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

  He leaned forward. “But, consider what her dowry brings.”

  Still reeling from the idea of accepting the exotic, free-thinking lass as his wife, Caelen allowed his business sense to take over. Giving a stiff nod, he invited Donal’s explanation.

  “It should come as no surprise that her dowry will contain much gold and other items of wealth. But ye also need men to help rebuild yer keep, and seasoned men-at-arms to work with yer warriors to guard yer borders. I can supply these men, including four knights who are battle-hardened and verra skilled. Who knows? They mayhap teach yer men a thing or two and learn from them as well.”

  “Ye must know by now, my sister is an accomplished warrior,” Alex interjected. “She can wield a bow with speed and accuracy as ye saw for yerself not an hour past. Her skill with a sword is surpassed only by her knowledge and shrewd evaluation of tactics. Not long before we left Batroun, we were besieged by Saracens for the third time that year, and she was the first to point out the invaders were likely led by the same man.” Alex turned an eager look to his da.

  “She is brilliant. And she was quick to save my and Philippe’s hides when the Turks came over the wall. And when the Moorish pirates attacked off the coast of the Iberian Peninsula—”

  Donal waved him to silence with a tolerant smile. “She is quite useful,” he agreed. “But yer sister has other, more womanly qualities.”

  Caelen’s ears perked up. Not that Arbela’s womanly qualities were of great interest, but because so far he’d seen little evidence of such.

  “She is, as I believe I have mentioned, skilled in numbers and bookkeeping. I have no qualms about allowing her to handle my household accounts. In fact, I am initiating a shipping venture from here to Europe and beyond, similar to what I ran whilst living in the Levant. Arbela would be invaluable in suggesting to ye what goods to develop in trade, and setting up the books for ye.”

  “Ye would bring me into yer venture?” Caelen asked, suddenly overwhelmed.

  It was an offer too good to be true. Not that he doubted Laird MacLean’s willingness and ability to see to the bargain once struck, but Caelen had listed his reasons for not remarrying to Rory not that long ago, and they hadn’t changed.

  “Laird, I respect yer offer. And ’tis verra tempting. But ye must know, after my first marriage failed—and it failed long before Ruthie died—I swore I’d never enter the bonds of matrimony again.” He glanced away, disliking to recall the memory, the recounting of it as bitter as an unripened gooseberry.

  “Ruthie MacGillonay was a bonny lass, full of fun and smiles. I willingly entered the marriage arranged to form an alliance between our clans, certain she would become the light of my life. For reasons I willnae disclose, we dinnae find ourselves in accord, and she quickly turned bitter. I hoped the bairn would see a return to her sunny disposition, but she rejected him, and her only delight seemed to be in causing as much strife in my house as possible.”

  He pulled his gaze back to Laird MacLean. “I swore after her death I wouldnae enter into marriage again.”

  Donal returned his stare evenly. “I willnae lie and say life with Arbela will be without strife. But she doesnae willingly cause it, and she is honest and careful in her relationships.”

  Caelen opened his mouth, but Donal raised a hand. Caelen yielded the floor.

  “I married a lass from Armenia,” Donal said, his voice low, cadence set to a long-ago tale. “She was a princess from a noble house, and I, the third son of a Scottish laird, wooed and won her. By then I was Baron of Batroun and worthy in her father’s eyes.

  “She bore twins not long into our first year of marriage. She was so happy. I could scarcely contain myself with pride. When Alex and Arbela were not quite past their first summer, she felt ’twas time to introduce them to her family.” Donal’s face darkened and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “They journeyed by caravan, and I felt ’twas secure enough I only sent two of my knights with her. They were set upon by a Saracen raiding party, and they killed my wife.”

  Silence deadened the room, the air thick with remorse. “The bairns’ nurse escaped with them and two others and managed to make their way home, arriving at Batroun exhausted and filthy—but alive.” Donal leaned back in his chair, his movements as if he’d aged far beyond his years. “I swore Arbela would never be helpless as her ma had been. Beautiful, delightful, a woman to be proud of—but not helpless. ’Tis my fault Arbela is confident, willful, learned, and skilled in weapons far beyond what is considered feminine or right. But I wouldnae have it any other way.”

