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

  Arbela dropped her head to her hands and groaned aloud. “Marriage again? I do not wish to be married, Da.”

  “’Tis a woman’s fate to marry and breed sons, Bela.” Alex sat upright, arms folded, his smug expression telling the story they’d had this argument before. Arbela narrowed her eyes at him, wordlessly threatening retaliation. Philippe remained quiet, taking neither side, though his lips twisted in a partial smile.

  “And who would have guarded yer back today, dear brother?” Arbela quipped. “The Prince and Clan MacLean would be in mourning this eve had I not been ready with a bow to even the odds.”

  A knight in her father’s service approached her da from behind, a missive in his hand, interrupting any further talk of marriage and women’s duty. The baron broke the wax disc and opened the parchment.

  “My sire’s seal,” Philippe observed.

  Donal nodded agreement as a frown replaced his previous mirth.

  “What does the Prince say, Da?” Alex leaned close to get a glimpse of the message.

  “It says we are to leave for Antioch on the morrow. Philippe is to be wed and the Prince seeks my counsel on a matter of some importance, though what, he dinnae say.” Donal lifted his head and called to another of his men. “Amhal!”

  “Yes, Albarun?” Her da’s dark-skinned castellan bowed briefly.

  “Sir Philippe, my family, and twenty knights are to depart for Antioch at first light. See to the preparations at once.”

  “As you wish, Albarun.” With a turn, Amhal shouted orders in rapid Arabic, putting all servants within hearing into motion. Though an Arab, Amhal was Copt rather than Muslim, and had proven his worth a thousand times over, easing the way for her father to hire people to work the land and to establish local connections for trade. They now turned away people seeking work due to her father’s reputation, as few Latin nobles treated their servants as well.

  Donal’s pronouncement muted the celebration as news of Philippe’s nuptials spread, and speculation about the Prince’s summons began.

  Arbela rose from the table. “Da, might I be excused?”

  Her sire stood and waved for everyone to continue, then gestured for Arbela to follow him. He escorted Arbela to his solar on the second level. He indicated a chair and poured them both wine while she sat, arms crossed, preparing for the lecture certain to come.

  “Arbela, ye know ye are as precious to me as my next breath. After yer ma was cut down by a Turkish sword, I swore I’d never allow ye to be helpless. I’ve encouraged ye to train alongside yer brother. Ye take to the training like a hawk to the wind. Ye’ve a keen mind for logic and tactics. However, ’tis time ye considered yer future, and ’tis not as one of yer da’s men-at-arms. Yer brother and Philippe both earned their spurs this year and will soon go their own ways. ’Tis time for ye to seek a husband.”

  Arbela twisted her archer’s thumb ring and calmed her breathing as she attempted to push emotion aside and gather her thoughts. “Aye, Philippe and Alex earned their spurs, and were I a son instead of a daughter, I would have earned them as well. I am better with a bow and dagger than either of them and have skills they know nothing of.”

  Donal shifted uncomfortably in his chair and ran his fingers through his thick silver-shot auburn hair. “But ye arenae a man, ye are a woman. No matter how much ye wish otherwise. Dinnae remind me of the Hashashin training ye received from yer ma’s kin. Had I known yer uncle practiced the black fighting arts, I wouldnae have allowed ye to spend so much time with them.”

  “What need do I have of a husband, Da?” Arbela asked, attempting to distract her da from his speech against training she’d found fascinating. “What have I to offer a man? Do ye think a husband will allow me to fletch arrows? Lead the hunt? Sharpen his sword or mend his armor? I cannot embroider, nor can I weave.” She knew she was running out of time before her sire lost his temper and ended her conversation.

  He dismissed her arguments with a wave of his hand. “Ye have followed Amhal about since ye were a wee lass. He has taught ye all ye need to know to run yer own home. Ye love Farlan and Elspeth’s children like they were yer own.”

  Arbela shook her head and opened her mouth to reply, but her father halted her with a lifted forefinger.

  “I may have been a poor younger son of a Scottish laird when I took up the cross and followed King Richard, but I am now a baron of a small but important holding, serve a powerful lord, and have made a fortune twice over in trade. Ye have royal blood from yer ma’s side, and a very large dowry to ensure ye are considered by every nobleman’s son in the Levant.”

