by Amy Jarecki
One day, God might strike her dead for letting the vile Lord of Islay help her. If only she’d had the strength to fight, but in her hour of need, her body had failed her. It was a miracle she was still alive.
Anya glanced about the small chapel and breathed a sigh of relief to find herself alone. Within her grasp was a silver chalice filled with crabmeat and beside it was another filled with water. Using her fingers, she shoveled the food into her mouth faster than she could chew. Juice ran down her chin as she rolled her eyes to the rafters and swallowed.
Mm.
It took her no time at all to devour the remainder of the crab and guzzle the water. Only then did she glance downward and realize she wore nothing but her shift. Reminded of last eve’s struggle, she buried her face in her hands. She never should have allowed that man to touch her. Aye, she’d tried to fight, but half drowned and colder than she’d ever been in all her days, Anya had barely been able to hold her head upright, let alone defend herself.
She slid her hands over her shift, then pushed to her feet. Though she couldn’t be completely certain, she was nearly positive Angus Og MacDonald had kept his word. After all, he was an important lord, even if he was an enemy. Perhaps the man’s mother had taught him a modicum of chivalry. Regardless, Anya had no doubt that if Islay knew she was the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan, he would have let her drown. And irrespective of whether he’d saved her or not, the Highlander was a pirate, renowned for pillaging along the western isles of Scotland and beyond. He’d even threatened her father’s very own Dunseverick Castle—at least, Fairhair’s brother had done so. And now rumors had spread that the MacDonalds had taken up arms with Robert the Bruce, the outlaw who’d proclaimed himself King of Scots. Worse, the Bruce had married the Earl of Ulster’s daughter, Anya’s dear friend, Elizabeth.
The poor dear. She must be suffering so.
After their mishappen coronation, the false king had sent his wife to Kildrummy Castle for safe harbor, where Elizabeth was captured by King Edward’s army. Not even the Earl of Ulster was privy to her whereabouts.
Heavens, if it weren’t for Elizabeth’s kindness, Anya’s move to Carrickfergus Castle would have been unbearable.
And now she had capsized somewhere with yet another Scot who was about as trustworthy as a weasel. Anya quickly slipped into her dry kirtle and tied the laces. She found her boots but the leather had grown stiff from salt and the sea, making it difficult to shove her feet inside. As she tied the laces, she wriggled her toes and worked them in. It didn’t matter where they may have washed ashore, she fully intended to escape His Lordship’s clutches and find a way back to Carrickfergus forthwith.
Surely her guardian would pay any fare owing once she was safely home.
Anya smacked her forehead with her palm. By now they would know she’d gone missing. Finovola must be distraught with worry. And Lord Chahir O’Doherty was expecting to see her at the Saint Valentine’s Day feast on the morrow.
Ulster is going to flay me for certain!
With no time to waste, she listened at the door. Hearing nothing but the howling of the wind, she cracked it open and peered outside. The shore was only paces away while north and south seagrass bent with a strong westerly.
Had the men left her alone?
“Good morn. ’Tis nice to see ye’re awake,” called Islay, marching from the south. “We’ve been scavenging for—”
Not listening to another word, Anya took off at a run—northward. Yes, she knew Ireland was to the south, but there was no chance she’d risk running within the Lord of Islay’s grasp. Besides, she needed to find a boat, she needed to find allies, or flag the English fleet.
Her mind raced as she struggled to navigate through the thick grass and the sharp stones hidden betwixt and beneath.
When I return to Carrickfergus, I will never again doubt the sensibility of a marriage to Lord O’Doherty. He’s a good man. He’s a sane man. He is not a marauding pirate and I doubt he would lift a finger to harm me. ’Tis a good match. I never should have doubted my guardian’s sensibilities. I never should have slipped out of the castle. Not once. Blast that stupid key and blast my adventuresome spirit. The countess always said it would send me to ruin!
A stich in Anya’s side ached, but she didn’t dare slow down. As she charged up an incline, she chanced a look over her shoulder. Islay was following, but not at a run.
