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

by Cathy MacRae

  Delighted to learn the sturdy Scot would be accompanying him back to the isle, Phillipe shot an arm about the man’s shoulders and gripped him tight before releasing him.

  Balgair staggered two steps across the deck, fingers splayed in either mock surrender or half-hearted warning. “I cannae leave ye to muck up what promises to be a striking new fortification—or a beguiling new romance.”

  Phillipe drew up short. He blinked. “What do ye mean?” A thought struck him. “Ye and Leana?”

  “Och, ye are such a bawheid. Leana kens she has nae hold on me.” Balgair fixed Phillipe with a stare. “I speak of ye and the lovely Countess.”

  Shock washed over him, tempered by the swell of truth and new purpose to his life. Phillipe rubbed his jaw. “I will not pressure Lady Maggie.” He leveled a frank gaze on his friend. “Howbeit, ye should know one thing for certain.”

  “What is that?”

  “She is no longer the countess—and will thank ye to remember it.”

  “Och, I but jest. She owns the isle and its people—who have given her their hearts. She’s a lady and a bonnie lass, for certes. Ye couldnae do better—though ye havenae her rank. Still, ye’d be a right daftie to nae pursue her.”

  Phillipe mulled his friend’s words. His mind caught on the memory of her before he’d left the isle. Bright red hair tousled by the breeze and her exertions in the dance. Perched atop a small rock, the surf lapping near her feet. Her lips parted as she studied him.

  I like ye better without yer mail.

  Pleasure welled inside and he could not stop the grin which spread across his face.

  The boarding plank screeched then clattered as a sailor shoved it to the deck. A pair of sails flapped above, stretching to catch the wind. The merchant vessel creaked as it rocked against the waves pushing the ship. Phillipe bent his knees slightly to absorb the gentle rise and fall beneath his feet. He and Balgair stepped to the bow.

  The Saorsa slipped from the harbor and entered the Strait of Mull, catching the current in earnest. Waves grew, shoving the ship between the isle and the mainland as if it had sprouted wings.

  Sailors’ voices rose in a chant, a solitary voice joined by others on the chorus.

  One day when I was on the misty mountain, I saw a wonderful sight.

  Far al a leò ro ho bhi ò

  Hoireann is ò ho rò bhi o ho

  Hi rì ho ro ho bha ò hug ò ro

  The Clan MacNeill’s ship passed by; away from MacLean country,

  Far al a leò ro ho bhi ò . . ..

  Toward joyful Kisimul where the feasting takes place,

  Far al a leò ro ho bhi ò . . ..

  Drinking wine from night to day . . ..

  Balgair leaned against the rail then nodded to the stores and the eight men seated upon the crates. “MacLean approved of yer venture?”

  “Aye.” Memory of the baron’s enthusiasm over Phillipe’s request lightened his heart further. “I feared for a moment he would head the project himself.”

  “How could this be a bad thing? The Baron is influential and has deep pockets.”

  “Truth. Howbeit, I need to clear my head and accomplish this on my own—or as near to it as I can using MacLean materials and workmen.”

  “Fair enough.” Balgair’s voice trailed off, inviting further explanation.

  “I fostered with the Baron as a youth. When he and his family returned to Scotland, my life took on a shape of which I feared he would not approve. Though I have left that life behind and I sought this land as solace, I kept from his household as a form of penance.”

  Balgair’s eyebrows broached his hairline. “Fostered? Lad, I’ve never mistook ye for a crofter, but to foster with a baron would mark ye a nobleman’s son.”

  Phillipe grimaced. He hadn’t intended to expose so much. “My father is, or was, of some consequence,” he admitted. Choosing to place his father in the past aligned with the fact he never would hold a conversation with him again. In every respect, he was dead to his father—and his father to him. Baron MacLean’s friendship now made all the more dear.

  Balgair’s lips twisted thoughtfully. “Many Frenchmen have traveled to the Holy Land to defend Jerusalem from the Saracens.”

  “Aye. With varying degrees of success. Some made homes there. I chose to leave and follow the MacLeans here. His son and I were once great friends.”

  “I have heard the baron is a fair man.”

  “Indeed. My fear of his reception was ill-founded.”

