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

by Cathy MacRae

  His dark brown eyes shone with glints of gold in the candle and fire-lit room. Broad shoulders fell to a thick waist that the earl knew had naught to do with fat. The three men at his heels appeared cut from the same cloth; fit, brawny, and dangerous.

  As if he’d been looking for the earl, the man’s gaze pinned him, and he altered his path as he crossed the floor. Legs like tree trunks showed beneath the plaide wrapped about the man’s hips. He reached the earl’s table and inclined his head inquiringly to the empty chair opposite.

  “May I join ye, Earl?”

  The earl motioned to the seat. “’Twould please me to share my table, Lord MacDonnell.”

  The laird grinned as he sat. “But not the treat I saw ye send from yer side a moment ago, eh? Common enough tavern wench, though quite the handful—I’m certain ye know what I mean.”

  “Ye are, of course, quite welcome to engage her affections once I’ve finished,” the earl demurred, shrugging one shoulder. He tilted his head. “Were ye looking for me? I havenae the time for a game of chance this eve. Mayhap another time?”

  “My men told me ye were wont to come here betimes.”

  “Ye’ve had me followed? Why?”

  MacDonnell’s face darkened. “I want me isle back, Mar.”

  “I gave it to my last wife when I set her aside for not giving me an heir. I dinnae wish to return her dowry, yet I couldnae in good conscience send her home with naught.”

  “Dinnae wish to embroil the law, eh?” MacDonnell shook his shaggy head. “’Tis likely her dowry went to pay to have the marriage annulled.”

  The earl huffed. “If she’d only retired to the nunnery as a proper woman would, I wouldnae have given the isle to her. She dinnae know her place, headstrong lass that she is, and I’m well rid of her.” He battled down his temper. “I received no monies from the islanders during the two years I owned the isle, despite yer assurances ’twas worth something. The isle and my wife both proved to be of little value.”

  “’Tis yer fine self what cost ye an heir, not yer wife,” MacDonnell growled. “As fond of yer pleasures as ye are, ye should have a large number of bastards to choose from.” He glanced pointedly at the corner staircase. “As far as I can tell, the wench awaiting ye in yer chamber willnae need to worry about breeding a bairn from ye, either.”

  Anger slid white-hot through the earl at Lord MacDonnell’s slur against his manhood. “’Tis the woman’s job to breed a bairn, mine to enjoy myself planting it. My current wife hasnae been in my bed long enough to show results.”

  “Ye wasted little time finding a replacement for the MacLaren lass. But I dinnae come here to discuss the merits of yer wives—past nor present. I want the isle back.”

  Drawing a breath slowly through his nose, the earl calmed. “Why?”

  “As I mentioned at our last meeting . . ..”

  “When ye lost the isle to me,” the earl interjected, pleased to see the laird scowl.

  “Aye. When ye won the isle.” He fumed silently. “It holds a bit of value to me and I want it back.”

  The earl shrugged, enjoying the MacDonnell’s discomfort. “There are many small isles in the waters off the western coast, and ye lord of them all. Surely one of them will do as well?”

  “The monks on Hola ferment a mead that pleases my palate. None have been able to recreate it.” MacDonnell appeared fit to burst.

  The earl allowed himself a small smile. “My friend, it would please me much if ye would take the isle. By as much force as ye wish.”

  MacDonnell grunted. “What shall I do with yer wife? My information states she and a handful of men-at-arms currently occupy the isle. ’Twillnae be a difficult battle, but there is the potential for bloodshed.”

  “She lives there? What a peculiar . . ..” He leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Tell me, is this mead of yers of any value?”

  “They sell half to Baron MacLean, and I receive monies from the sale—along with a tithe of the mead itself.”

  It was all the earl could do to contain his rage at his lost income. “Then, my dear Lord MacDonnell, take yer isle, its mead, and my un-lamented former wife. Teach her what happens to wayward women who lack the sense to spend their days under the supervision of the church in penance for their sins.”

  He rose. “Let me know what happens to her. I will be eagerly awaiting the news.”

