by Cathy MacRae
“’Tis a pity she is barren. Howbeit, the earl assured me she was willing and inventive—worth my laird’s coin.”
He discussed . . . me . . . us . . .. The bastard! Dark webs formed on the rim of her vision and the air seemed too thick to breathe.
“M’lady?” The guard rested a finger on her shoulder. Maggie shook her head, declining his concern. She pressed against the door.
“I have received ye and listened to yer master’s words.” Dugal MacLaren’s voice growled with warning. “Now, get out!”
Maggie drew strength from the anger in her da’s voice and whirled as footsteps crossed the floor. The door opened and a thin man stepped through the doorway. He caught sight of her and halted, his brows arching as he gazed at her.
“She’s a fair piece and not a bony knob on her. The earl was accurate in her description, at least.”
Maggie pulled her shoulders back, flexing her hands as she realized she sought the grip of her dagger. “Ye are a skunner, m’lord, and a blight on humanity. Tell yer master I am not interested in his offer. Not now. Not ever.”
The Buchanan’s man inclined his head. “As ye wish.” His footsteps faded down the hall.
Dugal stepped to the door and motioned Maggie inside. He heaved a sigh. “Ye heard.”
Words failed her. She nodded.
“I willnae sell ye, lass. He was an emissary for the Buchanan, and I thought he was here on border policy. I dinnae know . . ..”
“Let me go to Hola, Da. I’m tired of the speculation and whispers here. I want to start fresh. Narnain was once my home, but even the loch no longer calls to me.”
“I cannae send ye alone and I need Uilleam here. The MacNairns move on our northern border and yer brother leads what few men I have to keep the crofts safe, though chasing the MacNairns is much like trying to grasp a handful of minnows in the deep end of the loch.”
Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. Her da had spent more coin than he should to see her wed to an earl. She bit her lip against a surge of guilt at what had been expended and lost on her behalf. She hadn’t wished to marry nobility. But reminding her da his excess affected the clan served no purpose. ’Twas in the past.
“I dinnae wish to be a target of men with deep purses and shallow souls. How many other such offers have ye received?”
Dugal rubbed his chin and dodged the question. “I will find two men to send to the isle and discover what is there. Can ye await their word?”
Though she chaffed against the delay, Maggie nodded. “Aye. ’Twill do for now.”
Chapter Nine
May 1225
Narnain Castle, Scotland
Maggie’s spirits lifted to have her brother again by her side. “Thank ye for taking time to walk with me, Uilleam. I imagine ye’d rather be stretched out on yer bed, resting.” She touched his shoulder. “I’m glad ye are back and unscathed.”
“Having a few moments without constant watching over my shoulder is relaxing enough. ’Tis good to see ye happy, Maggie.”
Her smile widened, taking firm root in the bit of freedom her brother’s presence gave her. Though she’d learned she could fight back if necessary—and with solid results—the idea of having to continually guard against unwanted attention left her with little desire to venture outside the walls of the keep.
“Ye used to vanish for hours along these paths,” Uilleam remarked, motioning to the mountainous trail. “Watching the birds, picking flowers, making up stories to entertain yer wee brother. The land is awash with spring flowers, yet ye remain inside the keep. Ma is worried. Care to speak of it?”
“And ruin a perfectly good walk?” She shook her head. “Nae. Ma always looks for things to worry over. We’ll find better things to discuss.”
A thought captured her attention. “There is a nesting pair of peregrines just along the way. Their chicks should be big enough to see by now. They’re in the auld eagle’s nest on the promontory ahead.”
Uilleam nodded encouragement. “Lead on, Sister. Be as silent as ye can so we dinnae disturb them. Last night’s storm may have left them unsettled.”
“Och. Telling me to walk quiet in the forest? I taught ye to be a shadow when ye were but a wee lad.”
“Silence is more than yer feet, Sister. Hauld yer wheesht. They’ll hear ye from fifty paces.”
Maggie rolled her eyes at her brother’s scold, but she remained silent as she led him to the foot of the cliff where she’d seen the falcons a fortnight earlier. Uilleam halted at her side and followed the sweep of her arm as she pointed out the nest halfway up the cliff. Small white heads bobbed above the level of the twigs framing the nest.
