As the MacDonald ships got underway, Anya shaded her eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of Angus, but they were too far away to make out anyone.
He’s there. I can feel his presence in my soul.
“Do ye know what Raghnall has planned?” Anya asked one of the oarsmen.
“No idea, though our chances of nabbing His Lordship are far greater if we head off those ships afore they disembark.”
“Then why are we staying so far away?”
“Because we do no’ want them to ken we’re following.”
Anya checked her bow as well as her arrows. “But we’re out of range.”
“Aye.”
“Unless we sail nearer, we’ll be of no use at all.”
“Patience, miss.”
“Ugh.” Anya wanted to pace, wanted to pick up an oar and row, wanted to do anything except sit on the uncomfortably hard bench and wait. She’d already bided her time long enough. They could have headed off Ulster’s ships at the mouth of the firth. They could have attacked directly with an onslaught of arrows. But all this waiting was enough to drive her mad.
She thrust her finger in the direction of the boats. “Look, they’re tacking southward. If we do not stop them now, they’ll reach the English shore!”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Raghnall’s ship and the other two MacDonald birlinns sailed out from a bluff on a direct heading for Ulster’s lead boat. With the shifting of sails, the three Irish galleys started an abrupt turn toward the English shore.
“There he is,” Anya shouted, spotting Angus sitting midship, his light hair whipped by the wind.
Raghnall’s boat headed directly for the lead galley—aiming to ram them for certain.
Anya held her breath as the Scottish birlinn picked up speed.
“Archers!” shouted Gael.
With her bow in her fist, Anya planted her feet, letting her knees bend with the rocking of the waves. She drew an arrow from its quiver, aiming for the third boat, one not carrying Angus. And though it was near impossible to steady her bow, she didn’t fire. What if she actually hit someone? What if she took a life of someone familiar? Good heavens, she hadn’t thought about that.
A thunderous boom resounded across the white-capped surf as Raghnall’s birlinn broadsided the lead galley. Water jetted high into the air while splinters shot out like darts.
As the Scottish ships encircled the Irish, an arrow hissed past Anya’s ear.
A sailor yanked her sleeve. “Get down!”
She dipped behind the hull, peeking over the edge with her bow at the ready. If it came to life and death, she mustn’t hesitate to use it. Ahead, another MacDonald birlinn broadsided the ship with Angus in an enormous spray of water. As the ship began to sink, two of Ulster’s men grabbed Angus by the elbows.
“Dear God, they have him tied to an anchor!” Anya shouted.
“Man the oars,” bellowed Gael from the tiller.
In Ulster’s galley, Angus sprang to his feet and smacked a guard in the head with the anchor. As the second man reached for his sword, Angus hurled the anchor into the blackguard’s gut.
Gael howled with a resounding laugh. “Leave it to Fairhair to use an eight-stone anchor as a weapon.”
But Islay’s plight was not humorous in the least. Anya thrust her arrow toward the sinking ship. “Row faster! The galley is taking on water.”
As Ulster’s men futilely set to bailing, the Lord of Islay bellowed a hellacious war cry and launched himself backward into the surf.
“No!” Anya screamed as men from the converging boats dove in after him. “Quickly, we must move closer.”
As the sailors fought to cut through the sea, she watched the mayhem with men diving and resurfacing while Ulster’s galley disappeared beneath the waves.
“There he is,” bellowed Gael from the tiller.
Anya’s heart stuck in her throat as she scanned the surf, spotting a form swimming directly toward them. “Angus?” Could she hope?
With powerful strokes, the swimmer came nearer, while two men leaned over the side, stretched out their hands, and pulled him in.
“Angus!” Anya cried, tripping over rowing benches until she reached him and flung her arms around his neck. “Praises be, ’tis you!”
Laughing and crying all at once, she smothered his face with kisses.
His teeth chattered as he cupped her cheek and gazed into her eyes. “I returned to Carrickfergus to ask for your hand and met only with Ulster’s ire. How did ye come to be here?”
“She’s a tenacious lady, sir,” said Gael, gripping Angus’ arm with a Highland welcome, “I’ll say for certain.”
A giggle puffed through Anya’s nose as she realized all eyes had turned her way while she’d flung herself into the Lord of Islay’s arms—very soggy arms. “’Tis a long story.”
“Come, men, we’d best set a course for Dunyvaig straightaway, afore any other wayward swimmers attempt to climb aboard,” said Gael, circling his hand over his head.
As the sailors set to shifting the boom, changing tack, and taking up the oars, Anya explained about being imprisoned in her chamber, her escape, and her frantic dash for the Isle of Islay. “It turns out my sister is madly in love with Lord O’Doherty and he with her. Better yet, Ulster will never know His Lordship helped me. When Finovola reveals that I have disappeared on my own accord, Ulster will have no reason not to allow her to marry the man of her dreams.”
Angus tucked a lock of Anya’s hair behind her ear. “Nearly betrothed, no longer?” he asked, his teeth chattering.
“Good heavens, ye are freezing.” Anya pulled off her cloak, but when she started to drape it over his shoulders, he stilled her hand.
“Nay, lass. I’ll not be having ye catch your death.”
“But—”
“No arguments.”
“How are the wounds on your back?” She pointed to the medicine basket. “I’ve brought a salve from Lilas.”
Hissing, he leaned forward. Fresh blood from the welts had seeped through the wet linen.
“Remove your shirt at once, my lord. There’s not a moment to spare.” Anya retrieved her bundle. “I cannot believe Ulster’s poor treatment of ye. He ought to be flayed.”
Angus rested his elbows on his knees while Anya carefully applied the soothing ointment. “One day he’ll pay. But at the moment, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here beside ye, mo leannan.”
24
Once they reached Dunyvaig, Angus insisted on disembarking from the boat without allowing anyone to assist him, including the lass whose doting affection he’d immensely enjoyed on the voyage home. Only when his feet were firmly on Islay’s soil, did he allow Anya to take his arm as they made their way into the castle. He never again wanted his woman to be out of his reach.
“Send up a pail of warm water, and tell Lilas His Lordship has arrived,” she said, taking charge as if she were already the lady of the keep.
Angus liked her fortitude, but after enduring the lashes and the misery of the dungeon, the only person he wanted in his chamber was Anya. “Nay, no’ Lilas. I will only allow ye to tend me. And I want a bath filled with piping hot water.”