  A smile crept across his face and settled in the creases at the corners of his eyes. “Will ye accept the money, the workmen and the knights? Will ye accept my daughter—and the challenge?”

  Caelen took his time considering his options. He could decline MacLean’s offer and though he wouldn’t have his alliance, he doubted MacLean would completely turn his back on him. He sensed an honor in the older man that went deeper than kinship. But the facts were, his clan could use the help, the masons and men-at-arms. And his coffers were alarmingly empty, though his clan had never before faced such a time of poverty as they saw ahead of them.

  But did he need the gold and men enough to take a wife? Arbela?

  “I have seen the way ye look at my sister,” Alex said. “Sometimes as a man looks at a beautiful woman, and other times as if she were something ye’d rather not approach. I will add my own qualification, MacKern.

  “My sister is a princess by blood of one of the oldest houses in Christendom. Given another path, she would likely be pampered, soft, and not facing marriage to an impoverished Scottish laird. But she is fierce. And she worked harder than I or Philippe, our foster-brother, learning her skills—be they sword, bow, or keeping records. She speaks more languages than do I, and she will be at work long after ye have retired to yer bed, if there is a need. The only contention she brings is a distaste for intolerance. Her love of children is well known amongst those at Batroun, and Farlan and Elspeth’s children—who returned with us from the Holy Land—are very fond of her.

  “But hear me well, Laird. If ye harm my sister, I will gut ye like a landed fish.”

  “I promised her I would not marry her to a man I thought would try to rule her,” Donal said. “She will step into yer authority easily if offered instead of required of her. I, too, willnae sit by and see her broken. That is, out of all ye have been offered, the unnegotiable part of the contract.”

  Alex’s words rang in Caelen’s ears. He did not doubt Arbela’s brother would check on her regularly and give him challenge were he to find his sister less than content.

  “What if I say nae?”

  Donal sent him a curious look. “I willnae deny ye protection from MacGillonay.”

  “I dinnae think he is good enough for my sister,” Alex muttered.

  Caelen leaned forward in his seat, forearms on his knees, hands clasped tight. ’Twas a business arrangement like any other—with a wife added in the bargain. But the words of acceptance hovered just beyond the reach of his tongue.

  “I have one more offer to make ye, MacKern,” Donal mentioned.

  Caelen glanced up. “What is that?”

  “I noticed yer horse, earlier. He’s a fine, sturdy animal, with clean lines and well-cared-for. Ye are a noted horse breeder in this area and many praise yer stables.” Donal leaned forward in his chair, forearms braced on the desktop, the gleam of challenge once more in his eyes.

  “If ye can convince Arbela that ye are her best choice for a husband, if she goes willingly to this marriage, I will add a Lusitano stallion and mare to the dowry.”

  Chapter 9

  Arbela strolled to the stable, Bram chattering nonstop at her side, the horse and dogs following obediently.

  The child perched on a nearby wooden bench, Toros and Garen on either side.

  “Ditel,” Arbela ordered. She knew the command to watch ensured neither dog would leave the child’s side, nor allo
w anyone to approach. She untacked Voski and ran a cloth over his gleaming coat. His energy by no means depleted after a short walk to and from the archery field, the horse nipped at her sleeve with his thick lips as often as he could get away with it. Arbela laughed and shoved at his shoulder.

  “Ch’yen karogh linel himar, Voski-jan.” Caressing his silken nose, she gazed into his unusual crystal eyes.

  “What did ye say?” Bram wanted to know.

  “I told him not to be so silly,” Arbela replied. “He is a young horse and does not always understand how strong he is.”

  “Does he frighten ye?” Bram asked, his voice hesitant.

  “I would be foolish indeed if I said no. However, I respect the fact he is so much bigger than I am. He is not a malicious creature, merely high-spirited, and we are learning each other’s ways.”

  “Does it hurt when he bites ye?”

  “It would if he used his teeth. But he is only teasing, and his big lips are annoying, not hurtful.”

  Bram hopped down from his bench amid anxious whines from the dogs. Ignoring them, he dragged the wooden seat across the aisle to Voski’s half-door. He climbed atop the bench and hung over the door.

