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

by Cathy MacRae

  Phillipe was gratified to see the flush return to her skin. He leaned an elbow against a bolder, setting a small space between them.

  “Nae. But . . ..” She shrugged, a wry smile tugging at her lips, adding irony to her words. “’Tis every woman’s lot to obey.”

  “I am pleased to see ye do not subscribe to that particular view. Otherwise our paths would not have crossed, and I would not have just kissed a woman who makes my heart leap with joy.”

  Her smile widened. “In Scotland, if one declares he or she is married, and the other agrees, ’tis binding. But I cannae marry ye without ye knowing my past. I would bring naught to the joining but this small isle. Neither power nor money. And certainly nae social standing. Alliance with the MacLarens is a good thing, though ye ken the state of my da’s holdings.”

  “Maggie, I care naught for these things, least of all social posturing. Baron MacLean has assured me of a living in return for my help keeping his northern border. Howbeit, ye should know the church will not sanction this marriage—because of me.”

  Maggie’s brow furrowed. “There is nae caution against remarrying after the death of a spouse.”

  “Nae, mon coeur, though I must tell ye, my young wife is very much alive.”

  Maggie blinked. Her stomach knotted. Anger sliced through her, sharp with betrayal. She wasn’t certain if she wanted to hit him or simply walk away. She flexed her hands. “Ye told me she died.”

  He shook his head. “Nae. I said death severed our union which led ye to believe she had died. I am sorry for the deception, though it seemed the correct wording at the time. ’Tis a long tale. Will ye hear it?”

  Muscles stiff with shock, Maggie jerked her head.

  He motioned to a flat rock nearby, sheltered by the cliffs. “I think we should be comfortable there.”

  They sat side-by-side, close enough to touch, her skirt billowing gently in the breeze, fluttering lightly against his leg. Maggie stared out over the water, wanting to reach the end of whatever he had to say and flee to whatever sanctuary could protect her from the past and the tenuous future he proposed.

  “I was born a prince of Antioch and fostered in the home of Baron Donal MacLean.” Phillipe began his story, then hesitated.

  She startled, catching his gaze. “Go on.”

  “The defense of the church, of pilgrims, trade, and Jerusalem, was my life. Protecting the innocent. Honoring those who stood in authority over me. I spent ten years fostering with Baron MacLean, who had remained in the Levant after King Richard returned to England, and entered my father’s service. His bravery, loyalty, dedication to God and the church, and his canny gift for strategy earned him my father’s favor and the barony of Batroun. He treated me as his son and I foolishly gave my heart to his daughter.”

  “Arbela?”

  Phillipe nodded. “She was as a sister to me, and I a foolish lad, yet I hoped more could exist between us. She did not return my regard, and though we parted on good terms, I never saw her again. She and her family left for Scotland, and, as my father’s third son, I was required to marry the Queen of Cilicia not long after.”

  “Required?” The roil of anger and distrust faded. Maggie understood what it meant to face a future not of her choosing.

  He leveled a gaze full of regret. “Cilicia—known to some as Little Armenia—our sometimes ally to the north, was under attack by Seljuk Turks on one side. They faced my first cousin, Raymond-Roupen, on the other who claimed the throne of Cilicia after the death of Zabel’s father. ’Tis my belief I was considered young and malleable enough to be of little threat to Baron Konstantin who was the young queen’s regent. Cilicia desperately needed my father’s support. There was no question if I would marry Zabel. I was merely a political pawn.”

  Maggie nodded. An urge to touch him rippled through her fingers. A need to reassure him. She bumped her knee against his. “I am sorry things dinnae turn out as ye hoped.”

  He ghosted a smile. “I wed Zabel—she was six at the time—and fought off the Turks. For a time, I was lauded by both my young wife and the people of Cilicia.”

  “What happened?”

  Phillipe’s gaze drifted away for a thoughtful moment. “I was required to abandon Papal authority and join the Armenian Church.” He frowned. “’Twas a pledge I made at the time of my coronation and failed to uphold.”

  “What divided ye? I dinnae understand the differences.”

