Chapter Twenty
“The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.”
The Mackinnon galleon was still at anchor.
Laria peeked from the corner of the dark Harbor House that kept track of the fishermen and vessels coming in and out of Staffin’s cove.
Her heart thudded at her need to get across the cold seawater.
She was a good swimmer, but to manage this distance, she would have to strip out of the dress and boots Grace had brought for her to wear.
And the sea would be colder than the loch, even in winter.
Daingead, Cyrus. He’d just left her there.
You left a note. That’s what Grace had said, and Laria wondered what it had said to make Cyrus leave without trying to find her.
Lies, perhaps cruel ones meant to injure his pride.
They had been enough to make him go to his ship to wait for the tide to be right, to sail without delay.
Still, anger picked at her resolve to risk her life to swim out to him.
Laria let her petticoat drop and pulled off her bodice.
Her furtive run down to the dock had warmed her, but the night breeze would cool her off quickly.
She clutched the clothes, glancing around for a place to hide them, her gaze resting on the dark water.
She’d throw them in the sea in hopes Iain would find them and think she’d drowned.
Sneaking by the smithy, she’d been able to steal a sgian dubh that had been left out near a half-cleaned hide.
Laria sliced the linen of both sides of the smock nearly to her groin.
Using the excess fabric, she tied the layers around her ankles, then used a torn-off strip to bind them around each of her legs, making the lower half of her costume into trews.
She stabbed the blade into the ground under a bush, abandoning it because it would weigh her down in the sea.
She moved toward the dock, staying hidden behind bushes and upended dinghies.
Several rowboats sat tied to the deserted dock, but if anyone came looking and saw one missing, Iain could deduce that she’d taken one.
She looked out at the dark bulk of Cyrus’s ship, a few lanterns moving as the crew patrolled.
He was so close but so out of reach. She flexed and clutched her hands as she weighed her scant options.
Leave the dock and try to find Erskine, praying that Cyrus would come back to Tuath.
Why would he if there wasn’t a reason? He’d merely send an escort to check on Grace.
She inhaled, making a mental straight line to the side of the ship. Holy Mary. I’m going to swim it.
Once her mind was made up, Laria wasted little time. She’d swum in lochs and the sea since she could walk. She’d taken to it with an affinity that had made her mother call her a mermaiden. And now she would put her faith in that affinity.
Luckily, Jasper hadn’t hurt her with his rough handling and threats when he’d carried her from her room, down the steps, around the back of Tuath Tower, and into the hidden exit from Iain’s bedchamber.
I’ll be back soon. Iain promised that I could have a taste of ye. No bloody virginity to protect. I might even be able to convince him to let me keep ye.
The thought had nearly made her purge her stomach around her gag.
Deciding to dive into the dark, freezing water was easier when she thought of escaping the hell Jasper had planned for her.
She’d rather deal with the risks of drowning, freezing, and hungry sea creatures than with Jasper Whitt given the freedom to torture and assault her.
One… Two… Three… She dived, pointed fingers entering the water before she could overthink the pain to come.
The cold stole her breath, hitting her like a million slices of ice along her skin, but her limbs were already moving.
She swam just below the surface, her arms and legs circling in and out, more like a frog than a mermaid.
It was faster, quieter, and easier to maintain.
The fabric still pulled against her body with the flow of water, as if the sea wished to strip her bare.
Her whole focus was on reaching the ship where Cyrus was probably cursing her name.
As her head came up, she heard voices near the dock, but she didn’t stop.
To stop would give the cold a chance to pull her under.
It was punishing, like steel battering her skin, making her want to escape it.
But there was nowhere to go but forward.
Stroke after stroke, she pushed with her legs and pulled with her arms to shoot through the briny water, sometimes unable to see where the sea ended and the air began.
Her muscles ached more from the cold than from the effort.
When the ship loomed before her, she kicked her numb legs harder, reaching forward until her fingers bumped into the wooden hull.
A glance back toward shore made the air freeze in her lungs. Two large rowboats full of men were racing toward her.