  “What’s his name?” he asked.

  “Voski,” Arbela replied. “It means golden.”

  “But ye called him Voski-jarn,” Bram argued, repeating the word as he’d heard it. “I heard ye.”

  Arbela smiled. “Jan simply means I like him. A bit like a sweet nickname.” She took a step toward Bram and tweaked his nose. “I could call ye Bram-jan.”

  “Bram-jarn?” Bram scrunched his face. “I dinnae like it.”

  “Ye do not like having a new friend?” she teased.

  “I like ye,” Bram admitted. “My friends willnae believe I know a real princess, though.”

  He looked so forlorn, Arbela smothered a smile.

  Bram’s face brightened. “I like yer horse, though he is verra skinny.”

  “Hmm. Ye may think he is skinny, but ’tis his nature.”

  “Da says he needs more to eat.”

  “I agree he appears thin next to yer da’s sturdy horse. But Voski is a son of the desert and his tall legs keep him farther from the hot sand, and his thin skin and sleek muscles help cool him when he is active. Yer da’s horse would be much too hot where Voski is from.”

  Bram tilted his head. “Will Voski not like living here, then?”

  “Actually, he is bred to be very hardy—even in cold weather, and on very rocky soil. I think he will do fine.”

  She rubbed the tall horse’s golden neck, leaning into his shoulder, her head not cresting the top of his withers. Giving Voski a final pat, she had Bram move his bench then stepped from the stall.

  “Do ye have a pony?” she asked the lad at her side.

  Bram heaved a big sigh with a crestfallen look. “Nae. My da doesnae think I am big enough.” He turned anxious eyes on her. “Do ye think I am?”

  “Are ye afraid I will say yea or nae?”

  Bram dropped his gaze, a stricken look on his face. “I think I am afraid of horses.” His cheeks colored as embarrassment bloomed.

  “Truly afraid? Or simply not used to them?” Arbela asked carefully.

  “I dunno,” he replied, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “Mayhap ye do not know much about them,” she offered. Bram shrugged. “Or perhaps ye simply are shy around them—like a person ye have not met before.”

  “Mayhap.” Bram tilted his head as though a thought occurred to him. “Do ye think if I knew them better, they wouldnae bother me as much?”

  Arbela gave him a fond smile. “I think ye will be a superb horseman one day. The sooner ye start, the better.” She peered down the stable hallway. Interested heads peered over half-open doors. Determined, she strode to a doorway where no head peeked out. “Let’s have a chat with Ari.”

  Bram skipped at her side. “Who’s Ari?”

  “Ari is a brave boy much as ye are,” Arbela replied. She halted at the empty doorway.

  “I dinnae see anyone,” Bram complained, glancing about.

  Arbela opened the bottom half of the door. A sturdy pony, his winter-rough coat revealing patches of slick black summer fur, faced them. He chewed his hay in a lazy manner, one ear pricked forward, the other twisted and much abbreviated. He stared calmly at them, one eye clouded.

  “What happened to his ear and eye?” Bram exclaimed.

  “Ari once belonged to a boy about your size,” Arbela said. “But the boy grew too big, and there were no other children to ride him, so Ari was sent to live in the hills with the sheep where the shepherd could keep an eye on him.”

  “So he wouldnae be lonely?”

  “Aye. After he’d lived with the sheep for a year or so, the shepherd went into the hills searching for a lost ewe. She was due to have her lamb and could not be found. The shepherd put a small pack on Ari’s back and off they went. But a wolf had found the ewe, and thought she’d make a nice snack.”

  “But he dinnae know about Ari, did he, Arbela?” Bram’s eyes shone with the light of a warrior.

  “Nae, the wolf did not know about Ari. As the shepherd tells the tale, Ari flew at the wolf, his ears pinned back, teeth bared, squealing like an enraged boar. And everyone knows how fierce they are! The wolf attacked Ari, and though he tore one of the pony’s ears and scraped the side of his head, Ari grabbed the beast by the scruff of his neck and shook him—hard! When the wolf fell to the ground, Ari stomped him with his hooves, and the wolf ran away.”

  “Good for ye, Ari!” Bram approved. “Can I pet him?”

