Chapter Thirteen
“Marriage may often be a stormy lake, but celibacy is almost always a muddy horse pond.”
“I’m not marrying you,” Laria repeated. Even though Cyrus Mackinnon was built of warrior muscle and she was washed away in molten lust every time they came together, she couldn’t marry outside their clan.
Not after her father penned that she and her branch of the family, including their unborn offspring, would lose the right to lead the clan if she traitorously wed into another.
Ye are a daughter of Clan Macqueen, and I won’t see ye give my clan away to my enemies. They will use ye to steal our home, take it over. ’Tis why Wallace and his brother, Iain, will lead and protect us when I’m gone.
Until she could help Erskine claim the chiefdom, she was the only one who could take it from Iain’s hands. And she could only do that if she didn’t marry outside Clan Macqueen.
Cyrus stared back at her, his mouth damn kissable. She watched his lips press tight and his eyes narrow slightly, as if plate armor had descended over his face. “Well, of course not.”
The words penetrated her like a thrown dagger. Of course not. He had never truly meant his proposal of marriage. Not to Laria Macqueen, an outcast with ugly hands and literally nothing to her name—no dowry, no home, no territory to make her valuable.
“I had to get ye out of there before I slaughtered Jasper Whitt and started a clan war in the bloody library.” Cyrus sounded angry. He ran a hand up through his thick hair, scrubbing it as if to rub his thoughts free.
“’Twas…a good plan,” she said and turned her back to the room that had been hers all her life.
Iain hadn’t changed anything. She wondered if her gowns still hung in the tall wardrobe against the wall.
Tears gathered behind her eyes as her gaze fell on the recessed window nook where a bench and cushion made a lovely place to read.
She’d found a new tome from the library each week to peruse; some of them, like Homer’s Odyssey, she’d kept for weeks in order to translate the words from Greek.
Blinking, Laria turned away from the window seat and strode to the escape staircase behind the wall. “I need to get my people farther away from Tuath and Staffin.”
“I’ll help ye,” he said, following her. “They can first find safety at Scorrybreac, where Kenan Macdonald is currently residing with his wife. Then we can move yer people down to Dunvegan Castle and on to Dun Haakon Castle, which is far away from here. Ye’ll never have to deal with Iain again.”
She turned to him at the top of the dark passage leading down. “He tasked me to kill you, Cyrus. He has a plan. Marry the daughter of Hamish Mackinnon and kill off the next in line to be chief.”
“I will deal with Iain Macqueen after I get ye to safety,” he said, his words lacking surprise. Did he finally believe her when she said that Iain was behind it all?
Cyrus looked back at the door to the room. “I need to let Rory know that I’m going with ye. Decide if we should send for more MacLeod troops.” His warm hand again clasped her own without flinching. He searched her face. “Ye won’t wait for me, will ye?”
She shook her head. “Erskine needs help for his back, and Jasper’s men must already be hunting for him. He got away before Jasper was finished with him.”
“They will be at the caves?”
“No. As soon as Erskine was taken, my people knew to leave for the next camp.”
“Ye have many camps?”
She nodded. “When we settle, several of us scout out the next place to meet if we are found and scattered. ’Tis a precaution.”
“A wise one.” He released a heavy breath as he let go of her hand. “Where will ye be, then?”
Should she trust him? Everything in her screamed, “Yes.” But she’d taken on the ever-present problem of security for the group while Erskine continued his role as chief. She couldn’t risk her people, no matter what her heart demanded.
He gripped her hand again at her hesitation. “Laria, I will find ye. Knowing where ye are just makes me quicker in case ye need help. I know enough about hiding my tracks and circling around not to lead Iain to ye.”
He pulled her closer, and she let him. The tug between him and her people felt almost tangible, as if one rope was tied to her heart and one to her head, each pulling her in the opposite direction.
Cyrus pressed a gentle kiss over her lips.
It was warm and unhurried, and despite everything, she just wanted to sink into him.
They remained close, their lips brushing as he spoke.
“Trust me, Laria. I will help ye and yer people.”
I want to trust him. Her head swam with scenarios, some of treachery and others of rescues as romantic as any myth.
She glanced down at his large hand over her scars.
Despite the grip, he didn’t squeeze, didn’t try to remind her of his strength.
He just held her hand, and his thumb rubbed along her rough skin.
The gentle touch brought so much with it. He truly wasn’t repulsed by her.
“There’s a broch about three miles to the south of the caves. The roof is off, but the bottom two floors are covered by the third. We’ll be there. Knock six times so we know ’tis you.”
