Chapter One
“Men’s evil manners live in brass, their virtues we write in water.”
Tuath Tower– Home Of The Macqueens Of Skye
Staffin Village On Trotternish Peninsula,
Isle Of Skye, Scotland
Cyrus Mackinnon stood along the side of the Great Hall with his friend, Chief Rory MacLeod, as they watched the spectacle unfold. The small, sleek beast dashed on short legs back up the aisle created by chairs set up for his sister’s wedding to Chief Iain Macqueen.
“My wedding is ruined,” Grace Mackinnon wailed as she jumped onto a table, holding her voluminous skirts close to her ankles.
Her dark curls shot out as her head swiveled, searching for the animal running wild through what was supposed to be the perfect day, a day to unite Clan Mackinnon with Clan Macqueen.
“First the chickens,” she yelled, “and now this…this weasel.”
“I think ’tis an otter,” Rory called over the gasps and shrieks of the guests as the animal veered between retreating feet.
“First chickens?” Sara MacLeod asked next to Rory, her husband. “What happened to the chickens?”
Cyrus scanned the room of horror-pinched faces.
Someone must have brought the water-loving animal inside.
It wouldn’t wander far from its loch on its own.
Was someone trying to disrupt the fragile peace he was building between the clans?
Since he’d escaped Carlisle Dungeon with Rory MacLeod, Kenan Macdonald, and Asher MacNicol, the four—or at least three of them—had been working diligently to unite their isle to stand strong against any English incursion. Asher had disappeared.
Rory leaned toward Cyrus so that he’d be heard over the rampant chaos reverberating through Tuath Tower. “Should we do something?”
It seemed that every wedding on the Isle of Skye was doomed to some odd disaster, like an otter running through the flower-bedecked hall. Another reason his own inevitable wedding should be delayed as long as possible.
Sara stared open-mouthed as everyone in the crowded hall pushed toward the cramped entry alcove that led outdoors. “Yes, we should do something.”
“My mother has already fled, and Iain seems to be taking care of it,” Cyrus said, nodding toward the bridegroom. The tall, slender Macqueen chief chased the otter toward the altar, consternation pinching his usually smiling face.
Father Bright held his bible clutched before him as if he might use it to crush the beast if it came his way. His lips moved, probably in silent prayer.
Iain paused, crouched, his arms spread wide as the creature scooted under the chairs that had been turned this way and that, some of them overturned.
Cyrus released his crossed arms with a grim exhale and walked toward his sister.
Nothing with Grace was easy. And this madness was a bad omen for her marriage into Clan Macqueen.
Cyrus had wanted her to marry his friend, Kenan Macdonald, but the stubborn man had fallen in love with Tierney MacNicol, and the couple had married a few months ago.
The vows were spoken from the birthing bed, right in the middle of the gusty breathing, purging of body fluids, and vigorous pushing.
The story Kenan told was more gruesome than one of battle.
It had been another unconventional wedding.
“Grace,” Cyrus called above her yells, and she turned to him. “I’m coming.”
“Cy!” She held out her arms to him like she was a little lass, the crown of wedding roses dangling down her dark curls. He was once again her big brother, even though she was a year older than him.
Iain was across the room, now on his hands and knees, looking between the seats. His stream of cursing replaced the gasps and tapping footfalls, since most of the people had exited into the courtyard.
The otter ran right in front of Cyrus. He was about to scoop the rascal up when a red-painted leather ball rolled across his path. What in hell? The otter flipped about when it saw the ball and chased after it as the toy was tugged away by an attached string.
Cyrus tracked the otter as it scurried to a woman in a green cloak who had just stepped back into the Great Hall from the entryway.
She grabbed the ball and tucked the otter under her cloak.
With a flick of her gloved hand, she threw a paper arrow, which landed in the center aisle, and turned to escape behind the rest of the attendees.
Her hood was up over her hair, so Cyrus caught only a brief impression of a gently sloped nose and full lips in an oval face.
The curls that broke free of the garment were brown.
Otherwise, he’d have thought the disruptor to be Winnie Mar, the woman wanted for murder across the Isle of Skye.
But Winnie was blond and more petite. This woman was tall and dark, her features sculpted in beautiful perfection.
“Cyrus!” Grace flapped her arms at him.
