The Highlander's Crusader Bride: Book 3 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  Her pace carried her through the hall and to the interior stairs. She noted—not for the first time—they spiraled upward to the left, the wall hampering the sword arm of most warriors who would fight to gain the upper levels, the open side leaving clear fighting space for those who would defend the castle. Her gaze swept the hall, noting the dearth of faces as most disappeared from sight at her command.

  “I have a weapon!” Bram’s sudden presence halted her step. He fisted his wooden sword, a scowl on his face, his shield hanging across his back. His feet planted firmly on the ground, weight slightly forward as Arbela had taught him. Had he been older, his sword of steel, she might have considered his help.

  “Aye, ye do,” she agreed, placing her hands on his shoulders and turning him down the hall. “And we need every able hand we possess. Do ye know who has arrived?”

  She steered him into Caelen’s room and partially shut the door behind them, leaving it slightly open, hoping to catch sound from below.

  If possible, Bram’s frown deepened. “Auld Man MacGillonay, the bastard,” he said.

  Arbela drew up short. “Where did ye hear such a thing?”

  Bram shrugged, and his shoulders sagged. “He’s my ma’s da, isn’t he?”

  “MacGillonay is your grandsire,” Arbela confirmed. “I dinnae know much about your ma, except she was unfortunate enough to miss seeing ye grow. But MacGillonay has not been very nice lately, and we will remain here, out of the way, until he is gone.”

  Bram’s look slid from ferocious to angry challenge and finally to heartbreaking bewilderment. “My grandda is a bad man, isn’t he?”

  “’Tis important we do not allow him to cause us unnecessary grief. And that means letting your da handle things and keeping ye safe—away from potential trouble.”

  Bram’s expression firmed, his hand gripping his sword. “’Tis my duty as a MacKern warrior to protect the clan. Even if it is from my grandda.”

  “A warrior must do what his laird commands. Your laird commanded us to wait here,” Arbela countered.

  “But, what if—?”

  “What if I tell ye a tale of the Moorish pirates we encountered on our voyage to Scotland?”

  Bram tilted his head, obviously weighing the option of having his questions answered over hearing a new story. With a slow nod, he agreed to the tale.

  Arbela settled him on a bench near the hearth, taking the chair for herself.

  “Our ship was three months from Messina, Italy, and storms had beset our travel across the Mediterranean. Had we simply been intent on traveling to Scotland, we could have made port at Marseilles and traveled overland until we reached the northern coast of France. But we had valuable cargo aboard we wished to bring with us, and so our path led us to the narrow sea passage called the Strait of Gibraltar.”

  “What’s a strait?” Bram interjected.

  “In this case, ’tis a small strip of water between two land masses that leads from one body of water to another. And the passage is so narrow, and full of hidden coves, ’tis like creeping down a hall full of closed doors—with pirates waiting to jump out at ye, and ye with no place to go.”

  Bram’s eyes widened and he drew his legs up in a protective motion.

  “Our ship is a wonder of Venetian shipbuilding, its sails designed to give her the ability to move both with and against the wind whilst carrying great loads. She is among the first of her kind, and of course the pirates had never seen such a vessel before.” Arbela’s voice lowered in pitch.

  “The ship’s a beauty, the first mate growled to the captain. She is a queen among lesser vessels. The captain nodded. She will bring us much gold when we make port. See how she glides across the water like a living thing, and the wind gives her homage.”

  Arbela gave Bram a sidelong glance. “Our ship, the Sea Falcon, is a marvel of engineering and a feast for the eyes. In addition to the main sail amidships—which all cogs have—she has a smaller sail, a lateen, which allows the ship to move in virtually any direction.” She bladed her hand upright, using it to visualize the movement of a ship in the water. “With the wind.” She blew on her hand, moving it away from her. “Angled to the wind.” She blew across her hand, keeping it steady on.

  “And into the wind.” She nodded, inviting Bram to blow her hand away. He puffed out his cheeks and blew, and she sent her hand leaping forward, into his wind, and fluttered her fingers at him, tickling him as she made contact with his tummy. Bram shrieked in glee and pushed her hand away.

  “I’m a hurricane!” he declared. “I can blow yer ship across the ocean.”

