Highland Raider

by Amy Jarecki

  “Not bad,” said Raghnall who followed suit, hitting the center mark.

  His Lordship grumbled and loaded his bow. This time, his arrow darted straight into the middle. He grinned at the man-at-arms. “Spot on. That makes us two-for-two. Next point wins.”

  Raghnall drew another arrow. “I’ll be more than happy to relieve ye of your coin, m’lord.” He hardly looked at the target as he drilled another dead center.

  “Bloody miserable braggart,” Angus growled, as he loaded his bow. Rather than haste, he stood very still, like a hunter homing in on his pray. His back as straight as a board, his feet planted wide, his gaze unwavering from his mark. Good heavens, he posed a picture of a majestic Highlander.

  Anya inhaled with him as his chest expanded. With a resounding hiss, he released the arrow, shooting it through the air like a dart.

  From where Anya stood, the contest was too close to call.

  The two men marched forward and examined their targets while Friar Jo followed, waving a ribbon. “The only fair way to judge is with a proper measurement!”

  She knew the outcome when Raghnall held out his palm. And judging by the way Angus dug in his sporran and parted with a coin, he wasn’t happy with the results. But his scowl was replaced by a grin when he looked to the stoop.

  Pretending her cough was a giggle, Anya waved, the motion making her head swim. “May I have a go?”

  Raghnall motioned toward the soldiers, flicking his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll set to putting the men through their drills.”

  Angus hesitated before he held up the bow and grinned. “Why not?”

  She pattered downward. “I haven’t any coin with which to place a wager.”

  He met her at the foot of the steps and took her hand, but his gaze flickered to the friar as the older man followed the MacDonald soldiers. “I reckon we can come up with something interesting.”

  Anya glanced at Angus’ lips before she had a chance to check herself. “Have ye anything in mind?”

  “Well…” His tongue slipped to the corner of his mouth. “If I win…”

  Anya’s heart leapt.

  “I’d like ye to draw me a picture of Dunyvaig.”

  The leaping was replaced by a lump in her chest. She thought for certain he’d want a kiss. Of course, Anya would have drawn a picture of his castle without even being asked. “Very well. But I cannot properly draw the castle within the walls. I will have to find a spot where I’ll have some landscape to work with.”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  She eyed him. Would he take her to find a spot, or would he assign the tedious task to Rory? And now he hadn’t asked for a kiss, she must ask for something other than that which she truly wanted. “If I win, I should like to take another ride to the Oa.”

  His Lordship’s eyebrows arched. “I believe that is fair.” He handed her the bow. “Ladies first.”

  As she took it, a hacking cough erupted from her throat. Doing her best to recover and stop the swooning of her head, Anya patted her chest. “Good heavens, forgive me.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “Nay, I just have a bit of a cough.” She loaded an arrow and raised the bow, drawing the string to her cheek. “I think the outside air will do me good.”

  “Very well. Would you like a few practice shots to begin with?”

  Anya should have thought to make such a request. “Thank you,” she said as she released her arrow, her spirits sinking as it hit the far left of the target. “Oh dear, that was awful.”

  “’Tisn’t a bow ye’ve used afore.”

  Though it was kind of him to say so, she wasn’t accustomed to missing by such a wide margin. Swallowing against her urge to cough, she drew another arrow from the quiver. Her next shot was better, though a bout of dizziness caused the third to miss the target altogether.

  “Allow me to retrieve my arrows,” she said, hoping the walk might clear her head.

  “I’ll go.”

  “Nay.” She held up her palm as she stared off. “I will do it.”

  As she approached, the throbbing in her head grew tenfold. And when she tried to yank out an arrow, Anya doubled over with coughing. The ground spun beneath her feet. She leaned on the target, trying to steady herself. “Not to worry,” she mumbled. “I’ll be—”

  The target gave way and sent her tumbling to her knees.

  Angus flung the quiver aside and ran. “Anya!” he shouted, sweeping his arms around the lass and helping her to her feet. “Whatever is wrong?”