  Balgair clapped his shoulder. “I am pleased for ye, my friend. I look forward to working alongside a man who nae longer wears such a long face.” He braced his forearms over the rail. “Ye are a braw fighter, but moody enough when ye grow silent.”

  Phillipe laughed, and a bit more weight fell from his shoulders. “’Tis what I like best about ye—ye say what ye mean. ’Tis a good trait in a friend.”

  Balgair shot him a grin. “’Twill all work out, now that ye’ve a bit of humor about ye.”

  Phillipe nodded to the horizon. “Heavy clouds may indicate a bit of wet weather ahead. I hope ’tis not enough to bother the horses.”

  “Och, dinnae fash over the weather. ’Tis a fine ship and she’ll nae tip us into the sea. We’ll be at Hola in a few hours. The only thing the captain has to worry about is pirates.” Balgair shrugged. “Who would challenge a MacLean ship?”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Dusk overtook the beach. Asatrus stood his ground as the three pirates stepped from the rough pier. Igor moved closer, aligning with his leader. Maggie and the MacLarens kept to the shadows behind the men of Hola, beyond the glow of firelight. Maggie lowered her crossbow from her shoulder and drew the string, the gentle creak of wood lost in the soft crunch of sand beneath the men’s boots. She settled a bolt along the groove atop her bow and nocked the end of the bolt against the string, keeping her fingers well clear of the trigger. She stroked the feather fletching and waited for the coming conflict.

  The strangers halted within the light of the bonfire. Orange light licked at them, casting dark shadows along the ridges of brow and nose. The one in the middle, his hair a tangle of long dark strands decorated with tiny beads that glittered in the firelight, crossed his arms over his chest, planting his feet in the sand with a confident swagger.

  “Where are the barrels, auld man?”

  Maggie’s gaze cut to Asatrus who shuffled his feet in a moment of seeming indecision. He peered from side to side, but the glare of the fire would have stolen his night vision, and he gave no indication he could see the MacLarens. He gave a slow shrug.

  “’Tis been a poor year, Arrick.”

  Poor year? Maggie’s ire rose. What was going on? How did he know the man’s name? How often did pirates reach these shores?

  Arrick waved a hand. “Pah! I dinnae care what yer harvest is like. We are here to collect our tithe. One tun of mead—or would ye rather we make free with yer other property to make up the loss?”

  A tunweight? ’Twould be half their brew for this season! Small wonder Hola was considered of no account from a monetary viewpoint.

  Without gold or precious gems—that she knew of, and she was beginning to wonder what secrets were left to uncover—Maggie did not linger to wait for the man to explain further. She knew, even with the women and children tucked inside the caves, they would become the tithe these men sought. Slavery was not unheard of and it would not take long for their hiding place to be discovered.

  Dodging Callan’s grasp, Maggie stepped into the edge of the firelight, the tip of her crossbow angled toward the ground.

  “The property here—is mine.”

  Callan and Dawe moved to flank her, drawing the strangers’ attention. The leader of the pirates shot a look over his shoulder then back to the MacLarens—weighing the odds?

  The odds were against him. Though he did not know of the MacLaren soldiers still outside the reach of the firelight, his own men were several seconds away aboard their ship. Seconds
in which he and his two comrades would likely die. They clearly had not expected any hindrance to their plan.

  “Who are ye?” He tried for bluster.

  Maggie raised her weapon, her grip steady. “I am the woman with a crossbow aimed at yer chest. This isnae open for discussion.”

  More looks were exchanged. Boots shuffled against the sand. Hands hovered close to weapons, not ready to spring an attack, but not willing to give way to a mere woman’s challenge.

  The leader—Arrick—scowled. “MacDonnell owns this isle.”

  “And lost it in a game of chance to the Earl of Mar more than a year past,” Maggie replied, her tone dry. “Move yer hands from yer weapons, or I will pin ye to yon ship.”

  Callan and Dawe stepped closer, adding their support to Maggie’s command. Firelight danced over half-drawn swords. Two other MacLaren soldiers shifted behind them, silhouettes in the darkness. The pirates again exchanged looks.

