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

by Cathy MacRae

  If you enjoyed Arbela and Caelen’s story, please consider leaving a review.

  About the Authors

  Cathy MacRae lives on the sunny side of the Arbuckle Mountains where she and her husband read, write, and tend the garden—with the help of the dogs, of course.

  You can visit with her on Facebook, or read her blogs and learn about her books at www.cathymacraeauthor.com. Drop her a line—she loves to hear from readers!

  To keep up with new releases and other fun things, sign up for my newsletter! There’s an easy form on my website. (You’ll find DD’s news there, too!)

  Other ways to connect with Cathy:

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  DD MacRae enjoys bringing history to life. Research is one of the best things about writing a story! And with more than 35 years of martial arts training, DD also brings believable, breath-taking action to the tales.

  You can connect with DD through www.cathymacraeauthor.com. It’s always exciting to hear from readers!

  More Books by Cathy MacRae

  The Highlander’s Bride series

  The Highlander’s Accidental Bride (book 1)

  The Highlander’s Reluctant Bride (book 2)

  The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride (book 3)

  The Highlander’s Outlaw Bride (book 4)

  The Highlander’s French Bride (book 5)

  The Saint:

  World of de Wolfe Pack

  (a Kindle Worlds novella)

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor series

  (with LL Muir, Diane Darcy, Jo Jones, and Melissa Mayhue)

  Adam

  Malcolm

  MacLeod

  Patrick

  More Books by DD MacRae

  (Contemporary Romance)

  The Italian Billionaire’s Runaway Bride

  Read an excerpt from

  book 4 in the Hardy Heroines series

  The Highlander’s Welsh Bride

  Chapter 1

  Battle of Orewin Bridge, Wales

  December 1282

  Three English soldiers emerged from the woods, making enough noise to raise the dead, Carys and her brother caught in their sights as the pair crossed a small glen.

  “Stop!” one of the soldiers shouted, drawing his sword.

  “Take the one on the left,” Hywel whispered. In a swift move born of too much practice killing the English, he nocked and released an arrow, dropping the lead soldier in his tracks.

  Carys flung her javelin, striking her target in the chest, piercing his leather armor and knocking him to the ground. The instant her hands were free, she drew her bow, aiming for the third Englishman whom Hywel had already staggered with an arrow. She added a feathered shaft of her own to ensure he fell and stayed down. Drawing her short sword, she stalked toward the bodies.

  “Carys, we must to go!” Hywel called. “The prince has fallen. More of Longshank’s men will be upon us anon.”

  The scream of steel on steel and of men dying rose on the air behind them, adding urgency to his plea. Carys nodded, pausing to stuff the few coins the dead English soldiers had in their possession, along with their daggers, into the small pack she carried. She spotted a silver necklace and yanked it over the head of its owner. A fine silver ring with beautiful filigree work set with an amber stone hung from the chain. She hastily stashed it in a pocket.

  Unbuckling the belt from the man with two arrows in his chest, she sheathed his short sword in its scabbard and tossed it to Hywel. One man had been an archer, so she blended his quiver with hers, slung her bow over a shoulder, and reclaimed her javelin. Carys then trotted after her brother into the forest, the great trees dusted heavily with snow. They loped silently through the wood, away from the battle, like ghosts in the afternoon, their footsteps crunching softly on the frozen ground. Sunlight filtered weakly through the dense underbrush providing plenty of concealing shadow.

  The sounds of battle faded, and the eerie quiet unnerved her. It seemed all of Cymru grieved the loss of her prince.

  “Where are we headed, Hywel?” she asked, her voice pitched on a whisper. Though the English wore chain armor and lumbered about like oxen—easily heard in the silent forest—she didn’t wish to draw attention in case there were scouts this direction, and sound carried far too easily on the crisp winter air. Wearing dark green woolen leggings, leather jerkins, boots, and leather cowls covering their heads and shoulders, Carys and her brother blended in with the evergreen foliage and shadows.

