Highland Raider

by Amy Jarecki

  “Nay, he ought to be in the lord’s solar.”

  Oh, dear. Anya had grown up the daughter of a lord and it had always been unwise to broach anything with Papa when he was within. “But I doubt he’ll need a new shirt in there.”

  “Nay, however, I want him to see it now.”

  Anya curtseyed. “Yes, my lady. I shall return anon.” She collected the shirt, careful not to unfold it, before she hastened out the door. The Dowager Lady Islay was so much different in comparison to Lady Ulster. The former certainly did not need a lady-in-waiting and seemed to dream up things for Anya to do. The countess, on the other hand, always had the two O’Cahan sisters attend her every whim, insisting it was good experience so they would know what would be expected of them when they married into noble families.

  The countess would never make a shirt for her husband, or anyone, for that matter. She would either have Finovola or Anya do it, or she would ask the tailor. Neither did Lady Ulster own a loom. At Carrickfergus, the spinning of wool was never done above stairs, either. In truth, Anya had enjoyed the bit of spinning she’d done for the dowager, and weaving looked interesting as well as intricate. That Her Ladyship had acquired such a skill was truly astonishing.

  But it was odd that the woman had asked Anya to take the shirt to her son. The Lady Ulster would have assigned the task to a servant, who would have delivered the garment to the lord’s bedchamber without interrupting the earl’s day. But now here she was on her way to the Lord of Islay’s solar.

  Rory met her in the corridor, his wiry beard sticking out every which way as if he’d been scratching it. “Where are we off to, miss?”

  “Well…” A hundred saucy responses came to mind, though she opted for a completely different tack. “By the state of your whiskers, Wolfie, I reckon ye’re looking more like a wolfhound every day. Aside from that, I thought ye might like a change of place, else your old bones might grow so stiff ye’d be stuck against the wall beside Her Ladyship’s solar for the rest of your days.”

  He chuckled, always seeming to enjoy her little jibes. “No need to tell me. I’ll just follow along as I always do. Mayhap I’ll sprout a tail soon as well.”

  As they neared His Lordship’s solar, Anya’s palms started to perspire. Three days had passed since she’d boldly kissed him in the Oa. And though he’d kissed her quite passionately as well, once they returned to the keep, Anya was still so shocked by her behavior, she’d scarcely been able to look him in the eye. And it hadn’t been as if he’d flirted with her afterward. In fact, he’d taken less notice of her since.

  I’ll just mind my own affairs, deliver the shirt, and be on my way.

  When she arrived, the door to the lord’s solar was slightly ajar. Voices from within spilled into the corridor while Rory stood at a respectable distance.

  “I hate to come afore ye with me hat in me hands, m’lord, but the harvest was a wee bit poor last season and we’ve not a morsel remaining in the sheiling.”

  “I understand. Is it oats and flour ye are in need of?” asked Angus in an authoritative voice.

  Anya peered through the gap. The lord of the castle sat in a large chair while a bent old crofter stood with his back to the door.

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  Angus spotted Anya before he motioned to his factor to make a notation. “Help yourself to what ye need. In return, come summer, I’d like five spools of flax thread. My mother is awfully fond of your wife’s spinning.”

  The man bowed. “Thank ye, thank ye. I’ll have Her Ladyship’s five spools just as soon as the first stalks are harvested.”

  “Very good.” As the crofter took his leave, Angus shifted his attention to the shirt in Anya’s hands. “Have ye a supplication, miss?”

  She checked to ensure no one else was waiting. “Nay, my lord. Your mother sent me bearing a gift.”

  “Since the crofter was my last visitor for the day, it seems ye’ve arrived at a good time,” Islay said, beckoning her inside and giving the factor a dismissive nod.

  Anya stepped aside while the man collected his ledgers of accounts and headed out. From across the solar, she presented the shirt. “I say, your mother’s needlework is exquisite. Had she not married a nobleman, she would have done well as a tailor’s wife.”

  Laughing, Angus pushed back his chair and stood. “Do not tell her such a thing, she might change her mind about ye.”

  “Forgive me, I meant it as a compliment. Your mother is ever so skilled with a needle, as well as a loom. I am truly astounded.”

