Highland Raider

by Amy Jarecki

Master Tailor’s jaw dropped. “A royal guest.”

  “Oh, I’m not anywhere near—”

  “She is of important consequence to the king,” Angus interrupted, making it clear that Anya was not to be trifled with. Nearly everyone stopped by the tailor’s shop in Lagavulin, by noontime on the morrow, most folk on the isle ought to know of her importance to the crown. If she was important to the king, she was important to the House of MacDonald.

  The little man set his quill in the holder and held up a measuring ribbon. “Hold out your arms please, madam.” He hummed while he worked, measuring up, down, around, and every which way. “I have a lovely woolen plaid in green and blue that would be perfect for your coloring—’twill keep ye warm as well.”

  “That will be very nice. Thank you.” Anya blushed as the tailor ran the measuring tape around her breasts, his eyebrows arching as he made a notation.

  Angus slid his fingers across his mouth to hide his grin. The lass was not lacking in femininity anywhere, especially when it came to curvaceousness. And yet she believes herself to be plain and frumpish.

  Days later, Anya sat alone in the lady’s solar, wearing one of her new kirtles. Angus had paid the tailor handsomely to ensure the work was made a priority, then he’d taken her to the cobbler for new shoes, a belt, and a purse to wear at her waist. Only then did he visit the smithy to place an order for the sword he’d lost at sea.

  The solar was quite spacious, with a weaving loom at one end, a writing table in the middle, and a settee and chairs surrounding a hearth at the other end.

  Since the Dowager Lady Islay had ventured below stairs to check on the evening’s menu, Anya intended to write to Finovola, even though the letter would never reach her sister. Before she started, she pulled the drawing she’d made of Angus out from the leather purse secured to her belt and spread it open on the table. The likeness made her smile.

  “Why are ye so confounding?” She traced her finger over his lips, their evening on the wall-walk fresh in her mind as if their encounter only happened moments ago. “Ye do know it would be far easier for both of us if ye were the dragon-hearted devil you are reputed to be.”

  But he wasn’t. Daily it grew more and more difficult to abhor Fairhair the Terrible.

  Fairhair the Charmer is more apt.

  Anya dipped her quill in the ink pot and addressed the letter to her sister.

  As I sit alone and lonely in Dunyvaig Castle, I close my eyes and imagine what ye are doing at this very moment. Not an hour goes by when I do not wish I could actually dispatch a letter simply to let ye know I am well.

  In truth, I am surprisingly well for a person who is being held captive. The king—I cannot believe I just wrote the self-proclaimed title of the outlaw, Robert the Bruce, but the Scots do have a viable argument in that theirs is a sovereign nation. And in truth, the king (as everyone here refers to him) is a most formidable man, one suited to kingship, in my estimation.

  He has entrusted my care to Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of Islay. Gasp, say you? I felt the same when I realized I had hidden in his ship. Of all the boats moored along the pier, why I had to choose Fairhair’s, I’ll never understand. Moreover, I nearly drowned when the ship was assailed by a mammoth wave and smashed to bits.

  Anya went on to write about her rescue, ending up on Nave, and attempting to flag an English ship.

  I did not want King Edward’s men to send Islay to meet his end. He saved my life, after all. Is it wrong to care for a person you were brought up to abhor? I pray it is not, because I am unable to deny a fondness for the man we know as Fairhair.

  And if I were tortured, I do not believe I’d be able to withhold the truth from ye, though I do not dare mention it here, even if this letter has nary a chance of reaching ye. Which is why I’m daring to tell ye…

  Anya hesitated for a moment, needing to tell someone and having not a soul in whom to confide.

  I kissed the very man I am supposed to hate. As I write this, I still cannot believe I suffered such a moment of weakness. I ought to be angry with myself. After all, the earl was in the midst of negotiating my marriage contract. Of course, that was before I hid in the wrong boat. But, alas, Angus Og MacDonald did kiss me. And curse my traitorous heart, I enjoyed it. Oh, aye, it mayhap was the most exhilarating experience of my miserable life.

