The Prince's Highland Bride: A Scottish Medieval Romantic Adventure

Book 6: Hardy Heroines

by Cathy MacRae, DD MacRae

Synopsis

He gave up his crown. She found her freedom. With pain in their past, can they claim a bright future together?

The Holy Land, 1224. Ousted Armenian king Phillipe de Poitiers is paying the price for breaking his moral code of honor. Surviving a savage coup, he's forced to flee wrongful execution by selling his sword and chasing fond memories of his foster family to Scotland. But the former prince of Antioch finds a chance of redemption when he meets a beautiful woman who he suspects shares an equally painful history.

Maggie MacLaren refuses to be betrayed again. After she‘s discarded by her husband when she doesn't produce a child, she seizes control of her life. But when she travels to her only remaining home off the bleak western Scottish coast, she's struck by her handsome guard's chivalry.

Drawn to the rejected woman's strength and spirit, Phillipe protects her as fiercely as he once did his subjects. But Maggie's discovery that her remote isle hides a huge pile of pirate treasure could cut apart their growing love with one thrust of a thieving dagger.

Can two wounded souls leave their troubles behind and fill their hearts with riches?

The Prince's Highland Bride is the absorbing sixth standalone book in the Hardy Heroines historical romance series. If you like royal stakes, stories inspired by true events, and rugged settings, then you'll love Cathy & DD MacRae's heartwarming tale.

Release date: May 13, 2020

Publisher: Short Dog Press

Print pages: 296

Sample

Chapter One

 

 

Phillipe of Antioch, the son of Bohemond IV, was a real person. Chosen to play a role in The Highlander’s Crusader Bride, he became more to us than an unfortunate victim of politics and court intrigue. At first glance, he was destined to meet his fate in the dungeons of Cis Castle. As we dug deeper, we wanted to know, What if . . .?

 

 

 

The Mediterranean coast

Early winter

1224 AD

 

“Halt!”

The shout from behind echoed off the rocks, punctuated by the shush of steel against leather and the thunder of the mounted pack. Phillipe urged his horse to greater speed. Surrender was not an option.

To his left and right, his guards bent low over their horses, grimly determined to outpace the men in pursuit. They were past reckless banter, beyond the boasts that they’d make it to Tripoli. All attention was on the dangerous footing ahead and in assessing the manner of men who chased them. The road from Sis to Tripoli was not often fraught with such danger, but bandits were not unknown. However, if Phillipe was placing bets, his would lie squarely on Baron Konstantin.

The darkness which had hidden their departure from Sis Castle was no longer their ally, but rather their foe as they sped over the rutted road. Torchlight twinkled in the distance, marking the city ahead, taunting them with safety.

If only Father received my missive. If he’s sent men to help . . ..

But Phillipe knew help would not be forthcoming. The road ahead lay silent. Failure loomed, tightening like a physical noose about his neck.

I am the King of Cilicia! They have no right! Rage burned side by side with indignation at the injustice. Grand Baron Konstantin, former regent to the young queen, Phillipe’s wife, cared for nothing but furthering his own power—and Phillipe stood squarely in his way.

Phillipe’s steed stumbled, his shod hooves clattering over loosened stones.

“Merde!”

As if to answer his irreverence, his horse pitched forward, falling abruptly to its knees. Phillipe lost his grip and plummeted over the animal’s neck, landing hard on the packed ground. With a grunt of effort, he rolled and sprang to his feet, body low, sword in hand. A swift glance at his horse told him it would prove no further use in evading capture. Its sides billowed, head low, one foreleg toeing the ground as though it could no longer bear weight.

Pain flashed through Phillipe’s skull. He winced and shook his head as his vision cleared. Four men shot past. They wheeled their horses in a spray of dust and gravel. Phillipe felt rather than saw his trusted guards—Hugh and John, men who, like him, called Antioch, not Cilicia, home—align to flank him.

Cloaks swirling about them like the wings of giant black birds, the bandits—if that was what they were—circled Phillipe and his men. Moonlight glinted off the long sweep of deadly kilij, the weighted, curved blades of the mounted warrior. Phillipe flinched. A single downward stroke would slice through him with little effort. If either he or even one of his men faltered, they were doomed.