  Arbela sighed. “Aye. Even the Sea Falcon cannot sail against such a storm as Hurricane Bram.” She settled back in her chair. Bram giggled, all worry of MacGillonay forgotten.

  “The pirates swarmed us from the coast of northern Africa as we reached the narrowest part of the strait, and Captain Benicio skillfully tacked the Sea Falcon across the wind, away from our pursuers.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping.

  “But the pirates had another ship lying in wait, and suddenly it appeared off our port bow, a Moorish dhow with ten oars to a side cutting through the water, its sail furled, heedless of the direction of the wind. It sped toward us whilst the other pirate ship gained on us from behind, their small size and shallow draft making them swift as eagles after their prey.”

  Arbela raised an open fist to her mouth and gave a fair imitation of a manly bellow. “Man the ballistae! Laird MacLean cried. Alex and Kade leapt to the aft castle where two massive crossbows awaited them. The creak of the windlasses as they prepared to fire tore through the air. Farlan manned the single ballista on the fore castle, and Lachlan and I prepared the flaming arrows.”

  “They were faster than the Sea Falcon? What is a ballista? When can I make flaming arrows?” Bram asked, rapid-firing his questions.

  “Aye, they were faster. But they did not count on the fact we were so well defended. A ballista is a very large crossbow that fires bolts as big as spears. It can even fire great stones. The pirates were only familiar with the merchant cogs which floundered without a steady wind to fill their sails. The Sea Falcon is agile for such a large ship.”

  “And has ballistae and flaming arrows!” Bram shouted.

  “Aye. We were prepared, and willing to fight off the pirates.”

  “Ye werenae afraid?” he asked.

  Arbela considered his question. “I think fear can be replaced, or at least tempered by determination. Once ye decide on an action, fear will no longer control ye. Exchange your fear for courage, and do what needs to be done.”

  “Did ye kill the pirates?”

  Arbela nodded. “They will no longer stalk the seas, taking prisoners and bounty, killing any who resist. Others doubtless replaced them, but those pirates who sought to capture our ship met their end that day at the bottom of the sea. I prayed for their souls, as is proper.”

  A knock sounded at the door, startling them. Arbela had heard no footsteps in the passage. She rose, drawing a dagger from its sheath at her belt. Motioning for Bram to the bed where he scrambled to peer around a curtained post, Arbela flattened herself beside the door.

  “Aye?”

  Rory’s voice rumbled through the slight opening. “Bring Bram to the hall. His da wishes his presence.”

  “Has MacGillonay retreated?”

  “Nay. He requested hospitality—from the rain.” Rory’s disdain for such action was clear. “Caelen couldnae deny him. MacGillonay claims he comes only to meet Caelen’s new wife and ensure Bram’s well-being.”

  Arbela laughed softly. “The wife he claims is a Saracen.” Her words more statement than question. She opened the door, admitting Rory. He stepped inside the room, his gaze finding Bram.

  “I’m here to take a braw lad to see the MacGillonay,” he said. “Will ye come?”

  Bram slid a questioning gaze to Arbela. She gave a single nod. “Decide on your course of action, and fear cannot stop ye. Ye are Laird MacKern’s
son and heir. My son. Ye are equal to the task before ye.”

  Bram nodded once, then again, vigorously. His small frame straightened and he slid from the bed. “I will come.”

  He placed a hand on the hilt of his wooden sword, giving it a reluctant stare. “Warriors dinnae bring their weapons to a peaceful gathering, do they, Bela?”

  “No, Bram-jan they do not.”

  With a sigh, he slowly removed his belt and placed it and his shield on the bed. Straightening his shoulders, he turned to Rory. “I am ready,” he said evenly, nary a quiver marring his bravery.

  Rory gave him a respectful nod and motioned the lad to precede him through the door. Arbela followed, keeping Bram within arm’s reach. Rory leaned close as she passed.

  “Have ye left yer weapons behind, my lady?” he murmured.

  “Do ye believe MacGillonay comes in peace?” she countered.

  “I dinnae,” Rory admitted.

  Arbela did not miss a step. “Neither do I.”

  Chapter 20

  Caelen’s gaze flashed over his wife as she and Bram entered the room. Her silk tunic, supple leather vest and leggings stood out among the other women’s simple woolen dresses, but were not as exotic as the brocades and jewels he’d seen her dressed in before. Her clothing bespoke a warrior, not a woman whose main job was keeping a wee lad out of trouble.

