by Cathy MacRae
Maggie’s breath came swift with fury. “I will report ye, and ye will hang for yer assault. Ye willnae touch another woman, I swear it.”
Enraged, the man bellowed and leapt toward her. His open hand caught her shoulder, thumb in her throatlatch, driving her backward two steps until her back struck the broad trunk of a tree. Maggie ignored the pain, desperate to get away before she lost the ability to breathe. His left fist drew back. She slammed the heel of her hand into the inside of his right elbow, collapsing him against her. Maggie pivoted slightly, wrapping her arm over the back of his neck, pulling him downward, pinning him to her side. She tightened her grip. He sputtered, flailing his hands on either side of her, searching for a hold. With all the force she could muster, Maggie drove her knee into his unprotected face. A crunch of bone rewarded her. He grunted, spewing blood across her gown.
He wrenched from her grip and took a step back, falling into a half-crouch. His eyes watered, blood and snot poured down his face. He shook his head and stumbled a step, but instead of giving in to what Maggie had intended to be a painful injury, his broken nose only fueled his anger. With a roar, he staggered forward, arms wavering, his step unsure. Maggie side-stepped his awkward charge. Sweeping her skirt aside, she lifted one foot and drove her boot into the side of his knee. He dropped to the ground, rolling to protect his injured leg. Curses rang in the glen. He braced on his hands, gathering his legs beneath him. Maggie stepped close, grabbed his ears, one in each fist, then drove her knee into his face once again. He howled. She shoved him away. He collapsed, landing on his arse with an audible whoof as air left his lungs.
Footsteps pounded the path. Maggie glanced up, fear he had an accomplice flooding her veins. Her heart raced, her breathing labored, but she relaxed her shoulders and brought her fists up protectively.
Uilleam rounded the curve and skidded to a stop. He glanced from Maggie to the man on the ground and back. The man spat a thick stream of blood and saliva and drew a dagger from his boot. Uilleam’s sword flashed silver an instant before it bit through the man’s neck, sending blood in an arc to pattern the grass. With scarcely a shudder, the man slumped to the ground.
Uilleam turned to Maggie. “I came when I overheard a man . . .. Never mind. I willnae scorch yer ears. Are ye hurt?”
Maggie shook her head, unable to speak as the burning in her veins became an uncontrollable shudder. She had just been brutally attacked—and her brother had just killed the man. Her throat ached and the ground dipped and swayed beneath her feet.
“Ye look a sight,” he remarked as he wiped then sheathed his sword, his tone conveying both surprise and pride.
Maggie glanced at her skirt, noting the broad spatter of blood marking the front. She drew a deep breath.
“It isnae mine,” she managed.
“Nae. ’Tis his. Well done, Sister. He willnae molest another woman.” He stepped to Maggie’s side and wrapped his arms about her. “Ye were right to fight back. His death was at my hand. Dinnae allow it to haunt ye.”
Maggie absorbed his warmth and his strength. She was safe and had fought to protect herself. Her world righted, though swallowing was difficult. He held her until her shaking ceased then relaxed his arms and chucked her under her chin.
“I’m fairly certain ye could still drop me on my arse.”
Chapter Eight
January 1225
La Posada del Sol
Malagar, Spain
Phillipe’s gaze roamed the interior of the tiny inn before he committed himself to entering. The whitewashed walls matched the exterior of other buildings along the bay, and cheerful sunlight fell through open windows that allowed fresh air and a chirping bird inside the crowded dining area.
Inn of the Sun. My last stop on the Mediterranean. I pray my past is now behind me. The scent of fresh food and spilled ale drifted to his nose. He found an empty seat at a table, ignoring the mild looks of curiosity. One more stranger on the docks of Malagar was of little interest. Out of habit, he kept his face averted.
A serving girl placed a trencher before him. Steam rose from a dish of steamed prawns. Phillipe peeked beneath a worn piece of linen and the aroma of fresh bread wafted up. A small bowl held olive oil adrift with herbs for dipping. His mouth watered, but he resisted the urge to shove the food into his mouth, waiting impatiently while she poured a mug of an earthy-scented brown liquid.
