Huffing, she took a pillow and the blanket, unlocked the bolt, and threw open the door.
With a rattle of weapons and an old man’s grunt, Rory lumbered to his feet. “Forgive me, miss. I assumed ye had turned in for the night.”
“I have.” She glanced up and down the corridor. “Will ye be sleeping out here?”
“Aye, ’tis expected.”
She thrust the bedding into his arms. “Well, then, I’ll nay have ye catching your death with no comfort whatsoever.”
Rory smiled for the first time since they’d met. Even with one tooth missing in front, his smile made him appear less overbearing. “My thanks, miss. Ye are very kind.”
She harrumphed. “I’d offer one of the earl’s wolfhounds as much courtesy.” She ducked back inside, took one of the wooden chairs from the table and returned to the doorway. “If ye ask me, there’s no need for ye to stand at attention like one of the king’s guards whilst I’m within. Ye may as well rest your withered old legs.”
He took the chair and set it beside the door. “Withered? Old?”
Chuckling, she gripped the latch. “I was wondering when I’d ferret a rise out of ye. Good night, Wolfie.”
The guard’s jaw dropped, looking doubly stumped. “Wolfie?”
“I meant Rory,” she said, closing the door and heading directly for her bed.
10
After being summoned to the high table, it appeared Angus had been the last to be notified of today’s court session, a fact that chapped him to no end. This was his castle and everyone on the dais was his guest, not the bloody other way around. “Ye asked to see me, Your Grace?”
Surrounded by knights, Robert gestured to a chair across the board. “Good morn, Islay, we were just discussing Turnberry.”
“Good news, I pray.” Angus slid into the seat while his heart sank to his toes. Obviously, the king still held him responsible for the disaster at Loch Ryan. Possibly even for his failure to gain support from Ulster, though the blame sat squarely on Robert’s shoulders.
“I’ve received word from Sir James Douglas that my lands surrounding the keep are secure and impenetrable. Lord Percy has tucked tail and taken his army back to Northumberland.”
“That is good news, indeed. The Black Douglas is gaining quite a reputation.”
“He saved my life at the coronation and has proved himself many times since.”
Angus shifted uncomfortably. One day he hoped to impress the king half as much.
“I’m certain ye will be happy to hear I will be leaving Dunyvaig on the morrow. An army of men will establish a perimeter in Turnberry to ensure she is not recaptured, and I will be heading north with Campbell and Boyd to recruit more men.”
Forcing himself not to smile, Angus tightened his fists beneath the table. Not only were his shoulders healing, after three months of hosting the king, he would be lord and master of his keep once again. “So soon? Shall I prepare my army to follow?”
“Nay. Ye are my muscle as well as my eyes in the isles, and I need ye here. Though hold fast, lord. With the confrontations I have planned, I will be calling upon ye soon.”
“I would think no less. Clan MacDonald will be at the ready whenever the time is nigh.”
Robert narrowed his gaze while giving a thin-lipped nod. No matter how much the king might want to berate and punish Angus for Loch Ryan, he was as shrewd a man as had ever lived. The Bruce needed allies far more than enemies and, though Clan MacDonald may have failed in his eyes, they’d also proved their worth in many ways. Angus had given the king safe harbor throughout the winter, he’d provided ships for both the attack on Turnberry and Loch Ryan and, had the English army been laying not in ambush, expecting the battle led by Robert’s brothers, the king very well might have failed to the north where it was more imperative that he succeed.
The Bruce stood. “We shall feast to our good fortune this eve, then depart come dawn.”
All men stood and bowed, though Angus sprang up faster, with far more enthusiasm. “I’ll see to it we have a feast as grand as last evening’s to celebrate your success.”
He waited as Robert took his leave, the knights following in a procession of obedient minions. Robbie Boyd held back and clapped Angus’ shoulder. “Ye’ve been a fine host, m’lord. I ken it has not been easy to play the underling whilst His Grace assumed your place at the high table.”
Angus could have danced a jig, but only offered a smile. “It has been a lesson in humility, for certain. Add to it the failure at Loch Ryan and I’m surprised my cods haven’t shriveled into prunes. Robert blames me.” Angus shook his head. “If only I’d insisted upon leading the charge.”
“Och, I was there at the planning, ye ken. Ye did hold forth. As I recall, ye even went so far as to tell Robert’s brothers they were daft for insisting the MacDonald take up the rear.”
“I appreciate your acute memory, sir. If only the king were thus gifted.”
“He kens what happened. He’s hurting is all. The man has now lost everyone dear to his heart. Thank God the bastards have not executed Elizabeth and Marjorie, else I fear Robert would have gone mad by now.”
“Then we’d best ensure no one ever repeats your words, lest the English catch wind of it.”
“My lips are sealed.” Boyd tapped a finger to his mouth, then glanced toward the entry. “I’ve been trapped indoors for too long and am off to ride for a bit—feel the wind in my face. Would ye like to accompany me?”
“Most days I would; however, I lost my father’s sword in the shipwreck and must pay the smithy a visit forthwith. I say, the Lord of Islay without a sword is no lord at all.”
“Another time then?”
“Aye.” Angus gripped the man’s arm in a brotherly gesture before they headed down the dais steps. “Ye are a worthy knight, the king is lucky to have ye. I only wish he regarded me in such a light.”
Boyd clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m nay so certain of that. He has entrusted ye with the care of Anya O’Cahan.”
Angus chuckled. “And now I am to play the warden of an Irish lordling’s daughter, who stowed away on my birlinn.”
“She’s a bonny lass, though. I wouldn’t complain if she were adorning my keep—if I possessed a keep.”
Angus knew all too well Boyd had lost home and hearth during the wars. “Och, she’s a spitfire if ye ask me.”
“Who is a spitfire?” asked Anya as she stepped out from the stairwell, with a bit of ice in her gaze. She wore her cloak and her guard followed in her wake. Bless Rory for accepting his post and carrying out his duty without a word of complaint.
But when Angus looked at the lassie’s inquisitive face, his tongue tied. Who else at Dunyvaig would be referred to as a spitfire?
While Robbie strode away with a deep belly laugh, Angus closed his eyes, and groaned. After she’d run from him last eve, he’d been kicking himself. Why the devil had he asked her to meet him on the wall-walk in the first place? A moonlight stroll was not an appropriate activity to encourage diffidence. His mother had been right. Anya was his ward now, and he must never take advantage of the lass, no matter how tempting she might be.