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

by Cathy MacRae

  “Protection.” Ingrida’s answer was prompt. “Yet we dinnae wish to host a horde of warriors who will do naught but eat and take up space.”

  “Until they are needed.”

  “Aye. Until they are needed.” Ingrida spread her hands. “There lies our problem. We’ve no one to teach our men to be warriors—and I doubt there are many women here who wish to see their husbands and sons embrace violence. Ye’ve noted our numbers are few, yet, adding fighting men will stretch our stores.”

  “What if men could be sent here who would agree to help with the daily running of the isle, who were able to pick up arms when needed? And whose lodging wouldnae interfere with yer lives?”

  “Would they not also require time and space to hone their skills?” Ingrida shook her head. “This alone would expose our children to violence—would change us. Change our way of life.”

  “It might keep ye from being slaughtered by angry pirates.”

  Ingrida bit her lip. “We have everything we need to live here as we always have, raising sheep and making mead. Change isnae welcome. If the pirates would leave us alone, we would want for naught.”

  “How many years have they come here?”

  Ingrida shrugged, eyes tracking the distance as she considered the question. “They have come every year for at least the past ten to fifteen summers, though less frequently before that. I remember, as a lass, hearing my grandparents whisper they came for the treasure of Hola.” She smiled. “Our mead was well-regarded even then.”

  Maggie startled. “The treasure of Hola? ’Tis what they called the mead?”

  “Certainly. What else could it be?”

  * * *

  Maggie and Phillipe crested the hill, leaving the longhouse behind, and the push of gazes which had lingered on her during the noon meal vanished. Nothing disturbed the peace beyond the distant barking calls of seals and the soft crash of waves against the rocks as the tide receded. Wiry grass fluttered their fluffy tops in the breeze. Sunlight slanted against the scattered boulders, throwing shadows toward the east.

  She sought Phillipe’s fingers and his hand closed over hers. He halted, bringing her to a stop as he pulled her to him, mouth descending hungrily on hers. Her entire body flamed as brightly as a torch newly soaked in pitch. His body responded to hers, desire building as the kiss consumed her.

  She forgot what she’d wanted to tell him.

  Her fingers slid through the heavy waves of his hair, tugging lightly as she demanded more. He obliged, pressing against her, his cock hard against her thigh. Her breath labored, her belly tightened—and a hundred angry pirates couldn’t have pulled her away.

  Pirates.

  Clarity sparked. She blinked and memory fanned back to life.

  Pirates.

  She broke the kiss, pressing her forehead against his neck as she relaxed against his chest. His heart thudded wildly, ragged breathing almost obscuring the racing beat.

  “Pirates.”

  “What?”

  “Ingrida said they were looking for the treasure of Hola, but she always thought ’twas the mead.”

  “The pirates thought the mead was the treasure? What of the coins in the cave?”

  Maggie sighed and stepped away. “Nae. Ingrida told me the pirates have been accosting the people of Hola since before she was born. She remembered her grandma saying the pirates had once demanded the treasure of Hola. Obviously, no one here knows of what ye discovered, and they’ve sent the pirates away with a share of the mead ever since.”

  Phillipe rubbed his chin. “Why would pirates accept mead in lieu of silver?”

  She shrugged. “Mayhap ’twas an old tale and none knew the exact nature of the treasure. Certainly, the mead is superior to any other I’ve drunk. And the color is that of pure gold.”

  “I suppose that is as good as any explanation. Astvats giti.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry, my love. ’Tis an Armenian phrase that covers anything that cannot be explained. It simply means, God knows.”

  “Then, ’tis apt. There are likely none here who remember exactly what happened when the pirates first arrived. Or why they accepted the mead.”

  “The Treasure of Hola. I am looking forward to seeing what we find. The tide is on its way out, and we must be out of the cave before nightfall. Are ye ready?”

  Maggie grinned, excitement blooming. “Aye. Let us see what lies in the cave.”

  Phillipe shook his head. The dirhams had clearly been struck hundreds of years ago, but he couldn’t imagine a treasure so ancient that the pirates more than fifty years ago had been uncertain what they sought.