  “There are many points on which Rome and the Armenian Church disagree. Upon deep reflection, they are not likely enough to condemn either, but the schism has never repaired, though they have agreed to disagree.

  “There were also many decisions poorly made on my part—or at least with poor results—during my time in Cilicia. Singly, they were enough to estrange the people who’d once cheered me. Together with Baron Konstantin’s innuendo and subterfuge, they were enough to sign my death warrant.”

  Shock stole her breath. “In my worst days—and there were a gey wheen of them toward the end of my marriage—I never believed my life was truly at stake.” Maggie snorted. “He threatened to tie me to a rock and leave me to my fate, but I dinnae believe he’d bestir himself to actually harm me.”

  Phillipe’s head slewed around, his eyes blazing. “He threatened ye?”

  “I dinnae take him seriously. Neither should ye.”

  His gaze promised retribution, and Maggie was glad it was unlikely he’d ever encounter the Earl of Mar. “Tell me how ye escaped.”

  Phillipe relaxed slightly and resumed his tale. Horror simmered in Maggie’s belly as he brought his tale to a close, recognizing how he came less than a faerie’s wing away from death.

  Phillipe’s fingertips tapped against his knee. “This has been difficult. I did not wish to die—fought against Konstantin’s plot as hard as I could. By falsifying my death, I abandoned all I cherished, determined to start anew, though I knew not where my path would lead. Then I discovered ye, and I fought against forging a relationship with ye, as well, for I could give ye naught. Baron MacLean has given me a chance to become someone new, someone—I pray—better than I was, and the opportunity to wed with ye.”

  “I cannae believe . . . cannae fathom what ye’ve endured,” she murmured. “Despite rebelling against marriage to the earl simply for social recognition, the early days were surprisingly idyllic. I was accorded all privileges of my rank, and treated well.” She hesitated as a shiver coursed through her. “Once I was nae longer beneficial, that changed.”

  Maggie inhaled a refreshing breath of sea air thick with the earthier scents of mud and seals. She smiled. “We are quite the pair. Cast aside as soon as our usefulness was at an end. Now outside the covenant of the church and overshadowed by spouses whose vows to us have been broken, though they both yet live.”

  “I did what I could to ensure Zabel was free to pursue her life in whatever form that takes. I regret the grief I cost her. She loved me enough to send my manservant to me with warning, risking her life to do so. I believe Konstantin is canny enough to keep her alive, even if only to manipulate the throne through her. Zabel is beloved of the people so he’ll risk no harm to her. She is young and will in time put aside her mourning.”

  Maggie chuckled softly. “Leana insisted ye were a prince.”

  Phillipe blinked. “She did? Why?”

  “Yer mannerisms, yer voice—and she is a fanciful lass. She wanted to believe ye came from a noble house.”

  “What do ye believe?”

  “I believe what ye were doesnae matter as much as who ye are.”

  “Does that mean ye will marry me? I am no longer a prince, for that is forever in my past and must never be spoken of. I will take the MacLean name and become someone new. Dedicated to my new country—and my new wife, should ye accept.”

  Maggie stared into the distance. White birds wheeled against a blue sky. Emerald waters plunging into the depths of the sea.

  “I wanted . . . I wanted so much to be free. How will I know i
f I succeed . . .?”

  “If I am there to help ye? Why should this lessen your success? Why can I not help someone I love?”

  “Love?” Maggie’s gaze snapped back to his. “Ye speak of protection and alliance . . . and attraction.” She tilted her head. “Love?”

  “Mon coeur, I respect ye, admire ye, and, yes, love ye. Though that may show many transformations as time passes. I do not expect well-tended love to be a passive thing. Would ye agree?”

  Sunlight fell full on Maggie’s face. “I dinnae understand love. I desire it, my heart longs for the elusive dream. But I dinnae know how to recognize it or nourish it.”

  Phillipe placed his palms on either side of her face, gentle as the wakening morning breeze. He touched his forehead to hers. “Like this, Maggie, love.”

  He kissed her temple, feathered kisses along her cheek. His fingers wove through the tangle of her hair, the light tug against the strands sending sparks racing beneath Maggie’s skin.