As soon as she reached the crest, Anya realized why. Water surrounded her as far as the eye could see. For the love of God, they were stranded on a worthless little isle.
Panting for air, she wrapped her arms across her waist and girded herself to face the brother of the man who had killed her father.
Oh, by the saints, the man in the boat had not been an apparition. Now dry, Fairhair was even handsomer than when he’d faced her in the midst of the driving rain.
The wind whipped his blond hair sideways and he had a dastardly swagger to his gait, made far too beguiling by his plaid draped over one very broad shoulder and belted low around his hips. His shockingly blue eyes focused on her, the full lips of his mouth giving nothing away, neither smiling nor frowning. Lord save her, the man’s reputation had not been an exaggeration. There was a good reason Angus Og MacDonald was called Fairhair. Never in all her days had Anya seen a man so beautiful. He was prettier than her, perhaps more beautiful than Finovola, and as brawny as Ulster’s most prized knight for certain.
But the rumors about Islay were nothing short of sinister. This man might be as appealing to the eye as foxglove, but everyone knew him to be as ruthlessly noxious as the toxin within her blooms.
Suddenly very self-aware, Anya tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She already knew he was taller than a warhorse, but when he stopped in front of her, she felt incredibly small and vulnerable.
He gestured with outstretched arms. “Och, there’s no place to run on this wee isle.”
Anya didn’t dare look him in the eye. Instead, she stared at his feet and two muscular, hairy legs. “I-I must return to Carrickfergus forthwith.”
“Is that so?” He folded those powerful arms across a broad chest. “I’d like nothing better than to ferry ye home in one of my birlinns, but presently that poses a wee problem. Not only are we shipwrecked, we’re stranded. At least until we can piece together enough wood from the wreckage for Raghnall to sail across to Islay and seek help.”
Anya didn’t respond, though she followed his upturned palm, gesturing toward a dark strip of land in the distance.
“I’m afraid we weren’t properly introduced.” The scoundrel took a step back and bowed. “I’m Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of Islay—the island just yonder. Unfortunately, my keep sits on the southern end and we’ve been shipwrecked to the north, where nary a soul can see us.”
Anya licked her lips and dipped into a hasty curtsey. “I’m…ah…”
“Can ye no’ remember your name, lass?”
“Anya,” she clipped. Her given name was common enough.
“An-y-a…” he said, drawing out the word as if trying to place it. “And who might your father be?”
“I-I’m an orphan.” At least that was not a lie.
His eyebrow quirked in disbelief. “Most orphans I ken, do no’ go traipsing about in sealskin cloaks.”
Anya gulped while heat rushed to her cheeks. Well, she wasn’t about to tell him she was the ward of the Earl of Ulster and most definitely did not want Islay to know she was the eldest daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan. Instead, she squared her shoulders and tipped up her chin. “That matters not. What is of foremost importance is I must return to Carrickfergus for the Saint Valentine’s Day feast.”
“Or what, pray tell?”
“Or…or the man to whom I am to be betrothed will most likely withdraw his offer of marriage, which absolutely must not happen.”
“Withdraw, will he?” Angus rested his hand on the pommel of his dirk. “Well, I reckon any fellow worth his salt will wait for a woman as bonny as ye. A lass wh
o has won his heart…unless…”
Anya pursed her lips. Blast, blast, blast! She knew what he was thinking. Any man would wait for a woman unless it wasn’t a love match, unless it was an arrangement that included her dowry, which was very sizeable, indeed.
5
It was late afternoon by the time Angus and Raghnall had pieced together enough scraps from the wreckage to make a raft. They’d scavenged for bits of rope to secure the broken planks of wood together, but it hadn’t been enough. Fortunately, Anya made herself useful and found a priest’s stole in the chapel and, though it may have been sacrilegious to use it, Angus refused to believe God would smite him for trying to save their lives.
Among the wreckage, they’d found a few useful things, including an intact oar and a half-cask of wine.
As they worked, the lass sat off by herself, using a charcoal to draw on a piece of vellum. Evidently, she’d found more than a stole in the wee chapel. And from the few glimpses Angus stole of her work, she had a bit of talent.
