“What say you, Angus?” asked Robert. “This is your domain. Are ye willing to harbor the lass until she’s needed for negotiations? Mind ye, it could be years afore I see my Elizabeth again.”
Beside him, Anya released a stuttered breath. Aye, she was roiling on the inside, for certain.
“I agree with the Dowager Lady Islay. The lass will enjoy far more comfort here than at a monastery. Furthermore, if my mother is willing to take on such a responsibility, then I shall see to it Miss Anya remains safely within Dunyvaig’s walls.” Angus made a point of looking the lass in the eye. “After all, we will destroy any enemy ship that comes too near our shores.”
“’Tis settled, then.” The king reached for a tankard while he nodded to Miss Anya. “Consider yourself fortunate. I only pray my wife is receiving similar consideration in regard to her station.” Robert shifted his gaze to the rafters. “Dear Lord, watch over her.”
7
Anya wanted nothing more than to languish in the wooden tub and pretend she was in her bedchamber at Carrickfergus, preparing to meet the man who had been negotiating for her hand. Unfortunately, the Dowager Lady Islay had given the servants strict instructions to assist Anya to dress for the feast as swiftly as possible. As soon as she had been shown to a small bedchamber, two sentries had brought in a wooden tub, followed by a line of servants carrying pails filled with steamy water.
Even more surprising, a dress awaited her with a crisp linen shift, as if Her Ladyship were expecting a new lady-in-waiting. Anya raised the rose-scented soap to her nose and inhaled. What might the woman’s expectations be? At Carrickfergus, the Countess of Ulster required Anya and Finovola to help her dress in the morning, assist her to change for any outings, as well as change for every evening meal. They provided companionship while the countess had given the two girls an education, preparing them to become wives of well-born gentlemen. In short, they were more or less treated as family, as daughters or, at least, nieces of the earldom.
Anya’s limbs felt ever so heavy as she bathed away the stench of the sea and the smell of the heady smoke from the chapel’s brazier. Robert the Bruce had said it might be years before he used her as a pawn to trade for Elizabeth’s freedom. In truth, Anya would gladly volunteer to do anything to help her dearest friend, but such an option was not presented as a request. Rather, she was forced to remain at Dunyvaig with no care given to her feelings on the matter.
Would she ever again find an opportunity to escape? It did not seem likely—not when she was being guarded by a man reputed to be the vilest scourge in the Western Isles, his fortresses impenetrable, housing soldiers who fought like demons.
After rinsing her hair, she sat immobile, staring at the water, now a tad murky from the lye in the soap. She was actually missing the Saint Valentine’s Day feast at Carrickfergus. Just a few days ago, she’d been a bit melancholy about the idea of marrying, though never again. If Lord Chahir O’Doherty wanted her for his wife, then so be it. And by the rood, she missed Finovola. If only Anya could send her sister a message and let her know she was well.
Of course, over the next few to several years, Lord O’Doherty would find another woman to wed.
Though Anya rued the day she’d hidden in Fairhair’s birlinn, oddly, the idea of her intended marrying another didn’t bother her in the slightest. Why had she never warmed to him? They’d met but once when he’d visited the earl. Lord O’Doherty was of average height and, aside from crooked teeth, was pleasant enough to the eye. During that brief stroll atop the wall-walk, he spoke of duty and the need to produce an heir. He told her about his keep and how his mother had managed the servants with an iron fist. But not once had he commented about affection, or tried to kiss her hand, or complimented Anya aside from mentioning that her sister was quite lovely and ought to make a good match.
Anya knew full well she was not the beauty in the family. But she was the eldest and, according to Islay, was not entirely unpleasing to the eye. Even if Angus Og MacDonald was an abhorrent pirate, the way he looked at her made her insides inflame like never before. Were all rogues scandalously attractive? Heaven’s stars, she must never allow herself to look upon the man with any semblance of affection.
Alas, she was a prisoner in a stone fortress, with a mammoth guard posted outside her door. She would grow old here, destined to be a spinster for the rest of her days. Aye, she may not have loved Chahir O’Doherty, but he would have provided her with a home and the opportunity to raise children of her own.
A knock came at the door.
Startling, Anya dropped the soap. “I am in the bath.”
“’Tis just Freya, miss.” The door opened and a middle-aged woman stepped inside. She wore an apron over a plaid kirtle, and a linen mob cap atop her head. “I’m the lady’s maid the dowager sent to help ye dress for the feast.”
Anya slipped lower in the bath and fished out the cake of soap. “Wonderful.”
“Are ye not feeling well, miss?” asked Freya, moving to the stack of drying cloths.
The gash on Anya’s hand stung a bit and she blew on it. “A tad melancholy, I suppose, seeing I am now a political prisoner.”
The maid shook out one of the cloths and held it up, her smile friendly. “I can think of far more despicable places in which to serve your term. Her Ladyship is fair and thoughtful, and her son is far kinder and more compassionate than his brother, I’ll say.”
Such a comment piqued Anya’s interest. “Oh? Was Alasdair a cruel man?” she asked, his name bitter on her tongue.
“Not cruel, but perhaps a wee bit severe. He wasn’t one to allow second chances.”
“And Angus is? He seems rather commanding to me.”
“Och, His Lordship is very commanding, but I reckon he inherited a bit of his mother’s kindhearted nature. I say, if a crofter is unable to pay his rents, Angus will work with him to improve his lot, where Alasdair would have demanded payment and given a very short time for the man to make amends.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye. Ye ought to be comfortable here, if not happy.” Freya waved the drying cloth. “Come now, ye must hasten to dress. There will no’ be time to dry your tresses, but I’ll make plaits and roll them into caul nets and ye’ll be the bonniest woman in the great hall, mark me.”
Anya sniggered as she stood and took the cloth, quickly hiding her nudity. “I rather doubt it.”
It didn’t take long to don the new clothes, and the maid proved quite efficient tending her hair. By the time Freya rubbed a salve into her palm and wrapped it in a fresh dressing, Anya had almost run out of excuses to avoid the feast—except for one. She peered down at her hem, kicking out a foot. “My sister would wear this gown far better than I. I’m afraid ’tis too long for me.”
“Not to worry, I’ll fetch a needle and thread straightaway. It won’t take me but a moment.” The maid hastened to her sewing basket. “Her Ladyship will see to it ye visit the tailor to be measured for new clothes on the morrow.”
Anya nodded, realizing the MacDonalds would be providing her clothing for years to come. “My thanks,” she whispered, her shoulders sagging.