A hand touched the servant’s forearm, halting her mid-pour. Phillipe clutched the hilt of his dagger beneath the edge of the table, alert for danger.
“Vino, por favor. Blanco.”
Phillipe glanced up at the bland instruction and the outrageous accent. Whoever had just saved him from drinking warm ale had only been in Spain long enough to learn how to order wine, not perfect his accent. A blue-eyed man with shocking red hair and a bristling beard of the same hue took a seat opposite Phillipe, motioning with one hand for the girl to bring him the same.
“Name’s Balgair,” the man said, a smile showing remarkably white teeth and a winsome manner.
“An unusual name,” Phillipe ventured, still wary. The man’s casual confidence did not change the fact he was well-armed.
“It’s me beard,” Balgair explained, ruffling the impressive mane with a flick of his fingers. “Balgair means fox in Scotland where I’m from. ’Tis nae the name me ma christened me with, but it stuck just the same.”
Phillipe repressed a grin at the man’s easy-going nature. “I am Phillipe.” He nodded at his trencher. “Please join me.”
“Och, the lassie’ll be back with me own food in a moment. Ye sound French.”
Phillipe mulled this over. The man’s supposition was close enough. His family roots were the House of Poitiers which ruled much of western France. He was of French and Genoese blood—by way of Antioch, though that need not be stated. He nodded then retreated into his dinner to avoid further explanation.
The serving lass deposited a portion of seafood, bread, oil and herbs before Balgair, then added a corked bottle between them. She propped one hand on an ample hip and thrust the other beneath Balgair’s nose. Without a qualm, he dug a small coin from beneath his tunic and slapped it in her palm. She peered at it then slipped it down the front of her dress and sauntered away.
Balgair motioned to the bottle. “The wine is excellent. Try it.”
Phillipe poured a bit into his mug and breathed gently, catching the scent of jasmine. A sip drew a sigh of pleasure from him as the deep flavor of the grapes rolled over his tongue, leaving behind lingering citrus notes.
“’Tis very sweet.”
Balgair nodded, hurriedly swallowing, and waving his knife in the air. “The grapes in this region are dried in the sun before pressing. I like it.”
Phillipe eyed the man curiously. He was massive of frame and likely outweighed Phillipe by more than a couple of stones, and he ate his prawns with gusto—yet was quite conversant about the wines in the area. A warrior with a knowledge of wine and a sweet tooth?
“What brought ye to Spain?” Phillipe asked, breaking the rule he’d lived by for the past few weeks of not inviting personal conversation.
“Fourth son,” Balgair mumbled around a mouthful. “Naught to do but sell my sword, and what better place than in the Holy Land, protecting Jerusalem from the Saracens?”
“Indeed.” Phillipe managed another bite of buttery prawns then washed it down with a sip of the sweet white wine.
“Same with ye? A younger son with nae prospects?” Balgair dragged a chunk of bread through the oil and herbs. “Returning to France?” He bit into the bread, oil beading in his beard.
“Much the same,” Phillipe agreed. A warning instinct prickled the back of his neck. He’d tarried too long, spoken too much. Though the Sea Falcon would not depart for another hour or two and Phillipe had looked forward to supper ashore, it no longer seemed a good idea.
Raised, angry voices erupted two tables away. The floor cleared around two men as if by magic, benches scraping the
wooden floor. Pottery tumbled, spilling food and ale. Fists flew, landing with meaty thuds. Phillipe’s glance slid to Balgair. A broad grin split the man’s face.
“A fight!”
Phillipe rose, having no intention of joining the squabble. A man staggered against him, nearly sending Phillipe to his knees. He caught the edge of the table and straightened. Someone jumped him from behind, wrapping an arm about his throat. Phillipe ducked and stepped to the side, bringing the man partially over his shoulder. Taking a quick step backward, he reached behind his assailant and grabbed his knees. With a forward pull, he swept the man off his feet and dropped him to the ground, following him to the floor with a knee in his chest. The man’s head thumped against the stone like a ripe melon and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Och, aye!” Balgair shouted, shooting his fist into the air with approval. “Ye’ll do, laddie!”
