Chapter Eight
“Nothing is softer or more flexible than water, yet nothing can resist it.”
Cyrus stared into her green-blue eyes and saw courage, guilt, and fury.
He did not see madness. Could Iain be the cruel tyrant she described?
Bloody hell, he hoped not, or he’d just been tricked into giving his sister into a madman’s care.
Or was Cyrus a fool to believe a siren who’d lured him so easily to near death?
A sound in the trees to the right made him turn. Her cool fingers dropped away from his throat, and he placed his body to shield her from the new threat.
The threat was Oscar, the one-legged old man, and he was pissing against a large oak. The man jerked when he looked over his shoulder. “Pardon,” he said and dropped his plaid. “Didn’t see ye two there.” He shrugged, his face going red.
“’Tis all well, Oscar,” she said.
“Have ye assigned a place yet for…?” He indicated the tree and then looked at Cyrus. “She does that when we set up a new camp. One of the first things because the littles have to go after a move. A place for the lasses and a separate place for—”
“I should have done that first thing,” Laria said. “Perhaps you could assign the places this time. Somewhere more,” she threw her arm out, “private. Look for bushes.”
“Aye, right,” he said. “I can do that.” The gray-haired man nodded like a pecking bird and moved back around the rock face with a quickness Cyrus hadn’t anticipated. Laria followed Oscar with her gaze.
“They’ve been shiteing in the woods for months?” he asked.
She turned back to him. “Nothing worse than what your men resort to on campaign.”
He rubbed a hand down his mouth, imagining Sophie having to squat to piss. The old woman must be as tough as the others to remain out here.
“There ye are,” Rory said, stepping around the rock face. “I’m heading back to Tuath Tower. Sara will be worried, and in her condition, I don’t want that.” His gaze moved between Cyrus and Laria. “Ye coming, Cy?”
Cyrus had the feeling that if he left now, the camp might be gone again in the morn. “I’m staying the night. Tell my mother that I’m following their trail toward the north and will return on the morrow.”
“She’ll tell Grace, who will tell Iain,” Rory said.
“Aye, that’s why I said north when we are south.”
Rory let his amber eyes shift to Laria. “I’ll be back in the morn with what foodstuffs I can find.”
“Make sure no one follows you,” she said and gave him a smile. “And…thank you.” The thanks came out stiff, perfunctory.
“I’ll take precautions,” Rory said. His piercing gaze returned to Cyrus.
“Ye should take precautions, too.” His friend was warning him not to let the lass drug, bind, and kill him and deliver his head to Iain.
Before either of them could respond, Rory turned and strode off in the direction Laria had taken from the loch.
Cyrus’s mind tumbled over everything Laria had told him. I’m so sorry. I have no choice. The tears that had streamed down the woman’s face as she stood over him with the blade had been real. Someone without moral decency or who’d killed before wouldn’t have shown such emotion.
Iain Macqueen, a cold-blooded pretender? He turned. “That’s why ye shot the note to warn—” His words cut off when he realized he was alone. He pivoted in a circle, but Laria had disappeared. His heart gave several deep thuds, readying him for action.
“Laria,” he called out, jogging around the rock face.
The clearing was empty except for Erskine with his serious face and white hair. He held a finger to his lips, reminding Cyrus that they must always remain quiet. They were the hunted.
Erskine pointed to the cave where they’d left Sophie. The sun was setting, and Cyrus smelled the cooking fire before he saw it at the mouth of the cave. He ducked to enter. At least five sets of eyes stared back at him. “Laria?” he asked.
“My granddaughter is here,” Sophie said, sitting against the wall, her back as straight as if she sat at the king’s table. Kate was holding her daughter, Leah, in her lap, and Leah had the spaniel in hers. Laria was handing around buns.
“Pardon,” someone said behind him, and Cyrus backed out of the cave. It was the older boy, his sister behind him. She smiled timidly at Cyrus.
Bonnie gestured at the boy to go in and looked at Cyrus. “Too cramped for us all to be in the big cave.” She pointed back over her shoulder. “There’s an almost-cave over there that fits about three and another one for Kate and Erskine and Leah.”
“Almost-cave?” he asked.
“’Tis a bit open on top, but we’re surrounded by the rock.” Bonnie shrugged. “It works.”
The lad hurried out and handed a roll to each of the ladies and Erskine. “Oscar’s setting up the chessboard.” He smiled, jerking his thumb toward the large cave.