Cyrus traipsed toward her. “’Tis gone now.” He lifted his sister from the table, and she flung herself into his arms. He hugged her back. “Father Bright will finish the ceremony. All is well.”
“My beautiful wedding, ruined,” she said against him, but Cyrus could only focus on the pointed piece of paper resting on the floor.
Had no one else seen it? He glanced toward Rory, but he was turned toward Sara, who was smiling into his face.
The two did an annoyingly large amount of staring into each other’s eyes.
“Come sit, and we will right everything,” he said, trying to disentangle himself from Grace. He led her to one of the two throne-like chairs that flanked the altar.
Sara brought over a goblet of wine. “Drink this, Grace. All will be well. At least no one was trying to murder you by setting the tower on fire.”
“Or crashing a flying machine into the sea,” Rory added.
“Where did the beast go?” Grace asked. “Is it gone?”
Cyrus turned, striding up the aisle to snatch up the arrow, unfolding it. “I don’t see the creature,” he called back as he read the scrawl inked across the paper.
Do not wed Iain Macqueen. He is the devil despite acting like the perfect saint. Find out the truth about his mother.
Cyrus looked to the doorway where the cloaked woman had fled with her otter, then at Grace, who sipped the wine Sara had given her. The note was for Grace. A prickle of unease skittered through him, stirring his warrior’s blood.
Was Iain Macqueen not the benevolent chief he appeared to be?
The man had acted only with honor since Cyrus had contacted him about an alliance and wedding his sister.
Other than the fact that he was the younger brother of the cruel Wallace Macqueen, Cyrus had found nothing concerning about the man.
His father had died when Iain was young, and his mother currently resided in a convent in Edinburgh.
There were rumors that Iain had been born a twin to a brother with a twisted spine.
The boy had died before reaching his tenth year, and his mother had gone mad for a short time following the loss.
Iain’s nursemaid had cared for him and his older brother during that time, and they had moved to Tuath Tower to live with Iain’s uncle.
The great Sandris Macqueen had been the chief of the clan and had taken in the boys and their mother.
“All is well now, my sweet bride,” Iain said as he dusted his plaid and knees, striding toward Grace. “Let’s finish our vows and move on to the festival outdoors.”
“But the ceremony is ruined,” Grace said, throwing herself into Iain’s outstretched arms with renewed anguish.
“We still have the festival and then the masquerade tonight,” he said, his hand gliding down her shiny hair.
Grace had told Cyrus that she thought Iain’s angular features held perfect symmetry, which she hoped would combine well with her face in their children.
He had medium-brown hair that hung around his bearded chin.
His eyes were intelligent and discreetly wary, but he smiled easily and seemed quite gracious.
He hadn’t raged when the cook reported that ten roasted hens had gone missing that morn, and he hadn’t erupted in lethal frustration at the creature running through his wedding ceremony.
Overall, Iain was the perfect brother-in-law, level-headed and agreeable to peace on the Isle of Skye.
The only odd thing was the absence of his mother and grandmother.
His grandmother, Sophie Macqueen, was considered the Lady of Tuath Tower and had lived there her whole life.
Was she visiting her daughter in Edinburgh?
Why hadn’t they attended the wedding? Had Iain barred them from coming?
Was that what made him so evil to the cloaked woman that she’d disrupt his wedding and warn his bride?
Cyrus tucked the note into his sash. If he gave it to Grace now, she’d start screaming again.
Their stoically handsome mother, Olive Mackinnon, had returned to the hall and was dabbing at Grace’s tears with a handkerchief while Iain spoke with Father Bright.
The Macqueen chief waved over to Grace, a smile on his lips.
“Father Bright will finish the ceremony right now, sweet. Or we can start from the beginning.”
“From the beginning,” Grace said. “I want it from the start.”
Cyrus eyed the doorway and exhaled his frustration.
He couldn’t track down the cloaked woman until after he saw his sister wed.
He didn’t dare add to the ruination of her wedding day by riding away.
He was to give her away in the ceremony since their father was too ill to make the journey to Trotternish.
And, as part of the Brotherhood he’d formed with Rory, Kenan, and Asher in Carlisle Dungeon, he must create alliances with all the chiefs on and around the Isle of Skye.
Grace wedding Chief Iain Macqueen was imperative to that goal. He must see it done.