was more peaceful now than when awake. Though the rattle in her breathing made his heart twist. If only he could have fallen ill and not her.
In truth, his feelings for Miss Anya were far different than anything he’d ever experienced in his life. Even Ella.
Hmm. ’Tis interesting my recall of the vixen’s name gave me no pause whatsoever.
Most times a lassie would catch his eye, and he’d dally with them until he grew bored. But Angus wanted to protect this woman with every fiber of his being. He wanted to shelter her from all harm, including Robert the Bruce. Not that the king intended to do her bodily harm, but caging this dove as a political prisoner seemed a crime in itself.
Och, aye, if times were different, he might look upon her as a woman with whom he could start a family. If she weren’t an O’Cahan. If she weren’t aligned with the House of Ulster. If she weren’t already promised to another.
Alas, Angus had naught but to persevere—rein in his lustful nature and enjoy what time he had with her.
“Nay!” she shouted, tossing her head from side to side, making the cloth drop to the mattress.
“Anya?” he whispered.
“Nay, nay, nay!”
Angus tried to replace the cloth, but she batted his hand away. “What has ye so riled?”
“I do not want to go!”
“Where?”
“This is my home,” she mumbled, followed by thrashing and a string of imperceptible blathering.
Realizing she was in the midst of a night terror, Angus tried to rouse her. “Anya, ye must wake.”
She flung out her arm, smacking him across the face. “Why? Why must females always be used as pawns? No one cares about what we want or how we feel!”
“Anya?” Angus tried again.
This time, an enormous sigh seemed to come from the depths of her soul. Then she coughed and curled onto her side, her body quiet again, though her breathing still rattled.
Ever so gently, he brushed the cool cloth across her cheek and forehead. “Hush, mo leannan, and sleep.”
Moving to the foot of the bed, he exposed her feet and rubbed in the deer oil that Lilas had provided, praying it would work and that Anya would be well come morn.
Once the lass was resting peacefully, he moved back to the chair at her bedside and for some reason, he started to talk. “My mother says God blessed me with many things, but when it comes to matters of the heart, I am sorely lacking. I suppose she’s right. After all, she’s a female, and Lord kens I oft have no idea what women are thinking or what they might truly want, or what they may think of me.”
He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “I wonder what ye think of me, lass. I ken ye first saw me as Fairhair, the man with the devil’s heart. But if ye take away the gossip, the title, and the feuds, and look at me as a man, am I good? Am I worthy? If things were different, would ye want…me?”
Anya’s cough startled her awake, but when she swallowed, she was surprised to discover doing so didn’t hurt very much at all. As she stretched out her arms, her fingers brushed over a crown of silky hair right there on her tiny little bed. Opening her eyes, she found the Lord of Islay sitting in a chair, hunched forward, and cradling his head on the mattress atop folded arms. His eyes were closed and by the slow cadence of his breathing, he was deep in slumber. She raised her hand to caress his head but, not wanting to wake him, she clenched her fist and pulled it away.
How long have I been abed?
Though she couldn’t be certain, every time she’d awoken, Angus had been there. He’d relentlessly applied cold cloths to her forehead. He’d talked to her in a soft voice that was ever so soothing. Anya rolled to her side and examined his face, partially hidden by tawny hair. His beard had grown in as it had done on the Isle of Nave, but this time he didn’t look like a pirate at all. He was scruffy, to be sure. But up close like this and sound asleep, he resembled a guardian angel.
She gently brushed his hair away from his face and examined a small scar at his temple. About an inch long, the puckered skin was straight as if he’d been nicked by a blade—most likely he had been.