Chapter Eighteen
“If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.”
“I’m happy to have ye back here, milady,” Hazel said as she pulled a rose-hued ensemble out of the clothes press in her room.
The maid had been a loyal friend before Laria had been forced to flee Tuath Tower.
And now Laria was back here, living in the same snake den as Iain Macqueen. “Will this do?” Hazel asked.
Laria had been staring at the painted landscapes she’d hung about the room.
Her thumb ran over her loopy signature at the bottom corner, but she couldn’t feel it with her gloves in place.
“Yes, ’tis a lovely costume.” She turned to meet the maid’s gaze.
“And ’tis good to see you looking so hale and healthy, Hazel,” Laria said.
“I stay out of his lordship’s way,” Hazel whispered, glancing toward the door as if Iain could be eavesdropping.
The woman had good reason to fear, since her sister had been released from Iain’s service when he said she’d been gossiping.
The real reason was that Hazel’s sister had grown too thin for his liking.
She’d been ill, and her bones had seemed to protrude.
Iain had called her a walking skeleton, and then suddenly she was sent away.
“How is Lacey?”
Hazel laid the bodice and petticoats on the bed. “She’s fair enough.” Hazel gave her a quick smile that faded to unease. “Hasn’t gained back any weight, though.”
Laria came over and squeezed the maid’s hand. “That must be difficult. The worrying.”
Hazel nodded. “I hope the winter doesn’t do her in, poor thing.”
Laria held fast to her hand until Hazel met her gaze. “You and Lacey…” She was about to invite the two sisters to follow her out of Tuath Tower, but would exile from the village and tower help them or just speed Lacey’s death? “I…I pray for you both.”
Hazel gave her a smile. “That is kind of ye. Thank ye, milady.”
“The Mackinnon and Macdonald chiefs will return to their homes soon, and they would take the two of you with them if I ask it.”
Hazel blinked. “That’s…quite generous, but I don’t think Lacey could make the journey.”
Laria let the maid tie her stays. “Does Iain still call you Penny?”
She was quiet for a moment as she tugged. “Yes, milady. All of us.”
Iain had never bothered to learn the names of servants, but he wished to look like he had.
He’d taken to calling them all by the name of his childhood nursemaid.
Laria had tried to explain how disrespectful it was to give a person a new name, but he’d laughed and, for a time, had thrown in extra words to differentiate the women.
Stupid Penny, bring me wine. Timid Penny, tell Cook I want blaeberry tarts.
Penny whom I’d like to fok, join me in my chambers.
At least when Winnie Mar had come along, he’d stopped accosting the younger maids.
Hazel tied the stays closed at the bottom and grabbed up a full petticoat, shaking the wrinkles from it. She smiled a toothy grin at Laria, as if trying to shake off the sadness that had descended with their talk. “Let’s make ye the beauty ye’ve always been.”
An hour later, Laria descended the staircase toward the Great Hall.
Her heart thumped behind the satin of her bodice and the linen of her smock.
The lace skimmed her skin like it used to do when she was young and ignorant of the cruelty of the world.
Back when her father was the chief and she was a little girl, unconcerned with who would lead Clan Macqueen after her father was gone, because she thought he’d live forever.
If only she’d been born a lad. Even if she’d been too young to become chief when her father died, she would have challenged for it now, or when Wallace had died.
She’d have made sure everyone had food and shelter, not just the unblemished.
But she was a woman, and her father had written about passing his favor to Wallace unless she wed another Macqueen.
If she wed outside her clan, she had no home at Tuath Tower—something Iain knew quite well.
Sandris hadn’t listed Erskine, his own son, as a challenger. But there were enough people in the village who knew he was Sandris’s son, exiled for his strange coloring when he was newly born. Laria wouldn’t wed anyone unless they understood she’d be giving over the leadership to Erskine.
Candles glowed brightly in the Great Hall, casting gold throughout the room, and the savory aroma of cooked meat brought back memories of happier times.
Her gaze moved to the hearth, where Cyrus turned to see her.
His tall, broad frame was clothed in a crisp white tunic and a clean plaid in red and green.
He was fresh, his beard trimmed to show a strong jawline, and the waves of his dark hair sat in a perfect tousled state.
Cyrus Mackinnon’s form was still impressive, even with clothes covering the chiseled muscles of his chest and stomach and his thick biceps, where she’d traced the ink lines of the wave and ship.