  A clanging racket came from the courtyard below, accompanied by a great deal of shouting. Anya placed her quill in the holder, crossed to the window, and pulled back the fur. As she leaned out, the wind blasted her face with an icy bite, though the chill was soon forgotten as her gaze was drawn to the men below.

  One man in particular.

  Surrounded by soldiers all clapping and cheering, Islay fended off deadly strikes as Raghnall advanced. Every single thrust of the man-at-arm’s sword was aimed to kill, and His Lordship wore merely a shirt and plaid with no mail or armor whatsoever. Sunlight flickered through his golden hair as he ducked and defended, doing naught to strike back.

  By the saints, he posed a magnificent form, moving as gracefully as a stag, yet expelling no more energy than needed to protect himself from the vicious onslaught.

  Anya gasped and jolted with every single blow while her insides twisted and her face contorted in a grimace.

  Nearly backed to the curtain wall, Islay bellowed, plunging into a barbarous attack. Raghnall did not let up. The two men were matched in height and girth as their swords clanged until the blades met in a battle of strength. While the shouts grew more raucous, iron screeched and arms trembled until their hilts collided. With thunderous grunts, the two men pushed apart.

  Anya leaned farther out the window. Evidently, the smithy had delivered Islay’s new sword because it glistened like a shiny new mirror as he held it level, aiming it at his sparring partner. Puffs of air billowed from their noses as they circled in a deadly dance.

  As fast as an asp, the man-at-arms lunged in. Fairhair hopped aside, deflecting the blow before their blades blurred in an onslaught so loud it made Anya’s ears ring. Backing, Angus stumbled on the cobbles. Raghnall took advantage of the lord’s slip, attacking with an upward strike, ripping the hilt from Islay’s grip. With a grunting roar, His Lordship grabbed his shoulder.

  The man-at-arms immediately backed away. “Are ye injured, m’lord?”

  “Nay. My damned shoulder has no’ completely healed as of yet.” He stooped to retrieve his weapon and eyed it. “I reckon the balance is not right.”

  Raghnall took the sword and swung it in an X. “’Tis never easy to wield a new one. But after a few days of practice, ye will not want to return to the old.”

  “Time will tell,” said Islay, glancing up to the window where Anya was standing. A grin stretched his lips before he slipped a foot forward and bowed to her like a gallant knight.

  “Raghnall is the only man who poses a challenge to my son.”

  “Eep!” Anya leapt away from the window, nearly pulling the fur from its nails. She clutched her hands over her thundering heart. “My lady! Ye gave me a fright.”

  Fairhair’s mother smiled before her gaze trailed to the table. “Forgive me. I thought ye heard me come in.”

  Anya could have melted where she stood. Right there for all to see was her drawing as well as the letter. “I did not.” She moved toward the writing table. “There was quite a racket coming from the courtyard.”

  “My son trains with his men rigorously.” The Dowager Lady Islay slid onto the settee near the hearth. “The view of the courtyard from here is remarkable. I remember watching Angus’ father work with the lads when they were young. They provided such good entertainment, I oft neglected my duties.”

  Sliding the drawing from the table, Anya folded it and slipped it into her purse.

  “Come sit with me and warm your toes. ’Tis quite pleasant in front of the fire.”

  Anya collected her letter and jammed it into her purse as well. Surely, Her Ladyship hadn’t the time to read it—especially the last bit about kissing her
son.

  The lady took her embroidery and tugged on the needle. “Tell me, have ye found a great many differences between my home and Ireland?”

  “Things are much the same, I suppose. Though I do miss my sister a great deal.”

  “Hmm, I imagine ye would miss the kin with whom you are close most of all. But what about the fare, is the food similar?”

  “Very much so, though I suppose as the crow flies, we’re not really all that far apart.”

  “So true.”

  “Even black pudding is the same as at home.”

  “I find that remarkable.” Her Ladyship worked her needle in a feather stich for a time before she paused. “As I recall, my dear, your guardian had commenced negotiations for your hand.”

  Anya glanced to her lap. “Aye.”

  “I imagine you were most excited about the prospect of marrying a lord.”

