He chuckled. “Believe me, lass, I’m no seer, but I ken in my bones, ye’ve met the man but once if that.”
“Do ye know him?”
“We’ve crossed paths. Long ago, when Balliol sat on the throne and we were summoned to a gathering to pay fealty to Edward.”
“Fealty ye did not give.”
His shoulder ticked up. “Scotland is a sovereign nation. Balliol was our king. The MacDonald pledged fealty to him.”
“The man was appointed by Longshanks, mind ye.”
“A great folly that.” Islay brushed her cheek with a coarse knuckle. “But politics is not why I invited ye up here, lass.”
Anya’s heart seemed to stop, then pounded like she’d dashed up past four landings in a stairwell. Every time they chatted, she discovered something new about His Lordship. And discoveries always countered everything she had been led to believe about the man. Was it wrong to admire one’s captor? To admire someone who ought to be an enemy?
Heaven help me, I am ever so confused.
The Highlander pointed southward. “On a clear night such as this, ye can sometimes see the spray from the backs of whales. And the waves glisten as if silkies are dancing just beneath the water.” He panned his finger to the southwest. “Across the wee bay, ye can see the outline of the village of Lagavulin, where MacDonald crofters raise meat for our table and grow oats, barley, and hops.” He shifted a bit, crouching down and inclining his lips toward her ear. “And that big stone building in the dark shadows is the brewhouse. Beside it is the fishing hall. I do no’ recommend paying a visit on account of its foul smell. Yonder we boast a tannery, which doesn’t smell much better, and the MacDonald smithy is the best in Scotland, if ye ask me.”
“Ye sound proud.”
“I suppose I am. Our forefathers settled this land, dating back to the reign of Somerled, the warrior who carved out the Kingdom of the Isles.”
“I know of his legend. He was born in Ireland in the House of Appin, his mother a Norse noblewoman.”
“Aye.”
“Imagine that. Our ancestry is not so different, yours and mine.” Anya strolled to the next corner while Islay followed, the soft tapping of his footsteps making her ever so self-aware. Even gooseflesh peppered her nape as if she could feel his breath there. “What makes this place hauntingly beautiful at night?”
“Aside from ye?” He gave her an audacious wink. “’Tis the eerie quiet amplified by the rush of the sea, has always made me feel as if…”
“What?”
He batted his hand through the air with a dismissive wave. “Ye’ll think me daft.”
She faced him, craning her neck to peer into his eyes, now dark as the night sky. “Nay. Besides, ye’ve already started. I must know.”
He again leaned on a merlon and looked out into the darkness. “It is as if the spirits of my ancestors lurk here. If I stand very still, they call to me.”
A forceful shiver coursed through Anya’s body akin to something touching her soul.
“Ye’ve a chill,” he said. “We ought to retire.”
“I’m not cold,” she whispered, resting her hip on the crenel notch beside him. “I just never thought ye…”
He straightened, cupping her cheek, his fingers rough like a man who worked with his hands or practiced a great deal wielding a sword. “Och, lass, earlier ye insisted I bear my soul. Ye cannot just stop mid-thought.”
She huffed. Why not say it? “It is just everything I have been led to believe about, about Fairhair is nothing like the man ye are. Ye’re not black-hearted, nor are ye a brutish fiend.”
One corner of his mouth turned up in a devilishly wicked grin. “Ye have not seen me in battle, lass.”
Had he stepped nearer? Anya couldn’t be sure, but he seemed closer. “Nay,” she replied, a tad breathless. “But aren’t most men savage when fighting for life or death?”
“They are.” Angus dipped his chin, his breath skimming her forehead. “There is one thing I must set to rights, lass.”
She dared meet his dark stare while butterflies set to flight inside her. “To rights, did ye say?” she asked, trying to sound completely unaffected.
He inched even closer, cupping her cheek with a gentle hand. “Ye may be a wee bit petite in stature, but I never again want to hear ye refer to yourself as squat.”
“Oh.”
There was no doubt in Anya’s mind as to his intention. Licking her lips, she tilted up her face, while a maelstrom of desire swirled inside her breast. Oh, how she wanted a kiss—only one while they were alone and unguarded. Aye, she desperately wanted to know what kissing a man was like.
The moment their lips met, her knees turned boneless. His mouth was warm and soothing while his fingers traced along the sensitive skin just below her jaw. Not wanting it to end, she moved a hand to his waist. With her touch, he sighed, his tongue sweeping across her lips.
Startled, Anya began to withdraw, but as if he’d anticipated her reaction, his fingers slipped to the back of her head while he increased the pressure, his tongue demanding that she part her mouth for him.
Oh, God in heaven, warm cream flowed through her like nectar as the Lord of Islay showed her how to kiss—how to truly kiss. Unable to resist, she wrapped her arms around him and held on for dear life while together their mouths joined in a dance nothing like the merry reels below stairs.
He pulled her into his embrace as his lips moved across to her cheeks, her jaw, and down her neck. Never in her life had Anya felt the powerful pull of seduction in a man’s arms. Never had she dreamed kissing would consume her so extraordinarily.
As Islay drew his lips away, a sudden chill coursed across her skin. She gasped, not able to meet his gaze. She’d just kissed the devil and it felt inexplicably wonderful. Yet she must not possibly have feelings for this man.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, lifting her chin with the crook of his finger.
She scooted away, her eyes wide, her head spinning. “Y-y-ye must never do that again!”
Not waiting for a reply, Anya spun and dashed for the stairs.
“Wait!” he called after her.
But she was not about to stop. As fast as she could, she hastened down past three landings until she reached her floor. Fleeing into the passageway, she spotted Rory.
He opened the door. “Good evening, miss.”
Anya didn’t dare look at him either, lest he know exactly what she had been up to. “Good evening.”
She moved inside and stood in the center of her chamber until the door closed, then she slid the bolt across, just to ensure no one tried to enter. God save her, where had she landed, and how was she to resist the Lord of Islay? Perhaps he was indeed the devil he was reputed to be.
Anya paced and paced, rubbing away his kiss, yet her lips still tingled. She plopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling. No matter how tired she might be, her mind spun with too many thoughts for rest to come.
She absolutely must never think about kissing Fairhair again.
No. No. No!
In the corridor, the guard stirred, making a bit of a racket. Was he planning to sleep out there?
Sitting up, Anya took note of her pillows—two ornate and two covered by linen cases. Atop her bed was a feather-down coverlet, which would be ample to keep her warm. She didn’t need the blanket folded across the base.