Highland Raider

by Amy Jarecki

  Aye, he’d thought her the most radiant woman he’d ever beheld this morning, but as she approached, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that no one surpassed this amazing woman in anything. They were perfectly matched. What lass would fashion a rope out of bedclothes, climb out a window of her guardian’s keep, and convince her intended to ferry her to Islay in order for her to raise an army to rescue the man she loved? If Anya hadn’t done it, no one in all of Christendom would have believed it possible.

  As she stepped beside him, he forced himself not to pull her into his arms. “Ye are stunning, m’lady.”

  Her gaze meandered down his body, making him feel like a god. “And ye look like a Highland king, my lord.”

  Friar Jo cleared his throat and began chanting the Latin mass while Angus stood staring into his bride’s eyes. He must be the luckiest man in all of Scotland to be marrying a woman who not only could fulfill is dreams, she was a force to be reckoned with, his equal in the eyes of God.

  “Give me your hands,” said the friar, switching to English. When had he completed the rites? Angus had been so absorbed in his thoughts, the delivery of the rites had passed in a blur.

  Anya smiled and held out her right hand while Angus offered his left. Friar Jo bound the two together with a stole. Angus gripped her fingers, so slight and delicate compared to his. She had the inner strength of a queen, yet she was no taller than the center of his chest. By all that was holy, he would love and cherish this gift for the rest of his days.

  The friar placed his hand atop the bindings. “With the fashioning of this knot, all the desires, dreams, love, and happiness wished in your hearts shall merge. In the joining of hands, so are your lives now bound to one another, woven like the ever growing and intertwining limbs of a great oak. By the joining of hands, ye are now and forevermore bound to your marriage vows to love, honor, obey, and protect one another. This knot shall remain tied in your hearts for as long as ye both shall live.”

  Friar Jo made the sign of the cross atop their joined hands. “May this cord draw your hands together in love, never to be used in anger. May the vows you have spoken never grow bitter in your mouths. The knot creates the symbol of partnership and union. As your hands are bound by this cord, so is your partnership held by the symbol of this knot. Two entwined in love, bound by commitment and fear, sadness and joy, by hardship and victory, anger and reconciliation, all of which brings strength to this union. Always hold tight to one another through good times and bad, whilst ye watch as the strength of your bond grows.”

  Drawing their hands up above their heads, he recited a Latin blessing. “I shall now remove the cords.”

  The cool air chilled Angus’ skin as the bounds fell away, though he did not release Anya’s hand. “I never want to let go,” he whispered.

  She blessed him with a smile. “Nor do I, my love.”

  26

  Enjoying the longer days of midsummer, Anya and Angus rode side by side as they returned from a journey to the Oa. There, Anya had completed her drawing for Mither’s tapestry. “I’m ever so excited to show it to her.”

  “You mean to tell me, she didn’t convince ye to show her your progress?”

  “Oh, no. I never allow anyone to see my work afore it is complete. At least I try not to do so.”

  “Unbelievable, I say. Had I been the artist, my blessed mother would have found a way to snoop for certain.”

  “That is because ye cannot refuse her.”

  “I beg your pardon, I am the lord of these lands, I can refuse anyone when I so choose.”

  “Except her.”

  Flicking his reins, Angus coughed out a guffaw as they rode through the village of Lagavulin.

  “Ye may say no at first, but she’s your ma,” Anya continued. “I’ll wager she has been capable of twisting your arm throughout your entire life.”

  “Aye? Well, it is a lot easier to give her what she wants than to endure her ire. Have ye suffered her silent treatment?”

  “Not as of yet.”

  “’Tis like death. I recommend avoiding it whenever possible.”

  Turning her mount onto the path leading to Dunyvaig’s main gate, Anya tapped her heels and requested a trot. “I shall keep that in mind.”

  Atop the wall-walk, the ram’s horn sounded with three consecutive blasts, announcing visitors were approaching by sea. Anya exchanged glances with her husband. “Whoever could it be?”

  Angus’ jaw tensed. “Go on to the stables. I’ll meet ye in the hall after I’ve found out whether ’tis friend or foe.”

