Surely, he was nowhere near as shockingly handsome as she’d first imagined. After all, she’d been frightened half to death. Without a doubt, Fairhair was the barbarian he was reputed to be. Though on the ship when he’d pulled the tarpaulin away and she’d tried to kill him, barbarian was the absolute last word that had come to mind.
One day, God might strike her dead for letting the vile Lord of Islay help her. If only she’d had the strength to fight, but in her hour of need, her body had failed her. It was a miracle she was still alive.
Anya glanced about the small chapel and breathed a sigh of relief to find herself alone. Within her grasp was a silver chalice filled with crabmeat and beside it was another filled with water. Using her fingers, she shoveled the food into her mouth faster than she could chew. Juice ran down her chin as she rolled her eyes to the rafters and swallowed.
Mm.
It took her no time at all to devour the remainder of the crab and guzzle the water. Only then did she glance downward and realize she wore nothing but her shift. Reminded of last eve’s struggle, she buried her face in her hands. She never should have allowed that man to touch her. Aye, she’d tried to fight, but half drowned and colder than she’d ever been in all her days, Anya had barely been able to hold her head upright, let alone defend herself.
She slid her hands over her shift, then pushed to her feet. Though she couldn’t be completely certain, she was nearly positive Angus Og MacDonald had kept his word. After all, he was an important lord, even if he was an enemy. Perhaps the man’s mother had taught him a modicum of chivalry. Regardless, Anya had no doubt that if Islay knew she was the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan, he would have let her drown. And irrespective of whether he’d saved her or not, the Highlander was a pirate, renowned for pillaging along the western isles of Scotland and beyond. He’d even threatened her father’s very own Dunseverick Castle—at least, Fairhair’s brother had done so. And now rumors had spread that the MacDonalds had taken up arms with Robert the Bruce, the outlaw who’d proclaimed himself King of Scots. Worse, the Bruce had married the Earl of Ulster’s daughter, Anya’s dear friend, Elizabeth.
The poor dear. She must be suffering so.
After their mishappen coronation, the false king had sent his wife to Kildrummy Castle for safe harbor, where Elizabeth was captured by King Edward’s army. Not even the Earl of Ulster was privy to her whereabouts.
Heavens, if it weren’t for Elizabeth’s kindness, Anya’s move to Carrickfergus Castle would have been unbearable.
And now she had capsized somewhere with yet another Scot who was about as trustworthy as a weasel. Anya quickly slipped into her dry kirtle and tied the laces. She found her boots but the leather had grown stiff from salt and the sea, making it difficult to shove her feet inside. As she tied the laces, she wriggled her toes and worked them in. It didn’t matter where they may have washed ashore, she fully intended to escape His Lordship’s clutches and find a way back to Carrickfergus forthwith.
Surely her guardian would pay any fare owing once she was safely home.
Anya smacked her forehead with her palm. By now they would know she’d gone missing. Finovola must be distraught with worry. And Lord Chahir O’Doherty was expecting to see her at the Saint Valentine’s Day feast on the morrow.
Ulster is going to flay me for certain!
With no time to waste, she listened at the door. Hearing nothing but the howling of the wind, she cracked it open and peered outside. The shore was only paces away while north and south seagrass bent with a strong westerly.
Had the men left her alone?
“Good morn. ’Tis nice to see ye’re awake,” called Islay, marching from the south. “We’ve been scavenging for—”
Not listening to another word, Anya took off at a run—northward. Yes, she knew Ireland was to the south, but there was no chance she’d risk running within the Lord of Islay’s grasp. Besides, she needed to find a boat, she needed to find allies, or flag the English fleet.
Her mind raced as she struggled to navigate through the thick grass and the sharp stones hidden betwixt and beneath.
When I return to Carrickfergus, I will never again doubt the sensibility of a marriage to Lord O’Doherty. He’s a good man. He’s a sane man. He is not a marauding pirate and I doubt he would lift a finger to harm me. ’Tis a good match. I never should have doubted my guardian’s sensibilities. I never should have slipped out of the castle. Not once. Blast that stupid key and blast my adventuresome spirit. The countess always said it would send me to ruin!
A stich in Anya’s side ached, but she didn’t dare slow down. As she charged up an incline, she chanced a look over her shoulder. Islay was following, but not at a run.
As soon as she reached the crest, Anya realized why. Water surrounded her as far as the eye could see. For the love of God, they were stranded on a worthless little isle.
Panting for air, she wrapped her arms across her waist and girded herself to face the brother of the man who had killed her father.
Oh, by the saints, the man in the boat had not been an apparition. Now dry, Fairhair was even handsomer than when he’d faced her in the midst of the driving rain.
The wind whipped his blond hair sideways and he had a dastardly swagger to his gait, made far too beguiling by his plaid draped over one very broad shoulder and belted low around his hips. His shockingly blue eyes focused on her, the full lips of his mouth giving nothing away, neither smiling nor frowning. Lord save her, the man’s reputation had not been an exaggeration. There was a good reason Angus Og MacDonald was called Fairhair. Never in all her days had Anya seen a man so beautiful. He was prettier than her, perhaps more beautiful than Finovola, and as brawny as Ulster’s most prized knight for certain.
But the rumors about Islay were nothing short of sinister. This man might be as appealing to the eye as foxglove, but everyone knew him to be as ruthlessly noxious as the toxin within her blooms.
Suddenly very self-aware, Anya tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She already knew he was taller than a warhorse, but when he stopped in front of her, she felt incredibly small and vulnerable.
He gestured with outstretched arms. “Och, there’s no place to run on this wee isle.”
Anya didn’t dare look him in the eye. Instead, she stared at his feet and two muscular, hairy legs. “I-I must return to Carrickfergus forthwith.”
“Is that so?” He folded those powerful arms across a broad chest. “I’d like nothing better than to ferry ye home in one of my birlinns, but presently that poses a wee problem. Not only are we shipwrecked, we’re stranded. At least until we can piece together enough wood from the wreckage for Raghnall to sail across to Islay and seek help.”
Anya didn’t respond, though she followed his upturned palm, gesturing toward a dark strip of land in the distance.
“I’m afraid we weren’t properly introduced.” The scoundrel took a step back and bowed. “I’m Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of Islay—the island just yonder. Unfortunately, my keep sits on the southern end and we’ve been shipwrecked to the north, where nary a soul can see us.”
Anya licked her lips and dipped into a hasty curtsey. “I’m…ah…”
“Can ye no’ remember your name, lass?”