by Cathy MacRae
Maggie bumped against her maid’s arm. “Dinnae call him that,” she hissed, casting a glance at Phillipe over her shoulder.
Leana peered past Maggie then finished unwrapping the pies. “Never mind. Ye and I clearly see him as different men. Or, mayhap ye dinnae wish to see him as any other than a paid sword.”
It isnae true. I want to know about Phillipe of France. I want to know what drove him to our shores, why he sells his sword. ’Tis a distraction, naught more. There’s no reason to let his story engage my heart.
Maggie picked up a pie and bit into the warm crust. She stepped aside as the men jostled for their food. Phillipe chose his pie then moved to a row of wooden boxes stacked against the rail. She selected a mug then moved to follow him, her heart pounding.
“May I join ye?” At his nod, she sat. Maggie managed another bite then glanced about for a bit of linen to wipe her fingertips. Finding none, she rubbed them against her skirt, wishing to ask about the conversation she’d overheard, but not knowing where or how to start.
“Have ye thought of what ye will do once ye arrive at your isle?” Phillipe’s dark eyes peered at her over his mug of ale.
Maggie brushed crumbs from her lap. “I dinnae know what to expect. No one seems to know much of the isle.” She hesitated then shook her head. “The woman at the inn . . ..”
“The innkeeper’s wife? Moibeal?”
Maggie shrugged. “I dinnae know her name. The woman who waited with me at the inn.”
At Phillipe’s nod, she continued. “She thought mayhap ’twas an isle she’d heard of, though ’tis most likely a mere legend.”
“Tell me the legend.”
“The isle—if this is in truth the same as the one in her story—is small but lovely, with porpoises and birds.” She drew a breath. “And pirates.”
Phillipe swallowed quickly to avoid choking on his watered ale. Pirates? “We will hope ’tis naught but a legend. Inheriting an isle inhabited by pirates would not be good.”
Maggie shook her head, tendrils of red hair catching the torchlight. The sun had set moments ago in a burst of glory that had not been half as beautiful as the woman next to him. Her blue eyes glowed deepest sapphire in the gloaming. Something tripped in Phillipe’s chest.
Protection. She needs protection.
Yet, the memory of her determined defense from the men who’d attacked the keep two days prior belied Phillipe’s notion.
But she cannot defend herself against pirates on her own. Of this, Phillipe was certain. Balgair’s hair-raising tale of Maggie defending herself against a single assailant whispered in his ear—she needs no man’s protection.
Phillipe scowled. I wish to protect her.
He set his mug aside. “We are here to guard ye on your journey. Yet, who will care for ye once ye arrive? Ye have accoutrements for your household, yet ye do not know if adequate lodging exists. Who will build a suitable home for ye if this is what ye need?”
“I dinnae need much.” Maggie’s chin lifted slightly. “Rich appointments and a display of wealth dinnae interest me. A small cottage, snug from the winter storms, is all I require.”
“Ye are unlike other women of my acquaintance,” Phillipe admitted, though he was certain she would waver once she discovered her isle was little more than a large rock set amid crashing waves. Or was it?
“Tell me,” Maggie said. “Tell me of these women.”
Her gaze lingered. What to tell her? Certainly not the truth. Or, at least, not all of it. What could he say that would satisfy her curiosity?
“Women of the court are soft—any court.” Though, not every woman.
Not Arbela. Not Zabel.
Phillipe frowned at the whisper in his head.
“They are accustomed to servants and fine food.” The voice in his head was silent, no accusation for this statement. “Rich clothing.”
“Do the women of the Levant look like me—like the women of Scotland?”
Phillipe stared at Maggie, her flaming hair, her woolen gown, serviceable and warm. His gaze drifted over the curves rounding her bodice. Muscles slid beneath the tight sleeves of her gown, capable of drawing the string of her crossbow and holding it steady.
“Nae,” he murmured. “Ye are nothing like them. And I am glad of it.”
Her cheeks darkened and she ducked her head. “I’m neither slender nor dainty. The earl’s mother reminded me of my shortcomings often.”
