by Amy Jarecki
“Ye’ll what?” asked the guard.
“I shall give him a piece of my mind.”
“Bloody good that’ll do,” Rory mumbled, though Anya ignored him.
Once they reached the door, she raised her fist to knock, but with a spike of rage, she instead grabbed the latch and thrust it open. “I need to speak to ye at once, my lord.”
Angus, Raghnall, and two of the MacDonald elders gaped at her.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have been quite so forward. Perhaps a little knock would have been appropriate. But now that she was standing there with her cheeks afire, she wasn’t about to back down. Anya held up her roll of vellum. “I only need a moment.”
Angus stood. “Gentlemen, I believe we have a solid plan. Ye are dismissed.”
Anya released a pent-up breath and gave Rory a nod. She hadn’t been chastised. At least not yet. After the men left, she stepped inside, making sure the door closed behind her.
Angus did not offer her a seat, but folded his arms and knitted his eyebrows. “Did I not tell ye to retire for the eve?”
“I did—I mean, you did, and I was unable to sleep.”
He moved to the sideboard and poured a dram of whisky, then held up the flagon. “Would ye care for a tot? There’s no greater sleeping elixir than MacDonald brew.”
Anya slid into the chair at the corner of the table. “Perhaps a thimble full. I’m not terribly fond of whisky.”
“I’m surprised to hear ye’ve tried it.”
“Finovola and I stole into Papa’s solar years ago and we each helped ourselves to a nip. It burned something fierce.”
Angus chuckled as he returned to the table with two cups—his half full, hers a quarter. “It seems ye have a knack for slipping into places ye shouldn’t be.”
“Good heavens, ye would say such a thing.” Refusing to allow his slight to dissuade her, Anya set the roll of drawings on the table and took a tiny sip. No matter how much she tried to remain impassive, her nose scrunched and her eyes watered as the liquor burned all the way down her throat. She fanned her face “I have no idea why men like whisky so much.”
“One grows accustomed to the fire.”
“That explains it.” She sipped again, this time proving him right. It didn’t burn as much the second time.
“I’m certain ye did not come here for a wee dram and a chat,” he said, tapping the scroll. “What is on your mind?”
He asked the question so casually, as if he hadn’t cut her with his remarks in the great hall. But Anya wasn’t one to forget so quickly. “Well…” Exactly how did a female manage to tell a man she cared for him?
“Yes?”
Just out with it, ye daft Irishwoman. Anya unrolled the vellum. “Ye were rather blunt with me in the hall and it set me to thinking.”
Angus glanced at the first drawing—the one she’d sketched of him at the helm of his boat.
Anya covered his rendering with her palm. “Ye made me feel as if ye cannot trust me.”
He bit his lip. “I—”
“Allow me to finish, please.” Beneath the table, she flexed her toes.
His brows arched as he raised his cup. “By all means, miss.”
“Ye see, after I recovered enough to draw, and ye were so kind as to send up the parchment and whatnot, I set to sketching that which has been consuming my mind ever since ye pulled away the tarpaulin and discovered me in the midst of the storm.”
Anya showed him the drawings one after one. Aye, she might have depicted cliffs of Dùn Athad, but Angus was front and center on his horse, and lighting the fire. He was front and center of it all. She had even captured the beauty of his smile. “Do ye realize no man should ever be so captivating? I ought to hate ye to my very bones, but I do not. My lord, the only reason I believe ye to be the greatest pirate on the seas is because ye have stolen my heart and I am powerless to claim it back.”
16
Unable to speak, Angus stared at Anya with his mouth agape. If only he could drown himself in the cup of whisky sitting before him rather than look this woman in the eye.
She drew a trembling hand to her chest. “Have ye nothing to say?”
“I…ah…” Angus glanced to the folded missive from the king sitting at his right. Damnation, he’d never felt like such a heel. And yet, when it came to Anya, he had never practiced so much restraint. Most times when he wanted a woman, he wooed her, bedded her, and moved on. But everything had been different with this Irish rose.