  “I promise to honor ye, place your needs above mine, and give ye every inch of my heart.”

  Tears slid from beneath Maggie’s closed lids and pooled beneath Phillipe’s thumbs. He hesitated, uncertain of her thoughts, then pulled her into his lap, tucking her head beneath his chin. She drew her knees up like a child and rested against him as her stuttering breaths eased.

  “Can ye tell me what made ye cry, mon coeur? I do not wish to cause such again.”

  “’Tis not ye, Phillipe. No one has ever desired me for myself before. All I have is myself and a tiny isle that brews good mead.”

  “Excellent mead, if I recall.”

  She laughed and Phillipe’s heart sighed.

  “They are happy tears,” she said. “Ye told me I am precious to ye without asking about a dowry or other compensation. I dinnae know what to do with this other than say, aye, I’ll marry ye.”

  “Ye’d be a lackwit to deny me, aye?”

  Maggie jerked, a bark of laughter exploding from her lips. Smug with the knowledge she’d bound herself willingly to him, and that he’d made her laugh in the bargain, Phillipe grinned. She placed a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with merriment. He kissed her fingers. She slipped her hand away and his lips touched hers. Her fingertips feathered through the hairs of his beard, up the side of his face. His breathing labored.

  “Mayhap we should take a look at the caves before someone searches for us,” Maggie whispered.

  He grunted. “Give me a moment to compose myself.”

  Maggie’s cheeks flamed and she hopped from his lap. Another giggle escaped as she perused him, so he deepened his scowl and grunted again. She danced down the trail, heedless of the wet grass.

  “The caves are just over here, I think.” She paused, hands on her hips as she stared at the cliffs. With a shake of her head, she moved to her right, tilting her head in concentration.

  Phillipe inhaled deeply, willing his body into submission. He wanted her, and he was glad she did not appear distressed over future encounters, but the effects of her nestled against him, her willing kiss on his lips, were slow to leave.

  Maggie moved farther away, pausing between two large boulders. “I dinnae see . . ..”

  With a shriek, she vanished.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  “Maggie!” Phillipe leapt to his feet.

  Birds exploded into the air in a flurry of feathers and squawks from the rocks where Maggie had stood an instant before. Phillipe’s heart raced madly. Nausea roiled in his belly. He bounded across the grass, twisting to avoid the boulders in his path. Reaching the site, he peered into a narrow hole at his feet.

  “Maggie!”

  “Aye. I’m . . . ouch. I’m unhurt . . . mostly. Och, ye should see this!”

  His heart fluttered then slowed it’s racing beat. He swallowed the rise of bile in the back of his throat. She is safe.

  He bent and peered into the opening. To his surprise, he could see Maggie. Though shadows dappled her form, light appeared from behind her and he realized the pit must also have an opening to the sea in the cliffs below.

  “I’m coming.” He sat and, pushing his feet past the tangled grass around the edge, slid into the hole. His boots landed softly on wet sand, sliding on stones the size of his fists or larger. Standing slowly to ensure he didn’t bump his head on the surprisingly low ceiling, he sought Maggie.

  She absently rubbed one hip as she stared at a column in a cave that continued beyond the reach of light. A dark splotch marred the cloth of her gown.

  “What happened?”

  Maggie glanced at him then down. “Och, the spot where I was standing just gave way. I twisted my ankle on those wee rocks when I landed and fell on my backside—on a bit bigger stone. Naught to fash over, though I may need help walking back to the longhouse.” She waved a hand, brushing aside his concern and beckoning him close. “Look! Runes!”

  Satisfied she’d taken no great injury, Phillipe stepped to her side, angling his shoulders to avoid blocking the light shining down into the cave. The pale stone she indicated differed from the black rock of the rest of the isle. Shadowed lines resembling the tracks of birds ran across the column. He touched a finger to the surface, trailing across the carvings.

  “What do ye suppose they are?”

  Maggie shrugged. “I dinnae know, but they must be writing of some kind. I would suspect Norse runes, though I have now told ye all I know of such. Do ye think Asatrus or one of the others might know?”