  The look in her father’s eyes and the determination he wore marked her defeat. She would have to consider another strategy. “My dowry will ensure men will see only what they stand to gain, and ignore the woman.” Melancholy filled her voice.

  “Ye are approaching twenty summers, daughter. ’Tis past time for ye to marry. I will find ye a husband who willnae try and break yer spirit, but ye will obey me. I will seek the Prince’s counsel on the matter and see ye married before the year is out.”

  Arbela rose, made her curtsy, and quietly left her father in his solar. She padded down the hall to her chamber, Toros and Garen in her wake, her heart throbbing painfully. Marriage would mean she’d have to give up the life she loved and submit to a man who cared naught for her—only for the color of her father’s coin. Briefly, she considered running away to her mother’s people but knew they would allow her fewer choices than her sire had. Misery threatened to settle like a shroud. The journey to Antioch she’d greatly anticipated only an hour before, now loomed like a trip to the gallows.

  Chapter 2

  Loch Linnhe

  Western Highlands of Scotland

  Caelen MacKern glanced around the hall at the solemn remnant of his people. Little more than half his clan remained alive. The worst of the outbreak was over, but Clan MacKern had been devastated by what their healer called mezils. They’d spent the day burning bodies as winter made the rocky earth too hard to dig proper graves for all. As laird, he could not risk seeing more of his people sickened by this scourge from allowing the bodies to linger for burial, so they bid fare thee well to kin the old Viking way.

  He nodded thanks to the serving lass whose sweating brow and flushed face suggested she was barely out of the sickbed. The smell of pottage wafting from the bowl she set before him was a welcome change from the stench of disease and death lingering in the castle. Caelen reflected on the faces now gone, many he’d known since childhood—either theirs or his own. Though the pestilence had affected everyone, it hit the eldest and youngest the worst. He pulled a long draught of ale to wash down the bitterness of loss before devouring his humble meal.

  The door to the keep opened and closed with a snick. Spurs jangled on the flagstones. Caelen glanced up. “Rory. ’Tis good to have ye home. What news do ye bring from the MacLean?’

  Caelen nodded to the serving lass to bring his captain a bowl and mug. Rory offered her a smile of appreciation for the food and drink. “Thank ye, lass.”

  He dropped into his seat. “The MacLean is dead.” He allowed the words to settle before continuing.

  Caelen scowled. “Dead? How?”

  Rory took a bite then gestured at the near-empty hall with his spoon. “Same curst affliction that ravaged our people.”

  “Damn. We dinnae need our agreement with MacLean to get pushed aside whilst they sort out a new laird. Any talk about who ’twill be?”

  “I spoke with their elders. Two on the council died from the illness, though another recovers slowly. They sent word to the Prince of Antioch inquiring of Donal MacLean.”

  Caelen absorbed this news, trying to remember the man behind the name. “A younger son who took up the cross, aye?”

  Rory nodded. “They say he attached himself to Antioch after Richard returned to England and has served him ever since. They have nae idea if he lives, and if he does, if he be willing to return and lead his clan. The elders say he i
s next in line and the last of his da’s blood. If not him, things get a wee bit murky, and mayhap bloody.”

  Caelen frowned as he considered Donal MacLean. Caelen would have been merely a gleam in his da’s eye at the time Donal went on crusade. He had no personal recollection of him.

  “After more than thirty years living amongst Franks and Saracens, is the man still a Scotsman?”

  “Fair question, Caelen. Fair question. I dinnae think the MacLeans know the answer. Howbeit, they dinnae have a good alternative handy. The auld laird’s first two sons cocked their toes up afore they did more than breed a daughter each. Both lassies married outside the clan. With so many sick or dying, I think the MacLeans are content to tend their own and wait to hear word from Outremer. If not Donal, many cousins with equal claim to the title will fight like dogs over table scraps. A Clan MacLean distracted by internal strife leaves us vulnerable.”

  “What answer did they give about aiding us against the MacGillonays?” Caelen braced himself for the answer.

