by Amy Jarecki
“I figured ye would have told Ulster about my alcove.”
“How could I not? That was the first place we looked.”
“I dropped the key and was unable to enter through the cellar gate.”
“Aye, we found it. Needless to say, our guardian has replaced the lock with something far sturdier.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Do not tell me after your ordeal ye would deign to slip beyond the castle walls ever again.”
No, Anya’s sister would never do anything to subvert their guardian’s authority, but even after everything that had happened, Anya could not imagine always being trapped inside. And though she had been guarded by Rory, her ever-present wolfhound, she hadn’t really felt trapped at Dunyvaig. “I suppose not.”
“Ye seem overtired, my pet.” Finovola sat on the bed, hugging the doll. “Will ye ever recover from being absconded by the vile MacDonald scourge?”
Anya’s nostrils flared as she clenched her fists so tightly, her nails dug into her palms. “Don’t say that. Never again refer to Islay thus.”
“I beg your pardon? Ye are referring to Angus Og, are ye not? Fairhair the Terrible with the heart of a devil? The very brother of the scoundrel who killed Da?”
Turning away, Anya didn’t want her sister to see her face. True, only hours ago the same thought had crossed her mind, but that had been when she was at the pinnacle of anger. “He’s nothing like his brother. Even his mother agrees.”
“What are ye saying?”
“I don’t know.” Anya buried her face in her palms. “The Lord of Islay showed me unexpected kindness. If he had not, I would now be laboring in a monastery for the duration of this war, working my fingers to the bone until I was no longer of marriageable age.”
Good heavens, had she just repeated Angus’ words? Had he truly been thinking only of her welfare when he chose to take her home? It had hurt so badly to know she’d never see him again, Anya had been unable to look beyond her own pain to see the goodness in his intentions.
Why had she stood on the pier and said nothing when, on bended knee, he’d so passionately kissed her hand? Why had she let him sail away?
17
It was nearly dawn by the time Angus and his men dragged the birlinn onto the shore at Dunyvaig Castle. “Let us go inside and break our fast. I intend to set sail for Turnberry by the hour of terce.”
“No time to sleep?” asked Raghnall.
Angus gestured to the half-dozen clansmen who’d sailed to Ireland with him. “We will have enough men aboard each boat for ye to close your eyes whilst sailing to the mainland if need be.”
No one uttered a word as Angus led the way into the hall. It was a good thing they’d all kept mum. At the moment, there was nothing he’d like more than to bury his fist into someone’s face. And why the bloody hell had saying goodbye to Anya nearly sent him to Hades? Dammit all, he had made his decision and that was the end of it.
After helping himself to a bannock, he left his men in the hall and headed up to his chamber to splash some water on his face and clean his teeth, but before he reached the door, Mither stepped into the passageway. “It is done, then?”
A tic twitched in his jaw as he gripped the pommel of the dirk he wore on his belt. “Aye. Anya O’Cahan has been returned to her home. Where she ought to be, mind ye.”
“If ye believe that, then ye are a fool.”
“Thank ye, Mither. ’Tis nice to ken what ye truly think of me.”
“Bless it, son, I’ve said it afore, and I’ll repeat it now. Ye are stronger than both your father and your elder brother in brawn and your mind is keener, but I do believe God gave ye the short end of the stick when it came to your heart.”
“Mayhap that’s why I feel as if the worthless organ has been ripped from my chest and thrown to the briny deep,” he growled, pushing into this chamber and letting the door swing closed behind him.
He stormed to the bowl, and splashed his face, the brisk water providing enough of a shock to clear his muddled mind. After cleaning his teeth and changing his shirt, Angus started below stairs. Stopping at the landing that led to Anya’s chamber, her door caught his eye. Rory no longer occupied the chair she’d placed in the passageway. Angus detoured and grabbed the chair, intending to return it to its place at the small table but once he stepped inside the empty chamber, the onslaught of memories arrested him.
Leaving the chair in the center of the room, he strode to the bed and gazed upon the coverlet, neatly tucked into the mattress, appearing as if it hadn’t been used in ages. But he knew differently. Not long ago, he’d sat at this bedside for hours, praying for Anya’s fever to break.
