Chapter Eleven
“As fire when thrown into water is cooled down and put out, so also a false accusation when brought against a man of the purest and holiest character, boils over and is at once dissipated…”
Cyrus broke through the crowd in time to hear Laria’s plea.
Jasper’s arm still came down, the multiple tails of the vicious whip slashing across Erskine’s bare back, ripping into his white skin.
The man flinched but didn’t cry out. Cyrus flinched, too, remembering the searing pain of the lash from his time in Carlisle Dungeon.
Red bloomed immediately along the paths scoured into Erskine’s skin, the blood a macabre contrast to his pale complexion.
“Stop!” Laria yelled again, rushing into the center of the square. She threw her shawl over Erskine’s back. “I’m the thief. I’m the one who stole your bloody chickens. Me! Laria Macqueen, granddaughter to the Lady of Tuath Tower.”
“Lady Grace is now the Lady of Tuath Tower,” Iain called, sauntering into the square.
Cyrus ignored Iain and spoke to Jasper Whitt, his eyes piercing the brute who still held his iron-studded scourge. “Don’t ye dare touch Laria, or ye’ll lose both yer hands today. Ye’ll only be able to hold that whip with yer foking toes.”
The man’s lips pulled back in a snarl. Did he really think that showing his yellow teeth would put Cyrus off? “I don’t take orders from a foreign trespasser on Macqueen land,” Jasper said.
Iain raised his hands. “I think this man has learned not to take the blame for someone else’s sins. Release him.” His gaze went to Laria. “Laria is the thief.”
She stood wearing the simply cut gown of blue she’d been wearing the night of the masquerade, without the costume’s second layer of sea-green, white, and darker blue cut to resemble waves and seaweed.
Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths.
Was she afraid? She looked more relieved that Erskine was being released.
The man would need to heal, but at least it had ended with one strike.
“The woman is a resident of Tuath Tower,” Cyrus said as he stepped past Iain to her side. “She is the daughter of Chief Sandris Macqueen and granddaughter of Sophie Macqueen. She has a right to take food meant for the inhabitants of the chief’s castle.”
“She is a criminal,” Iain said, “even if ye don’t consider her a thief.” His face turned dark under Cyrus’s challenge. “She tied ye to yer bed the night of the masquerade and tried to slice yer throat.”
A series of gasps overlapped through the throng.
“After she enticed ye to carnal play like a succubus,” Iain added. “Her crimes are against ye, my new brother.”
“Oh my,” a woman murmured somewhere beside him.
Cyrus stood tall, his shoulders broad and solid. He looked from Laria to Iain. The bastard meant to embarrass him into silence. He didn’t know Cyrus very well.
Cyrus looked out at those gathered. “I was enthralled with a woman from the masquerade. I took her to my bedchamber and seduced a kiss from her.” Silence reigned in the square.
Men frowned, and women stared at him wide-eyed, a rosiness to some of their cheeks.
Now for the lie. “But Laria Macqueen was not the woman who’s kept me up at night with the memories of her touch. ”
“Didn’t she take off her mask?” said a woman with lines scored into the weathered skin around her thin lips.
“Nay. She was a mystery to me.”
“Her hands,” called another matron, pointing to Laria. “Were her hands scarred and deformed like hers?”
Jasper reached over and yanked Laria’s gloves off, exposing the circular red marks. He held her hand up, and people gasped. Fury burned in Cyrus’s gut. He must have moved forward, because Rory’s hand on his shoulder kept him back.
Laria stood still, her gaze on the ground. Silent hurt radiated from her, and he desperately wanted to get her away from Tuath and Iain and all these judgmental people.
“His jack would wither if it was touched by those talons,” said a man whom Cyrus wanted to punch.
Cyrus pulled in a long inhale. He needed to turn the attention away from Laria, to shield her with his own spectacle. The villagers needed another topic to discuss in whispers later, a new target to gossip over. “I recall only strength and courage in the lass’s hands.”
“Nothing but scratchy disease in Laria’s hands,” Jasper said.
“If I scratch you, Jasper Whitt,” she said, her voice stronger than her stance, “I hope disease takes you.”
“Tie her hands,” Iain said.
Fok. This was getting worse. Cyrus turned to the villagers standing at least six deep around the square.
His gaze ranged over the lasses with a searching look.
Kenan had once said that Cyrus could look at a woman in a way that turned her heart to instant folly.
Rory had called it his bewitching charm.
Cyrus knew nothing of bewitching, but he forced his mouth to relax in a roguish grin as his gaze connected with the young women’s.
He’d use his charm as a beacon, pulling the judgmental stares.