  Rory’s lips tightened at the question. “They said if auld Keith MacGillonay comes knocking on our gates with a host of men, they’ll gladly uphold their side of the agreement.”

  Caelen rose and paced, opening and closing his fists in a mix of anger and despair. “Damn! Did ye tell them it has grown beyond thieving a few cattle and sheep?”

  “Aye. I did. They say if MacGillonay declares open war on the Bull of the Highlands, they’ll be at our backs, but they willnae stir over stolen livestock and a burned croft.”

  Caelen’s neck and face heated and he clenched his jaw, ignoring the nickname settled on him for his headstrong nature. “That croft had a family still in it when they fired it.”

  “Och, dinnae ye think I told them this? It dinnae sway them. What will we do now?”

  Caelen stopped his pacing and stared at the beamed ceiling above. “We will move our people on the northern outskirts into the keep for the winter and make certain we patrol our borders. Make the rounds random so we dinnae become easy to predict.”

  Rory shrugged. “Our patrols will have to be only two or three men. We’ve nae enough men to send more and keep enough here to repel an attack.”

  “’Twill have to do. Be certain to pair the younger lads with seasoned warriors.”

  “Having our people close is what spread this damned sickness, auld Maggie says.”

  “It has run its course. Better to take yer chance here than alone with a MacGillonay raiding party. There arenae crops to tend in winter, and their livestock can join the rest at the keep.” Caelen slumped in his chair, fighting off despair.

  “Ye willnae take it amiss if I leave my wee sister, Brinna, with her great-uncle rather than bring her to the castle?”

  “She has, what, six summers?”

  “Nearly eight. And after our parents died, Coll was the best choice for her. She loves the mountains and the sheep. I believe she is safe there.”

  “’Tis yer decision,” Caelen grunted, his thoughts straying far from one wee lass to the larger concerns of the clan.

  Rory slurped another spoon of porridge. “I hear wee Bram is feeling better, aye?”

  Caelen smiled at the mention of his son. “Aye. The wee imp will be back to terrorizing the keep within a day or two. He had nae trouble telling his nurse he dinnae wish broth for supper and wouldnae stay abed.”

  Rory ducked his head and drank deeply of the watered ale, avoiding Caelen’s gaze. Caelen tilted his head.

  “Spit it out. I know ye’ve something in yer craw.”

  Rory offered a grim expression, warning Caelen whatever his friend had to say, he wasn’t going to like.

  “I dinnae wish to offend, Laird.”

  Caelen drew his brows inward and shook his head. “Ye call me laird? Rory, ye and I are foster brothers. Whatever is on yer mind, say it.”

  Rory took a deep breath. “Have ye considered marriage as a way to strengthen our clan and mayhap gain new allies?”

  Caelen crossed his arms and stiffened in his chair. He should have expected such a statement. However, Rory knew how he felt about marriage—and why. After Bram’s mother died, he swore he’d have nothing more to do with marriage. ’Twas worse than a prison sentence. At least a dungeon was honest about what to expect.

  Caelen’s hand struck the table, startling everyone in the hall. “Nae! I willnae submit to that piece of purgatory again.”

  “Laird, ye know not all women are like Ruthie.”

  Caelen glared at Rory. “I dinnae wish to hear that woman’s name again.”

  “Aye, Laird. But consider yer own mother. She was a sweet woman with a kind heart and plenty of courage.”

  “My da was a lucky bastard, though they fought often enough. If I make a new alliance through marriage, I will have no say in the woman’s character, but must take what is offered. Why would a clan give away a good woman when they can rid themselves of a viper? Such women promise one thing at the chapel then deliver something else entirely once the vows are made and cannae be broken.”

  “Caelen, ye are my laird and my friend. I will do whatever ye command. But as yer friend, I have to say MacGillonay’s daughter clouded yer thinking and turned ye bitter toward women.”

  Caelen grabbed the pitcher and refilled both their mugs. “’Tis where ye err, my brother. I am not bitter against women, only the curse of marriage.”

  “Yer arrangement with Euan’s widow isnae what I speak of and ye know it.”