  Rumors. Fragmented memories. Clues hidden in everyday words to lessen the chance others would discover where the treasure had been hidden.

  He and Maggie approached the hole she’d fallen through earlier. Taking a sturdy rope from a bag slung over his shoulder, Phillipe tied it firmly to a boulder near the hole, repeating the process with a second rope and boulder.

  “The stones seem quite sturdy, but ’tis best to be certain at least one holds firm when needed.”

  Maggie sat on the crumbled edge, clearly unconcerned about tumbling into the hole once again. “The water isnae verra deep. Should we wait?”

  “Unless ye wish to compete with the drifting tide washing sand back inside whatever hole ye dig, then aye.” He laughed at the frustrated lift and fall of her shoulders. “We could, howbeit, take a torch and explore a bit farther into the cave if ye like while we wait for the tide to ebb completely.”

  “Aye! I’d like that.” She slipped through the hole, landing with a splash.

  “A bit deeper than ye thought?” Phillipe’s chuckle was tinged with worry.

  “Och, mayhap a wee bit.” She was silent for a moment, then her voice drifted back to him, rich with echoes. “Verra dark. Hand me a torch, aye?”

  He handed it down, along with another for himself and a waterproof pouch with a small stone hollowed out to allow a bit of glowing peat to be carried inside. With a final glance to ensure they were unwatched, he slid past the sea grass into the treasure cave.

  Maggie set the ember-warmed stone atop a boulder, beyond the reach of the water. Pulling bits of dried grass and straw from the pouch, she carefully used the ember to light a small fire. The oil-soaked dry grasses fastened around the end of the torch flamed quickly when she touched them to the flames, bathing the chamber in pale light and smoke. Phillipe grabbed the edges of the hole overhead and pulled, widening the opening as bits of mud, stone, and grass tumbled into the cave.

  The smoke eagerly sought the larger hole. Maggie coughed. “My thanks.”

  Phillipe accepted the second torch. “Lead on.”

  They waded through ankle-high water. He noted Maggie had drawn her skirt between her legs and draped it through her belt, keeping it out of the water and exposing her legs nearly to her knees. “Playing at being a fish wife?” he drawled.

  “I’d have worn trews, but I feared ’twould draw more attention.”

  Phillipe considered in his mind the shape of her nether side encased in tight-fitting, supple leather—recalled his splay of fingers over Maggie’s rounded rump earlier—and promptly banged his head on the lowered entry to a shaft branching off the main cavern.

  He stifled a curse.

  Maggie gasped. “Look!”

  He hurried to her side. She halted in the middle of a small chamber perhaps twice the width of her outstretched arms. Torchlight glimmered gold on the wet black rock. Phillipe raised his torch, but the light did not penetrate to the ceiling. Maggie stepped away.

  “Ouch!” The tip of Maggie’s torch dipped downward.

  Phillipe jerked about in alarm. Maggie pointed to the floor. “I dinnae see that.”

  Bits of wood rested askew in the sand along one edge of the room, wedged between three stones rising nearly knee-height from the ground.

  “This appears to be the remains of a rather large chest.” He handed his torch to Magg
ie.

  The last of the tide lapped in the doorway. Phillipe squatted on his heels and gently pulled the wood from the sand. Maggie stuck the ends of the torches in the sand.

  Phillipe whistled low and sat back on his haunches, forearms propped on his knees, a golden brooch in his hand. “I don’t know who this once belonged to, Maggie, but ’tis spectacular.”

  Maggie’s mouth dropped open. Blue and red gems winked in the uncertain light, pale crosses glinting across the surface of each smooth stone. The beaten gold setting gleamed with warmth in the torchlight, the rich colors pulsing with life.

  She turned it over in her hand, noting the peculiar thickness of the gold and the resulting weight.

  “Where do ye suppose ’tis from?”

  “I would hazard a guess it ’twas stolen from a wealthy lord—mayhap spoils from a shipwreck—or possibly trinkets from a soldier returning from the Holy Land many years ago.”

  Maggie frowned. “Trinkets? Who carries such as this in his pouch?”

