The countess would never make a shirt for her husband, or anyone, for that matter. She would either have Finovola or Anya do it, or she would ask the tailor. Neither did Lady Ulster own a loom. At Carrickfergus, the spinning of wool was never done above stairs, either. In truth, Anya had enjoyed the bit of spinning she’d done for the dowager, and weaving looked interesting as well as intricate. That Her Ladyship had acquired such a skill was truly astonishing.
But it was odd that the woman had asked Anya to take the shirt to her son. The Lady Ulster would have assigned the task to a servant, who would have delivered the garment to the lord’s bedchamber without interrupting the earl’s day. But now here she was on her way to the Lord of Islay’s solar.
Rory met her in the corridor, his wiry beard sticking out every which way as if he’d been scratching it. “Where are we off to, miss?”
“Well…” A hundred saucy responses came to mind, though she opted for a completely different tack. “By the state of your whiskers, Wolfie, I reckon ye’re looking more like a wolfhound every day. Aside from that, I thought ye might like a change of place, else your old bones might grow so stiff ye’d be stuck against the wall beside Her Ladyship’s solar for the rest of your days.”
He chuckled, always seeming to enjoy her little jibes. “No need to tell me. I’ll just follow along as I always do. Mayhap I’ll sprout a tail soon as well.”
As they neared His Lordship’s solar, Anya’s palms started to perspire. Three days had passed since she’d boldly kissed him in the Oa. And though he’d kissed her quite passionately as well, once they returned to the keep, Anya was still so shocked by her behavior, she’d scarcely been able to look him in the eye. And it hadn’t been as if he’d flirted with her afterward. In fact, he’d taken less notice of her since.
I’ll just mind my own affairs, deliver the shirt, and be on my way.
When she arrived, the door to the lord’s solar was slightly ajar. Voices from within spilled into the corridor while Rory stood at a respectable distance.
“I hate to come afore ye with me hat in me hands, m’lord, but the harvest was a wee bit poor last season and we’ve not a morsel remaining in the sheiling.”
“I understand. Is it oats and flour ye are in need of?” asked Angus in an authoritative voice.
Anya peered through the gap. The lord of the castle sat in a large chair while a bent old crofter stood with his back to the door.
“Aye, m’lord.”
Angus spotted Anya before he motioned to his factor to make a notation. “Help yourself to what ye need. In return, come summer, I’d like five spools of flax thread. My mother is awfully fond of your wife’s spinning.”
The man bowed. “Thank ye, thank ye. I’ll have Her Ladyship’s five spools just as soon as the first stalks are harvested.”
“Very good.” As the crofter took his leave, Angus shifted his attention to the shirt in Anya’s hands. “Have ye a supplication, miss?”
She checked to ensure no one else was waiting. “Nay, my lord. Your mother sent me bearing a gift.”
“Since the crofter was my last visitor for the day, it seems ye’ve arrived at a good time,” Islay said, beckoning her inside and giving the factor a dismissive nod.
Anya stepped aside while the man collected his ledgers of accounts and headed out. From across the solar, she presented the shirt. “I say, your mother’s needlework is exquisite. Had she not married a nobleman, she would have done well as a tailor’s wife.”
Laughing, Angus pushed back his chair and stood. “Do not tell her such a thing, she might change her mind about ye.”
“Forgive me, I meant it as a compliment. Your mother is ever so skilled with a needle, as well as a loom. I am truly astounded.”
As he sauntered toward her and reached for the shirt, the Highlander’s fingers brushed hers, the light touch making Anya’s breath hitch. He hesitated for a moment, the corner of his mouth ticking up as he met her gaze. She didn’t dare inhale while his eyes trailed to her mouth and he scraped his teeth over his bottom lip.
Was he thinking about their kisses? Was he thinking about how forward she’d been? Anya was desperate to ask, but doing so would have been too mortifying, even for a spirited lass like her.
“Let us have a look at Mither’s handiwork,” he said, stepping back and breaking the spell. He shook out the shirt while the door clicked closed. “It is fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Aye, and exactly like all the others she has sewn for me over the years.”
“Why does your tailor not make your shirts?”
Angus tossed the garment on the table as casually as if it were a playing card. “It makes my mother happy to sew them herself. It also occupies her time so that she doesn’t occupy mine.”
“Truly? I find your mother to be quite interesting. Very different from the Countess of Ulster, but in a good way.”
“She’s not too overbearing?”
“She hasn’t been thus far. I say, the countess was overbearing on an hourly basis.”
Stepping nearer, Angus tucked a lock of hair behind Anya’s ear. “Is that right? Mayhap my mother only is meddlesome when it comes to me.”
“Oh? Has she been nosy of late?”
“Aye, though her ways are subtle.”
“How so?” Anya asked, a bit breathless. Had Angus grown taller? More imposing? Certainly, he couldn’t be better looking than he’d been when she’d seen him at dinner last eve.
“Your presence here is not because of the Bruce, if ye recall. The king would have shipped ye to a frigid monastery.”
“Do ye believe your mother meddled to help me?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Why?”
“Mayhap ye ought to ask her.” Rather than step away, Angus rested his palm on the wall beside Anya’s head. “What schemes are running through that vivid imagination of yours?”
Her stomach fluttered as she glanced to the door. Heavens, did he know what she was thinking? Did he know how much she wanted to kiss him again? Yet every time the idea popped into her thoughts, she chastised herself. Continuing to steal kisses from Fairhair would only serve to cause her torture for the rest of her days.
She affected her most innocent expression, batting her lashes for good measure. “I have no idea what ye mean, my lord.”
Chuckling, he brushed a whisper of a kiss across her cheek. “Of course, no’.”
“Ye do know, no matter how much I want…” She looked into his eyes and nearly swooned. Goodness, if she didn’t make a stand now, she’d lose herself in his enchanting stare. “I…we cannot.”
Angus dropped his hand, making a loud slap on his thigh. Then rubbing his neck, his lips disappeared into a thin line. “Ye are right and I’ve no business trifling with ye. Forgive me.”
Good heavens, why had his words sounded so final? And why must Anya feel so inexplicably disappointed?
Clasping her hands, she headed for the door. From the start, she knew visiting his solar was a misbegotten idea. Moreover, they both were playing with fire. She couldn’t fall in love with a man like Fairhair, the devil of the seas. Perhaps she would have been better off if the King of Scots had sent her to the monastery. At least there she’d be miserable and not tempted by a man who stirred her blood every time she glanced his way.