by Cathy MacRae
“’Twas never this cold or rainy in the Levant,” he confided to the horse. “And yet . . . I wonder if I would find this weather the same in France? There is something here I have not encountered before. What about this place calls to me?”
Avril snorted and shook her head, clearly uninterested in his rhetorical mood, and moved a step away to nip at the grass beneath the picket line. Satisfied the mare was unperturbed by the recent rain, Phillipe strolled deeper into the forest, his footsteps no more than a whisper against the wet leaves.
He halted at the edge of a low cliff. A bubbling brook—a burn Balgair called it—glimmered silver below. Raindrops glistened like costly diamonds on every leaf and stone. He leaned his back against a broad tree trunk, dismissing the beauty before him. Maggie’s bright blue eyes instantly sprang to mind. Her cautious smile, face framed by unruly hair. Something drew him to her, and he did not believe it was a chance to tutor her in falconry.
The thought sobered him. He had no business spending time with Laird MacLaren’s daughter. Women, in his experience, often took the wrong inference from such actions. His attentions would be seen as less than honorable, for his future did not include marriage.
The crack of a small branch alerted him to another presence.
“’Tis I.” Balgair spoke clearly.
Phillipe’s hand relaxed, moving away from the hilt of his sword.
Balgair stepped to the edge of the rocks and peered over the edge. “Considering the view, or something else?”
Phillipe grunted. “’Tis likely something else.”
“Something—or someone—with flaming red hair and the look of a wounded angel?”
Phillipe glanced up sharply.
Balgair shrugged and placed one boot on a low boulder and leaned his forearm across his knee. “I dinnae know the lass’s story when we first arrived, and once I did, I thought it best left alone. Since she now travels with us, mayhap ye should hear it.”
Sympathy tugged at Phillipe’s heart. He nodded.
Balgair’s glance slid to one side and he sighed. “Her husband of a year, an earl no less, sent her home a few months ago, dissolving their marriage on the grounds she dinnae gie him a bairn.”
Blood boiled in Phillipe’s veins and his teeth ground tight in his jaw.
Balgair continued. “’Tis all the men around here are interested in, beyond the fact she isnae a virgin and isnae likely to draw a serious marriage proposal as the MacLaren clan is small and of little military use. Their land is beautiful and moderately prosperous, but nae enough to give her much to look forward to. It seems there has been more than one randy bastard willing to take her to bed—her willing or nae—and one serious bid for her services as a mistress. The MacNairn attack was the last straw.”
Phillipe drew a deep breath, but his anger spiraled upward. “And how did an earl interest himself in a young woman from such a small, unimportant clan?” His words spat like the first icy drops of sleet before a storm.
“She was his third wife. The first died in childbirth, though ’twas rumored the child wasnae his, and her death wasnae a misfortune but mayhap something more sinister. His second wife packed off to a nunnery without producing a bairn nae too long after the nuptials.” Balgair lifted his hands palms upward as if offering up his thoughts. “Mayhap he thought a braw lassie like our Lady Maggie would prove of more robust stock than the delicate lasses his ma dangled before him. But I only repeat what I’ve heard. I’ve nae proof.”
“It sounds as if my lord earl is the one lacking, not his wives.” His fingers clenched tight. “’Twould be best if I did not learn his name.”
Balgair’s teeth flashed in his beard. “Aye. I believe ye would lose yer civility in his presence. And there’s naught but a hangman’s noose to be gained by the man’s death, whether deserved or nae.” He straightened. “I’ll leave ye to yer thoughts, but remind ye we’ve an early start in the morn, and ye wouldnae enjoy giving me the pleasure of rousting ye from yer slumbers with the toe of my boot.”
Phillipe smiled grimly at his friend’s quip. “I’ll return to camp with ye. As lovely as the lady is, I have naught to offer her, and I have accepted coin to keep her safe.”
Balgair clapped Phillipe’s shoulder. “Aye, ye have. I believe ye have the second watch this night. Best ye get what sleep ye can. We’ve a ship to catch.”
Phillipe glanced over his shoulder, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He found naught but the darkness and the knowledge of where the journey would take them. Dread pooled in his belly like an untried lad on the eve of battle.
