Aye, he’d thought her the most radiant woman he’d ever beheld this morning, but as she approached, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that no one surpassed this amazing woman in anything. They were perfectly matched. What lass would fashion a rope out of bedclothes, climb out a window of her guardian’s keep, and convince her intended to ferry her to Islay in order for her to raise an army to rescue the man she loved? If Anya hadn’t done it, no one in all of Christendom would have believed it possible.
As she stepped beside him, he forced himself not to pull her into his arms. “Ye are stunning, m’lady.”
Her gaze meandered down his body, making him feel like a god. “And ye look like a Highland king, my lord.”
Friar Jo cleared his throat and began chanting the Latin mass while Angus stood staring into his bride’s eyes. He must be the luckiest man in all of Scotland to be marrying a woman who not only could fulfill is dreams, she was a force to be reckoned with, his equal in the eyes of God.
“Give me your hands,” said the friar, switching to English. When had he completed the rites? Angus had been so absorbed in his thoughts, the delivery of the rites had passed in a blur.
Anya smiled and held out her right hand while Angus offered his left. Friar Jo bound the two together with a stole. Angus gripped her fingers, so slight and delicate compared to his. She had the inner strength of a queen, yet she was no taller than the center of his chest. By all that was holy, he would love and cherish this gift for the rest of his days.
The friar placed his hand atop the bindings. “With the fashioning of this knot, all the desires, dreams, love, and happiness wished in your hearts shall merge. In the joining of hands, so are your lives now bound to one another, woven like the ever growing and intertwining limbs of a great oak. By the joining of hands, ye are now and forevermore bound to your marriage vows to love, honor, obey, and protect one another. This knot shall remain tied in your hearts for as long as ye both shall live.”
Friar Jo made the sign of the cross atop their joined hands. “May this cord draw your hands together in love, never to be used in anger. May the vows you have spoken never grow bitter in your mouths. The knot creates the symbol of partnership and union. As your hands are bound by this cord, so is your partnership held by the symbol of this knot. Two entwined in love, bound by commitment and fear, sadness and joy, by hardship and victory, anger and reconciliation, all of which brings strength to this union. Always hold tight to one another through good times and bad, whilst ye watch as the strength of your bond grows.”
Drawing their hands up above their heads, he recited a Latin blessing. “I shall now remove the cords.”
The cool air chilled Angus’ skin as the bounds fell away, though he did not release Anya’s hand. “I never want to let go,” he whispered.
She blessed him with a smile. “Nor do I, my love.”
26
Enjoying the longer days of midsummer, Anya and Angus rode side by side as they returned from a journey to the Oa. There, Anya had completed her drawing for Mither’s tapestry. “I’m ever so excited to show it to her.”
“You mean to tell me, she didn’t convince ye to show her your progress?”
“Oh, no. I never allow anyone to see my work afore it is complete. At least I try not to do so.”
“Unbelievable, I say. Had I been the artist, my blessed mother would have found a way to snoop for certain.”
“That is because ye cannot refuse her.”
“I beg your pardon, I am the lord of these lands, I can refuse anyone when I so choose.”
“Except her.”
Flicking his reins, Angus coughed out a guffaw as they rode through the village of Lagavulin.
“Ye may say no at first, but she’s your ma,” Anya continued. “I’ll wager she has been capable of twisting your arm throughout your entire life.”
“Aye? Well, it is a lot easier to give her what she wants than to endure her ire. Have ye suffered her silent treatment?”
“Not as of yet.”
“’Tis like death. I recommend avoiding it whenever possible.”
Turning her mount onto the path leading to Dunyvaig’s main gate, Anya tapped her heels and requested a trot. “I shall keep that in mind.”
Atop the wall-walk, the ram’s horn sounded with three consecutive blasts, announcing visitors were approaching by sea. Anya exchanged glances with her husband. “Whoever could it be?”
Angus’ jaw tensed. “Go on to the stables. I’ll meet ye in the hall after I’ve found out whether ’tis friend or foe.”
Anya tightened her grip around her reins. “Surely Raghnall would have sent someone to fetch ye if there was trouble.”
“Just do as I say,” he said, though when he caught a glimpse of her pointed frown, he added, “Please, m’lady. I wouldn’t want ye to be harmed.”
Groaning, she gave in. “Very well, oh master protector.”
“’Tis music to my ears to hear ye refer to me thus.”
“Do not grow accustomed to it,” she whispered under her breath, sure he couldn’t hear her above the growing shouts from atop the curtain.
After parting from Angus, she hastened to the stables and was met by one of the grooms straightaway. “Have ye heard whose ship is on the approach?” she asked.
“The only news is the pennant is Irish.”
Anya dismounted while the hair on her nape stood on end. “Is it the Earl of Ulster?”
“Not certain, m’lady. Would ye like me to go investigate?”
“Nay, please attend my horse and give him an extra ration of oats. He has earned it this day.”
In a time of war such as this, Anya knew better than to dash across the courtyard to the sea gate. Aside from inviting Angus’ ire, she might put herself in harm’s way. And if the visitor was Ulster, the earl might very well try to put her in irons. She hastened to the nearest corner turret, ducked inside, and pattered up the stairs. But when she reached the top, the view of the beach was blocked by a stony promontory.
“Blast,” she cursed, hastening toward a row of bowmen. “Whose colors are they flying?”
“Not certain, m’lady, but…”
“But what?” she asked, stopping beside him and looking out to sea.
“I reckon since there are only two boats, they’ve come on friendly terms. Though in wartime, one can never be certain.”
As the boats approached, there was no mistaking the long blond tresses billowing from beneath a woman’s veil.
Gasping, Anya ran toward the north tower. “Stand down, I say! ’Tis my sister!”
Her toes barely touched the steps as she descended through the narrow, winding stairwell. “Angus!” she cried. “Angus!”
Raghnall met her as she dashed through the sea gate. “M’lady, ’tis not safe.”
“But my sister is in one of those boats.” Her gaze darted to the crowd of MacDonald guards, but she was so short, all she saw was mail-clad backs. “Angus, ’tis Finovola!”
Raghnall clutched her arm. “He already kens, but ye are to remain here until he is certain it isn’t a trap.”