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

by Cathy MacRae

  He allowed her to stop him, the worry on her face shaming him further.

  “Naught is amiss, m’lady. I have things I must tend to.” He inhaled deeply and stared over her shoulder. “I will go back to the harbor and help Balgair off-load the remaining supplies. Asatrus will finish his tour.”

  He gave a curt nod. Her hand fell away. Confusion drew her eyebrows together and a frown tugged at her lips, but she did not reply.

  Phillipe’s boots beat a rapid tattoo over the uneven ground. He followed the path between the cliffs, absently noting the narrow passage created an area easily held against attack. At least until a way was found over the cliffs. Was that why the monks had built their abbey on the eastern edge of the isle rather than closer to the harbor?

  His steps slowed. Perhaps this was another way to help Maggie. She needed a defensible shelter. As Balgair said, it would take months, mayhap longer, to build a wall about the longhouse and place defenses around the harbor. But the abbey was already standing—most of it, at least. How long to repair the wall and roof?

  Men and tools from Morvern would make the task easier.

  Phillipe halted, closing his eyes against the surety that he held the key to safety and prosperity for Maggie and her people. The only cost would be to his pride.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Phillipe shoved his tunic sleeves above his forearms, allowing the air to cool him after his exertions. A pile of supplies sat on the beach, women sorting through it with cries of delight.

  “Who thought a new cooking pot would be such a prize?” Balgair chuckled. “Ye could have allowed the sailors to unload the ship, Phillipe. Or some of the MacLaren soldiers. ’Twas nae yer job.”

  “It matters not. ’Tis finished and the captain will sail on the morning tide.” Phillipe cast his gaze on his friend. “Will ye sail with him?”

  Balgair sat against a boulder and crossed his arms. “Aye. As glad as I am to nae longer be fighting in the Holy Land, this isnae what I envisioned.” He stared across the water, silent a moment before he continued.

  “’Tis peaceful here. Too peaceful for my liking. I’ll see where the next bit of work takes me.”

  “What if there was work here? For a time.”

  Balgair grinned, one eyebrow adrift. “I know naught of sheep beyond how to spit one, and dying when a langskip of pirates lands on this unprotected shore isnae the future I’d planned.”

  “We can help them protect the isle.”

  “Ye know ’twill take months to build a defensible structure, and we lack the men to see the work done.”

  “We won’t need to build from the ground up. The abbey needs repair, but mostly a new roof and reinforcements to the wall. One side is protected by cliffs dropping down to the sea, two other sides by numerous rocks and protrusions.”

  “And the fourth side?”

  “A path between the cliffs. It provides the only easy access to the abbey.”

  Balgair’s gaze turned thoughtful. “Mayhap I could take a peek at yer abbey and see if yer plan is sound.”

  “Come with me.” Phillipe beckoned over his shoulder as he strolled up the beach. They passed the longhouse and continued to the trail that led up a small hill and to the plateau beyond. In the darkness of the previous evening, they’d noticed nothing but the sheer cliffs, hadn’t known to look upward from the ship to see the abbey silhouetted against the sky.

  Phillipe halted where the path opened to the abbey grounds. Balgair observed the ruins, his beard bristling as his lips pursed in thought. He paced left then right, eyes taking in the scene before him.

  “We could mayhap place a gate here, though ’twould be better if we had a form of murder hole, mayhap machicolations in a protected bridge stretching from one side of the path to the other. I have no expectation of these people becoming warriors, but given a walled area from which to fire arrows or drop stones . . ..” He pivoted, his glance covering the rocky cliffs. “Stones of which we have aplenty.”

  “With some repair, the abbey should be defensible, do you not agree? And remodeled into a suitable manor for Lady Maggie.”

  Balgair rubbed his beard. “I’d want to walk through it before I spoke, but for now I agree. The walls should be added to, both height and breadth. A slate roof for the abbey would be best, but mayhap a thatched one for now. And I dinnae know what the interior is like, or what m’lady would want.”

  He turned to Phillipe. “I can gie ye suggestions on defense, mayhap stack a few stones. But the work willnae get done with just the twa of us. We’ll need more men, and supplies I dinnae see on the isle. Iron and wood for the gate, for instance. The trees here willnae gie ye the boards, and there is nae smithy for bars and hinges.”