  She tilted her head at Phillipe’s movement and nearly dropped the brooch. His hands, cupped together, glittered with gold and colored stones.

  “I do not know, mon coeur, but it appears this is the Treasure of Hola.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Maggie sat amid the wiry grasses of the overlook and stared at the hoard of jewels in her hands. The light of the setting sun warmed the gold, creating the illusion of heat against her skin. Rubies glowed the red of a heart’s blood, signifying pure love and loyalty. Blue sapphires, as mysterious as the night sky, spoke the language of power and strength. Pearls glimmered pink and cream as they preened in the light for possibly the first time in hundreds of years.

  “Unbelievable,” she murmured, caught in the spell of the wondrous sight.

  Phillipe collapsed to the ground beside her. Maggie glanced up, instantly swayed from the treasure in her hands. His shirt, open at the neck, fluttered in the breeze, revealing a scattering of black hair. He nodded to the gems. “A rather nice addition to your jewelry chest.”

  She dragged her gaze from his chest. “I dinnae wear jewels. Highly impractical things.”

  “Ye will. As my lady, ye will be privileged to wear them or not as suits ye. These are a mix of very ancient cultures.”

  He drew a finger through the pile. “This pendant of gold filigree is set with a glass bead and reminds me of what ladies in the Levant wore every day. As does this ring, which looks enough like the pendant to have been part of a set. This . . ..” He held up a silver ring, spit on it, then rubbed the flat top vigorously against the hem of his tunic before angling it into the light.

  “See the engraving? ’Tis of a lion holding a cross. A similar design is used by those who belong to the Order of the Dragon whose members are tasked with the protection of the cross.”

  “Ye should wear it.”

  Phillipe studied it a moment then tossed it in the air. He caught it with the ease of a magician’s sleight of hand and slipped the bit of silver into a pouch on his belt. “Thank ye, mon coeur. ’Tis a meaningful piece.”

  Maggie smiled, happy to have been able to give him something that pleased him. “All of this is as much yers as mine,” she reminded him. “I dinnae know how to find the original owner of the pieces.”

  “’Tis a mix that may not have one true owner. Mayhap a Crusader brought prizes home and placed the chest here, fearing capture or preparing for a long, dangerous journey, and was unable to return to retrieve it. ’Tis possible all of this is pirate bounty, though I believe these jewels are from one source, and the coins from another.” He motioned to a third pile of silver items, some of which appeared broken. Some were tarnished, looking worn and unlovely. “That may yield treasure of another sort.”

  “What do ye suppose ’tis?”

  “They will need to be cleaned to tell for certain, though their submersion in this cold water doesn’t seem to have done them much harm. That larger one may be a flagon, mayhap for wine. These smaller pieces may be small silver cups.”

  “They’re too small to drink from.”

  “For a ritual?” He drew a flat piece of metal from the pile, worked with flowing designs and crossed with a shorter piece a little more than half way up. “This appears to be a cross with a heavy wooden base—or what remains of it—to allow it to stand. Do ye know if the abbey here was abandoned by agreement—or by force?”

  The warmth from the sun vanished. A cold breath blew across the back of Maggie’s neck. She stared at the flagon and its sentinel of small cups arranged at its base with a sense of dismay.

  “I dinnae know . . .. Wait. They—Asatrus and the others, back at least a generation or two—were trained by the monks to make mead.” She lifted her gaze to Phillipe. “Doesnae this mean the monks left peaceably?”

  “Likely. There are plenty of other places, other isles with abandoned abbeys from which this could have come. And I do not recall smoke damage to the abbey here. General neglect, but not wanton destruction.”

  Maggie closed one hand about the heavy gold brooch and peace flowed over her.

  Phillipe was right. The altar adornments were likely from an abbey on another isle or mayhap from the private chapel of a lord. The thought of Saint Martin’s Abbey—her abbey—destroyed, monks killed, violence on Hola—her isle—shocked her to her core. Abbeys weren’t immune to bloodshed, their precious articles of faith not the only temptation to the greedy. But she was relieved to realize such had probably not been Saint Martin’s Abbey’s fate.