Phillipe met Balgair’s gaze, the fierce surge of battle singing in his veins. With a reckless grin, he rose and, Balgair at his back, dove into the fray.
His fists scuffed and bruised, and his purse a few bits of silver lighter to help pay for damages to the inn, Phillipe leaned over the rail and inhaled the salty sea air. Gulls, their black heads a stark contrast to their white bodies and brilliant orange beaks, waddled unconcernedly among the people on the dock, pecking at anything that might prove to fill their bellies.
Balgair stood next to him. The big man stretched his arms into the air then winced and rubbed his left shoulder.
“That last laddie got in a lucky punch,” he grumbled. He glanced at Phillipe, grinning, giving no further heed to his injury. “We make a fine pair, aye? Held ’em off six to one!”
Phillipe shrugged. “They were brawlers. Ye and I have had more experience.”
Balgair peered at him, concern on his face. “That cut over yer eye might need a wee bit of attention. Shall I sew it for ye?”
Phillipe touched a finger to the cut and winced. “Nae. I’ve had enough wounds stitched lately. ’Twill heal on its own.”
“A braw laddie ye are.” Balgair nodded approvingly. “Yer scars will give ye a hint of danger. Lasses like a man who can hold his own in a fight.”
The brawl at the inn had given Phillipe a much-needed release from anger and unease that had built since he’d boarded the Sea Falcon. It hadn’t, however, restored his desire to be considered attractive to women—especially those he would likely encounter on the docks between here and Scotland.
“We’d best look lively,” Balgair added with a nod to the ship. “The captain doesnae like to be held up.”
Phillipe shot the man a curious look. “Ye travel on the Falcon?”
“Och, aye. I’m headed back to bonnie Scotland.” His cheerfulness turned thoughtful. “If ye’ve a mind to sell yer sword, and havenae a yen to linger in France, being a mercenary in Scotland isnae a bad thing.”
“I am uncertain where my path lies.”
Balgair shoved his meaty hand at Phillipe. “Join me, laddie. Ye willnae regret it.”
Phillipe gripped the man’s forearm. “I am happy to join ye insofar as our paths lie together.”
“We’ll come guid, laddie. A sword in one hand, a lassie in the other—and a bit o’ coin in our pouches. What more could a man ask?”
* * *
Late April 1225
Firth of Lorn, near Oban
Scotland
Phillipe hunkered on his haunches on the hill above the tiny port town. Lights from two ships in the bay and six tiny houses lining the coast winked in the dusk. On the far side of the firth, mountains rose on the spit of land protecting Oban Bay, blocking his view of the Isle of Mull—and MacLean Castle on the northern side of the strait.
The horse he’d purchased in Morvern, the bustling seaport which gave rise to the impressive MacLean fortress, nibbled the grass behind him. The magnificent beast showed its Turkoman Horse heritage in its long legs and shimmering pale gold coat, though it was clear from her thick neck and placid manner she was not a purebred daughter of the desert. She had cost him nearly all he’d earned on the trip from the Levant, but he thought her worth every piece of silver.
Balgair approached, murmuring soothingly to the horse as he passed. Lines fanned from the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose sunburnt after weeks at sea. He lowered himself toward the ground, resting comfortably on his heels.
“There is still time. We can return to Morvern if ye wish.”
Phillipe shook his head. “Nae. I will move forward.”
The blood of innocents is on my hands. I sacrificed others to save myself. Even with the wisdom and kindness Donal MacLean showed me every day as a youth, I was unable to extend the same to those who looked to me as king.
Phillipe cast one more look where he and Balgair had come ashore an hour earlier. Ye were more than a father to me, Baron. Mayhap someday I will return. When my actions do not shame ye.
He idly rubbed his thumb over the thick scar that bisected the left side of his face. He hadn’t realized his streak of vanity until the wound had become the focus of women’s curious looks and men’s speculation. He’d at last grown a beard to help hide the knotted scar.
He rose. “The sun will be gone soon, and there’s enough snow on the ground to make finding firewood and shelter troublesome. Let us put a few miles behind us before we halt.”
