“’Tis good to be home at last.”
“I heard about your wee stowaway.”
“Aye.” Angus glanced over his shoulder and frowned. Flanked by two guards, Anya was following. “She’s the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan.”
Huffing, the old friar waddled beside him as they made their way through the sea gate. “My heavens, no.”
“Ye’d best believe it, do no’ let her out of your sight or she may very well dirk your back. I’ll be arranging transport for the lass just as soon as I’ve had a bath and a change of clothes.”
“Ye might want to rethink your priorities, m’lord.”
“Oh? And why, pray tell? I’ve just spent two nights sleeping on an icy stone floor in the wee chapel of Nave. I’m in sore need of a bath and a change of bloody clothes.” He also wouldn’t mind a blanket or two to stave off the bitter wind.
“King Bruce wants to see ye straightaway. The lass as well.”
Angus groaned. Damnation, he’d forgotten about the king. And why the hell hadn’t Raghnall mentioned the Bruce was still here? Bless it, Robert the Bruce had taken over the lord’s chamber, which meant Angus would again be relegated above stairs to the small room he’d occupied as a lad.
He stopped and beckoned Anya forward. “We’re to have an audience with King Bruce, then I’ll see to it the servants draw ye a bath and find some suitable clothes. After all, we heathens do feast on Saint Valentine’s as well.”
“My thanks.” Pursing her lips, the lass grasped his elbow, the sensation of her lithe fingers making tingles skitter all the way up to the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he growled, not proud of the gruff tone in his voice. He knew why she had apologized. He just wasn’t ready to accept it.
“I’m Friar Jo,” said the cleric, smiling as if he weren’t facing the daughter of one of their most hated adversaries. “Welcome to Dunyvaig, miss.”
She cringed. “I’m not quite certain of your welcome.”
Angus led the way up the ramp leading to the keep. “The friar kens who ye are, and he’d welcome ye even if ye were married to Satan. This man hasn’t a grudgeful bone in his body.”
Friar Jo chuckled and rubbed his belly. “Aye, the good Lord says love thy neighbor. I reckon he means the Irish as well as the English, no matter which king to whom ye happen to pay fealty.”
Inside, the smells of roasting venison and baking bread wafted through the air, making Angus’ mouth water. His last decent meal had been when he’d broken his fast three days past. And though the clan would be assembling soon to enjoy a grand feast, a feeling of tension in the air weighed upon him. And Angus knew why. The king had wintered at Dunyvaig and the MacDonald servants were on edge.
“Islay,” said Robbie Boyd, bowing at the entry to the great hall. “’Tis good to see ye survived the storm, my friend.”
Angus greeted the knight, clasping his forearm and squeezing. “I’m glad ye were able to spirit the king away afore Ulster’s archers honed their skills.”
“Between us, I reckon the earl gave orders for near misses. After all, the queen would have never spoken to her father again had the bastard murdered her husband.”
“MacDonald,” bellowed the Bruce, sitting in Angus’ chair at the head table upon the dais where he had taken to holding court these past few months. “Come forward.”
Angus didn’t consider himself a prideful man. But, nonetheless, he’d had a gutful of being a pawn in his own castle. Beckoning Anya to follow, he inclined his lips toward her ear. “This will no’ take long, then I shall see to your comfort.”
As they processed, Angus nodded to his mother who was also seated at the high table along with Arthur Campbell and a number of the king’s confidants. As a courtesy, Angus grasped Anya’s elbow to climb the dais steps. After reaching the top, he bowed, noting the lass beside him was savvy enough to dip into a respectful curtsey. “Good tidings, Your Grace. Please allow me to introduce Miss Anya O’Cahan of Dunseverick.”
Mither gasped, clapping a hand to her chest.
Robert the Bruce arched a thick eyebrow, his eyes widening. “Ah, yeeees, I remember ye, Miss Anya. Ye stood with my wife at our wedding. She spoke highly of ye and your sister.”
“My thanks, Your Grace. Elizabeth is…ah…was my closest friend. If it had not been for her kindness when I arrived at Carrickfergus, I would have suffered greatly.”
The king’s gaze flickered to Angus before he dipped his quill and signed the document on the table before him, which was then taken and sealed by his cleric. “I understand Ulster claimed guardianship after your father was killed.” Robert looked up from his work and tapped the feather to his chin. “He joined with MacDougall against the MacDonald, did he not?”
Anya blushed as bright as a blood rose. “Aye.”
“Unfortunate turn of events that, what with two dead lords and nothing gained.”
Angus cleared his throat, dislodging a lump that had suddenly formed. Beside the king, his mother had gone terribly pale, her eyes boring through him with the anguish of a woman who’d lost her firstborn. It wasn’t easy for Angus to grant hospitality to the offspring of Lord Guy O’Cahan and, most likely, it was doubly as distasteful for Mither. “I plan to arrange transport to return Miss Anya to Carrickfergus on the morrow.”
The king whipped his quill through the air while a pinch formed between his brows. “Ye will do no such thing. This woman is now my political prisoner just as my wife is held captive by Edward of England. Miss Anya O’Cahan has worth and will be a useful pawn when the time comes to negotiate the exchange of prisoners. I’ve a monastery in mind where the monks provide our captives with meaningful labor—somewhere Edward will never find them, ye ken the one.”
Anya clasped her hands over her heart. “But I must return—”
“May I be so bold as to make a suggestion, sire?” asked Mither.
Rarely did Angus’ mother interrupt, though she was as shrewd as any man, Her Ladyship was very calculated and careful about everything she said, especially when in the king’s company.
The king set his quill in the holder. “By all means.”
“I am in need of a lady-in-waiting and, as ye are aware, Dunyvaig is impenetrable. Why not allow the lass to remain here, under my watchful eye and tutelage, of course.”
“Hmm.” Robert slid the velum he’d signed toward the cleric. “Interesting that ye would be willing to take on such a task, given the feud between your kin.”
“Which is exactly why I thought of it. Miss Anya’s younger brother assumed the Lordship of Keenaght, did he not? What better time to repair relations than when youth assume an ancestral seat?”
Angus tried to read Anya’s expression, but she stood emotionless. Nonetheless, she had been planning to wed Lord O’Doherty or at least accept his offer of marriage this very night. What panic must she be feeling inside with all her dreams being brushed aside with a wave of the king’s hand? Did Mither honestly believe she could win the lass over?
One thing was for certain, Miss Anya would live in far more comfort at Dunyvaig than she would at Eynhallow Monastery on the Isle of Orkney where Angus had ferried Robert’s highborn prisoners before, though the location was a closely guarded secret and only known by a handful of men. The place was not only desolate and cold, the wind blew constantly while the monks survived by tilling rocky land and raising a flock of feeble-looking sheep. The king had grossly overstated the comfort she might find up there. ’Twas akin to the misery they’d shared on Nave.