  “I care not to think on it, what with Robert the Bruce imprisoning me for Lord knows how long,” she replied, hoping she sounded distraught.

  Her Ladyship leaned forward and patted Anya’s hand. “Which is exactly why I volunteered to keep ye here. Things would have been ever so unpleasant at the monastery, especially in winter. Those monks are so frugal, ye’d never be able to warm your wee bones.”

  “I do appreciate your kindness, my lady.”

  The woman smiled as she pulled her needle through the linen. “In time, I pray ye will find we are a friendly clan, much like yours I’d assume.”

  “But how can ye say that when our clans feud so terribly?”

  “The lot of women is a strange thing, is it not?” Her Ladyship reached for her shears and snipped her thread. “We support our men who make the decisions as to where borders are to be drawn and stone fortresses are to be erected. But it is the females who oft find ways to end the disagreements between men.”

  “The women? But how? How, when the fathers and sons are the ones swinging their swords, making decisions, and using us as pawns?”

  “Think, my dear. How many men have changed their minds because of love?”

  “Pshaw. Love.” Anya batted her hand through the air. “Highborn women are slaves to their sex, I’ve heard that said enough by both my father and the Earl of Ulster. Our marriages are arranged and we’ve naught but to accept our lot and make the best of it. Did your da not arrange your marriage?”

  “He did, and I admit to being fearful at first. However, I was fortunate to have married a man with whom I found love.”

  Anya sighed. If only she might have found love, though now she had no chance of doing so.

  11

  Anya’s ever-present wolfhound, Rory, stood guard along the wall while the keep’s children sat at her feet as she read from a book of folk tales. The lot of them were sons and daughters of servants or guards at Dunyvaig and were as eager to learn as the children she read to at Carrickfergus. “…The auld wife took her basket and strode into the house, shutting the door behind her. The silly mutton stood for a time, mulling over whether or not to follow. But in the end, he whistled for his dog and left her be, for if she didn’t then, she never would offer a whit of Highland hospitality.”

  “Och, is that the end?” asked Fenn, the most boisterous of the group. “That auld wife is a cranky hen if ye ask me.”

  “She’s a cranky squawker,” agreed a wee lass.

  “I feel sorry for the silly mutton.”

  “But he was awfully silly.”

  “Can ye read us another?” asked Fenn.

  “Pleeeeeease?” they all chorused in unison.

  “What’s this?” Angus strode into the hall and planted his fists on his hips, his expression one of feigned exasperation. “Has not Miss Anya read enough this day?”

  Fenn stood and bowed. “Nay, we never hear enough stories, m’lord.”

  Anya closed the book. “Well, I’ll be here for some time, perhaps I can read to ye on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but we ought to make the time later in the day, after your chores are finished.”

  “That sounds fair to me,” Angus agreed. “Now off with the lot of ye, there is work still to be done this morn and I need a word with your storyteller.”

  Anya stood, wiping her hands on her skirts. “Is all well, my lord?” After all, he hadn’t sought her out for a conversation in days. Yes, His Lordship required her to join the party at the high table during the evening meals, but since the king had taken his leave, she hadn’t been seated beside Islay. Those two places were always reserved for his mother and Raghnall, and Anya was assigned the end place setting beside Friar Jo, which she felt was for the best, given the way she felt whenever the Highlander was beside her.

  Akin to this very moment.

  Anya’s palms perspired, her skin alive with tingles. Goodness, even her stomach swirled as if the man possessed some sort of hypnotic sorcery in his gaze. If only he weren’t such a handsome rogue. Curse her weaknesses.

  “I’ve just come from the stables and whilst I was there, I recalled ye mentioned a fondness for riding.”

  “Oh, aye. I’d ride every morn if I could.”

  “Well, Cook’s packing our nooning in a satchel and sending it out to the stables with young Fenn, so ’tis a good thing ye finished your story, else, the lad would have had his ears boxed.”

  “Oh my. And thank heavens I changed the reading time to later in the day after their chores. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any ear-boxing. Besides, I need all the allies I can find, no matter their age.”

  Angus adjusted his belt. “Has anyone been unkind to ye?”

  “No, my lord. I am slow to make friends is all.”