“The lass who enchanted me was masked the entire time, her hair tucked away under a scarf to hide herself, but I know the softness of her lips. She was modest with virtue and left me with only a kiss. Her name was Mary.”
Several young ladies gasped softly, their faces snapping to others in the crowd as if searching out Cyrus’s Mary. Others held their hands over their mouths.
“Ye were tied to the bed,” Iain said with cutting sarcasm. “Naked.”
Eyes widened, some gazes dropping to Cyrus’s plaid as if they could imagine his naked form.
“’Twas a fantasy of mine,” he answered without looking at Iain. “I asked her to tie me up and kiss me.” Murmurs and gasps rose like a wave.
“Bloody hell,” Rory murmured and turned to look back at the tower. “’Tis a good thing yer mother isn’t out here. She’d either run ye through or swoon.”
Cyrus held up his arms to pull his audience back in.
“But Mary remained chaste, only surrendering a kiss, one I will remember even into the grave. My sweet Mary.” Cyrus didn’t look at Rory or at Laria but kept his attention on the women of the village.
Even the stares from the older matrons had softened into something more wistful.
“Enough of—” Iain started, but Cyrus cut him off, his voice resonating with appeal.
“I will be the chief of Clan Mackinnon, and I would find this mystery Mary, a woman who has captured my heart with a single kiss.” Cyrus let his gaze move over Laria, who stood with her head again level, her lips parted and brows raised.
His gaze stopped on Iain. “Yer cousin is not that woman. She has done no wrong except to take food that belongs to her through her ties to Tuath Tower and her father, Chief Sandris.”
Iain’s mouth seemed unhinged at the jaw, and he blinked in confusion. “This is ridiculous. Laria seduced ye, tied ye to her bed in the tower, and almost sliced yer throat.”
“’Twas Mary who seduced me with a kiss and tied me to her heart,” Cyrus said, his voice rising up.
If he was going to lie, he’d make the farce huge and heartfelt.
“I must find her, kiss her again, and marry her. I demand it.” He stood with his legs braced for battle, as if he’d wage war against God Himself if He dared stand in the way of his true love.
Feminine murmurs rose behind him. The men made no sound, but Cyrus could feel their hard stares. A few shook their heads. Was this farce working?
“My name is Mary.”
Cyrus spun to see a willowy young woman with blond hair and a shy smile. “I will kiss ye. See if I’m the Mary you remember.”
“How many people did ye kiss the night of the masquerade?” an older warrior asked. “Ye’ll be known as the randy Chief Mackinnon who likes to be tied up.” Several men laughed. The bloody nickname would probably haunt him the rest of his life.
A hand went up in the back of the crowd, saving Cyrus from having to answer. “My daughter here is Mary.” A woman in a worn apron pushed through the throng, pulling a thin lass who hardly looked old enough to wed. Her cheeks burned as if she’d spent the day staring at the sun.
“I’m Marybeth,” said a woman with full lips and a saucy grin who stepped out before the young lass. “And you can call me anything you’d like if you marry me.”
A few chuckles came from the crowd. Cyrus wasn’t certain, but it seemed as though the females in the group had moved forward, like a net cinching around him.
Three more Marys pushed forward. “Lord Mackinnon,” said one with braids tied high on the top of her head, “ye should kiss each Mary to see which was the one to steal yer heart.”
Everyone started talking at once.
“Aye!”
“To find yer Mary.”
“My daughter is Jane, but she likes the name Mary. You can call her Mary.”
“We can set up a line, and Lord Mackinnon can kiss each lass to find his Mary.”
“Put yer hand down,” a man with a patchy beard said. “Ye’re wed to me, and yer name is Esther.”
“I have a cousin named Mary. She was in the village the day of the masquerade.”
Through the clamoring of mostly hopeful mothers, Cyrus noticed that Erskine had been helped away by Kate, who’d emerged from the crowd of onlookers. He wished Laria could have gone with them, but Jasper’s men had bound her wrists.
Iain’s face was red and bullish. “Quiet!” he yelled.
By then, Grace and Sara had walked out through the gate to see what the noise was about. But Cyrus pushed onward with a gracious smile at the ladies now surrounding him. “I am certain I will find my Mary. I thank ye for yer help.”
He spread his arms wide. “But first,” he swung an arm toward Laria, “Laria, granddaughter of Sophie Macqueen, former Lady of Tuath Tower, is innocent of wrongdoing and should be set free. Only with this injustice rectified can I relax into finding the kiss that ensnared me.”
Everyone’s gaze shifted to Laria, whose scarred arms were tied before her for all to see.
“And then I can be tied down to be kissed,” he called out as he stepped before her, shielding her.