  She turned her head away and coughed into the crook of her elbow. “I’ve had a bit of a sore throat and it seems to be growing worse.”

  He pressed his palm to her forehead. “Och, ye’re afire. Ye should be abed, not out here.”

  The lass looked as pale as bed linens, her eyes glassy. “But our wager.”

  “Oh, aye? Ye’d prefer to succumb to an ague? I’ll take ye to the Oa if ye desire, wager or nay.” He swept her into his arms. “I’ll not hear another word. To bed with ye.”

  “I’m able to walk,” she mumbled.

  “Ye barely made it to the target. Lord kens how ye managed to make the journey through the keep.”

  Rory met them by the door. “Allow me to help, m’lord.”

  Angus eyed the guard. “Did ye ken she was ailing?”

  The man stammered. “She coughed a bit but told me she was feeling fine, otherwise.”

  “Go fetch Lilas and Freya as well. I’ll take Miss Anya to her chamber.”

  On the journey above stairs, the lass grumbled about being too heavy, about being a capable archer, and about it being too early in the season for congestion of the lungs.

  “I’m sorry to be such a bother,” she said for the tenth time as he pushed inside her bedchamber.

  “Wheesht.” He placed her on the bed and smoothed his hand over her forehead. She was very warm, which he didn’t like at all. “Lilas will be here anon.”

  Groaning, Anya lay back and tried to roll the coverlet over her shoulders. “’Tis terribly cold in here.”

  Angus looked to the fire smoldering in the hearth. It was a mite warmer in here than it had been outside. He pulled a plaid from the end of the bed and draped it over the lass. “This will help.”

  Coughing, she clutched the blanket beneath her chin while he doused a cloth in the basin and placed it on her forehead.

  Anya pushed it off. “Nay. ’Tis too cold.”

  He tried again. “Ye are afire, lass. We must cool your fever.”

  As she pushed it away for the second time, Lilas came in clutching her medicine bundle, with Freya in her wake. “Rory said Miss Anya has a cough,” the healer said with a furrow in her careworn brow.

  Angus ushered the healer toward the bed. “She’s fevered as well.”

  Lilas set the basket on a wooden chair and leaned over the lass. “How long have ye been ailing, miss?”

  As she opened her mouth, Anya was unable to staunch her coughing.

  Angus found a cup of water on the table and brought it to the bedside. “Have a nip of this.”

  A bit splashed out of the cup as Anya sat up enough to take a sip. “Ah,” she sighed. “It started with a sore throat two days past, then the cough came a rattling in my chest. And now it seems to be growing worse.”

  Lilas frowned as she felt Anya’s cheeks and forehead. Angus stood back while the healer conducted her examination, including removing the patient’s shoes and stockings and looking between her toes. Then she had the lass sit up and pressed her ear against Anya’s chest.

  The healer glanced to Freya. “Help the lass remove her kirtle and climb beneath the bedclothes whilst I have a word with His Lordship in the corridor.”

  Angus’ mouth ran dry as he followed her out the door. “Is it bad?”

  “It can be. The lass has winter fever, and if we do not nip it in the bud quickly, we might lose her.”

  “Dear God.” He pounded his fist on the stone wall. Of all the peo
ple in the keep, why must it be Anya who fell ill?

  “I’ll leave a tincture of violets and whey for the fever, and one of black spleenwort to help with the cough. We also must apply deer’s grease to her feet three times daily until the coughing ebbs. I think it would be best for someone to sit with her at least as long as her forehead is warm to the touch.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Ye? Why not Freya?”

  “Because the maid is not Miss Anya’s guardian. The king entrusted her care to me.” Grinding his molars, Angus paced. He’d already botched things up enough when it came to Robert the Bruce, and he had no intention of allowing this wee wisp of a woman to succumb to winter fever when in his care.

  Rather than barge inside, he knocked on the door and waited for Freya to open it. “Is she settled?”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  Raucous coughing came from within, cutting him to the quick.

