“Anya,” she clipped. Her given name was common enough.
“An-y-a…” he said, drawing out the word as if trying to place it. “And who might your father be?”
“I-I’m an orphan.” At least that was not a lie.
His eyebrow quirked in disbelief. “Most orphans I ken, do no’ go traipsing about in sealskin cloaks.”
Anya gulped while heat rushed to her cheeks. Well, she wasn’t about to tell him she was the ward of the Earl of Ulster and most definitely did not want Islay to know she was the eldest daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan. Instead, she squared her shoulders and tipped up her chin. “That matters not. What is of foremost importance is I must return to Carrickfergus for the Saint Valentine’s Day feast.”
“Or what, pray tell?”
“Or…or the man to whom I am to be betrothed will most likely withdraw his offer of marriage, which absolutely must not happen.”
“Withdraw, will he?” Angus rested his hand on the pommel of his dirk. “Well, I reckon any fellow worth his salt will wait for a woman as bonny as ye. A lass who has won his heart…unless…”
Anya pursed her lips. Blast, blast, blast! She knew what he was thinking. Any man would wait for a woman unless it wasn’t a love match, unless it was an arrangement that included her dowry, which was very sizeable, indeed.
5
It was late afternoon by the time Angus and Raghnall had pieced together enough scraps from the wreckage to make a raft. They’d scavenged for bits of rope to secure the broken planks of wood together, but it hadn’t been enough. Fortunately, Anya made herself useful and found a priest’s stole in the chapel and, though it may have been sacrilegious to use it, Angus refused to believe God would smite him for trying to save their lives.
Among the wreckage, they’d found a few useful things, including an intact oar and a half-cask of wine.
As they worked, the lass sat off by herself, using a charcoal to draw on a piece of vellum. Evidently, she’d found more than a stole in the wee chapel. And from the few glimpses Angus stole of her work, she had a bit of talent.
Raghnall stood knee-deep in the frigid surf and tested the buoyancy of their craft. “I reckon she’s seaworthy.”
“Mayhap on a glassy loch.” Angus looked to the skies. “Ye’d best go now whilst the weather is calm. The only thing we can count on is it will not last. She’ll be blowing a gale by the witching hour, mark me.”
Raghnall held his thumb to the sun, low in the western sky. “I’ll make it all right. Providing I don’t freeze my ballocks, I’ll have a birlinn here to fetch ye and the lass afore dark on the morrow.”
“If only we could go with you.”
Raghnall swung his leg over the raft, straddling it. “This jumble of oak will barely support me, let alone three of us.”
Angus handed his man the oar. “We’ll be fine, providing no English patrols come snooping.”
“Or the lassie over there tries to slit your throat whilst ye’re sleeping.”
“She’s harmless.”
“She’s from the enemy’s camp, and that makes her lethal.” Raghnall placed the oar across his lap. “What do ye intend to do with her?”
Angus scratched the itchy stubble growing along his jaw. “I suppose I’ll find a way to send her home.”
“Aye, without getting your head severed in the process.”
“Or my arse filled with Ulster’s arrows.”
“Mayhap the Bruce will have an idea.”
“Ye reckon so?” Angus picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the surf. “As a result of the king’s brilliant plans of late, I’ve lost a quarter of my fleet and a number of good fighting men. With luck, the storm carried the king past Islay and he is seeking safe harbor elsewhere.”
“In such a hurry to be rid of His Grace?” Raghnall teased. “I thought ye wanted to secure the Lordship of the Isles.”
“I do, and ’tis the reason we’re in this mess.” Angus gave the raft a push. “Ye’d best dip that oar in the water unless ye want to spend another night sleeping on cold stone.”
He stood for a time watching his friend head for the swells of the North Sea, the raft riding low in the water. So many things weighed on Angus’ mind. Yes, he’d thrown in his lot with Robert the Bruce and now that he’d committed, he must see it through to the end. In England’s eyes, he and Clan MacDonald were now outlaws, and he had no intention of being captured, tortured, and put to death by Edward, Hammer of the Scots. Angus must do everything in his power to ensure King Robert’s success.
Tucked away in the isles during Wallace’s rise, the MacDonald clan had not been subject to as much tyranny as those on the mainland. But now with the increase in English patrols, Angus had seen enough to know if Longshanks wasn’t stopped, his clan and kin would suffer. Perhaps he might even lose his lands. It would slay him to watch the MacDougalls muscle into Islay, Skye, and Jura. Ruination had befallen many mainland lords, and it didn’t seem likely Edward would stop there.
The Scots may have been forced to eat crow for the past decade, but as Angus stood on that godforsaken shore, he made a silent vow to vanquish the enemy and drive them from Scotland once and for all.
“When do ye think he’ll return?” asked Anya, coming up from behind.
“This time on the morrow, God willing.”
“And then ye’ll take me back to Ireland?” she asked, as if it were more of a directive than a question.
“Aye.” He gave her a sideways glance, then mumbled, “When ’tis safe to do so.”
“Safe? Why do ye not hand me over to the English anon? Are they not patrolling these waters?”
He studied her wide eyes, beautiful, innocent emeralds. He hadn’t known Anya for long, but as plain as the nose on his face, she’d been sheltered and cosseted. Clearly, the lass had no idea what the English would do to him. Moreover, she was without a clue as to what they might do to her. “Ye do not want to climb aboard an English cog without an escort.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because ye’re female.”
“Do ye think they’d harm me?”
“I do not think. I ken. One look at a wee wisp of a lass such as you and they’ll be queuing up to sample your wares.”
“Ye are vile. No one—”
“Men are vile.” He started toward the makeshift oven he’d fashioned of sand and stone. Hours ago, he’d set the coals and added the brown crabs they’d harvested that morn. They were about the only thing to eat on the isle, barring the seals, and, when it came right down to it, crabs were far easier to catch and prepare. “Come, the food ought to be ready to eat.”
He used a stick to push away the stones and uncovered their meal. “I reckon these are ready.” He flicked them onto one of the chapel’s pewter alms platters. “It isn’t much, but it will keep us alive.”
Anya gave a nod, though she hadn’t said much since their encounter this morning. Regardless, there were things Angus needed to know before he took her to Dunyvaig and allowed her a free rein. Thus far, she had yet to earn his trust and she most certainly hadn’t earned Raghnall’s. Who, exactly, was this orphan and what was she hiding?