“Aye. I have not forgotten.” Anya pursed her lips. She had hoped her guardian would allow her some time to recover from her ordeal before he broached the subject of her nuptials.
“I am sure ye will be happy to learn the terms have been agreed and ye will marry Lord Chahir O’Doherty a fortnight hence.”
Gasping, Anya clapped a hand over her mouth. Simultaneously, Finovola dropped the tray, shattering the cup, spilling tincture across the floorboards.
Lord O’Doherty started to rise, but the earl grabbed his forearm. “Sit.”
“Must we wed so soon?” Anya asked, while her sister dashed through the hall and fled to the stairs.
“’Tis time for ye to cast aside your foolishness. This is a good match. And mark me, after your misadventure with the Scots, I was forced to augment your dowry to obtain His Lordship’s agreement. Thank God your virtue is still intact, else there would have been no hope for ye whatsoever.”
Her face burned as she kept her gaze lowered. So this was to be her fate? “Aye, my lord.”
“Furthermore, I have decided that ye must remain in your chamber until your wedding day. I cannot have ye slipping beyond the castle walls yet again.”
“What of Finovola?” Anya asked. “Is she to be imprisoned as well?”
“I’ve given the guards instructions to allow your sister to come and go so that she may continue her service to the countess. But ye, my dear, will nay be given such leave. If ye should disappear again, Lord O’Doherty has informed me he will not renew his offer.”
Anya dared glance at the man she was to marry. His eyes immediately shifted away. He did not smile, nor did he offer any expression to make her believe he derived any satisfaction in the arrangement. “Is this what you desire, my lord?”
Though her question was directed at Lord O’Doherty, her guardian answered, “Indeed, the contract has been signed. Now off with ye. I’ve many supplications to hear this day.”
With a snap of Ulster’s fingers, Anya was joined by two guards who led her away. As she climbed the stairs, her forehead beaded with sweat. She did not know Lord O’Doherty well but was quite certain the man had been coerced into agreeing to the marriage, the proof being the increase to her dower funds. His Lordship no sooner wanted her as his wife than she wanted him as a husband.
But Angus Og MacDonald had gone for good. Anya closed her eyes only to have an image of Islay consume her mind as if he were standing in front of her now. Oh, how much she had relished their time together—strolling atop Dunyvaig’s wall-walk with him. Gazing out over the sea. Being in his arms. Kissing him. Dear Lord, what she wouldn’t give to kiss him again. If only Robert the Bruce had let matters lie, she might still be on Islay, working on the tapestry drawing for Her Ladyship, and teasing Rory as he followed her about. Aye, Angus had posted a guard outside her door, but otherwise she had been free to come and go as she wished. Now, her guardian had decreed she was to be locked in her bedchamber for a fortnight until her wedding day.
Alas, most highborn marriages were arranged without giving consideration to love. Many brides did not meet their husbands before the ceremony. Though Chahir O’Doherty had been known to Anya for years, in all that time, they had exchanged merely a handful of words. She did not know him as she knew Angus. She did not love him as she loved Angus. And now she was to join in holy matrimony with a man she was quite certain harbored no fondness for her whatsoever.
So flummoxed by this state of affairs, Anya did not remember her journey above stairs, standing dazed as the guard opened the door to her chamber and gestured inside. “Miss.”
Still unable to believe her lot, she held her chin high and strode inside. Anya’s heart might be torn to shreds, but she was not about to act the victim. Especially not when everyone in the castle thought the match was favorable.
“Not to worry,” said the second guard. “A fortnight will pass in no time, and then ye will be Lady O’Doherty.”
As the door closed behind her, across the room, Finovola lay with her face buried in a pillow, her body wracked with muffled sobs.
Immediately shedding her own woes, Anya dashed to her sister. “Whatever is the matter?”
The lass turned toward the wall, hugging her arms across her body. “I cannot say!”
“Nay, lass, ye mustn’t hold your woes inside.” Climbing onto the bed, Anya mirrored her sister and wrapped her arm around her shoulders. “Have we ever harbored any secrets between us?”
“This one is unforgivable. If I dare utter it, I fear ye never will be able to look me in the face again.”
“Oh aye? Is your secret as abhorrent as me developing a fondness for the Lord of Islay?”
Finovola hiccupped with her cry. “F-fondness?”
“Merely a wee bit of affection, I’d call it. I could not help myself.” Now Anya was telling tall tales. The first time she’d set eyes on Angus, he’d taken her breath away. But that was not the issue at hand. She sat upright and urged her sister beside her, holding her in an embrace and rocking gently. “Come now, my pet, tell me what has ye out of sorts.”
Finovola had been crying so intensely, she could barely catch her breath. “I—am—too ashamed to utter it.”
In the hall, Anya had been rather surprised at Finovola’s reaction to the earl’s news. And the night before, she had also noticed her sister sitting beside Chahir at the high table. “Have ye a care for Lord O’Doherty?”
“Oh, if only what I felt in my heart were merely a care.” Finovola buried her face in her hands. “I cannot help myself. I love him.”
“Oh,” Anya said, while a stone sank to the pit of her stomach.
“I’m so ashamed,” Finovola wailed. “I have always loved him, from the very first time he visited the castle. But I swear we did not act upon our affection until after…”
“After?”
“After the men Ulster sent to find ye returned emptyhanded.” Finovola rocked to and fro. “I was bereft with grief and, God save me, I found comfort in His Lordship’s a-a-a-arms,” she cried, launching into another hiccupping bout of sobs.
Anya was not unfamiliar with finding solace in a man’s arms. And she’d felt plenty guilty about it as well. But her own sister loved the man she was contracted to marry? It seemed familial betrayal was rife between them. How could life be so cruel as to deny Finovola of the love she craved, forcing Anya to wed the same lord? How could she possibly go through with the wedding ceremony now?
The lass sucked in a gasping breath. “H-he promised to ask for my hand, but then ye returned. And ye know how persuasive Ulster is. Chahir pays fealty to Ulster. Going against the earl’s wishes would ruin him.”
“I’ll wager Lord O’Doherty tried to back out of the agreement. Our guardian told me he was forced to add to my dowry.”
“It is hopeless! Ye know there is no chance Ulster would allow me to marry first. Ye are the eldest and I cannot ruin your prospects.”
“Hush.” Anya swirled her palm around her sister’s back. “If ye love him, then His Lordship ought to face the earl and speak the truth.”
“He cannot! Not when the agreement is already signed.”