Chapter Eleven #2
“Holy Mother Mary,” Sara said. “What is Cy talking about?”
“Oh, ’tis not a holy Mary but a kissing Mary,” one of the mothers explained to her. “And Lord Mackinnon is going to wed her.”
“Laria will not be released,” Iain said over the rise of shocked murmuring.
“She has also taken my own grandmother, our great Lady Sophie, from Tuath Tower.” Iain was clearly at the end of his patience.
“Laria Macqueen has to answer for that.” He flipped his hand toward the villagers.
“Kiss all the lasses ye like, Mackinnon, naked and tied to yer bed, but Laria is coming home to the tower today.”
Home? Tuath was Laria’s prison with Iain the jailer. Had the tower ever been her home with him living there?
“Foking hell,” Jasper cursed. “The man is gone.” He shoved his way through the crowd, his short, muscled arms flying this way and that. “Erskine, the pale bugger, has disappeared.”
“Just bring Laria.” Iain turned. “Come now, wife.” He pulled Grace next to him to stride toward the tower. She glanced over her shoulder at Cyrus with a furrowed brow and a wry grin. He could hear her judgment as if she’d spoken it. Whatever you’re up to, Brother, it isn’t working.
At least Laria was holding her gaze level again.
Sara came to Rory’s side. “What’s going on? And why do all these women look like they want to gobble up Cyrus?”
Rory chuckled darkly. “Gobble up? They certainly do look hungry.”
Sara lowered her voice. “I swear that one in the blue apron is licking her lips.”
Rory’s hand came down on Cyrus’s shoulder. “Try to get inside without them tying ye up for a kiss and a marriage proposal. I think I saw a group of mothers heading toward the chapel to find a priest.”
Cyrus watched Laria, her bound hands pressed into the folds of her petticoat, being led away. He’d managed to provide a diversion for Erskine’s escape, and he’d taken the stares and conjectures from her, but Laria was still at Iain’s mercy.
…
Iain sat behind the large desk, glaring at Laria.
“I will find Grandmother Sophie, and ye will both be sent to Saint Margaret’s Convent.
” Iain had ordered Jasper to lead Laria to the library on the second floor where she stood, her hands still bound but covered.
Iain couldn’t stand to look for long at anything distasteful, so he’d had a maid bring him one of his mother’s old scarves to loop around her burn marks.
“Ye can help the nuns care for Grandmother in her aging.”
Laria cocked her head to the side. “Like Aunt Jane?”
Iain’s face tightened into an odd smile that sent an icy spider walking along her back. “Aye, like my mother. The three of ye will do quite well together.”
“Throats slashed and thrown into a hole dug out on the moor, you mean,” Laria said, staring Iain straight in the eyes.
Her cousin didn’t blink, just returned her stare as he spoke in an even tone. “My mother is at St. Margaret’s Convent, where she is observing a year of silence. It would do us all a favor if ye would take the same vow.”
Laria might be scarred, ostracized, and exiled from her home, but she was no coward. “I will never stay silent.”
The hint of a smile played across Iain’s damp lips. “Death brings silence.”
Her heart thudded so hard that it took her a moment to inhale.
She glanced at Jasper, who always reminded her of a slavering wolf held back only by the leash Iain kept on him.
If she said she’d seen Iain’s men kill his mother, would Iain loose his henchman on her?
Would he let Jasper assault her before putting her in the same cold ground that embraced Jane Macqueen’s body, shutting Laria’s mouth on the matter forever?
“Let me go, Iain, and I will take care of Grandmama. I’ll convince her to leave Staffin so you can rule however you wish without seeing her age or my scars.
” Would he remember how adamant Sophie was about remaining on Macqueen land?
“We will all journey south, leaving you and your obedient people here without fear of chicken-stealing.”
Iain walked around the desk to lean his arse against it. He tapped a finger against his pinched lips. “What to do with my troublesome cousin who can’t keep her tongue still?”
“We could cut it out of her,” Jasper said.
The door, which had been left ajar, flew open, banging against the wall of the library.
Cyrus stood in the doorway, Rory and some of the men who had accompanied them for the wedding standing right behind him.
“Or,” Cyrus said, the words ground out with lethal hatred, “I can cut yer tongue and cock off, Jasper Whitt, and stitch them back on in each other’s place. ”
He stalked in to stand next to her, a short sword in his hand.
Iain made a garbled noise of distaste, probably at the image Cyrus had thrown into their minds of Jasper’s jack sticking out from his lips. Iain cleared his throat and straightened, his hands fisted. “This is a family matter, Cyrus.”
“My signature as witness on my sister’s wedding contract makes me part of yer family.”
“Let me in,” Grace’s voice came from the corridor where Mackinnon and MacLeod warriors were gathered. “’Tis my own library.”
“Stay out, Grace,” Iain called, but she pushed her way through.
Taking in the room and Cyrus’s sword, she went to him. “What’s going on, Cy?” She looked at her new husband. “Iain?”
No one spoke, so Laria did. “Iain was about to order Jasper Whitt to imprison me until he finds my grandmother. Then the two of us would be driven out to the moor where our throats would be slit and our bodies buried in the cold ground where his mother, Jane, now decays.”