Highland Raider

by Amy Jarecki

  The lass turned three shades of scarlet before she took a healthy gulp of wine. “I’d rather not say.”

  Such an admission made her story all the more intriguing. Though Anya may be an orphan, she was no servant, nor was she a waif. It was obvious she had secreted out of the castle, or at least she had been attempting to secret inside. Earlier, she’d admitted that she was to be betrothed, which meant she wasn’t already promised. But someone of import must be negotiating on her behalf. Who?

  One thing at a time.

  “Since the daylight hours were fading,” he hedged, “I believe it is safe to assume ye were returning from somewhere.”

  Though her shoulders shrugged, the lass nodded.

  “A tryst, perchance?” he mused. “One last moment in a lover’s arms afore your hand was to be given to another?”

  Anya’s jaw dropped as outrage filled her eyes. “I beg your pardon, sir, but never in all my days would I entertain such…such…doing something so wicked. I may be a tad adventuresome, but I certainly am no harlot.”

  Now Angus was getting somewhere. “Forgive me. Without knowing what happened, I fear I jumped to an untoward conclusion.” Regardless if his smiles had any effect on the lass, he grinned all the same. Doing so certainly couldn’t make matters worse. “Tell me, why were ye beyond the castle walls alone?”

  Again, Anya averted her eyes. Was she trying not to allow him to charm her? This time, her gaze settled on the roll of vellum she’d been etching with the bit of charcoal. “’Tis the only time I can be alone to…”

  Angus leaned forward. “To?”

  “Draw.”

  He tapped the scroll. “May I see?”

  Anya’s color remained flushed as she scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. “’Tis not yet complete.”

  “Come.” He picked it up. “May I?”

  “Naaaaaaaay.”

  She reached for it, but he was faster. Taking an edge, he held out the vellum, making it unroll before she could snatch it back. As the lass yanked the drawing from his fingertips, his heart took to flight, stuttering in his chest until it dove south and fluttered somewhere it had no business flapping its wings.

  Of all things, she had drawn a picture of him.

  “Ye let it unravel on purpose.”

  Angus thrust out his palm and beckoned with his fingers. “Let me see that.”

  Shaking her head, Anya hugged the damn drawing against her breasts. “What else was I supposed to draw? We’re stranded on an island with nothing but a crumbling old chapel, craggy rocks, and seagrass.”

  “Just allow me another wee peek.” Not giving in, he shook his hand. “Please?”

  With a tsk of her tongue, Anya placed the scroll in his palm. “Remember, the work is not complete, not by half.”

  “Thank you.” He turned the vellum over and studied it. She had captured him as if he’d been looking in a mirror—his hair tousled by the wind, his shirt the worse for wear, his plaid belted low, a dirk in one hand and the chapel’s stole in the other. “My word, this is quite a good rendering.”

  “Do ye really think so?”

  He grinned again, this time without forethought. “Ye have a talent for certain.”

  Anya released a long sigh. “Ye’re not angry with me?”

  “Why would I be angry?” He chuckled as he rolled the scroll and returned it. “Though I reckon, the man to whom ye’re to be betrothed may take exception.”

  “Aye, Lord O’Doherty,” she said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Then she cringed. “I must return to Carrickfergus. I simply must.”

  Angus bristled. He knew the name and O’Doherty was no ally, but he was a lord and that confirmed Anya was no mere orphan. “Not to worry, lass. When ye reach Ireland’s shores, something tells me your sweetheart will still be waiting. I certainly would no’ give up on a lass as bonny as you.”

  Anya turned away, hiding her expression.

  “I reckon the man must be travelling for the feast, mustn’t he?” Angus continued.

  She nodded.

  “And I’ll wager, aside from this O’Doherty, there are a great many people who are worried about ye.”

  “I’m certain Finovola is beside herself with worry.”

  “And who else?”

  “Just my sister.”

  “Och, lass. I may be a simple Scot, but I ken a highborn woman when I meet one. And a lord doesn’t travel across the Isle of Ireland for a mere orphan.”

  Anya pursed her lips, proving Angus right. “I-I am a ward of…of Ulster’s steward, as is my sister.”

