from behind as she reached Phillipe, jerking her off her feet. She shrieked and reached behind her head, fingers stiffened, clawing at her attacker. He barked angrily as her nails caught soft flesh, and flung her away. Arms wind-milling for balance, Maggie landed on her feet in a crouch, wasting a scant second to adjust her weight before launching at the ruffian.

  Fist closed, she put her entire weight behind a strike to the man’s head. Pain shot through her knuckles as she encountered the solid bone of his cheek. He reeled back on one foot. Ignoring the agony in her hand, she pushed her advantage. Planting one foot behind his forward leg, she shoved hard against his shoulder. Caught off-guard, he tripped and fell heavily to the ground.

  “Get back!” he shouted, raising his hands protectively.

  Maggie fell atop him, one knee in his chest. His breath whoofed out in a great gasp. Fury riding her like a demon, she snatched her dagger from its sheath and forced it against his throat, burying it beneath the shaggy beard.

  “If ye so much as breathe loudly, I will silence ye permanently.”

  His eyes widened. He slowly spread his hands wide. “I will do as ye say.”

  “I dinnae care if ye live or die.” Maggie’s heart pounded wildly in her ears. Her hands trembled. She shook her head as her vision darkened at the edges. “Who are ye and why are ye here?”

  The man relaxed beneath her and a grin parted his beard. “I am Brandr Ottosen, and we are here for ye.”

  * * *

  Phillipe sputtered awake, cheek against the sand. He gagged violently as he sucked salty water into his nose and throat. Disoriented, frantic for breath, he braced his hands on the sand and raised his chest from the waves. He inhaled sharply and water shot into his lungs. He choked then gagged again as more landed in his belly. His stomach protested the heavy brine and he vomited onto the sand, eyes closed against the sun and the misery shooting through his head.

  Belly mollified, he lowered himself to the ground and rolled to his back, cautiously laying an arm over his eyes to blot out the sun. The crash of surf surrounded him, punctuated by the barks of seals. Memory of a raised arm and the heavy hilt of a sword ran through his mind. Who had struck him and why?

  Maggie.

  With a groan, Phillipe pushed to a seated position, opening his eyes determinedly against blinding pain. He felt gingerly along the side of his head and found the skin split, an area the size of the palm of his hand swollen and tender.

  He gritted his teeth. I must find her. He rose but could not stand upright. Listing to one side, he staggered a few steps until he came to rest against a large boulder. He gripped the stone, struggling to keep his feet beneath him, unwilling to resign to the ground. He must find Maggie. Nothing else mattered.

  “Phillipe!” Balgair’s voice boomed from above.

  Phillipe swiveled toward the sound, but his feet didn’t respond properly and he landed, legs beneath him, on his butt in the sand. “Fils de . . ..”

  “Eejit.”

  Debris clattered down in a shower of pebbles, sand, and grass. Instinctively, Phillipe raised an arm to ward off danger. The end of a rope dropped suddenly and coiled on the ground. A pair of boots topped by stout, hairy legs dangled above Phillipe’s head. More pebbles and sand cascaded down as Balgair descended the face of the cliff. Landing on the beach, he dusted his hands and straightened the drape of his plaide. He peered at Phillipe.

  “Ye look like hell.”

  “Where’s my wife?”

  “I dinnae ken, laddie. The morning wore on and since even I would have a hard time keeping it up that long, I came along to ask ye to join the rest of us as we’ve a lot to accomplish.” He squared his jaw and his eyes hardened. “I havenae seen Maggie, only a scuffed area near the secluded bit on this overlook. Someone must have taken her, though it appears she put up a fight.”

  Phillipe groaned and held out a hand for assistance to his feet. “Maggie thought she heard something. I went to investigate and someone coshed me over the head. They must have tossed me off the cliff for good measure.”

  “Ye shouldnae be standing here talking to me, ’tis that great of a fall. Ye’re a lucky bastard.”

  “’Tis clear the fates have a worse death awaiting me. I must find Maggie.”

  “We need to get ye back to the longhouse and get yer heid stitched and come up with a plan. I hate to say it, laddie, but she could be anywhere by now.”

  * * *

  Maggie’s kirtle and surcoat were filthy from the scramble down the cliff to the beach, torn from her frantic fight against her captors as they’d rolled Phillipe over the edge of the overlook. A tightly-bound rag had muffled her cries, a bit of rope tied her hands, leaving only her feet loose for walking. The pirates had quickly learned such measures
weren’t enough to keep Maggie subdued, and most had bruises to show for their mistake. They’d manhandled her aboard their waiting ship and kept watch over her with distrustful eyes during their short sail to a nearby isle.