  Phillipe glanced about the small chamber. “Mayhap. Though I dislike making this known to the children. ’Tis potentially a dangerous spot.” Water lapped at his boots. “There is sea access.” His gaze traveled across the walls. “Look. Where the stone changes color. At high tide, the chamber is flooded nearly to the ceiling.”

  Maggie’s gasp told him she recognized the danger. She looked down. “We should be careful. I wish to explore further.”

  Phillipe chuckled. “I do not know how fast the water rises. Mayhap we should climb out then return with a sturdy rope to ease our escape next time.”

  Maggie frowned, her gaze swinging from the back of the cave to the light pooling on the surface of a shallow pool of water that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier, he was sure of it. Finally, she sighed. “I dinnae know if I can pull ye from the hole, and I wouldnae leave ye once the water begins to rise in earnest.” Her jaw squared with a slight forward jut Phillipe had come to recognize as Maggie at her stubbornest. “We should leave whilst we can, though I will come back. Will ye come with me?”

  “If ye promise to never come here by yourself, I will return with ye within the next full day—whenever ’tis safe to do so. Will that do?”

  Maggie gave him a nod, but he saw the look of longing she cast once more at the shadowed recesses of the cave.

  Phillipe braced his feet and bent forward slightly. “Come. Place your foot in my hands and I will lift ye up through the hole.”

  Maggie glanced from his cupped hands to the hole as though judging the distance. He grinned. “I promise to do my best to not bash your head against the ceiling. I believe ye are agile enough to do this.”

  She accepted his challenge with a raised brow. Drawing her skirt back, she placed one low boot in his hands, then flattened her palms against his shoulders. “Go.”

  Phillipe hoisted her up and her head and shoulders cleared the hole easily. “Be certain the edge is steady before ye place your weight on it.”

  Maggie hesitated, then pulled herself upward as he supported her. A moment later, she was free. Her face appeared above him.

  “I dinnae think I can pull ye up.”

  He glanced about the cave. Two or three large stones lay scattered in the sand. He pushed against the largest and it gave slightly beneath his hand. He shoved harder, putting the full of his weight against the stone. It shifted a bit more before settling back to its original position.

  “If I can push this rock beneath the hole, I believe I can use it to climb out.”
/>
  “Use caution, Phillipe.”

  Her soft tone took him off-guard. He’d heard too few kind words of late. His mood lightened. His decision to marry Maggie had been a good one.

  He rocked the boulder again. Sea water swirled past his boots, sweeping sand away. He stared at the floor which was now an inch or more deep in water. The wave drew back then returned, filling the chamber a little more.

  Phillipe put his shoulder against the rock, timing his push when the tide rushed in again. The stone shifted then settled back into the sand with a small splash. He drew a breath and firmed his stance. And pushed once more. This time, the rock teetered to the side for a long moment before slipping from Phillipe’s grasp. He leapt back, keeping his feet clear of the stone as it thudded back into place.

  “Is it working?” Maggie’s worried tones drifted down.

  “Aye. One more push should do it.” He stared at the water, catching the rhythm of the waves that now danced ankle-deep about his boots.

  Closing his eyes briefly, he murmured a prayer. The tide rushed from the chamber, leaving seaweed and bits of shell in its wake. It surged inward again and Phillipe shoved against the stone with all his might. Water slapped against the rock, rushing upward to break apart in a flurry of swash. His hand slipped on the wet stone and he fell, scraping his wrist and cheek against the coarse rock.

  The boulder tumbled to the side with a splash. Phillipe caught himself on one hand and knee, then pushed himself upright. Water rushed into the small cavity left by the butt of the rock, swirling about in eddies before sliding back out to sea.

  “Phillipe?”

  He wiped his hands with a downward swoop against his trousers. “I believe that did it. Give me a moment to see if this gives me enough height.”

  He placed one foot against the upper surface of the rock, then tested it with his weight. His boot slipped a fraction and he adjusted his placement. More water rushed into the cave, this time filling the small sea access, blocking the light. Only the hole above allowed rays of sun into the chamber.