  Phillipe drew a sharp breath. Balgair was right. They would need help. To ask the MacLeans for help was almost more than he was willing to bear.

  Damn! There was more than knowledge of his failure in Cilicia he wished to keep hidden. His very life depended on his escape never becoming known. Obscurity had seemed a reasonable refuge. Had it become his prison?

  Alex, heir to the MacLean Barony, had pressed him to return after his service to Maggie ended, reassured him he could ask anything of him and his family. Alex would not deny him men or supplies. But Phillipe would not go behind Donal MacLean’s back. If he chose to ask for help, he would do so in a forthright manner. And entangle his former foster lord in the deception that had saved his life.

  Was Maggie worth the cost?

  Voices pulled his attention. Maggie, among the group of MacLarens and men of Hola, exited the orchard, her red hair flaming in the sunlight. Her head bent at a listening angle as Asatrus spoke, canting a glance to one side as Gils the bee-keeper added to the conversation.

  Already the people of Hola warmed noticeably toward her. They saw her kindness, her interest in their land, their lives, their needs. What would be her fate if he did nothing? How long before pirates or men seeking the former countess of Mar arrived?

  She lifted her gaze. Caught sight of him. A faint smile played about her lips. Phillipe’s blood warmed. She had been used by her father to claim social standing, only to be cast aside by her husband who should have protected her. He would not be the man to fail her this time.

  “I must go to Morvern.” Firm. Determined. A weight lifted from his shoulders.

  Balgair nodded. “We could request workers from the baron. But how will ye pay for them? ’Twould beggar ye to use what ye received from MacLaren.”

  “’Tis of no matter. I will see it done.”

  “The lassie has ye bewitched into being her champion. Yer time as a mercenary is at an end.”

  Phillipe hazarded a ghost of a smile. “All things are as God wills. But I will not allow her to be harmed again.”

  The sight of Phillipe and Balgair drew Maggie’s steps to a halt. She waved Asatrus and Gils on. The soldiers and men of Hola hesitated only a moment at her bidding then vanished down the trail between the cliffs. She set her gaze on Phillipe. Balgair pushed away from his stance against a rock and sent her a respectful nod.

  “M’lady.”

  He clapped Phillipe’s shoulder then followed the others down the trail. Phillipe’s gaze lingered on Balgair a moment before he faced Maggie.

  Her heart raced. “Is aught amiss?”

  Phillipe shook his head and ventured a brief smile which did not reach his eyes. “Not at all. Balgair and I have assessed the defenses of the isle and I wish to offer a proposal. Will ye walk with me?”

  Not for the first time did Maggie note the sorrow in his eyes, at odds with the reassurance he offered. She bit her lip, halting the impulse to draw her fingers over the short beard covering the long scar running along the side of his face. To smooth the lines of worry on his brow.

  “Aye.” She sent him an encouraging look and paced at his side to the opening in the abbey wall where he halted.

  “Ye must have a way to defend yourself and the people of Hola. The people of the isle are not w
arriors, and I have no desire to change them. But I would have ye safe.” He lifted a hand, indicating the path they’d just trod.

  “’Tis the only easy access to the abbey. Though it winds between two cliffs which are not overly tall, the narrow passage allows no more than two men to pass through abreast.”

  Maggie glanced at the path, framed by the tall stones. “That ’tis helpful.”

  “If ye had archers to pick the enemy off as they came through the gap, ’twould be enough. But ye do not. We suggest ye build a gate that can be closed and locked. ’Tis possible to bolt it into the rock. Also, bridgework spanning the path could be put into place to offer a protected way of dropping stones or even hot water or heated sand onto an enemy.”

  A shiver ran down Maggie’s spine. “What do we have that would invite such men? Apples?” Her lips twisted with scorn. “Is the cyser made from them such a beacon?”

  Phillipe’s lips thinned. “I know why ye fled Narnain.”

  Heat rushed through Maggie. Anger. Embarrassment. “’Tis behind me. None will follow me to this isle.” Alarm rose. She raised her hands as if to ward off his words. “They could no longer have interest in me.”

