by Amy Jarecki
Anya was about to start yet another sketch when the Dowager Lady Islay opened the door. “Lilas told me ye’re much improved so I thought I’d pay a visit, if ye’re feeling up to it.”
Covering a cough with her hand, Anya quickly moved the drawings aside and covered them with a blank sheet of vellum. “I am honored, my lady.”
“Ye had us all so very worried,” she said, taking the chair where Angus had been. “It is such a relief to see ye sitting up.”
Anya rose and moved to the washstand to scrub the charcoal from her fingertips. “I am happy to be feeling better. I’d hate for anyone else to suffer winter fever.”
“Have you suffered the malady afore?”
“Not exactly.” She rubbed the soap between her palms. “I do get a bit wheezy in springtime, but it passes with the season.”
Her Ladyship’s gaze trailed to the pile of velum. “Ye do ken Angus refused to leave your side.”
“I do.” She pulled a drying cloth from where it hung in front of the washstand. “He feels responsible for me, though he should not.”
“My son has always been duty bound. In truth, I believe he is more suited to the lordship than Alasdair was.”
After drying her hands, Anya rehung the cloth and returned to the bed, sitting across from Her Ladyship. “Why do ye say that?”
“Do no’ misunderstand. I loved them both equally. But Alasdair focused more on improving his own lot than that of the clan. Angus wishes to secure the Lordship of the Isles to ensure the people who count on him live happy lives, free from the yoke of tyranny.”
“He desires peace, yet he’s thrown in his hat with Robert the Bruce, which will ensure more fighting and bloodshed.”
“Unfortunately, the battles will be fierce regardless of what side he chooses to support. Angus pledged his fealty to the Scottish king because it was the right thing to do for clan and kin. Because he believes in Scotland as a sovereign nation.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand. Would it not be nice if all Scots felt the same?”
“I believe they will in time.” The Dowager Lady Islay pointed to the drawings. “May I have a look at your work?”
Anya gathered the sheets of vellum and held them against her chest. “Forgive me, but they are but mindless scratchings at the moment.”
“I rather doubt that. Come, until my son marries, I am still the lady of this castle and I want to see them.”
A blast of heat spread across Anya’s cheeks as she passed her sketches to the woman. “When given time, I can denote much more attention to the details.”
Her Ladyship pursed her lips as she studied each one. Anya sank lower on the bed, wishing she could pull the bedclothes over her head and melt into a puddle. What would Islay’s mother think once she realized her son was featured in every picture? Would now be the time for Her Ladyship to decide to send her to the tiny chamber in the tower to serve out the duration of her sentence?
Anya squeezed her eyes shut. She might be bent and grey by the time this horrid war ended.
“These are quite good,” said the Dowager Lady Islay, peering over the parchment. “Who taught ye to draw so well?”
One of Anya’s shoulders ticked up. “I suppose I’ve been drawing since I first held a quill. My father had a number of books in his library, and I oft studied the pictures and tried to copy them—the shadowing and whatnot. In time, I improved, I suppose.”
Her Ladyship returned the sketches. “Well, I ought to have ye draw a scene from the Oa for my next weaving project—a tapestry with the geese would be lovely, mayhap add deer. And I do believe it would make quite a statement to visitors in the great hall if my son were on horseback riding through the moor as well.”
As Anya released a pent-up breath, she straightened. Perhaps she’d escaped a lonely existence in the tower yet again. Angus had requested such a drawing as well, which made the request doubly enticing. “I would definitely want to put a great deal more detail into the sketch if it were to be intended for a tapestry to adorn the hall, my lady. I’ll need a larger canvas as well.”
“Well then, once ye’ve fully recovered, I’ll see to it ye have whatever size ye need. And mind ye, I want my fierce Angus Og featured in the drawing. Ye are quite skilled at capturing his likeness.” Her Ladyship stood. “Mayhap a rendering with bow and arrow in hand, chasing a seven-point stag.”
