Recovering swiftly, he gave her a pointed frown. “Ye, that’s who.”
Her angry expression shifted into a cringe. “Oh.” Without another word, she headed for the door, with Rory following near ten paces behind.
Good God, was this what it was like to be entrusted with the care of a ward—always mending fences? “Anya.” Angus hastened beside her. “Where are ye off to?”
A sentry opened the heavy oaken door and she marched through. “Your mother has directed me to pay a visit to the tailor. Not to worry. Rory, the wolfhound, is accompanying me to the village.”
Angus dismissed the guard with a flick of his hand. “I’ll escort ye. I was heading into Lagavulin myself.”
She sped her pace. “There’s no need for ye to be kind to me. Wolfie is a perfectly capable dog…I mean guard. And, and companion.”
As they reached the courtyard, Angus grasped her wrist and pulled her to a halt. “I owe ye an apology. Please allow me to explain.”
She stared up, those emerald eyes as sympathetic as an eel’s.
He raked his fingers through his hair. “I never should have tried to kiss ye. I should not have taken the liberty.”
“Then why did ye? To toy with me?”
“Nay. I would never do that.” At least not intentionally.
Angus looked to the barbican walls, wishing he were up there rather than groveling down below. But, somehow, he’d hurt her even though she’d been the one to rush away. Moreover, Anya had felt something. The woman had turned molten in his arms. Hell, she’d been a wee bit timid at first, but as soon as she parted her lips, she gave herself unlike any lass he’d ever kissed before.
“Ye are my ward,” he explained. “I am responsible to protect ye.”
“With all due respect, my lord, I already have an overbearing guardian. I do not need another.”
As she continued toward the guard’s tower, Angus followed. “The point is, ye are in my care and I was wrong to have taken advantage.”
She sped her pace, hastening through the archway. “Is that what ye call a wee kiss? Well, at least I can say, ’tis nice to have my first experience over with. Thank ye ever so much for opening my eyes, my lord. Though I now have no idea why a woman ever allows a man to kiss her. The experience is rather vulgar.”
Och. Angus clutched a fist over his gut. Who knew the woman was adept at throwing daggers with her tongue? She’d given his heart at least two scathing cuts.
Growling beneath his breath, he waited until they traversed beneath a giant sycamore, well away from any prying ears, then stepped in front of the woman and crossed his arms. “Exactly what did ye no’ like about our kiss?”
“Ah…” Anya’s eyes grew wide while she hesitated, winding the cord of her cloak around her finger. “It-it…ah…I suppose it was not exactly the doing I found unpleasant.”
His foot tapped. “The doing?”
“Aye, the kiss itself was agreeable.”
A pinch formed between his brows as he took a step nearer, making her crane her neck. “Merely agreeable?”
“Well…um…perhaps a wee bit more than agreeable. But that’s where the pleasantries ended.” She dropped the cord and stabbed him in the chest with her pointer finger. Good God, she was far too tempting when stirred to anger—red cheeks, sparks in her eyes, standing with her shoulders thrown back and her chin held proud. “Kissing me and then apologizing, no matter how gently whispered, ruined everything!”
Angus allowed her to move around him and start off again, lest he grasp her shoulders and give another demonstration. Which he must not do, no matter how tempting her full lips, or the way the breeze picked up wisps of chestnut hair and blew them across her face. Most importantly, no matter how much he desired to kiss her again.
He trailed after her with a grin gradually stretching the corners of his mouth. She enjoyed the doing of it. She’d just told him as much, but he’d also been right to apologize. Besides, she was as good as promised to another. Though Angus would hang by his toenails before he’d let her join in holy matrimony with O’Doherty. Even though he’d only met the man in passing, His Lordship was no match for the likes of Anya. O’Doherty seemed a bit too genteel, definitely not someone able to handle a high-spirited woman. His Lordship struck Angus as a man who enjoyed the finer things of life, who needed a wife who truly liked to embroider and discuss menus.
The clang from the smithy shack grew louder as Angus moved beside Anya and pointed to a row of thatch-roofed stone shops. “The tailor is just yonder on the left.”
“Very well.” The lass slowed, glancing over her shoulder and batting those feathery eyelashes. “Why do I not pay him a visit whilst you attend the smithy?”
“Because Rory isn’t here.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Thank you.”
“Argh!” she exclaimed, clearly irritated. Angus was well aware she had reason to be angry, he truly was. But the fact that she had admitted to enjoying their kiss, trumped everything.
Perhaps in time, Anya might come to like his little corner of Scotland. He chewed the inside of his cheek. What could he do to help change her mind about the MacDonalds, about Scotland and its right to be a sovereign nation? About him?
Pondering his last question, Angus shook his head and marched to the tailor’s door, opened it, and gestured inside. “After you, miss.”
“Hmph.” Before stepping inside, she glanced at him for the briefest moment. Had he spotted a bit of mischief in those emerald eyes? What was this Irish imp plotting now? And did he want to know?
He followed her in.
“M’lord,” said Master Tailor, coming from the back room. “What a pleasure it is to see ye out and about this fine day.”
“’Tis good to see the sunshine for a change,” Angus replied, before he nodded to the lass. “This is Anya from Ireland and she is in need of…”
“A new shift and kirtle, if you please.”
“Aye,” Angus said. “I would think three shifts would suffice, mayhap three kirtles with arisaids to match, three or four pairs of stockings…”
Master Tailor dipped his quill and started jotting notes. “Very well, three of everything?”
“I would not want ye to spend any more coin than necessary, my lord.”
Angus ignored her. “Gloves—fur-lined, of course. And a new mantle.”
She gestured to the ill-fitting woolen garment draped from her shoulders. “Your mother lent me a cloak.”
“Which is not warm enough.” Angus pointed to the slip of velum. “A sealskin cloak to replace the one Miss Anya lost in the shipwreck.”
The tailor’s quill stopped as he looked up. “Was she on the birlinn that was caught in that horrible storm?”
“Aye,” Angus said, not about to mention she’d ended up aboard by accident. “And she’s a guest of His Grace, Robert the Bruce.” He also decided not to mention that the king was sailing for Turnberry come dawn.
Master Tailor’s jaw dropped. “A royal guest.”
“Oh, I’m not anywhere near—”
“She is of important consequence to the king,” Angus interrupted, making it clear that Anya was not to be trifled with. Nearly everyone stopped by the tailor’s shop in Lagavulin, by noontime on the morrow, most folk on the isle ought to know of her importance to the crown. If she was important to the king, she was important to the House of MacDonald.