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?