Chapter Two #2
Cyrus’s gaze scanned the crowd. Would the cloaked woman attend?
People moved to the tables of food and drink, and Cyrus found himself with a whisky in his hand.
“Scowling at yer sister’s wedding won’t see ye with a bedfellow tonight,” Rory said. “Relax and try to enjoy. The whole Isle of Skye is united now.” Rory raised his cup.
“I am enjoying,” Cyrus said and took a sip from his own cup. “My enjoying face is under the mask.”
Rory chuckled. “I sent word to Kenan about the wedding and Iain’s signature on yer alliance document.” Kenan Macdonald felt it was best to stay away from Grace after breaking their almost-betrothal to pursue Tierney MacNicol.
“Their bairn is well?”
“Aye,” Rory said. “Kenan can’t stop talking about the wee lass.
They named her May, since that’s the month she was born.
And she babbles and smiles now.” Rory rubbed his face as he looked across at his ripening wife, who talked with Grace and her mother.
“I wonder if I’ll be as ridiculous when I’m a father. ”
“None of us have good examples of fathers to follow.” Cyrus thumped Rory’s shoulder. “Ye’ll just have to figure it out as ye go.”
Rory glanced at him, his face hardening. “Well, I’ll never send my son to England to be tortured in my place, that’s for certain.”
Cyrus nodded and raised his whisky cup for Rory to clink his own against, and they both drank to the grim pledge. They swallowed, Cyrus appreciating the smoothness of the spirit as it slid down and warmed his gut.
“If ye wed into a strong clan on the mainland, ’twill give Skye more protection,” Rory said.
“I just married my sister to Clan Mackinnon. There’s no rush for me to bind myself.”
“Captain Wharton must be still fuming down in England about our escape. If ye wed with a clan on the mainland, maybe south, an English army might be stopped before even reaching our shores, and we can lend support.”
“Wharton would likely convince King Henry to launch ships so he doesn’t have to march men across land,” Cyrus said and took another drink, hoping Rory would follow his example and stop talking about weddings.
“Ye don’t have an heir. If something was to happen to ye, Kenan and I would have to convince whoever takes over Clan Mackinnon that peace makes us the strongest. Best to create a younger version of yerself, Cy, one ye can mold before ye die.”
“Planning my death already?”
Rory lifted one eyebrow. “One never knows.”
Cyrus exhaled. “When the opportunity and the time are right, I will make the sacrifice.”
Rory glanced at Sara, who was beautiful with her smile, flaming red hair, and full belly. “Oh aye.” Sarcasm stretched his words, and he grinned at Cyrus. “Tying myself to the loveliest, most clever, most talented woman I’ve ever met.” He shrugged. “’Twas such a big sacrifice.”
“See,” Cyrus said, “ye’ve already taken the last one available.
” But he knew that sometime in the next ten years he’d need to wed, using himself to increase the strength of their web of alliances, slowly making it spread out to all of Scotland.
Grace had stepped right up after she’d met Iain Macqueen on their visit north for peace discussions.
She was ready to marry and start having children to love. She cooed over every bairn she saw.
As the hour progressed and whisky was running through most guests, the center cleared for dancing.
Sara had lured him out on the dance floor for a reel.
Cyrus was certain Rory had asked her to pull him away from the whisky line.
Then Grace led him like a belligerent horse over to their mother, who had agreed to one dance with her only remaining son.
Her back had been as straight as a sword and her tongue just as sharp.
“Your father won’t survive another winter,” she said without a hint of sorrow. Their marriage had been based on profit and responsibilities, not love. “Now that Grace is wed, you must settle your youthful prerogative into the seriousness of wedding and learning to lead Clan Mackinnon.”
Cyrus turned Olive in the steps of the pavane. “I know my responsibilities, Mother,” he said, ice in his tone. “I’ve learned much since I returned from England.”
She looked at him. “You sounded like your father just then.”
“That should make ye happy.”
He couldn’t see her eyes well with the mask over half her face, but he heard her sniff softly before she turned again in the dance.
Grace was too busy flitting around the room and dancing with her new husband to do more than wave to Cyrus.
She looked to be having a wonderful time.
Perhaps it would make up for the interrupted ceremony.
Would it make up for a marriage formed for alliances?
Hopefully, love would follow. Cyrus watched Iain Macqueen throughout the evening, but he was all smiles and laughter and grand gestures of graciousness. The devil? He didn’t look evil.
A woman dressed in hues of blue, green, and white stepped inside, pausing at the entryway.
Her oval face was mostly hidden by a blue mask that swooped upward from around her eyes to her dark-brown hair, which was partly pinned on top of her head and partly left to curl against her shoulders.
The costume reminded Cyrus of sea and surf with bright blue and green waves.
Her masked face turned toward Iain and Grace before her gaze scanned the wall.
When she saw Cyrus, she paused. Stepping forward, she wove between small groups of people like a ribbon of fog slithering between small isles off the coast. She edged around the floor where people were setting up to dance the daring la volta.
Her rich satin gown swayed around her legs almost like the rhythmic waves of the ocean.
As she drew closer, Cyrus saw small shells sewn onto the outer petticoat and her bodice.
They matched the shells studding her blue-and-white mask.
Her bodice hugged the slope of her waist from her well-formed breasts down to perfectly flaring hips.
She stopped before him. “Are you Cyrus Mackinnon, the bride’s brother?
