Chapter Five #2
She shot him a wide-eyed look that stalled Reid’s tongue for a moment. What was the woman hiding? Even though Laria’s instincts told her Reid was honorable, that feeling dissolved when it came to his sister.
“If you leave without a destination before winter,” Reid said, “ye might be caught in the cold and freeze.” He shook his head. “Ye should stay. Laria and Erskine will make certain we survive.”
Winnie snorted, giving Laria an accusatory glare. Laria looked away. Iain had promised them food and shelter if she killed Cyrus Mackinnon. Now that she’d disappointed her cousin, their whole troop was in jeopardy.
The rain increased into a sheet of water as if they hid behind a waterfall, and everyone stared out at it.
“God sent the rain,” said Leah, the seven-year-old girl with the feathery red blotch across half her face. She caught drops on her outstretched hand. “It will wash away our tracks.”
“He protects us,” Laria said, stepping out into the rain, her voice raised over the downpour.
She smiled brightly at the girl. God certainly wouldn’t have sliced Cyrus Mackinnon’s throat, but He was washing away the evidence of their hasty retreat farther into the forest surrounding Staffin Village.
“You’re getting all wet,” Leah called over the downpour.
Laria showed her the lump of soap and raised it to her head. “I’m getting clean.” It wasn’t as cold as Winnie made it out to be, especially for Laria, who swam every day in the loch. And it had been a warm day for September, the summer not yet willing to surrender to autumn.
Leah’s face broke into a wide-eyed smile, and she spun toward her mother, Kate, who stood with her under the overhang. “Mama, I want to get clean, too,” she called.
“Any chance to get her cleaner,” Kate said, stripping the girl down to her smock so that she could dance after Laria in the rainstorm. Several other inhabitants of their small clan joined in.
Reid shook his head but held his smile. Laria walked over to him, working the soap up her neck and ignoring Winnie. “Are the water barrels set out?”
Reid nodded, but he frowned, studying her. She felt his gaze following the path of the soap against her neck. He slid the blanket from his shoulders to wrap it around his sister. “I’ll show ye.”
He jogged out into the rain, and Laria followed him farther down the line of boulders where two rain barrels stood.
Reid ducked into a small alcove and looked at Laria while she ran the soap along her limbs.
“Yer throat?” he said, nodding to her. “Did he hurt ye?” Reid knew what she’d been ordered to do; he was the only one she’d confided in besides Erskine.
Reid had made her the shell mask for her to wear to the masquerade.
“I couldn’t kill him,” she whispered, looking over his head as she rinsed the slippery soap from her hair. She’d already admitted it to Erskine, who had mobilized their group immediately.
Reid’s nose crinkled, and he rubbed the water dripping from it. “I gathered that from the order to pack and move when ye returned before dawn.”
Laria shook her head, feeling the heaviness of guilt. A hot tear leaked out, but the rain washed it quickly away. She’d become adept at releasing the pressure of tears without allowing her face to pinch with sobs. “I should not have been trusted to save—”
“Ye aren’t a killer, Laria.” Reid nodded to Bonnie and Max, who could be seen jumping into the rain shower. “Ye’re a savior to them. People ostracized by Iain and his ilk.”
“Savior?” She snorted and rubbed her hands down her grimy face. “Erskine is the chief.”
“But ye’re the one thinking of ways to improve our comfort.” He pointed at the barrels. “Ye’re the one giving us the warmth of hope. Erskine is strong in other ways.” Reid shook his head. “But ye’re the heart of our group.”
Erskine spotted her and jogged through the rain to them.
Tall and broad like his father had been, he exuded strength.
He grabbed Laria’s wet shoulders, staring down at her as the rain lessened.
“We haven’t had time for yer report. Are ye hurt?
” His large thumb crossed over a bruise on her neck with a familiarity Laria still wasn’t used to.
Laria pulled his hand from her throat. “I am perfectly well—except that I failed to kill him.”
“How did ye get away?” Erskine asked. He ran a hand through his full mane of white hair. Concern tightened his colorless face.
“I…tied him to the bed while he was drugged.” She released a full breath, looking down at the growing mud. “I even held a blade to his throat, but… I couldn’t.” She glanced up into Erskine’s intense stare.
He held it without emotion. “I’d have been more disappointed if ye had.”
Her eyes shut, and the heat she felt proved that tears had swelled up in them. Erskine pulled her into a hug, and she let him.
“We must convince the group that we need to move off Macqueen land, seek sanctuary farther south on Skye,” Reid said behind them.
Laria inhaled through her nose, rallying her strength. She stepped back from Erskine and gave the usual response. “Grandmama wants to stay on Macqueen land. Her ancestors lived here. And the rest of our troop were raised to hate the other clans of Skye.”