He made a beckoning gesture with the fingers of his left hand, lips curled in a feral grin.

The black-clad men faced Phillipe and his guard, the ends of their turbans wrapped to conceal the lower halves of their faces. Moonlight glinted dully on chainmail coifs protecting their necks and shoulders.

These were no ordinary bandits.

Damn. He resisted the urge to exchange glances with his guards. Phillipe gripped his straight-bladed sword, raising it aloft in a high guard. Hugh and John lifted their swords waist-high, clearing their saddles, prepared to strike.

The bandits charged side-by-side. Phillipe backed against John’s horse’s flank, sticking close as his men met the charge. John ducked a swing meant to take his head and countered with a strike that bit deep into the bandit’s torso. Phillipe blocked a downward attack and rammed his shoulder into the villain’s horse, causing it to veer to the side. The rider grabbed the reins with both hands, dropping his guard. Phillipe thrust his sword through his foe then pushed him from the saddle and mounted the steed.

Phillipe whirled his horse at a shout from Hugh. Sleeve darkened with blood as he valiantly fought the two remaining marauders, Hugh was rapidly losing the fight. Phillipe brought his sword up for a head strike then sliced low when the bandit raised his guard to parry. The force of Phillipe’s swing unhorsed the man. He landed awkwardly on the hard, rocky ground and did not rise.

Hugh dispatched the remaining bandit then sagged forward, his wounds taking their tithe.

“John, bring wine and bandages,” Phillipe shouted as he dismounted to help Hugh to the ground.

Hugh waved him weakly away. “Go, my lord. Ye expose yourself. I will just slow ye down.” He grimaced as Phillipe helped him to sit.

“I’ll not leave ye to die in this place,” Phillipe growled. “Not after ye risked your life to protect me.”

John knelt beside them, placing a stoppered flagon on the ground, along with a length of cloth. He split Hugh’s sleeve, exposing a deep cut the length of the man’s upper arm. Blood welled steadily from the wound and the white of bone could be seen. Already Hugh’s skin appeared tinged with gray.

John shook his head. “He’s right, m’lord. We should run whilst we have the chance. Antioch is but a few leagues away.”

“I’ll not leave him to die alone.”

“Then let me tend his wounds and ye go ahead. I will see to it he makes it to your father’s palace.”

“Go, m’lord. John will patch me up and ye can send your father’s men to escort us back.”

Torn between loyalty and duty, Phillipe kicked a rock with frustrated violence then mounted the horse he’d won in battle.

“Very well. But I command ye both to follow as soon as ye are able.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Phillipe guided his horse into the shadows and was only a short distance away when the sound of horses thundered behind him. Wheeling his mount, Phillipe drew his sword and raced back. A score of riders encircled Hugh and John, dressed the same as the deceased bandits, swords pointed at their heads.

A tall man, his face angular, his nose as sharp as a falcon’s beak, kneed his horse between his soldiers. His eyes narrowed in the barest hint of pleasure. He jerked his head toward Phillipe.

“If he resists, kill the others.”

Phillipe spat on the ground. “’Tis like ye to sit back and command others to do your work, Darius. Konstantin’s actions have rubbed off on ye.”

Darius fluttered the fingers of one hand in a bored manner and shrugged. “I prefer not to soil my hands with the likes of thieves.”

Phillipe startled, caught off-guard by the accusation. “Thieves? Ye have the wrong man.” A sneer dragged at one side of his mouth. “Crawl back to your master. Ye have no authority over me.”

“Oh?” He nodded to someone beyond Phillipe’s shoulder. The man held Phillipe’s lame horse with one hand, a leather satchel in the other.

“I found this, Sardar.” The soldier opened the leather bag and reached inside. Moonlight sparkled in his hand as he withdrew it—flashes of red and white, and a twinkle of gold.

“What . . .?” Phillipe shook his head, but the unexpected sight of the jewels befuddled his mind even more.

Darius smirked, his condescending manner infuriating Phillipe—as it always had.

“We are taking ye back to Sis to stand trial, my King.” The title dripped acidly from Darius’s lips.

“On what charge?” Phillipe demanded. A sick sensation hollowed his stomach.

“Why, theft of the Crown Jewels of Cilicia, of course.”

