by Amy Jarecki
Anya raised her chin for good measure. “Not at all. He saved my life.”
“He is a miscreant of the highest or—” Suddenly stopped, the cur’s eyes popped wide as if in shock, his mouth opened and closed like a fish on dry land, then blood spurted from his throat.
As her gaze focused, she gagged, realizing his neck had been pierced by an arrow.
In the blink of an eye, a barrage of arrows hissed past Anya’s ears. Screaming, she covered her head and dropped to her knees. “Stop, stop, stop!” she shouted over and over, certain she would be the next person skewered.
As she took in a deep breath, things grew eerily quiet until the rocks crunched with Islay’s footsteps. He grasped her elbow with his bound hands and tugged her up. “’Tis over, miss.”
“I leave ye alone for a day and return to find ye under an English knife,” said Raghnall, standing in the helm of a sea galley with a bow and arrow in his hands.
A dozen Highlanders pulled the MacDonald birlinn beside the English cog while Anya gulped, her gaze trailing to the carnage on the beach. “Lord have mercy,” she mumbled, her fingers trembling as she worked lose His Lordship’s bindings.
After the rope dropped to the ground, Islay pulled her into a powerful embrace. “Hide your eyes. ’Tis a grisly sight not meant for a lady.”
Unable to draw away from him, Anya buried her face against his chest. “But…but they were a-a-alive a moment ago. And I-I thought if they took ye to Ulster, I could plead for leniency and-and he would see that ye have a good heart and—”
“Nay, lass. No matter how good your intentions were, the man spoke true. In King Edward’s eyes, I am a traitor, though I fail to see how I can commit treason against a country to which I am no’ a subject.”
Gooseflesh rose across Anya’s skin as she wiped away her tears and searched his eyes. She’d never heard the conflict between the kingdoms explained in such a way. Too many clashing thoughts rifled through her mind. There she stood in the arms of a man whose brother had killed her father in a battle for lands and power—not because of the wars between the kingdoms but in the course of a clan feud. Anya’s da had joined with the MacDougall Clan on a promise of Scottish lands, except her father had never returned and the lands promised remained in the hands of the MacDonalds. She’d been raised to hate the Lord of Islay and his kin, as well as to believe any Scot who did not pay fealty to King Edward was evil.
Can there be an exception?
She’d lived her entire life under the belief that MacDonalds were violent, pillaging murderers. And the proof was right here before her. Yet Edward’s men were about to lead an innocent man to a heinous death. A man who had saved Anya from drowning. A man who had warmed her when she was on the verge of succumbing to icy exposure.
When she placed her hand on his chest, hot blood oozed through her fingers. “Ye’re hurt.”
“’Tis but a scratch.”
It wasn’t, but presently, Anya had no bandages with which to tend him.
He took her palm and turned it up. “You’ve injured your hand as well.”
“I’d say this is more of a scratch than the gash to your shoulder.”
“Nay, miss. This wee cut evens out the axe blow ye delivered on the other side.” He blew on her tender flesh, relieving the ache. Then he gave her a wink with one of those grins steamy enough to melt a heart of ice, while he tore off a piece of his shirt and wrapped it around her palm. “This will help staunch the bleeding until Lilas can tend you.”
“Lilas?”
“Our healer.”
Angus turned to Raghnall as he came up beside them. “Och, ye are gifted with impeccable timing, friend.”
The man-at-arms chuckled. “One of us has a gift and I doubt it is me, m’lord.”
“What news of the others in our boat?”
“Gael washed ashore on Islay—made his way back to the keep about the same time as I.”
Angus’ shoulders dropped as he bowed his head and crossed himself. “We’ve incurred too many losses of late.”
Raghnall made the sign of the cross as well. “I wish there was time to head into the chapel and pray for their souls, but there are more patrols sailing these waters than I’ve ever seen. Unless we want to join our fallen kinsmen, we’d best hide the English boat and be on our way.”
“Nay, we shall remove her colors and add this cog to my fleet. I need half the crew to help me sail her to Dunyvaig.” Angus pointed to Raghnall as he grasped Anya’s elbow and tugged her toward the English ship. “Bury the dead, then haste for home.”