  Anya tightened her grip around her reins. “Surely Raghnall would have sent someone to fetch ye if there was trouble.”

  “Just do as I say,” he said, though when he caught a glimpse of her pointed frown, he added, “Please, m’lady. I wouldn’t want ye to be harmed.”

  Groaning, she gave in. “Very well, oh master protector.”

  “’Tis music to my ears to hear ye refer to me thus.”

  “Do not grow accustomed to it,” she whispered under her breath, sure he couldn’t hear her above the growing shouts from atop the curtain.

  After parting from Angus, she hastened to the stables and was met by one of the grooms straightaway. “Have ye heard whose ship is on the approach?” she asked.

  “The only news is the pennant is Irish.”

  Anya dismounted while the hair on her nape stood on end. “Is it the Earl of Ulster?”

  “Not certain, m’lady. Would ye like me to go investigate?”

  “Nay, please attend my horse and give him an extra ration of oats. He has earned it this day.”

  In a time of war such as this, Anya knew better than to dash across the courtyard to the sea gate. Aside from inviting Angus’ ire, she might put herself in harm’s way. And if the visitor was Ulster, the earl might very well try to put her in irons. She hastened to the nearest corner turret, ducked inside, and pattered up the stairs. But when she reached the top, the view of the beach was blocked by a stony promontory.

  “Blast,” she cursed, hastening toward a row of bowmen. “Whose colors are they flying?”

  “Not certain, m’lady, but…”

  “But what?” she asked, stopping beside him and looking out to sea.

  “I reckon since there are only two boats, they’ve come on friendly terms. Though in wartime, one can never be certain.”

  As the boats approached, there was no mistaking the long blond tresses billowing from beneath a woman’s veil.

  Gasping, Anya ran toward the north tower. “Stand down, I say! ’Tis my sister!”

  Her toes barely touched the steps as she descended through the narrow, winding stairwell. “Angus!” she cried. “Angus!”

  Raghnall met her as she dashed through the sea gate. “M’lady, ’tis not safe.”

  “But my sister is in one of those boats.” Her gaze darted to the crowd of MacDonald guards, but she was so short, all she saw was mail-clad backs. “Angus, ’tis Finovola!”

  Raghnall clutched her arm. “He already kens, but ye are to remain here until he is certain it isn’t a trap.”

  With a tsk of her tongue, Anya strained for a glimpse at the approaching galleys, but still could not see a thing. “For the love of Moses, there is no chance any boat bearing my sister would approach meaning to do us harm.”

  “Ye are most likely right, but His Lordship would skewer me if I allowed ye to race to the shore. Just give it a moment, m’lady.”

  A moment seemed like forever as shouts were exchanged, imperceptible over the roar of the surf. “What’s happening?” she asked, ready to force her way through the men.

  “Angus has confirmed the party has come in peace. He’s allowing them to step ashore.”

  “May I go now?”

  Raghnall held up his palm. “A bit longer.”

  “By the rood, ’tis my only sister who has come to call.”

  “Look there.” The man-at-arms pointed.

  “Look where? Given my hei
ght, all I can see is soldiers.”

  “Angus has given me the signal of all clear,” he said, moving forward. “Make way, men!”

  Unable to wait a moment longer, Anya pushed her way to her husband’s side. “Did ye see, my dearest? ’Tis Finovola.”

  He offered his elbow. “And Lord O’Doherty. It seems the man has become accustomed to ferrying O’Cahan sisters to my island.”

  “Anya!” Finovola called while His Lordship carried her ashore.

  Goodness, it was wonderful to see her sister, especially after fearing she might never be in her company again. Laughing aloud, Anya waved. “Whatever brings ye to Dunyvaig this fine day?”

  When His Lordship set Finovola on her feet, she fell into Anya’s outstretched arms. “Oh, sister mine, we happened to be sailing past…”

  “Truly?” Anya asked, unable to release her embrace.

  “In a word, I suppose, though we’ve come bearing a message from the earl.” Finovola kissed her cheek. “Now tell me true, are ye happy?”