  14

  As evening gave way to night, Angus maintained his vigil at Anya’s bedside, the chamber lit only by a candle and the peaty coals smoldering in the hearth. The sound of her raspy breathing was enough to drive a man insane with worry. God Almighty, he wanted to rouse Raghnall and spar until he was so exhausted he could no longer raise his sword.

  Resolutely, he doused a cloth in the bowl. At this late hour, when he wrung it out, the droplets hit the water with resounding pings reminiscent of the trickle of a Highland burn. He’d kicked off his boots hours ago and now padded across the floor where he stood over Anya’s sleeping form. Before he replaced the cloth on her forehead, he watched her for a time. Even though she was ill and coughing now and again, she posed a lovely sight. Her luminous chestnut locks sprawled across the pillows in thick waves. In the glow of the dim light, her fair skin reminded him of fresh cream. She breathed through slightly parted full lips—a mouth that had set his heart to flame more than once. Across the bridge of her red-tinged nose was a delightful splay of freckles. They expressed her saucy nature, as if to announce here is a woman who is full of mettle, whose art flows from her fingertips, and who isn’t afraid to take chances.

  Any man ought to admire Anya’s free spirit. Though from what she’d said, she’d oft been chided for it.

  Angus removed the overwarm cloth and replaced it with the cool, then kissed her cheek. In deep slumber, the lass’ cough was more peaceful now than when awake. Though the rattle in her breathing made his heart twist. If only he could have fallen ill and not her.

  In truth, his feelings for Miss Anya were far different than anything he’d ever experienced in his life. Even Ella.

  Hmm. ’Tis interesting my recall of the vixen’s gave me no pause whatsoever.

  Most times a lassie would catch his eye, and he’d dally with them until he grew bored. But Angus wanted to protect this woman with every fiber of his being. He wanted to shelter her from all harm, including Robert the Bruce. Not that the king intended to do her bodily harm, but caging this dove as a political prisoner seemed a crime in itself.

  Och, aye, if times were different, he might look upon her as a woman with whom he could start a family. If she weren’t an O’Cahan. If she weren’t aligned with the House of Ulster. If she weren’t already promised to another.

  Alas, Angus had naught but to persevere—rein in his lustful nature and enjoy what time he had with her.

  “Nay!” she shouted, tossing her head from side to side, making the cloth drop to the mattress.

  “Anya?” he whispered.

  “Nay, nay, nay!”

  Angus tried to replace the cloth, but she batted his hand away. “What has ye so riled?”

  “I do not want to go!”

  “Where?”

  “This is my home,” she mumbled, followed by thrashing and a string of imperceptible blathering.

  Realizing she was in the midst of a night terror, Angus tried to rouse her. “Anya, ye must wake.”

  She flung out her arm, smacking him across the face. “Why? Why must females always be used as pawns? No one cares about what we want or how we feel!”

  “Anya?” Angus tried again.

  This time, an enormous sigh seemed to come from the depths of her soul. Then she coughed and curled onto her side, her body quiet again, though her breathing still rattled.

  Ever so gently, he brushed the cool cloth across her cheek and forehead. “Hush, mo leannan, and sleep.”

  Moving to the foot of the bed, he exposed her feet and rubbed in the deer oil that Lilas had provided, praying it would work and that Anya would be well come morn.

  Once the lass was resting peacefully, he moved back to the chair at her bedside and for some reason, he started to talk. “My mother says God blessed me with many things, but when it comes to matters of the heart, I am sorely lacking. I suppose she’s right. After all, she’s a female, and Lord kens I oft have no idea what women are thinking or what they might truly want, or what they may think of me.”

  He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “I wonder what ye think of me, lass. I ken ye first saw me as Fairhair, the man with the devil’s heart. But if ye take away the gossip, the title, and the feuds, and look at me as a man, am I good? Am I worthy? If things were different, would ye want…me?”

  Anya’s cough startled her awake, but when she swallowed, she was surprised to discover doing so didn’t hurt very much at all. As she stretched out her arms, her fingers brushed over a crown of silky hair right there on her tiny little bed. Opening her eyes, she found the Lord of Islay sitting in a chair, hunched forward, and cradling his head on the mattress atop folded arms. His eyes were closed and by the slow cadence of his breathing, he was deep in slumber. She raised her hand to caress his head but, not wanting to wake him, she clenched her fist and pulled it away.