But there was more to the tale, and Erskine knew it. If Laria married outside the clan, Sandris Macqueen’s will said that she would never be allowed back in Tuath Tower. He hated the other clans with a passion born of the devil and fanned to flames over years of strife.
“Ye can go,” Erskine said quietly. “Somewhere safe and warm.”
Laria shook her head the smallest amount. Leaving Erskine alone here would make it harder for him to become chief of Clan Macqueen, something their group supported. They only had to get Iain out of Tuath Tower first.
Reid exhaled. “I know Sophie doesn’t want to leave, but we must plant the seed. With Iain and his henchmen hunting ye, Laria, we won’t be able to hide here forever.”
“I know,” she said, self-recrimination in her tone. “But ’tis safer than living at Tuath.” She glanced at the people now dancing in the rain. They might catch a chill, but she wasn’t about to stop this simple joy when there was so little in their lives to smile about.
Four years ago, when she’d realized that those not physically or mentally perfect were disappearing from Tuath Tower and the surrounding village, Laria had helped those who fled to survive.
From what Kate and Erskine said, it had begun when Iain’s brother, Wallace Macqueen, had taken the chiefdom. Most disliked Wallace and his heavy-handed ways, and Laria suspected that he’d locked his wife away, rather than her being shy like he said.
So when he fell from the cliffs and his more affable brother took up the leadership of the clan, its members quietly rejoiced.
No one challenged Iain. His ready smile, handsome face, and initial kindness fooled everyone.
Even now, he hid his crimes behind acts that seemed honorable on the surface.
But underneath, Iain was more rancid than his brother.
…
“Ye want to be Lord of the Isles?” Iain asked, a calculating grin on his face. He sat across from Cyrus at the table in Tuath Tower’s Great Hall.
“Nay,” Cyrus said. “Not a lord. ’Tis a council to unite the Isle of Skye, everyone with an equal say. We hope to bring the other isles into the fold.”
“One elected chief to lead for a year before another is selected by the group,” Rory added.
Iain crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. “Will the council table be round, like King Arthur’s?” He grinned, brows raised. “I have a copy of Le Morte d’Arthur in Tuath’s library.”
“The table could be a circle,” Cyrus said, “or square or rectangle or all of us sitting in a row, as long as the selected leader isn’t placed on a bloody throne.
” He sounded irritated, but his ire was mostly at the rain.
It continued to fall from the heavens like a curtain outside the windows, washing away footprints and drenching the world.
He couldn’t imagine it being comfortable living in the forest in a rainstorm.
Did Laria have shelter for herself and her grandmother and whoever else was out there with her?
Iain said there were others with them, criminals who’d rather live exiled than face their punishment.
Iain held out his hands as if surrendering. “I was just curious. The idea has merit.”
Cyrus ran a hand behind his neck, rubbing the tension there. The day was growing late, yet the rain continued. He’d have to hunt for Laria in the morning, giving her a full day’s head start.
“The goal,” Rory said, “is to stop all feuding and raiding on Skye and to unite all the clans on our isle so we are strong.”
Iain picked up his ale and took a gulp before putting it back on the table, where he sat at the head. “Raiding keeps us trained.”
Cyrus frowned. “Raiding weakens us and spurs deep-seated resentment and hostility among our clans rather than toward our true enemy, England. Warriors will remain in shape and ready by training with wooden swords and weapons on the field. We can hold games to keep a convivial competition going, but not through raids where warriors are injured or killed.”
Iain screwed up his mouth. “I just signed an alliance with Clan Mackinnon, not all the clans on Skye.” His glance at Rory was cooler than it had been. “What if I don’t agree? Will ye attack Clan Macqueen?”
Cyrus kept his relaxed posture even though he was the complete opposite of relaxed.
Rory spoke before he could. “If we combine the Macdonald, MacLeod, and MacNicol Clans and attack Tuath, there would be no more Clan Macqueen.” He shrugged. “Since ye only signed an alliance with Clan Mackinnon.”
Cyrus cleared his throat. “We are making Skye strong for when England comes to our shores.”
Color rose in Iain’s face, and his smile changed quickly into a fierce frown. “England won’t come up to the northern tip of Skye.”
“Just consider it,” Rory said, his voice even. “Together, we are strong. Fighting among each other will only lead to foking English victories like the one suffered at Solway Moss.”
“And Clan Mackinnon supports all the other clans on Skye,” Cyrus pointed out. “Grace is our bridge of peace. Don’t destroy it when it’s just been built.”
Iain nodded thoughtfully, but Cyrus saw something in his eyes.
Strategy? Lies? Or was the man just cautious?
The words Laria had written in her note to Grace circled within him.
Do not wed Iain Macqueen. He is the devil despite acting like the perfect saint.
Perhaps what Cyrus saw behind the man’s gaze was the devil.