 

* * *

 

Phillipe choked. Smoke filled his nose. His chest contracted violently, forcing him onto his side as he gagged. Pain lanced through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut against the agony, then slowly opened them.

Damn Darius to hell. And damn his lackeys who cracked my skull.

A pair of scuffed boots entered his vision. The stench of ancient, nameless muck rose from the rotted straw beneath his cheek. Phillipe sneezed, rolling to his back with a groan. Two men stood over him, one on either side, heavily armed, with malicious grins stretching their lips above yellowed teeth. Phillipe slowly sat then gingerly moved his limbs, the clink of chain across the floor confirming his worst fear.

He was in prison. Even had he not been beaten, he doubted his chance of rescue. The underground hellholes of Sis offered little in the way of basic survival, and none of escape. The memory of his capture was fuzzy at best, but he recalled the accusation—a preposterous charge likely fabricated by Baron Konstantin himself—of stealing the Crown Jewels. One more black mark against him in the hearts of his adopted people. He was an outsider, married to their nine-year-old queen. A marriage he hadn’t wanted, but his father had given him no choice in the matter. As Bohemond IV’s third son, his life was that of an expendable political pawn.

It appeared he was expendable once again.

“Get up.”

The butt of a spear prodded his back, spreading agony from where a well-aimed boot had connected just below his waist. He’d be pissing blood for days. If he lived that long.

Phillipe struggled gingerly to his feet and tottered unsteadily. He caught his balance, but the heavy chains dragged at wrist and ankle, making it difficult to remain standing. A shout echoed down the stone hallway, bouncing hollowly through the twists and turns. Raucous noise billowed from the cells lining the narrow passage, increasing in volume. Phillipe winced.

A man stopped before the gate to Phillipe’s cell, his heavy cloak billowing about his feet. Metal clanged as the gaoler thrust a heavy key into the lock and turned it, then swung open the door. A lackey darted inside, lantern held high. The golden glow illuminated the visitor’s face, but even without the light, Phillipe knew at once who it was.

“Baron Konstantin.” Phillipe inclined his head in a fraction of social mockery. “How kind of ye to drop by.” He spread his hands at his waist, palms up. “I’m a bit tied up at the moment, but I am certain an appointment could be made if ye wish to return when I am not quite so indisposed.”

“Impertinence.” Konstantin snorted, his eyes flashing. “I have suffered your shortcomings for far too long.” His black eyes cut to the men on either side and his manner relaxed as if remembering he played to a crowd of avid eavesdroppers.

“Theft of the Crown Jewels carries the penalty of imprisonment.” His voice, smooth and oily, reached every eager ear. “I fear the people’s tolerance of your arrogance and blasphemous actions against the Armenian Church is at an end. Despite your lofty title, ye will pay the penalty for your misconduct.”

Phillipe bristled. How dare the baron besmirch his holy commitments? “I fought to protect Jerusalem before I earned my spurs. Condemn me for being loyal to the Roman Church, but do not name me a common thief.”

Baron Konstantin stepped closer, the smirk on his face growing. “I have ye where I have wanted ye since the day ye arrived. Ye will not live to see the end of your sentence, this I swear.” His voice hissed low, meant for Phillipe’s ears only. “I will rule Cilicia, make no mistake.”

Fresh anger roiled through Phillipe. He rolled his shoulders, the movement rattling his chains. “Where is Zabel? If ye have harmed her, I swear . . ..” If Konstantin knew Zabel had approved Phillipe’s dash to Antioch, what would befall her?

Konstantin laughed. “Never fear. Queen Isabella is quite safe. Ye do not think I would harm my ward? She has been as a daughter to me since her father died, God rest his soul.”

“She ceased being your ward when she married me,” Phillipe bit out, frustrated by the power struggle he’d endured the past two years.

“That did cause difficulty,” the baron agreed with a sage nod. He leaned his head close enough to whisper in Phillipe’s ear. “She will be well cared for. My son, Hethum, has always had a fondness for her. I think the two of them, both of pure Cilician blood and of the Armenian Church, will prove a most advantageous match.”

“She’s but a child!” Phillipe growled, hands fisting impotently. Zabel had never been a wife to him, her age forbade it, but he’d loved and protected her as though she’d been his sister.

