by Amy Jarecki
He batted her hand away. “I’m a man of thirty. Please answer me.”
“Alas, ye are in a sour mood. If ye must ken, I reckon we MacDonalds have far too many enemies.”
“On that we are agreed.”
“It might be of benefit to make an alliance with the House of O’Cahan. ’Tis an ancient, well-respected Irish name. They have strong influence over a number of our adversaries and—”
“Lord O’Cahan is but a lad of fifteen, I reckon.” Angus pointed to the lass locking arms with Campbell. “The brother of our new charge.”
“Perhaps so, but he will no’ be a child forever. And the wee woman out there dancing with Sir Arthur most likely has a dowry large enough to pay for fifty sea galleys with coin to spare.”
Angus batted his hand through the air. “Now ye are dreaming. Ye ken she is expecting a betrothal from that dim-witted maggot, Lord Chahir O’Doherty.”
“That may well be but do ye think His Lordship will wait years for the return of his bonny bride? If O’Doherty is anything like his father, he has his sights set on her purse, not those beguiling emerald eyes.”
Saying nothing, Angus drained his goblet. He didn’t want to think of anyone taking advantage of Anya for her wealth. Or anyone taking advantage of the lass for any reason whatsoever. Most of all, he didn’t care to have his mother meddling in his affairs.
“’Tis time you cast away the resentment ye harbor for Ella and find a woman to marry—bless the House of MacDonald with an heir afore something, God forbid, happens to ye.”
The mention of Ella’s name cut a slice through his gut. Angus hadn’t thought of her in ages, nor did he ever care to hear her name. Angus had given his heart but once in his lifetime. He’d been a foolish youth and she a deceiving wench as it were. They’d met at a ceilidh on the Isle of Skye and she’d stolen his heart with a mere kiss. In the end, the vixen had rejected his offer of marriage and wed a MacLeod laird. At the time, Angus had been a lowly second son and lord of nothing but the sea and his birlinn.
“Did ye hear me?” asked Mither.
“Aye.”
“Ha.” His mother thumped his arm with a backhand. “The question is, did ye listen?”
As the dance ended and Campbell led Anya back toward the dais, Angus pushed back his chair. “I bid ye remember I am Lord of Islay, and I will decide when and to whom I will marry.”
When he stood, his mother grasped his hand. “Just do no’ bed the lass and cast her aside when ye are finished. And don’t gape at me with an astonished air. I ken of the long line of wenches who’ve sampled your wiles. God gave ye the face of an angel but the only time he saw fit to open your heart was when ye were too young to use it wisely.”
Snapping his hand away, he turned on his heel. Damnation, if that woman weren’t his mother, he’d tell her where to put her opinion.
As soon as Sir Arthur and Miss Anya reached the steps to the dais, Angus pattered down, grasped her hand, and tugged her back toward the dancers. “I should have asked ye for the first dance,” he growled, leering at Sir Arthur for his interference.
She squeezed his palm—such a subtle gesture, why had it knocked his heart out of rhythm? “I’m certain there will be many dances this eve.”
Angus brushed his lips over the back of her hand, stopped at the ladies’ line, and bowed. “Aye.”
Without another word, he joined the men’s line. Too many emotions roiled inside for him to make sense of them. He abhorred his mother’s meddling, yet could not fathom why he felt like slamming his fist into Arthur Campbell’s nose. On top of it all, Angus had spent two sleepless nights on Nave, which ought to turn most anyone into an angry bear. But, more than that, Angus wanted control of his keep. He’d had enough of politics, fighting, and royal court for the moment. Och, he longed to hear supplications and settle the petty grievances of his crofters, to sail the seas and cast his nets, bringing in a harvest of haddock to feed the multitudes.
Anya gazed across the open space between them, her eyes alive with anticipation and fixedly focused on him. Good God, that woman could melt the ice atop the mount of Beinn an Oir in winter with the intensity of her stare.
The music began, cuing Angus to skip forward, and grasp her hands in his—small hands, soft, yet with long, artistic fingers he’d noticed when she had drawn the picture…of him.