He picked up the pillow, drew it to his nose, and closed his eyes. Heaven help him, Anya’s scent lingered. As he hugged the cushion to his chest, he imagined holding her in his arms, watching her laugh, watching her draw with a charcoal, watching her chat animatedly with Friar Jo every eve at the far end of the high table.
But it was time to turn his attention to the duty at hand. Angus was the leader of a powerful clan and if the king didn’t send him to the gallows for disobedience, there lay a great many battles ahead. As he moved to replace the pillow, a scroll of vellum tucked under the bedclothes caught his eye. He plucked it from its hiding place and unrolled it.
Good Lord, Anya had drawn a picture of herself atop the wall-walk, gazing out to sea—gazing toward Ireland. She’d caught every detail from the wind picking up her hair to the satiny texture of her skin. Angus could almost smell the salty water, feel the breeze cut through his linen shirt. Most of all, he imagined caressing her cheek with his knuckle, then turning her face up to his and kissing those inviting lips.
“Damnation!” he cursed, slamming the pillow back in its place. He rolled the blasted scroll and shoved it into his sporran. Did she have no idea what leaving such a picture would do to his worthless heart?
Blast it all, his mother was wrong. When it came to his heart, God had made his too large for his chest and too easily broken. Angus could not afford to pine and wallow in misery. That is exactly why he had not allowed himself to fall in love since Ella, and it was exactly why he must buck up now and forget Anya O’Cahan had ever entered his life.
Having gone without closing his eyes for too long, Angus felt as if his head was filled with flax tow as he and his men strode through the gates of Turnberry Castle.
“What are ye planning to tell the Bruce about the lass?” asked Raghnall.
Angus thumped the man-at-arm’s helm. “I’ll wager that question has been needling at ye since I decided to take Miss Anya back to Carrickfergus.”
“Aye. And so it should do. ’Tis no’ as if ye have a seasoned heir waiting in the wings when the king sends ye to the gallows.”
Angus ground his molars as he adjusted his sword belt. “I aim to tell the bloody truth.”
Raghnall rolled his eyes skyward. “God save us.”
“Wheesht,” Angus growled. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
“I happen to like my faith, as well as my skin,” Raghnall mumbled under his breath.
Arthur Campbell approached and extended his hand. “’Tis good to see ye, Islay. It seems ye’ve arrived in time to face the English yet again.”
Angus clasped the knight’s forearm in a show of solidarity. “When do we march?”
“Soon.” Campbell led the way into the keep. “Spies have reported the English are readying to move northward.”
“We need a victory.”
“Aye, we need a parcel of them.”
“The Lord of Islay,” boomed the steward as Angus stepped into the great hall.
The walls were festooned with tapestries in rich reds and verdant greens. Behind the dais stood a fireplace, spanning the entire width from wall to wall.
Robert the Bruce looked to Angus, as all heads turned. Many a powerful men sat at the board with the king—Lennox, Boyd, Douglas, and Keith, to name a few.
“Greetings, m’lord,”
said the king. “Ye must have had a favorable wind to sail to Orkney and back in such a short time.”
Angus didn’t flinch, though he expected a fair bit more banter before revealing his disobedience. “I must have a word.”
“Then say it.” Robert gestured to the men at the table. “There are no secrets between us.”
A bead of sweat trickled from beneath Angus’ helm. He removed it, wiped the perspiration away with the tips of his fingers, and tucked his helmet in the crook of his arm. “With all due respect, sire, Miss Anya O’Cahan does not deserve to spend the years of her prime cloistered in a dank monastery working like a common crofter. She’s only a maid—of marriageable age, mind ye. To deliver her into the hands of the monks would be sealing her fate to a life of misery.”
The color drained from the king’s face. “A life of piousness, mind ye.”
“Aye.”
“So that is why ye arrived so soon? The lass is still at Dunyvaig with your mother?”
“Nay, Your Grace.” The muscles in Angus’ abdomen constricted, readying himself for a blow. “She is at Carrickfergus with your father-in-law.”