  Phillipe took her hand, his thumb running a gentling motion across her skin. “I wish I was wrong, but word will soon filter out that the former Countess of Mar has taken residence on the Isle of Hola.”

  “I am not the countess.” Maggie hissed, fresh pain sliding through her. “That title is nae longer mine.”

  He frowned. “I wish I could spare ye, but ’tis certes unscrupulous men, men who choose to see ye as a challenge, will come.”

  “My past will follow me here?” Her skin blanched cold with shock, then blazed with anger. “I am nae a challenge! They willnae cross the sea on some manly whim.”

  Phillipe peered at her, his gaze roaming her face. “Aye, ma belle, they will.”

  His choice of words startled her almost as much as his certainty her presence would bring dissolute men to Hola.

  He thought her beautiful?

  What would the presence of such men do to her isle?

  Panic swept over her. “I could rebuild the monastery. Create a nunnery. I would be safe there.”

  Something—sorrow?—crossed his face. “Ye have no wish to remarry? A man with a powerful name could protect ye.”

  Scorn swept away her fears. “I had a powerful name. I had a husband. Neither protected me.”

  “Please accept my apology, m’lady. I knew this, yet I thought . . ..” He sighed and stepped away, lifting an arm to the abbey’s walls. “We could strengthen the walls, raise the height, also. Replace the roof. Tile would be best, though mayhap a job for next summer.” His voice took on an impersonal tone.

  “I would ask ye to inspect the interior, create a plan for the rooms within. New buildings or additions would also need to be addressed next year. There are not enough weeks left before harvest to do more than fortify what is already here.”

  Maggie inhaled sharply. She liked Phillipe when he spoke to her as an equal, but not in this aloof tone that built a wall between them.

  “Thank ye. Ye have put a great deal of thought into this. ’Tis clear we are in need of a way to protect ourselves. I willnae keep running. This will be my home.”

  Phillipe’s muscles relaxed. His eyes softened. “I did not think ye would run. That would not be the woman I have come to know.”

  Maggie’s lips curved. “Your suggestions are sound ones. But I have nae means to pay for supplies. I dinnae know what the income from the cyser will be. I doubt there is surplus wool from the sheep to sell. There are fewer than ten men on the isle. Each seems to have his own responsibility. I doubt they could spend much time rebuilding the abbey. I would need to hire workers.”

  Phillipe grew still. A muscle twitched in his jaw as if he wrestled with his next words. “I will speak with Baron MacLean and his son. ’Tis certes something can be arranged. May I speak for ye?”

  Maggie studied the man before her. She trusted him to arrange good terms with the baron on her behalf, but something made her hesitate.

  Three children ran excitedly up the trail. “Freya! Freya!”

  The mix of languages from the children amused Maggie. She’d been addressed as Lady most of her life, but the Norse equivalent fell strange, though not unpleasant on her ears. She laughed as the three bairns danced about her.

  “Freya, Ma says to bring ye home. We’ll have a feast this e’en in yer honor!”

  The youngest, her pale gold hair floating about her shoulders, silken strands slipping free from two long braids, tucked a hand in Maggie’s and leaned close.

  Maggie tilted her head to the child.

  “Narfi caught a mouse,” the little girl whispered, brown eyes wide. She slipped a thumb into her mouth.

  “A mouse? Whatever for?”

  “To feed yer falcon!” The lad propped his fists on his hips. “Svala doesnae like mice.”

  The little girl shook her head violently and more strands of hair escaped the frayed plaits.

  The other child stepped between Narfi and Svala. “Leave her alone. Ma said we mustn’t fight in front of Freya.”

  Narfi sent her a scowl then gave a one-shoulder shrug.

  “’Tis verra kind of ye, Narfi,” Maggie soothed. “But teasing lasses isnae how ye prove yer worth as a hunter. Come with me and I’ll let ye watch as Colyn eats.”

  “Narfi isnae his real name,” the elder girl stated. “Narfi means skinny.”

  Maggie tilted her head thoughtfully. “Then I suppose it suits him. But I see him as wiry and agile. He’s been a grand help to me.”

  Narfi’s cheeks flushed. “Can I feed him this time?” Excitement lit the lad’s eyes.

