Chapter Eight #2
“She’s fine on her own,” Sophie said. “Her father and I taught her strategy.” She tapped her temple lightly. “How to think moves ahead, of consequences and needful sacrifices.”
Laria’s lips thinned into a line. Was she thinking about how she’d risked so much to bring these people out here? Whether it was the right decision?
She took Maxwell’s spot. Cyrus sat opposite, since Oscar had moved away to sit with the spectators. Cyrus indicated Laria. “Since ye have Maxwell’s place, and he was the winner, ye can go first.”
Without any argument, she moved a pawn made of white pine. Laria wasn’t the type to brush away an advantage. He moved his pawn, too, noticing the details of each piece. “The set was carved with skill.”
Laria moved her knight forward. “My father took a basic set and carved the clothing and faces.”
On closer inspection, each pawn had a unique face.
The set was made of white pine for the lighter pieces and mahogany for the darker.
But time, care, and talent had rendered them into a uniquely interesting set.
Individual stones had been carved into each rook, and bridles were depicted on the knights’ horses.
The king and queen of each set had etched capes draped down their backs, and individual gemstones had been added to their crowns.
Silence permeated the cave, which had been lit by several glassed lanterns.
Errol had come to the natural doorway to watch.
Laria didn’t take much time to move, as if to do so would show that she actually cared about the outcome.
Even so, she wasn’t easily beaten. Cyrus tried two tactical patterns that she countered with swift elegance, making Maxwell chuckle under his breath.
Cyrus glanced up to find them all watching him, as if this game and his reactions were part of a test. Would he slaughter Laria across the board to show his superiority?
Would he let her win to try to earn her trust?
There was so much more strategy required in this game than just moving pieces on the board.
The best method, he decided, was to try to win honestly.
No holding back and no making conscious errors.
Once that decision was made, he began to enjoy the game.
She played like she seduced, with confidence and elegance that made him smile.
She didn’t knock the table with her knee when Cyrus stole her rook, like Patrick would have done, putting his pieces back to his advantage.
Something told Cyrus that Laria would never even consider such a ruthless, unfair tactic. Unless it was to save her people.
Soon they were down to very few pieces on both sides. Their queens had caused havoc across the board. And then Laria made a mistake, leaving her queen open. Once the queen was stolen, checkmate would quickly ensue. She met his gaze. “Your turn.”
He frowned. This was a test. She wouldn’t forfeit the game without purpose.
He stared back into her eyes. The pupils were large from the low light, and glimmers of gold flashed in them as they reflected the firelight. The scattering of freckles over her nose gave her a look of innocence, but there was a calculating mind behind that stare.
So he moved forward, capturing her queen. No one in the cave said a word, but Laria’s shoulders relaxed as she used her king to take his last pawn, moving her into checkmate. Her tight mouth relaxed. “You’ve won.”
“’Tis illegal to move yerself into checkmate,” he said, setting her king back into place.
“’Twas a legal move to steal a pawn,” she countered.
“He’s ri—” Maxwell started, but Oscar used his crutch to poke the lad. “Ouch.”
“Let the two figure it out,” Oscar whispered.
“Ye can surrender,” Cyrus said, tipping her king over gently to illustrate and then setting him back up. “Or ye can run.”
“I prefer to go out swinging,” she said. “By taking your pawn.”
“It breaks the rules.”
“The outcome is the same.”
The faces in the cave turned between them in unison as they argued about Laria’s loss.
“Then surrender,” Cyrus said.
She stared him hard in the eyes. “Never.” The word was a whisper, but it filled the silent, watching cave. The conviction in it sent shivers along his skin. Laria would rather die out here in the cold forest than return to Tuath Tower under Iain Macqueen’s threat—imagined or real.
Laria left her king upright and stood. “Time to find our pallets for the night. I can take first watch.”
“Erskine is already on watch,” Kate said, pulling Leah up. The wee lass’s eyes drooped as if she were half asleep.
“And I’m second watch,” Maxwell said.
“I’m third,” Errol said, the orange glow from the lanterns making the burns across his grizzled cheek look bright red.
“You need to sleep,” Sophie said to Laria, sounding every bit the imperious mother, clear and lucid. “After being awake most of the last two nights.”
They’d been together the first of those two nights.
Did her grandmother know of her night at the tower?
Laria turned away and marched out of the cave.
Were her cheeks burning? Did they all know that she’d seduced Cyrus, that she’d been told to kill him but then hadn’t?
Had that been what prevented her sleep last night?
Guilt? Worry about not accomplishing her mission?
He stood with the others, following them out of the cave. Bonnie remained, as did Maxwell and his sister. “Sleep well,” he said to Leah, and she waved over her shoulder as Kate led her away.
Stepping out of the cave, he didn’t see Laria.
The sun had gone down, and the shadows had lengthened into night.
