Anya dashed out of the solar and hastened toward Rory. “Come, stroll with me atop the wall-walk, Wolfie. I need some air.”
“Would ye like me to find a wee collar and lead for ye, miss?”
She shook her head, unable to engage in their saucy banter at the moment. “If Robert the Bruce had it his way, I would be the one on the end of a leash.”
The guard cleared his throat and followed without saying another word. At least having Rory skulking behind her with his weapons clanking was what Anya needed to remind herself that she was not a guest at Dunyvaig. Nor was she there upon her free will. She was a prisoner and Islay was a renowned scoundrel who had been detested by her father. The next time she went weak at the knees when in his presence, she vowed she would not disregard her principles and everything she had been brought up to believe.
As the weeks passed, Angus grew increasingly agitated. Not only was the weather foul, every time he looked up, Anya O’Cahan managed to be somewhere nearby. His mother repeatedly sent her to the solar with frivolous gifts. The lassie was always in the hall when he broke his fast. And he knew she tried her damnedest not to look his way at the evening meals because he continually watched her out of the corner of his eye. Without a doubt, she tried to ignore him. Hell, he’d done his damnedest to ignore her. Except doing so had proved utterly impossible.
Frustrated beyond reason, Angus paid a visit to the chapel, finding Friar Jo alone.
“Ah, m’lord. ’Tis fine to see ye this lovely day.”
Angus grumbled under his breath. “Today is as dreary as yesterday and the one afore that. In fact, the rain hasn’t let up in the past fortnight.”
“’Tis a good sign, I say. Spring will soon be upon us.”
“If it doesn’t drive the entire clan mad afore then.”
“Judging by your high spirits, I take it there’s something needling your craw.” The friar started back to the small chamber where he kept his pallet and writing table. “Come join me for a tot of fine MacDonald whisky, blessed in this very chapel, mind ye. ’Tis the cure for foul moods, I’ll guarantee.”
“Mayhap this wasn’t the worst idea I’ve had today,” Angus mumbled to himself. He chose one of the two seats at the table and stretched out his legs. The chamber was cozy. He and the friar oft solved the problems of Christendom over a wee dram or ten.
“Ye’ve no cause to worry, m’lord,” said Jo, returning with two cups in his hands. “Everyone grows a bit sore-headed by the end of winter. ’Tis why we sinful souls feel a wee bit tipsy when the weather turns—the birds are merrier, the glens greener, the hunting better, the flowers happier.”
“Ye needn’t tell me about bloody spring.” Angus took the offered cup and raised it in toast. “This will douse the fire within.”
Smirking, the old friar sat opposite. “Or turn it into a raging flame.”
Angus sipped and let the amber liquid slide over his tongue. “Mm. There’s no spirit finer than a peaty Islay brew.”
“On that I will agree.” Jo returned the toast and drank in kind. “Now tell me, what has ye scowling like an angry bull?”
“Och, give me the spray of the sea on my face and a week of sunshine and I’ll be fit.”
“Aye? Wait a month or two and the good Lord will provide. But I reckon ye are skirting about the cause of your consternation, m’lord. I’ll wager your woes are on account of a wee Irish lassie flitting about the keep—the very lass who sits beside me at the evening meals.”
“A bloody O’Cahan she is.”
“But ye like her.”
Angus shrugged. “I have no business liking her. I ought to lock the chit in the wee tower chamber. She is my prisoner, after all.”
“Nay, she’s the king’s prisoner, ye are simply her jailer.”
“Och, aye, that makes me feel better. Mayhap I ought to tote around a headman’s axe.” Angus took another drink and savored the whisky as it burned its way down his gullet. “I wish she’d never hid in my birlinn.”
“Is that so?” asked the friar, not sounding convinced. “I do not believe God ever puts someone in your path on mistake.”
“Och, the lass made a mistake for certain. One she’ll regret for the rest of her days.”
“Because she was supposed to marry a man for whom she harbored no love?”
“How do ye ken? Mayhap Miss Anya was ecstatic about the prospect of marrying that cad.”
“I think not.” Jo rubbed his fingers over the large wooden cross he wore around his neck. “She told me herself she had never felt terribly affectionate toward her intended.”
Angus eyed the holy man across the table, then blew out a guffaw. “Do ye think Miss Anya would rather bide her time here?”
“From what I’ve observed, I do no’ believe the lass is miserable.” The Friar poured himself a second tot and pushed the flagon across the board. “And it has not escaped my notice that she has eyes for ye, my friend.”
Angus’ heartbeat sped, thumping away as if he were a wet-eared lad. Pounding his fist on his chest, he thumped back, restoring a more moderate rhythm. “She’s not mine to woo.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye. Though she may not see Ireland for a time, and O’Doherty may move on, our king, mind ye, entrusted her care to me.”
“’Tis a conundrum, is it no’?”
“’Tis a bloody miserable state of affairs.” Angus drained his cup and refilled it. “Mayhap I ought to sail to Jura for a time.”
“Because of the lass?”
“Aye.”
“What will that prove? And how can ye be responsible for the woman when ye’re no’ here?”
“Och, the Bruce will call me to fight for the kingdom soon. I’ll not be on hand to be Anya’s high protector sooner or later.”
“Hmm.” Friar Jo patted his belly with his thick-fingered hands. “Her circumstances are tragic, the poor woman. This war could endure for a decade or more, though I stand by my beliefs. There is a reason the Lord has sent her to Islay. In time, God’s plan will be revealed.”
“Until then, I’ll either go mad, or I’ll be off fighting the wars. I cannot lose sight of the fact that the MacDonalds are the Lords of the Isles, and until there is no question of our sovereign right to rule the Hebrides, there will be no rest.”
“The ambitions of men have led many astray.” The friar leaned forward. “The good Lord has a plan for ye as well. But first ye must listen to your heart.”
“Aye? I’ll have ye ken—”
With a slice of his hand, the holy man silenced Angus. “Wheesht. Your brother and your father afore him were the same—fighting one battle after the next whilst never pausing to examine what truly matters in their hearts.”
Though Friar Jo may have spoken true, his words did nothing to put Angus at ease. Scotland was at war and this was no time for any man to laze about pondering the meaning of his existence—or, worse, pining after a lass he could never have.
13