  Rory followed in their wake, staying in the shadow of the second level gallery, drawing little attention to himself. Bram and Arbela halted at Caelen’s side, her hand firm on the lad’s shoulder. Caelen’s heart warmed at the even look Bram settled on his grandda. No fear or nervousness from his lad.

  MacGillonay took a step forward. Bram upped the tilt of his jaw, but made no move to avoid his grandda. MacGillonay chuckled. “A braw lad ye’re raising, MacKern.” Somehow there was no approval in the man’s voice. “How does he fare with a sword?”

  “He attends his lessons,” Caelen growled, clenching his fists at his side to keep from smashing the smug grin from the older man’s face. “Ye’ve seen the lad is well. Ye are now free to leave.”

  MacGillonay cocked his head. “’Tis still raining and I havenae met yer new wife.” He turned a malevolent gaze to Arbela. “Yer Saracen wife.”

  Arbela’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she, too, closed a fist, keeping it firmly at her side. Otherwise, she gave no outward sign MacGillonay had spoken.

  “Does she not understand Scots?” The older man questioned, disdain in his voice. “What barbaric tongue does she speak?”

  “Tha mi gad thuigsinn,” she replied in flawless Gaelic. I understand ye. “When ye can keep a civil tongue in your mouth, I will answer.”

  “Barbed-tongue wench!” MacGillonay swung to Caelen. “I trust she is not in charge of teaching my grandson manners. A good thrashing should straighten her out.” His eyes gleamed as he returned his gaze to slide up and down Arbela’s form. “If ye arenae man enough to do it, I will be happy to show ye the how of it.”

  “If ye were not under my husband’s hospitality, I would invite ye to try,” Arbela returned evenly, and Caelen was amazed he did not see flames shrivel MacGillonay where he stood.

  He sent Arbela a cool look, neither condemning nor approving, and the faint arch to her brow told him she would not back down. Good lass! Shocked at his thought, he made an effort to defuse the situation, acutely aware of his son in the room, but it was already too late.

  “Disrespectful Saracen!” MacGillonay shouted as he lunged a step forward, hand going to the empty scabbard at his side. His captain placed a restraining hand on his shoulder and MacGillonay halted, shrugging off the grip, his face dark with anger.

  “Arbela.” Caelen’s voice cut through the air as he placed himself between her and MacGillonay. “Take Bram upstairs. Teach him that damn board game ye’ve harped on. I’ve business with MacGillonay.”

  Arbela stepped firmly around him, placing herself at his side. “I believe MacGillonay and I have a lesson to conduct. Thrice he has called me a Saracen, as well as barb-tongued and disrespectful. Clearly, this godless barbarian has little idea how to phrase his words when speaking to a woman. I will happily tell my sire the quality of MacGillonay when next I see him. He will be quite keen to know of the brood of snakes which borders his land.”

  “Give her to me, MacKern!” MacGillonay spat. “Devil’s spawn!”

  Bram slid to Arbela’s side, shoulders pitched slightly forward, a glower for MacGillonay on his face.

  “Arbela!” Caelen growled. “Take Bram upstairs.”

  Tension flowed thick, binding the three of them together. Arbela made no move to withdraw, her dark eyes boring into MacGillonay. Caelen cursed under his breath, unwilling to attempt to manhandle her out of the situation. With a shrug, Arbela stepped back, her voice light.

  “Come, Bram. We will await your father in your room. I am certain he can discuss what hospitality means with his guest whilst we play Alquerque.”

  Caelen’s stomach unclenched as she referenced the game by its ancient name. She understands. ’Tis a misdirection stating where she and the lad will be. She knows the passage is in my room. He waited, hands at his belt, as she and Bram left the hall. At Caelen’s slight nod, Rory positioned himself with two other men at the bottom step. It would not be easy to follow the pair up the stairs.

  “Ye allow that woman to speak in such a manner?” MacGillonay demanded.

  “When faced with bald-faced disrespect and taunts, I willnae insist she apologize. I believe an apology should come from ye.”

  MacGillonay’s face darkened, white spots at his temple, spittle in his beard. “I will apologize to no woman! Especially one such as her!” He pointed to the empty stair. “Bring her back and I will punish her insolence if ye havenae the guts to do so.”