Raghnall stood knee-deep in the frigid surf and tested the buoyancy of their craft. “I reckon she’s seaworthy.”
“Mayhap on a glassy loch.” Angus looked to the skies. “Ye’d best go now whilst the weather is calm. The only thing we can count on is it will not last. She’ll be blowing a gale by the witching hour, mark me.”
Raghnall held his thumb to the sun, low in the western sky. “I’ll make it all right. Providing I don’t freeze my ballocks, I’ll have a birlinn here to fetch ye and the lass afore dark on the morrow.”
“If only we could go with you.”
Raghnall swung his leg over the raft, straddling it. “This jumble of oak will barely support me, let alone three of us.”
Angus handed his man the oar. “We’ll be fine, providing no English patrols come snooping.”
“Or the lassie over there tries to slit your throat whilst ye’re sleeping.”
“She’s harmless.”
“She’s from the enemy’s camp, and that makes her lethal.” Raghnall placed the oar across his lap. “What do ye intend to do with her?”
Angus scratched the itchy stubble growing along his jaw. “I suppose I’ll find a way to send her home.”
“Aye, without getting your head severed in the process.”
“Or my arse filled with Ulster’s arrows.”
“Mayhap the Bruce will have an idea.”
“Ye reckon so?” Angus picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the surf. “As a result of the king’s brilliant plans of late, I’ve lost a quarter of my fleet and a number of good fighting men. With luck, the storm carried the king past Islay and he is seeking safe harbor elsewhere.”
“In such a hurry to be rid of His Grace?” Raghnall teased. “I thought ye wanted to secure the Lordship of the Isles.”
“I do, and ’tis the reason we’re in this mess.” Angus gave the raft a push. “Ye’d best dip that oar in the water unless ye want to spend another night sleeping on cold stone.”
He stood for a time watching his friend head for the swells of the North Sea, the raft riding low in the water. So many things weighed on Angus’ mind. Yes, he’d thrown in his lot with Robert the Bruce and now that he’d committed, he must see it through to the end. In England’s eyes, he and Clan MacDonald were now outlaws, and he had no intention of being captured, tortured, and put to death by Edward, Hammer of the Scots. Angus must do everything in his power to ensure King Robert’s success.
Tucked away in the isles during Wallace’s rise, the MacDonald clan had not been subject to as much tyranny as those on the mainland. But now with the increase in English patrols, Angus had seen enough to know if Longshanks wasn’t stopped, his clan and kin would suffer. Perhaps he might even lose his lands. It would slay him to watch the MacDougalls muscle into Islay, Skye, and Jura. Ruination had befallen many mainland lords, and it didn’t seem likely Edward would stop there.
The Scots may have been forced to eat crow for the past decade, but as Angus stood on that godforsaken shore, he made a silent vow to vanquish the enemy and drive them from Scotland once and for all.
“When do ye think he’ll return?” asked Anya, coming up from behind.
“This time on the morrow, God willing.”
“And then ye’ll take me back to Ireland?” she asked, as if it were more of a directive than a question.
“Aye.” He gave her a sideways glance, then mumbled, “When ’tis safe to do so.”
“Safe? Why do ye not hand me over to the English anon? Are they not patrolling these waters?”
He studied her wide eyes, beautiful, innocent emeralds. He hadn’t known Anya for long, but as plain as the nose on his face, she’d been sheltered and cosseted. Clearly, the lass had no idea what the English would do to him. Moreover, she was without a clue as to what they might do to her. “Ye do not want to climb aboard an English cog without an escort.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because ye’re female.”
“Do ye think they’d harm me?”
“I do not think. I ken. One look at a wee wisp of a lass such as you and they’ll be queuing up to sample your wares.”
“Ye are vile. No one—”
“Men are vile.” He started toward the makeshift oven he’d fashioned of sand and stone. Hours ago, he’d set the coals and added the brown crabs they’d harvested that morn. They were about the only thing to eat on the isle, barring the seals, and, when it came right down to it, crabs were far easier to catch and prepare. “Come, the food ought to be ready to eat.”