  “What are we going to do with this—this plunder?”

  “’Tis yours to do with as ye please, mon coeur. Howbeit, I suggest we keep the discovery to ourselves. The hunt for the Treasure of Hola has faded to a tribute of mead, and the isle would not survive if ’twas known gold had been found here. As the titular owner of the isle, all of this . . ..” He waved his hand over the piles of silver and gold. “’Tis yours. Even if the children had stumbled across it whilst playing, ’twould be yours.”

  The enormity of Phillipe’s words swept over her. “I own Hola.”

  “The isle, its people, the birds, the seals—and every bit of gold and silver.”

  She frowned. “I dinnae own the people.”

  “Then, they are beholden to whatever ye provide for them. Mayhap they are free to leave, but as long as they live here, ye control their destinies.”

  Maggie sighed. “Is this what it means to rule? It dinnae feel the same at Narnain Castle.”

  “’Tis because ye didn’t have a treasure to dispose of.”

  “Mayhap.” Maggie glanced at the piles, unhappy to think she would walk away with silver and gold that had been sitting under the islanders’ noses and leave them with naught. Yet, such was the law. The isle was hers, and everything on it. She could, however, use the treasure for the good of Hola. ’Twas a comforting thought.

  “At least, the earl gets naught.” Humor twitched the corners of her lips.

  “Aye. Though ye’ll not get the satisfaction of telling him so. Ye should do naught that draws attention to the isle.”

  “Others would destroy Hola, hoping to find an overlooked trove.”

  Phillipe nodded. “We cannot defend this isle against such an onslaught.”

  Maggie sighed. “Let’s pack this up. Though I dinnae know how we’ll hide it.”

  “Baron MacLean sent ye a chest. I don’t know what’s in it, for ’tis bound and locked. I have a few leather sacks with me. We’ll bag up the treasure and stow it in the chest. I suggest we both leave for Morvern on the morrow.”

  “Will the baron help us?”

  “Aye. And the sooner we remove this from the isle, the better.”

  * * *

  Baron MacLean wasn’t the larger-than-life person Maggie had expected. He was slightly taller than her, but his son, Alex, and Phillipe topped his height by several inches. He’d once been a powerfully-built man, but age had softened him somewhat if the gentle roundness of his cheeks and p
aunch were indications. His back was straight, though a slight hitch in his gait betrayed his age and, perhaps, a wound from his youth. His dark red hair held strong against a light dusting of silver, though his beard was liberally salted, and his eyes sparkled with good humor and intelligence.

  “Welcome to Castle MacLean, Lady Maggie. ’Tis a pleasure having ye here. My seneschal Grizel will take ye to yer chamber and see to yer comfort.”

  Maggie met his gaze boldly and declined his offer. “If ye dinnae mind, I’d rather speak to ye first.”

  The baron exchanged looks with Phillipe. Maggie hid her annoyance at being passed over for Phillipe’s consideration. She was tired from the trip and the subterfuge of hiding the treasure. She wanted a bath and a nap, but not a pat on the head from a well-meaning baron. Her comfort could wait a bit longer.

  Phillipe placed an arm about Maggie’s waist. “My lady has information for ye as well as a request. Howbeit, I believe we could both use a bit of time to freshen up before we tackle the issues at hand. May we join ye in your solar in an hour’s time?”

  Phillipe’s sense of diplomacy won her acquiescence as the baron inclined his head, his gaze lingering on Phillipe’s possessive gesture.

  “By all means. I will have food and drink brought, and will await ye both there.” He turned shrewd eyes on Maggie. “I am intrigued, my lady, and look forward to our meeting.”

  She allowed Grizel to lead her to a chamber on the third floor, her legs protesting the final flight of stairs. Phillipe pressed a kiss to her temple, then continued to a door farther down the hall.

  Grizel motioned to a wooden tub next to the hearth. Steam rose invitingly from the surface. “M’lady’s clothing will be freshened as soon as yer belongings are brought up. For now, I’ve a gown in mind which should fit ye. Climb into the tub and I’ll send Mòrag to help ye.”