Across the water lay Loch Aline and the village of Morvern—and the reminder of what he’d lost.
Chapter Thirteen
“He’s a wee bit peculiar, dinnae ye think so?”
Maggie glanced up as she settled the falcon chick—Colyn—into his cage. His low-pitched chirps told her he wasn’t entirely happy with the transfer, but he was becoming used to the routine and allowed her to place him inside with little fuss.
Leana smoothed her skirts as she sat upon the fallen tree next to Maggie. She leaned close, canting a look at the men who settled near the fire, plaides over their shoulders.
“The Frenchman likes ye.”
Maggie shook her head, refusing to be baited. “He is interested in the falcon, naught else.” She latched the cage and pointed to the two shelters of lashed branches a few feet away. “I wish to catch a bit of sleep—dry if possible.”
Leana rose and followed Maggie, then perched on the edge of the pine boughs keeping Maggie’s blanket off the cold, wet ground. “Why do ye think he knows so much about birds? Falcons are the mark of nobility.”
“And the mark of someone who hunts for his food,” Maggie rejoined. “Mayhap they do things differently in the Holy Land.” She sat, gingerly testing the gentle spring of the pine boughs. Not a feather bed, but comfortable enough—and mostly dry.
“But he’s nae crofter,” Leana insisted. “Ye have only to see the way he stands, hear his voice . . ..” Leana sighed. “I could listen to him all day. He isnae brash nor rude, but polished and confident.”
Maggie peered around Leana, catching sight of Phillipe as he strolled into the meager firelight. His chain mail glinted gold and black, reflecting the flames, his skin a dusky hue. Broad shoulders lay beneath his cloak, and she knew her head would reach his chin if she stood next to him. The memory of his strong arms pulling her atop his horse as he rode back into the keep warmed her—startling her with the unexpected sensation. She sat back into the shadows of the small shelter.
She waved Leana’s words aside with a frown. “He is a mercenary. There is naught unusual in what ye say. They oft times form elite guards.”
Leana scoffed. “Och, ye cannae fool me with yer dour look. Mercenaries are bold, mayhap a swaggering lot, but rarely carry themselves like . . . like a prince.”
“Ye are being fanciful,” Maggie replied. She peered around Leana again. Phillipe’s close-cropped black beard blended into the shadows, a dark slash across his firm jawline, partially hiding a scar which ran down one side of his face. How had he received such an injury? She flinched to consider his pain. Did she wish to know the truth of his past? Did it matter?
Phillipe glanced up, catching her gaze. Maggie jerked back, using her maid as a shield against his questioning look.
Embarrassment fluttered in her belly—and lower. Maggie scolded her body’s traitorous response. She was no young lass to find herself a-twitter at a handsome man’s look. Nor was she an untried maid eager for his touch. The earl had at first stirred her passions, but long months of disappointment as she did not quicken left her husband’s attentions merely a thing of duty—and distaste.
“It doesnae matter. He is here for the coin, and I willnae become a way to relieve the boredom of the journey.”
Leana drew back, her eyes wide. “I dinnae suggest becoming his lover, m’lady. Though I cannae see how that could be a bad—or difficult—thing.
’Tis only that ye have been too quiet, too withdrawn since ye came back to us. How could ye ignore an opportunity to speak with a man who clearly likes—and respects ye?”
Maggie gave Leana a skeptical look. “Ye dinnae want him for yerself?”
Leana fluttered her fingers. “Och, he hasnae glanced at me more than twice since we left Narnain Keep. If I thought he was interested, I’d let him warm me this night. But he hasnae offered, and his eyes dinnae stray far from ye.”
“He watches the bird,” Maggie insisted even though her cheeks heated to think on Phillipe’s steady gaze.
“If ’tis what ye believe . . ..” Leana leaned close. “Ye waste an opportunity ye willnae have on yer island, I fear. There cannae be many people there.” She cast a glance over her shoulder then back to Maggie. “Nor young men like yer knight.”
“Mercenary.”