  “Our cousin, the prince, is dead,” Hywel reminded her. “That means Cymru has fallen to the English. We’ve naught left of family, and nowhere to turn. I say we travel to the coast and find our way beyond Edward’s reach.”

  The reminder of her husband Dafydd’s death in battle only a few weeks past was a fresh and aching wound in Carys’ heart. They’d been married less than a year, and her dreams of hearth, home, and children had died along with him. She didn’t know much of the world, but knew Longshank’s reach stretched far. Was there such a place where his presence wasn’t a blight upon the land?

  Somehow, the English had crossed the Irfon river downstream today and attacked their army from behind. Hywel and Carys had been part of a small group of archers charged with holding the Orewin bridge, keeping the English on the south side of the river. Once the Marcher Lords attacked the Cymru flank, the English cavalry crossed the bridge unopposed. Equipped with better armor and weapons, the battle had soon turned into a slaughter. Against all odds, Carys and her brother had survived. Their next steps would preserve that state—or fail.

  The coast lay a good two or three days away on foot. Carys and Hywel had traveled further before, though typically not in the dead of winter. Carys settled into her stride, more at home in the forest than in any dwelling, keeping her eyes and ears open for the enemy. By nightfall, they had put many miles between them and the battle site. Hywel placed a finger to his lips as they approached a cluster of cottages in a small valley ringed by hills. The rock walls and thatch roofs of the cottages appeared in good repair.

  “Ho the house,” Hywel called, keeping a respectable distance between himself and the cottages. Carys hid behind a tree, an arrow nocked and ready. With as much treachery as they’d witnessed today, she’d guard her brother’s life with her own.

  A large man opened the door to the nearest cottage. “Aye? What the devil do ye want this late of an eve?”

  “My companion and I seek a hot meal and mayhap a place in yer barn for the night. We have news of the battle and of Prince Llywelyn.” Hywel held up a brace of hares they’d shot along the way.

  He big man motioned for them to enter. “Come in, come in. Tis cold and I’m lettin’ out the heat.”

  Carys stowed her arrow and caught up with Hywel at the doorway. They stepped into the warm cottage. Her nose twitched and her mouth watered as the aroma of cooked food struck her. It had been days since they’d had a home cooked meal, and she prayed for the goodwife’s hospitality.

  “All Cymry are welcome in me home if they come in peace. Seat yerselves. Alis makes the best cawl lafwr in all of Cymru, and we were about to sit to supper.”

  Hywel and Carys leaned their bows, javelins and packs against the door frame and eased onto the bench their host indicated.

  “I’m Mal, and this is me wife, Alis. Our oldest son, Derwyn, daughter, Begwn and youngest boy, Derfel.”

  “I’m Hywel ap Pedr, and this is my sister, Carys. Many thanks for your hospitality.”

  Alis set two mugs full of cider and bowls of lamb stew in front of them. “Here, this will take the chill off. Ye didn’t have to pay for yer meal with game.”

  “Mewn pob daioni y mae gwobr,” Hywel replied.

  Alis planted both hands on her hips. “A reward in every goodness, aye? I can see yer mam taught ye well.”

  Carys glanced downward while Hywel offered a sad smile.

  “How’d they go?” Mal gently asked.


  “When Longshanks’ men took Ynys Mon, they were counted among the dead that day.”

  “Ye said ye had news,” Mal reminded them. He motioned for them to fill their bowls, and Hywel obliged with his tale.

  “We fought the English at the battle of Moel y don and drove them into the sea nigh on a month ago. We then followed the prince to Orewin Bridge. Our numbers were in the thousands, and would have won the day, but someone showed the English where to cross the Irfon beyond the bridge. They attacked from both sides. We did what we could, but ran once we saw Prince Llywelyn fall.”

  Mal shook his head, a heavy frown on his face. “Our dear prince has died? Aye, that’s dire new and no mistake. ’Tis no shame in living to fight another day. Our strength is in our knowledge of these forests, mountains and hills, and in the ambush. We’re no match for the English on an open field.”

