by Amy Jarecki
She huffed. Why not say it? “It is just everything I have been led to believe about, about Fairhair is nothing like the man ye are. Ye’re not black-hearted, nor are ye a brutish fiend.”
One corner of his mouth turned up in a devilishly wicked grin. “Ye have not seen me in battle, lass.”
Had he stepped nearer? Anya couldn’t be sure, but he seemed closer. “Nay,” she replied, a tad breathless. “But aren’t most men savage when fighting for life or death?”
“They are.” Angus dipped his chin, his breath skimming her forehead. “There is one thing I must set to rights, lass.”
She dared meet his dark stare while butterflies set to flight inside her. “To rights, did ye say?” she asked, trying to sound completely unaffected.
He inched even closer, cupping her cheek with a gentle hand. “Ye may be a wee bit petite in stature, but I never again want to hear ye refer to yourself as squat.”
“Oh.”
There was no doubt in Anya’s mind as to his intention. Licking her lips, she tilted up her face, while a maelstrom of desire swirled inside her breast. Oh, how she wanted a kiss—only one while they were alone and unguarded. Aye, she desperately wanted to know what kissing a man was like.
The moment their lips met, her knees turned boneless. His mouth was warm and soothing while his fingers traced along the sensitive skin just below her jaw. Not wanting it to end, she moved a hand to his waist. With her touch, he sighed, his tongue sweeping across her lips.
Startled, Anya began to withdraw, but as if he’d anticipated her reaction, his fingers slipped to the back of her head while he increased the pressure, his tongue demanding that she part her mouth for him.
Oh, God in heaven, warm cream flowed through her like nectar as the Lord of Islay showed her how to kiss—how to truly kiss. Unable to resist, she wrapped her arms around him and held on for dear life while together their mouths joined in a dance nothing like the merry reels below stairs.
He pulled her into his embrace as his lips moved across to her cheeks, her jaw, and down her neck. Never in her life had Anya felt the powerful pull of seduction in a man’s arms. Never had she dreamed kissing would consume her so extraordinarily.
As Islay drew his lips away, a sudden chill coursed across her skin. She gasped, not able to meet his gaze. She’d just kissed the devil and it felt inexplicably wonderful. Yet she must not possibly have feelings for this man.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, lifting her chin with the crook of his finger.
She scooted away, her eyes wide, her head spinning. “Y-y-ye must never do that again!”
Not waiting for a reply, Anya spun and dashed for the stairs.
“Wait!” he called after her.
But she was not about to stop. As fast as she could, she hastened down past three landings until she reached her floor. Fleeing into the passageway, she spotted Rory.
He opened the door. “Good evening, miss.”
Anya didn’t dare look at him either, lest he know exactly what she had been up to. “Good evening.”
She moved inside and stood in the center of her chamber until the door closed, then she slid the bolt across, just to ensure no one tried to enter. God save her, where had she landed, and how was she to resist the Lord of Islay? Perhaps he was indeed the devil he was reputed to be.
Anya paced and paced, rubbing away his kiss, yet her lips still tingled. She plopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling. No matter how tired she might be, her mind spun with too many thoughts for rest to come.
She absolutely must never think about kissing Fairhair again.
No. No. No!
In the corridor, the guard stirred, making a bit of a racket. Was he planning to sleep out there?
Sitting up, Anya took note of her pillows—two ornate and two covered by linen cases. Atop her bed was a feather-down coverlet, which would be ample to keep her warm. She didn’t need the blanket folded across the base.
Huffing, she took a pillow and the blanket, unlocked the bolt, and threw open the door.
With a rattle of weapons and an old man’s grunt, Rory lumbered to his feet. “Forgive me, miss. I assumed ye had turned in for the night.”
“I have.” She glanced up and down the corridor. “Will ye be sleeping out here?”
“Aye, ’tis expected.”
She thrust the bedding into his arms. “Well, then, I’ll nay have ye catching your death with no comfort whatsoever.”
Rory smiled for the first time since they’d met. Even with one tooth missing in front, his smile made him appear less overbearing. “My thanks, miss. Ye are very kind.”
