“Come sit with me and warm your toes. ’Tis quite pleasant in front of the fire.”
Anya collected her letter and jammed it into the purse tied to her belt as well. Surely, Her Ladyship hadn’t the time to read it—especially the last bit about kissing her son.
The lady took her embroidery and tugged on the needle. “Tell me, have ye found a great many differences between my home and Ireland?”
“Things are much the same, I suppose. Though I do miss my sister a great deal.”
“Hmm, I imagine ye would miss the kin with whom you are close most of all. But what about the fare, is the food similar?”
“Very much so, though I suppose as the crow flies, we’re not really all that far apart.”
“So true.”
“Even black pudding is the same as at home.”
“I find that remarkable.” Her Ladyship worked her needle in a feather stich for a time before she paused. “As I recall, my dear, your guardian had commenced negotiations for your hand.”
Anya glanced to her lap. “Aye.”
“I imagine you were most excited about the prospect of marrying a lord.”
“I care not to think on it, what with Robert the Bruce imprisoning me for Lord knows how long,” she replied, hoping she sounded distraught.
Her Ladyship leaned forward and patted Anya’s hand. “Which is exactly why I volunteered to keep ye here. Things would have been ever so unpleasant at the monastery, especially in winter. Those monks are so frugal, ye’d never be able to warm your wee bones.”
“I do appreciate your kindness, my lady.”
The woman smiled as she pulled her needle through the linen. “In time, I pray ye will find we are a friendly clan, much like yours I’d assume.”
“But how can ye say that when our clans feud so terribly?”
“The lot of women is a strange thing, is it not?” Her Ladyship reached for her shears and snipped her thread. “We support our men who make the decisions as to where borders are to be drawn and stone fortresses are to be erected. But it is the females who oft find ways to end the disagreements between men.”
“The women? But how? How, when the fathers and sons are the ones swinging their swords, making decisions, and using us as pawns?”
“Think, my dear. How many men have changed their minds because of love?”
“Pshaw. Love.” Anya batted her hand through the air. “Highborn women are slaves to their sex, I’ve heard that said enough by both my father and the Earl of Ulster. Our marriages are arranged and we’ve naught but to accept our lot and make the best of it. Did your da not arrange your marriage?”
“He did, and I admit to being fearful at first. However, I was fortunate to have married a man with whom I found love.”
Anya sighed. If only she might have found love, though now she had no chance of doing so.
11
Anya’s ever-present wolfhound, Rory, stood guard along the wall while the keep’s children sat at her feet as she read from a book of folk tales. The lot of them were sons and daughters of servants or guards at Dunyvaig and were as eager to learn as the children she read to at Carrickfergus. “…The auld wife took her basket and strode into the house, shutting the door behind her. The silly mutton stood for a time, mulling over whether or not to follow. But in the end, he whistled for his dog and left her be, for if she didn’t then, she never would offer a whit of Highland hospitality.”
“Och, is that the end?” asked Fenn, the most boisterous of the group. “That auld wife is a cranky hen if ye ask me.”
“She’s a cranky squawker,” agreed a wee lass.
“I feel sorry for the silly mutton.”
“But he was awfully silly.”
“Can ye read us another?” asked Fenn.
“Pleeeeeease?” they all chorused in unison.
“What’s this?” Angus strode into the hall and planted his fists on his hips, his expression one of feigned exasperation. “Has not Miss Anya read enough this day?”
Fenn stood and bowed. “Nay, we never hear enough stories, m’lord.”
Anya closed the book. “Well, I’ll be here for some time, perhaps I can read to ye on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but we ought to make the time later in the day, after your chores are finished.”
“That sounds fair to me,” Angus agreed. “Now off with the lot of ye, there is work still to be done this morn and I need a word with your storyteller.”
Anya stood, wiping her hands on her skirts. “Is all well, my lord?” After all, he hadn’t sought her out for a conversation in days. Yes, His Lordship required her to join the party at the high table during the evening meals, but since the king had taken his leave, she hadn’t been seated beside Islay. Those two places were always reserved for his mother and Raghnall, and Anya was assigned the end place setting beside Friar Jo, which she felt was for the best, given the way she her heart raced whenever the Highlander was beside her.
Akin to this very moment.
Anya’s palms perspired, her skin alive with tingles. Goodness, even her stomach swirled as if the man possessed some sort of hypnotic sorcery in his gaze. If only he weren’t such a handsome rogue. Curse her weaknesses.
“I’ve just come from the stables and whilst I was there, I recalled ye mentioned a fondness for riding.”
“Oh, aye. I’d ride every morn if I could.”
“Well, Cook’s packing our nooning in a satchel and sending it out to the stables with young Fenn, so ’tis a good thing ye finished your story, else, the lad would have had his ears boxed.”
“Oh my. And thank heavens I changed the reading time to later in the day after their chores. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any ear-boxing. Besides, I need all the allies I can find, no matter their age.”
Angus adjusted his belt. “Has anyone been unkind to ye?”
“No, my lord. I am slow to make friends is all.”
“I’m not so certain about that. Mither reports ye are quite amenable. Ye ken her word is gospel—even the friar can attest to that. Not to mention ye’ve impressed the young ones, even if ye are an O’Cahan.” He offered his elbow. “Shall we? One of the servants has already taken our cloaks to the stables.”
Anya nearly skipped outside. Not only was it winter, the weather had been foul and, with Rory following her about, she hadn’t a chance to slip away from the keep and enjoy some much-needed time to herself. It didn’t help matters when, during their days shipwrecked on Nave, she had run at the mouth and told Angus about her own special place at Carrickfergus. The only other person she’d ever told about slipping out of the castle was Finovola, though she imagined the Earl of Ulster had completely excavated the little alcove once she went missing.
“Here we are,” he said, leading her toward a filly, saddled and tied to the fence beside a bay stallion.
“Oh, my.” Anya ran her hand along the mare’s smooth neck. She untied the horse and walked her in a circle to examine her gait. “Ye are a beauty, are ye not? And sorrel, to boot. My favorite color.”
“I’m glad ye approve.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together and making a sling. “May I give ye a leg up?”