Chapter Twelve
“I am sick of this false world […]
Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave.
Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat
Thy gravestone daily.”
Timon of Athens IV.iii.368-372, William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
“That is not true,” Iain said. “Don’t listen to her lies, Grace.”
Grace looked between Laria and Cyrus, her gaze stopping on him. “Why are you doing this, Cy?” Her face had gone from pale at Laria’s words to red as her easily piqued anger began to surface. “You’ve just signed a peace treaty with my husband, and now you’re holding a sword in our library.”
“I’m protecting a woman from having her tongue cut out.” And probably being assaulted and murdered.
“I never said to cut her tongue out,” Iain said. “That was Jasper, and he was jesting.” The Macqueen chief sounded like a lad who’d been caught throwing rocks at a helpless cat.
Jasper said nothing, but he kept his gaze on Cyrus’s sword.
“Stay back, Sara,” Rory said behind them.
“Then you go in there with him,” she said.
Rory’s voice held a lion-like harshness. “There isn’t going to be a battle in Tuath’s library with three women present. Cy, put yer sword away.”
Cyrus realized he was the one who looked mad here, his blade out and ready to do battle in a room of books and tapestries.
No one else had heard Jasper’s threat or seen through the crack in the door the look of real contemplation flash across his brother-in-law’s face.
Cyrus knew that his reaction at the time had been quite appropriate.
Or so he’d thought. The world was a tangle of lies and half-truths, and he had no sound reasoning for any of his actions since the night he’d first kissed Laria Macqueen.
He re-sheathed his short sword. “Untie Laria.”
“She’s a prisoner,” Iain said. “Charged with abducting our grandmother. She also stole chickens meant for our wedding feast and is slandering me and my good man, Jasper.”
Laria turned to Grace. “You need to know, Lady Grace, that your husband ordered his own mother killed and buried on the moor because of—”
“Lies!” Iain yelled out, pushing away from his desk. “My mother is at St. Margaret’s Convent in Edinburgh.”
“Because she was aging and had trouble walking. Then she—”
“Hold yer tongue, Cousin!” Iain yelled over her.
“Fell and broke her wrist, so I had to feed her.”
Iain strode toward her, but Cyrus stepped in his way, his gaze connecting with Iain’s furious eyes. “Let the lady speak.”
“My cousin lies! And before my bride! I won’t stand for it!”
Jasper came forward to grab Laria. Cyrus didn’t pull his sword, but he wrapped his arm around Laria, bringing her to the side and behind him, shielding her.
Grace came over to stand next to Iain, her hand going to his arm as if to calm him. She glared at Cyrus. “Are you thinking with your jack again, Brother? That gets you into so much trouble.”
Shameful anger rose within him. Too many times in the past, before Patrick died, Cyrus had chosen to tup his way through the lasses chasing him rather than show up to learn to be a leader.
He’d been his sister’s companion when she wished to sneak into the village to drink and game.
She knew all his immature follies. Her gaze threatened to bring them up now.
“I think you’d better leave Tuath along with Mother,” she said.
“Then I will assist my new brother in removing his slanderer,” Cyrus said.
“I won’t leave—” Laria began.
“Put Laria Macqueen in my guardianship, and ye will not need to see her again,” Cyrus said, speaking over her.
“Guardianship?” Iain asked, his congeniality rubbed away, leaving more of the man Laria described.
His smile had turned acid and his voice hard.
“Like a mistress ye can bed anytime, bringing shame to the Macqueen name? Nay. She and my grandmother will go to live with my mother at St. Margaret’s before I let them leave with ye. ”
“Jane Macqueen is buried in an unmarked grave on the moor,” Laria said, her words fast and full of venom.
“Shut yer foking mouth, or so help me…” Iain let his words trail off and glanced at the door. With so many witnesses, he chose not to continue with a threat, but it hung there unspoken.
Grace looked at him, her brows furrowed.
Bloody hell. Was Grace suddenly frightened of this different Iain Macqueen?
“Perhaps we should all take a moment—” she began.
“I will not be slandered!” Iain cut into Grace’s attempt to calm him, and she bit her lip as if to stop herself from shouting back.
“And I will not be cowed by threats when I know the truth, saw it with my own eyes,” Laria said.
Cyrus stepped to the side so that she wasn’t trapped behind his back. With her hands bound before her, she looked like the defiant condemned, ready to march up onto the scaffold. The thought tightened his stomach. No matter what, he wouldn’t let her come to harm.
Without further explanation, Cyrus yanked his sgian dubh from its small leather leg sheath and sawed through Laria’s bonds.
No one made a sound. Only the back-and-forth rasping of the blade on the rope could be heard for the few seconds it took for Cyrus’s sharp blade to cut it.
As it broke, Cyrus looked up, catching Laria’s gaze.
A roiling array of emotions played in those blue-green pools. Anger and defiance sharpened them, but questions and worry and relief also swam there. She was beautiful and tragic and caught in such turmoil. Daingead.
His reaction to her was immediate and powerful. “I won’t let Laria be shamed for going with me. I will take her as my wife.”
Surprise pushed her arched brows higher.
