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

by Cathy MacRae

  He strode to the door to the mews. Naught but darkness and the aroma of dust and rodents greeted him.

  A shadow fell across his path.

  “She isnae here.”

  Phillipe whirled. The voice suggested no threat, but he recalled the protective manner of the young man with Lady Maggie earlier. The youth was no friendlier now, but he appeared relaxed, and clearly did not view Phillipe as a danger.

  “The mews havenae been used in years. Since the chick needs protection as much as feeding, she’s taken it to her rooms. Ye’ll find her in the hall in the morning.”

  “I thank ye, though I will not be here in the morning.”

  The young man nodded and pivoted on his heel to leave. “She rises early.”

  * * *

  Maggie slipped through the hall, wishing wee birds didn’t eat so much. His cries had roused her before dawn, and he’d accepted bits of dried meat hungrily.

  Where the tottie bird puts it all is beyond me. She entered the kitchen, then, picking up a basket of bread and a mug of cider, wandered back into the hall. The room was nearly empty, the few people awake at this pre-dawn hour huddled in small quiet groups. With a start, she recognized the man uncovering a platter on the center table.

  The man who’d helped with the chick. Curiosity pulled her away from her accustomed chair and toward the stranger.

  He chose a small loaf of bread fresh from the oven, tossing it from hand to hand to help cool it. A serving lass sent him a cheeky grin. Pouring cider into a mug, she set it before him then hurried off. He chose a bench and straddled it, angling his body in such a way to easily view the room. He caught her look and lifted his chin, his lean body straightening as a slight smile tilted the corners of his lips.

  His eyes shone, causing Maggie’s breath to deepen. What a ridiculous response toward a stranger. He likely wishes to ask about the tottie bird. He certainly seemed knowledgeable yester e’en. She took a step closer then halted as Uilleam entered the hall. He caught sight of the stranger and crossed the room to take a seat across from him at the plank table. Maggie frowned, unsure if she wished to contend with both men this early. She took a sip from her mug, gazing at Uilleam over the rim.

  Her brother carved a slice of cheese from a wheel on a platter next to the bread. “I am Uilleam MacLaren.” His words drifted clearly to Maggie. “Ye are traveling to the Isle of Hola?”

  The man shifted his gaze to Uilleam. “Aye.”

  “’Tis my sister’s dowry.” Uilleam frowned and waved a hand. “’Tis nae important. We wish to know what is there, though I’m certain Da has already told ye this.” He took a bite of cheese, washing it down with a swallow from his mug.

  The man shrugged. “I know little of your family. I am here for the coin.” He cast a look over Uilleam’s shoulder at Maggie. She took another sip.

  Uilleam cocked his head to one side. “Yer speech is odd. I’ve known men who traveled far from Scotland and returned sounding different. But ye also dinnae look much like a Scot.”

  The man returned his gaze to Uilleam. “My family is from France, though I was born in the Holy Land. My father was there to defend Jerusalem.”

  “A Crusader.” The words slid from Uilleam reverent as a benediction. “What is it like? The Holy Land?”

  “Hot.” The man ducked his head. “I am glad to no longer be there.”

  Uilleam seemed to take the man’s dodge as a sign he’d prefer to not speak of it, and after a moment of silence, changed the subject.

  “I dinnae catch yer name.”

  “I am Phillipe.”

  “Do ye wish to return to France?”

  Maggie pushed away from her stance near the head table. She dropped her basket amid Uilleam’s breakfast and slid onto the bench next to him.

  “Good morn, Uilleam. ’Tis good to see ye up.” She turned a welcoming smile on Phillipe. “Welcome to Narnain Castle. I am Maggie, Uilleam’s sister. I’m sorry to hear ye willnae linger. I’m certain I have questions ye could answer about my wee falcon.”

  “Thank ye, m’lady. I have accepted a duty to travel . . ..” His gaze slid from her to Uilleam and back, clearly connecting Uilleam’s previous words to her. “I understand the isle is your dowry. Certes, ’tis as lovely as are ye, and our report will be all ye hope.”