  “Ye are out of line, auld man. And ye have overstepped the bounds of hospitality. Rain or not, ye will take yer men and leave my home.”

  “A tumble-down pile of stones,” MacGillonay sneered. “I dinnae know what my Ruthie saw in ye, and I curse the day I agreed to the marriage. Ye are a bull of a man with no grace and little wit. She bemoaned her mistake of marrying ye until the day she died.

  “When I heard ye had married the MacLean’s girl, I knew ’twas time to retrieve my grandson from ye and the godless hands of the Saracen witch. I am here to collect Bram. Send yer man up after him. I will give him a quarter hour to collect his things.”

  Caelen shifted his weight forward on the balls of his feet, anger dulling everything but the man before him. “Get out of my home, MacGillonay. Ye will never get yer hands on my son.”

  MacGillonay’s face split into a malicious grin. “Think not? My men are ready to see my request is met.”

  Caelen’s laughter barked. “Yer men were disarmed at the gate. Ye are surrounded by soldiers loyal to me, well armed and prepared to escort ye to yer ship.”

  “Yer men are loyal, but all it takes is one disgruntled crone to create a chink in yer wall. Look around ye. My men are armed. And if ye wish yer soldiers to live out the hour, ye will instruct them to hand over their weapons.”

  Startled, Caelen glanced at Rory. Two men stood over his prone form, a line of blood trickling across the stone beneath his head. A scuffle sounded as MacGillonay’s men quickly disarmed three other men in the hall. Two other MacKerns stood back-to-back, swords out, defying the order to surrender.

  MacGillonay crossed his arms over his chest. “Have them put away their weapons.”

  Stunned at the attack he hadn’t seen coming, Caelen glanced about, seeking a different solution. At MacGillonay’s nod, one of his men stepped to a captured MacKern soldier, knife pressed to his throat. Blood ran freely down the column of his neck from the careless press of the blade.

  “Ye can watch them die, or ye can obey me.”

  Caelen gritted his teeth, refusing to give the command, stalling. Arbela needed time to get Bram away from the castle. Once MacGillonay realized they were no longer at Dunfaileas, he wou
ld send his men out to hunt them down. On horseback, they would capture them quickly.

  How long before MacGillonay made good on his threat to kill? Could Caelen stand by and watch his men die? How far would he go to save his son?

  “Ye plunge to the depths of idiocy, MacGillonay,” Caelen warned. “By insulting my wife, ye have incurred the wrath of Baron MacLean, who commands the strongest force in this region. He has the power to wipe ye off yer land.”

  “That Saracen?” MacGillonay scoffed. “He’s no true Scot.”

  “Those whom ye term Saracen,” Caelen seethed, “have trod in the very footsteps of Our Lord, even to the hill of Golgotha. My wife, a princess of Armenia, was baptized by the Bishop of Antioch before Holy Relics. Their lives have been spent in service to God, keeping the Holy Land open to sinners such as us. Have a care for yer words, laird. They give great offense.”

  MacGillonay’s lips twisted in a leer. “That’s what I do best.”

  * * *

  “Hurry,” Arbela whispered, the word harsh, betraying her anger. Her palm pressed on Bram’s back, urging him down the hall.

  She should not be backing down from MacGillonay’s insults. He was up to no good, of that she was certain. Such a man did not toss out abuse of this nature without knowing he could get away with it. Something was terribly wrong.

  “I will take the lad.” Ilene stepped from the darkened doorway. “There is nae need for ye to bother yerself with him.”

  Arbela barreled through the open door, passing the older woman without pause. Agnes looked up from the mending in her lap as Ilene followed them inside, protesting.

  “She has harped on ye all eve,” Agnes reported, eyes narrowed in disapproval. “She willnae cease, the auld biddy.”

  “Bram is with me,” Arbela stated, sparing Ilene no look. “Agnes, put yer mending aside and come with me.”

  Toros and Garen milled about her feet. Toros broke away to stand next to Bram who shoved a hand into the dog’s ruff, clearly needing the dog’s reassurance. Arbela grabbed the waterskin and tossed the strap over her shoulder, adding the small bag of food. “Take only a change of clothing, Bram,” she said, handing him an oilcloth pack and a length of wool. “Here is your plaide.”