“I see two,” Uilleam whispered. “Ye think there’s more?”
“Let’s get a bit closer.” Maggie gathered her skirts and stepped around a few small boulders and through the brush. Several large stones streaked with white bird droppings marked the spot directly beneath the nest. She halted a few feet away.
“Can ye see better from here?”
Above, a falcon began its kak-kak-kak of alarm.
“We’ve been spotted,” Uilleam warned, bracing a hand above his eyes as he stared upward.
“Dinnae fash,” Maggie replied. “They merely warn us away. Peregrines arenae verra territorial, but they do protect their chicks.”
A sound like the flap of a sail startled her. Something flashed past then vanished into the sun.
“What was that?” She turned wide eyes on her brother.
“I thought ye said they werenae territorial. Mayhap we should retreat.”
“They may chatter warningly, but they dinnae attack humans. Unless . . ..” Maggie cast her glance about, scanning the rocky ground near her feet. The falcon screamed past again with a sharp rustle of wings. Maggie ducked. Uilleam cursed.
“Let’s be gone, Maggie. The bird’s daft. It’s getting closer and I dinnae wish to feel its talons or beak.”
“Wait . . ..” Maggie moved the branches of a small shrub. “Look.” She pointed to a pile of white downy feathers. Dark beady eyes stared back at her.
“A wee falcon.” Uilleam searched the rock overhang above their heads. “I cannae reach the nest. And ’tis too far below the ledge above it to drop the chick into it.”
The baby bird, its pin feathers bristling through the soft down, looking like a stuffed rag toy that had been left out in the rain too many times, tilted its head to the side. Maggie’s heart ached for the nestling.
“’Tis too young to be out of the nest. ’Twill fall victim to predators soon.”
“Ye raised one once,” Uilleam mentioned.
Maggie shook her head, the urge to travel to the isle warring with the difficulty of raising a chick. “He should be with his parents.”
Uilleam tilted his head. “He appears to be four or five weeks old. His feathers are coming along nicely. ’Twould be a couple of weeks before he’d be ready to fly. Mayhap he will then return to the wild.”
“’Tis wrong to leave him here. Fend the falcons off, will ye?” Maggie crouched in the shrubs, tucking her skirts about her feet so they did not lift in the gentle wind and startle the bird. She inched closer, murmuring soft words. The chick shrank into the brush.
With a sweep of her arms, Maggie reached for the nestling. It squawked in alarm and waved its wings to make itself appear larger. Raising up on its ridiculously large yellow feet, it attempted to leap away, but couldn’t clear the brush.
“Dinnae fash, wee one,” Maggie said as she folded the chick’s wings against its body, stilling its frantic motions. “Naught will harm ye.”
“Och, he’ll be cossetted and fat as a hen in no time,” Uilleam chuckled. He ducked as the distraught parent falcon made a third pass. “I only wish we could make his da understand.”
* * *
Phillipe gazed across the lake. Loch, he reminded himself. With the spittle-producing end to the word as Balgair pronounced it.
“I do not believe I will ever grow weary of the s
ight of overmuch grass—and trees,” he said, not caring if his friend heard or not. “And water that isn’t the sea.”
“Och, the Levant doesnae have a tithe on Scotland for beauty,” Balgair replied. “I felt as if I’d died and gone to hell with all the heat and sand.”
“’Tis not always so. There is much about the land that is beautiful. But I will make this place my home—for a time at least. The Holy Land is behind me.”
“Ye’ve spent a gey wheen of years more in that blighted land than I.” Balgair nodded amiably. “I expect ye had a better chance of seeing the good there. I only remember the loss of six of my closest companions fighting the Saracens, and nearly died of thirst myself before I made it back to Christian-held territory.” He closed his mouth abruptly, ending the reciting of his time in the Levant where he always did.
“’Tis Loch Lomond,” he said, taking up a different subject. “MacLaren land lies on the other side.”
“The wood and stone keep there?” Phillipe indicated stones visible through the trees.