If she liked to draw the treasures she found, why had she bothered to draw his face when she had suffered the loss of her father due to the feud between their clans?
When he’d drawn the tarpaulin away, she’d attacked as if she were terrified out of her wits. But now they were dancing together. The lass was even smiling. Mayhap she didn’t detest him as much as she’d let on?
Distracted by his thoughts, Angus almost stumbled over his feet, even though Anya didn’t seem to miss a step. She followed his lead easily, responding to every twist of his wrist and turn of his foot. When hand in hand, they sashayed in a circle, her skirts brushed his calves, the friction igniting sparks of awareness, making them flicker throughout his entire body. When Anya’s gaze slid up to meet his, he gulped. Dear God, this woman thought herself plain? Why did she not see her own beauty? The music demanded they return to their lines and a hollowness spread through his chest, replacing the frissons of energy gripping him only moments before.
He took the corner woman by the elbow, turning and sashaying until Anya again stood across from him, her cheeks rosy. The dance demanded they move sideways until he beheld another face, friendly, but not intoxicating like that of the Irish lass. He locked arms with Lilis and spun in a circle while Anya mirrored them with the Highlander behind. Angus watched her out of the corner of his eye until she joined him once again.
He grasped her hands possessively, wishing they were alone, wishing they were back on Nave, yet with all the comforts of Dunyvaig. And then she gifted him with a radiant smile—a woman who ought to hate him clear to the depths of her soul, smiled like she hadn’t a care and danced like a nymph. The music dimmed while Angus’ breath rushed loudly in his ears. Seeing only her face, he pulled her closer for the spin, the sweet bouquet rose soap and Anya’s uniquely feminine scent washing over his senses. Breathless, he stopped, standing motionless, the lass but inches from his body.
A concerned expression furrowed her brow. “Are ye well, my lord?”
The music came to an end and Angus released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I think I need to take in some air and head for my pillow. Truth be told, I’ve never been one to function well without a good night’s sleep.”
She patted her lips as she yawned. “I’m afraid I’m a tad sleepy myself. Would ye mind having a bit of company on your stroll?”
Angus looked to the dais, where the men were drinking and laughing. In fact, the only person who seemed to notice him was Mither. “The wall-walk is hauntingly beautiful at night.” He really ought to dissuade the lass.
Her eyes grew round as her lips formed a delicate O. “Hauntingly? Such a sight, I cannot miss.”
But then again, it would be nice to take a wee stroll with Anya, especially now that she seemed more at ease with her state of affairs. “The wind bites up there, especially this time of year.”
“I believe your mother was so kind as to send up a cloak.”
“Was she?” He led her toward the wall while dancers prepared for the next set. “It would be—ah—advantageous to avoid gossip. Would ye mind terribly if I joined ye above stairs?”
“The last thing I would want to do is cause undue rumors. How about if we avoid the gossipmongers all together and I meet you on the wall-walk?”
“Do you ken where it is?”
She gave him a saucy smirk and pointed upward. “Where they all are, at the top of the stairs, I surmise.”
He chuckled. “Aye. I’ll make your apologies to the king and explain that I’ve had enough merriment as well, then I shall show you the beauty of Dunyvaig after dark.”
9
Any
a opened the door to her bedchamber, noting her guard as he stepped out of the stairwell. Of course, he’d been following. He was past his prime with streaks of grey in his beard, taller than average with a girth the size of the hind end of a horse, and she had yet to see him smile. No one needed to tell her the man was to be a permanent shadow during her stay.
Grumbling under her breath, Anya dashed inside and hastened to collect the cloak she’d been given. Before heading out, she took a moment to check her reflection in the polished brass mirror. Patting the caul nets secured at her ears, she decided they looked entirely too frumpish for a stroll atop the wall-walk, and removed the netting, pins, and unraveled her plaits. Her hair was still damp, but the cloak’s hood ought to keep her head warm enough.
She gave the guard a frown as she headed out. He followed, the clap of his footsteps making Anya’s skin crawl. Stopping before the stairs, she whirled on him and pushed her hood away from her crown. “There is no need to tail me like a puppy dog. I’m only going for a stroll atop the curtain walls.”