…
“Rather late for a visit, Macqueen,” Cyrus said as Iain boarded Poseidon’s Fist. He was in no mood to be cordial, and he allowed all his anger about Laria leaving without a farewell into his tone. After all, Iain’s demand to wed had scared her off.
“I’m searching yer ship,” Iain said and gestured for his men, about ten in total, to spread out over the deck.
Kenan stood beside Cyrus and put a restraining hand on his arm, which had automatically moved to the sword strapped to his side. “We didn’t steal the silver, if that’s what ye’re looking for,” Kenan said, his tone congenial but with the threat of lightning under it.
Iain stopped before them. “A villager reported seeing Laria headed to the docks.” His gaze drifted to Cyrus. “Perhaps the two of ye staged her leaving with the note, only to meet to sail away without the holy bonds of matrimony.”
Cyrus’s chest felt tight with the effort not to explode.
The pain from Laria’s simple note was still raw and bloody.
For the sake of his sister and for the alliance her marriage to Iain had just procured, he kept his voice level.
“Search all ye like, but I’ve seen naught of yer cousin since leaving her in the alcove off of Tuath’s Great Hall. ”
Iain stared hard at him for a long moment before turning away. “Check the cabins below,” he yelled to his men.
“Forging an alliance is oft harder than making war,” Kenan said, his voice low for Cyrus. “But the populace depends upon it.” He clapped a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. “Let the man have his search.”
“She was headed to the dock?” Cyrus murmured as Iain strode away, his boots cracking on the polished planks. Why would she be anywhere near Tuath Tower unless she was trying to reach him? He squashed the flicker of hope before it grew.
Cyrus’s mind was full of hot rage, and his bloody pride hurt like he’d had it stripped back with a lash.
He breathed in fully and then exhaled, trying to separate his fury from the facts.
He used to pride himself on being able to do that when his father berated him for some act that didn’t live up to Patrick’s gleaming example.
He’d pluck out the emotions until only the facts were left, so that he could try to learn what his father required.
He did the same now on the deck with Kenan.
Would Laria really leave him with a mere note?
Escape back into the forest surrounding Tuath without his help?
The woman didn’t accept help easily, but she was also clever enough to know when she could use some.
And he’d given her the choice to say no for now.
He hadn’t pushed, saying he would return in a fortnight.
If she’d left for that time, she wouldn’t have cut him off in that note.
They watched Iain’s men scatter around the deck, half of them ducking below. “Will they find her?” Kenan whispered.
Cyrus looked at him. “Perhaps,” he said, and he felt the bloody wisp of hope seep through the armor around his heart.
“What will ye do if he does?” Kenan’s question held caution.
Cyrus should hope that Laria wasn’t aboard, that there would be no reason to fight Iain here on the deck. But he couldn’t bring himself to do so. “That depends on Iain.”
“Killing the man won’t sit well with Grace.” Kenan’s brows were raised high in the light from the glassed lantern on the nearby hook.
That was an understatement. His sister might just skewer Cyrus if he killed her new husband, especially if it was discovered he’d had nothing to do with his mother’s death. But Laria was certain she knew Iain’s true nature. She’d grown up with him and was risking everything by defying him.
“If he tries to take Laria off my ship after she’s put herself here…” Cyrus glanced upward at the dark sky, where clouds raced over the stars. “I won’t let him. Even if that means blood will spill.”
“That’s,” Kenan tipped his head, studying Cyrus, “telling.”
Cyrus leveled his face with Kenan’s. “Telling of what?”
“That ye love her.”
Love? The mythical emotion only fouled up plans, like his for Kenan and Grace to wed last year. “A good chief doesn’t allow any form of weakness. Love would do that,” Cyrus said, letting the coldness of his father’s voice frost his words.
“Ye’re human, Cy,” Kenan said. “Feelings come with the condition.”
“I want to keep Laria safe, and…I enjoy her company.”
“Even when she’s tying ye to a bed and holding a knife to yer throat?”
Cyrus narrowed his eyes at his friend. “We thoroughly enjoyed each other before that.”
They watched as Iain’s men looked under tarps and ran down into the bowels of Poseidon’s Fist. “Should we help them?” Kenan asked.