Chapter Four
“A lake is a landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is Earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature. ”
Rap. Rap. Rap. “Cy? Ye awake?”
The battle for life was brutal where Cyrus was pushing back Henry VIII’s forces, his boots getting stuck in the mire that was Solway Moss. He swung, but his arms weren’t working right. Bloody foking hell. He wasn’t going back to that dank dungeon at Carlisle.
“Cy. Open up.” Rap. Rap.
The fog of the dream parted, and Cyrus’s eyes snapped open.
He glanced down at himself, still tied to the bed.
He pulled at his bindings, an unpleasant tingling in his hands.
Daingead! It hadn’t been a bloody nightmare.
His siren had left him tied when she’d fled through some secret passageway hidden in the wall near the hearth.
“Cy?” It was Rory MacLeod.
“Is my mother or sister with ye?” Cyrus called out.
There was a gap of silence before Rory spoke. “Nay, but Sara’s here.”
“Good morn,” she called brightly through the door.
“Leave her out there, but ye may enter,” Cyrus called. At least the siren had covered his cock before she fled.
Rory walked in and stopped. Cyrus heard Sara gasp.
“Why are you tied to the bed?” she asked.
“I said only ye, Rory,” Cyrus answered, his voice terse.
“Bloody hell,” Rory said, flying into the room.
“Is he hurt?” Sara asked.
“Stay out.” A flush of heat prickled up Cyrus’s neck and into his face. Thank God his ballocks were covered.
“I am,” Sara said, “but I can see plenty from the door.”
“If anyone comes up—”
“Then I’ll close it,” Sara said. “Is that blood on your neck?”
Rory walked around the bed, staring down at him. His hands fell to rest on his hips. “I’ve seen ye in some awkward situations before, Cy, but this ranks as the worst.”
“Just foking untie me,” Cyrus said, gritting the words out. Fuzz coated his dry tongue. No doubt the wine was poisoned. But hadn’t the lass drunk from it, too? She could have just pretended to. He hadn’t been paying attention to a foking bottle of wine while her siren’s body lured him toward death.
Rory pulled his sgian dubh from its sheath tied just inside his boot and sliced through the wrist and ankle ropes on Cyrus’s left side before walking around. “Who did this to ye?”
“The woman who sent the otter running through Grace’s wedding.” Cyrus sat up in the bed, turning his wrists to reawaken his hands. Lord, but his shoulders ached from being tied in one position all night. He pulled the sheet around his waist and beckoned Sara inside. “Shut the door.”
Footsteps stopped in the corridor. “Is all well?” Iain Macqueen’s voice called out.
“No,” Sara said. “All is definitely not well.”
His new brother-in-law poked his head around the door. “What happened?”
“Close the damn door,” Cyrus said, not caring, at this point, if Iain came inside or not.
The door clicked, and Sara hurried to the bed. Her cool fingers touched the line on his throat. “’Tis superficial. A scratch, really. And the bruises look the type that come from love bites.”
Of course, Rory’s wife would know about love bites. Cyrus couldn’t look at her with his face flaming.
“Looks like ye had a fun night,” Iain said, coming closer, his face grim.
“Bloody foking hell,” Cyrus said. “A woman drugged me and tied me to the bed. And after I’d…we’d…had a most wonderful night. Extraordinary, in fact.”
“A criminal? In Tuath Tower?” Iain asked, a look of incredulity across his face. “I can’t imagine.” He rubbed his neatly trimmed beard with his hand, his eyes squinting as if he was trying hard to imagine it.
Cyrus stood, keeping the sheet wrapped around his hips, and walked to the hearth, his hand skimming along the wall. “I woke in the wee hours tied to the bed with her apologizing for having to kill me.”
Sara gasped. “Kill you? Why? Did you not…satisfy her?”
“Good God,” Iain said.
“That’s no reason to kill a man,” Rory said.
“Well, of course not,” Sara said.
“And I did satisfy her, if her lusty cries and thrashing were truthful,” Cyrus said, deciding he’d rather embarrass Sara than let the room think he was a poor lover. “We were both exceedingly satisfied.”
Sara studied Cyrus with a frown. “She was willing, wasn’t she?”
“Absolutely,” Cyrus said, anger tightening his face. “What kind of man do ye think I am?”
“A good man, Cy,” Sara said, “but why…?” She dragged a finger over her own throat and made a noise as if it were being cut.
“I don’t bloody know!”
“Perhaps she was mad,” Iain said.
“What did she say?” Rory asked.
Cyrus held the sheet tight as he walked to the freshwater pitcher and sniffed it.
Had she only drugged the wine? “I was drugged and still groggy, but I think she apologized for having to do the deed.” He lifted it to his mouth and drank.