15
Though it was not a feast day, the tables in the hall were nearly full this eve, teeming with those who supported the MacDonald army. There were also many nearby crofters who were running low on supplies due to the end of winter. Angus had heard their tales of woe many times before. He was only glad that the castle’s larder was well-stocked and his hunters brought in fresh meat daily. If he did nothing else in his tenure as lord of these lands, he would see to it no soul went hungry.
Beside him, Raghnall picked up an ewer and poured a tankard of ale for himself. “Ye can inform the king we’ve recruited another five hundred fighting men from Skye.”
Angus tore his bread and slathered half with butter. “He’ll be pleased for certain, though I want ye to send up a team of men to train them, ensure they are ready.”
“I have just the men in mind.”
“I would have thought no less.”
“Did Miss Anya tell you I’ve asked her to sketch a picture of the Oa for my next tapestry?” asked Mither on his left. “She is quite talented.”
Angus shifted his gaze down the table to where the lass sat beside Friar Jo, recalling he’d wagered for such a drawing, but then Anya had fallen ill and there had been no contest. “’Tis good to hear ye are keeping her occupied.”
When he caught Anya’s eye, she smiled, her grin bright enough to light the entire hall. Angus’ heartbeat sped, yet as he returned the gesture, he told himself his reaction was because she had made a full recovery.
“Have ye seen her work?” asked his mother.
“Hmm?”
“Anya’s charcoals. Have you seen them?”
“Aye, she drew a picture when we were on the Isle of Nave. It was a very realistic rendering.”
“Indeed?” Mither sipped her ale. “Then I believe ye’d be doubly impressed to see the wee sketches she made whilst she was convalescing.”
“I’m certain they’re good.” As Angus watched Anya, his mother’s voice faded into oblivion. At first, he had placed the Irish lass at the end of the table near the friar for two reasons. She was nobly born, and thus it was apt for her to sit at the high table. But she was not a guest. In effect, she had invited herself to Dunyvaig by stowing away on his birlinn. Thus, since she was also under Angus’ supervision, he felt it important not to be seen as growing too fond of the woman.
Except the seating arrangement hadn’t helped him to distance himself in the least. His heart had a mind of its own, and Anya O’Cahan might as well be seated beside him.
But such a thing simply wasn’t done. Her Ladyship’s chair would be occupied by Mither as long as Angus remained unwed. And the man-at-arms always sat on his right. There were certain conventions that absolutely must not be overruled, even by the lord and master of the keep.
By the stars, the lass looked radiant this evening. The color had returned to her face and her eyes shone like emeralds in a crown. She laughed at something Friar Jo said, then hid her grin behind her tankard as she raised it to her lips. While she drank, her gaze flickered to Angus.
Sitting taller, he smiled.
She looked away, her face growing apple red.
Good God, he felt like a wet-eared lad playing googly eyes. As the servants began clearing the table, Angus picked up his tankard and stood. “If ye will please excuse me, I mean to have a word with the artist.”
Mither gave a knowing nod as if she’d been planning for Angus to move all along. Bless it, he liked Anya, but he knew as well as anyone that a match between the pair of them was absolutely out of the question. The king would have Angus hanged if he even considered
courting the lass, then what good would he be to her?
As he approached, Friar Jo stood. “’Tis time I headed for my pallet, m’lord.”
“But it is so early,” said Anya, gesturing to a lutist tuning his instrument up on the gallery. “It appears we will have music to enjoy this eve.”
“I do enjoy a wee tune now and again, however I’ve some reading awaiting me in the Good Book and the Lord waits for no one.” The stout little man bowed. “Good night, miss.”
Angus gave Friar Jo a nod of thanks and took the empty seat. “How fare ye this eve? Feeling well, I hope?”
“Much better, thank ye. I do believe I’ll have to ask Lilas for her violets and whey tincture recipe. I’m certain it helped immensely.”
“Not the deer’s grease?” he asked with a lilt of humor. It had always puzzled Angus as to why rubbing the feet helped cure a cough. But who was he to judge? Lilas had been born into healing and had studied herbal lore all her life.
Anya chuckled. “I daresay the calluses on my heels have softened considerably.”
“I wouldn’t boast about that to Lilas.”