  Arrick jerked his chin toward the men in the shadows. The gold beads in his hair flashed. “We’ve nae come to harm anyone.” He opened his arms expansively, showing empty hands. “The good people of the isle set aside a wee bit o’ mead for us each year, ’tis all. We’re here to collect.”

  “There’ll be nae more collecting,” Callan rumbled. He nodded to the ship, its hull a stain in the darkness, its shadow a blot against the water sparkling in the rising moonlight. “Ye arenae welcome in this harbor.”

  “’Tis a sad day when a man cannae visit a friendly isle,” the pirate remarked. “Mayhap the change in ownership wasnae a good thing.”

  “Mayhap ’tis nae yer concern,” Maggie replied. “’Tis nae a fight ye can win. I am responsible for this isle and its people.” She tilted her head to Callan. “As he said, ye arenae welcome here. Find harbor elsewhere.”

  The pirate bowed deep. “As ye wish, m’lady. Until better times.”

  The three spread hands waist-high then plodded across the boards back to their ship. Their boots thudded on the deck as hands reached over the rail to help them aboard. Moments later oars slipped free and slapped the water. The ship pulled away from the pier.

  A shout rang from the pirate’s ship. A lad raced around the corner of the longhouse, skidding to a stop with a gasp at the threat of Gawan’s sword. Maggie’s attention swept from the harbor to the lad. Gawan lowered his weapon and shoved the lad into the midst of Callan’s small group.

  “Evan and Paden have spotted another ship.”

  Phillipe chafed at the lateness of the hour. The sun dipped into the western seas, leaving the isle of Hola silhouetted against the pale gold and amethyst sky.

  He stood at the bow, anxious to see Maggie. Had she thought of him? Might she have missed him? Would she still be awake? The sun lingered late this time of year, and most people would likely be abed. Would the watch on the promontory alert her, or leave her to sleep?

  Balgair joined him at the rail. “Wonderin’ how she made out with ye nae here?”

  Phillipe wasn’t certain if the Scot teased him or if it was that clear what was on his mind. He shrugged. “’Tis certes she is well. She is protected by her own soldiers.”

  Balgair’s low hum of response could have been anything from agreement to speculation. Phillipe didn’t ask.

  His friend shifted to lean his back against the rail. “How long before ’tis known the former countess is in residence?”

  Phillipe frowned. “We will see to it the rumors and any foolish actions are quickly quelled.”

  Balgair offered a one-shoulder shrug. “I like yer confidence, laddie.” He nodded to the MacLean men scattered about the ship. “We’ll put these men to work at sun-up on the morrow. ’Twillnae take long before we have m’lady a new manor house and better protection.”

  A voice rang from aloft. “Ship in the harbor!”

  The captain of the Saorsa joined Phillipe and Balgair a moment later. “A ship has been sighted, under weigh to open water. We shall wait until they clear the mouth to the harbor. The lad aloft has sharp eyes to catch sight of them in the gloaming.” He nodded in satisfaction of a job well done.

  “Do ye recognize the ship?” Worry nudged the back of Phillipe’s mind, setting up a whirl of alarm in his belly.

  The captain grunted. “In this light and at this distance, I wouldnae know me own ma. As the ship approaches, I will take a look.”

  Phillipe understood, yet chafed at the lack of information. The strange ship angled through the mouth of the harbor, its sail turning to reveal red and white stripes. It’s long, low hull skimmed the waves. The drumbeat keeping pace of the oars rang across the water, quickening its tempo. A tall man, long tendrils of hair lifting in the breeze, stood amidships.

  “Damned pirates!” The captain turned from the rail, shouting to the men on the Saorsa. “Look lively, lads! We’ll nae be sittin’ ducks for the likes of them!”

  Phillipe glanced to Avril, reassured she was still safely ensconced in her makeshift stall. He wore his chain mail beneath his cloak and his weapons were all to hand, but he fingered them swiftly, lightly touching each to ensure their proper positions and that none had settled too deep in their sheaths. From the corner of his eye, he saw Balgair following the same ritual.

  MacLean soldiers hustled about the deck, drawing bows and quivers of arrows from deep chests stored aft. Sailors manned their stations, climbing rigging with the graceful ease of long practice. The Saorsa pulled hard to larboard as the other vessel rounded the tip of the harbor to the right. Tension swirled through the salt air. Phillipe tore his gaze from the pirate ship and peered into the darkness, straining to see around the rocks protecting the harbor. A golden glow warmed the night.