Once they were under way and the sail was full, Anya sat the tiller beside Angus. “I kent ye were no commoner,” he said. “Are ye kin to Ulster?”
She scrunched her nose. “Not exactly. I am his ward.”
“Explain.”
“I withheld my identity from ye because at first I feared for my life. Ye see, my father was killed by Alasdair MacDonald.” She looked him square in the eyes. “Your brother.”
With her words, everything turned icy.
The sight of Dunyvaig’s walls alight with the reflection of the afternoon sun, made the pent-up tension in Angus’ body blow away with a gust of wind. Except for the roiling in his chest. He had been forthright with Miss Anya from the outset, but because she knew of the rumors smearing his name, she’d hid her identity from him. And then he’d trusted her.
The gashes in his shoulders throbbed as he thought about how daft he’d been, leaving her in the chapel while he went off to collect crabs. He should have tied her up, or at least kept her under a watchful eye. The bloody daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan, ally of John MacDougall, the bedamned Lord of Lorn? The woman had nearly caused his undoing. If it hadn’t been for Raghnall arriving when he did, Angus would be heading for his execution on the Carlisle gallows, alongside his allies.
Wouldn’t that have made the King Robert’s heart rosy?
Ever since she had confessed her true identity, Miss Anya had moved to the bow of the ship. Regardless of the sea spray up there, she’d chosen to remain as far away from him as possible, sitting as rigid as a statue. And so be it. He hadn’t uttered a word to the woman during the voyage, either. Aye, the sooner he arranged for her return to Carrickfergus, the better.
Thank heavens it didn’t take long to sail around the southern end of Islay and into the bay that protected Dunyvaig Castle. After the men pulled the birlinn onto the shore, he ordered them to help the lady alight while he hopped over the side and headed for the keep.
“Good tidings for a blessed Saint Valentine’s Day, m’lord,” said Friar Jo. The man’s name was Jonas, but ever since the Benedictine monk had arrived on the island, he’d been dubbed Jo. He was one of the few people Angus confided in. After all, he’d known the cleric all his life.
“’Tis good to be home at last.”
“I heard about your wee stowaway.”
“Aye.” Angus glanced over his shoulder and frowned. Flanked by two guards, Anya was following. “She’s the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan.”
Huffing, the old friar waddled beside him as they made their way through the sea gate. “My heavens, no.”
“Ye’d best believe it, do no’ let her out of your sight or she may very well dirk your back. I’ll be arranging transport for the lass just as soon as I’ve had a bath and a change of clothes.”
“Ye might want to rethink your priorities, m’lord.”
“Oh? And why, pray tell? I’ve just spent two nights sleeping on an icy stone floor in the wee chapel on Nave. I’m in sore need of a bath and a change of bloody clothes.” He also wouldn’t mind a blanket or two to stave off the bitter wind.
“King Bruce wants to see ye straightaway. The lass as well.”
Angus groaned. Damnation, he’d forgotten about the king. And why the hell hadn’t Raghnall mentioned the Bruce was still here? Bless it, Robert the Bruce had taken over the lord’s chamber, which meant Angus would again be relegated above stairs to the small room he’d
occupied as a lad.
He stopped and beckoned Anya forward. “We’re to have an audience with King Bruce, then I’ll see to it the servants draw ye a bath and find some suitable clothes. After all, we heathens do feast on Saint Valentine’s as well.”
“My thanks.” Pursing her lips, the lass grasped his elbow, the sensation of her lithe fingers making tingles skitter all the way up to the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he growled, not proud of the gruff tone in his voice. He knew why she had apologized. He just wasn’t ready to accept it.
“I’m Friar Jo,” said the cleric, smiling as if he weren’t facing the daughter of one of their most hated adversaries. “Welcome to Dunyvaig, miss.”
She cringed. “I’m not quite certain of your welcome.”
Angus led the way up the ramp leading to the keep. “The friar kens who ye are, and he’d welcome ye even if ye were married to Satan. This man hasn’t a grudgeful bone in his body.”
Friar Jo chuckled and rubbed his belly. “Aye, the good Lord says love thy neighbor. I reckon he means the Irish as well as the English, no matter which king to whom ye happen to pay fealty.”
