As she approached, the throbbing in her head grew tenfold. And when she tried to yank out an arrow, Anya doubled over with coughing. The ground spun beneath her feet. She leaned on the target, trying to steady herself. “Not to worry,” she mumbled. “I’ll be—”
The target gave way and sent her tumbling to her knees.
Angus flung the quiver aside and ran. “Anya!” he shouted, sweeping his arms around the lass and helping her to her feet. “Whatever is wrong?”
She turned her head away and coughed into the crook of her elbow. “I’ve had a bit of a sore throat and it seems to be growing worse.”
He pressed his palm to her forehead. “Och, ye’re afire. Ye should be abed, not out here.”
The lass looked as pale as bed linens, her eyes glassy. “But our wager.”
“Oh, aye? Ye’d prefer to succumb to an ague? I’ll take ye to the Oa if ye desire, wager or nay.” He swept her into his arms. “I’ll not hear another word. To bed with ye.”
“I’m able to walk,” she mumbled.
“Ye barely made it to the target. Lord kens how ye managed to make the journey through the keep.”
Rory met them by the door. “Allow me to help, m’lord.”
Angus eyed the guard. “Did ye ken she was ailing?”
The man stammered. “She coughed a bit but told me she was feeling fine, otherwise.”
“Go fetch Lilas and Freya as well. I’ll take Miss Anya to her chamber.”
On the journey above stairs, the lass grumbled about being too heavy, about being a capable archer, and about it being too early in the season for congestion of the lungs.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” she said for the tenth time as he pushed inside her bedchamber.
“Wheesht.” He placed her on the bed and smoothed his hand over her forehead. She was very warm, which he didn’t like at all. “Lilas will be here anon.”
Groaning, Anya lay back and tried to roll the coverlet over her shoulders. “’Tis terribly cold in here.”
Angus looked to the fire smoldering in the hearth. It was a mite warmer than it had been outside. He pulled a plaid from the end of the bed and draped it over the lass. “This will help.”
Coughing, she clutched the blanket beneath her chin while he doused a cloth in the basin and placed it on her forehead.
Anya pushed it off. “Nay. ’Tis too cold.”
He tried again. “Ye are afire, lass. We must cool your fever.”
As she pushed it away for the second time, Lilas came in clutching her medicine bundle, with Freya in her wake. “Rory said Miss Anya has a cough,” the healer said with a furrow in her careworn brow.
Angus ushered the healer toward the bed. “She’s fevered as well.”
Lilas set the basket on a wooden chair and leaned over the lass. “How long have ye been ailing, miss?”
As she opened her mouth, Anya was unable to staunch her coughing.
Angus found a cup of water on the table and brought it to the bedside. “Have a nip of this.”
A bit splashed out of the cup as Anya sat up enough to take a sip. “Ah,” she sighed. “It started with a sore throat two days past, then the cough came a rattling in my chest. And now it seems to be growing worse.”
Lilas frowned as she felt Anya’s cheeks and forehead. Angus stood back while the healer conducted her examination, including removing the patient’s shoes and stockings and looking between her toes. Then she had the lass sit up and pressed her ear against Anya’s chest.
The healer glanced to Freya. “Help the lass remove her kirtle and climb beneath the bedclothes whilst I have a word with His Lordship in the corridor.”
Angus’ mouth ran dry as he followed her out the door. “Is it bad?”
“It can be. The lass has winter fever, and if we do not nip it in the bud quickly, we might lose her.”
“Dear God.” He pounded his fist on the stone wall. Of all the people in the keep, why must it be Anya who fell ill?
“I’ll leave a tincture of violets and whey for the fever, and one of black spleenwort to help with the cough. We also must apply deer’s grease to her feet three times daily until the coughing ebbs. I think it would be best for someone to sit with her at least as long as her forehead is warm to the touch.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Ye? Why not Freya?”
“Because the maid is not Miss Anya’s guardian. The king entrusted her care to me.” Grinding his molars, Angus paced. He’d already botched things up enough when it came to Robert the Bruce, and he had no intention of allowing this wee wisp of a woman to succumb to winter fever when in his care.
Rather than barge inside, he knocked on the door and waited for Freya to open it. “Is she settled?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Raucous coughing came from within, cutting him to the quick.
14
As evening gave way to night, Angus maintained his vigil at Anya’s bedside, the chamber lit only by a candle and the peaty coals smoldering in the hearth. The sound of her raspy breathing was enough to drive a man insane with worry. God Almighty, he wanted to rouse Raghnall and spar until he was so exhausted he could no longer raise his sword.
Resolutely, he doused a cloth in the bowl. At this late hour, when he wrung it out, the droplets hit the water with resounding pings reminiscent of the trickle of a Highland burn. He’d kicked off his boots hours ago and now padded across the floor where he stood over Anya’s sleeping form. Before he replaced the cloth on her forehead, he watched her for a time. Even though she was ill and coughing now and again, she posed a lovely sight. Her luminous chestnut locks sprawled across the pillows in thick waves. In the glow of the dim light, her fair skin reminded him of fresh cream. She breathed through slightly parted full lips—a mouth that had set his heart to flame more than once. Across the bridge of her red-tinged nose was a delightful splay of freckles. They expressed her saucy nature, as if to announce here is a woman who is full of mettle, whose art flows from her fingertips, and who isn’t afraid to take chances.
Any man ought to admire Anya’s free spirit. Though from what she’d said, she’d oft been chided for it.
Angus removed the overwarm cloth and replaced it with the cool, then kissed her cheek. In deep slumber, the lass’ cough was more peaceful now than when awake. Though the rattle in her breathing made his heart twist. If only he could have fallen ill and not her.
In truth, his feelings for Miss Anya were far different than anything he’d ever experienced in his life. Even Ella.
Hmm. ’Tis interesting my recall of the vixen’s name gave me no pause whatsoever.
Most times a lassie would catch his eye, and he’d dally with them until he grew bored. But Angus wanted to protect this woman with every fiber of his being. He wanted to shelter her from all harm, including Robert the Bruce. Not that the king intended to do her bodily harm, but caging this dove as a political prisoner seemed a crime in itself.
Och, aye, if times were different, he might look upon her as a woman with whom he could start a family. If she weren’t an O’Cahan. If she weren’t aligned with the House of Ulster. If she weren’t already promised to another.