“What about your shoulders? Are they both not still causing ye pain?”
His hand slowly swirled as he rolled the injured appendages. “They’re coming good—ye ken ye are no’ overly vicious with a wee battle axe. Please, allow me to help ye down.”
Though a frisson of energy shot from her leg and up through her body, Anya coolly swallowed and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Thank you.”
In the blink of an eye, those powerful fingers wrapped around her waist, easily lifting her out of the saddle. Anya’s breath caught. “Ye have a firm grip, my lord.”
“Am I hurting ye?” He drew her against his body, his grip easing.
“Nay,” she said, breathless as she slowly slid down his body until he held her gaze level with his.
Anya stretched her toes downward as he stared into her eyes. Was she floating or had he trapped her in his snare? God in heaven, she’d never been this close to him in daylight. His eyes weren’t only as blue as the crystal she’d found when she was a child, but they sparkled as well.
She parted her lips as her tongue grew dry. Though the wind blew a gale, warmth filled her. As she dangled, her gaze slipped to his mouth. He scraped his teeth over a full bottom lip as he tilted his head to the side.
For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. “Och,” he growled, while he slowly lowered her to the ground.
Disappointed to have the moment slip by so quickly, yet not surprised, she dropped her gaze to her hands. “Perhaps in the future, I ought to dismount on my own.”
He didn’t respond as he set to hobbling the horses. “A storm’s brewing.”
“This time of year, it seems a storm is always brewing.” As soon as the words left her lips, a snowflake landed on her nose and in no time, the sky was full of them. “Had we best head back?”
Angus straightened and looked west, the wind blowing his hair away from his face and billowing his mantle. “I’ve packed along a bit of peat. There’s a wee cave up the shore where we can take our nooning, unless ye’d rather haste back.”
Her stomach growled. “As long as we don’t end up stranded here for two days.”
He chuckled, removing the saddlebags. “The snow doesn’t tend to stick on the shore, though it is a wee bit unpleasant for riding.”
Anya looked to the ridge they’d traversed on the way down, now covered with a sheen of white. “And slippery.”
“If that’s the case, then we’ll take the long route back up.”
“How much longer?”
“No’ too bad.” He slung the bags over his shoulder and started toward a small cave not much larger than her alcove. “Mayhap a mile farther.”
Once under cover, Anya busied herself clearing stones and making two comfortable places to sit while Angus struggled to light a fire given the wind. Eventually, the flax tow took a spark and soon two bricks of peat were smoldering just beyond their feet.
“What did Cook send along to eat?” she asked.
Angus unfastened the buckles on the satchel and opened it between them. “A flagon of wine, a brick of cheese, a few slices of mutton, bread, and two apples.”
“’Tis a feast.”
He pulled out the flagon and rummaged inside the bag. “It looks as if he forgot to send along a pair of goblets.”
She took the wine from his grasp and pulled out the cork. “We shall just have to make do.” With a giggle, she tipped up the flagon and took a sip, the ruby liquid escaping out the corner of her mouth. As she dabbed away the mess, she returned the vessel. “Goodness, I didn’t expect it to come so fast.”
He chuckled. “I like your spirit.”
“Why?”
“Because ye are no’ afraid to bend the rules.”
“That is true, for certain. A consummate rule-bender, though of late, my adventurous nature has provided me with a great deal of bother.”
“Is that not what life is made up of? One conundrum after another that challenges us. I think conquering one’s woes is what makes men and women accomplished.” He drank from the flagon, not spilling a drop, and set it aside. “Look at yourself for example. Had ye not slipped away and found your alcove, ye most likely would no’ have become as proficient at drawing.”
He thought her a proficient? Anya’s heart thumped as she broke the bread and handed him the larger share. “Perhaps not. Men have many more opportunities to perfect their skills,” she added. “Take sword fighting. I’m nowhere near strong enough to wield a sword like yours, nor have I had the benefit of instruction.”
“Sword fighting takes a lifetime to perfect. But there are other weapons more suited to the fairer sex. The bow and arrow might suit.”
“I do enjoy archery.”
“See? And I’ll wager ye are good at it.”
“Fair, I suppose.”
“Only fair?” he teased, giving her a chunk of cheese.
She nibbled her food.
“Mayhap we ought to practice together,” Islay suggested.
“Oh, aye?” She couldn’t help but eye him with a mischievous grin. “Ye’d deign to put a weapon in the hands of an enemy of the crown?”
“Och, lass, if ye wanted to kill me, I reckon I’d already be dead.”
Anya washed her bite down with another sip of wine, more carefully this time. She didn’t want to kill Islay. She didn’t want to kill anyone. In fact, she didn’t understand the battles and wars that always seemed to rage around her. “Why do the MacDonalds feud with the MacDougalls?”
His Lordship frowned and tossed a piece of driftwood onto the fire. “If the Lord of Lorn would remain on his lands, there would be no quarrel. But the MacDougalls have a penchant for acquiring lands and riches to which they are not entitled. For three hundred years, my kin have been the Lords of the Isles and we do not intend to allow anyone to take our birthright from us.”
“And now the Lord of Lorn has joined with Edward and you with Bruce.”
“Aye, that’s the way of it.”
“But who is right and who is wrong?”
“I’ve said it afore, and I’ll stand by my conviction. Prior to the death of King Alexander, Scotland was at peace with England. Only after the king fell to his death did Longshanks step in and declare himself overlord. But it was the unspeakable carnage at the Battle of Berwick that soured our stomachs for good. Most Scots desire freedom from tyranny, which I do not believe is too much for any man to ask.”
Anya sat for a time, staring into the fire. Her father had been a strong man who stood by his convictions just like Islay, yet he had always, and only, paid homage to one king. Since the Norman Invasion, her kin had ruled over Keenaght, though clan feuds had always been rife with her kin’s ambition for more power. She supposed it was as Angus said, a yen to acquire lands and riches to which they were not entitled.
“If only there were enough land for all,” she mused.
He bit into an apple. “There is, lass. I reckon there is.”
“I have another question.”
“Aye?”
“How did ye come by the epithet Fairhair?”
He tossed his head, making his tresses sweep across his brow. “First of all, Harald Fairhair was the first King of Norway as well as my ancestor. But it was my brother who dreamed up the name—used it to taunt me.” Islay looked to the cave’s ceiling and laughed. “I hated the name when I was a lad. But it stuck like a wart on my arse.”