Highland Raider

by Amy Jarecki

  Anya knew full well she was not the beauty in the family. But she was the eldest and, according to Islay, was not entirely unpleasing to the eye. Even if Angus Og MacDonald was an abhorrent pirate, the way he looked at her made her insides inflame like never before. Were all rogues scandalously attractive? Heaven’s stars, she must never allow herself to look upon the man with any semblance of affection.

  Alas, she was a prisoner in a stone fortress, with a mammoth guard posted outside her door. She would grow old here, destined to be a spinster for the rest of her days. Aye, she may not have loved Chahir O’Doherty, but he would have provided her with a home and the opportunity to raise children of her own.

  A knock came at the door.

  Startling, Anya dropped the soap. “I am in the bath.”

  “’Tis just Freya, miss.” The door opened and a middle-aged woman stepped inside. She wore an apron over a plaid kirtle, and a linen mob cap atop her head. “I’m the lady’s maid the dowager sent to help ye dress for the feast.”

  Anya slipped lower in the bath and fished out the cake of soap. “Wonderful.”

  “Are ye not feeling well, miss?” asked Freya, moving to the stack of drying cloths.

  The gash on Anya’s hand stung a bit and she blew on it. “A tad melancholy, I suppose, seeing I am now a political prisoner.”

  The maid shook out one of the cloths and held it up, her smile friendly. “I can think of far more despicable places in which to serve your term. Her Ladyship is fair and thoughtful, and her son is far kinder and more compassionate than his brother, I’ll say.”

  Such a comment piqued Anya’s interest. “Oh? Was Alasdair a cruel man?” she asked, his name bitter on her tongue.

  “Not cruel, but perhaps a wee bit severe. He wasn’t one to allow second chances.”

  “And Angus is? He seems rather commanding to me.”

  “Och, His Lordship is very commanding, but I reckon he inherited a bit of his mother’s kindhearted nature. I say, if a crofter is unable to pay his rents, Angus will work with him to improve his lot, where Alasdair would have demanded payment and given a very short time for the man to make amends.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye. Ye ought to be comfortable here, if not happy.” Freya waved the drying cloth. “Come now, ye must hasten to dress. There will no’ be time to dry your tresses, but I’ll make plaits and roll them into caul nets and ye’ll be the bonniest woman in the great hall, mark me.”

  Anya sniggered as she stood and took the cloth, quickly hiding her nudity. “I rather doubt it.”

  It didn’t take long to don the new clothes, and the maid proved quite efficient tending her hair. By the time Freya rubbed a salve into her palm and wrapped it in a fresh dressing, Anya had almost run out of excuses to avoid the feast—except for one. She peered down at her hem, kicking out a foot. “My sister would wear this gown far better than I. I’m afraid ’tis too long for me.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll fetch a needle and thread straightaway. It won’t take me but a moment.” The maid hastened to her sewing basket. “Her Ladyship will see to it ye visit the tailor to be measured for new clothes on the morrow.”

  Anya nodded, realizing the MacDonalds would be providing her clothing for years to come. “My thanks,” she whispered, her shoulders sagging.

  “Come, lass, ye’ve not but to make the best if it. I ken it will take time, but if ye let us, we will prove we are not an evil clan.” Freya kneeled and started hemming. “And ye look radiant. The plaits coiled about your ears are lovely, even if I do say so myself. Might I add that the Dowager Lady Islay chose well. The green in your gown makes your eyes sparkle like jewels.”

  Anya patted the netting covering the braids. She hadn’t ever worn caul nets before, but they did hold her hair secure, and the style made no difference if her tresses were wet or dry.

  “There ye are, ’tisn’t my best work but it will set ye to rights for the evening,” said Freya, standing back and examining her work.

  Taking a few steps, Anya tested the length. “That’s better. At least if I trip, it shouldn’t be because of my hem.”

  The maid laughed as another knock sounded at the door. “’Tis time to head for the hall, miss,” came the gruff voice of the guard. “Her Ladyship requires your presence.”

  “Go on,” urged Freya. “Ye must be famished.”