  How long have I been abed?

  Though she couldn’t be certain, every time she’d awoken, Angus had been there. He’d relentlessly applied cold cloths to her forehead. He’d talked to her in a soft voice that was ever so soothing. Anya rolled to her side and examined his face, partially hidden by tawny hair. His beard had grown in as it had done on the Isle of Nave, but this time he didn’t look like a pirate at all. He was scruffy, to be sure. But up close like this and sound asleep, he resembled a guardian angel.

  She gently brushed his hair away from his face and examined a small scar at his temple. About an inch long, the puckered skin was straight as if he’d been nicked by a blade—most likely he had been.

  If only he were Irish. Or even a Scot who supported the English crown.

  Does it matter upon which side he stands?

  As soon as the question passed through Anya’s mind, she knew the answer. What truly mattered was what lay in a man’s heart. In war, are there not good people on both sides? Does God truly choose one side over another? Is it blasphemous toward my father to be smitten by the brother of the man responsible for Da’s death?

  A cold chill coursed through her.

  Why must everything be so complicated?

  With a sputter, Angus cleared his throat, sat up and stretched. “Ye’re awake.”

  Anya pulled herself up against the pillows, careful to keep the bedclothes beneath her chin. “I am. How long have I been ill?”

  “Three days.” He pressed his palm to her forehead. “Your fever has broken. How do ye feel?”

  “Like I could sleep for a sennight.”

  “Lilas said it would take time for ye to fully recover.” He scratched the stubble along his jaw. “Are ye hungry?”

  The mention of food made Anya’s stomach squeeze. “A bit. Perhaps some toast and cider or mead?”

  “’Tis music to my ears. I was ever so worried, especially when ye refused to eat for so long. I even had to drizzle the tincture into your mouth to keep your fever from burning ye alive.” Pushing to his feet, he gestured toward the door. “If ye will be all right for a time, I’ll go see to it that Freya brings up a tray.”

  Anya grasped his hand. “Before you go, I…”
>
  “Hmm?”

  She kissed his knuckles “Thank ye. I know anyone could have tended me, but ye stayed here all along and no matter what people on the other side of this war might say about ye, I know in my heart, it is all wrong.”

  Angus paused for a moment, his vivid gaze studying her with a wealth of unspoken emotion. “Mayhap I should tend the sickbed of all my enemies’ daughters so that their opinions might forever be altered.”

  Anya drew back, her mouth falling open. “I do not recommend it, my lord.”

  Chuckling, he gave the back of her hand a whisper of a kiss. “I jest, of course. Yours is the only sickbed beside which I care to sit, and I hope ye will live out the rest of your days in good health so it will never be necessary again.”

  By afternoon, Anya was ready to be up and about, but Lilas had insisted she remain in bed for another day. Evidently, the healer had the final say on the matter because Angus told Rory that should Anya try to leave her chamber, she was to be marshalled straight back inside without argument. Heavens, he reminded her more of a wolfhound every day.

  Fortunately, the lord of the castle had sent up several sheets of vellum, a cutting board from the kitchen to use as a writing surface, three sharpened charcoal sticks, as well as an ink pot and quill.

  Grateful for something with which to occupy her time, Anya spent the afternoon sketching like a zealot. So many ideas popped into her head, she drew faster and more vividly than she’d ever done. She drew the geese in the sweeping moor of the Oa, with Angus riding and looking as if he were the king of the Highlands. She drew the shore beneath Dùn Athad, including Angus lighting the fire. She drew a rendering of Angus in slumber, as he’d been this morn, with his head perched on the side of her bed. She couldn’t bring herself to stop, drawing Angus in the tailor shop, looking on with his arms crossed and his stance wide, Angus on the Isle of Nave, hunting for crabs. Angus at the helm of his boat as they sailed into a violent storm.