Chapter Twenty-One
“The fall of dropping water wears away the stone.”
Laria stood on the deck in dry clothes. Cyrus had found a small set of trews and tunic.
Once he realized she wouldn’t stay below deck, he’d wrapped her in a waterproof cape of fulled wool.
Her fingers clasped the railing as the sea raised the ship and dropped it down the other side of the wave.
Rain wet her face and wild hair. They’d sailed as far as they could, making fast time with the wind, until the rain and lightning broke, battering the large carrack Cyrus said was called Poseidon’s Fist. At present it felt like Poseidon was trying to shove his fist up the ship’s arse.
There’d been no time to talk further when they’d descended from her hiding place. The wind had picked up, and Cyrus had jumped right into plotting a course before the stars vanished with the incoming cloud cover.
Movement near her made her turn her face from the sea. Kenan Macdonald walked up to her. “Ye should go below. ’Tis dangerous up here where the waves could snatch ye from the deck.”
“I need the fresh air,” she said as a wave sent up a spray of water.
“’Tis more water than air up here,” Kenan said, wiping his face. “And if ye get sucked out into that water, Cy will lose his bloody mind.”
She looked at the man with clipped, dark hair. Kenan Macdonald was handsome and broad like Cyrus, but his eyes held distrust. “I imagine you’d be happy if I was gone. Your brotherhood—” Another wave dropped the ship and cut her off.
A hand clasped onto her arm, and she went to yank it away, but Cyrus stood there. He pulled her to him as Kenan turned and walked away.
“Will ye come with me to talk?” Cyrus asked near her ear, and she let him pull her from the railing. They walked, balancing together along the slanting deck. The storm still lashed at the ship, but the waves seemed to have calmed somewhat.
He led her down the ladder to the level where she’d changed in what must be Cyrus’s captain’s cabin. With the table, bed, and even the chairs bolted down, the room tipped and tilted without anything sliding, except for them. Even the map on the table had been tacked fast.
Laria dropped the water-sodden cape from her shoulders and stripped her soaked gloves off before sitting in one of the chairs. Cyrus knelt before her, taking her cold hands in his. “I can’t believe ye swam across. Ye could have died, drowned.”
“I needed…” she began and shook her head. “I had no other choice.”
Cyrus’s dark features made her wonder if she should have given a different response. He stood and handed her a towel, then rubbed his wet head with another. “We are going to set into Scorrybreac until this storm passes. Your grandmother will be there, as will those who left with her.”
She stared across the table to where he stood, his legs braced so that the tipping ship didn’t dislodge him. His hair stood in spiky disarray around his handsome, tense features, and his jaw was unshaven, giving him a roguish look. “And what will you do?” she asked.
“Continue on to Dun Haakon as soon as the storm ebbs. I must see to my father and, if he passes, quickly secure the clan under my leadership.”
The tightness around his mouth and eyes made her guess his thoughts. “And you want me to remain at Scorrybreac.”
He leaned his hands on the table, bringing his face closer to her, but then he dropped his head in weariness.
“My father can be cruel to those outside the Mackinnon Clan.” He lowered himself into the chair across from her.
“I’ve only just convinced him that to make Skye strong, we must form alliances with the other clans upon it.
’Twas under Grace’s powers of persuasion that he relented about her marrying Iain. ”
“I am not easily hurt by cruel, bedridden fathers,” she said, trying to understand what was really underlying Cyrus’s worry. She tipped her head. “Are you ashamed of me? Don’t want him to think you might fancy a lass with no power for an alliance, no armies behind her?”
She began to pull her scarred hands back from the table, but he grasped them. “Nay, Laria.”
But she suddenly felt shame. There she sat in trews and tunic, her hair wild with seawater, her face damp and pale from the cold wind.
He held her hands, their rough skin from the burns vastly different from that of a lady.
They were a physical example of her undesirability.
She had nothing to offer Cyrus and his brotherhood except a ragged group of misfits and refugees.
Even her Macqueen name meant little since his sister had married Iain.
She pulled her hands back, and he eventually let her take them across the table where she could hide them in her lap. “I would not stop you from wedding a woman who brings armies with her instead of a group of elderly and scarred people without a clan.”
