Alas, Angus had naught but to persevere—rein in his lustful nature and enjoy what time he had with her.
“Nay!” she shouted, tossing her head from side to side, making the cloth drop to the mattress.
“Anya?” he whispered.
“Nay, nay, nay!”
Angus tried to replace the cloth, but she batted his hand away. “What has ye so riled?”
“I do not want to go!”
“Where?”
“This is my home,” she mumbled, followed by thrashing and a string of imperceptible blathering.
Realizing she was in the midst of a night terror, Angus tried to rouse her. “Anya, ye must wake.”
She flung out her arm, smacking him across the face. “Why? Why must females always be used as pawns? No one cares about what we want or how we feel!”
“Anya?” Angus tried again.
This time, an enormous sigh seemed to come from the depths of her soul. Then she coughed and curled onto her side, her body quiet again, though her breathing still rattled.
Ever so gently, he brushed the cool cloth across her cheek and forehead. “Hush, mo leannan, and sleep.”
Moving to the foot of the bed, he exposed her feet and rubbed in the deer oil that Lilas had provided, praying it would work and that Anya would be well come morn.
Once the lass was resting peacefully, he moved back to the chair at her bedside and for some reason, he started to talk. “My mother says God blessed me with many things, but when it comes to matters of the heart, I am sorely lacking. I suppose she’s right. After all, she’s a female, and Lord kens I oft have no idea what women are thinking or what they might truly want, or what they may think of me.”
He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “I wonder what ye think of me, lass. I ken ye first saw me as Fairhair, the man with the devil’s heart. But if ye take away the gossip, the title, and the feuds, and look at me as a man, am I good? Am I worthy? If things were different, would ye want…me?”
Anya’s cough startled her awake, but when she swallowed, she was surprised to discover doing so didn’t hurt very much at all. As she stretched out her arms, her fingers brushed over a crown of silky hair right there on her tiny little bed. Opening her eyes, she found the Lord of Islay sitting in a chair, hunched forward, and cradling his head on the mattress atop folded arms. His eyes were closed and by the slow cadence of his breathing, he was deep in slumber. She raised her hand to caress his head but, not wanting to wake him, she clenched her fist and pulled it away.
How long have I been abed?
Though she couldn’t be certain, every time she’d awoken, Angus had been there. He’d relentlessly applied cold cloths to her forehead. He’d talked to her in a soft voice that was ever so soothing. Anya rolled to her side and examined his face, partially hidden by tawny hair. His beard had grown in as it had done on the Isle of Nave, but this time he didn’t look like a pirate at all. He was scruffy, to be sure. But up close like this and sound asleep, he resembled a guardian angel.
She gently brushed his hair away from his face and examined a small scar at his temple. About an inch long, the puckered skin was straight as if he’d been nicked by a blade—most likely he had been.
If only he were Irish. Or even a Scot who supported the English crown.
Does it matter upon which side he stands?
As soon as the question passed through Anya’s mind, she knew the answer. What truly mattered was what lay in a man’s heart. In war, are there not good people on both sides? Does God truly choose one side over another? Is it blasphemous toward my father to be smitten by the brother of the man responsible for Da’s death?
A cold chill coursed through her.
Why must everything be so complicated?
With a sputter, Angus cleared his throat, sat up and stretched. “Ye’re awake.”
Anya pulled herself up against the pillows, careful to keep the bedclothes beneath her chin. “I am. How long have I been ill?”
“Three days.” He pressed his palm to her forehead. “Your fever has broken. How do ye feel?”
“Like I could sleep for a sennight.”
“Lilas said it would take time for ye to fully recover.” He scratched the stubble along his jaw. “Are ye hungry?”
The mention of food made Anya’s stomach squeeze. “A bit. Perhaps some toast and cider or mead?”
“’Tis music to my ears. I was ever so worried, especially when ye refused to eat for so long. I even had to drizzle the tincture into your mouth to keep your fever from burning ye alive.” Pushing to his feet, he gestured toward the door. “If ye will be all right for a time, I’ll go see to it that Freya brings up a tray.”
Anya grasped his hand. “Before you go, I…”
“Hmm?”
She kissed his knuckles “Thank you. I know anyone could have tended me, but ye stayed here all along and no matter what people on the other side of this war might say about ye, I know in my heart, it is all wrong.”
Angus paused for a moment, his vivid gaze studying her with a wealth of unspoken emotion. “Mayhap I should tend the sickbed of all my enemies’ daughters so that their opinions might forever be altered.”
Anya drew back, her mouth falling open. “I do not recommend it, my lord.”
Chuckling, he gave the back of her hand a whisper of a kiss. “I jest, of course. Yours is the only sickbed beside which I care to sit, and I hope ye will live out the rest of your days in good health so it will never be necessary again.”
By afternoon, Anya was ready to be up and about, but Lilas had insisted she remain in bed for another day. Evidently, the healer had the final say on the matter because Angus told Rory that should Anya try to leave her chamber, she was to be marshalled straight back inside without argument. Heavens, he reminded her more of a wolfhound every day.
Fortunately, the lord of the castle had sent up several sheets of vellum, a cutting board from the kitchen to use as a writing surface, three sharpened charcoal sticks, as well as an ink pot and quill.
Grateful for something with which to occupy her time, Anya spent the afternoon sketching like a zealot. So many ideas popped into her head, she drew faster and more vividly than she’d ever done. She drew the geese in the sweeping moor of the Oa, with Angus riding and looking as if he were the king of the Highlands. She drew the shore beneath Dùn Athad, including Angus lighting the fire. She drew a rendering of Angus in slumber, as he’d been this morn, with his head perched on the side of her bed. She couldn’t bring herself to stop, drawing Angus in the tailor shop, looking on with his arms crossed and his stance wide, Angus on the Isle of Nave, hunting for crabs. Angus at the helm of his boat as they sailed into a violent storm.
Anya was about to start yet another sketch when the Dowager Lady Islay opened the door. “Lilas told me ye’re much improved so I thought I’d pay a visit, if ye’re feeling up to it.”
Covering a cough with her hand, Anya quickly moved the drawings aside and hid them with a blank sheet of vellum. “I am honored, my lady.”
“Ye had us all so very worried,” she said, taking the chair where Angus had been. “It is such a relief to see ye sitting up.”