“It might be of benefit to make an alliance with the House of O’Cahan. ’Tis an ancient, well-respected Irish name. They have strong influence over a number of our adversaries and—”
“Lord O’Cahan is but a lad of fifteen, I reckon.” Angus pointed to the lass locking arms with Campbell. “The brother of our new charge.”
“Perhaps so, but he will no’ be a child forever. And the wee woman out there dancing with Sir Arthur most likely has a dowry large enough to pay for fifty sea galleys with coin to spare.”
Angus batted his hand through the air. “Now ye are dreaming. Ye ken she is expecting a betrothal from that dim-witted maggot, Lord Chahir O’Doherty.”
“That may well be but do ye think His Lordship will wait years for the return of his bonny bride? If O’Doherty is anything like his father, he has his sights set on her purse, not those beguiling emerald eyes.”
Saying nothing, Angus drained his goblet. He didn’t want to think of anyone taking advantage of Anya for her wealth. Or anyone taking advantage of the lass for any reason whatsoever. Most of all, he didn’t care to have his mother meddling in his affairs.
“’Tis time you cast away the resentment ye harbor for Ella and find a woman to marry—bless the House of MacDonald with an heir afore something, God forbid, happens to ye.”
The mention of Ella’s name cut a slice through his gut. Angus hadn’t thought of her in ages, nor did he ever care to hear her name. Angus had given his heart but once in his lifetime. He’d been a foolish youth and she a deceiving wench as it were. They’d met at a ceilidh on the Isle of Skye and she’d stolen his heart with a mere kiss. In the end, the vixen had rejected his offer of marriage and wed a MacLeod laird. At the time, Angus had been a lowly second son and lord of nothing but the sea and his birlinn.
“Did ye hear me?” asked Mither.
“Aye.”
“Ha.” His mother thumped his arm with a backhand. “The question is, did ye listen?”
As the dance ended and Campbell led Anya back toward the dais, Angus pushed back his chair. “I bid ye remember I am Lord of Islay, and I will decide when and to whom I will marry.”
When he stood, his mother grasped his hand. “Just do no’ bed the lass and cast her aside when ye are finished. And don’t gape at me with an astonished air. I ken of the long line of wenches who’ve sampled your wiles. God gave ye the face of an angel but the only time he saw fit to open your heart was when ye were too young to use it wisely.”
Snapping his hand away, he turned on his heel. Damnation, if that woman weren’t his mother, he’d tell her where to put her opinion.
As soon as Sir Arthur and Miss Anya reached the steps to the dais, Angus pattered down, grasped her hand, and tugged her back toward the dancers. “I should have asked ye for the first dance,” he growled, leering at Sir Arthur for his interference.
She squeezed his palm—such a subtle gesture, why had it knocked his heart out of rhythm? “I’m certain there will be many dances this eve.”
Angus brushed his lips over the back of her hand, stopped at the ladies’ line, and bowed. “Aye.”
Without another word, he joined the men’s line. Too many emotions roiled inside for him to make sense of them. He abhorred his mother’s meddling, yet could not fathom why he felt like slamming his fist into Arthur Campbell’s nose. On top of it all, Angus had spent two sleepless nights on Nave, which ought to turn most anyone into an angry bear. But, more than that, Angus wanted control of his keep. He’d had enough of politics, fighting, and royal court for the moment. Och, he longed to hear supplications and settle the petty grievances of his crofters, to sail the seas and cast his nets, bringing in a harvest of haddock to feed the multitudes.
Anya gazed across the open space between them, her eyes alive with anticipation and fixedly focused on him. Good God, that woman could melt the ice atop the mount of Beinn an Oir in winter with the intensity of her stare.
The music began, cuing Angus to skip forward, and grasp her hands in his—small hands, soft, yet with long, artistic fingers he’d noticed when she had drawn the picture…of him.
If she liked to draw the treasures she found, why had she bothered to draw his face when she had suffered the loss of her father due to the feud between their clans?
When he’d drawn the tarpaulin away, she’d attacked as if she were terrified out of her wits. But now they were dancing together. The lass was even smiling. Mayhap she didn’t detest him as much as she’d let on?
Distracted by his thoughts, Angus almost stumbled over his feet, even though Anya didn’t seem to miss a step. She followed his lead easily, responding to every twist of his wrist and turn of his foot. When hand in hand, they sashayed in a circle, her skirts brushed his calves, the friction igniting sparks of awareness, making them flicker throughout his entire body. When Anya’s gaze slid up to meet his, he gulped. Dear God, this woman thought herself plain? Why did she not see her own beauty? The music demanded they return to their lines and a hollowness spread through his chest, replacing the frissons of energy gripping him only moments before.
He took the corner woman by the elbow, turning and sashaying until Anya again stood across from him, her cheeks rosy. The dance demanded they move sideways until he beheld another face, friendly, but not intoxicating like that of the Irish lass. He locked arms with Lilis and spun in a circle while Anya mirrored them with the Highlander behind. Angus watched her out of the corner of his eye until she joined him once again.
He grasped her hands possessively, wishing they were alone, wishing they were back on Nave, yet with all the comforts of Dunyvaig. And then she gifted him with a radiant smile—a woman who ought to hate him clear to the depths of her soul, smiled like she hadn’t a care and danced like a nymph. The music dimmed while Angus’ breath rushed loudly in his ears. Seeing only her face, he pulled her closer for the spin, the sweet bouquet rose soap and Anya’s uniquely feminine scent washing over his senses. Breathless, he stopped, standing motionless, the lass but inches from his body.
A concerned expression furrowed her brow. “Are ye well, my lord?”
The music came to an end and Angus released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I think I need to take in some air and head for my pillow. Truth be told, I’ve never been one to function well without a good night’s sleep.”
She patted her lips as she yawned. “I’m afraid I’m a tad sleepy myself. Would ye mind having a bit of company on your stroll?”
Angus looked to the dais, where the men were drinking and laughing. In fact, the only person who seemed to notice him was Mither. “The wall-walk is hauntingly beautiful at night.” He really ought to dissuade the lass.
Her eyes grew round as her lips formed a delicate O. “Hauntingly? Such a sight, I cannot miss.”
But then again, it would be nice to take a wee stroll with Anya, especially now that she seemed more at ease with her state of affairs. “The wind bites up there, especially this time of year.”
“I believe your mother was so kind as to send up a cloak.”
“Was she?” He led her toward the wall while dancers prepared for the next set. “It would be—ah—advantageous to avoid gossip. Would ye mind terribly if I joined ye above stairs?”