“Greetings, m’lord,” said the king. “Ye must have had a favorable wind to sail to Orkney and back in such a short time.”
Angus didn’t flinch, though he expected a fair bit more banter before revealing his disobedience. “I must have a word.”
“Then say it.” Robert gestured to the men at the table. “There are no secrets between us.”
A bead of sweat trickled from beneath Angus’ helm. He removed it, wiped the perspiration away with the tips of his fingers, and tucked his helmet in the crook of his arm. “With all due respect, sire, Miss Anya O’Cahan does not deserve to spend the years of her prime cloistered in a dank monastery working like a common crofter. She’s only a maid—of marriageable age, mind ye. To deliver her into the hands of the monks would be sealing her fate to a life of misery.”
The color drained from the king’s face. “A life of piousness, mind ye.”
“Aye.”
“So that is why ye arrived so soon? The lass is still at Dunyvaig with your mother?”
“Nay, Your Grace.” The muscles in Angus’ abdomen constricted, readying himself for a blow. “She is at Carrickfergus with your father-in-law.”
“What’s this?” the king boomed with spittle shooting from his lips, his eyes ablaze. “I give ye an explicit order and ye defy me? Moreover, ye have the nerve to stand here afore me with helm in hand? Exactly what makes ye think I’ll spare ye from a climb up the Turnberry gallows steps?”
“Forgive me.” Angus bowed.
“Forgive? Have ye forgotten the Queen of Scotland is imprisoned in some godforsaken stronghold in England? Is my young wife not in her prime? Doubtless, your cock has marred your judgement.”
The king’s ire merely served to strengthen Angus’ resolve. The one thing keeping him from spending the rest of his days in a miserable pit was his numbers. Robert Bruce needed him as an ally. At least for now, and that might purchase enough time for Angus to exonerate himself. “Hear me afore ye pass judgement, sire. Upon our next battle, I give my solemn oath I will capture a bevy of high-ranking English—men of far more value to Edward than the mere daughter of an Irish lord.”
Robert drummed he fingers, but it was Sir Douglas who sat forward and cleared his throat. “He’s right. An English nobleman is worth three of O’Cahan’s daughters.”
“But I will not be defied!” The king pounded his fist on the table. “For this misdeed, I want a solid victory and a cache of prisoners. Dammit all, the MacDonald army will lead the charge and every last man will be the first to face the cold steel of Longshank’s knights. And if by some miraculous stroke of God ye survive and do present me with English nobles with whom I can barter, I may…I repeat…I may no’ choose to sever your cods from your ill-begotten loins.”
“That is only fair,” Angus replied, his tone pitched a tad higher, sweat rolling from his temples. “My men are ready, sire.”
Robert glowered. “They had best be.”
18
As the door to her chamber opened, Anya hid her drawing of Angus under the mattress.
The countess entered, her expression dour while Finovola followed wringing her hands, her brow pinched. Behind them came the midwife who delivered all the local women’s babes.
“Is all well?” Anya asked, while her back shot to rigid. In seven years, Anya couldn’t recall Her Ladyship ever visiting her bedchamber. The woman always sent a messenger.
“I truly hope it will be.” The countess gestured to the midwife. “Ye have been in the company of a rogue and, as your guardians, Ulster and I must ensure ye have not been compromised.”
Finovola hid her face in her palms and lamented, “Oh, dear.”
“Compromised?” Anya clutched her arms across her midriff. “How could ye think me capable of such a disgrace?”
“I will accept not a word of your insolence. It is our duty to ensure your maidenhead remains intact.”
Anya scooted away. “I have assured ye with my word. I am untouched.”
“So say you.” Her Ladyship thrust her finger toward the bed. “Lie upon your back now, unless ye want me to call upon the guards and make this more unpleasant that it needs to be.”
Anya glanced to her sister, who stood aghast as if this humiliation were being bestowed upon her. But she had no choice. It was already mortifying enough to have such an examination with only women present. She might die of embarrassment if guards were brought in. Heaving an enormous sigh, she climbed onto the bed and lay on her back, her every sinew as taut as harp strings.
The midwife moved beside Anya and gave her shoulder a gentle pat. “Not to worry, miss. Ye ought not feel a bit of pain. All I need is a wee peek and the unpleasantness will be over.”
Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, Anya cringed. “Just be done with it.”
“I’ll need ye to spread your knees.”
Merciful heavens, a fire burned within her breast. How dare they doubt her word? As the woman raised her skirts and peered into the most secret place on Anya’s body, she wanted to scream. She wanted to tell the countess how much she’d enjoyed being a lady-in-waiting for the Dowager Lady of Islay. If only Anya could tell this shrew how wonderfully she’d been treated.
True to her word, the midwife did not linger and quickly covered Anya’s legs. “She remains untouched.”
“Thank heavens,” said the countess. “I’m quite astonished, truth be told, given the Lord of Islay’s reputation.”
A tear slipped from the corner of Anya’s eye. Her Ladyship would never understand the sense of honor and duty that lay in the heart of Angus Og MacDonald.
Her Ladyship snapped her fingers. “Come. Both of ye attend me in my solar.”
During her years at the castle, Anya had interacted with the countess far more than Ulster, who was not only the most powerful man in Ireland, he had a way of making everyone around him uneasy. Though it was a rare occasion to be summoned to the great hall by her guardian, not long after her humiliating examination, Anya was not surprised when the sentry came to the lady’s solar and requested she follow him at once.
When she stepped into the hall, she hesitated, taking in a few breaths to slow the beating of her heart. After her ordeal with the midwife, she wasn’t yet ready to face His Lordship who, to her chagrin, was seated beside Lord O’Doherty. By the somber expressions on both men’s faces, something was amiss, for certain.
“Haste ye, lass,” demanded her guardian. “We haven’t all day.”
Anya quickened her pace, pattered up to the dais, and curtseyed. “My lords. Is all well?” Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Finovola exit the door from the kitchen, carrying a tray with the countess’ tonic.
Lord O’Doherty’s gaze flickered to her sister. When again he regarded Anya, he lowered his chin to his chest, his expression vacant.
Ulster adjusted the earl’s medallion he wore suspended from shoulder to shoulder whenever he held court. “Might I remind ye that the negotiations for your betrothal were to be sealed on Saint Valentine’s Day?”