  “Ever so happy, thanks to you and Lord O’Doherty.” Anya grasped her sister’s hand. “And ye? How have things been these past weeks?”

  Finovola blushed as she looked to His Lordship. “Well, Chahir and I married in the chapel at Carrickfergus and are sailing home to Buncrana Castle.”

  Anya’s eyes widened. “’Tis wonderful news. Did ye hear, husband? My sister has married Lord O’Doherty. We must hold a feast this night in their honor.”

  “Agreed and congratulations,” said Angus, shaking the Irish lord’s hand.

  “My thanks.” Lord O’Doherty glanced to the women. “Would ye mind if we had a word, my lord? Perhaps in your solar?”

  “Very well.” Angus gestured up the path. “That is, if your bride can bear to be out of your presence for a spell.”

  Anya led her sister toward the keep. “I think we will be quite all right in the lady’s solar. I cannot wait to hear the news.”

  They chatted animatedly while they made their way above stairs and behind the closed door of the solar, where Anya was relieved to find her mother-in-law elsewhere. She tugged Finovola to the settee in front of the fire. “Oh, my goodness, it appears as though all your dreams have come true.”

  “They did, though I worried that the earl would forbid our marriage.”

  “Oh? But Chahir left well before ye reported me missing, correct?”

  “Aye, all proceeded as planned, but ye know His Lordship. He was suspicious all the same. After I showed your rope to the countess, I was summoned by the earl and…and…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, by that time, the MacDonalds had attacked Ulster’s galleys in the Firth of Solway and he was convinced Chahir had been involved.”

  “Ye didn’t tell him I escaped with Lord O’Doherty, did ye?”

  “Fortunately, I was never asked if I knew who had helped ye, or exactly when ye went missing.”

  “Ye stayed with our plan, did ye not?”

  “I did, though it wasn’t easy. I confided that ye had fallen in love with the Lord of Islay, and that ye wouldn’t be happy until ye were in his arms. In truth, I think the earl blamed everyone who had visited Carrickfergus that week with Chahir high up on the list. Ulster was so angry. He denounced his association with ye, and nearly booted me out as well.”

  “Oh, heavens, I’m so sorry.”

  “I believe I would have been completely on my own had Chahir not arrived and convinced the earl of his innocence. And just as ye suggested, His Lordship turned the tables and pretended to be irate that ye had disappeared from the earl’s care and yet again he was left without a bride.”

  “Did he demand your hand?”

  “Aye, and Ulster told him to rot in hell.”

  “No…but ye are married.”

  “That is only because Chahir remained at Carrickfergus, as an uninvited guest, mind ye, and slept in the courtyard. For an entire sennight, he sang ballads below my window. And below the earl’s solar, he shouted curses of how he had been wronged and how the Earl of Ulster would not honor his word.”

  “Good heavens, I never would have believed biddable Lord O’Doherty capable of such outlandish behavior. ’Tis a wonder our guardian didn’t have him expelled from the gates.”

  “Aye, I think he wanted to. But, in truth, Ulster had no true evidence against him.”

  “Thank heavens.”

  “Except…”

  “There’s more?”

  “His Lordship allowed me to marry Chahir providing he agree to bring a missive to Islay threatening an all-out war.”

  Anya gripped her hands atop her stomach. “Are we not already at war?”

  “Aye, but this one is between the House of Ulster and the House of MacDonald.”

  “Do ye think he will attack Dunyvaig, or Dunaverty for that matter?”

  “Well, I overheard him talking, and he said the MacDonald fortresses are too well fortified for a sea attack, just as Carrickfergus is. But if Ulster ever meets your husband on the battlefield, he has threatened to run him through.”

  Throwing her head back with an unfettered laugh, Anya slapped her hand on the seat. “Such a thing would be a sight to see. Angus is ten times the swordsman, not to mention a score of years younger.”

  Finovola picked up the dowager’s embroidery and traced her finger over the precise stitching. “Tis all posturing if ye ask me. He’s angry because ye not only usurped him, ye marshalled the MacDonald army, who then attacked his ships and stole an important political prisoner. King Edward will be quite upset that he wasn’t granted the opportunity to have Islay hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

  With a shudder, Anya patted her sister’s hand. “My heavens, perish the thought. Would ye not do the same if it were Lord O’Doherty en route to meet his end after declaring his undying affection?”