The baron shrugged. “She will not always be a child. Do not worry. We have the best interests of Zabel and Cilicia at heart. She will not mourn ye for long.”

“Damn you, Konstantin!” Phillipe roared. “May ye rot in the deepest hell!” He jerked against his restraints. The guards on either side clubbed the backs of his knees with the butts of their spears and he crashed to the floor. The baron took a single step back, a mocking gesture proving his superiority.

“The people of Cilicia will rejoice at your death, Phillipe. They cry out for your blood. There is no love for ye in their hearts, no matter they once praised ye and the alliance ye brought.”

Phillipe ground his teeth. “My father will avenge me.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” A rictus of a satisfied smile flirted with Konstantin’s lips. “Though he may wish to try.”

His words carried a wistful quality, as though Konstantin knew something Phillipe and his father, the powerful Prince of Antioch, did not. The baron leveled a shrewd gaze on Phillipe as he stepped away.

“Enjoy what life ye have left. Prayer and penance would be my suggestion.” His voice once again drifted through the chamber, pious and regretful. With a twitch of his cloak, he withdrew. The ancient metal door clanged shut behind him.

Deep, hot rage swept through Phillipe. What had been asked of him had been outside his power—or intent—to give. No matter the flowery words and promises at his marriage and coronation, the thought of renouncing his religion for that of the Armenian Church had affronted him.

Phillipe could have been a better king, perhaps even a better husband, but even his best intentions had proven inadequate. Zabel would undoubtedly fare better without her foreign husband and his suspect ways at her side. His presence—once cheered—now only divided the people. Would Konstantin truly protect her? Would Hethum—a boy closer to Zabel’s age and born and raised in Cilicia and the Armenian Church—prove a wiser choice?

Phillipe had not asked for the crown of Cilicia, but he’d pay for the privilege with his life.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Bridei Keep, Aberdeen coast

Early winter, 1224 AD

Scotland

 

 

Thwak!

The bolt smacked the tree trunk with a satisfying thunk. Maggie shifted the crossbow point down and placed her boot in the stirrup at the front of the weapon. With a strong upward pull, she engaged the string against the nut and placed another quarrel in the groove.

She glanced dispassionately at the bolts bristling from the tree trunk and the few scattered on the ground.

How many imaginary shots at the earl would it take to blunt the edge of her anger?

She leveled the crossbow, placing one thumb in a groove to line up her sighting. The image of Richard’s face hovered over her improvised target.

At least one more.

Thwak!

She leaned the weapon against a boulder and reached for her longbow. She hefted its abbreviated length, thankful for her father’s armorer who had insisted she have a bow that fit her stature. Not that she was particularly short—especially for a woman—but her father’s six-foot bow had proved more than she could handle.

Shifting the quiver over her shoulder, she fired all six arrows in rapid succession.

One. Men . . ..

Two. Are not . . ..

Three. Fair.

Four. I . . ..

Five. Will not . . ..

Six. Be defeated.

Four of the shafts bristled among the bolts. One lay on the ground some distance away. The sixth was lost in the underbrush.

Her shoulders ached. As did her heart. The failure of her marriage was not for lack of attention. She’d tried. Her mother’s instructions on how to be a good wife even now echoed in her mind. Maggie had shied from nothing and had even tried to love her husband.

Though she’d not been fond of leaving her home in the Highlands and becoming the wife of the Earl of Mar, he’d seemed pleasant enough initially, if often a bit distant, and her father desired the connection.

But during the time they’d been married, she’d given him no children, and he’d dissolved the union. She would be sent back, used, unwanted—and childless. Forever shamed as barren.

 

* * *

 

Maggie’s view from her window of Minfur Burn changed with the seasons, and it was once again a white sparkle of water through red and gold leaves. A year. She’d lived at Bridei Keep for a year and had naught but heartache and strife to show for it. An all-too-familiar ache closed about her heart, stopping her breath. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms against the pain.

Around her, yet seeming as distant as the burn itself, women busied themselves packing her belongings. Yvaine’s stare fired daggers between Maggie’s shoulders, but she refused to cower from the older woman’s judgment. Maggie drew heavily on the knowledge she was going home. Home to Loch Lomond and her beloved Highlands where she’d once again be Maggie MacLaren, not the wife of the Earl of Mar.