He felt different when he was with her. Aye, he wanted her to his very bones. He ached for her. Yet she had never been his to woo.
And now she’d gone and pledged her affection. Uttered the very words that had been on the tip of his tongue for weeks.
He mustn’t lose sight of the fact that Anya O’Cahan had planned to wed another before she was torn away from her life. And heaven knew she hadn’t been gone so long Lord O’Doherty would have moved on.
Angus swiped a hand across his mouth. He needed to tell the truth. He owed her at least that, and there was no gentler way than to have out with it. “I have been ordered to take ye to live at the monastery in the north.”
The hand at her chest slid to her throat as an expression of stunned disbelief filled her eyes. “Nay.”
“On that we are agreed.” Angus thrust to his feet, turned away and braced his hands on the mantel. He was incapable of taking her to Orkney, yet the woman could no longer remain at Dunyvaig. If the English laid siege to the fortress because of her, he would never hear the end of it.
And he hadn’t forgotten the war, nor had he forgotten the promises he’d made to the King of Scots and his duty to the kingdom as well as his clan, his kin, and the brother who had given his life to protect the lordship.
“I beg your pardon?” Anya whispered. “Ye would subvert an order from your king?”
Little did she know that the war trumped all, even an order to ship her to Eynhallow. Aye, it was a risk to take her to Carrickfergus, and doing so would surely have its repercussions, but a slight disobedience would most likely be overlooked if Angus proved his worth on the battlefield. “It is I who must face Robert in due course. But I have made my decision. It is time for ye to return to the life ye had afore ye stowed away on my boat. Ye must go now, whilst there’s still time to pick up where ye left off.”
The silence filling the air was enough to slay him.
Angus faced her and set his jaw. He was no stranger to delivering bad news. He was no stranger to pain and suffering, but what he was about to say had his gut tied in knots and his heart crushed in an iron vise. “Our destinies are at odds, lass. No matter how well we may get along, ye are promised to another. Ye must return to the life ye were meant to live.”
“Oh,” she whispered, as a scarlet flush spread across her entire face. “I-I have been so utterly foolish. Ye must think me nothing but a silly goose!”
As she stood and dashed for the door, her chair clattered to the floorboards.
“Anya.” Angus hastened after her, tripping over the blasted chair. “Wait!”
“Leave me alone,” she shouted, slamming the door in his face.
Stopping abruptly, Angus stared at the timbers, wanting to run after her but knowing he must not. He was damned to hell no matter what, and Lord knew the Bruce would also take his pound of flesh. But as far as Anya O’Cahan was concerned, she did not deserve to spend the prime of her life laboring in a monastery, barely surviving on a meager diet of gruel and broth.
And so be it. Angus had made his decision. He would face his king and bear the Bruce’s ire, knowing the lass was safe and content. Anya would marry and raise bairns that would be as spontaneous and imaginative as their mother. She deserved to be happy. She deserved to be worshipped and loved.
With a love I cannot possibly give.
Aye, Angus had just been ordered to sail into battle. And this time he would lead the charge. There was every chance he would not live through this year. How could he be so
selfish as to pledge his adoration when his days were numbered?
He knew his time was nigh. His father was killed in battle, as was his brother.
The vise clamping his heart tightened enough to make the appendage bleed. Angus staggered to his chair and guzzled the remaining whisky. Then he turned and threw the cup at the hearth, making the pottery shatter.
He gritted his teeth against his urge to bellow. Through the blur of the water in his eyes, Anya’s drawing danced as if the charcoaled lines were swimming. Angus grabbed the flask and took a healthy swig before he paged through the rest.
God. On the bloody. Cross.
Not only were they beautifully rendered, she had captured the essence of his expressions in every last one. It was as if he were looking into a mirror.
Heaven help him, if he traveled to the corners of Christendom, he would never find another woman as astonishing as this Irish rose.