Inside, the smells of roasting venison and baking bread wafted through the air, making Angus’ mouth water. His last decent meal had been when he’d broken his fast three days past. And though the clan would be assembling soon to enjoy a grand feast, a feeling of tension in the air weighed upon him. And Angus knew why. The king had wintered at Dunyvaig and the MacDonald servants were on edge.
“Islay,” said Robbie Boyd, bowing at the entry to the great hall. “’Tis good to see ye survived the storm, my friend.”
Angus greeted the knight, clasping his forearm and squeezing. “I’m glad ye were able to spirit the king away afore Ulster’s archers honed their skills.”
“Between us, I reckon the earl gave orders for near misses. After all, the queen would have never spoken to her father again had the bastard murdered her husband.”
“MacDonald,” bellowed the Bruce, sitting in Angus’ chair at the head table upon the dais where he had taken to holding court these past few months. “Come forward.”
Angus didn’t consider himself a prideful man. But, nonetheless, he’d had a gutful of being a pawn in his own castle. Beckoning Anya to follow, he inclined his lips toward her ear. “This will no’ take long, then I shall see to your comfort.”
As they processed, Angus nodded to his mother who was also seated at the high table along with Arthur Campbell and a number of the king’s confidants. As a courtesy, Angus grasped Anya’s elbow to climb the dais steps. After reaching the top, he bowed, noting the lass beside him was savvy enough to dip into a respectful curtsey. “Good tidings, Your Grace. Please allow me to introduce Miss Anya O’Cahan of Dunseverick.”
Mither gasped, clapping a hand to her chest.
Robert the Bruce arched a thick eyebrow, his eyes widening. “Ah, yeeees, I remember ye, Miss Anya. Ye stood with my wife at our wedding. She spoke highly of ye and your sister.”
“My thanks, Your Grace. Elizabeth is…ah…was my closest friend. If it had not been for her kindness when I arrived at Carrickfergus, I would have suffered greatly.”
The king’s gaze flickered to Angus before he dipped his quill and signed the document on the table before him, which was then taken and sealed by his cleric. “I understand Ulster claimed guardianship after your father was killed.” Robert looked up from his work and tapped the feather to his chin. “He joined with MacDougall against the MacDonald, did he not?”
Anya blushed as bright as a blood rose. “Aye.”
“Unfortunate turn of events that, what with two dead lords and nothing gained.”
Angus cleared his throat, dislodging a lump that had suddenly formed. Beside the king, his mother had gone terribly pale, her eyes boring through him with the anguish of a woman who’d lost her firstborn. It wasn’t easy for Angus to grant hospitality to the offspring of Lord Guy O’Cahan and, most likely, it was doubly as distasteful for Mither. “I plan to arrange transport to return Miss Anya to Carrickfergus on the morrow.”
The king whipped his quill through the air while a pinch formed between his brows. “Ye will do no such thing. This woman is now my political prisoner just as my wife is held captive by Edward of England. Miss Anya O’Cahan has worth and will be a useful pawn when the time comes to negotiate the exchange of prisoners. I’ve a monastery in mind where the monks provide our captives with meaningful labor—somewhere Edward will never find them, ye ken the one.”
Anya clasped her hands over her heart. “But I must return—”
“May I be so bold as to make a suggestion, sire?” asked Mither.
Rarely did Angus’ mother interrupt, though she was as shrewd as any man, Her Ladyship was very calculated and careful about everything she said, especially when in the king’s company.
The king set his quill in the holder. “By all means.”
“I am in need of a lady-in-waiting and, as ye are aware, Dunyvaig is impenetrable. Why not allow the lass to remain here, under my watchful eye and tutelage, of course.”
“Hmm.” Robert slid the velum he’d signed toward the cleric. “Interesting that ye would be willing to take on such a task, given the feud between your kin.”
“Which is exactly why I thought of it. Miss Anya’s younger brother assumed the Lordship of Keenaght, did he not? What better time to repair relations than when youth assume an ancestral seat?”