“Ye have no shortcomings save those ye choose to believe exist. Do not let others’ ideas overtake your own.”
Her gaze lifted to his and Phillipe lost himself in her uncertainty. “Ye are the first woman I’ve met with hair the color of the purest flame. The first with the height to nearly be my equal. I know of only one other with weapon skills similar to yours, though she used a Turkish bow and sword, not a crossbow.” His lips curved in remembrance. “There were other skills she was not allowed to demonstrate. Her father did not approve.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. A shocked look spread across her face. Phillipe quickly caught his error.
“Nae. I do not mean to scandalize ye. She learned of poison and other subtle weapons one summer when visiting her uncle’s castle. He sheltered men of the Hashashin order and she followed their training until her father learned of it.”
Maggie’s face cleared. “What is the Hashashin order?”
“Fanatical, disciplined men who engage in subtle warfare with often terrifying results. It is said a man targeted by the order can be convinced to do anything by simply finding a dagger and a threatening note on his pillow.”
“I havenae heard of such.” She shivered. “’Twas good her da put a stop to it.”
Phillipe laughed. “Little could stop her. She continued practicing scaling walls and studying the effects of poisons whenever she thought no one watched. Arbela pursued her goals almost as fanatically as the Hashashin.”
“Arbela? I have heard her name. She is Lord Alex MacLean’s sister?”
“Yes. Ye know her?”
Maggie shook her head. “Mere rumors. Her marriage to Laird MacKern three years ago formed an alliance between the clans. ’Twas shortly after she and her da . . .. Och, it makes sense now.”
“What does?”
“Laird MacLean had died.” She fluttered her fingers in an impatient gesture. “The old laird. His sons had died also, the last one of the fever that took many in the area. Too far away to affect us, but we waited to see who would take his place. ’Twas rumored the youngest son had followed King Richard on crusade to the Holy Land. He became a baron there, but he returned when his clan needed him. There were whispers his daughter was . . . er, different.”
The description warmed Phillipe’s heart. “’Twould not be untrue.” He drew a breath. Perhaps he could learn more of Arbela from Maggie. “I wonder why she married so soon after they arrived in Scotland.”
“I heard ’twas an alliance, but naught else. I left Narnain . . ..” Her voice trailed off, then she lifted her chin. “I was married to the Earl of Mar a year or so after Lady Arbela married Laird MacKern. I know only hers was a ceremony the likes of which are only heard in faerie tales. She was said to wear a fabulous gown the red of dragons’ blood, and a ruby the size of a goose egg hung from a necklace ablaze with diamonds and pearls.”
Phillipe hazarded a grin. “I distinctly hear a bit of envy, my lady.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Och, I’ve worn gowns where no expense was spared, and been bedecked with priceless heirloom jewels. And I was accounted of lesser worth, for when my use was determined to be at an end, the diamonds and velvets were returned to their chests and ’twas myself which was discarded.”
Phillipe frowned. “I have no use for men who do not value their wives.”
“Have ye married?”
How by Saint Andrew had he lost control of this conversation? He’d wished only to hear of Arbela, perhaps acquire some acceptance for the paths they each trod. He had no wish to revisit his past,
had been relieved Alex had allowed him to leave without satisfying every aspect of his tale.
Maggie’s gaze lingered. She’d apparently overheard more at the inn than she’d admitted so far. It was clear she would parse the information from him unless he answered with care.
“I was. Death severed the union.”
He regretted the wording. It enabled a lie, though the result was necessary. Phillipe, King of Cilicia, was dead, rites spoken by the Bishop himself. Phillipe, Prince of Antioch, was the only part of himself he clung to, yet even that person little resembled the mercenary he’d become.
He also regretted the distress on Maggie’s face. She did not deserve the guilt riding in her lovely eyes, the sorrowful rounding of her exquisite lips. But some secrets he could not part with, and he did not deserve her sympathy—or her trust.
“I am so sorry. I dinnae mean to bring up such memories.”
“Ye could not know. But the wound is still fresh.” Betrayal is as much a wound as one inflicted by a physical blow.
“I willnae speak of yer past again.”