“I shan’t, though I must admit my cough has been cured. Nonetheless, I have an inkling the black spleenwort helped far more than the grease.” Anya made a sour face. “But I swear it is the foulest tasting tincture that has ever passed my lips.”
“My mother always said the worse it tastes, the better the cure.”
“Then I’m ever so grateful Her Ladyship did not mix the black spleenwort, else I may not have been able to keep it down.”
“Let us hope ye’ll no’ need the tincture ever again.” Angus silenced himself by swilling his ale. He wanted to tell her how worried he’d been, how he’d prayed over her sickbed, how he’d sat night upon night, tirelessly cooling her forehead. But doing so would be folly.
Anya turned to watch the lutist as he began to strum. “Have ye received word from the Bruce?” she asked as casually as if she were inquiring about the fare for tomorrow’s evening meal.
“Not of late, but now the weather is turning for the better, I reckon it will not be long afore I am summoned.”
Did a bit of disappointment flash through her eyes? Angus watched intently but Anya quickly averted her gaze to her hands. “Such is the lot of men. Always off to battle.”
“Aye. It seems so.” He plucked away one of her hands and rubbed it between his palms. “Would ye miss me overmuch?”
She rolled a coy shoulder and gave him a teasing arch of her brows. “Nay, not overmuch.”
“A little?”
“Perhaps a little.” Pushing to her feet, Anya tugged him up. “Come. The clansmen and women are dancing. ’Tis nigh time I kicked up my heels.”
“Aye, so it is the lassie’s choice, is it?”
“It is when ye start mumbling blather about missing ye after marching off to war—fighting on the wrong side, mind ye.”
Oh, how he adored her saucy Irish lilt. Still, Angus rolled his eyes to the rafters as he let her pull him down the dais steps. Here he was trying his damnedest not to be smitten with the woman and utterly failing. Thank God she reminded him exactly why with her “fighting on the wrong side” comment, even though the reason for keeping his distance was never far from his mind. Especially when he moved into line across from her. And when he took her hand and skipped in a circle. And when she smiled and laughed like she hadn’t a care, the joyous sound surrounding him like bells on Christmas morn.
Anya made him want to throw his head back and croon. She made him want to dance all night as long as he could dance only with her and she promised to hold his hand with those soft, lithe fingers.
To his chagrin, partway through a turn, the music came to an abrupt stop.
A sentry marched across the floor, his expression grim. “I’ve a missive from the king.”
“So soon?” Anya whispered, the doom in her tone increasing the size of the stony lump in the pit of Angus’ stomach.
“Thank ye.” He took the letter from the messenger and gestured aft. “Ye’ll find food and drink in the kitchens, friend.”
Raghnall move in beside them. “What does it say?”
Angus gripped the missive in his fist and shifted his gaze to the dais where Mither watched like an expectant hen. Anya, too, had lost all color in her face. Angus reckoned everyone knew what the king wanted without breaking the seal. Regardless, the contents were confidential. “I shall read it in my solar. Join me there anon.”
Angus signaled to Rory before he bowed to the lass. “Ye’d best go above stairs for the night.”
Throwing her shoulders back like a lass born to nobility, Anya shook her head. “But I’d like to know what the missive says as well.”
“I’m certain ye would, but must I remind ye of your standing whilst residing at Dunyvaig? Ye cannot ever be a party to the king’s correspondence.”
As the words left his lips, Angus had never regretted uttering such drivel in all his life. And by Anya’s bereft expression with tears welling in her eyes, he had wounded her deeply. Damnation, he didn’t want to hurt the lass, but she was the absolute last person on the Isle of Islay to be apprised of the contents of a confidential message from Robert the Bruce.
And the state of her claim on his heart had no bearing on the matter.
What if she succeeded in flagging an English ship? What if she told Longshank’s men what the Bruce was planning? Angus didn’t want to mistrust her, but she’d signaled a ship once before, who knew if she might try it again?
Hell, she is a prisoner of the crown. By rights, she should not be making merry in the hall. And I should not be hopelessly flirting with her either.