Angus tried to read Anya’s expression, but she stood emotionless. Nonetheless, she had been planning to wed Lord O’Doherty or at least accept his offer of marriage this very night. What panic must she be feeling inside with all her dreams being brushed aside with a wave of the king’s hand? Did Mither honestly believe she could win the lass over?
One thing was for certain, Miss Anya would live in far more comfort at Dunyvaig than she would at Eynhallow Monastery on the Isle of Orkney where Angus had ferried Robert’s highborn prisoners before, though the location was a closely guarded secret and only known by a handful of men. The place was not only desolate and cold, the wind blew constantly while the monks survived by tilling rocky land and raising a flock of feeble-looking sheep. The king had grossly overstated the comfort she might find up there. ’Twas akin to the misery they’d shared on Nave.
“What say you, Angus?” asked Robert. “This is your domain. Are ye willing to harbor the lass until she’s needed for negotiations? Mind ye, it could be years afore I see my Elizabeth again.”
Beside him, Anya released a stuttered breath. Aye, she was roiling on the inside, for certain.
“I agree with the Dowager Lady Islay. The lass will enjoy far more comfort here than at a monastery. Furthermore, if my mother is willing to take on such a responsibility, then I shall see to it Miss Anya remains safely within Dunyvaig’s walls.” Angus made a point of looking the lass in the eye. “After all, we will destroy any enemy ship that comes too near our shores.”
“’Tis settled, then.” The king reached for a tankard while he nodded to Miss Anya. “Consider yourself fortunate. I only pray my wife is receiving similar consideration in regard to her station.” Robert shifted his gaze to the rafters. “Dear Lord, watch over her.”
7
Anya wanted nothing more than to languish in the wooden tub and pretend she was in her bedchamber at Carrickfergus, preparing to meet the man who had been negotiating for her hand. Unfortunately, the Dowager Lady Islay had given the servants strict instructions to assist Anya to dress for the feast as swiftly as possible. As soon as she had been shown to a small bedchamber, two sentries had brought in a wooden tub, followed by a line of servants carrying pails filled with steamy water.
Even more surprising, a dress awaited her with a crisp linen shift, as if Her Ladyship were expecting a new lady-in-waiting. Anya raised the rose-scented soap to her nose and inhaled. What might the woman’s expectations be? At Carrickfergus, the Countess of Ulster required Anya and Finovo
la to help her dress in the morning, assist her to change for any outings, as well as change for every evening meal. They provided companionship while the countess had given the two girls an education, preparing them to become wives of well-born gentlemen. In short, they were more or less treated as family, as daughters or, at least, nieces of the earldom.
Anya’s limbs felt ever so heavy as she bathed away the stench of the sea and the smell of the heady smoke from the chapel’s brazier. Robert the Bruce had said it might be years before he used her as a pawn to trade for Elizabeth’s freedom. In truth, Anya would gladly volunteer to do anything to help her dearest friend, but such an option was not presented as a request. Rather, she was forced to remain at Dunyvaig with no care given to her feelings on the matter.
Would she ever again find an opportunity to escape? It did not seem likely—not when she was being guarded by a man reputed to be the vilest scourge in the Western Isles, his fortresses impenetrable, housing soldiers who fought like demons.
After rinsing her hair, she sat immobile, staring at the water, now a tad murky from the lye in the soap. She was actually missing the Saint Valentine’s Day feast at Carrickfergus. Just a few days ago, she’d been a bit melancholy about the idea of marrying, though never again. If Lord Chahir O’Doherty wanted her for his wife, then so be it. And by the rood, she missed Finovola. If only Anya could send her sister a message and let her know she was well.
Of course, over the next few to several years, Lord O’Doherty would find another woman to wed.
Though Anya rued the day she’d hidden in Fairhair’s birlinn, oddly, the idea of her intended marrying another didn’t bother her in the slightest. Why had she never warmed to him? They’d met but once when he’d visited the earl. Lord O’Doherty was of average height and, aside from crooked teeth, was pleasant enough to the eye. During that brief stroll atop the wall-walk, he spoke of duty and the need to produce an heir. He told her about his keep and how his mother had managed the servants with an iron fist. But not once had he commented about affection, or tried to kiss her hand, or complimented Anya aside from mentioning that her sister was quite lovely and ought to make a good match.