  As he sauntered toward her and reached for the shirt, the Highlander’s fingers brushed hers, the light touch making Anya’s breath hitch. He hesitated for a moment, the corner of his mouth ticking up as he met her gaze. She didn’t dare inhale while his eyes trailed to her mouth and he scraped his teeth over his bottom lip.

  Was he thinking about their kisses? Was he thinking about how forward she’d been? Anya was desperate to ask, but doing so would have been too mortifying, even for a spirited lass like her.

  “Let us have a look at Mither’s handiwork,” he said, stepping back and breaking the spell. He shook out the shirt while the door clicked closed. “It is fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “Aye, and exactly like all the others she has sewn for me over the years.”

  “Why does your tailor not make your shirts?”

  Angus tossed the garment on the table as casually as if it were a playing card. “It makes my mother happy to sew them herself. It also occupies her time so that she doesn’t occupy mine.”

  “Truly? I find your mother to be quite interesting. Very different from the Countess of Ulster, but in a good way.”

  “She’s not too overbearing?”

  “She hasn’t been thus far. I say, the countess was overbearing on an hourly basis.”

  Stepping nearer, Angus tucked a lock of hair behind Anya’s ear. “Is that right? Mayhap my mother only is meddlesome when it comes to me.”

  “Oh? Has she been nosy of late?”

  “Aye, though her ways are subtle.”

  “How so?” Anya asked, a bit breathless. Had Angus grown taller? More imposing? Certainly, he couldn’t be better looking than he’d been when she’d seen him at dinner last eve.

  “Your presence here is not because of the Bruce, if ye recall. The king would have shipped ye to a frigid monastery.”

  “Do ye believe your mother meddled to help me?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Why?”

  “Mayhap ye ought to ask her.” Rather than step away, Angus rested his palm on the wall beside Anya’s head. “What schemes are running through that vivid imagination of yours?”

  Her stomach fluttered as she glanced to the door. Heavens, did he know what she was thinking? Did he know how much she wanted to kiss him again? Yet every time the idea popped into her thoughts, she chastised herself. Continuing to steal kisses from Fairhair would only serve to cause her torture for the rest of her days.

  She affected her most innocent expression, batting her lashes for good measure. “I have no idea what ye mean, my lord.”

  Chuckling, he brushed a whisper of a kiss across her cheek. “Of course, no’.”

  “Ye do know, no matter how much I want…” She looked into his eyes and nearly swooned. Goodness, if she didn’t make a stand now, she’d lose herself in his enchanting stare. “I…we cannot.”

  Angus dropped his hand, making a loud slap on his thigh. Then rubbing his neck, his lips disappeared into a thin line. “Ye are right and I’ve no business trifling with ye. Forgive me.”

  Good heavens, why had his words sounded so final? And why must Anya feel so inexplicably disappointed?

  Clasping her hands, she headed for the door. From the start, she knew visiting his solar was a misbegotten idea. Moreover, they both were playing with fire. She couldn’t fall in love with a man like Fairhair, the devil of the seas. Perhaps she would have been better off if the King of Scots had sent her to the mo
nastery. At least there she’d be miserable and not tempted by a man who stirred her blood every time she glanced his way.

  Anya dashed out of the solar and hastened toward Rory. “Come, stroll with me atop the wall-walk, Wolfie. I need some air.”

  “Would ye like me to find a wee collar and lead for ye, miss?”

  She shook her head, unable to engage in their saucy banter at the moment. “If Robert the Bruce had it his way, I would be the one on the end of a leash.”

  The guard cleared his throat and followed without saying another word. At least having Rory skulking behind her with his weapons clanking was what Anya needed to remind herself that she was not a guest at Dunyvaig. Nor was she there upon her free will. She was a prisoner and Islay was a renowned scoundrel who had been detested by her father. The next time she went weak at the knees when in his presence, she vowed she would not disregard her principles and everything she had been brought up to believe.