” she asked, pointing to the red ribbon pinned over his heart.
“Tonight, I am a clear night sky,” he said with a grin that usually brought out answering grins in lasses. He swooped his arm to indicate his black attire. When she didn’t respond, he took a sip of whisky and nodded. “But usually, when not bedecked in black, I am Cyrus or Cy.”
“Mackinnon?” she asked. She stared into the eyeholes of his mask, as if searching for the answer.
“Aye. Cyrus Mackinnon.” He touched his red ribbon. “The bride’s brother.” He frowned as he glanced at his mother. She wasn’t wearing a red ribbon. Perhaps she’d refused, since it didn’t match her brown plumage and she didn’t care for whisky.
“That bride?” With a slender arm covered with a long white glove, she indicated Grace across the hall.
“I only know of one bride this day.”
She finally gave a little nod, her rose-hued lips perfectly full and kissable.
Och, but he’d had a bit too much whisky.
In his youth, he’d have blamed his mother’s coldness, but life had taught him that he was the one responsible for most of his own disasters.
Even trusting that his father would ransom him back from Carlisle Dungeon after he’d traded places with Patrick had been Cyrus’s own fault.
He’d done it for Patrick, though, not Hamish Mackinnon.
“And who are ye when ye’re not a sea siren covered with lovely shells?”
Her lips moved against each other as if she were deciding whether she should answer. “Poseidon’s daughter,” she said, referencing the god of the sea. “Shall we dance?”
He could demand her true name, but he worried she might walk away, and he wasn’t ready for the most interesting person he’d met here in Staffin Village to depart so soon. “Aye,” he said and put his hand out, palm up. It was an intimate way to lead her to the dance floor, but she didn’t hesitate.
When her gloved fingers pressed the center of his palm, sensation jolted Cyrus, making him want to strip the silky material from her fingers to feel the heat of her touch.
He closed his hand around hers in a clasp that seemed almost desperate and pulled her along with him to the floor cleared for dancing.
The volta was considered scandalous because the man was required to raise his knee under the woman’s arse, lifting her in a gentle turn to set her back down. The rest of the dance’s footwork was simple.
Cyrus clasped the woman around the waist, turning her with the rhythm of the song.
When he lifted her, she landed lightly without even a whisper of a gasp.
She knew the dance well and had an athletic grace that made Cyrus careful to match her steps.
Was he trying to impress her? It had been a long time since he’d cared enough, or been intrigued enough, to want to impress a lass.
The whisky was requiring him to concentrate a bit more than usual.
Bloody hell. Was he still the wastrel his parents thought him to be?
Pushing the mood-dampening thought aside, Cyrus clasped the mystery woman’s hand and felt her squeeze. Had she meant to? Was it some signal that she might want a kiss? I need to drink small ale after this.
They moved together as if they’d danced many times before, her body rotating around his with magnetic precision. Despite her perfect steps, she didn’t smile. Cyrus preferred happy lasses who wore smiles or seductive grins, signals that they might be up for a carnal adventure.
Daingead. The whisky was making him everything his mother and father predicted he’d become, a drunken arse who brought bastards into the world. Yet this woman didn’t smile or offer any hint of her thoughts.
Together, they moved expertly about the floor.
Every time they met, Cyrus felt a sizzle course through him.
His cock pulsed with definite interest. When he lifted her, he could make out the fresh smell of some woodland spice in her hair.
Setting her down, he stared past the cuts in her mask to her eyes, making out long lashes when she blinked. “What color are yer eyes, Lady Siren?”
He led her through the movements, though she was sure-footed. His gaze was drawn to her full lips as she spoke. “Some say green. Others say gray. At times they look almost blue.”
“I will have to see for myself and decide,” he said, giving her a grin that was known to entice even the most reticent woman to smile back.
“Perhaps in the morn.” Could she read the proposition in his words?
The slight hint that they might be together in the morn after a night of undoubtable passion?
Grace was right. He was incorrigible and should never drink whisky.
Would the mystery woman walk away or smile in interest? Poseidon’s daughter did neither. She just continued to dance with him. The lovely creature, costumed as if she’d walked out of the sea, gave him no hints about her thoughts. Was she enjoying his company? ’Tis the mask hiding her reactions.
As the dance ended, he didn’t release her hand. He would have if she’d pulled away, but she let him lead her to the refreshments. “Wine?”
Instead, she picked up a cup and turned the tap on the whisky. Another surprise.
“Ye like something stronger, I see,” he said. He only picked up a small ale—which had much less alcohol content. They walked over to a corner from where they could see the dancers, and he watched her sip the amber liquid.
There was something fresh about her, something real, despite the costume. She didn’t laugh overly loudly and try to capture his attention, but she didn’t move away or seem irritated by his interest, either. ’Twas as if she were an arrow, nocked and drawn, waiting for a signal to loose.
He looked out at the thinning crowd. When had it got so late?
The children had all been carried or led to their beds, along with one or both of their parents.
Rory had taken Sara to bed, probably to tup her like a feral cat, despite her growing round with child.
The candles had burned low, bringing out those given to debauchery. Yet the woman remained by his side.
Suddenly she turned her face to his. “The answer is yes,” she said.
His brows furrowed, although he kept his smile. “And the question was…?”
“Would I go with you, Cyrus Mackinnon, to your bed?”