“M’lord!”
Angus turned toward the sound, his heart skipping a beat. “Raghnall, thank God!”
The man-at-arms stumbled toward them before collapsing at Agnus’ side. A stream of blood dribbled from his temple, staining his shoulder red.
“Where are the other survivors?” Angus asked.
“Ye pair are the only souls I’ve seen.” Shaking, he rubbed his arms against the frigid cold. “With luck, they drifted farther east than we did.”
Angus looked to the skies. Still raining, black clouds hung ominously low. “We’ll no’ survive the night unless we can warm our bones. Let us away to the chapel.”
The wee lassie in his arms had barely survived, yet it was all he could do to push to his feet and lift her into his arms. She was a fighter, that was for certain. A less-robust woman would have succumbed to the ravages of the sea.
Though the little church Angus’ grandfather had built overlooking the North Sea was only about a hundred paces away, by the ache of every sinew, he felt as if he were starting at the base of Ben Nevis on an uphill climb.
“Would ye like me to carry her?” asked Raghnall. “Your shoulder needs tending.”
“I can manage,” Angus grunted as he trudged forward.
Once they made their way inside, Angus sighed at the relief to be out of the wind, though it was still bitterly cold. The chapel had been used annually for the Lammas Day feast and bonfire. The clan always began by giving thanks and praying for a successful harvest. The nave had but a small altar with a brass cross and a vaulted ceiling, which made their footsteps echo.
“Start a fire,” Angus said, gently resting the woman on the only strip of carpet, which was near the altar. She was barely conscious, shivering and gripping her fists beneath her chin.
“With what?” asked Raghnall, rubbing his hands. “Everything that might take a spark is soaked.”
Angus looked to the altar, carved with a scene from Christ’s last supper. Though it was priceless, he’d set the entire block of mahogany alight if it meant their survival. As he panned his gaze across the nave, the wooden chairs, their seats woven with wicker, caught his eye. “We’ll start with the chairs. Then we’ll bring in rushes to dry.”
While Raghnall set to work, smashing a few chairs into burnable bits, Angus pulled the tapestry from the wall. “We must remove our sodden clothes afore we’re chilled all the more.”
With flicks of his fingers, Angus took off his belt and the brooch at his shoulder, only now realizing he’d lost his father’s sword. Aye, with the prospect of a swim in the North Sea, he’d needed to release the buckle and drop the weight, but Da’s great sword with its bejeweled hilt was gone. His dirk and sgian dubh remained secure in their scabbards, thank heavens for small mercies.
After Raghnall had a fire crackling in the brazier, the man-at-arms stripped to his shirt as well, their cloaks long gone. He nodded toward the stowaway. “What about her?”
“She’s come this far. I’m no’ about to lose her now.”
The man-at-arms stooped to retrieve his dirk. “I’ll fetch the rushes.”
Angus kicked off his sodden boots and peeled away his hose, draping them over the back of a chair. Releasing a deep breath, he faced his charge. “Ye’ll nay survive if ye remain in that heavy woolen gown.”
On the boat she’d worn a sealskin cloak—a sign she might be highly born—but had he not ripped it from her person, they would be dead for certain.
When she didn’t respond, he touched her shoulder. “Come, lass.”
With a bat of her hand, her eyes flashed open as she startled. Angus’ breath caught. Either those deep pools of emerald green were as mesmerizing as a silkie’s spell or he was teetering at the edge of his endurance. Though he was weary and his shoulder throbbed, truth be told, those intoxicating greens caught him off guard. Thick chestnut lashes made them ever so intense, though they filled with ire and stared at him as if he were Satan incarnate. “Do not touch me!”
It was nary a wonder the woman was confused. After all, she’d been through a harrowing ordeal. Angus snapped his hand away and raked his fingers through his mop of dripping hair. “Och, with all due respect, miss, ye’ve been in my arms whilst we battled a tempest from hell. Ye cannot possibly think I would lift a finger to harm ye.”
Scooting away, she clutched her hand atop the ties at the front of her kirtle. “Nay!”
“Just strip down to your shift, lass. I promise to avert my eyes.” He placed his palm over her fingers. “What is your name?”
A resounding chatter of teeth was her only reply. While the spark in her expression told him she wanted to fight, he had no difficulty pulling her fingers away and untying the laces of her kirtle. As he worked, she closed her eyes, her tremorous shivers resuming.
“There’s a good lass,” Angus said, trying not to look, but unable to avert his gaze from magnificence.
Her linen shift clung to ideal feminine proportions. Ample breasts tipped by taut rosebuds swelled beneath, leading to a slim waist and full, voluptuous hips. Even her thighs were sculpted like a Greek goddess’. At their apex nestled a dark triangle that stirred his blood far more than it ought.
“We shall have ye warm and dry in no time,” he croaked, unable to mask the longing in his voice. With the Bruce occupying his keep, Angus hadn’t enjoyed the pleasure of a woman for months.
Though he was no stranger to the temptation of the fairer sex, Angus had never—and would never—taken advantage of an unwilling lass. He’d given his word and he’d stand by it. “This will set ye to rights.” He continued to ease her troubles, pulling her onto his lap.
But as he tried to wrap the tapestry around them, she pushed away. “Nay!”
“Bless it,” he growled, clutching his arms around her like a vise. “I’m trying to save ye from dying of exposure. I swear on my father’s grave, your virtue is safe, lass. Just stop fighting me.”
With his words, the woman collapsed against him, allowing him to finish. Together with the heat from their bodies, trapped by the thick woven cloth, in moments it already felt warmer. Angus stretched his feet closer to the brazier and sighed while the fire set to thawing his toes. In no time, the stowaway’s breathing became deep, indicating she’d dropped into the sanctity of sleep.
Raghnall returned with his arms full of rushes. “I’ll just spread these…” He stopped and gaped, giving a licentious waggle of his eyebrows. “The pair of ye look mighty cozy, m’lord.”
“Wheesht. Mark me, the lass would sooner dirk me in the back than allow me to revive her with my warmth. I’ve seen it in her eyes.”
The man-at-arms kicked the rushes to spread them out. “Then ye’d best sleep with one of your eyes open, m’lord.”
Aware her shoulder was driving into stone, Anya stirred. The goo in her arid mouth tasted like salt. She ached everywhere, yet she was absolutely ravenous.
She wriggled out from the wraps of a heavy cloth and sat up, expecting to see Angus Og MacDonald or his henchman standing over her with a dagger in his fist. After they’d plunged into the sea, she’d prepared to meet her end, losing consciousness and only regaining it once or twice since the big Highlander had pulled her ashore.