If he fell into a drugged sleep again, at least Rory would make sure he wouldn’t be slaughtered while he lay unconscious.
“So she was ready to kill ye, but then she didn’t?” Iain asked, picking up the end of one of the ropes that had dropped onto the floor. “She had ye at her mercy, all tied up.” He touched his own throat. “A blade against yer neck, but then she just walked away?”
“Aye.”
“Why didn’t she do it, then?” Sara asked.
“I’m bloody glad she didn’t,” Cyrus said.
Sara waved her hands around. “I mean, thank God she didn’t, but what made her stop?”
Iain tossed the rope back on the floor. “Did ye talk her out of it?”
Cyrus turned in a circle, looking for any clues, but nothing of the siren remained. “She wore gloves last night, but then they were off when she was holding the dagger. There was something wrong with them.” He tried to remember. “Scarred, I think.”
“Like from cuts, or was it a birthmark?” Sara asked.
“They were burn scars, all over the backs of her hands. And I told her she didn’t want to kill me.
That if she did, she’d forever have my blood on her hands.
” He glanced at the three witnesses to his greatest blunder.
Iain frowned, his hands in fists. Sara looked aghast, while Rory looked mildly amused.
“After a moment, she cursed and spun away from me,” Cyrus said and frowned. “She was wearing trews and a tunic instead of her gown. Then, without a further word, she touched something over there, an opening appeared, and she slipped away.” He strode over to the wall.
“Some rooms have escape tunnels leading outside the tower,” Iain said. “This is one of them.”
“’Twas obvious she knew about it,” Cyrus said, catching the sheet before it slipped off his hips.
“Go put yer plaid on,” Rory said, coming over to continue Cyrus’s search. “Turn around, Sara.”
Cyrus threw his rumpled tunic over his head, yanked on his woolen hose, and pleated his plaid around his waist, securing it with a belt while slamming his feet into his boots.
“You should wash the blood off your neck,” Sara said. “The slash will cause more questions than the bruises.”
Grumbling, Cyrus wiped his neck. He hardly felt the scratch. Sara was right, it was superficial. The woman had had ample time to kill him while he was still unconscious. How long had she stood there deciding whether or not she was a murderer? Why had she spent the night with him first?
“Daingead,” he cursed under his breath, thinking of all she’d done to bring him pleasure.
She’d taken him in her mouth and let him explore every inch of her.
Was she trying to give him a last wondrous night of carnal heaven before killing him?
Was she deranged? Her apology and the muffled sob as she’d turned away made it seem as though she really didn’t want to kill him.
Had she been ordered to do it? By whom? Who could make her agree to it when it was obvious from her tears that she abhorred the idea?
Questions just bred more questions. He would find her and demand answers.
“Here,” Iain said as he touched a book. “See? If you slide out this book, there’s a handle that pulls a chain on the other side.” He worked the bar, and something behind the plastered stone wall clicked softly. “’Tis a clever design.”
Cyrus pushed against the wall, and it moved back just enough to allow someone to slip inside.
“Here,” Sara said, lighting a glass-covered lamp from the embers in the hearth.
Cyrus took it, brandishing it into the small space. “There’s a staircase.”
“It will lead to a door that opens in the base of the tower,” Iain said.
The narrow steps were made of stone. Cyrus’s foot barely fit on each, even though he turned to the side, as he descended with haste.
“Don’t fall and break yer bloody neck,” Rory said from above as he followed with Iain.
Cyrus’s need to find answers made him desperate to reach the bottom, which was nonsense. It wasn’t like his siren would be waiting down there. He’d spent at least four hours tied to his bed after she’d escaped.
A small wooden door sat at the bottom. Cyrus pushed it open, bending to exit under the low lintel.
“Oh!” said a young woman. She wore an apron stained with green, as if she’d been kneeling in weeds. Her light-colored hair was tied up under a cap, and she held a basket of herbs. The fragrance of rosemary filled his nose.
Rory pushed his way out. “I made Sara stay above. In her condition, she shouldn’t be traversing dangerous stairways.”
The maid saw Iain and dipped into a curtsey. “Good morn, milord,” she said. “I was just clipping seasoning for Cook to use in her stew.”
“I’m sure ye’re doing a fine job, Penny,” Iain answered with indulgent patience.
Rory looked at Cyrus. “Not yer lady of bondage?”
The woman’s eyes grew round. Her upper body, including her chin, pulled back like a flustered hen. Cyrus could imagine her flapping her arms and running away any second.
“Nay.” Cyrus kept his gaze on the maid. “Have ye seen a woman leave through this door? Wearing trews and a man’s tunic?”
“No, milord.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen none but ye three.”
“Ye may go, then,” Iain said, and she hurried off.