The sun shone low in the western sky as Anya shaded her eyes and stared at the horizon, dreading her first sight of her beloved Ireland’s verdant shore. It wouldn’t be long now, though the MacDonald crew were waiting for dark before they sailed within sight of Carrickfergus Bay.
During the voyage, Anya had remained in the bow of the birlinn, unable to bring herself to look at Angus while he manned the tiller. She had foolishly bared her soul to him, thinking he returned her feelings in kind. But she had been ever so incredibly naïve. She’d thought him kind and generous. He’d made her believe he was not the monster her kin had reputed him to be.
How wrong could she have been? Fairhair was as black-hearted as the self-proclaimed king who had imprisoned her in the first place. And now she rued the day she had stolen into his boat.
I wish I’d never seen his face or allowed him to give me comfort on the Isle of Nave. I wish I hadn’t gone to the Oa with him or awakened to find him beside my bed when I suffered from winter fever.
I am nothing but a fool! I opened my heart to a man who is incapable of love. A man who chooses battle over all else. Worse, the very brother of the scoundrel who killed my father!
By the time darkness fell and Islay gave the order to tack into the harbor, Anya was in such a lather, she wanted to leap into the icy sea and swim for the pier. But doubtless, His Lordship would dive in after her in a display of ill-begotten heroism.
The castle loomed against the moonlit sky, growing more ominous as the birlinn approached, cutting through the waves with a gentle rush.
“Furl the sail and take up the oars,” Angus ordered, his tone commanding but no louder than necessary.
Anya wrapped her arms across her midriff and waited in silence until they reached the pier. One of the men hopped out and secured a rope around a mooring cleat. Angus disembarked, strode to the bow, and offered his hand. “Allow me to assist ye.”
“I am perfectly able to alight on my own,” she said, climbing onto the bench.
His meaty hand secured her elbow. “That may be so, but I would be no gentleman if I stood idle and watched.”
Such was the lot of women. Men were able to do whatever they pleased, but the poor females were seen as weak and unable to help themselves. Anya stepped onto the pier and started off, but Angus didn’t release his grip on her arm. “Ye’re not thinking of leaving without bidding me farewell?”
Hadn’t enough words already been exchanged?
“Come, where the men won’t hear,” he said, urging her along the pier.
When he stopped, she cast her gaze to the center of his chest. “Do ye expect me to thank ye for keeping me captive for two months?”
“Nay,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I fear I was insensitive last eve and I’ve hurt ye.”
“’Tis for the best. Our destinies are at odds. Is that not what you said?”
“I should not have been so brash. I… Damn,” he cursed. “I am not good at making amends, but I want ye to ken I wish for your happiness, and I would face an army of archers afore I let ye waste your youth in a poor monastery, working your fingers to the bone.”
God help her, Anya looked into his eyes. Shaded by moonglow, he appeared dark and dangerous and far too fetching. Before her knees turned to mushy peas, and before she humiliated herself by grasping his hands to her breast and begging him to take her away to a land where they could start anew, she shook her head. “Then I am grateful to be home, my lord. Fare thee well.”
“Anya,” he whispered, gripping her fingers between his palms. “I do not want to part with hostilities between us.”
Her eyes stung as the Lord of Islay dropped to a knee and kissed the back of her hand. “I wish we had met in a different place in a different time, mo leannan. I do care deeply for ye.”
As a tear dibbled onto her cheek, Angus released her and strode back to the boat. Unable to move while she held in the sobs wracking her body, she forced herself not to call after him. Not to declare her love. If only she were able to put her charcoal to work and draw the anger she’d built on the voyage across the sea. But Fairhair had utterly disarmed her with a mere kiss applied to the back of her hand. Those blasted lips had taken her ire and turned it into ash floating about in her soul.
As she watched the men row away from the pier, Angus stood beside his tiller, his hand raised as he bid farewell.
Forever.
Oh God in heaven, why must it hurt so badly to say goodbye?