Cyrus rubbed a hand up over his face and through his hair, making him look even more handsome in a rugged, wild way. “Laria, I was coming to yer door last night to ask ye to wed so ye could leave with me. I left only because of the false letter.”
She blinked and looked at him. “I…” She shook her head. “My father was adamant that Clan Macqueen be ruled by Macqueens. He didn’t acknowledge Erskine, which was heartily wrong.”
“Agreed,” Cyrus said.
She stood, turning to a small porthole that reflected her face lit by the lantern. “I was his only recognized child, and I was female, so he backed Wallace and then Iain as the next chiefs.” She turned to him. “If I wed outside the clan, I lose all claim to being a Macqueen.”
Cyrus stared at her. “Is that terrible?”
She came to the table, leaning toward him, her knuckles propped on the table.
“My goal has always been to see my brother, Erskine, lead Clan Macqueen. If I remain at Tuath Tower without wedding outside the clan, when Iain is removed as the chief, the clan will look to me. I will invite back those exiled, including Erskine. The villagers will learn that he is strong, clever, and brave. They will accept him as their chief with my support. I can help him lead with the strength of kindness.”
“And if ye wed outside the clan, ye don’t think that will happen?” Cyrus asked.
She nodded. “Father was very specific that I’m basically dead to the clan if I wed outside it. He hated the other clans and wouldn’t stand for us to fall into enemy hands. If Iain is killed or exiled, another warrior will step in to be chief.”
“Erskine can challenge him for it.”
“He could.” She exhaled. “But he’s been told all his life that he’s…not enough.” She shook her head. “I love my brother, and I know what a wise leader he is. But he won’t take the step without someone bringing him into Tuath Tower. If I’m gone, he will remain in exile.”
“’Tis why Iain wants us to wed,” Cyrus said. His gaze rose to hers. “And ye would have said no had I asked last night?”
The pain in his eyes pulled at her already bruised heart. “I…don’t know. I needed the night to weigh everything.” She shook her head. “There are so many depending on me to see them safe, and I have nothing but our pleasure together as a reason to bind us.”
“There is more,” he said, his brows lowering.
“No further alliance. No armies. No dowry.” She threw her hands up in the air, knowing that she looked like a wet, feral cat. “Certainly not beauty.”
A wave of despair swelled inside her. She felt as though she’d held it at bay for so long, maybe ever since she’d burned herself.
But the cold and fear that had infiltrated her pride over the months of exile had worked away at her confidence like running water chiseling out a mountain.
And she hated self-pity, which made her anger at herself increase until tears swelled in her eyes.
Fool. Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry.
“Ye are beautiful,” he said, standing, too, the table between them. “And clever and brave enough to swim in an icy, dark sea.”
She turned away so he wouldn’t see the hot tears trail down her cheeks. “Those qualities will do little good toward your plan for peace if that’s all I bring to it. My place is at Tuath Tower, unmarried, helping Erskine lead our people.”
Silence.
Was he unable to refute her words? Within those heartbeats of quiet, her heart tore.
She made herself inhale and stalked forward to grab her cloak, shaking it with all the pent-up emotion she had.
She strode to the door, but when she went to yank it open, Cyrus’s hands slapped down on either side of her.
His tall form dwarfed her own. He was a mountain of man standing against her back. Even with the heavy cape around her, likely soaking him again, she felt his strength. The warmth of his breath fell upon her cold ear.
“I died a little when I read that note.” His words were just above a whisper and full of pain.
She squeezed her eyes, pushing out the errant tears, and then stared at the wood grain in the door.
What did that mean? She stood in limbo. Should she stride back out and take solace in the feel of the wind and rain against her face, reminding her that she could weather any storm?
Right then, she didn’t feel that she could survive never feeling Cyrus against her again.
“Stay with me.” His words sent liquid heat down through her stiff body. “Please.”
Outside the cabin, the world whipped fierce and dangerous with lightning, waves, and wind.
Inside the cabin, words could be just as dangerous to the fragile connection that held them against one another.
And she wouldn’t break it, couldn’t break it, not with her own chilled heart needing the feel of this man.
She felt that if she broke the connection and walked away, he would not walk after her.
Laria turned in his arms until her back was against the door. Cyrus remained before her. The light from the swinging lantern sliced yellow over them, but his face was mostly in shadow. He lifted a finger, brushing away the tear trailing down her cheek.