“What’s this?” the king boomed with spittle shooting from his lips, his eyes ablaze. “I give ye an explicit order and ye defy me? Moreover, ye have the nerve to stand here afore me with helm in hand? Exactly what makes ye think I’ll spare ye from a climb up the Turnberry gallows steps?”
“Forgive me.” Angus bowed.
“Forgive? Have ye forgotten the Queen of Scotland is imprisoned in some godforsaken stronghold in England? Is my young wife not in her prime? Doubtless, your cock has marred your judgement.”
The king’s ire merely served to strengthen Angus’ resolve. The one thing keeping him from spending the rest of his days in a miserable pit was his numbers. Robert Bruce needed him as an ally. At least for now, and that might purchase enough time for Angus to exonerate himself. “Hear me afore ye pass judgement, sire. Upon our next battle, I give my solemn oath I will capture a bevy of high-ranking English—men of far more value to Edward than the mere daughter of an Irish lord.”
Robert drummed he fingers, but it was Sir Douglas who sat forward and cleared his throat. “He’s right. An English nobleman is worth three of O’Cahan’s daughters.”
“But I will not be defied!” The king pounded his fist on the table. “For this misdeed, I want a solid victory and a cache of prisoners. Dammit all, the MacDonald army will lead the charge and every last man will be the first to face the cold steel of Longshank’s knights. And if by some miraculous stroke of God ye survive and do present me with English nobles with whom I can barter, I may…I repeat…I may no’ choose to sever your cods from your ill-begotten loins.”
“That is only fair,” Angus replied, his tone pitched a tad higher, sweat rolling from his temples. “My men are ready, sire.”
Robert glowered. “They had best be.”
18
As the door to her chamber opened, Anya hid her drawing of Angus under the mattress.
The countess entered, her expression dour while Finovola followed wringing her hands, her brow pinched. Behind them came the midwife who delivered all the local women’s babes.
“Is all well?” Anya asked, while her back shot to rigid. In seven years, Anya couldn’t recall Her Ladyship ever visiting her bedchamber. The woman always sent a messenger.
“I truly hope it will be.” The countess gestured to the midwife. “Ye have been in the company of a rogue and, as your guardians, Ulster and I must ensure ye have not been compromised.”
Finovola hid her face in her palms and lamented, “Oh, dear.”
“Compromised?” Anya clutched her arms across her midriff. “How could ye think me capable of such a disgrace?”
“I will accept not a word of your insolence. It is our duty to ensure your maidenhead remains intact.”
Anya scooted away. “I have assured ye with my word. I am untouched.”
“So say you.” Her Ladyship thrust her finger toward the bed. “Lie upon your back now, unless ye want me to call upon the guards and make this more unpleasant that it needs to be.”
Anya glanced to her sister, who stood aghast as if this humiliation were being bestowed upon her. But she had no choice. It was already mortifying enough to have such an examination with only women present. She might die of embarrassment if guards were brought in. Heaving an enormous sigh, she climbed onto the bed and lay on her back, her every sinew as taut as harp strings.
The midwife moved beside Anya and gave her shoulder a gentle pat. “Not to worry, miss. Ye ought not feel a bit of pain. All I need is a wee peek and the unpleasantness will be over.”
Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, Anya cringed. “Just be done with it.”
“I’ll need ye to spread your knees.”
Merciful heavens, a fire burned within her breast. How dare they doubt her word? As the woman raised her skirts and peered into the most secret place on Anya’s body, she wanted to scream. She wanted to tell the countess how much she’d enjoyed being a lady-in-waiting for the Dowager Lady of Islay. If only Anya could tell this shrew how wonderfully she’d been treated.
True to her word, the midwife did not linger and quickly covered Anya’s legs. “She remains untouched.”
“Thank heavens,” said the countess. “I’m quite astonished, truth be told, given the Lord of Islay’s reputation.”
A tear slipped from the corner of Anya’s eye. Her Ladyship would never understand the sense of honor and duty that lay in the heart of Angus Og MacDonald.