Leana rocked to her feet. “Call him what ye wish. I choose to believe he is a member of a noble house, lost to his family through a mysterious tragedy.” She laughed softly. “Of what matter is his past when all ye know of him is good?”
She moved a few steps away to her bower. Maggie set her wee falcon’s cage near her feet where she would provide some protection and be alert to its early morning cries. She pulled her plaide about her shoulders, flipping the hem several times until it covered her feet.
Who was Phillipe? Was there more to him than a sword for hire? Leana spoke true, and Maggie had been neither blind nor deaf to his actions and voice. His words bespoke a life of courtliness—she’d heard enough from nobility visiting the earl—and of an advanced education. His sword-play far exceeded any she’d previously encountered. He did carry himself with masculine grace and assurance and rode his horse as if born to the saddle. Maggie sighed, recalling the gentle cadence of Phillipe’s voice. He spoke French, English, Armenian, and whatever language her heart longed for.
Her curiosity was piqued. But what would be the cost of her questions?
* * *
The Sound of Mull
Next day
The small vessel slipped through the water with little effort. Wind filled its single sail and its bow slapped gently against the mild chop of waves. Verdant shores lined both sides of the water, glinting gold in the evening sun. Maggie and her maid hovered at the rail, but Phillipe’s gaze pulled to the distant northerly shore.
The land parted where Loch Aline emptied into the sound. Fishing boats and larger, two-masted ships rocked gently at harbor a short distance away. He felt the boards shift beneath his feet as the boat’s captain ordered the vessel north, into the channel.
His teeth clenched. Dear Lord, how did he get himself into this? He had spoken against stopping for the night. They had little need for supplies, yet the varied markets in Morvern held more attraction than those in Oban, and Maggie had decided to purchase household items she deemed necessary from the busy port before sailing to Hola.
Mayhap none at the dock will know me. Mayhap I will remain aboard ship.
Yet he knew he would not. Maggie had already engaged his help for hauling her purchases back to the ship. She would have only a few hours to shop before dark, and the captain insisted on being on their way at daybreak. Though there were others she could have asked, she’d chosen him, and he hadn’t known how to deny her request. Even though the thought of treading the streets where his closest friend lived tied his gut in knots.
Is my shame so great? I cared for little more than extricating myself from a fate I did not entirely deserve. Yet, honor says not all charges leveled against me were lies.
The ship slipped smoothly against the dock, rocking Phillipe gently on his heels, his knees taking the brunt of the movement. Maggie waved excitedly to him. He ignored Balgair’s grin and followed Maggie and her maid across the hastily laid plank to the dock.
Skirting sailors beating a tattoo on the wooden slats from their ships on their way to the village, Maggie and Leana, with Phillipe and Dawe in tow, hurried to the shops. Phillipe and Dawe waited patiently as the two women amassed several lengths of woolen cloth, two bags of oats in a barrel lined with cloth oiled on one side to protect the grain from the weather, numerous kitchen implements piled into a large cooking pot, and a box of sundry goods including a parcel from a wizened wise-woman whose small shop reminded Phillipe violently of the herbs he’d taken in prison not so long ago.
He stood transfixed by the scents of the shop, his stomach empty and complaining in an embarrassing manner as Maggie paid the healer.
Maggie then faced him with a smile. “I dinnae know when our next cooked meal will be,” she said, handing him a silver coin. “Would ye see to a bit of food tonight for all of us whilst Dawe begins transporting the purchases to the ship? I’m fair certes Callan or a pair of sailors can assist with the rest.”
Phillipe automatically held out his hand, even as his mind hesitated to accept the task.
Maggie wrapped his fingers closed over the bit of silver and gifted him a sweet smile. “It shouldnae be too difficult. I saw an inn just two streets over, and there are likely other vendors if ye’d care to search for skewers or bits of sweetmeats. Dinnae fash. Whatever ye choose will be well-received.”
Phillipe gave himself a mental shake to pull himself together, accepting the coin with a ghost of a smile. “As my lady wishes.” He offered a brief bow. Her cheeks pinked. As Maggie collected her purchases, Phillipe strode down the street in the direction she’d indicated.