She harrumphed. “I’d offer one of the earl’s wolfhounds as much courtesy.” She ducked back inside, took one of the wooden chairs from the table and returned to the doorway. “If ye ask me, there’s no need for ye to stand at attention like one of the king’s guards whilst I’m within. Ye may as well rest your withered old legs.”
He took the chair and set it beside the door. “Withered? Old?”
Chuckling, she gripped the latch. “I was wondering when I’d ferret a rise out of ye. Good night, Wolfie.”
The guard’s jaw dropped, looking doubly stumped. “Wolfie?”
“I meant Rory,” she said, closing the door and heading directly for her bed.
10
After being summoned to the high table, it appeared Angus had been the last to be notified of today’s court session, a fact that chapped him to no end. This was his castle and everyone on the dais was his guest, not the bloody other way around. “Ye asked to see me, Your Grace?”
Surrounded by knights, Robert gestured to a chair across the board. “Good morn, Islay, we were just discussing Turnberry.”
“Good news, I pray.” Angus slid into the seat while his heart sank to his toes. Obviously, the king still held him responsible for the disaster at Loch Ryan. Possibly even for his failure to gain support from Ulster, though the blame sat squarely on Robert’s shoulders.
“I’ve received word from Sir James Douglas that my lands surrounding the keep are secure and impenetrable. Lord Percy has tucked tail and taken his army back to Northumberland.”
“That is good news, indeed. The Black Douglas is gaining quite a reputation.”
“He saved my life at the coronation and has proved himself many times since.”
Angus shifted uncomfortably. One day he hoped to impress the king half as much.
“I’m certain ye will be happy to hear I will be leaving Dunyvaig on the morrow. An army of men will establish a perimeter in Turnberry to ensure she is not recaptured, and I will be heading north with Campbell and Boyd to recruit more men.”
Forcing himself not to smile, Angus tightened his fists beneath the table. Not only were his shoulders healing, after three months of hosting the king, he would be lord and master of his keep once again. “So soon? Shall I prepare my army to follow?”
“Nay. Ye are my muscle as well as my eyes in the isles, and I need ye here. Though hold fast, lord. With the confrontations I have planned, I will be calling upon ye soon.”
“I would think no less. Clan MacDonald will be at the ready whenever the time is nigh.”
Robert narrowed his gaze while giving a thin-lipped nod. No matter how much the king might want to berate and punish Angus for Loch Ryan, he was as shrewd a man as had ever lived. The Bruce needed allies far more than enemies and, though Clan MacDonald may have failed in his eyes, they’d also proved their worth in many ways. Angus had given the king safe harbor throughout the winter, he’d provided ships for both the attack on Turnberry and Loch Ryan and, had the English army been laying not in ambush, expecting the battle led by Robert’s brothers, the king very well might have failed to the north where it was more imperative that he succeed.
The Bruce stood. “We shall feast to our good fortune this eve, then depart come dawn.”
All men stood and bowed, though Angus sprang up faster, with far more enthusiasm. “I’ll see to it we have
a feast as grand as last evening’s to celebrate your success.”
He waited as Robert took his leave, the knights following in a procession of obedient minions. Robbie Boyd held back and clapped Angus’ shoulder. “Ye’ve been a fine host, m’lord. I ken it has not been easy to play the underling whilst His Grace assumed your place at the high table.”
Angus could have danced a jig, but only offered a smile. “It has been a lesson in humility, for certain. Add to it the failure at Loch Ryan and I’m surprised my cods haven’t shriveled into prunes. Robert blames me.” Angus shook his head. “If only I’d insisted upon leading the charge.”
“Och, I was there at the planning, ye ken. Ye did hold forth. As I recall, ye even went so far as to tell Robert’s brothers they were daft for insisting the MacDonald take up the rear.”
“I appreciate your acute memory, sir. If only the king were thus gifted.”
“He kens what happened. He’s hurting is all. The man has now lost everyone dear to his heart. Thank God the bastards have not executed Elizabeth and Marjorie, else I fear Robert would have gone mad by now.”