The man arched his hedgerow of eyebrows. “Forgive me, miss, but my orders are to keep ye within my sights at all times.”
“Humph. I suppose if ye’re going to act as my gargantuan shadow, I ought to know your name.”
He slid his foot forward and gave a right royal bow. “I’m Rory, miss. At yer service.”
She studied him for a moment. Perhaps there was a personality under all that grizzled hair. “Very well, Rory. I hope ye do not die from utter boredom following me about this dreary keep. I can think of dozens of things more interesting for a soldier than watching over the likes of me.”
Not even a hint of a smile touched his lips. “Yes, miss.”
Rolling her eyes, Anya turned on her heel and proceeded to climb past not two, but three landings before she reached the top. A gust of frigid air immediately blew her hood off. “Oof!” she exclaimed, it was every bit as chilly as Angus had indicated.
“There ye are.” His Lordship stepped forward and offered his hand.
Islay’s palm was surprisingly warm, though his touch made a shiver skitter up Anya’s arm. “’Tis me and my new appendage, Rory, I’m afraid.”
Chuckling, Fairhair eyed the guard. “I’ll watch over Miss Anya whilst we’re taking a wee stroll.”
Rory bowed his head. “Very well, m’lord.”
Angus placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “I will see to it you receive a pair of fur-lined gloves on the morrow.”
“Thank you.” Together they started traversing the narrow path around the top of the donjon. “Are there no guards up here?”
“Are ye curious, or are ye plotting?”
“Plotting?” She feigned innocence. “Whatever do ye mean?”
“Do not peg me as a fool, lass. On Nave ye flagged an English ship against my orders. I’ll wager escaping this fortress has crossed your mind more than once since arriving.”
“With an oaf the size of Rory following me about, I doubt I’ll be going anywhere I am not allowed. I’m curious is all. Ye have so many soldiers. Why none up here?”
“If ye must know, I dismissed the guards for a wee bit of respite. I’m certain it goes without saying, guards are posted atop the barbican walls surrounding the castle as well.”
“I would have thought no less.” They stopped at the southwesterly corner with an endless view out over the fortress curtain to the inky sea. A relatively calm night lit by a full moon, the tips of the waves glistened with luminous blue.
Islay leaned forward, resting his elbows on a merlon. “Dunyvaig is impenetrable, fortified with the latest defenses and situated atop rock through which no one can tunnel. The English ken better than to lay siege to her. Besides, there’s nowhere level enough within her surrounds to stage a catapult.”
“Have they ever tried?”
“Not since her walls were reinforced by my great-grandfather.”
“If the castle is so secure, then why must a guard be posted outside my bedchamber?”
“This fortress was built to keep enemies out, not to imprison clan and kin. As ye recall, I did no’ see fit to lock ye in the tower, or toss ye into the pit for that matter. And as ye explained, ye were quite adept at slipping out of Carrickfergus unawares. Since the king has entrusted me with your care, I am not inclined to sit idle whilst ye brew up ideas for an escape.”
Anya pursed her lips. She never should have told him about slipping away to her private outcropping.
His Lordship drummed his fingers on top of the merlon. “I see I’ve made ye unhappy.”
Sighing, she reverted her attention to the sea. Of course she was unhappy. She was a political prisoner for heaven’s sake. “Can a person see Ireland from here?”
“Nay. Though it is closer than one might expect—a half-day’s sailing at most. And the first bit of land ye’ll spy along the voyage is Rathlin Island.”
“Oh my. I can see Rathlin from atop Dunseverick, where I was born—where my young brother reigns as lord now.”
“I ken of your kin’s keep. ’Tis no’ so far away, lass. Do ye miss home?”
“Aye, though as a female, I’ve been destined to leave my family’s seat since birth. I only didn’t think I would be forced to leave at the age of thirteen.”
“War has a way of changing one’s plans. It happened to me as well, though I had already passed my majority. I lost my elder brother in the same battle where you lost your father.” Though the light was dim, there was enough glow from the moon to see Islay’s Adam’s apple bob. “’Twas an ugly skirmish, fought just across the sound at Southend, near the Mull of Kintyre, only a mile or so from Dunaverty, the castle where I was born. I’ll tell ye true, there were heavy losses on both sides that day.”