  Maggie’s face heated. Though her father loved her, he did not understand her. Uilleam teased her, and the earl had vacillated between empty flattery and scorn. The warmth of Phillipe’s words was unexpected. She swallowed and summoned a response.

  “I wish to live there and I am anxious to travel.” To her surprise, her voice trembled. Uilleam placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  “Would ye have advice about the wee falcon before ye leave?” Uilleam adroitly turned the conversation back to the chick.

  Taking the change without question, Phillipe nodded. “’Tis a young bird. Try not to form a close bond with it or it may become prone to challenging ye.”

  Maggie blinked in surprise. “Oh. I hadnae thought of that.”

  Phillipe continued. “Have several hoods made to fit him as he grows and have him wear them often once he is feathered out. He must become accustomed to the hood.” He peered upward, as though gathering his thoughts. “Whate’er ye wish him to become accustomed to—be it dogs or people or horses—do it now. And choose a sound to call him when ye feed him—a whistle is good. ’Twill help with his training later.”

  Maggie sighed. “I’ve started remembering some of what our falconer taught me, though ’twas two years ago and knowledge I dinnae expect to use again. Ye have given good suggestions, Sir, and I thank ye.”

  A man strode to the table, his bristling red beard marking him as Phillipe’s companion from the evening before.

  “My lady, Sir Uilleam.” He gave them each a brief nod then turned to Phillipe. “’Tis time we were gone. The horses await and the guard is opening the gate.”

  Maggie rose. “We will walk with ye.”

  Uilleam leapt to his feet, taking a final bite of cheese before hurrying to catch up. They stepped into the yard, cold mist enveloping them. Maggie pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders.

  Six men, including Gunn, her da’s second commander, already sat their mounts. A mare, her coat gleaming gold in the torch light, nickered as Phillipe approached. He allowed her to sniff one hand as he rubbed her neck with the other. She nibbled his palm gently with her thick lips.

  He laughed. “I neglected to bring ye a treat, Avril.”

  Maggie stood entranced. “Avril? ’Tis French for the month of April, is it not?”

  Phillipe glanced up. “Aye. The month I acquired her.”

  Maggie stepped close and touched the mare’s glistening hide. “She is beautiful. I havenae seen a coat such as hers. Where did ye get her?”

  “She is from the MacKern stables. They have stood a Turkoman horse at stud for several years. His name is Voski. I’m . . . told ’tis the Armenian word for gold.”

  Avril’s ears pricked forward and she shifted her attention to Maggie. The horse’s warm breath reached her in short bursts as she collected Maggie’s scent.

  “Armenian? I only speak Scots and a wee bit of French. And Gaelic.”

  Phillipe smiled and Maggie’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Not many choose to learn other languages. Ye are a rare woman, my lady.”

  He gathered his reins and stepped into the saddle. “Hrazhesht. ’Tis Armenian for farewell.”

  “Hrazhesht.” The word fell stiffly from her tongue but Phillipe gave her a pleased smile before nudging his horse forward.

  The horses moved through the gate accompanied by the soft squeak of leather and the gentle jingle of harness. Maggie followed, ignoring Uilleam’s admonition to remain inside. One by one, the horses disappeared into the mist at the forest edge, as completely out of sight as if they’d never existed.

  The sky paled slightly to the east, though the sun would not top the trees for another hour or more. Mag
gie breathed deeply of the crisp air, dispelling the last of her unexplained reaction to the mysterious Phillipe of France and the Levant.

  A shout from the wall slid into a cry of pain. A body thudded to the ground at Maggie’s feet, a thick-shafted arrow bristling upward. Maggie’s eyes widened as fear winged through her, stealing her wits.

  “Maggie!”

  “Close the gate!”

  Booted feet trampled the parapet and the yard as men rushed to claim their positions at the wall.

  “Maggie!”

  Dark shapes rushed past her, piling through the open gate. She flattened against the wall, blending into the shadow of the barbican’s tower. Timbers groaned as the guards struggled to close the gate against the men spilling from the forest to flood the keep. A wagon careened past, piled with stones and pulled by a single laboring horse.