  Caelen drained his mug and rose from the table. He had duties to attend and their conversation had done nothing to alleviate his dark mood.

  “Be that as it may, ’tis the only relationship with a woman I am willing to have.”

  Chapter 3

  City of Antioch, The Holy Land

  Arbela surveyed the high walls surrounding the beautiful citadel, home of the Prince of Antioch, Bohemond IV, with its ornate towers, arches, and fountains. As the only woman in the group, she was given a private chamber, a waiting bath and a serving girl to assist her. Zora had remained at Batroun as she had no desire to make the five-day journey north, even if it meant coming close to her ancestral country of Armenia. After refreshing herself from their travel, Arbela left to join her family.

  The Byzantine influence was readily apparent in the architecture and artwork, plaster and brickwork replacing worn stone, and mosaics adding brilliant color and design. The palace made her home look penurious by comparison. She spotted Philippe on one of the many balconies overlooking the city. His back rigid, hands gripping the carved railing, he stared into the distance.

  “Philippe! What has happened?” she cried in alarm.

  He turned at her question, his face hardened with strong emotion. “It appears ye are not the only person who must wed where ye do not wish.”

  He turned and resumed staring at the vista provided by the citadel’s vantage point. Arbela touched his arm in sympathy.

  “Whatever do ye mean, Philippe?”

  His glance fell on her hand, his features softening. “It seems King Leon wishes to restore relations with my sire after laying siege to Antioch whilst father was away quelling a rebellion in Tripoli.”

  “The battle in Tripoli where yer da lost his eye?” Arbela asked.

  Philippe grimaced. “Aye. ’Twas bad enough to return gravely injured, but to learn the King of Armenia had taken advantage of his absence and attacked whilst his back was turned made my father’s anger burn hot, indeed. Now that the Seljuks are at his door, King Leon wishes to make amends.”

  “And he offers what?”

  “Marriage to Zabel, Queen of Armenia, his daughter. I am to be crowned king through marriage.”

  “But, Philippe! Ye are yer father’s third son. Is this not a loftier position than could be expected?”

  “Did ye not hear me, Arbela?” he exclaimed, his eyes dark with anger. “I am to be king of the cowardly Armenians. The daughter of the man who attempted to stab my sire in the back is to be my wife.”r />
  She bristled. “Ye know as well as any, a daughter has no say in her father’s decisions. I am half Armenian and am no coward. Do ye not see? This could be a chance to create greater unity in the north.”

  Philippe’s harsh chuckle spoke of irony rather than humor. “No, Bela, ye have nary a cowardly bone. In truth, ye have more courage than any I know. What other woman would take the abuse Alex and I delivered as boys and keep challenging us? Ah, but I have yet to tell ye the best part. In addition to ruling these people, I must turn my back on the teachings of the Church in Rome and embrace the Armenian way. It stands alone outside of Rome and Constantinople. How can I lead a people I despise and follow a religious path I do not believe in?”

  Arbela embraced Philippe, her heart breaking with pain at his confession. “I know ye, Philippe. Ye are the best of men. Ye will find a way to make this work for the peace and strength it brings our people. The Turks continue to take more territory. With Antioch and Armenia united, the Saracens shall think twice before invading either. I know this is not the future ye had hoped for, but ’tis a significant task yer father puts before ye. He would not do so if he did not believe ye able. Ye are capable of great things, but ye must put this hatred behind ye and embrace yer new mantle. The fate of many will soon rest in yer hands.”

  Philippe bent and kissed her full on the lips. The unexpected move stole her wits and her breath.

  “But ’tis ye I love,” he whispered.

  All thoughts fled at his confession and kiss. Her mind blanked, her legs shook, and she feared collapse if Philippe’s hands did not rest on her upper arms, providing support.

  “I sought your father’s permission to court ye last year, but he bade me wait until we heard from my sire. The Prince’s response was noncommittal. Now I know why. He anticipated a political alliance even with a third son. I had hoped to marry where I wished. Now I know what I dreamed of shall never be.”

  Arbela’s heart thundered in her chest. Philippe’s thumbs stroked lightly over her arms.