  The shallow cave they took refuge in reeked of smoke, whisky, and unwashed bodies. Four men made up her guard, one more or less tasked with keeping an eye on her, the other three congratulating themselves with a good amount of whisky for a job well done—whatever it was. With their accelerating raucous behavior, she was just happy to keep out of their notice.

  She was also livid that she’d been captured, and frightened more than she’d dreamed possible, not knowing Phillipe’s fate.

  Her fingers twitched. She tested the rope binding her hands behind her. They had not loosened since the last time she’d tried, and the rough fibers bit into her wrists. Her right hand was swollen, knuckles likely cracked from hitting the brute’s cheek. Damned hard-headed man!

  I’ve earned their enmity twice over. I warned them—they simply couldnae stay away. Is it the mead that drives them? Or the legend of the treasure? Or, mayhap, something else? She shied from the thought she might have brought this to Hola. She was finished with the greed of men.

  She pushed against the foul-tasting rag in her mouth with her tongue and discovered it had loosened. Shielded from her captor’s direct view by the flickering shadows, she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder, shifting the rag further. A few minutes later, she worked it from her jaw and it fell around her neck. The relief was immediate.

  “MacDonnell’s man will be here anon,” a man said as he slurped from the whisky flagon. Maggie caught the glimmer in his eye as he shifted his glance to her. “He’ll give us the lass—when he’s finished with her.”

  A chorus of belches and other bodily noises rose as if in celebration of—MacDonnell? The Lord of the Isles? Of the Southern Hebrides at least. The man the earl had bested in a game of chance to win the isle of Hola.

  What could be his intent? Thank God it required her to be unmolested—at least until her use was at an end.

  Her keeper swayed, eyelids at half-mast. Taking a risk he was too drunk to realize she’d dislodged her gag, Maggie nudged him with her foot. “What does MacDonnell want?”

  The man eyed her blearily, but the use of the name seemed to claim his attention. “The isle. And the mead.” He belched.

  Maggie drew a sharp breath. “Ye accosted me, attacked my husband—for the isle and some mead?” Her voice rose and she bit her lip, hoping the others, seated several feet away, hadn’t heard.

  “Best mead. None like it. Lord MacDonnell wants his isle back. Since yer husband doesnae own it anymore, we got ye.”

  The somewhat garbled information told Maggie what she wanted to know, though she could scarcely believe the explanation.

  Her keeper stood, stooping slightly to keep from bumping his head on the ceiling—or perhaps because he was hardly able to stand. He shuffled to the dim corner of the chamber which was less than half the size of the longhouse. Maggie could see no other entryways branching from the single room. Piles of shrubs filled the only access, blocking nearly all the sunlight, and likely disguising the opening from casual view. Snores ruffled from the three men who’d abandoned their drinking and apparently decided to await their lord and master by sleeping off their drunken spree.

  The tinkling sound of water reached her ears and the man set to watch her sighed. He braced against the far wall with one hand, his other occupied beneath his plaide. He pushed away and stumbled back to his spot only a few inches from Maggie and collapsed.

  Maggie watched the man with disgust as he fought against sleep.

  He swayed, body drifting from side to side. Finally, his head thudded softly against the wall at their back. He sat, mouth agape, eyes rolled back in his head.

  The hilt of Maggie’s dagger lay stiff within her bodice. Maggie raised her hands, angling so her stiff fingers gripped the leather-wound steel. With extreme care, she awkwardly slid it from its sheath. Her heart raced, breathing deepened.

  Propping the hilt between two stones, she placed the rope binding her wrists against the sharp edge. She worked her hands back and forth, wincing as the blade nicked her skin. The rope parted and the dagger clattered against the rocks. Maggie glanced quickly to her captor.

  He snorted.

  She froze.

  With a muffled rumbling honk, the ruffian shifted his position against the wall. His eyelids fluttered then flew open wide. He scrambled to sit, but Maggie was on him in an instant, knife pressed to his neck, one thin arm wrenched behind his back.

  “Dinnae so much as breathe loudly. Blink twice if ye understand yer life is forfeit if ye dinnae mind what I say.”

  His blink came without hesitation and rose to his feet at Maggie’s gesture.

  She shuffled quietly past the three sleeping ruffians, keeping the fourth silent with the prodding promise of her dagger. Her breath came shallow and rapid, consumed with escape. Thus far, the command from MacDonnell to merely restrain her until he came for her had held. Drunken fumes rose from the sprawled bodies on the floor of the cave. Sound judgement did not seem likely when they woke.