  “I’m not so certain about that. Mither reports ye are quite amenable. Ye ken her word is gospel—even the friar can attest to that. Not to mention ye’ve impressed the young ones, even if ye are an O’Cahan.” He offered his elbow. “Shall we? One of the servants has already taken our cloaks to the stables.”

  Anya nearly skipped outside. Not only was it winter, the weather had been foul and, with Rory following her about, she hadn’t a chance to slip away from the keep and enjoy some much-needed time to herself. It didn’t help matters when, during their time shipwrecked on Nave, she had run at the mouth and told Angus about her own special place at Carrickfergus. The only other person she’d ever told about slipping out of the castle was Finovola, though she imagined the Earl of Ulster had completely excavated the little alcove once she went missing.

  “Here we are,” he said, leading her toward a filly, saddled and tied to the fence beside a bay stallion.

  “Oh, my.” Anya ran her hand along the mare’s smooth neck. She untied the horse and walked her in a circle to examine her gait. “Ye are a beauty, are ye not? And sorrel, to boot. My favorite color.”

  “I’m glad ye approve.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together and making a sling. “May I give ye a leg up?”

  She took hold of the reins and placed her knee in Islay’s hands. Though she landed in the saddle rather gently, the mare shook her head and sidestepped. “This filly has a bit of mettle.”

  “That she does—I recall ye said a spirited horse.”

  “I did.” Though the mare clearly wanted to run, Anya held her head low while Angus mounted and took up his reins. “Are ye certain ’tis a good idea to ride a stallion alongside a mare?”

  “Aye, she’s been covered, and I expect she’ll have a wee foal come autumn.”

  “Then I’d best be careful.”

  The corner of His Lordship’s mouth ticked up while a bit of mischief flickered in his eyes. “If she’ll allow it once we reach the moor.”

  Anya sat taller, ready for a bout of good sport. “How far is it?”

  “A good hour’s ride or so. ’Tis called the Oa.”

  “Hmm. What an unusual name. Where is it from?”

  “The place was named far before my time. The elders say ’tis from the time of the druids,” Islay explained as together they rode beneath the gateway and out toward the o
pen.

  “It must be magical.”

  “Aye, in beauty, I say.”

  “Then let us not delay.”

  Tapping her heels, Anya cued the mare for a canter. With a rolling laugh, Angus soon took the lead, riding through Lagavulin, and past the brewhouse on the far end of the village. Once they were well away from the townsfolk and a croft dotted the hills here and there, he slowed to a walk and ran his fingers through his horse’s mane. “I love it out here.”

  “’Tis peaceful.”

  “Aye, and there are no supplications to hear, no quarrels needing my intervention.”

  Anya hadn’t seen him hear supplications, but by his tenor, he’d done so recently. “Do ye not hear the crofters’ pleas in the hall?”

  “Nay, ’tis too disruptive. I hear them in my solar, which allows for privacy if need be.”

  Anya smiled. Any overbearing brute of a lord would hear supplications in his hall for all to hear. But this man thought enough of his clansmen and women to meet with them behind closed doors. How very enterprising of him. And how very much not like the Fairhair monster of lore.

  They rode side by side for a time, until fences and crofts were nowhere to be seen, and rugged moorland stretched before them. “Look there,” Angus pointed. “’Tis a herd of red deer.”

  In the distance, the animals looked up from their grazing, posing as if trying to decide whether or not to take flight.

  Anya ran her fingers through the mare’s mane. “Beautiful.”

  Islay gestured with a sweep of his arm. “This entire peninsula is covered with birds year-round. Burns cut paths from freshwater lochs and peatland bogs further inland. And on the coast, they empty into waterfalls tumbling from the cliffs of Dùn Athad.”

  “It sounds like Eden.” Anya picked up her reins. “We mustn’t delay.”

  “A wee race is it ye’re wanting, lass?”

  “A stallion against a mare? Pshaw!”

  “Only from here to the outcropping yonder. And I’ll allow ye five lengths.”

  Anya leaned forward and kicked her heels, demanding a gallop. “I’ll see you there.”