  Taking in a deep breath, Anya wrung her hands as the maid opened the door. Aye, she was off to the Saint Valentine’s Day feast, but this meal was in the wrong castle, among a clan she’d considered enemies only two days past.

  The old guard led the way down the wheeled stairway, the sounds from a busy hall echoing off the stone walls and the rich scent of roasted meat making her mouth water. When she’d first arrived at the fortress, Anya was so nervous, she’d forgotten her hunger, but now her mouth watered in anticipation of a meal. She intended to eat her fill, keep her eyes lowered, and escape to her chamber as quickly as possible.

  As they entered the great hall, the rumble from the crowd reduced to a low hum. Stopping for a moment, she glanced across the faces—all gaping at her. She could swear the low mummers were about the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan, who would be held at Dunyvaig until the king could make a trade for her and who knew how many others in exchange for Elizabeth.

  “Follow me, miss,” said the guard, leading her into an aisle separating numerous tables, filled with dozens of MacDonalds, doubtless waiting for her to stumble.

  Anya’s face burned as she kept her gaze focused on the guard’s feet, his boots clomping on the stone floor. About halfway along, he stopped and stepped aside. She swept her gaze across the people crowded shoulder to shoulder onto the benches and wondered if they might be able to make room, at least long enough for her to eat.

  “Miss Anya.”

  Startling, she recognized Islay’s voice before she saw him. And when she turned, the braw lord took her breath away. She’d thought him beautiful on the Isle of Nave, but now that he’d bathed, he looked like a golden god. He was clean-shaven and wore a crisp shirt and plaid, belted low across his hips and drawn over his shoulder in the Scottish way.

  Fairhair.

  Lord in heaven, she wanted to hate this man, but any ice she’d harbored in her heart melted with his easy smile. He took her hand. “Ye are as bonny as a rose this eve.” He bowed and kissed the back of her hand. It wasn’t a mere courteous peck, but he seemed to linger, his warm lips almost tasting her, his breath scorching her flesh seductively.

  Anya’s heart fluttered as if it had grown wings. Biting down on her lip, she vowed to herself never to allow such feelings to be revealed. She may find him charming and handsome, but he must never know her true thoughts. Revealing them would be akin to betraying her father’s honor.

  When he straightened, he didn’t release her hand, but placed it in the crook of his arm and started toward the dais. “Come.”

  She glanced back at the table where the guard still stood. “But am I not to sit there?”

  “You will sit beside me.”

  “Does the king invite all political prisoners to the high table?”

  “I’ve no idea.” He gave her a wink and started up the steps. “I have never been host to a political prisoner before.”

  “I thought ye might lock me in a tiny tower room or worse,” she said, taking in the grandeur of the table alit with dozens of beeswax candles and set with fine silver. Robert the Bruce sat in the lord’s chair, flanked by knights and nobles.

  At one end of the board, Angus held a chair for her. “Would ye like to be at the top of the tower? There is a wee chamber up there that I believe is unoccupied at the moment, aside from a few pigeons.”

  After she sat, he joined her while a servant immediately filled her goblet. “Truly, the chamber I’ve been assigned will do. I am looking forward to sleeping in a bed this eve.”

  “I am as well.” He raised his cup and she followed, the fruity wine delicious on her tongue—much more ple
asant than the awful vintage from Nave. “Ye must be bereft,” he continued. “I ken how important it was for ye to return to Ireland. Contrary to what ye may believe, I honestly intended to see ye home as soon as I could arrange secure passage.”

  “Then it seems King Bruce surprised us all.”

  Enormous platters of venison, chicken, and bread arrived. Islay speared a juicy portion of meat and held it up. “My lady?”

  She chuckled to herself at the use of lady. Had she married Lord O’Doherty, she would have become a lady, but now she was destined to be unwed for the rest of her days. “My thanks.”

  “Perhaps the war will be over soon,” he said, selecting a joint for himself.