Forcing himself to ignore the woman’s shocked and wounded stare, Angus marched for the stairs and didn’t look back. He fumed all the way up to his solar and slammed the door.
“Damn it all to bloody hell!”
Bless it, he had no right to be angry. In truth, it was surprising it took this long for the king’s summons to arrive. No matter what he wanted, Angus could not allow a slip of a lass to addle his mind to the point where he lost his sense of duty. He was the Lord of Islay and the Kingdom of Scotland was looking to him to help regain sovereignty from a heartless tyrant who had named himself as the kingdom’s overlord.
Clenching his teeth, he strode directly toward his chair, lit a candle from the embers in the hearth, then examined the seal in the light. Sure enough, the wax bore an imprint of the king’s signet ring. Angus slid his finger beneath the hardened blob, shook open the calf-skin vellum, and read while a lead rock sank to his toes.
Not only had Angus been ordered to sail a dozen birlinns into the Bay of Turnberry, he was to first escort Miss Anya O’Cahan to Orkney and deliver her into the care of the monks at Eynhallow Monastery. The king’s reason? He believed if Angus was not at Dunyvaig to watch over the lass, an escape was more likely.
God on the bloody cross, did the Bruce not trust Angus to appoint a suitable guard?
For that matter, once he sailed to the mainland with his army, Dunyvaig would be left with but a small force of older soldiers to defend the keep. Robert didn’t say it in his letter, but when Angus left the fortress with his fighting men, there was a greater chance of an English attack. Though the odds were unlikely, Angus understood Robert’s caution.
The problem?
He wasn’t about to ferry Anya to Eynhallow. Not now. Not ever.
Anya paced in her chamber, while her face burned hot. She’d been treated so well at Dunyvaig, she had almost forgotten what it was like to be imprisoned against her will.
“Argh!” she shouted, pounding her fists on the bed.
Fairhair had sat beside her sickbed for days. Aye, he could have appointed anyone in the castle to the task but he, the Lord of Islay, had worried over her. On more than one occasion he had kissed her…though once she had initiated the kissing, he’d truly seemed to enjoy it. What of all the glances of longing they’d shared? What of his kindness
?
Was it all an act?
Why? Why would he go to so much trouble to feign to be smitten when she was but a mere woman? He never had to give her free rein of the keep. Aside from Rory being attached to her flank, she could go anywhere she pleased. She could even pay a visit to the village.
Oh yes, she mustn’t overlook their jaunt to the Oa where Angus had shown her the magnificent moor of which he was clearly proud. He had taken her to the tailor and more!
And now a letter from Robert the Bruce arrives and he sends me above stairs as if I am not to be trusted?
If Islay didn’t realize how much her opinion had changed since she’d flagged the English cog on Nave, then he was blind. Anya didn’t kiss a man and pretend it had never happened. Bless it, she’d opened her heart to him, and yet he still didn’t trust her a whit.
She rifled through the drawings she’d sketched in her sickbed. Every last one of them contained a picture of His Lordship. If that didn’t prove the man was ever-present in her thoughts, nothing would. How could she betray someone who cared enough to remain beside her sickbed for nights on end?
Anya rolled the vellum and slapped it in her palm. If he doesn’t think I love him, then these will prove it!
She marched to the door and flung it open. “I demand you take me to the lord’s solar at once.”
Rubbing his eyes, Rory lumbered to his feet. “Beg your pardon, but His Lordship told ye to retire for the evening, miss.”
“He told me to go above stairs for the night. Is not his solar above stairs?”
“Aye, but I do not reckon paying him a visit is what he had in mind.”
Anya poked the guard in the chest with her pointer finger. “If ye do not wish for me to go, then ye’ll be forced to restrain me. And I’ll say here and now, I can make one hellacious racket when I have a mind to.”
“Very well. But if he grows cross, remember I told ye so.” Rory gestured along the corridor. “Except I’ll most likely be the one to bear the brunt of his ire.”
“Ye will not,” Anya said with more conviction than she felt. She marched toward the steps and descended until she reached the landing leading to the solar. “If Angus balks, I’ll…I’ll…”