Phillipe weighed his words carefully. “There are things I cannot speak of. I appreciate your understanding.”
Maggie glanced away then tilted her mug to her lips, draining the last drops. When she lowered the cup, her smile did little to hide her lingering unease.
“I thank ye for the company. And for the thoughts on how to proceed at Hola. I’ll be glad to arrive and put knowledge to this idea I have.”
Phillipe nodded. “Aye. ’Tis the not knowing which offers the biggest stumbling block. Ye may count on me to assist ye however ye need.”
She rose with a small nod, then carried her mug to the basin and rinsed it before placing it with her belongings. Phillipe followed her movements until she vanished into the shadows.
Balgair appeared from the gloom and propped a boot on the box Maggie had vacated. “’Tis a sight better to spend yer evening with a pretty lass than with a rowdy soldier such as myself.” He angled his body so his words fell on Phillipe’s ears alone. “She is curious. Ye tweak her interest.”
Phillipe raised a brow at his friend’s solemn tone. “Not two days ago ye thought I should pursue her.”
“I dinnae know yer past, and do not ask to know more. ’Tis clear ye turned yer back on the Levant as completely as have I. And ye are nae common mercenary.” His gaze narrowed. “Yer speech, the way ye carry yerself, bespeak a man of some lineage. I dinnae care what drove ye from yer home, for I have found ye to be honorable and I am pleased to have made yer acquaintance in Spain.”
“What is your caution, Balgair?”
The Scot’s red beard bristled, gold-tipped in the torchlight.
“My caution is this, Phillipe. Ye are no longer in the Levant. Begin a new life. Dinnae look back.”
The impact of Balgair’s words swept over Phillipe. “Ye think I should marry the lady and settle down? Her rank is far above what a mercenary could aspire to.”
“Aye, but what will happen when the former Countess of Mar is known to have set up house on a small isle with possibly little or no fortification? She was sought after whilst under her da’s protection. There are none to save her on the isle.”
Chapter Sixteen
Purple, pink, and pale gold streaked the sky above the dark stone. Waves sprayed white and silver atop amethyst seas at the base of the Isle of Hola. Maggie gripped the rail as though she could will a harbor to appear. Rocky cliffs high above her head loomed upward, affording no place to dock.
“We have just enough light to make landfall, m’lady,” the captain assured her. The birlinn tacked to starboard, following the coastline as close as possible. The steep rock face descended as they rounded a spit of land, spilling at last into a wide, sweeping harbor. Foaming waves crept onto the sand, pulling back to roll into small waves that broke upon the shore once again. Large rocks lay scattered near the mouth of the harbor, protecting the opening. A pair of small boats were beached on the shore, nets strung onto frames to dry.
A few of the rocks moved. Raised their heads. Maggie gasped. “Seals!”
Leana leaned over the rail, her lips rounded into an ‘O’ of surprise.
The ship edged into the channel as a sailor tossed a lead line into the water.
“Twelve feet and closing. Bottom is sandy,” the man called.
“Bring us in closer,” the captain replied.
Butterflies danced in Maggie’s belly. Her island had a harbor—and she would soon set foot upon its shore. The waves gentled as they sailed into the inlet, and the ship rocked smoothly forward. Her heart raced.
“Ten feet,” the sailor sang out.
Maggie’s booted toe tapped impatiently against the wooden deck. In the failing light, a broad sweep of land emerged, stretched between two great cliffs. A short pier made of rock lined one edge of the harbor. A long croft settled top a small rise set a short distance from the beach. Smoke rose through the thatched roof. Firelight twinkled on the shore. A shout rang out and dark forms spilled from the doorway.
People. Hostile or welcoming? At the very least, somewhat suspicious, for the isles lived and breathed tales of Viking conquest and pirates. Maggie couldn’t wait to meet them, reassure them.
I want them to like me.
With a braking shudder, the ship settled against the fenders hanging over the edge of the pier. A seal barked across the water. A breeze, born of the evening, lifted a curl of hair against Maggie’s neck.
“My lady?”
Gunn’s questioning voice pulled Maggie’s attention from the shore. She turned her head, eyebrows raised.
“Aye?”
