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

  The Prince’s Highland Bride

  By Cathy & DD MacRae

  PUBLISHED BY

  Short Dog Press

  www.cathymacraeauthor.com

  The Prince’s Highland Bride © 2020 Short Dog Press

  All rights reserved

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To all in search of their

  Happy Ever After

  The Prince’s Highland Bride

  Phillipe de Poitiers, a prince of Antioch, finds himself a breath away from wrongful execution. Risking everything, he leaves behind his crown, his family, his country—and a body sworn to be his by the Bishop, himself.

  Free of court intrigue and drawn to Scotland by memories of a woman who once possessed his heart, Phillipe sells his sword to pay for his travels and accepts the task of guarding the daughter of Laird MacLaren.

  When Maggie MacLaren’s abusive marriage fails, she wants nothing more than to retire to her childhood home on the banks of Loch Lomond. Trouble follows her, putting her clan in danger, and she travels to the Isle of Hola, placing her safety in the hands of a mysterious mercenary with a haunted smile and a kind heart.

  As Maggie and Phillipe struggle with their pasts, love blooms. But when a pirate’s treasure offers a seductive lure, will it free them—or prove the downfall of all they hold dear?

  Phillipe of Antioch, briefly king of Cilicia, would be remembered by the world as an arrogant, presumptuous man, poisoned two years after his marriage to the queen of Cilicia, accused of crimes against his adopted country. This re-imagined telling of Phillipe’s life, one of court intrigue, distrust, and the lust for power, shines a different light (and ending) on the tale.

  Books in the Hardy Heroines Series

  Highland Escape (book 1)

  The Highlander’s Viking Bride (book 2)

  The Highlander’s Crusader Bride (book 3)

  The Highlander’s Norse Bride, a Novella (book 4)

  The Highlander’s Welsh Bride (book 5)

  The Prince’s Highland Bride (book 6)

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  The Prince’s Highland Bride

  Books in the Hardy Heroines Series

  Words of Interest

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Epilogue

  MORE BOOKS by Cathy MacRae

  About the Authors

  Other ways to connect with Cathy:

  A Note from the Authors

  Acknowledgements

  Words of Interest

  Armenian words:

  Astvats Giti - ‘God knows’

  Hrazhest – farewell

  Persian words:

  Sardar – a title of nobility which denotes a prince, nobleman, or other aristocrat

  La - No

  Norman French words:

  Fils de pute – son of a bitch

  Le chiot – puppy

  Ma belle – beautiful one

  Mon ange – my angel

  Mon Coeur – my heart; depicts a deep love

  Norman words:

  Harousse – old horse/mare (from old Norse hross- horse/mare)

  Norse words:

  Donansgeir – the rock of Donan

  Eyrr – a sandbank or small spit of land running into the sea

  Erryhús – House on a spit of land running to the sea – the longhouse on Hola

  Fálki – falcon

  Freya – Norse for Lady, Mistress

  Hola – hole or cavity, hole inside rocks

  Hús – house

  Langskip - longship

  Steðja – halt, stop, settle

  Scottish words:

  Bawheid – idiot, fool

  Bowsterous – boisterous, fierce, rowdy

  Daftie – an idiot

  Dirdy-flitcher – a butterfly

  Dreicht - dreary, gloomy, bleak, miserable, grey, depressing, devoid of sunshine

  Gey wheen – large number

  Gie – give

  Guid – good

  Hauld yer wheesht – be silent; quit complaining

  Peelies – crabs which are molting their shells; they are vulnerable to predators at this stage.

  Peerie-weerie – a tiny creature

  Ramscallion – a rapscallion, a playfully mischievous scoundrel

  Skaithed – hurt, injured

  Skunner – a loathsome, terrible person

  Snell – very cold, bitter weather you feel right down to the bone.

  Sump – when the rain comes down with gusto and great strength

  Tottie – tiny

  Twa - two

  Gaelic words:

  Machair – a fertile low-lying grassy plain found on coastlines of Ireland and Scotland, particularly the Hebrides

  Mar – seagull; a MacLean ship

  Muinnitir – ‘people’ or ‘folk’; used to describe ‘family’ in its broadest sense.

  Saorsa – freedom, liberty; a MacLean merchant ship

  Other:

  Mazer – someone who makes or brews mead

  Cyser – a blend of honey and apple juice fermented together

  Maimones – a garlic soup in Malaga

  Almojabana – cheesecake in Malaga

  Skerry – reef or rocky island

  Chapter One

  Phillipe of Antioch, the son of Bohemond IV, was a real person. Chosen to play a rol
e 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.”