A polished sign bearing the likeness of a hunting hound, a rabbit gripped in its jaws, jutted over the street. Taking the closer—and therefore easier—option, Phillipe ducked inside.
“Welcome to The Hound, m’lord.” The cheerful voice belonged to a rather stout woman, her assets modestly covered by an apron pinned to her ample chest and tied about her waist. Her smile beckoned him to a wooden bar that glowed warmly in the light from a massive fireplace in the corner of the room.
“How might I help ye, sir? If ye require a room for the night, all I have left is a spot in a chamber which sleeps four. Three of the pallets are already taken, but they’re good lads and willnae give ye trouble.”
Phillipe shook his head. “I thank ye, madam, but I only require food for six that I might take with me.”
“Och, madam, is it?” She leaned across the counter and poked Phillipe’s chest in a playful manner. “Ye have the manners of a lord, and the voice of an angel. Whereaboots do ye hail?”
“I am new to these shores, but I have traveled far. My family is French.”
The woman straightened, one hand on her hip as she gave a satisfied nod. “I thought so. We hear many accents here. Laird MacLean’s shipping interest brings novel people to our doors.” She waved him to a stool a few feet away, at the corner of the hearth. “Sit. I’ll have Coira prepare ye a basket of meat pies and a few of my berry pasties.” She dimpled. “They’re famous, ye ken.”
Phillipe inclined his head, a smile creeping unbidden at the woman’s friendly charm. “Many thanks, madam. I am certain the meal will be greatly relished.”
“I am Moibeal. Ye ask for me if ye need aught else.” She disappeared through a wide doorway, clapping her hands and shouting for Coira.
Phillipe glanced about from beneath a lowered brow before taking the offered seat. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and his muscles tensed.
The room was packed, giving credence to Moibeal’s mention of full sleeping chambers. However, in this prosperous village servicing an active sailing line, an inn likely kept very busy. Good-natured shouts and guffaws erupted from a spot at the other end of the hearth where a crowd gathered about three men seated on the floor. Phillipe could see the tops of their bent heads and guessed they played a game of dice. Serving wenches wove in and about the tables, platters held high. A couple of them sent Phillipe speculative looks, but a shake of his head kept them away.
Something bumped against his lower leg then grabbed the hem of his cloak. Startled, Phillipe glanced down, snatchi
ng his garment away. Counter-weighted firmly, his cloak ripped as a rotund body tumbled across the floor. The puppy slid to a stop, furry butt in the air, chin on the worn stone. He blinked his dark round eyes then plopped his hindquarters to the floor and lifted his head until he sat, a comical look on his face. Phillipe chuckled.
“Ye must be more careful, le chiot,” he chided. “Attacking strange cloaks is not how ye win friends.” He bent and ruffled the puppy’s ears, eliciting an expression of delight from the creature, tongue lolling out the side of his muzzle from between sharp baby teeth.
Phillipe inspected the damage to his cloak. “I’ve no needle and thread to repair the rip. Mayhap I should see if m’lady has such in her purchases.”
The pup yipped as if in response. A shadow fell over them as Moibeal stepped near.
“Awa’ with ye, laddie,” she scolded, waving a hand at the puppy. “Ye’ll nae bother the guests.” She turned an apologetic half-grin on Phillipe. “He’s the last of my husband’s bitch’s litter, and a wee terror for all the attention he gets here. I’d be happy for him to find a home where I’m nae tripping over him all the day.”
Phillipe eyed the pup. His chunky body was clad in a dense coat of medium brown with a dark mask over his eyes. A white muzzle, boots, and tip to his tail completed the picture.
“What sort of dog is he?”
“Och, his dam is a coley dog—a right braw hand at herding sheep. His sire, howbeit, is whatever the laird’s son brought with him from abroad. Something useful for protecting sheep. I daresay this one’ll turn out to be a right good dog, but for now, he’s just a wee pest.”
Phillipe stilled. An Aidi. Alex and Arbela brought their dogs with them. His heart stuttered at the reminder of how close he was to the family he’d lived with for more than half his life.
The door to the inn opened and closed and booted steps brushed through the rushes on the floor. An arm wrapped familiarly around Moibeal’s sturdy shoulders.