The awfulness of it made her throat thicken and she pulled her cloak more tightly about her body. “They brought my da’s corpse home wrapped in death linen.”
“My brother’s as well. I carried his body,” Angus said with more feeling in his voice than she would have expected.
Anya sighed. “We both suffered.”
“You more than me, I’d reckon.”
“Why do ye say that?”
“Though I would have preferred to continue living as the second son, without the responsibility of the lordship upon my shoulders, I did no’ have to leave my lands. I wasn’t appointed with a guardian earl to watch over me or to arrange my marriage to someone I hardly knew.”
Anya shivered and moved nearer the Highlander. How perceptive he was. Who would have believed Fairhair, the man reputed to possess the heart of a devil, was actually compassionate? “Come, my lord. Ye cannot possibly know how well acquainted I am with Lord O’Doherty.”
He chuckled. “Believe me, lass, I’m no seer, but I ken in my bones, ye’ve met the man but once if that.”
“Do ye know him?”
“We’ve crossed paths. Long ago, when Balliol sat on the throne and we were summoned to a gathering to pay fealty to Edward.”
“Fealty ye did not give.”
His shoulder ticked up. “Scotland is a sovereign nation. Balliol was our king. The MacDonald pledged fealty to him.”
“The man was appointed by Longshanks, mind ye.”
“A great folly that.” Islay brushed her cheek with a coarse knuckle. “But politics is not why I invited ye up here, lass.”
Anya’s heart seemed to stop, then pounded like she’d dashed up past four landings in a stairwell. Every time they chatted, she discovered something new about His Lordship. And discoveries always countered everything she had been led to believe about the man. Was it wrong to admire one’s captor? To admire someone who ought to be an enemy?
Heaven help me, I am ever so confused.
The Highlander pointed southward. “On a clear night such as this, ye can sometimes see the spray from the backs of whales. And the waves glisten as if silkies are dancing just beneath the water.” He panned his finger to the southwest. “Across the wee bay, ye can see the
outline of the village of Lagavulin, where MacDonald crofters raise meat for our table and grow oats, barley, and hops.” He shifted a bit, crouching down and inclining his lips toward her ear. “And that big stone building in the dark shadows is the brewhouse. Beside it is the fishing hall. I do no’ recommend paying a visit on account of its foul smell. Yonder we boast a tannery, which doesn’t smell much better, and the MacDonald smithy is the best in Scotland, if ye ask me.”
“Ye sound proud.”
“I suppose I am. Our forefathers settled this land, dating back to the reign of Somerled, the warrior who carved out the Kingdom of the Isles.”
“I know of his legend. He was born in Ireland in the House of Appin, his mother a Norse noblewoman.”
“Aye.”
“Imagine that. Our ancestry is not so different, yours and mine.” Anya strolled to the next corner while Islay followed, the soft tapping of his footsteps making her ever so self-aware. Even gooseflesh peppered her nape as if she could feel his breath there. “What makes this place hauntingly beautiful at night?”
“Aside from ye?” He gave her an audacious wink. “’Tis the eerie quiet amplified by the rush of the sea, has always made me feel as if…”
“What?”
He batted his hand through the air with a dismissive wave. “Ye’ll think me daft.”
She faced him, craning her neck to peer into his eyes, now dark as the night sky. “Nay. Besides, ye’ve already started. I must know.”
He again leaned on a merlon and looked out into the darkness. “It is as if the spirits of my ancestors lurk here. If I stand very still, they call to me.”
A forceful shiver coursed through Anya’s body akin to something touching her soul.
“Ye’ve a chill,” he said. “We ought to retire.”
“I’m not cold,” she whispered, resting her hip on the crenel notch beside him. “I just never thought ye…”
He straightened, cupping her cheek, his fingers rough like a man who worked with his hands or practiced a great deal wielding a sword. “Och, lass, earlier ye insisted I bear my soul. Ye cannot just stop mid-thought.”