When the boat was but a dot in the black abyss of the sea, Anya wiped her face and looked to the tower. No, Carrickfergus was not her home, but she had lived there for seven years. It was unusually odd to return, akin to being a stranger in a place that was once familiar. What ought she say to the earl? What will he think after all this time? She’d been so upset with Angus, she hadn’t thought as to what might happen next.
Gathering her wits, Anya walked toward the sea gate. “Guards!” she shouted. “’Tis Anya O’Cahan, returned from the grip of Robert the Bruce.”
Marshalled into the hall by a retinue of guards, the warmth inside blasted her face as if someone were holding a torch close enough to burn. The noise from the crowd ebbed to a low murmur as they escorted her along the aisle and toward the dais steps.
At one end of the high table, Finovola caught Anya’s eye first. Her sister gasped, then exchanged glances with Lord Chahir O’Doherty, who sat beside her.
Anya’s mind raced. She hadn’t expected to see His Lordship. Had he remained at Carrickfergus since Saint Valentine’s Day? Surely, everyone had thought the worst. Even as Anya continued forward, she felt as if she’d returned from the dead. Bucking up her courage, she painted on a feigned smile, giving her sister a nod as she approached the lord and lady of the castle.
“Praises to Mother Mary and Joseph,” said the countess.
“Anya?” asked Ulster. “We thought we’d lost ye forever, child.”
She sank into a deep curtsey. “I fear I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The day Robert the Bruce came to ask for your assistance, I was beyond the sea gate. Upon hearing the battle, I sought refuge in what I thought was a fisherman’s boat—”
“And there was a fierce storm that eve,” said the earl. “When my search parties turned up with no news, we feared ye had fallen victim to the tempest.”
“Forgive me. There was no opportunity to send word. I was held as a prisoner—intended to be used as collateral for negotiations in Elizabeth’s return.”
“Did ye escape?” asked Her Ladyship.
Anya bit down on her lip. “I was released.”
“Released? That seems rather odd.” The earl rested his eating knife on his plate. “Ye were released by whom?”
“Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of Islay.”
Along the table, Finovola again gasped.
Ulster sprang to his feet. “Is Fairhair here? Guards!”
“Nay. His Lordship’s birlinn is long gone,” Anya said, stepping forward. Unless she explained everything, her guardian might set sail and attack Dunyvaig come dawn. Steeling her resolve, sh
e told them about the shipwreck, omitting the incident when she flagged the English ship. She told them about Robert the Bruce declaring her a political prisoner and his plans to send her to a monastery somewhere in the north of Scotland. She explained that it had been the Dowager Lady Islay’s idea for her to remain at the castle, yet she said nothing of Angus, or of the kind treatment she’d received.
“Thank the good Lord ye have been returned to us at last. We shall discuss these matters further come the morrow,” said Ulster, gesturing toward Finovola’s side of the table. “Sit. Eat.”
Anya’s stomach was tied in so many knots, the last thing she wanted to do was eat. “Thank ye, my lord, but I would rather retire for the evening if you please.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Finovola.
As she began to rise, Lord O’Doherty quickly hopped to his feet and held the lass’ chair. “Miss Anya, allow me to say it brings me much comfort to see ye are well.”
She curtsied politely, wondering if he would want to recommence negotiations for their betrothal, though trying not to care. “Thank you, my lord.”
When her sister wrapped her hands around Anya’s arm, it was the first time she allowed herself to take a deep breath.
“I am so relieved to see ye safely home,” said Finovola. “I cannot tell ye how many nights I cried myself to sleep.”
“I’m so very sorry. I had no way of sending ye the letters I wrote.” Anya leaned into the lass as they ascended the stairs. “I knew ye would worry the most.”
When she opened the door to the chamber the sisters shared, everything on her side was in its place as she remembered it, yet moving inside was surreal, as if she belonged there no more. “And how have ye fared, my dearest?”
“Aside from worrying about ye, things…” Finovola picked up a doll from Anya’s bed and toyed with the lace on the collar. “Things have changed little.”