  As the weeks passed, Angus grew increasingly agitated. Not only was the weather foul, every time he looked up, Anya O’Cahan managed to be somewhere nearby. His mother repeatedly sent her to the solar with frivolous gifts. The lassie was always in the hall when he broke his fast. And he knew she tried her damnedest not to look his way at the evening meals because he continually watched her out of the corner of his eye. Without a doubt, she tried to ignore him. Hell, he’d done his damnedest to ignore her. Except doing so had proved utterly impossible.

  Frustrated beyond reason, Angus paid a visit to the chapel, finding Friar Jo alone.

  “Ah, m’lord. ’Tis fine to see ye this lovely day.”

  Angus grumbled under his breath. “Today is as dreary as yesterday and the one afore that. In fact, the rain hasn’t let up in the past fortnight.”

  “’Tis a good sign, I say. Spring will soon be upon us.”

  “If it doesn’t drive the entire clan mad afore then.”

  “Judging by your high spirits, I take it there’s something needling your craw.” The friar started back to the small chamber where he kept his pallet and writing table. “Come join me for a tot of fine MacDonald whisky, blessed in this very chapel, mind ye. ’Tis the cure for foul moods, I’ll guarantee.”

  “Mayhap this wasn’t the worst idea I’ve had today,” Angus mumbled to himself. He chose one of the two seats at the table and stretched out his legs. The chamber was cozy. He and the friar oft solved the problems of Christendom over a wee dram or ten.

  “Ye’ve no cause to worry, m’lord,” said Jo, returning with two cups in his hands. “Everyone grows a bit sore-headed by the end of winter. ’Tis why we sinful souls feel a wee bit tipsy when the weather turns—the birds are merrier, the glens greener, the hunting better, the flowers happier.”

  “Ye needn’t tell me about bloody spring.” Angus took the offered cup and raised it in toast. “This will douse the fire within.”

  Smirking, the old friar sat opposite. “Or turn it into a raging flame.”

  Angus sipped and let the amber liquid slide over his tongue. “Mm. There’s no spirit finer than a peaty Islay brew.”

  “On that I will agree.” Jo returned the toast and drank in kind. “Now tell me, what has ye scowling like an angry bull?”

  “Och, give me the spray of the sea on my face and a week of sunshine and I’ll be fit.”

  “Aye? Wait a month or two and the good Lord will provide. But I reckon ye are skirting about the cause of your consternation, m’lord. I’ll wager your woes are on account of a wee Irish lassie flitting about the keep—the very lass who sits beside me at the evening meals.”

  “A bloody O’Cahan she is.”

  “But ye like her.”

  Angus shrugged. “I have no business liking her. I ought to lock the chit in the wee tower chamber. She is my prisoner, after all.”

  “Nay, she’s the king’s prisoner, ye are simply her jailer.”

  “Och, aye, that makes me feel better. Mayhap I ought to tote around a headman’s axe.” Angus took another drink and savored the whisky as it burned its way down his gullet. “I wish she’d never hid in my birlinn.”

  “Is that so?” asked the friar, not sounding convinced. “I do not believe God ever puts someone in your path on mistake.”

  “Och, the lass made a mistake for certain. One she’ll regret for the rest of her days.”

  “Because she was supposed to marry a man for whom she harbored no love?”

  “How do ye ken? Mayhap Miss Anya was ecstatic about the prospect of marrying that cad.”

  “I think not.” Jo rubbed his fingers over the large wooden cross he wore around his neck. “She told me herself she had never felt terribly affectionate toward her intended.”

  Angus eyed the holy man across the table, then blew out a guffaw. “Do ye think Miss Anya would rather bide her time here?”

  “From what I’ve observed, I do no’ believe the lass is miserable.” The Friar poured himself a second tot and pushed the flagon across the board. “And it has not escaped my notice that she has eyes for ye, my friend.”

  Angus’ heartbeat sped, thumping away as if he were a wet-eared lad. Pounding his fist on his chest, he thumped back, restoring a more moderate rhythm. “She’s not mine to woo.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye. Though she may not see Ireland for a time, and O’Doherty may move on, our king, mind ye, entrusted her care to me.”

  “’Tis a conundrum, is it no’?”

  “’Tis a bloody miserable state of affairs.” Angus drained his cup and refilled it. “Mayhap I ought to sail to Jura for a time.”