  Carys drank the cider and soaked in the heat from the fire. Seeing this herder with his family enlarged the hole in her heart Dafydd’s death had created. A year into their marriage, she should have been picking up their first child. Instead she picked up arms against the cursed invaders. Her ancestors had done the same against the Vikings and the Romans before them. She longed for the cycle of violence to end.

  Mal sent his two youngest to bed shortly after supper. Hywel entertained their hosts and eldest with tales of their recent battles. He had the soul of a bard and entertained everyone with his stories. He and Mal speculated how long until Longshanks would send his Marcher Lords and their men deeper into the country to crush any further rebellion.

  Carys watched her brother. Hywel’s black wavy hair mirrored her own. They both were tall and slender and shared the same brown eyes, an inheritance from their parents. Carys spotted their da’s humor when her brother smiled, though he did so less these days.

  Their da had taught them both woodcraft and how to hunt at an early age, something all Cymry learned, even nobility. She speculated they’d spent more time in the woods than on their small holding growing up. Cymru’s mountainous terrain was ill-fitted for farming, though they grew enough crops and livestock in their small vale to allow them and their tenants to prosper. Like Mal and his family, they’d kept sheep, pigs, chickens and a few goats.

  Hywel tapped her on the shoulder. “Sister mine, ’tis time to find our rest and allow our hosts to sleep.”

  Carys nodded and sat upright, blinking her eyes against the red glow of the banked fire. She must have dozed. “Many thanks for yer hospitality,” she murmured.

  “You are welcome to sleep before the fire. ’Tis too cold in the barn this time of year,” Mal said.

  Carys smiled. “We’ve slept on the ground the past several nights. Yer barn will be a welcome comfort. Besides, we’ll be off afore light and do not wish to disturb ye.”

  “Here, at least take some laverbread for yer journey,” Alis said as she handed Hywel a linen-wrapped bundle.

  “Dduw bendithia eich teulu,” Hywel said as he accepted the gift.

  “May God bless your family as well,” Mal replied.

  They settled deep into a straw-filled stall and tucked their cloaks and blankets around them. Carys nestled into her seal fur-lined cloak, a wedding day gift from Dafydd. He’d taken her wool cloak without her knowledge and his mother and sister had sewn the hide of a seal he’d killed into the wrap. Too flustered by the details of her wedding day, she never realized the cloak was missing until he’d offered the sumptuous gift. Tears brimmed her eyes as Carys recalled the joy of receiving something so thoughtful and practical. More than a warm garment, it was a sign of a caring husband and acceptance by the women in his family.

  From her pocket, Carys fished the ring she’d claimed earlier in the day from the dead man. She took her own ring, the thin gold band Dafydd had given her on their wedding day, and put it on the chain with the other and drew them around her neck, the cold metal soothing against her skin. The delicate filigree circlet was obviously a woman’s ring and she wondered who it had belonged to. Had the soldier purchased it as a gift for his wife? If so, there was an Englishwoman soon to be grieving the loss of her husband. Her mother told her once, men went to war while women bore the burden of it. Carys hadn’t understood what she meant at the time. She did now.

  Rising before the sun, she nudged her brother awake. “Time to be on our way, Hywel.”

  Hywel stretched and walked to the back of the barn to relieve himself. Gathering their weapons, they resumed their journey. Breaking their fast with a piece of laverbread as they walked, Carys recalled when her mother taught her how to make the staple. Boil seaweed for hours until soft, then chop it fine and roll in oats before baking or frying. Alis had baked this batch, making it harder, ensuring it traveled well. Carys carefully tucked the memory of her mam away and sent a silent blessing to Alis for her thoughtfulness.

  Though unlikely the English were nearby, Hywel set a pace to devour the miles between them and the coast.

  “Where exactly are we headed?” Carys asked, eager to learn of his plan.

  “Aberystwyth is the nearest port of any size. We should reach the Rheidol River today. It will lead us to Aber and to the sea. From there we can find a ship to take us to either Erie or Scotland.”

  “Which has the better forests?” Carys wondered, anxious to return to a familiar life.