  Anya took a slice of bread, slathered it with butter, and took a bite. It was all she could do not to roll her eyes back as she savored the taste. She washed it down with a hasty sip of wine. “I love Elizabeth de Burgh like a sister. Had I been asked to stay here to help her husband negotiate Her Grace’s return, I would have agreed without hesitation.”

  Islay’s hand stilled midair as those intense blue eyes raked down and up her face. “Ye would willingly give up your own happiness for a friend?”

  There was no way in all of Christendom Anya would say that only moments before she had hidden in Fairhair’s birlinn did she perseverate over her reservations about her betrothal. Besides, if she were put on a ship bound for Carrickfergus at this very moment, she would go tell the Earl of Ulster she desired a hasty marriage. “For Elizabeth, yes. I’d do the same for my sister as well.”

  His Lordship grasped his goblet and took a long drink, though his eyes never shifted away from Anya’s face. “Well then,” he said, lowering his drink and leaning closer. “There are more complex layers to the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan than I ever would have guessed.”

  Heavens, when he looked at her with those unnaturally alluring blue eyes and made such a judgement, she had no chance of hiding a smile. “I hope I haven’t disappointed.”

  8

  Disappointed? He mightn’t completely trust Miss Anya, but how could he remain disappointed in a woman with such mettle? Their mishappen shipwreck aside, Angus had never met a lass so selfless that she would turn her back on a chance to become the esteemed wife of a lord to help a friend, especially since the friend happened to be married to a man she most likely considered to be the vilest outlaw since William Wallace.

  Though he must never forget how Anya had disappointed him when she’d flagged the English ship. Nonetheless, if he had been in her shoes, shipwrecked on an isle with a man she considered an enemy, he would have done everything in his power to be rescued by someone he trusted—which certainly wasn’t the Scots and most definitely wasn’t anyone allied with Clan MacDonald. Aye, he had to admit the lass had all but ripped his heart out of his chest when she admitted to being the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan. Angus still hadn’t recovered from that wee disclosure.

  But at the moment, he supposed it mattered not who had sired the lass. What mattered was that she was now under his protection and Robert expected him to watch over her until she was needed by the crown. Though he could not deny his attraction to Anya, it would be a political blunder of the highest order to woo her.

  With the feast spread out in front of him, Angus’ mouth watered while the claws of hunger gripped his belly. He took an enormous bite from his joint of venison, moaning with pleasure and savoring the juice as it burst in his mouth.

  On his left, Mither leaned forward and regarded his new ward. “Raghnall told us ye were anxious to return to Carrickfergus.”

  Stopping mid-chew, Anya drew in a ragged breath. “Aye,” she whispered, lowering her gaze and not explaining further.

  Angus knew very well his mother would have squeezed every last detail she could out of the man-at-arms and most likely knew about the marriage contract negotiations, albeit between Ulster and O’Doherty rather than Anya’s concocted story about the earl’s steward.

  “I am sorry for this state of affairs, truly,” said Mither, her tone warm and sincere. “We will endeavor to make your stay here memorable.”

  Angus nearly snorted. The poor lassie’s experience was already a catastrophe she’d never forget.

  Anya craned her neck, looking directly at his mother. “This is a fine keep, I’m certain, but I do pray to return home anon.”

  Sobering, Angus returned his attention to the venison on his plate, eating in silence for a time. When Anya leaned aside to allow a servant to remove a trencher, the lass’ knee brushed Angus’ thigh. As their gazes met, Angus could have sworn her breath caught in unison with his. Was there a hint of attraction on her part?

  If only he were able to find out. But the moment passed soon enough, with Anya shifting again, though the folds of her dress still brushed his knee. Every time she moved, the caress of fabric reminded him of how closely she sat.

  At the center of the table, the king and the knights around him burst forth with raucous laughter. Robert raised his goblet and stood. “Let us make merry and dance, for God only kens what the morrow will bring!”

  After an uproarious cheer, the servants began moving the tables aside to make way for music and dancing. A lutists, a drummer and a flautist took their positions upon the gallery.

  “Do ye like to dance?” Angus asked.

  “Very much so, though I’m not as graceful as—”

  “Finovola?” he ventured.

