Mither gave a knowing nod as if she’d been planning for Angus to move all along. Bless it, he liked Anya, but he knew as well as anyone that a match between the pair of them was absolutely out of the question. The king would have Angus hanged if he even considered courting the lass, then what good would he be to her?
As he approached, Friar Jo stood. “’Tis time I headed for my pallet, m’lord.”
“But it is so early,” said Anya, gesturing to a lutist tuning his instrument up on the gallery. “It appears we will have music to enjoy this eve.”
“I do appreciate a wee tune now and again, however I’ve some reading awaiting me in the Good Book and the Lord waits for no one.” The stout little man bowed. “Good night, miss.”
Angus gave Friar Jo a nod of thanks and took the empty seat. “How fare ye this eve? Feeling well, I hope?”
“Much better, thank ye. I do believe I’ll have to ask Lilas for her violets and whey tincture recipe. I’m certain it helped immensely.”
“Not the deer’s grease?” he asked with a lilt of humor. It had always puzzled Angus as to why rubbing the feet helped cure a cough. But who was he to judge? Lilas had been born into healing and had studied herbal lore all her life.
Anya chuckled. “I daresay the calluses on my heels have softened considerably.”
“I wouldn’t boast about that to Lilas.”
“I shan’t, though I must admit my cough has been cured. Nonetheless, I have an inkling the black spleenwort helped far more than the grease.” Anya made a sour face. “But I swear it is the foulest tasting tincture that has ever passed my lips.”
“My mother always said the worse it tastes, the better the cure.”
“Then I’m ever so grateful Her Ladyship did not mix the black spleenwort, else I may not have been able to keep it down.”
“Let us hope ye’ll no’ need the tincture ever again.” Angus silenced himself by swilling his ale. He wanted to tell her how worried he’d been, how he’d prayed over her sickbed, how he’d sat night upon night, tirelessly cooling her forehead. But doing so would be folly.
Anya turned to watch the lutist as he began to strum. “Have ye received word from the Bruce?” she asked as casually as if she were inquiring about the fare for tomorrow’s evening meal.
“Not of late, but now the weather is turning for the better, I reckon it will not be long afore I am summoned.”
Did a bit of disappointment flash through her eyes? Angus watched intently but Anya quickly averted her gaze to her hands. “Such is the lot of men. Always off to battle.”
“Aye. It seems so.” He plucked away one of her hands and rubbed it between his palms. “Would ye miss me overmuch?”
She rolled a coy shoulder and gave him a teasing arch of her brows. “Nay, not overmuch.”
“A little?”
“Perhaps a little.” Pushing to her feet, Anya tugged him up. “Come. The clansmen and women are dancing. ’Tis nigh time I kicked up my heels.”
“Aye, so it is the lassie’s choice, is it?”
“It is when ye start mumbling blather about missing ye after marching off to war—fighting on the wrong side, mind ye.”
Oh, how he adored her saucy Irish lilt. Still, Angus rolled his eyes to the rafters as he let her pull him down the dais steps. Here he was trying his damnedest not to be smitten with the woman and utterly failing. Thank God she reminded him exactly why with her “fighting on the wrong side” comment, even though the reason for keeping his distance was never far from his mind. Especially when he moved into line across from her. And when he took her hand and skipped in a circle. And when she smiled and laughed like she hadn’t a care, the joyous sound surrounding him like bells on Christmas morn.
Anya made him want to throw his head back and croon. She made him want to dance all night as long as he could dance only with her and she promised to hold his hand with those soft, lithe fingers.
To his chagrin, partway through a turn, the music came to an abrupt stop.
A sentry marched across the floor, his expression grim. “I’ve a missive from the king.”
“So soon?” Anya whispered, the doom in her tone increasing the size of the stony lump in the pit of Angus’ stomach.
“Thank ye.” He took the letter from the messenger and gestured aft. “Ye’ll find food and drink in the kitchens, friend.”
Raghnall move in beside them. “What does it say?”
Angus gripped the missive in his fist and shifted his gaze to the dais where Mither watched like an expectant hen. Anya, too, had lost all color in her face. Angus reckoned everyone knew what the king wanted without breaking the seal. Regardless, the contents were confidential. “I shall read it in my solar. Join me there anon.”
Angus signaled to Rory before he bowed to the lass. “Ye’d best go above stairs for the night.”
Throwing her shoulders back like a lass born to nobility, Anya shook her head. “But I’d like to know what the missive says as well.”
“I’m certain ye would, but must I remind ye of your standing whilst residing at Dunyvaig? Ye cannot ever be a party to the king’s correspondence.”
As the words left his lips, Angus had never regretted uttering such drivel in all his life. And by Anya’s bereft expression with tears welling in her eyes, he had wounded her deeply. Damnation, he didn’t want to hurt the lass, but she was the absolute last person on the Isle of Islay to be apprised of the contents of a confidential message from Robert the Bruce.
And the state of her claim on his heart had no bearing on the matter.
What if she succeeded in flagging an English ship? What if she told Longshank’s men what the Bruce was planning? Angus didn’t want to mistrust her, but she’d signaled a ship once before, who knew if she might try it again?
Hell, she is a prisoner of the crown. By rights, she should not be making merry in the hall. And I should not be hopelessly flirting with her either.
Forcing himself to ignore the woman’s shocked and wounded stare, Angus marched for the stairs and didn’t look back. He fumed all the way up to his solar and slammed the door.
“Damn it all to bloody hell!”
Bless it, he had no right to be angry. In truth, it was surprising it took this long for the king’s summons to arrive. No matter what he wanted, Angus could not allow a slip of a lass to addle his mind to the point where he lost his sense of duty. He was the Lord of Islay and the Kingdom of Scotland was looking to him to help regain sovereignty from a heartless tyrant who had named himself as the kingdom’s overlord.
Clenching his teeth, he strode directly toward his chair, lit a candle from the embers in the hearth, then examined the seal in the light. Sure enough, the wax bore an imprint of the king’s signet ring. Angus slid his finger beneath the hardened blob, shook open the calf-skin vellum, and read while a lead rock sank to his toes.
Not only had Angus been ordered to sail a dozen birlinns into the Bay of Turnberry, he was to first escort Miss Anya O’Cahan to Orkney and deliver her into the care of the monks at Eynhallow Monastery. The king’s reason? He believed if Angus was not at Dunyvaig to watch over the lass, an escape was more likely.
God on the bloody cross, did the Bruce not trust Angus to appoint a suitable guard?