  Fire.

  Balgair nudged him. “It may only be a bonfire.”

  Phillipe swallowed past a knot in his throat. “’Tis not . . ..”

  Balgair shook his head. “Give it a moment. We will know for certes in a moment or twa.”

  A cold sweat broke out on Phillipe’s brow. He fingered the pommel of his sword, lightly tapped the grip. His jaw clenched and it took physical strength to relax his muscles and steady his breath.

  The pirate vessel cleared the harbor. The Saorsa sat just beyond the entrance, lingering outside the enclosed waters.

  Impatience flashed through Phillipe, though he knew the captain was cautious, likely worried about a trap.

  “The longhouse doesnae appear to be aflame,” Balgair grunted. “They’ve a gey bonfire on the shore.”

  Phillipe nodded jerkily, relief flooding him, setting up a fine tremor in his muscles.

  What had happened? Did the people of Hola partner with the pirates? Had they welcomed them—or did they have reason to fear them? How long had the pirates remained on the isle? What had caused them to leave?

  He slammed his fist down onto the rail, needing the pain to distract him from the things he could not control. He could not put the Saorsa and her crew in possible danger in order to reach shore faster. He could not change what had already happened between the pirates and the islanders.

  But if Maggie was injured and he wasted a single moment . . ..

  Balgair settled a palm on Phillipe’s shoulder, startling him from his dark thoughts.

  “Ye will be ashore anon. Dinnae fash. Ye left good men here to protect her, and a plan for her safety should the need arise.”

  Phillipe grunted. “Ye believe she went to the caves with the women and children when the pirates were sighted?”

  His friend sighed. “Nae. At least, nae willingly. She’s a braw lass, no denying. But she’s got a good head on her shoulders, as well. Believe the best, lad. Dinnae waste yer energy on worrying on the worst.”

  “I know better than to despair over something I cannot change.”

  “Aye. When ye care for someone, things are different.”

  The deck shifted beneath their feet. The boards groaned as the ship entered the harbor, angled somewhat across the waves as they approached the small pier. Gulls launched
into the air, shrieking their usual demands. The fire on the beach grew brighter. Two men Phillipe recognized from Hola stood closest to the flames. Four burly MacLarens marked a forbidding line in the sand.

  In their midst, crossbow angled slightly down and to her left, stood Maggie. Tall, strong, clearly unharmed—yet . . .. Phillipe gritted his teeth. He had no authority over her. No right to tell her she should have gone to the caves with the women and children. Yet, he wanted to yell at her to not be such an idiot as to face down pirates with a crossbow.

  His breath escaped in a snort of anger. Anger which had no other convenient outlet. He spoiled for a fight. He clenched his fists and rocked with the roll of the ship as it bumped against the pier. Men hurried about with their tasks. Phillipe stalked to Avril’s stall. She snorted and rolled her eyes, ears flicking back and forth. He waited until she settled, aware his anger had upset the horse.

  “’Tis not your fault, Avril,” he murmured, stroking her nose as she calmed. “Let us depart this ship and place our feet on solid earth.”

  He tugged gently on the lead rope. With only a token resistance, the mare followed him. Men lit torches along the path, pushing back the darkness.

  Hylnur met him at the end of the pier. The boy’s eager face glowed. “Might I care for her? I’ve a good hand with animals.”

  With a nod of agreement, Phillipe handed Avril to Hylnur then strode across the sand, closing the distance between himself and Maggie with hard, sure strides.

  “’Tis good to see ye, Phillipe,” she murmured. She removed the bolt from her crossbow and placed it into her quiver before releasing the string.

  Phillipe stared at the weapon, remembering another time and place—another woman who would have done the exact same thing. Pirates would not faze Arbela, either.

  “M’lady. Baron MacLean was most generous in men and supplies to rebuild the abbey.” He nodded to the crates as men carried them to the store house just beyond the pier. “Foodstuffs as well to feed the extra mouths. Wood for floors and for support timbers. Tools. We will offload what we can tonight and finish in the morn.”