Anya poked the guard in the chest with her pointer finger. “If ye do not wish for me to go, then ye’ll be forced to restrain me. And I’ll say here and now, I can make one hellacious racket when I have a mind to.”
“Very well. But if he grows cross, remember I told ye so.” Rory gestured along the corridor. “Except I’ll most likely be the one to bear the brunt of his ire.”
“Ye will not,” Anya said with more conviction than she felt. She marched toward the steps and descended until she reached the landing leading to the solar. “If Angus balks, I’ll…I’ll…”
“Ye’ll what?” asked the guard.
“I shall give him a piece of my mind.”
“Bloody good that’ll do,” Rory mumbled, though Anya ignored him.
Once they reached the door, she raised her fist to knock, but with a spike of rage, she instead grabbed the latch and thrust it open. “I need to speak to ye at once, my lord.”
Angus, Raghnall, and two of the MacDonald elders gaped at her.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have been quite so forward. Perhaps a little knock would have been appropriate. But now that she was standing there with her cheeks afire, she wasn’t about to back down. Anya held up her roll of vellum. “I only need a moment.”
Angus stood. “Gentlemen, I believe we have a solid plan. Ye are dismissed.”
Anya released a pent-up breath and gave Rory a nod. She hadn’t been chastised. At least not yet. After the men left, she stepped inside, making sure the door closed behind her.
Angus did not offer her a seat, but folded his arms and knitted his eyebrows. “Did I not tell ye to retire for the eve?”
“I did—I mean, you did, and I was unable to sleep.”
He moved to the sideboard and poured a dram of whisky, then held up the flagon. “Would ye care for a tot? There’s no greater sleeping elixir than MacDonald brew.”
Anya slid into the chair at the corner of the table. “Perhaps a thimble full. I’m not terribly fond of whisky.”
“I’m surprised to hear ye’ve tried it.”
“Finovola and I stole into Papa’s solar years ago and we each helped ourselves to a nip. It burned something fierce.”
Angus chuckled as he returned to the table with two cups—his half full, hers a quarter. “It seems ye have a knack for slipping into places ye shouldn’t be.”
“Good heavens, ye would say such a thing.” Refusing to allow his slight to dissuade her, Anya set the roll of drawings on the table and took a tiny sip. No matter how much she tried to remain impassive, her nose scrunched and her eyes watered as the liquor burned all the way down her throat. She fanned her face “I have no idea why men like whisky so much.”
“One grows accustomed to the fire.”
“That explains it.” She sipped again, this time proving him right. It didn’t burn as much the second time.
“I’m certain ye did not come here for a wee dram and a chat,” he said, tapping the scroll. “What is on your mind?”
He asked the question so casually, as if he hadn’t cut her with his remarks in the great hall. But Anya wasn’t one to forget so quickly. “Well…” Exactly how did a female manage to tell a man she cared for him?
“Yes?”
Just out with it, ye daft Irishwoman. Anya unrolled the vellum. “Ye were rather blunt with me in the hall and it set me to thinking.”
Angus glanced at the first drawing—the one she’d sketched of him at the helm of his boat.
Anya covered his rendering with her palm. “Ye made me feel as if ye cannot trust me.”
He bit his lip. “I—”
“Allow me to finish, please.” Beneath the table, she flexed her toes.
His brows arched as he raised his cup. “By all means, miss.”
“Ye see, after I recovered enough to draw, and ye were so kind as to send up the parchment and whatnot, I set to sketching that which has been consuming my mind ever since ye pulled away the tarpaulin and discovered me in the midst of the storm.”
Anya showed him the drawings one after one. Aye, she might have depicted cliffs of Dùn Athad, but Angus was front and center on his horse, and lighting the fire. He was front and center of it all. She had even captured the beauty of his smile. “Do ye realize no man should ever be so captivating? I ought to hate ye to my very bones,