“Come, lass, ye’ve not but to make the best if it. I ken it will take time, but if ye let us, we will prove we are not an evil clan.” Freya kneeled and started hemming. “And ye look radiant. The plaits coiled about your ears are lovely, even if I do say so myself. Might I add that the Dowager Lady Islay chose well. The green in your gown makes your eyes sparkle like jewels.”
Anya patted the netting covering the braids. She hadn’t ever worn caul nets before, but they did hold her hair secure, and the style made no difference if her tresses were wet or dry.
“There ye are, ’tisn’t my best work but it will set ye to rights for the evening,” said Freya, standing back and examining her work.
Taking a few steps, Anya tested the length. “That’s better. At least if I trip, it shouldn’t be because of my hem.”
The maid laughed as another knock sounded at the door. “’Tis time to head for the hall, miss,” came the gruff voice of the guard. “Her Ladyship requires your presence.”
“Go on,” urged Freya. “Ye must be famished.”
Taking in a deep breath, Anya wrung her hands as the maid opened the door. Aye, she was off to the Saint Valentine’s Day feast, but this meal was in the wrong castle, among a clan she’d considered enemies only two days past.
The old guard led the way down the wheeled stairway, the sounds from a busy hall echoing off the stone walls and the rich scent of roasted meat making her mouth water. When she’d first arrived at the fortress, Anya was so nervous, she’d forgotten her hunger, but now her mouth watered in anticipation of a meal. She intended to eat her fill, keep her eyes lowered, and escape to her chamber as quickly as possible.
As they entered the great hall, the rumble from the crowd reduced to a low hum. Stopping for a moment, she glanced across the faces—all gaping at her. She could swear the low mummers were about the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan, who would be held at Dunyvaig until the king could make a trade for her and who knew how many others in exchange for Elizabeth.
“Follow me, miss,” said the guard, leading her into an aisle separating numerous tables, filled with dozens of MacDonalds, doubtless waiting for her to stumble.
Anya’s face burned as she kept her gaze focused on the guard’s feet, his boots clomping on the stone floor. About halfway along, he stopped and stepped aside. She swept her gaze across the people crowded shoulder to shoulder onto the benches and wondered if they might be able to make room, at least long enough for her to eat.
“Miss Anya.”
Startling, she recognized Islay’s voice before she saw him. And when she turned, the braw lord took her breath away. She’d thought him beautiful on the Isle of Nave, but now that he’d bathed, he looked like a golden god. He was clean-shaven and wore a crisp shirt and plaid, belted low across his hips and drawn over his shoulder in the Scottish way.
Fairhair.
Lord in heaven, she wanted to hate this man, but any ice she’d harbored in her heart melted with his easy smile. He took her hand. “Ye are as bonny as a rose this eve.” He bowed and kissed the back of her hand. It wasn’t a mere courteous peck, but he seemed to linger, his warm lips almost tasting her, his breath scorching her flesh seductively.
Anya’s heart fluttered as if it had grown wings. Biting down on her lip, she vowed to herself never to allow such feelings to be revealed. She may find him charming and handsome, but he must never know her true thoughts. Revealing them would be akin to betraying her father’s honor.
When he straightened, he didn’t release her hand, but placed it in the crook of his arm and started toward the dais. “Come.”
She glanced back at the table where the guard still stood. “But am I not to sit there?”
“You will sit beside me.”
“Does the king invite all political prisoners to the high table?”
“I’ve no idea.” He gave her a wink and started up the steps. “I have never been host to a political prisoner before.”
“I thought ye might lock me in a tiny tower room or worse,” she said, taking in the grandeur of the table alit with dozens of beeswax candles and set with fine silver. Robert the Bruce sat in the lord’s chair, flanked by knights and nobles.
At one end of the board, Angus held a chair for her. “Would ye like to be at the top of the tower? There is a wee chamber up there that I believe is unoccupied at the moment, aside from a few pigeons.”
After she sat, he joined her while a servant immediately filled her goblet. “Truly, the chamber I’ve been assigned will do. I am looking forward to sleeping in a bed this eve.”
“I am as well.” He raised his cup and she followed, the fruity wine delicious on her tongue—much more pleasant than the awful vintage from Nave. “Ye must be bereft,” he continued. “I ken how important it was for ye to return to Ireland. Contrary to what ye may believe, I honestly intended to see ye home as soon as I could arrange secure passage.”
“Then it seems King Bruce surprised us all.”
Enormous platters of venison, chicken, and bread arrived. Islay speared a juicy portion of meat and held it up. “My lady?”
She chuckled to herself at the use of lady. Had she married Lord O’Doherty, she would have become a lady, but now she was destined to be unwed for the rest of her days. “My thanks.”
“Perhaps the war will be over soon,” he said, selecting a joint for himself.
Anya took a slice of bread, slathered it with butter, and took a bite. It was all she could do not to roll her eyes back as she savored the taste. She washed it down with a hasty sip of wine. “I love Elizabeth de Burgh like a sister. Had I been asked to stay here to help her husband negotiate Her Grace’s return, I would have agreed without hesitation.”
Islay’s hand stilled midair as those intense blue eyes raked down and up her face. “Ye would willingly give up your own happiness for a friend?”
There was no way in all of Christendom Anya would say that only moments before she had hidden in Fairhair’s birlinn did she perseverate over her reservations about her betrothal. Besides, if she were put on a ship bound for Carrickfergus at this very moment, she would go tell the Earl of Ulster she desired a hasty marriage. “For Elizabeth, yes. I’d do the same for my sister as well.”
His Lordship grasped his goblet and took a long drink, though his eyes never shifted away from Anya’s face. “Well then,” he said, lowering his drink and leaning closer. “There are more complex layers to the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan than I ever would have guessed.”
Heavens, when he looked at her with those unnaturally alluring blue eyes and made such a judgement, she had no chance of hiding a smile. “I hope I haven’t disappointed.”
8
Disappointed? He mightn’t completely trust Miss Anya, but how could he remain disappointed in a woman with such mettle? Their mishappen shipwreck aside, Angus had never met a lass so selfless that she would turn her back on a chance to become the esteemed wife of a lord to help a friend, especially since the friend happened to be married to a man she most likely considered to be the vilest outlaw since William Wallace.
Though he must never forget how Anya had disappointed him when she’d flagged the English ship. Nonetheless, if he had been in her shoes, shipwrecked on an isle with a man she considered an enemy, he would have done everything in his power to be rescued by someone he trusted—which certainly wasn’t the Scots and most definitely wasn’t anyone allied with Clan MacDonald. Aye, he had to admit the lass had all but ripped his heart out of his chest when she admitted to being the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan. Angus still hadn’t recovered from that wee disclosure.