This was not how he assumed a proposal, if he ever spoke one, would play across his tongue.
He was a wooer of hearts, never committing to one lass over another.
He was poetic and charming and never demanding with a lass.
But the need to marry Laria was urgent. To save her.
“I will take Laria as my wife and take her to Dun Haakon. Her and her grandmother.”
He turned to Iain before he could study Laria’s reaction further. “If yer grandmother, Lady Sophie Macqueen, wishes to continue on to St. Margaret’s Convent, I will be happy to have my trusted men escort her.”
“Don’t you think you should discuss this with Father first?” Grace said. “Wedding a woman accused of being a criminal and then bringing her addled grandmother to Dun Haakon?”
“These are not normal circumstances,” Cyrus said. “Father will understand that. Or not.” Hamish Mackinnon was not the understanding sort. He bellowed and threatened and raged against the world—a living example of why Scotland was weakened by infighting.
Behind Cyrus, Rory grunted as if he’d been pinched. Cyrus glanced at him to see Sara staring up at her husband, her lips in a thin line. Rory cleared his throat. “If Hamish Mackinnon won’t welcome them, they can all come live at Dunvegan Castle until Cyrus becomes chief of the Mackinnons.”
Iain pasted a smile on his face, but it lacked any hint of warmth. It was more like that of a placating tutor about to surprise their students by rapping their knuckles with a heavy stick. “Cousin Laria, the habitual outcast.”
Laria followed his statement without missing a beat, using the same cadence. “Cousin Iain, the habitual liar.”
“’Tis just like ye, Laria,” Iain continued, “to try to shatter the good we’ve done with the alliance between the Mackinnon and Macqueen Clans.
” He indicated Cyrus. “This good man and Chief Kenan Macdonald and Chief Rory MacLeod are trying to strengthen the Isle of Skye, and yet ye continue to cause strife with wild stories and imaginings. Ye’ve frightened my bride and put her kin on edge. All for yer selfish, mad reasons.”
He flapped his hand toward her. “If my new brother wishes to sacrifice his freedom and peace by wedding ye, I won’t stand in the way. Go away from here and never return.” He pointed at her. “And don’t let me catch ye slandering my good name, or ye will cause civil war on our isle.”
“I will write up the marriage document and a contract releasing Sophie Macqueen into my care,” Cyrus said. His gaze moved to Grace. “Let Mother know I will be staying at Tuath Tower until this is settled.”
Grace huffed, her prickly nature on display. “First the otter ruins the ceremony, and now my brother is causing war.”
“I’m preventing war,” Cyrus said. His gaze shifted back to Iain. “’Tis not always an easy thing after centuries of fighting among ourselves.”
Iain smiled, but it still didn’t dull the anger in his eyes. “Our alliance is a step in the right direction. We cannot allow family quarrels to disrupt peace.”
Even though Cyrus wasn’t touching Laria, he could feel waves of fury flowing off her.
“I will draw up the papers,” Cyrus said and took her hand, folding his around hers.
Miracle upon miracle, she followed him to the door where the warriors parted so that they could pass through. More Macqueen warriors waited beyond.
“Lady Grace,” Sara said behind him, “my husband and I also request to remain at Tuath Tower until these contracts are signed.”
Sara’s graciousness toward Grace in the past dictated that she give an affirmative, which Grace did.
Cyrus continued down the corridor toward the steps leading up to the third floor and his bedchamber.
It was his, but it was also Laria’s. She said nothing as they climbed the turning staircase, her hand still clasped in his.
At the top, he glanced at her and saw that she watched their joined hands.
Had no one held her bare hand since her burns?
He hadn’t even registered the thickness of the assaulted skin.
They entered the door of the bedchamber.
Glancing around, he noticed the flavor of the room for the first time.
The curtains were blue like the waters of the deep sea, dark with shades of green.
The small reflective mirror was framed with shells, and the privacy screen had reeds painted on it like those around the loch where he’d found her swimming.
The four-poster bed had gauzy white material over it that reminded Cyrus of surf.
And the ceiling was painted blue like the sky with the hint of clouds in the corners.
It was obviously Laria’s room, and yet he’d been so single-minded about the alliance that he hadn’t noticed.
“The seascapes and landscapes,” he said, looking to the oil paintings on the walls, “ye are the artist.” He turned to her, and she nodded. The loops in the signature must be part of the “L” in her name.
Laria’s high cheekbones, scattered with freckles, matched her rose-colored, full lips.
Her uniquely shaped eyes were framed with dark lashes, and those hazel orbs held him like a spell.
Her hair, which was tied back into a braid, lay over one shoulder with a few escaped tendrils framing her oval face.
She was exquisite in her natural state, like the perfect fairy from the forest. She said nothing as she stared at him.
“Laria?” he asked, not sure what the question was. He just wanted to know what was going on behind those expressive eyes. He wanted to hear strength in her voice and trust in him.
She wet her lips, making him recall the things they’d done together in this very room. But her words snapped his focus back with a white-hot stab to his gut. “I will not marry you, Cyrus Mackinnon. Not even to save my people.”