Give me one good reason I shouldnae chain ye to a rock and leave ye for the tide.

She suppressed a shudder, reliving the horror of the past week when Richard had at last refuted their marriage.

Because ’tis a day’s ride to the sea and ye’ve never done anything even slightly beyond yer own comfort. She’d wanted to fling the words at him, but had resisted. Her husband—former husband—had rarely done anything that did not provide himself instant gratification, or at least the fairly immediate promise of pleasure. And he’d proven to have an unforgiving streak. He’d likely haul her to the coast, no matter the cost to his comfort, merely to prove her wrong.

A bolt between his ribs would have . . .. She drew a deep breath against the thought. A well-placed bolt would have cured naught.

She understood he needed an heir. She felt the lack of a bairn as keenly as she would the loss of air to breathe. As disgraceful as it was to be sent home barren and unwanted, it had to be better than the life to which she’d sunk once Richard had realized his efforts in her bed had failed to produce a bairn.

A wooden trunk slammed closed and Maggie jumped, battling fear as she spun about, hating the look of satisfaction in Yvaine’s cold eyes.

“My son is well rid of ye. Though why he bothers giving ye passage back to yer clan . . ..” She shrugged. “It speaks well of him, do ye not think so?”

Nothing in Maggie’s heart thought well of Richard de Moravia just now, so she bit her tongue against an ill-guarded reply.

Yvaine lifted her chin. “Mark my words. He’ll not be without a suitable woman for long.”

Nae, he’s been with many, suitable and otherwise, for weeks, now. The bitter words hung silent in the air. She knew Yvaine was aware of her son’s numerous dalliances, but it was clear she chose to ignore them this day. Maggie pulled herself together. He’d given her another reason to fire a crossbow quarrel . . . though at a target somewhat south of his treacherous heart.

“I wish him all he desires from this life,” she murmured, forcing the words. The two maids exchanged lively glances, eagerly anticipating a battle between the Earl of Mar’s mother and his former, unlamented wife. Maggie would not give it to them. She’d endured the woman’s disdain for twelve long months, painfully aware she did not live up to Yvaine’s standards. Maggie was too tall, too robust, to meet the older woman’s expectations of a proper bride. Yvaine had wished for a dainty daughter by marriage, slender and feminine, willing to fawn on Yvaine’s every utterance. Maggie, with her forthright manner and the ample curves Richard had once admired, fell disappointingly short.

Spoiling for an argument, Yvaine waved her bejeweled fingers dismissively. “Ye should have retired quietly to the abbey and lived yer life in penance for yer failure as a woman. Richard would have supported ye.”

“He would have supported my silence and encouraged a vow of poverty.”

“None will listen to ye, and yer return to yer family will also offer a similar lack of comfort.” Yvaine peered down her regal nose. “God will neither forgive nor forget yer refusal.”

“At least my family welcomes me.”

Yvaine arched a brow. “Yer da willnae welcome ye. He thought to rise above his station by marrying his daughter to an earl. MacLaren is a minor chief and always will be.”

Maggie’s temper flared. “I would rather live as the daughter of a minor chief than the wife of an arrogant earl.”

Yvaine grinned, clearly pleased to have provoked Maggie.

“And so ye shall.”

 

* * *

 

The travel to MacLaren land was long and made more arduous by the almost utter silence from the three men and maid accompanying her. But silence and disdain had been Maggie’s constant companion for weeks, even months, and she could not deny the thrill rising as they left the rolling hills of Aberdeenshire and approached the towering peaks of her beloved Highlands.

Home meant the mountains and the crystal waters of Loch Lomond. Bridei Keep had been the earl’s home, never hers. She took a deep breath against the pang of longing. She’d tried to make a place for herself at the keep named for the Pictish king who’d built the kirk at the site more than six hundred years earlier. Its ancient history called to her, but its people had not.

The wagon creaked and bumped over the uneven trail and Maggie longed for the palfrey she’d left behind. Richard had been kind to her in the beginning, eager to please, and had showered her with numerous gifts, including the pretty black mare with white stockings. Yvaine had insisted she leave everything behind. Fighting with the woman over a few possessions had not appealed to Maggie. She did not mourn the loss of jewels and rich clothing, but the uncomfortable lurch and wobble of the wagon reminded her of the loss of the mare. Her bigger regret was the passing of the chance to make a life for herself and the children she hadn’t conceived. The earl had no use for a childless wife.