“Aye. There are numerous cottages at the foot of the motte the castle is built upon, the whole of it protected by the mountain at its back.”
“The laird will welcome us?”
Balgair nudged his horse forward with his heels. “Aye. For whatever coin we spend in his village, and for our swords.”
Phillipe reined his mare behind Balgair’s sure-footed mount, the trail not wide enough for two abreast.
“This doesn’t seem like much of a road,” he commented, swatting a dangling limb away.
“’Tis a game trail which will cut an hour or so from our ride.”
“Ye know this land well.”
Balgair was silent for a moment. “I grew up here.”
Phillipe did not reply, giving Balgair a chance to continue or not.
“One of the friends lost in the Holy Land was the laird’s nephew. His name was Alasdair Graham.”
“I am sorry, my friend. This will not be a good homecoming for ye.”
“I could have returned home any time in the past two years. It hasnae been an easy decision. Mayhap if things go well with the MacLarens, I will finish my journey and settle with the Grahams once again.”
“’Tis often difficult to let go of the past. A time will come when holding on to it becomes less important than seeking the future.”
“Och, now ye’re sounding like a learned scholar, not a mercenary.” Balgair cast a look over his shoulder, teeth glinting through his beard. “MacLaren willnae care how ye speak, only if ye can wield a sword.”
He shifted in his saddle and raised an arm. “There’s the road to Narnain Castle. The gates are up that hill.”
They joined the few people on the path past the tiny village, then continued up the curved road to the keep. Phillipe noted with satisfaction the apparent well-being of the people and their homes. His attention shifted to the castle, wishing the wall around the stone keep was more than ancient timbers.
“Ye have much woodland here. Is that why the walls are of wood?”
“Aye. They’ve stood for many years. Laird MacLaren keeps them in good repair, though I thought he’d planned to rebuild with stone.” Balgair shrugged.
A flash of red caught Phillipe’s eye. A young woman with hair unlike any Phillipe had seen before walked past, something resembling a white chicken in her arms. A tall, muscular youth kept pace.
“Striking,” he commented, wondering who she might be.
Balgair glanced past Phillipe. “Och, there cannae be two lassies with the same hair in this clan. Must be the laird’s daughter, though why she isnae married and away is a curiosity. I prefer my lasses a bit more on the dainty side, but none can say Maggie MacLaren isnae a beauty.”
Phillipe grunted, a half-smile crossing his face.
“Ye should look elsewhere for companionship, lad. The MacLaren is ambitious, a status-climber of the worst sort. He’ll nae have less than an earldom for his lass.”
What of a deposed king? Phillipe shook his head, dispelling the urge to know the lady further. Though his bonds to Zabel had been dissolved by the Bishop, he did not seek marriage. And he was certain Laird MacLaren’s daughter would not be the dallying kind.
The young woman gasped and jerked as if something had startled her. The creature in her hands gave a kak-kak-kak of distress.
A falcon! Interest instantly piqued, Phillipe thrust his mare’s reins at Balgair. His long stride carried him quickly to the woman’s side. A trickle of blood ran down her arm, but her grip on the falcon appeared firm. The young man at her side glanced up and moved as if to shield her.
Phillipe spread his hands wide. “Please, I can help.”
Her companion jerked his chin, his brow furrowed. “Leave her.”
“Dinnae fash, Uilleam. ’Tis well.”
Uilleam’s scowl deepened, but he moved aside. The young woman’s eyes widened hopefully. “Ye ken falcons?”
“I have been around them, yes.”
Her hands clasped the young bird around its girth, pinning its wings to its body, but its beak had apparently inflicted a small wound. The bird thrashed again, pecking at her hand. The woman bit her lip but neither dropped the bird nor changed her grip.
Tearing a strip from the hem of his tunic, Phillipe carefully wound it over the bird’s head, covering its eyes. The chick immediately settled. The woman’s bright blue gaze lit with gratitude.
“Ye’ve saved my hands and likely this ramscallion’s life.”
“’Tis called al burqa, a head covering, and serves to calm the bird.”
“We forgot about a hood, Maggie,” Uilleam said, a dose of exasperation coloring his voice. “Could have saved ye a pecked arm.”