He used a stick to push away the stones and uncovered their meal. “I reckon these are ready.” He flicked them onto one of the chapel’s pewter alms platters. “It isn’t much, but it will keep us alive.”
Anya gave a nod, though she hadn’t said much since their encounter this morning. Regardless, there were things Angus needed to know before he took her to Dunyvaig and allowed her a free rein. Thus far, she had yet to earn his trust and she most certainly hadn’t earned Raghnall’s. Who, exactly, was this orphan and what was she hiding?
Angus held up the platter and gave her a grin, one that hadn’t failed him in all his years. Though God had cursed him with the face of an angel, he’d learned at a young age to use it to his advantage, at least where women were concerned. Not even his mother was able to resist his smiles.
However, he seemed to have no effect on this Irish woman whatsoever. As soon as he showed his teeth, she averted her gaze and headed for the chapel.
Huffing, Angus followed, unable not to notice the way her shapely hips swung beneath the folds of her woolen kirtle.
“Come, lass,” he said when they stepped inside. “These wee beasties are best whilst they’re warm.”
They sat on a pair of the remaining chairs and used another as a table. Angus poured her a healthy spot of wine and helped himself to a chalice as well, then held his aloft. “To Raghnall and a safe crossing.”
“And to his swift return,” she added.
“Slàinte mhath,” he said before taking a sip.
Anya drank as well, then made a sour face.
Doing his best to restrain the grimace playing on his lips, he set his cup on the makeshift table. “The one good thing about vinegary wine is the second sip always tastes better.” After all, what did they expect from a cask washed up on the shore? At least it wasn’t full of salt water.
“Have ye any siblings at Carrickfergus?” he asked.
“A sister.”
“Younger, older?”
“Two years younger.”
“I’ll wager she’s nay as bonny as you.”
Anya’s shoulders shook with her snort. “I assure ye, Finovola is everything I am not. Golden tresses, willowy limbs, and she’s as graceful as an eagle in flight.”
Angus used his sgian dubh to cut into a leg’s hard outer shell and dig out the meat within. “Why is it lassies always want to look different?”
“I don’t recall saying I was unhap
py with my appearance. I merely said my sister is a beauty.”
He tapped the crabmeat toward her and started working on another morsel. “Mayhap she is fair, though I say ye do yourself no credit. Och, your eyes alone are enough to take the wind out of a man’s sails.” And Lord knew last eve it was all Angus could do to ignore the soft curve of her bottom nestling against his cock. If Anya’s sister was long and willowy, there was no chance she’d be as plush a bed partner.
“Am I to thank ye for your observation, sir?” she asked with an edge to her voice.
For a moment, he watched as she savored the crab, following her bite with a drink of wine—sans the sour face this time. “There’s no need for false congeniality,” he said. “If ye do no’ wish to offer thanks, then do no’.” The woman still saw him as an enemy, a fact he intended to rectify by the night’s end.
They ate in silence for a time and Angus filled their chalices twice more. Only when Anya swayed a bit, her eyes a tad glassy, did he test the waters. “Tell me, why were ye hiding in my birlinn?”
The lady’s dainty throat bobbed as her face flushed. “Ah…I thought it was a fishing boat, moored for the night.”
“Aye, we’ve already established that, but ye haven’t told me why ye were there in the first place.”
“I was walking along the southern side of the barbican on my way to the sea gate when I heard the scuffle. I turned to go toward the main gate but there were soldiers running along the path.” She swiped a hand across her mouth, her eyes shifting aside as if there might be far more to the story. “The path skirting the castle is quite narrow, I’ll have ye know.”
Angus sucked the remaining meat from a crab leg and licked his lips. “And then what happened?”
“Well, not wanting to be trampled, and not wanting to head into a skirmish, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of at the time. I ran to the end of the pier and hid.”
“In my boat.”
“It appears so.”
“Why were ye approaching the sea gate? It seems ye could have used the main gate in the first place.”