  Perhaps she was telling the truth. Stewards held lofty positions and usually had dwellings within the walls of their lords’ fortresses. Perhaps she was the daughter of a learned man—mayhap an illegitimate daughter of a holy man. Perhaps that explained her desire for secrecy.

  Angus sat back and crossed his ankles while he made another attempt at savoring the mediocre wine. “Something tells me this betrothal is one of duty.”

  “What marriage is not one of duty? All her life, a woman looks forward to her wedding day—the time when she can wed and run her own cast—ah, I mean a home of her own.”

  Through the smoke-filled air, he regarded her from over the rim of his chalice, and Angus chuckled. “I’ll wager the steward’s wife is a woman to be reckoned with.”

  “Why do ye say that?”

  “No reason.” He filled his glass. Aye, he had plenty of reasons. Firstly, Anya slipped out of Carrickfergus to be alone and draw pictures But, most of all, the tripe she just spewed about the duty of marriage obviously had been put there by a wizened old crone, and Angus wagered the steward’s wife fit the bill.

  Anya waved a hand over her chalice. “Please, no more.”

  The big Highlander stood straight, balancing the cask in the palm of his hand as if it weighed nothing. “Nay? Then I suppose there’s naught to do but to turn in.”

  He was right, even though the thought of sleeping made Anya’s insides squirm. But the candle had nearly burned to a nub. Biting her bottom lip, she glanced at the folded tapestry—the one they had shared last eve. The one she must never share with him again. “Are ye intending to make up your pallet in here, my lord?”

  As she spoke the words, the wind howled, making the rafters shudder and creak.

  Setting the cask aside without refilling his own cup, he glanced to the door. “’Tis February and blowing a gale. I was rather hoping to survive the night without succumbing to exposure. Unless ye have a better idea?”

  She rubbed the back of her neck. “Would you be using the tapestry, then?”

  “What sort of gentleman would I be if I did so?” He pushed to his feet. “I’ll sleep near the door and keep the banshees at bay for your ladyship.”

  “I’d best step outside first, then.” As soon as Anya stood, her head swam, making her stumble, falling against the man’s chest. Good heavens, his chest was like a wall of stone, yet it was warm and far too inviting. “Forgive me. I’m so clumsy!”

  Those powerful arms encircled her. “Easy, lass. Mayhap we drank a bit too much wine.”

  No matter how much she ought to push away, Anya couldn’t bring herself to do so. After all, it was February and the brazier hardly removed the chill from the air. She dared to raise her chin and meet his gaze. “My goodness, your eyes are so blue, they look like a clear midwinter sky.”

  The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Not a summer sky?”

  “Definitely midwinter—the blue is a bit deeper in winter.”

  Islay’s devilish grin grew wider. “Spoken like an artist.”

  “The countess would say I’m more of a dreamer.”

  A pinch formed between his brows. “Countess…of Ulster?”

  By the rood, I’m daft.

  Realizing she was willingly pressing her body against a vile pirate’s chest, Anya twisted out of his embrace and took a few steps backward. Had she truly mentioned the countess? She ought to have said the steward’s wife. �
�Well, she is the lady of the keep and she oft chides me for my daydreaming.”

  “Does she now?”

  “Ye are nothing like what I expected,” Anya said, hoping to turn the subject away from her.

  His brow arched with a hint of disbelief as he tapped his foot. “Now ye cannot tell me ye planned to stow away in my birlinn.”

  “No, of course not. But everyone at Carrickfergus Castle has heard of Angus Og MacDonald. Fairhair—a ruthless pirate, plunderer on the high seas with a face like an angel yet the heart of a devil.”

  Those intense blue eyes narrowed. “Ruthless? Plunderer? Where in all of Christendom have you arrived at such an ill-begotten judgement?”

  “Do ye deny it?”

  Rolling his shoulder, the man grimaced—the same shoulder she’d clipped with the axe. “I steadfastly reject every accusation that just spewed from your lips.”

  “Then why did ye flee?” she asked, worried that she might have truly hurt him. “Why were Ulster’s soldiers firing arrows upon ye?”

  “It seems your beloved Ulster is not as fond of his daughter as Robert the Bruce had hoped.”