Her grin was rueful. “I only took him because he couldn’t be returned to his nest, and this is how he repays my kindness.”
“He is young. ’Twill be some time before he thinks of ye as his master.”
“Och, nae. I willnae keep him. I only wish to feed him until he can fly and return to the cliffs where he was born. I have . . . other things I must do.” Her voice faded awkwardly and she glanced away.
“As ye wish, my lady, though there is much to be said for a good hunting falcon.”
“I raised one a few years ago, but it fell prey to a golden eagle.”
“Ye have a falconer here?”
The woman’s face fell. “Nae. He was elderly and dinnae live through this winter past. We havenae had falcons in the mews in three or four years.”
Phillipe smiled. “Ye do now.”
Her answering smile was hesitant, but it went straight to Phillipe’s heart.
“Might I check on ye later? The welfare of the bird, that is.”
Her look became guarded and Uilleam’s hand came to rest on the handle of his sword.
Phillipe took the protective gesture for what it was and merely let his hands hang loose at his sides. “I mean no disrespect, my lady.”
Maggie and Uilleam exchanged glances. “Ye may ask about the chick,” she said.
Phillipe nodded. “I will not keep ye. He is in need of a nest and likely a meal.”
Her smile returned. “I do remember that part. Thank ye for yer help.”
“Be certain your healer takes a look at your wound.”
Maggie nodded and hurried away, skirts swinging gently, bright red hair bouncing over her shoulders.
But all Phillipe saw was the memory of her smile.
Balgair appeared at his elbow. “I remember telling ye she’s the laird’s daughter, aye?”
“I wish only to help her.” Phillipe glanced at his friend, startled at the skeptical grin showing through his beard.
“The last time I heard those words, the laddie spent a sennight at the pleasure of the Graham laird.” He cuffed Phillipe on his shoulder. “Come. Let us see what the MacLaren’s captain has to offer.”
Chapter Ten
Phillipe stood atop the battlements and leaned against the wall. He lifte
d a mug of ale to his lips. He couldn’t shake the memory of the red-haired young woman. Daughter of the laird. It wasn’t to his benefit to think about her, but since he’d met her, warmth had blossomed in his chest and refused to budge.
Maggie MacLaren.
Why couldn’t she have been a blacksmith’s or crofter’s daughter? Not that he’d intended to settle here—he’d the whole of Scotland to explore—but . . .. He shook his head. He was not worthy of any woman’s interest beyond a moment’s pleasure. The things he’d done would forever bind him. It did him no good to wish otherwise.
Streaks of amethyst and rose darkened the sky as the sun melted behind the trees surrounding Loch Lomond.
Balgair strode the length of the planks placed an elbow between the pointed timbers. “’Tisnae much in the way of coin, but the travel shouldnae be arduous.”
Phillipe roused from his thoughts. Balgair held a coin between his forefinger and thumb. He tossed it to Phillipe who caught the gold piece and slipped it into a pouch at his belt.
“I did not think ye wished to travel farther. Your family is not so far away.”
Balgair shrugged. “I’ll make another few miles. The laird wishes a report on the Isle of Hola and is willing to pay. Mayhap this will turn profitable.”
“When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow, first light. Laird MacLaren offered to send a supply wagon, but Gunn, his man in charge, declined. I agree ’twould only slow us down. We can load our bags and mayhap a pack horse or two. Hunt along the way.”
Phillipe nodded, though he regretted not getting to know Maggie better. Mayhap ’twas for the best. “I have little to prepare. But I’ll bid ye good e’en and get some rest.” He shifted away from the wall.
“Best seek out Lady Maggie now. There willnae be time in the morn.” Balgair’s blue eyes danced merrily.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Phillipe replied, though he had no such intention. To do so would only invite more regret. He descended the steps into the yard. A small stone building, its thatched roof in obvious need of repair, nestled in the far side of the grounds, surrounded by a wall nearly the height of the building. Against his better judgement, Phillipe angled up the overgrown path. He stepped through the opening to the mews yard where three perches still stood, silent reminders of the past. Looped tethers, the leather stiffened from the weather, hung from the bars.