  “Because of the lass?”

  “Aye.”

  “What will that prove? And how can ye be responsible for the woman when ye’re no’ here?”

  “Och, the Bruce will call me to fight for the kingdom soon. I’ll not be on hand to be Anya’s high protector sooner or later.”

  “Hmm.” Friar Jo patted his belly with his thick-fingered hands. “Her circumstances are tragic, the poor woman. This war could endure for a decade or more, though I stand by my beliefs. There is a reason the Lord has sent her to Islay. In time, God’s plan will be revealed.”

  “Until then, I’ll either go mad, or I’ll be off fighting the wars. I cannot lose sight of the fact that the MacDonalds are the Lords of the Isles, and until there is no question of our sovereign right to rule the Hebrides, there will be no rest.”

  “The ambitions of men have led many astray.” The friar leaned forward. “The good Lord has a plan for ye as well. But first ye must listen to your heart.”

  “Aye? I’ll have ye ken—”

  With a slice of his hand, the holy man silenced Angus. “Wheesht. Your brother and your father afore him were the same—fighting one battle after the next whilst never pausing to examine what truly matters in their hearts.”

  Though Friar Jo may have spoken true, his words did nothing to put Angus at ease. Scotland was at war and this was no time for any man to laze about pondering the meaning of his existence—or, worse, pining after a lass he could never have.

  13

  Her Ladyship had gone to the village for a change. With the morning to herself, Anya opted to spend it reading in her bedchamber rather than taking Rory to explore the crevices of the castle. To her chagrin, two mornings past, she had awaken with a nagging cough and a tender throat that hadn’t yet gone away. She blew her nose as she turned the page of her book. It was too early in the season for congestion of the lungs. That dreaded misery seemed to plague her every spring when the trees bloomed.

  She coughed again, a very productive cough that made the throat burn all the more. Mayhap the seasons were different in Scotland.

  “Fire!” shouted someone, who sounded very much like Angus.

  Anya set her book aside, headed to the window, and pulled across the fur. Indeed, down below, His Lordship wielded a bow as did a dozen MacDonald men, all shooting at targets across the way.

  Dropping the fur, she blew her nose and donne
d her cloak. No use letting a little cough ruin an entire day, especially one where she did not have to do the bidding of the lady of the keep. She took a sip of water to bathe her throat and headed out the door.

  “Good morn, Wolfie,” she said, a tad hoarsely. “How’s the sprouting of that tail coming along?”

  He stroked his fingers down his neatly groomed beard. “Nothing as of yet. Mayhap by the end of your tenure here, I’ll be wagging a nice wiry one.”

  “To wave goodbye?”

  “Och, I reckon ye’ll grow so fond of me ye’ll not be able to live without me.”

  She started through the corridor. “Is it not the other way around? Ye are supposed to grow fond of me.”

  “Right again, Miss Anya,” he said, following as always. “Are ye going out?”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I thought I’d watch archery practice.”

  “It might be a bit safer if ye watched from your window.”

  “And a great deal less entertaining.” She ducked into the stairwell and started downward. “Are ye fond of archery?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then why are you not down there practicing?”

  “I think ye ken why.”

  “Though ye’d rather be with the men, would ye not?”

  “What I want does not matter.”

  She stopped and faced him with her fists on her hips. “I emphatically disagree. Everyone is entitled to do what they please.”

  “With all due respect, miss, I have a half-holiday once a sennight when Archie guards ye. ’Tis fair.”

  “I disagree. Guarding me must be the most tedious task ye’ve ever had.”

  “A man can use a wee bit of tedium in his old age.” He winked. “I’ll never admit it to His Lordship, but our banter is amusing. I oft wonder what ye’ll be dreaming up next.”

  Anya chuckled, but when she swallowed, her throat burned. Continuing on her way, she decided she would be heading for her bed early this eve.

  The stoop beyond the main doors looked out over the courtyard, where she stopped and rested her elbows on the balustrade.

  Raising a loaded bow to his cheek, Angus stood directly below. The string twanged as he let his arrow fly. Anya muffled her cough as his shot hit an inch right of center.