The boy looked at Cyrus. “Do ye play chess, Lord Mackinnon?”
He’d never played in a cave before. “Aye.”
The boy smiled. “I’m Maxwell, if ye remember, and I’m the chess champion of our little group.”
For a moment, Maxwell seemed very happy living out in the forest playing chess. How much better would it be for him to play before a hearth fire in a library? Could Iain really be so vicious that living in a cave was preferable?
Cyrus nodded. “I’ll play after ye and Oscar. I wouldn’t take the pleasure from him.” He followed Maxwell inside, ducking his head.
Ginny gave a bark before Leah scooped her up, shushing her. “Keep her in your arms,” her mother said. “She doesn’t bark then.” The little spaniel kept her eyes on him. Did she know her mistress had been murdered?
Sophie beckoned Cyrus over to sit beside her, and Laria handed him a bun.
Her gloves were off, and he could see the red scars over the backs of her hands.
Her smallest finger looked disfigured. “Eat the chicken before it goes off,” she said, nodding to the half-picked carcass of the roast. In answer, his stomach rumbled, bringing out a ghost of a smile on her face.
“Mighty Highlanders are bound to their stomachs.”
“Better than bound to my bed,” he murmured.
Laria’s smile faded, and she turned away. Their conversation outside hadn’t been finished. When would they have a chance to be alone? She hadn’t murdered him, but she’d still humiliated him and, if she was to be believed, had left him where he might have been killed.
He ate, watching Laria cut apart and give out the chicken, including to the spaniel.
“I found a patch of blackberries,” Leah said. “Mostly picked clean and some shriveled, but there are a few left we can have with the buns in the morn.”
“Good work,” Laria said, giving a serious nod. “What a help you are.”
Leah smiled with gap-toothed pride. Her hair was brushed and curled around her face like any young lass’s, no effort made to try to hide the red blotch.
Cyrus sat back, listening to the small comments floating between Oscar and Maxwell as they played chess.
It was a game he’d played often with his brother, Patrick, before he’d died of the taint from a sword slash.
Patrick had been extremely competitive and would rage when he lost. That didn’t stop Cyrus from beating him soundly most of the time.
It was the only time his father, Hamish, would look on Cyrus with pride and tell Patrick to hold his tongue.
Hamish Mackinnon had never expected much from his second son.
Cyrus was seven years younger than Patrick.
The older son could do no wrong, except when he got himself imprisoned after the Battle of Solway Moss.
Even though Cyrus had managed to escape the embarrassing loss and help his father to safety over the boggy grounds, Hamish had jumped at the opportunity to exchange Cyrus for Patrick.
And then his father had forgotten him down in Carlisle Dungeon.
It had taken hidden gifts from an anonymous savior to give him and his three cellmates a chance to return to their beloved Isle of Skye.
His father had been surprised to see him walking up the path, a thin, weakened version of himself.
It had taken months to regain his weight and muscle, but he had recovered—without a word of encouragement or remorse from Hamish.
Cyrus pushed back at the dark emotions that surfaced whenever he thought of his father.
They did nothing but sour his mood and affect rational decisions.
The man was on his deathbed, still insistent on taking over all of Skye.
But to create a united Skye, Cyrus needed to help bring the clans together in a strong alliance.
He’d jeopardized that last year when he’d almost gone to war against Kenan Macdonald for not wedding Grace.
Unfortunately, now she was wed to a possible monster.
How much easier it would have been to have her safely wed to Kenan. Daingead.
“Checkmate,” Maxwell called with triumph.
Oscar shook his head, staring at the board.
“Sneaky bastard,” he murmured, which made Maxwell laugh louder.
Ginny leaped from Leah’s lap to prance around.
The scene was a stark contrast to the angry conclusions to Cyrus’s games with Patrick.
Even though the brothers had sat before a warm fire with good ale and hearty fare, the warmth of happiness filling the cave as everyone congratulated the lad seemed preferable.
Maxwell looked at Cyrus. “Ready to take on the champion?”
“I’d like to watch Laria play the Mackinnon warrior,” Sophie said from her seat against the wall.
Laria, who had just walked back in with cut pine boughs, stopped. Cyrus stood and went to help her. “For yer grandmother?”
She nodded, and they strode with them to the wall next to Sophie, where they fanned them out on the hard ground. “I have work to do, Grandmama. No time for games.”
“Nonsense. We have all the time in the world out here,” Sophie said.
Maxwell had reset the board and beckoned her over to take his seat. “I can help ye.”