  The lass turned as red as the scarlet background on the tapestry behind them. “She’s quite accomplished at most everything.”

  He moved his knee ever so slightly to see if he could touch her leg again but only managed another wee brush of woolen skirts. “Ye have put your sister on a pedestal, have ye not?”

  While a servant placed a dish of stewed apples in front of her, Anya leaned away, though she seemed to be careful not to brush his thigh this time. “She’s everyone’s favorite.”

  Angus found that difficult to believe. “Why do ye reckon so?”

  “First of all, where I am short and squat, she is long and lithe. She enjoys embroidery and will sit endlessly with the countess while they work their needlepoint, discussing menus, the servants, and the latest fashions.”

  “I take it ye don’t care for needlepoint or idle chat?”

  “Neither, really. I prefer to be outdoors. I like a spirited steed beneath me, with the wind in my hair. I like to hide away and draw everything I observe. I find so many new and astonishing things, I cannot see how anyone would prefer to be shut in the lady’s solar with needle and thread.”

  “What have ye found that has surprised you?”

  “So many things.” She drummed her fingers on the stem of her goblet. “One of my most treasured discoveries is a blue crystal stone—not blue like the sky but blue like a shallow sea laced with green kale. ’Tis iridescent in the sunlight and nearly as large as the palm of my hand.”

  Angus enjoyed watching the animation on her face, the bonny splay of freckles that seemed to dance when she spoke. “The way ye describe the stone makes it sound priceless.”

  “It is. Though I…” She sipped her wine, her expression turning sad.

  “You what, pray tell?”

  “I doubt I’ll ever see it again. After all, Ulster couldn’t possibly know what has become of me. I fear soon he’ll be preparing for my wake.”

  “That does sound a wee bit grim. I ken ye expected the terms of your betrothal to be final this eve.”

  Anya replaced her goblet as music swelled through the hall. “I suppose Lord O’Doherty will be setting his sights elsewhere now I’ve vanished.”

  Unable to think of a consoling response that didn’t sound indifferent or trite, Angus bit the inside of his cheek. Poor lass, all her dreams had been dashed with one unlucky guess. Had she chosen a boat closer to the gate, her fate never would have changed.

  Sir Arthur Campbell slid his chair away from the table and strode directly to Anya’s side and bowed. “Will you dance with me, mi
ss?”

  Cracking his knuckles beneath the table, Angus scowled at the knight. The dancers hadn’t even begun taking their places. And though the men outnumbered the women three to one, he should have been the first one to accompany her on a turn around the floor.

  The lass glanced up. “Does King Robert allow his prisoners to dance?”

  Campbell’s jaw slackened with his shrug. “Ye are a guest at his table, why not enjoy the merriment of the feast day?”

  Angus cracked his knuckles again. This is my damned table.

  Anya took the knight’s hand. “Well then, shall we?”

  “Bloody hell,” Angus mumbled under his breath while Campbell led her away. Did the knight not know better than to interrupt? And who did he think he was, barging over and asking Anya for the first dance? The Highlander might be favored by the king at the moment, but this was not his keep, nor was he charged with the protection of the O’Cahan lass for Lord only knew how long.

  The dancers moved into their places, assembling in two lines. When the music began, Anya curtseyed while a smile blossomed on her face. She skipped and turned as if well practiced, her movement like that of a doe in the forest. That the woman thought she was stout and ungraceful was utter folly. She was delightfully adorable. Though Finovola might be statuesque, Angus could wager she had nowhere near the character of her elder sister.

  “Ye have an eye for the O’Cahan woman,” said Mither, nudging him with her elbow.

  His mother’s meddling always set him on edge, especially this eve. Worse, it made the gashes on his shoulders ache. “Nay. I have a great deal on my mind, is all.” Angus reached for the ewer of wine and filled her glass before he topped up his own. “And at the forefront is what the devil were ye thinking when ye suggested we hold Miss Anya at Dunyvaig?”

  “Humph. I’m surprised ye must ask.” Mither traced her finger along his cheek. “My fair son.”