  “Maggie!”

  A hand grasped her shoulder, jerking her from her feet. An arm encircled her waist and hauled her up, skimming a horse’s shoulder. She kicked and squirmed, but the man dragged her before him, placing her firmly on the horse’s withers. The saddle’s pommel pressed painfully against her thigh. She pushed away from the horse, but the man’s grip tightened.

  “’Tis I, Phillipe. Do not jump.”

  The words rasped in her ear. She blinked in disbelief. He was with the attackers? Fury raced through her. She slammed her head backward, catching Phillipe a glancing blow on the side of his head. He grunted and settled his arms close on either side of her. To Maggie’s surprise, she realized he headed into the bailey. Did he mean to produce her as a bid for her father to surrender?

  “He willnae ransom me,” she warned. Gaining no response from the Frenchman, she grabbed the horse’s reins and hauled backward. Avril tossed her head against the punishing grip and skidded to a halt.

  Phillipe grabbed Maggie’s shoulder and forced her to face him.

  “I am not the enemy!” He tore the reins from her hands and kneed the horse across the yard to the relatively empty ground near the mews. He pulled the horse to a stop and dumped Maggie to the ground. “Hide there. I cannot get ye closer to the hall. Do not come out.”

  Released, Maggie darted through the opening into the mews yard. Phillipe whirled his mount and charged into the battle. She drew back until she was certain she was hidden in the shadows then peered cautiously through the leaves of a heavy vine that climbed the stone wall and swept across the opening.

  Men shouted, metal clanged. Torches flared red in the darkness, giving men the appearance of those already damned. Arrows rained from the parapet, finding targets and peppering the ground.

  Maggie glanced down the side of the keep to the kitchen door. Partially open, it spilled golden light onto the flagstone path. Hoping the attackers had not yet breached the door into the hall, Maggie gathered her skirts and dashed the short distance to the kitchen. Plunging through the keep, she ignored the pleas for reassurance from those huddled within and bounded up the stairs to her room. She grabbed her crossbow and quiver then raced back down the stairwell.

  I willnae stay put. The thought of meekly hiding where Phillipe had dumped her firmed her determination. But, the door to the mews is a place where I can be of some help.

  The kitchen was now empty, the servants fled. The morning fire burned unattended in the hearth. Maggie stepped to the doorway and peered into the yard. She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the glare of torchlight. Men stood on the walls, firing arrows beyond the keep. A few bodies lay on the ground, but she could not determine who they were. An overturned wagon, stones spilling from its bed, traces trailing empty on the ground, lay across the gateway, fouling the attempt to close the gates.

  Keeping to the shadows, she darted to the mews, slipping past the concealing vines. She placed her foot in the stirrup at the front of the crossbow and drew back the string, then fitted a quarrel in the groove atop the stock. The weight of the weapon was familiar and her hands found their accustomed spots. Maggie stepped into the yard, keeping the wall at her back, finger close to the trigger.

  A man’s head appeared over the top of the wall. Wielding a sword, he struck one of the MacLaren guards. Maggie raised her crossbow to her shoulder, her thumb lightly atop the bolt to keep it in place, and aimed at the man who lifted his sword high for a killing blow. Her arrow caught him square in the chest and with a cry, he fell from the wall.

  A rain of arrows whistled into the yard. Shafts fractured as they struck stone, sending arrowheads and splinters of wood in a deadly scatter. Maggie turned away, using the doorway to the mews to shield herself from the fragments. Cries from the yard told her others had not been as lucky.

  She peered around the doorframe. Men rushed through the partially closed gates, stumbling over prone and falling bodies as MacLaren swords and arrows found their marks. She lined up another shot as one dark form slipped past the narrow entrance. He fell before he took another step. Three more men dashed past, quickly lost to the shadows. Maggie edged back into the shadows of the doorway as she reset the string on her crossbow.

  With a squeal of wood, the wagon was uprighted then pulled away from the gate. Voices rose in effort as the gates were finally closed.

  Maggie took a deep breath and faced the yard once more. Now to keep them out.