He caught movement behind the rocks where they’d spoken earlier.
The sway of long hair that he knew to be soft and fragrant pulled him like a siren’s song.
He followed her into the darkness, stopping when he was out of the light cast by the lanterns.
He blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust. The moon had risen, but it was mostly blocked by those trees that hadn’t yet dropped their exhausted leaves.
“The men’s pissing area is south of the camp.” Her voice came from the shadows.
“Do ye worry about Iain finding ye? Is that why ye didn’t sleep well last night?”
There was a pause. “I worry about my people, my grandmother, wee Leah, and Ginny, a helpless dog who lost her lady mother to an unfair fate.”
His eyes adjusted, and he could see her standing above him on the rise. “They all felt the need to leave the safety and comfort of Staffin Village,” he said, keeping disbelief as well as encouragement out of his voice.
“Yes. Iain doesn’t value them, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have worth.
Whether he feels threatened by their differences or just repulsed, it doesn’t matter.
They would eventually be exiled or worse.
” She turned, climbing higher away from the caves.
“So I worry about the rain leaking on their heads and the coming cold that will make them shiver and grow ill. The hunger that will gnaw their middles and the cuts that can fester without proper medicines.”
He followed her deeper into the forest, the rain still dripping from the heavy leaves. “Ye need to find proper shelter.”
“I know that.”
Cyrus rubbed absently at his throat, the sting of the cut along his skin barely noticeable.
“Come to Mackinnon territory,” he said. “I will find ye shelter, and ye can become part of the Mackinnon Clan.” And maybe she could share his bed again.
Just the thought made his cock twitch, and he adjusted it.
Damn fool. This was no time to think of such things, even if she was luscious and warm.
Laria turned back to him. “Sophie is the Lady of Tuath Tower. Despite her decline, she is stubborn and clever enough to know if I move her. And she will not go. The others agree with her, although Kate would probably take Leah somewhere else if she didn’t love Erskine.”
And Laria wouldn’t leave them. Suggesting it would just make him sound cruel and flippant. Leaving others in order to survive was not something easily done, especially when they looked to her for help.
“I will give ye monies to buy food and blankets,” he said.
“And I will take them with gratitude.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, her arms crossed. “But that won’t fix the problem, will it?” he said.
He saw her mouth tip upward. “You’re a bright man, Cyrus Mackinnon.”
He closed the distance between them, and she did not retreat.
“And ye’re a complicated woman, Laria Macqueen.
” When she didn’t reply, he continued, “Today, when I saw ye in the loch, I could imagine ye raising Excalibur from it.” If she’d named her steed Lancelot, she’d know that Excalibur was the mythical sword given to King Arthur to lead Britain.
A wry smile curved her very kissable mouth. “If I held Excalibur, all the chiefs of Scotland would bow to me.”
“And what would ye do with that power?” Cyrus reached for one of the curls lying against her cheek. She didn’t pull back, and he stroked the skin there.
“I would move my grandmama back into Tuath Tower and give her Iain’s bedchamber.”
Laria could rule everyone with the mythological sword gifted by the Lady of the Loch, and what she immediately thought to enforce was her grandmother’s happiness. There was no selfish agenda hiding behind her gorgeous, soulful eyes.
He slid his thumb across her cheek, enjoying the softness and the fact that she didn’t step away. Did she also feel the magnetic pull between them? This need to fit her against his body, to fill her full of himself and wrap his arms around her, protecting her from the world and all its treachery?
Responsibilities tried to push in on him. He needed to confront Iain about his sins. He needed to discover if he’d married his sister to a murderous tyrant. And he needed to somehow still forge peace on Skye. But right there in the woods in the dark, all his needs turned to Laria.
They stared at one another for long moments in the filtered cast of moonlight through the waving leaves. Drops of the earlier rain tapped down. The trees stood around them like living sentries. Neither of them spoke for a long time. “Do ye feel that, lass?” he asked.
Time passed, and he thought she wouldn’t answer.
“’Tis a foolish pull,” she whispered.
Her words shot hope through him. “An irrational need to touch ye.”
She stepped closer, so their bodies grazed each other, and he realized that her breaths were shallow. “Like the sizzle of lightning spurring my blood to run fast,” she said.
“And an ache,” he said. His hand lifted and threaded through her soft curls to the back of her head, spanning it to cradle in his palm. “An ache to touch.”
“And taste,” she whispered. Her face leaned in, her lips brushing his.
“To move as one.” His lips slid against hers as he held her there. Not kissing, exactly, but brushing against each other.
The tip of her tongue wet her bottom lip. “To give each other pleasure.”
“To breathe our combined scent,” he said.
“To suck and lap.” Her whispered words wrapped around him, gripping his already hard cock.
His lips moved to her ear where he whispered, “To fok ye until ye see stars behind yer eyes and scream in pleasure.”