“I do not think it wise to send ye ashore until we test the mettle of our welcome. How do ye wish to order the landing party?”
Maggie ignored his warning. “I will go with ye, Balgair, Phillipe, and two others. The rest may follow later.”
The man bowed, sweeping his arm aside. “As my lady wishes.” He addressed Callan. “Ye and the rest of the soldiers follow immediately, but remain on the pier until my command.”
Maggie settled her cloak about her shoulders with a shrug, its length kept from the ground with a belt about her waist. Her small crossbow rested in its sling over one shoulder, a supply of quarrels tucked into a quiver. Colyn rested quietly in his cage, its cover pulled tight to ward off the chill evening breeze off the water.
Leana gripped the handle. “I will bring him ashore as soon as ’tis prudent.” She grinned though a shudder ruffled her shoulders. “I cannae believe we’ve finally arrived.”
Maggie nodded, anticipation tensing her muscles. “Aye,” she breathed. “We’re about to start anew.”
Phillipe stepped to the rail. “Is my lady ready?”
At Maggie’s nod, he helped her over the rail, and released her to Gunn’s care.
She strode the length of the pier, her gaze on the sight before her. Black rock lay everywhere. Grasses waved gently in the breeze. The long croft to the right appeared a mix of black and dark gray stone and turf. The roof rose to a high pitch and looked much like the upended keel of a boat. Light from the open door spilled onto the ground. There was no sign of a protecting wall or fort.
A fire flared on the beach. Six men stood abreast between the hut and the beach. Maggie’s heart raced.
They reached the end of the pier. Gunn stepped onto the sand. Balgair joined him, stepping between Maggie and those on the beach.
Gunn spared Maggie a glance. “Wait here.” His lowered brow brooked no refusal and Maggie sighed. The six men at the bonfire did not appear armed, nor willing to approach.
“Dinnae frighten the people, Gunn. I wish for a chance to speak to them. We are friendly, aye?”
Phillipe stepped close. “I will await your word.” He brushed aside the edge of his cloak, revealing the hilt of his sword in a gesture known to soldiers everywhere. Maggie understood, though she resented the implication she required protection, and hated the idea of being coddled s
imply because she was a woman. She pulled her crossbow from her shoulder and dropped it and the quiver to the stone at her feet.
“I will wait also.”
Phillipe checked his look of surprise. He’d not gotten past his shock that Gunn had allowed Maggie from the ship before peace could be ascertained. The small party on the shore did not appear threatening, but with Maggie’s talk of pirates and treasure, he would take nothing for granted. He stood ready to protect her at all cost.
Her acquiescence to await word was unexpected. He glanced at her, but her gaze followed Gunn along the beach. The six men at the fire did not advance. The evening deepened. The blaze brightened, revealing faces taut with concern.
Gunn, flanked by two armed soldiers, halted.
“I speak for my lady, the Countess of Mar.”
The six men exchanged looks. After a moment, one stepped forward.
“I am Asatrus. We are peaceful. We arenae prepared to fight.”
Maggie bolted forward. Her boots sank into the soft sand and one ankle twisted beneath her. Phillipe caught her arm.
“’Tis not wise to leap into soft footing,” he admonished in a low voice. “Nor is it wise to charge onto shore before your captain has finished his speech and assessed the danger.”
She sent him a slanted look but held her ground. She scowled.
“I’m not the countess.”
“Ye were. ’Tis important for the people to know why ye claim their land.”
She blinked. “I dinnae think of it as such. I dinnae wish to run them from their homes.”
“Then let Gunn reassure them.”
She dipped her chin in a short nod. The men of Hola gave their attention back to Gunn.
“The Countess has received title to this isle. Ye owe her yer allegiance.”
Maggie’s chin lifted. Nobility flowed through her posture, but Phillipe still saw the kindness on her face. The people of Hola would not come to harm under Maggie’s protection.
Her protection. Phillipe glanced at the croft. There was no protection here. The building was of stone and cut turf, the roof thatched with dried grass. No wall surrounded it, no fort commanded the hillside. Did pirates truly visit this isle? What would draw them here?