  Anya clapped a hand over her heart—the rumors were founded. Islay had joined forces with the Scottish king. “I disagree and will tell ye now, Ulster has only the utmost fatherly love for Elizabeth.”

  “Ye refer to her quite fondly—almost as if ye were kin.”

  “We are not kin, though before she married that Scottish fiend, we were friends. Good friends.”

  Islay sauntered toward her, his eyes narrowing as if he were linking together the fragments of Anya’s life. Oh, no, she wasn’t about to let him bait her into saying more. The more she said, the more likely it was for her to make a blunder. And what would Angus Og MacDonald say when he discovered she was an O’Cahan?

  “I’ll be but a moment,” she said, pushing outside into the blustery wind. At least the chill was sobering. Goodness, if that fair-haired Highlander grinned at her one more time, she’d swoon for certain.

  And she didn’t need a seer to tell her she had no chance of returning to Carrickfergus in time for the feast. Anya clutched her arms about herself. What if Lord O’Doherty withdrew from the marriage negotiations? Only yesterday, she would have been elated at the notion. But now, she wasn’t so certain. What would happen to her if she returned and all was lost?

  Good heavens, Ulster might arrange her marriage to some smelly old buffoon. At least Lord O’Doherty was near her age. He most likely wouldn’t beat her. Of course, the man was nowhere near as handsome as the Lord of Islay. But Anya had never met anyone as braw as the pirate with whom she was marooned—the man she’d scandalously slept beside last eve.

  The man she absolutely must not allow to seduce her. Not even with a smile. If only she could fashion a pair of blinders for herself.

  Saints preserve me!

  6

  True to his word, Islay had spent the night sleeping beside the chapel door while Anya nestled at the far side of the tiny nave. This morning, she busied herself putting away the chapel’s things in a drawer hidden in back of the altar, while His Lordship stood on a chair and rehung the tapestry. When he hopped down, he brushed off his hands. “I’d best hunt for some crabs. If the weather grows any worse, Raghnall may be waylaid.”

  He wasn’t wrong. The wind had been blowing a gale all day. “Do ye reckon ’tis safe enough to sail at the moment?” she asked.

  “Aye, as long as the boats hug the shore. Though after surviving the storm that stranded us here, I’ll nay take any chances. We’ll need food afore the day’s end.” He headed for the door. “I recommend ye stay here, ’tis a mite warmer inside.”

  Anya listened to his footsteps crunch over the stony shore and fade. Climbing into an enemy boat might not only ruin her, it could mean her end. If she was going to find a way back to Carrickfergus, now was the time to do it. Surely her guardian had sent out all manner of ships and fishing boats to search for her. Though, how would they have any idea to where she’d disappeared? By now, Finovola would have told them Anya had oft slipped out her secret passageway to draw. Mayhap one of the soldiers saw her hasten for the pier? The Earl of Ulster was a shrewd man, he must have pieced together the clues.

  Anya cracked open the door and peered out. Fairhair was mostly hidden by the bluff, all but his mane of blond hair whipping with the wind. When he stooped down to where she could no longer see him, she darted out of the chapel and hastened up the hill until she reached the highest point.

  Of course, Islay had tried to discourage her from searching for the English fleet, but that was because he’d thrown in his lot with the outlaw Bruce. It didn’t take a seer to know if Anya waited for the man to take her back to Carrickfergus, she might be an old maid when she next set eyes on her beloved Ireland. Yes, he’d been kind—far kinder than she would have expected for a vile rogue, but he was not concerned about anything but returning to Islay. She even doubted he gave a wit about her upcoming betrothal.

  It didn’t take long to spot a cog’s square sail on the horizon, but the ship was too far away and heading northward. Anya shivered as icy wind whipped across the skerry and cut through the weave of her woolen kirtle as if it were but a linen shift. She crouched in the grass and wrapped her arms tightly across her body, keeping her gaze trained to the south.

  Good heavens, she missed her cloak. She missed the warmth of a hearth and the comforts of the chamber she shared with Finovola. As soon as she arrived home, the first thing she planned to do was linger in a hot bath. Aye, she’d been cold before, but this little isle was miserable, especially without a mere blanket to wrap around her shoulders.