  * * *

  Lord MacDonnell paced the deck of his ship, impatient to be home. Clouds roiled overhead, presaging the storm on the horizon. Sunlight faded as swiftly as tossing a blanket over the sun. Wind roiled the seas and filled the ship’s sail, sending it skudding across the water.

  “Lower the sail!” The captain’s shout whipped about the ship.

  “Nae!” MacDonnell bellowed. “Run ahead of the wind. We’ll round the point of Islay and be home before the rains hit.”

  With a scowl, the captain complied.

  “In a haste to return to Finlaggan?” Hugh, Lord MacDonnell’s second-in-command braced his feet against the pitch of the deck.

  Lord MacDonnell glowered. “Ye will linger only long enough to supply one of the galleys. Twenty men will be enough to subdue the earl’s former wife and her rabble. No need to sail a full crew.”

  Hugh nodded once, thoughtful. “Any thoughts on what ye’d like me to do with the lass?”

  “Bring her to me. After that . . ..” With a cold lift of a shoulder, MacDonnell consigned an ill end to Maggie’s future.

  * * *

  Jeweled light from three stained glass windows lit the exquisitely carved pillars in the baron’s chapel. Every available stone surface was carved, giving the small, private chapel the feel of being inside a flawless work of art. Maggie’s gaze traveled from the gold-chased silver cross to the flagon and cups resting on the snowy white cloth draped over a low table. Someone had polished them to a warm glow, and they now resided in a place of honor, appearing quite at home amid the other items on the altar.

  Beside her, Phillipe’s tall form lent reassurance, filled her heart with joy. Father Sachairi’s voice droned through the wedding mass, but she listened to none of it.

  I dinnae know we’d found such wealth. Coins, jewels, and accoutrements to make a priest weep—and give absolution for Phillipe’s past, and grant me permission to remarry with the church’s blessing. The flagon and cross more than paid any penance which could have been set.

  The Treasure of Hola was proving to be worth more than the value of its gold.

  She stroked the reliquary she’d strung on a silver chain about her neck. The weight of the clasp had pulled at her gown’s delicate cloth, and the chain solved the problem nicely, turning the brooch into a pendant. Peace settled over her with the thought she could achieve what she desired most. She sighed happily.

  Phillipe squeezed her hand, his thumb drifting over the ring he’d placed on her finger when they’d exchanged their vows at the chapel door an hour earlier. The dark, heavy gold held a magnificent oval lemon-quartz stone the size of her thumb nail, encircled with cabochon rubies and diamonds. She’d never seen a stone so large and half-feared being given the care of it. She glanced at Phillipe, smiling to meet his amused gaze, jolted back to the ceremony by the approach of her father, mother, Uilleam, the baron, Alex, and his sister Arbela who Maggie had met only the day before.

  Representing both families, the small crowd surrounded Maggie and Phillipe as the priest spoke his blessing over them.

  “Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” He placed a hand atop Maggie’s and Phillipe’s heads. “Go in peace and glorify God.” He withdrew his hands and gave Phillipe a nod.

  Phillipe’s dark eyes met hers, setting up butterflies in her belly. “Ye are the bride of my heart. No matter what came before this moment, and no matter what lies ahead, ’tis ye and only ye who shall have my heart and my name, and possess my very soul for the rest of my life. It pleases me beyond bearing to name ye wife.”

&n
bsp; He lowered his mouth to hers, lips hot as a searing brand. A moan escaped Maggie. Her arms wound about his neck and she pressed against him, feeling the impediment of clothing between them. Her heart pounded so, she could scarcely think. The kiss ended and she braced her forehead against Phillipe’s chest, letting the delicious fog of wanton abandon settle over her and slowly dissipate. The scent of the hot beeswax tapers on the altar blended with Phillipe’s own scent, smoky and beguiling.

  “Ye are as light to my eyes, as bread to my hunger, and the only joy to my heart,” she replied. “I pledge my love to ye and will honor ye above all others. Ye are, from this moment on, my true husband.”

  A rousing cry filled the room and Maggie’s face heated. Phillipe pressed a quick kiss to her temple then faced the crowd, Maggie’s upraised hand in his. A yip and answering shout cut through the congratulations.