  “I would sell my soul to save my one true love.”

  “Then we are of like minds.”

  Angus never dreamed he’d be sharing a dram of whisky with Chahir O’Doherty in his solar, but destiny had a way of unfolding unpredictably. He held his cup aloft. “I’m glad ye’re here, m’lord.”

  O’Doherty mirrored the toast. “Oh, why?”

  “Because it gives me a chance to thank ye for returning Anya to Islay.”

  The Irish lord sipped and licked his lips. “She’s quite cunning, your wife. But truth be told, if she hadn’t come to me with such a compelling argument, hell would have frozen over afore I helped ye, as inadvertently as it may have been.”

  Now that sounded more apt. “I take it ye’ll be leaving come morn, then?”

  “Aye.” O’Doherty pulled a missive out from inside his doublet and placed it near Angus’ hand. “The Earl of Ulster asked me to deliver this on his behalf.”

  “I don’t suppose it contains congratulations for my recent nuptials.”

  “No.”

  Angus reflected for a moment. The man sitting beside him had been present when Ulster had refused to acknowledge the rules of parley and had put Angus in chains. O’Doherty also paid fealty to the earl and, by the missive sitting on the board, Ulster still trusted him. But Angus needed allies far more than he needed enemies. “What say you to a truce?”

  The lordling knit his brows. “Truce?”

  “Ye ken what I’m on about. Our wives are sisters. And I need allies in Ireland. Of course, it doesn’t mean we’re fast friends, but I’d think an accord not to raise arms against one another is in order. Agreed?”

  “I think I can concur, providing ye have no plans to launch an attack on Carrickfergus.”

  “Such a fortress is impenetrable, ’tis well known. How thick are her walls? Fifteen feet?”

  “I would surmise they are.”

  Angus stood and offered his hand. “Then it is agreed. The House of MacDonald and the House of O’Doherty are at peace.”

  Standing as well, Chahir accepted his hand with a firm grip. “At peace.”

  When the ram’s horn annou
nced the evening meal, Angus’ gaze trailed to the missive. “Would ye mind leaving me for a moment? I’d best read this lest it contain something which may need my immediate attention.”

  “Very well, my lord. I’ll see ye anon.”

  Once he was alone, Angus slid his finger under the seal and shook open the letter. And though it did not immediately call him out for a fight to the death, it contained scathing prose, insisting that one day Ulster intended to run Angus through. But what really stuck in his craw was the earl’s damning of Anya and insisting she was to be banished from Ireland for the rest of her days.

  Angus crumpled the vellum in his fist and pounded it atop the table. The pox on him. The bastard is too arrogant to help his own daughter let alone anyone else.

  He tossed the missive into the fire. “Burn in hell, for I will think on ye no more.”

  He watch the calfskin turn the color of the ink while the fire consumed the bile spewed upon it. And once the letter turned to ash, Angus finished his whisky and headed to the hall to feast with his wife and celebrate her sister’s nuptials. He mightn’t see eye to eye with Chahir O’Doherty, but the man had been instrumental in saving his neck and was now kin. For that, a feast with music and dancing was in order.

  27

  Anya sat in her place at her husband’s side as naturally as if she had been destined to occupy the seat of the Lady of Islay from the day she’d been born. Because distinctive guests were in attendance, the pecking order around the table had been rearranged a tad with Finovola gracing Anya’s left and Lord O’Doherty taking Raghnall’s seat on Angus’ right. Needless to say, she was over the moon to entertain her sister in the great hall where music played in the gallery, the ale flowed, and joints of roasted venison and lamb graced the tables aplenty.

  Anya nudged Angus’ leg with her knee and leaned in. “Finovola tells me Ulster sent a missive. I hope it was cordial.”

  Her husband snorted. “It was rude and unfeeling. Moreover, the arse never once offered his congratulations for our marriage.”