Her gut clenched, but there was no time to waste worrying whether she’d made the right decision to trust him.
She pulled her hand from his grip, and he let her go.
She began her careful descent, and lamplight soon flooded the narrow steps.
When she glanced back, she saw that Cyrus had retrieved a lantern and was holding it inside the alcove, lighting the way for her.
The warm glow of the flames showed his piercing eyes, defined cheekbones, and full mouth.
Will I see you again? The thought nearly made her run back into his arms, swearing to answer “I do” to the priest. She hesitated before resuming her descent.
She had a mission, and it had little to do with her own happiness.
…
“I’ve sent Jok back to Dunvegan,” Rory said to Cyrus as they stood at the window in Cyrus’s room—or, more accurately, Laria’s stolen room.
“By way of Scorrybreac?” Cyrus asked.
Rory nodded. “Kenan will be there, and Jok will alert him of a possible threat against Clan MacNicol before continuing south. He’ll rally fifty men at Dunvegan to march north. They will camp just inside Macqueen territory and await my further orders.”
Cyrus clamped a hand on Rory’s shoulder. “I am sorry that Sara is here with this going on.”
“And yer sister and yer mother. Peace is a tricky process, and I’m starting to think Iain Macqueen isn’t as accepting of it as he presented.”
Cyrus exhaled and rubbed a hand down his face. “Did I marry Grace to a monster?”
Rory walked back to the writing desk. “Yer sister is a strong, clever woman, Cy.”
“She can still bleed.”
Rory looked up from the freshly penned wedding contract. “Not without causing others to bleed.” He grinned. “Grace has claws and wits. She’ll protect herself or flee if things turn dangerous.”
Rory’s words didn’t soothe Cyrus’s worry.
Jasper Whitt seemed like a hellhound who was difficult to outrun.
He had a reputation for tracking and a look of cruelty about him, not to mention his idea to cut out Laria’s tongue.
He’d been gleeful while raining pain down on Erskine’s back.
Was Jasper the one behind the foulness at Tuath Tower?
Cyrus exhaled. “I want to get to the truth about Iain. Is he the innocent new husband and chief, or is he a scheming bastard as deadly as our fathers?” He looked out the window, past the village to the forest that temporarily protected Laria and her people.
“Hard to tell,” Rory said. “Many act like they want peace and plenty for their people, but then they continue to devise ways to get more for themselves. That selfishness leads to war, both civil war and with other clans.”
“I need to convince Laria and her grandmother to leave Macqueen territory before Whitt finds them. I’m going to a broch where they’re now camping.” Cyrus handed Rory the unsigned marriage contract for himself and Laria. “Can ye stall Iain with this? Make him believe the wedding will happen?”
“Believe?” Rory asked, his brows rising. “So ye didn’t mean it when ye said ye’d wed the lass?”
The space inside Cyrus’s chest shrank as his body tightened. “I hardly know her.”
Rory nodded to the four-poster bed. “Ye know her intimately.”
Cyrus huffed. “I can’t wed every lass I tup.” What he and Laria had done to each other, however, was far beyond a simple night of pleasure. It had been almost…worshipful, a communion of spirit and body. He shook his head at the poetic thoughts. She apparently hadn’t felt the same.
Rory continued to stare at him. “’Tis best that Laria means little to ye.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said, a frown narrowing his eyes. Rory had sounded relieved. “Why ’tis best?” He gestured vaguely. “I mean, I know ’tis best, but why do you know ’tis best that I not marry her?”
Rory met his stare, the man’s infamous amber eyes watchful. “She’s not on Kenan’s list of potential wives for ye.”
Cyrus’s lips parted, and his brows rose. “Kenan has a list?”
Rory’s lips quirked into a wry grin. “Tierney is quite adamant that we start a council of lords on the isle, and she’s decided it would be best for us to all be settled with wives who can…
” He glanced upward, as if remembering the exact wording that Kenan’s wife had used.
“Wives who can remind us to be sensible and not cause war when we’ve succumbed to whisky. ”
“If I remember correctly, Lady Tierney shouldn’t be reminding us to be sensible when she’s resorted to some nonsensical plans,” Cyrus said, his brows heavy with annoyance. A bloody list of lasses to marry?
Rory snorted and crossed his arms. His face grew more serious. “We all just want to make this peace accord solid on Skye and eventually on the other isles and into the Highlands on the mainland. Like we discussed before.”