By the time they left the sea near Perth and began traveling west and south to Stirling, the once-colorful autumn leaves had become dry and brittle. They fluttered from the limbs in the wind and crunched beneath the horses’ hooves. By the time they entered the wooded glens and braes of the Trossachs, a dusting of snow blanketed the road and a mantle of white lay atop Ben Lomond.

“Glad I’ll be to put these mountains behind me,” grumbled one of the men. He hunched his shoulders forward and tugged his cloak tighter about his neck.

“Winter will have reached Bridei by the time we return,” another replied, disgust peppering his words.

Maggie tamed the smile tugging at her lips. Only another day, perhaps two, and she’d be home. No longer would she fear her least movement would be reported to Yvaine or Richard. No longer would she bow her head to appease those around her. Her heart hummed at the sighting of every rise, every glen, every quiet glittering loch.

She quelled the jubilant tapping of her toes. She was grateful her escort hadn’t left her—or sold her—at one of the many villages and towns along the way. It was impossible to know what their instructions were, and even if they abandoned her now, it was likely she’d make it to Castle Narnain on her own.

Her maid wriggled closer to the man driving the wagon and folded her hands within his cloak. He glanced at her, brows raised, then grinned. She giggled and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Maggie rolled her eyes. At least someone wouldn’t sleep cold this night.

She didn’t care. Perhaps it would keep the grumbling to a minimum. She wanted to enjoy this homecoming. Bask in the tall shadows of the mountains and the sunlight in the glens.

And ignore the dread pooling in her stomach when her father discovered her on his doorstep and his boasts of having an earl for a son-in-law crumpled about her feet.

Men. Why did they place stock in such things? For that matter, why did women? From her earliest memory, her father had prattled about his plans for her. Despite her preference for woodland trails and skills with daggers, he’d eventually forced her into castle halls and drills with needlepoint.

 

Excitement and dread gripped her belly, an appalling combination producing the inability to sleep or eat. Her temper grew short as the last miles to Castle Narnain slipped slowly beneath the ponies’ hooves. Maggie finally lost her battle with impatience and, grabbing her crossbow and quiver of quarrels, leapt from the wagon.

The driver looked up. “Hey! Where do ye think ye’re going?”

Maggie silenced him with a flap of her hand. Head high, she breathed deeply of the crisp, cold air. It stung her cheeks, brought tears to her eyes, though whether from the bite of winter or the burn of anticipation, she couldn’t say. She was no longer constrained by the weight of disappointment. Her heart felt as light as a bird on its first flight. Independence running roughshod over fear.

She hiked her skirts and hurried up the path. She rounded a bend and found the tiny village of her birth scattered in the glen below. The sight drew her onward and moments later the keep of Castle Narnain rose above the trees. Ageless and formidable, and named for Ben Narnain—the mountain of iron—it clung to a rocky crag overlooking the placid water.

The wagon creaked and clanked behind her. People glanced up from their various tasks. Visitors were a rarity in this secluded glen. Apparently finding nothing threatening in the wooden wagon and two mounted men, they seemed to lose interest.

Maggie’s breath came in deep pants as she approached the keep perched at the top of a steep hill. She’d had little exercise in the past year and felt the lack acutely. She mounted the path resolutely, boots treading the packed earth.

A shout sounded from the top of the hill. Someone recognized her. A ripple of excitement fluttered in her belly. Guards peered over the walls, their numbers increasing. Maggie smiled. These were her people. They knew her and she knew them. She quickened her step, reaching the gate out of breath but happy. The door to the keep opened and a shadow spilled into the yard.

Da?

Apprehension prickled her skin. Maggie paused, striving for calm. How would he greet her? She’d not heard from him for several months.

The shadowed form stepped forward. Dugal MacLaren strode across the yard, the hem of his cloak flapping in his wake.

“Maggie?”

Her heart raced. Damn Richard for not sending word ahead of my return.

“Aye. ’Tis me. I’m home.”