  “Scotland, I think. ’Tis the bigger of the two. Vikings and their decedents still hold parts at the northern end. We can either buy passage when we sell the sword and the daggers ye took, or we can hire on as crew for a merchant. Either way, ’tis time to find another home, though it pains me to say.”

  Carys frowned as she considered their future. “We’d die within the year, fighting the English if we remain. I do not fear dying, but would rather not throw my life away fighting for a cause that will not make a difference.”

  Hywel dipped his head in acknowledgment. Treachery among their kinsmen and women had cost them dearly.

  As predicted, they met the Rheidol by noon and followed it toward the sea. They exchanged two grouse and a pheasant for another hot meal, more laverbread, dried meat, and a night in a barn. The third morning they encountered the sea.

  Hywel and Carys stood on a hill over-looking the seaside hamlet of Aberystwyth. The sun lay just beyond the mountains, sending orange and pink streaks to announce the day’s arrival. The smell of the ocean filled Carys’ nose. A crying seagull wheeled in the brisk wintry air. They saw no sign of English soldiers, nor were any naval vessels moored nearby. The small fishing village appeared to be awakening to a new day as if unaffected by recent events.

  “Come, sister mine. We will need to find a ship quickly as they will want to sail with the tide.”

  Carys and Hywel trotted toward the docks where fishermen launched—their nets at the ready—and merchant vessels—both large and small—loaded goods.

  “Wait for me here,” Hywel said, handing her his bow and javelin.

  Carys watched as her brother’s easy style gained the attention of the old men gathered around the pier closest to them. Hywel said something to make the men laugh then shake his hand. One old man pointed toward another dock. Her brother patted him on the shoulder and strode back to her. Carys shook her head and smiled.

  “What?” Hywel asked as he approached, his smile mirroring hers.

  “Ye could charm the Almighty Himself if given half the chance.”

  “Mayhap, but I have found us a boat. The captain sails around Scotland, trading as he goes.”

  She nodded approval and stepped in behind him, the hood of her cowl pulled low. They passed taverns and inns, the smell of food in the air.

  “Wait, here, Princess, and I will sell the steel we took from the English at yon blacksmith,” Hywel teased.

  “You know I hate it when you call me that,” Carys said, grabbing Hywel by the arm.

  His eyes softened as he smiled. “Aye, I do, but ye are a true princess of Cymru.”

  “As ye are a true prince, brother
.”

  Hywel offered a sad smile and pulled off the signet ring given him by their father, a symbol of his place in the royal house. The heavy gold ring was embossed with the Dragon of Cymru, Llewelyn’s symbol.

  “Keep it safe with yer others,” he bade, then strode toward a building, smoke rising from its stone chimney.

  Carys placed the ring on her chain with the others and watched Hywel enter the smith’s shop, her nose twitching at the scent of baked goods. She spotted a vender selling fresh meat pies and bought four bundled in a cloth.

  “Ye’ve the stench of death on ye, lass.”

  A gnarled hand grasped Carys’ arm. She turned and gazed into the milky eyes of an old woman.

  “Aye, nain,” Carys replied kindly. “I’ve just come from battle where our beloved prince was struck dead by the English.”

  The old woman clucked her tongue once. “Dreadful news that is, indeed. What I sense is not simply the death behind ye, though there be plenty, but the death afore ye.”

  A hole opened in Carys’ stomach at the thought of more loss. “What shall I do?” she asked on a choked whisper.

  The old crone patted her arm. “It matters not, my dear. Stay or go. Death follows ye like a hound. Though if ye leave this day, ’twill send yer own death into the distant future.”

  Handing the old woman one of her meat pies, Carys kissed her on the forehead. “God be with ye, nain.”

  “And with you, dear child,” the woman said as she accepted Carys’ gift and blended into the crowd.

  Carys strode to Hywel as he left the smith, and handed him his pies.

  Hywel gave her a pleased grin. “The English may be a curse upon the land, but their steel isn’t. The blades fetched a good price. Hmm, this is good,” he mumbled around a mouth full of lamb and root vegetables as he took a bite.