  “I’m certain he would like that.” Arbela led Bram inside the stall and the pony greeted him with gentle snuffles.

  Bram laughed. “He’s a nice pony.”

  “The two of ye would get along well together. Would ye like to sit on him?”

  With a moment’s hesitation, Bram took a deep breath and gave an emphatic nod. “Aye.”

  Hoping to bolster Bram’s confidence, Arbela gave him simple instructions on approaching the pony, noting the pony’s damaged eye and the need to avoid startling him on that side. Bram soaked up her words eagerly, even offering Ari half of a winter-wizened apple in eager friendship.

  “He is a brave pony and ye are now his friend,” Arbela said as she lifted the boy into the air. Bram swung his legs wide to encircle the pony’s girth, gripping the wiry mane with both fists.

  “Ye may use the mane until ye feel comfortable with your balance,” she told him. “But do not pull so hard. Take your time and sit up like a warrior. Ye are not a sack of flour.”

  With her encouragement, Bram gained confidence, and he, at last, demanded to ride Ari on his own. Arbela smiled. “I will lead ye to the paddock, and ye may guide Ari there.”

  Silent as ghosts, Toros and Garen slid through the barn at the pony’s heels. Unperturbed, Ari plodded along, his gait easy and slow. Arbela thrilled to the triumphant smile on Bram’s face as he directed his mount with nothing more than a tug of the rope on the headstall Arbela drew over the pony’s head. She let him ride until he moved freely with the pony’s motion, then called a halt.

  “Ye are developing a good seat, Bram-jan,” she told him. His cheeks, flushed with accomplishment, darkened at her praise. “But we must not tire Ari. He has not had a rider in some time, now.”

  She saw the argument in the set of Bram’s jaw and the downward tilt of his head—so like his sire—but he agreed without comment and they returned to the barn where she then instructed him in the pony’s care.

  “All riders care for their horses,” she informed him. “Ye must always see to your horse yourself.”

  “I did it, dinnae I, ’Bela?” Bram asked as he wiped a rag down Ari’s sturdy legs.

  “Indeed ye did. I believe ye are about ready for your own pony.”

  Bram grinned, his face shining. “I’ll talk to my da again when we get home!”

  “Finish, then, and we will see to our morning m
eal before the food is gone.”

  Ari’s care dispensed with, Bram grabbed Arbela’s hand as they departed for the hall. A curious thrill lit a small smile at his easy acceptance of her, and Arbela hoped fervently the boy’s father would see to his riding lessons soon.

  The aroma of freshly baked bread and spiced ale met them at the door to the hall. Steam rolled above their bowls of porridge, sending hints of cinnamon and anise to mingle with the other kitchen smells. Arbela sighed. It had taken time to convince the cook these spices were now available to be used at liberty, not hoarded for special occasions. She placed a generous pat of butter on her and Bram’s bowls of porridge, then stirred in a generous portion of dried fruit.

  Bram eyed his skeptically. “Do ye like those?” He nodded at the crinkly fruit.

  Arbela gave him a surprised look. “Aye. Do ye?”

  Bram shrugged. “We had some, but it dinnae last the winter.”

  She studied the child as he tucked into his porridge. Thin, wiry. Active? Or underfed? Caelen’s words drifted back to her. The scourge that killed yer da and brother nigh devastated my clan…. The affliction she’d heard called mezils had struck at the end of the summer. Had they not gotten their harvests in?

  Her heart went out to the lad. He was motherless, facing a clan of dwindling numbers, and one with limited supplies. His dead mother’s father was a man not to be trusted if she believed Caelen. And she couldn’t imagine being the center of so much personal strife.

  She snorted lightly, suddenly amused with the thought. Each time she’d visited her mother’s family, she’d faced the possibility of an attack by Saracens—and being sold into slavery—and her day-to-day existence had been dependent on her family’s ability to defend itself. Death was a reality she had dealt with all her life. Though she’d always trusted and counted on all her family—something Bram could not do.

  “What would ye like to do whilst we wait for yer father?” she asked, wishing to give him a few carefree hours.

  He swallowed quickly. “Can we go outside and play with Toros and Garen?” He gave the dogs a hopeful look.