  “Serkan! Get by, dog!”

  Alex’s bellow did not halt the pup’s headlong rush through the crowd. The lightning-fast ball of fur bolted across the room then slid to a stop at Maggie’s side. She snatched her skirts aside, rescuing the embroidered velvet hem from mud-spattered paws.

  Alex sent her an apologetic look. “It appears he dug out of his kennel, though how he got inside the keep I dinnae ken.”

  “’Tis also apparent I have competition for my wife’s favors, already,” Phillipe laughed.

  The crowd milled about them, feeding slowly through the chapel doors where they were guaranteed a festive meal and entertainment in the great hall. Alex hoisted his young son onto his hip, then grabbed his sister’s step-son by the hand and marshalled the MacLeans from the room. Janeth MacLaren blinked tear-filled eyes and joined her husband and son as they followed Alex and his family. Someone slipped a thin rope over the pup’s head and led him away—under protest. The last to leave, Balgair cuffed Phillipe’s shoulder and sent Maggie a broad wink.

  The voices faded from the room, echoing from the main hall then fell to silence as the door closed. As though he awaited the click of the latch, Phillipe pulled Maggie into his arms. His hungry kiss eclipsed the warmth of the binding one only moments earlier. Possessive, demanding, teasing, he told her how impatient he was to be done with the formalities and have her to himself.

  Maggie plundered his mouth, filled her hands with his hair, returning his passion.

  A low growl slipped from Phillipe. “Now’s our chance to flee to our chamber before we’re missed.”

  “We leave for Hola on the morning tide,” Maggie breathed. “We will have little privacy once aboard the ship.”

  Phillipe ran his hands up Maggie’s arms and she shivered. “I am beginning to regret this schedule we’ve chosen, howbeit, we’ve much ahead of us in the weeks to come.”

  “Then, let us leave the others to their merry-making. I find the idea of sharing ye with our guests for the next few hours not to my liking.”

  Phillipe stepped to the door, Maggie on his heels. A quick glance into the hall told her Balgair guarded the passageway into the hall, leaving the opposite direction exposed. Stifling a mischievous giggle, she slipped through the chapel doors and followed her husband’s silent tread to the prepared chamber above.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Phillipe gazed at his new wife. “Ye should always wear rubies and roses, mon coeur.”

  Maggie’s pale skin blushed, the rosy hue reflecting that of the flower petals scattered across the silken gold brocade blanket and the glow of the ruby bracelets loaned to her for their wedding day by Arbela, her new sister by marriage.

  Her fingertips brushed the stones crowding the delicate filigree surrounding her wrist. Phillipe dismissed the sultan’s ransom worth of jewels, preferring the bare skin of his new wife who lay beneath him, his cock still buried inside her. Fascinated, he watched the rise and fall of her breasts as she caught her breath from their first, passionate exploration.

  Discarded clothing littered the floor without regard for the costly items. Even Maggie’s burgundy gown hadn’t been proof against the heat of their passion as they’d locked and barred the portal against intrusion. One fluttery sleeve still hung limply from the door latch, not deemed worthy of stopping their urgent need to be alone together.

  Phillipe gave her a half-grin. “I did not mean to fall upon ye as soon as we closed the door.”

  “Hmmm,” she murmured, ending on a sigh. She stretched languidly. “I dinnae recall complaining.”

  “Ye said a number of things. Halt was not among them.” Phillipe’s grin widened, feeling immensely pleased. Despite their rather disrespectful flaunting of the proper wedding rituals, he’d been right to bring her directly to bed. Lingering among the bawdy rabble would only have allowed old memories to surface. Maggie’s eager participation in consummating their vows was worth any amount of ribbing he’d endure on the morrow.

  He nibbled along her shoulder, making his way to her neck. Her skin tasted of roses, smelt of heaven. And a bit of salty sweat. Divine—and worth exploring further. He trailed his tongue across the soft skin. Maggie gasped and rolled her head to the side, exposing more creamy flesh. He suckled one breast, then the other, cupping them to exquisite fullness in his palms.

  “Ye are beautiful,” he whispered.