  Fear of discovery choked her, increased the sound of feet against sand, magnified the pounding of her heart. She and the pirate stepped past the low fire. Maggie averted her face to avoid inhaling the trail of smoke winding its way through a narrow crack in the ceiling.

  She flexed her fingers to relieve the cramp in her hand, wincing at the pain but relieved to find all the parts moveable—if uncomfortable. Her grip strengthened on the dagger’s hilt.

  “They will come after ye,” the pirate whispered. His drunken mien vanished and he shot a glance of hatred over his shoulder.

  Maggie’s heart raced. She squared her shoulders and gave him another prod. “Dinnae speak.”

  He cursed under his breath and pushed aside the brush hiding the opening to the cave. The rustle of dry branches sent signals of alarm racing through her veins. She hesitated, ears primed to any movement from the drunken ruffians. Satisfied they’d not been alerted, Maggie pushed the pirate ahead of her and stepped through the entry and into the sunlight. A fresh breeze caressed her face and she inhaled deeply. The rush of air caught in her throat and she quickly stifled a cough.

  The pirate whirled, meaty palms catching her shoulders, trapping Maggie’s hands between them. She grabbed the hilt of her dagger in both fists then shoved the weapon forward with all her strength, burying the blade deep within his belly. She jerked her hands upward and felt the tip of the dagger jar against something hard. Blood gushed hot over her hands and she released the hilt as though stung. She stared at the pirate, frozen in shock.

  He gasped. His hands flew protectively to his stomach, body doubled over as Maggie backed away.

  “Ye’ve kilt me!” He stared at her, eyes wide with disbelief. He glanced down. Bright blood glistened on the sand at his feet. His gaze returned to hers and his legs trembled. With a thud, he fell to the ground.

  A disgruntled voice echoed behind her in the cave. Maggie threw a panicked look over her shoulder. Her legs quaked and her stomach dropped. She’d killed one pirate, but she stood no chance against three. A single blow from a meaty fist would fell her. Anger rose, battling her fear. She knew what these men were capable of. What fate awaited her. She would not allow them to capture her. She snatched the dagger from the dead pirate, jerking it free of its gory sheath.

  Sounds from inside the cave died away. How long before they realized she was no longer there? Brush partially hid the opening, but sunlight fell through the bits which had been pushed aside. It would eventually be noticed. And mere shrubbery would not prevent their pursuit once her escape was discovered.

  Driftwood lay strewn about the beach. Hands trembling, she swiftly gathered an armful and placed it at the entry to the cave.

  They arenae too drunk to chase after me, but mayhap they willnae be so quick to dart through flames. But to o
btain the embers needed to set the driftwood ablaze, she must enter the cave again. She quailed. I cannae. She shook her head. There was no other option.

  Head pounding, she swallowed the nausea rising in the back of her throat. She eased inside the cave, holding her breath as she listened, allowing her eyes to adjust to the firelight once more. A man tossed from one side to the other with a rustle against the sand, throwing one arm against the man next to him. With a muttered curse, the second ruffian shoved back.

  “Keep tae yerself,” he grumbled.

  Giving him the space of two breaths to settle, Maggie shifted her attention to the fire. Her leaden arms and legs weighed too much to move, but she edged closer to the glowing bits of wood. She pulled a partially burned brand from the coals, her trembling hand knocking the wood from its arranged pile. The embers hissed and popped. Muttering an Ave Maria beneath her breath, she eased back through the entry. Kneeling, she inserted the burning stick within the wood and blew it into fiery life.

  Smoke billowed as the fire licked the damp driftwood, then lapped hungrily at the dead shrubbery shielding the opening. Lingering a moment as the flames blazed, Maggie flinched at the scrambling sounds and cries that rose beyond the fiery curtain.

  Taking to her heels, she fled across the sand to where the pirates’ birlinn lay beached half in, half out of the water.

  Keening cries raked through the air. Maggie glanced back to the cave. A man raced in a circle a short distance behind her, arms waving frantically, clothes aflame. Jolted by fresh fear, Maggie increased her pace across the beach.

  Her hands shook as she hacked at the rope tethering the ship to a large rock. Strands frayed then parted swiftly. Tucking the dagger into her bodice, she hiked her kirtle above her knees then retied her belt to keep the skirt out of the surf. Digging her feet into the sand, hands on the prow of the ship, she pushed it into the water. Turning the boat to face the open sea, she climbed aboard. Using the rudder, she sculled away from the beach, into the waves. The ship rocked beneath her feet as the sea gained control of the ship.