He walked toward her, his mouth curved in an authentic smile. His brows rose as he took her hand and bent near her ear. “I didn’t think ye could be even more beautiful than when ye thrashed beneath me, but the splendor of satin suits ye.”
Her cheeks warmed, and she met his gaze. “And you look quite handsome tonight all cleaned up, although naked is your best look.”
She heard him chuckle under his breath. “I had to wear clothes or make Kenan envious.”
The relaxing of her muscles was ruined as Iain spoke from where he stood with Kenan and Grace by the hearth. “Such a look of happiness on my cousin’s face. I was right to send for the priest.”
Cyrus’s arm tightened under her hand. He leaned toward her ear. “There have been some developments.”
She glanced at him. His smile was gone, replaced by a mask she couldn’t read. He seemed to search her eyes, but she couldn’t tell what he was looking for.
She turned back to Iain, and despite Cyrus’s words, panic gripped her middle. “You’ve sent for a priest?” she asked.
Iain spoke. “To marry the two of ye, so ye can leave with Cyrus in the morn.”
Laria stared back at her cousin. Iain knew about her father’s will. If he couldn’t kill her here, he’d send her away, never to return, never to try to garner favor for Erskine. Clan Macqueen would remain a clan only for the young, beautiful, perfect people.
“I have not made my decision to wed,” she said.
Iain shrugged. “’Tis completely up to ye, Cousin, but to leave Tuath Tower, ye must wed before a priest and witnesses.”
So her choices were the same. To stay at Tuath without Cyrus and be assassinated, or to marry and leave, giving up all chances of helping Erskine become chief of the Macqueen Clan. Her life for the lives of many.
“If I were a man, I would not need such a binding contract to leave,” she said.
“If ye were a man, I would not need to worry over my cousin growing a bastard and slandering the Macqueen name,” Iain said. His gaze dropped to her middle. “Ye may already carry a child.”
“Daingead,” Cyrus said beneath his breath.
Iain came closer to her. His smile was polite concern, but the darkness behind his eyes prickled over her skin. “I know ’tis soon to wed a man ye hardly know, dear cousin, so ye may stay here at Tuath Tower until Cyrus can return as chief to woo ye.”
“Stay here at Tuath Tower?” she asked, the words falling from her numb lips.
“Of course. Ye can stay in yer own bedchamber,” Iain said.
Grace moved forward, her blue gown almost black in its intensity. “You are always welcome here, as a Macqueen,” she said. She spoke as if she were the Lady of Tuath Tower instead of the new bride, as if she’d spent years earning the loyalty of her people.
Laria looked between Cyrus and Iain. Cyrus frowned while Iain smiled. Cyrus must know that Laria would die if she remained here. Didn’t he? “Come back here to Tuath?” Her gaze went to Cyrus. “I won’t survive it.”
Iain laughed, the sound cracking in the silence of the vaulted room. “Dear Laria, ye will be fine here. Tuath Tower has always been safe for ye and our grandmother.” He shook his head. “I fear both of us have been misled by Jasper Whitt.”
Her face turned to him. “Misled? By Jasper?”
Cyrus pulled her closer into him, and she realized that she’d stepped away, as if already separating herself. “Jasper has gone missing,” Cyrus said. “Iain now believes he’s been acting on his own, tricking Iain into thinking the man reputable.”
Iain’s smile fell away, and he swallowed. He was either upset or a grand actor. “I am writing to my mother at St. Margaret’s in Edinburgh.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “I fear…” Grace took his arm, as if adding her support. “If my mother isn’t there, Jasper may have murdered her.”
“I saw him do it,” she said.
“I didn’t believe ye,” Iain said, “because I had a letter from her. But I had Grace look at it compared to some of Mother’s translations, and the handwriting looks different.”
“Not completely,” Grace said, “but there are differences.”
Cyrus rested an arm around Laria’s shoulder. “Yer aunt’s wedding ring was found in Jasper’s things, and now he’s disappeared.”
Iain reached forward and squeezed Laria’s arm. She jerked it away as if his touch burned.
Iain hid the quick annoyance that flickered across his features, but she saw it.
“I hate that ye think I had something to do with this crime, if it has occurred. All this time I thought that ye were going mad when ye were merely trying to protect our dear grandmother. The two of ye should come home.”
Her grandmother had already left the area, but she wasn’t about to set Iain chasing after her. Soon Sophie Macqueen would be safe at Scorrybreac and could journey on to where she’d be protected behind the castle walls of Dunvegan and Dun Haakon.
All eyes in the room watched her, and she forced herself to swallow. “I will think on it this eve.”