Her Ladyship snapped her fingers. “Come. Both of ye attend me in my solar.”
During her years at the castle, Anya had interacted with the countess far more than Ulster, who was not only the most powerful man in Ireland, he had a way of making everyone around him uneasy. Though it was a rare occasion to be summoned to the great hall by her guardian, not long after her humiliating examination, Anya was not surprised when the sentry came to the lady’s solar and requested she follow him at once.
When she stepped into the hall, she hesitated, taking in a few breaths to slow the beating of her heart. After her ordeal with the midwife, she wasn’t yet ready to face His Lordship who, to her chagrin, was seated beside Lord O’Doherty. By the somber expressions on both men’s faces, something was amiss, for certain.
“Haste ye, lass,” demanded her guardian. “We haven’t all day.”
Anya quickened her pace, pattered up to the dais, and curtseyed. “My lords. Is all well?” Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Finovola exit the door from the kitchen, carrying a tray with the countess’ tonic.
Lord O’Doherty’s gaze flickered to her sister. When again he regarded Anya, he lowered his chin to his chest, his expression vacant.
Ulster adjusted the earl’s medallion he wore suspended from shoulder to shoulder whenever he held court. “Might I remind ye that the negotiations for your betrothal were to be sealed on Saint Valentine’s Day?”
“Aye. I have not forgotten.” Anya pursed her lips. She had hoped her guardian would allow her some time to recover from her ordeal before he broached the subject of her nuptials.
“I am sure ye will be happy to learn the terms have been agreed and ye will marry Lord Chahir O’Doherty a fortnight hence.”
Gasping, Anya clapped a hand over her mouth. Simultaneously, Finovola dropped the tray, shattering the cup, spilling tincture across the floorboards.
Lord O’Doherty started to rise, but the earl grabbed his forearm. “Sit.”
“Must we wed so soon?” Anya asked, while her sister dashed through the hall and fled to the stairs.
“’Tis time for ye to cast aside your foolishness. This is a good match. And mark me, after your misadventure with the Scots, I was forced to augment your dowry to obtain His Lordship’s agreement. Thank God your virtue is still intact, else there would have been no hope for ye whatsoever.”
Her face burned as she kept her gaze lowered. S
o this was to be her fate? “Aye, my lord.”
“Furthermore, I have decided that ye must remain in your chamber until your wedding day. I cannot have ye slipping beyond the castle walls yet again.”
“What of Finovola?” Anya asked. “Is she to be imprisoned as well?”
“I’ve given the guards instructions to allow your sister to come and go so that she may continue her service to the countess. But ye, my dear, will nay be given such leave. If ye should disappear again, Lord O’Doherty has informed me he will not renew his offer.”
Anya dared glance at the man she was to marry. His eyes immediately shifted away. He did not smile, nor did he offer any expression to make her believe he derived any satisfaction in the arrangement. “Is this what you desire, my lord?”
Though her question was directed at Lord O’Doherty, her guardian answered, “Indeed, the contract has been signed. Now off with ye. I’ve many supplications to hear this day.”
With a snap of Ulster’s fingers, Anya was joined by two guards who led her away. As she climbed the stairs, her forehead beaded with sweat. She did not know Lord O’Doherty well but was quite certain the man had been coerced into agreeing to the marriage, the proof being the increase to her dower funds. His Lordship no sooner wanted her as his wife than she wanted him as a husband.
But Angus Og MacDonald had gone for good. Anya closed her eyes only to have an image of Islay consume her mind as if he were standing in front of her now. Oh, how much she had relished their time together—strolling atop Dunyvaig’s wall-walk with him. Gazing out over the sea. Being in his arms. Kissing him. Dear Lord, what she wouldn’t give to kiss him again. If only Robert the Bruce had let matters lie, she might still be on Islay, working on the tapestry drawing for Her Ladyship, and teasing Rory as he followed her about. Aye, Angus had posted a guard outside her door, but otherwise she had been free to come and go as she wished. Now, her guardian had decreed she was to be locked in her bedchamber for a fortnight until her wedding day.