  Anya had tolerated about as much misery as she could when she checked over her shoulder. “Thanks be to Mother Mary and Joseph!” The boat that had been heading north had turned and was sailing directly toward Nave, and they were flying King Edward’s colors. Springing up, Anya waved her arms, hopping up and down. “Here! Help! Help!”

  As the ship neared, a man in the bow waved a hand over his head, then pointed his finger, indicating toward the beach. Of course, the high point was no place to moor a ship with the craggy rocks down below.

  Excited out of her mind, Anya headed down the slope at a run. “Islay!” she hollered, spotting him on the shore. “There’s a ship!”

  He mustn’t have heard her above the rush of the wind and surf because he didn’t even glance her way. But he did look to the sea when the cog ran aground on the beach. Dropping the crab in his fist, he drew his dirk as at least ten men leapt over the side of the boat with their weapons at the ready.

  “No!” Anya yelled, right before her toe caught on a rock, sending her stumbling forward onto her hands. Something jagged sliced into her palm. With no time to fuss with it, she cursed her clumsiness and sprang to her feet, clutching her bleeding hand against her waist.

  Ahead, Islay backed in a crouch while the English sailors converged. “No!” she shouted as the big Highlander lunged with his dirk. The men attacked on all sides, blades slicing through the air in a blur. Islay put up a valiant fight, yet he let out a rumbling bellow as he took a blow to his shoulder and dropped to his knees.

  Frantic, Anya dashed onto the beach just as a cur leveled his blade across the Lord of Islay’s throat. “Stop, I say!”

  “Stay back,” shouted the leader, thrusting his palm at her face.

  She looked on, wrapping her fingers around her throat while they secured a rope around His Lordship’s wrists. He was bleeding from his shoulder and the corner of his mouth. Why had she not foreseen this? “This man saved my life. He does not deserve to be bullied and bound like a criminal.”

  “This is not your concern, miss. We’ve not only found ye, we’ve been waiting for our chance to seize this MacDonald scourge. Fairhair attacked Edward’s army at Loch Ryan.” The man-at-arms kicked Islay in the belly, making him double over with an oof.

  Anya dashed in front of His Lordship, shielding him from the English crew. “D
o not harm him, I say. If it hadn’t been for the Lord of Islay, I would have drowned.”

  “Did he not abduct you?” asked the leader, eyeing her. “Ulster has ordered half the northern fleet to patrol these waters.”

  Dear Lord, what was she to say now? Admit to hiding in His Lordship’s birlinn like a child? “I was not abducted.”

  “You willingly went with this man?”

  “Not exactly willingly. I happened to be in his boat when they set sail.”

  “And he didn’t stop to allow you to step ashore?”

  Clutching his stomach, Islay met her gaze with an anguished furrow to his brow.

  “Please,” she said, gripping her hands over her heart. “It was not his doing. He-he didn’t know I was aboard. I heard the fighting and was afraid. Thinking I’d climbed into a fishing boat, I hid beneath a tarpaulin.”

  “Well, it matters not.” The man sauntered so near, he made her take a step away. “We must take ye back to Carrickfergus and this outlaw will be sent to Carlisle where he’ll join the traitors Thomas and Alexander Bruce. I reckon he’ll arrive just in time to be executed alongside them.”

  Executed? The word took the breath from Anya’s lungs. “His Lordship acted with chivalry. Not once did he raise a finger to harm me.”

  “Mayhap not, but this rogue has sided with the outlaw Bruce. That in itself is an act of treason against a king to whom he swore featly.”

  “My brother took the oath. Under duress, mind ye,” Islay mumbled, earning another kick to the ribs.

  Anya panned her gaze across the faces of the English soldiers and spotted not a single compassionate mien. Dear God, it was up to her to do something. Squaring her shoulders, she stretched to her full height. “In that case, I insist we take His Lordship to Carrickfergus and let the Earl of Ulster decide what is to be done with him.” If they took Islay to Ireland, she’d at least have a chance to plead for leniency.

  The man sneered, looking her from head to toe. “By the way ye speak, I would think ye might have grown fond of this rabble.”