  Steel rang on steel, interspersed with the duller thunk of metal on wood. Cries of anger and encouragement settled into the low grunts of hand-to-hand combat. Maggie shot her quarrels where she found clear targets, hoarding the two last bolts for her own defense.

  The tone of the battle changed. Fighting slowed. Men faced the door of the keep. A man appeared on the top step, another held before him. Silence gripped the yard. Torches crackled in the dawn breeze.

  “I have yer laird. Surrender the keep!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Phillipe’s sword sang. Two men fell. Torchlight battled with the earliest rays of dawn, playing tricks on his sight as shadows lengthened. Attackers feinted at the walls, drawing MacLaren arrows. The enemy slipped past the overturned wagon where the fight to hold the gates open was at its fiercest. Phillipe shrugged one shoulder in a circular motion, loosening the muscles. He worked his jaw, his tongue testing the teeth Maggie MacLaren had rattled earlier.

  A crossbow bolt sang past him. Phillipe ducked, startled to discover it came from behind him. He glanced about, seeking an enemy flanking him. Movement at the entrance to the mews caused his heart to stutter, certain the laird’s daughter was in danger.

  Maggie!

  As though summoned by his thought, a slight shift in the shadows revealed her as she stepped from the doorway, crossbow in hand. Surprise wrung a grunt of laughter from him.

  The woman has warriors’ skills? Even at a distance he read determination in her stance. Immediately reminded of another young woman with similar skills, he sent Maggie a silent salute, more than pleased she could protect herself, then rejoined the fray.

  A hail of arrows struck the paving stones leading to the hall, shattering on impact and sending splinters of flint and wood spinning through the air. Avril squealed and flattened her ears but did not change her gait, and Phillipe hoped she had merely been startled, not injured. He dispatched another man who aimed a dagger at the mare’s rear legs and glanced about for his next target.

  Someone leapt from the wall, falling hard against Phillipe’s chest, knocking him to the ground. He landed with a grunt as air fled his lungs. His vision darkened. He fought to regain his breath, catching sight of the dagger aimed for his throat a split second before it struck. Grabbing his attacker’s wrist, he wrenched it to the side. He bucked his hips up with a twist, flinging his attacker to the ground. Scrabbling atop him, Phillipe shifted his grip on the man’s wrist, bringing the hand up then sweeping the arm out to the side to land across the leg of a fallen soldier. An audible pop and cry of pain told him the man’s elbow had snapped. Phillipe shoved him aside and climbed to his feet. He dodged a dagger thrust from another man aimed at his belly. He grabbed
the man’s shoulders as the strike went wide, and bent him over as he drove his knee into the man’s chest. Shoving him aside, he grabbed his sword from the ground where it had fallen and searched for his horse.

  Avril stood a few feet away, one rein trailing as she backed away from the wool-clad man reaching for her. Phillipe gripped the man’s shoulder and spun him about then drove his fist into the startled face. The man staggered back and Phillipe strode past, a croon in his voice to soothe the frightened horse. Her ears perked forward and she nickered softly. He swung into the saddle then reined her in a tight circle, scattering the men who thought to close in while he was distracted.

  Too many enter the keep.

  The MacLaren archers kept most of the enemy off the walls. The main gate was the stumbling block to securing the keep. Phillipe’s glance fell on the overturned wagon. Someone had procured a rope and tied it to the reach pole which ran the length beneath the wagon’s bed. To grab the rope, men had to sheathe their swords, leaving them defenseless as they struggled to right the wagon.

  Phillipe spurred Avril to the gate. “Give me the rope!”

  With only a moment’s hesitation, the rope was tossed to him and he wrapped it around the pommel of his saddle. Avril danced forward until the rope tightened, then halted, tossing her head. He nudged her forward and she settled into her haunches, increasing her power. The rope creaked and the wood groaned as Avril surged against the rope and the wagon pulled free. With a shout of triumph, men put their shoulders to the massive gates and forced the enemy back.

  The battle renewed its vigor and MacLarens cleared the gatehouse and closed the gate.