“Then we’d best ensure no one ever repeats your words, lest the English catch wind of it.”
“My lips are sealed.” Boyd tapped a finger to his mouth, then glanced toward the entry. “I’ve been trapped indoors for too long and am off to ride for a bit—feel the wind in my face. Would ye like to accompany me?”
“Most days I would; however, I lost my father’s sword in the shipwreck and must pay the smithy a visit forthwith. I say, the Lord of Islay without a sword is no lord at all.”
“Another time then?”
“Aye.” Angus gripped the man’s arm in a brotherly gesture before they headed down the dais steps. “Ye are a worthy knight, the king is lucky to have ye. I only wish he regarded me in such a light.”
Boyd clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m nay so certain of that. He has entrusted ye with the care of Anya O’Cahan.”
Angus chuckled. “And now I am to play the warden of an Irish lordling’s daughter, who stowed away on my birlinn.”
“She’s a bonny lass, though. I wouldn’t complain if she were adorning my keep—if I possessed a keep.”
Angus knew all too well Boyd had lost home and hearth during the wars. “Och, she’s a spitfire if ye ask me.”
“Who is a spitfire?” asked Anya as she stepped out from the stairwell, with a bit of ice in her gaze. She wore her cloak and her guard followed in her wake. Bless Rory for accepting his post and carrying out his duty without a word of complaint.
But when Angus looked at the lassie’s inquisitive face, his tongue tied. Who else at Dunyvaig would be referred to as a spitfire?
While Robbie strode away with a deep belly laugh, Angus closed his eyes, and groaned. After she’d run from him last eve, he’d been kicking himself. Why the devil had he asked her to meet him on the wall-walk in the first place? A moonlight stroll was not an appropriate activity to encourage diffidence. His mother had been right. Anya was his ward now, and he must never take advantage of the lass, no matter how tempting she might be.
Recovering swiftly, he gave her a pointed frown. “Ye, that’s who.”
Her angry expression shifted into a cringe. “Oh.” Without another word, she headed for the door, with Rory following near ten paces behind.
Good God, was this what it was like to be entrusted with the care of a ward—always mending fences? “Anya.” Angus hastened beside her. “Where are ye off to?”
A sentry opened the heavy oaken door and she marched through. “Your mother has directed me to pay a visit to the tailor. Not to worry. Rory, the wolfhound, is accompanying me to the village.”
Angus dismissed the guard with a flick of his hand. “I’ll escort ye. I was heading into Lagavulin myself.”
She sped her pace. “There’s no need for ye to be kind to me. Wolfie is a perfectly capable dog…I mean guard. And, and companion.”
As they reached the courtyard, Angus grasped her wrist and pulled her to a halt. “I owe ye an apology. Please allow me to explain.”
She stared up, those emerald eyes as sympathetic as an eel’s.
He raked his fingers through his hair. “I never should have tried to kiss ye. I should not have taken the liberty.”
“Then why did ye? To toy with me?”
“Nay. I would never do that.” At least not intentionally.
Angus looked to the barbican walls, wishing he were up there rather than groveling down below. But, somehow, he’d hurt her even though she’d been the one to rush away. Moreover, Anya had felt something. The woman had turned molten in his arms. Hell, she’d been a wee bit timid at first, but as soon as she parted her lips, she gave herself unlike any lass he’d ever kissed before.
“Ye are my ward,” he explained. “I am responsible to protect ye.”
“With all due respect, my lord, I already have an overbearing guardian. I do not need another.”
As she continued toward the guard’s tower, Angus followed. “The point is, ye are in my care and I was wrong to have taken advantage.”
She sped her pace, hastening through the archway. “Is that what ye call a wee kiss? Well, at least I can say, ’tis nice to have my first experience over with. Thank ye ever so much for opening my eyes, my lord. Though I now have no idea why a woman ever allows a man to kiss her. The experience is rather vulgar.”
Och. Angus clutched a fist over his gut. Who knew the woman was adept at throwing daggers with her tongue? She’d given his heart at least two scathing cuts.