Balgair inclined his head in acceptance and followed Phillipe’s motion. Phillipe gathered his horse’s reins and checked the saddle’s girth before mounting. Together, he and Balgair turned their horses to the path leading into the hills.
Melting snow dripped from the branches shadowing the glen where they halted for the night, drawing a cold trail beneath Phillipe’s cloak. He adjusted the set of the cloth against future forays and edged closer to the fire.
“Takes a bit of getting used to,” Balgair remarked. “’Tis naught like the hell-baked lands near Jerusalem.”
“I am more used to the heat,” Phillipe agreed. “Though the snow is beautiful and ye seem to find the cold bracing enough.”
Balgair inhaled deeply. “Bred to it, I am. In the past year, all I dreamt of was snow in the mountains.”
His gaze fell away and Phillipe did not press. They each had secrets, and perhaps it did not pay to peer too deeply into the past.
“I met with a man in Morvern whilst ye bartered for yer beast.” Balgair nodded at the horse, her pale golden coat reflecting the moon’s light, a dark stripe within the silver mane and tail. “I’ll admit ye have a fine horse, and clearly from MacKern’s stable. Likely the only good thing to have come from the Holy Land, leastways as far as I can tell. His wife brought one of those Saracen horses with her that’s put his stamp on all MacKern foals these past few years.”
“Turkish horse, and yes, they are magnificent animals. But tell me of your meeting.”
Balgair gave him a confused look then shrugged. “This man’s sword is well known in this part of Scotland, and he mentioned the need for help near the Trossachs—a mountainous region east of here.” He broke off, silent for a moment as he turned his gaze to the sky. “Near my home.”
“Is this not a good choice for ye?”
Balgair’s half smile ghosted across his face. “’Tis time I was back on Graham soil.”
“The Graham laird needs help?”
“Nae. The MacLaren does. His land lies north of the Grahams. A small clan, easily pushed about by the Buchanans and MacNairns.” He snorted. “Though few get along with the MacNairns.”
“’Tis a sound plan.”
“Then we’ll be away at first light.” Balgair stood and stretched, his joints popping. “I’m glad to be on solid ground, laddie. Verra glad.”
* * *
Narnain Castle
Maggie strode purposefully through the hall, meeting the covert looks from those gathered about with a raised chin. In the fortnight since her attack, she’d noted the shift in peoples’ reaction around her. Some women sent her looks of
grim admiration for standing up to the man, others eyed her with disdain, as though she’d been at fault, perhaps led him to believe his attentions would be welcome.
Men appraised her as if she was a prize worth taking—if any had the bollocks to try. Thus far, none had, though she was uncertain if it was the fact she’d fought back, or because of Uilleam’s firm stance at her side. Whatever the reasons, she’d had enough, and her father’s reticence at helping her travel to her isle had continued far too long. They were overdue for a talk.
She hesitated at the door to her da’s solar, drawing a steadying breath against the tears of humiliation prickling the backs of her eyes. Brave face or not, the peoples’ reactions stung. The guard at the door looked away, chin in the air as though he’d noticed nothing.
Voices drifted through a crack in the door. The ancient wood had aged poorly, leaving a small space between door and post.
“Who is with him?”
The guard glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “A man on behalf of Lord Buchanan, m’lady. Mayhap ’tis best ye dinnae disturb them.” The skin of his neck darkened above his tunic and he looked away.
“Why?” Maggie did not wish to interrupt an important meeting, but couldn’t imagine what embarrassed the guard. At least Lord Buchanan hadn’t sent his man to ask for her hand. The laird was almost twice her age and already married, though his wife was a harridan who spent much of her time shrieking orders from her bed—which she took to at the least sign of misconduct from her spouse.
Maggie leaned her ear against the crack. The guard’s chin jutted higher. His ears reddened. The messenger’s nasally voice rang clear.
“’Tis a good bit of coin to offer ye, MacLaren. And ye’d have peace on our borders as long as yer daughter is agreeable.”
The man’s words struck her like a blow to her gut. What did he offer? It was clear whatever it was depended on her acquiescence, but . . .. Her temper soared as she came to the only possible conclusion. The Buchanan wanted her for his mistress and was willing to pay her father for the right. The emissary’s voice continued.