  “Nae. Colyn is my bird, and only I can feed him. But ye may watch and learn, and mayhap one day a falcon will come to ye and ye will know how to care for it.”

  Narfi accepted Maggie’s decision with a reluctant sigh. “I can get more mice.”

  “’Twill soon be time to teach him to hunt, and yer help in the meantime is greatly appreciated. But we dinnae wish to keep yer ma and the others waiting.”

  Chattering excitedly, the girls grabbed Maggie’s hands and pulled her after them. Maggie cast a helpless look at Phillipe.

  “May we speak later?”

  A thoughtful look crossed his face and he smiled. “Of course, m’lady. I am ever at your service.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lit by firelight in the longhouse, Maggie’s hair fell about her in a glittering shower. Her eyes glowed, delicate skin crinkling at the edges of her eyes and lips as she laughed. Phillipe imagined there’d been little to encourage her laughter of late.

  He sipped warmed apple mead, the flush of heat through his veins from more than the drink. He set the mug on the floor beside his seat, out of tempting reach. He’d imbibed enough of the heady elixir.

  “’Tis a fine cyser they brew.” Balgair bumped Phillipe’s elbow. “Yer lass may be on tae something.”

  “M’lady is not my lass, but ye may be correct about the mead.” Phillipe moved his elbow from Balgair’s range and reached for his mug. He took a thoughtful sip. “’Tis somewhat dry, yet the flavors sparkle on the tongue and linger in the nose. The apples are bold yet fleeting. A very imaginative honey wine.”

  Balgair drained his cup in three noisy gulps.

  Phillipe arched a brow. “’Tis drunk the same as a fine wine. Not like a cheap ale on tap at a public inn.”

  “’Tis good.” Balgair belched then wiped his beard with the back of a meaty fist. “I want another.”

  Phillipe grinned. “’Twill be your last, my friend.”

  Balgair lifted his empty mug in a salute as he stomped across the floor of the longhouse to the tables groaning with food and drink. Men slapped his shoulder, plying him with more mead.

  Phillipe’s gaze pulled back to Maggie. Three women and two men beckoned her to the center of the room where benches had been moved asi
de to create space. A grizzled man, long hair pulled back in an intricate braid, strands twined with clay and silver beads, blew into a hornpipe, and a willowy young woman drew slender fingers across the strings of a small harp. The wild skirl of the pipe punctuated the soft, sweet ripple of the strings. A roar of approval rose as Maggie lifted the hem of her skirt and joined the dancers.

  Hand claps as fast as the beat of her heart urged Maggie’s feet to a brisk tempo. She dipped and swayed, spinning as hands passed her from one dancer to another. This was no stately, courtly dance, suitable for the earl’s hall, but one filled with the untamed soul of the isle. Laughter as bright as the ripple of water over black rock spilled from her. Her skirts and hair whipped about her as wild as the storm-swept seas. Music screed in the air, devastating as the absence of breath when it halted.

  She stood in the middle of the longhouse, panting, heated, alive and carefree for the first time in months. Smiling, she shook her head as the music began anew. She accepted a mug of chilled mead, relishing the crisp flavor. Emptying the mug, she set it aside, still overwarm from her exertions. A cool breeze beckoned from the open doorway, and she followed the desire to feel its touch.

  With a shake of her head, she declined Callan’s silent offer to follow. He’d placed a guard among the revelers on the beach and the ship remained at the pier. Though the sailors had been invited to the feast, the captain maintained a watch over the harbor. There was nothing to fear.

  Mist lay low over the tidal pools, like steam rising from scattered cauldrons. Waves in the harbor reflected a thousand moons. Foam slid up the beach to form a rippling line in the sand, retreated, then formed again. Maggie inhaled the salt air. She loosened the laces at the side of her gown, allowing the coolness of the night access beneath the cloth. Fingers of a breeze lifted her hair and trailed beneath the neckline of her kirtle. The heat of the longhouse disappeared.

  She stepped carefully across the sand, aware of a curious buzzing in her head, a tingle in her arms and fingers. Like the bubbles in the mead, the sensation raced just beneath her skin. She grinned.