Growling beneath his breath, he waited until they traversed beneath a giant sycamore, well away from any prying ears, then stepped in front of the woman and crossed his arms. “Exactly what did ye like about our kiss?”
“Ah…” Anya’s eyes grew wide while she hesitated, winding the cord of her cloak around her finger. “It-it…ah…I suppose it was not exactly the doing I found unpleasant.”
His foot tapped. “The doing?”
“Aye, the kiss itself was agreeable.”
A pinch formed between his brows as he took a step nearer, making her crane her neck. “Merely agreeable?”
“Well…um…perhaps a wee bit more than agreeable. But that’s where the pleasantries ended.” She dropped the cord and stabbed him in the chest with her pointer finger. Good God, she was far too tempting when stirred to anger—red cheeks, sparks in her eyes, standing with her shoulders thrown back and her chin held proud. “Kissing me and then apologizing, no matter how gently whispered, ruined everything!”
Angus allowed her to move around him and start off again, lest he grasp her shoulders and give another demonstration. Which he must not do, no matter how tempting her full lips, or the way the breeze picked up wisps of chestnut hair and blew them across her face. Most importantly, no matter how much he desired to kiss her again.
He trailed after her with a grin gradually stretching the corners of his mouth. She enjoyed the doing of it. She’d just told him as much, but he’d also been right to apologize. Besides, she was as good as promised to another. Though Angus would hang by his toenails before he’d let her join in holy matrimony with O’Doherty. Even though he’d only met the man in passing, His Lordship was no match for the likes of Anya. O’Doherty seemed a bit too genteel, definitely not someone able to handle a high-spirited woman. His Lordship struck Angus as a man who enjoyed the finer things of life, who needed a wife who truly liked to embroider and discuss menus.
The clang from the smithy shack grew louder as Angus moved beside Anya and pointed to a row of thatch-roofed stone shops. “The tailor is just yonder on the left.”
“Very well.” The lass slowed, glancing over her shoulder and batting those feathery eyelashes. “Why do I not pay him a visit whilst you attend the smithy?”
“Because Rory isn’t here.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Thank you.”
“Argh!” she exclaimed, clearly irritated. Angus was we
ll aware she had reason to be angry, he truly was. But the fact that she had admitted to enjoying their kiss, trumped everything.
Perhaps in time, Anya might come to like his little corner of Scotland. He chewed the inside of his cheek. What could he do to help change her mind about the MacDonalds, about Scotland and its right to be a sovereign nation? About him?
Pondering his last question, Angus shook his head and marched to the tailor’s door, opened it, and gestured inside. “After you, miss.”
“Hmph.” Before stepping inside, she glanced at him for the briefest moment. Had he spotted a bit of mischief in those emerald eyes? What was this Irish imp plotting now? And did he want to know?
He followed her in.
“M’lord,” said Master Tailor, coming from the back room. “What a pleasure it is to see ye out and about this fine day.”
“’Tis good to see the sunshine for a change,” Angus replied, before he nodded to the lass. “This is Anya from Ireland and she is in need of…”
“A new shift and kirtle, if you please.”
“Aye,” Angus said. “I would think three shifts would suffice, mayhap three kirtles with arisaids to match, three or four pairs of stockings…”
Master Tailor dipped his quill and started jotting notes. “Very well, three of everything?”
“I would not want ye to spend any more coin than necessary, my lord.”
Angus ignored her. “Gloves—fur-lined, of course. And a new mantle.”
She gestured to the ill-fitting woolen garment draped from her shoulders. “Your mother lent me a cloak.”
“Which is not warm enough.” Angus pointed to the slip of velum. “A sealskin cloak to replace the one Miss Anya lost in the shipwreck.”
The tailor’s quill stopped as he looked up. “Was she on the birlinn that was caught in that horrible storm?”
“Aye,” Angus said, not about to mention she’d ended up aboard by accident. “And she’s a guest of His Grace, Robert the Bruce.” He also decided not to mention that the king was sailing for Turnberry come dawn.