“Because he loves ye.” Finovola’s voice sounded haunted as she turned away and hid her eyes. “I cannot watch.”
The whip hissed through the air and made a red stripe across Angus’ back.
“No!” Anya shouted so loudly, her voice grated, but the roar of the hecklers below swallowed her plea. How could they be so callous when he came alone and under the accord of parley?
Filled with horror, she watched as they turned His Lordship’s back into minced meat, until Angus’ legs gave out from under him, yet he uttered not a sound, his silence sending an eerie message that he would not be broken. “Mercy,” she cried, while the crowd repeated in kind.
Once it was done, Ulster appeared in the courtyard with Lord O’Doherty on his flank. Though she couldn’t hear what was being said, guards dragged Angus away—and there was no doubt they were taking him to the filthy prison below the main gates.
“How dare they treat him like a common criminal.” Anya’s stomach convulsed. “He’ll die down there.”
She grasped Finovola’s shoulders. “I must see him!”
“Aye? And exactly how do ye intend to do that? Not only is there a guard at our door, there’s no chance anyone can slip past the men guarding Ulster’s gaol. And then…”
“Then? What is the earl planning?”
“He mentioned taking Angus to the Tower.”
“Of London? When?”
“He didn’t say.”
Anya paced. “Soon?”
“I know not, though I would suppose soon. The longer Islay remains here, the greater the chance of a MacDonald attack.”
There was one person who would know, one soul who might help. Anya grasped Finovola’s shoulder and looked her in the eyes. “Did ye speak true? Ye are in love with Chahir O’Doherty?”
“What the blazes does that have to do with things now?”
“Do ye love him?”
“Aye.”
“And he returns your love?”
Finovola nodded emphatically. “He said he did.”
“Then bring him to me.”
“Up here? The countess will flay me.”
“Nay, ’tis me she will flay. Nonetheless, to ensure the guards do not suspect anything, ye will act as my chaperone.”
“I don’t know if he’ll come.” The lass bit down on her fingernail. “What should I say?”
“Tell him I need to speak to him.” Anya slammed her fist into her palm. “Tell him it is a matter of life and death. Go at once!”
21
Ever since she watched the horrors in the courtyard, Anya had been at her wits’ end, furiously knotting her bed linens. How dare Ulster treat the Lord of Islay like a common criminal? Not only was Angus of noble birth, he had come to Carrickfergus in good faith, to ask for her hand of all things! And he’d been punished severely for it. Worse, the torture had only begun.
Anya felt as if she could jump out of her skin. And if she didn’t act swiftly, Angus’ fate would be sealed.
Because of me.
When the latch clicked, Anya startled. Hopping to her feet, she held her breath as Finovola led Lord O’Doherty inside.
“Ye’d best be quick, else His Lordship will hear about this,” barked the guard in the passageway.
“Ye cannot deny the lass a chance to see her betrothed even if she is restricted to quarters,” Finovola replied, her words like honey flowing from a spigot.
After kicking her work beneath her bed, Anya smoothed trembling hands over her hair. “Thank ye for coming.”
Lord O’Doherty and Finovola exchanged glances before the man regarded Anya with a frown. “This is very untoward.”
“Forgive me, but it could not be avoided given my imprisonment.” Anya led them away from the door and to the bench seats in the window embrasure, where they could speak without being overheard. “I have a plan to benefit us all. If the two of ye indeed want to marry, I must have your help, my lord.”
Her eyes dancing as if filled with sunshine, Finovola clasped her hands, though Chahir appeared to be about as comfortable as a man sitting in a bed of nettles. “Ye are aware that Ulster is my overlord. I cannot and will not agree to anything that might put the earl or his men at risk.”
“Ye will not. I swear it. The only favor I ask is for ye to take me to Dunyvaig…tonight.”
Finovola gasped. “But ye cannot leave this chamber, let alone set foot outside the castle.”
“With all due respect, I have been slipping beyond these walls for seven years. Do ye think I cannot spirit past a guard or two?” Sounding far more self-assured than she felt, Anya looked to His Lordship. “Tell me, when is Ulster planning to take Islay to London?”
“He hasn’t said for certain, but the morrow is Sunday, and I do not reckon he’ll set ships to sea on the sabbath. Did ye know his plans are to send Islay to Carlisle and have the Lord Warden take him to London?”
“Ulster is not accompanying him to the Tower himself?”
Chahir cringed, his gaze shifting to the woman he truly loved. “Not with our wedding coming so soon. He insists the ceremony cannot be delayed.”
“Well, it will not be my wedding. On that ye have my solemn vow.”
“Once ye leave, what should I tell the countess?” asked Finovola.
“Nothing. And she’ll never know. The only time Her Ladyship has ever visited this chamber was when she brought the midwife. Am I wrong?”
“Nay…but she could come all the same.”
“She will not. I swear she will not.” Anya tiptoed to her bed and pulled out the rope of bed linens she’d hastily made, then returned to her perch in the embrasure, addressing her sister with a somber stare. “To purchase time for my plan to run its course, after the Lord of Islay has been gone for two days, ye are to report that I was not in my bed when ye awoke that morn. Tell the countess ye slept sound and did not wake.”
“Wait two whole days?”
“’Tis the only surefire way Lord O’Doherty will not be suspected of intervention.” She shook the rope. “We’ll pile pillows under the coverlet so it looks as if I’m abed. If anyone asks, say I’m suffering a bout of melancholy. Then, once time has passed, tell the countess ye found my mode of escape and show her my makeshift rope. Let them form their own conclusions. Meanwhile, my lord, ye will be safely tucked away in your keep and none the wiser. After ye return ready to take your vows, and discover I have once again disappeared, ye will be free to demand Finovola’s hand in place of mine.”
“But my plan is to remain here until the wedding,” said Lord O’Doherty.
Sitting straighter, Anya tightened her grip around the rope. “For the love of all that is holy, ye have a castle to run—lands and enemies. I do believe ye are able to conjure something that requires your immediate attention—requires ye to set sail for home this very night. With the promise to return for the wedding, of course.”
Chahir brushed his fingers over the O’Doherty crest embroidered in the center of his surcoat. “Providing I agree to this, what is your plan? Fairhair is an outlaw. Not only that, he’s an enemy of your kin. My kin as well.”