  Maggie flushed deeper and stilled, the soft lines of her body hardening against his words. “I am too tall, too sturdy to be anything but merely pleasing to the eye.”

  Phillipe propped his weight on one elbow then ran his fingers slowly through her hair, drawing the flaming curls out to the side to better view the firelit strands.

  “I will tell ye every day ye are beautiful, and ye will never disagree with me.” He pulled locks of her hair forward to drape over her shoulders and curl over her breasts. Lowering his face to hers, he kissed her, infusing the truth into the caress until her body yielded the argument.

  Maggie’s moan against his lips sent Phillipe’s passion spiraling. The warmth of her enveloping his flagging cock hardened him again. She wrapped her legs about his waist, answering the slow questioning circling of his hips. Her breath quickened then caught as her fingers bit into his shoulders. With a cry, she arched her back, fitting her body perfectly to his.

  His own release struck hard. He shouted her name, arms shaking as he poured himself into her. Dragging air into his lungs, he lowered himself to the down-filled mattress, unsure when he’d move again.

  Winded, he pulled her against his chest, drawing great draughts of air through her scented hair as he tucked her buttocks against his groin and slid one arm beneath her neck.

  “I have never been so complete.”

  “’Tis beyond me, as well,” Maggie murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of his elbow. His skin pebbled at her touch, but he was beyond rousing—at least for the next half-hour or so.

  He woke some time later to find the silken blanket about his shoulders and the sheets next to him empty. Groggy, he sat and wiped a hand over his eyes before casting a glance about the room. Maggie sat upon a folded blanket next to the hearth, one corner pulled over a shoulder as she prodded the peat block into a low flame. The flickering light cast her body in gold relief, outlining every curve, framed the long lines of her arms and legs, and glimmered through the veil of her hair.

  Urgency possessed him. He slipped from the bed and crossed to her side. She glanced up, lips rounded softly in surprise.

  “I dinnae mean to wake ye.”

  Phillipe held out a hand. “Ye are welcome to wake me any time, mon coeur.”

  Her eyelids fluttered and a satisfied smile curved her lips. She grasped his hand and rose from the hearth to lean against him. Heat exploded through him as her hardened nipples pressed against his chest. She hooked a foot behind his ankle and tugged, forcing him slowly to the thick rug before the hearth. Phillipe obligingly sprawled on his back, hands spread invitingly. Maggie straddled his hips, ran her fingers through the hair of his chest.

  “My turn.”

  * * *

  There was na
ught to do but face her fears. One hand clasped firmly in Phillipe’s, the other nervously fingering the fine wool of her soft green gown, Maggie strolled into the great hall as if she hadn’t spent most of the previous day closeted with her new husband, determined to withstand the ribald jokes certain to greet her after Phillipe’s and her precipitous departure following the wedding mass. After waking too late to meet the ship at the dock, Phillipe had sent word they’d not be taking the Mar on the morning’s tide. The lateness of the morning hour hadn’t resulted in an empty hall.

  “They linger because they’re hung over, not because they wish to bandy words with us,” he chuckled.

  Phillipe’s whispered assurances did not help, though they appeared to be true. Bleary eyes blinked at her from drawn faces as she made her way to the head table, slippered steps hissing loud on the stone. A few people winced and turned away, cradling steaming mugs of some tisane the healer had likely made available to treat their infirmities. Or perhaps the glistening eels Maggie could see heaped upon platters would ease the symptoms of their over-indulgences.

  She suppressed a grin and a shudder. Though she’d oft been assured of the eels’ worth as a cure for such ailments, the thought of downing the slippery bits had gone a long way toward keeping her on the temperate side of inebriety. Not for a king’s ransom would she insult an already abused belly with a helping of eels—cooked or not. She fingered the brooch dangling from its chain then sighed. She already possessed a king’s ransom.

  The mood of the room lightened as those who’d managed to avoid serious after-effects of the lavish feast, and who appeared to have slept well, drifted into the hall to break their fasts.

  Balgair took a seat across from Phillipe, his smile peeking bravely through his whiskers beneath bloodshot eyes. He accepted a steaming mug from a serving lass, but shook his head gingerly at the offer of food.