Chapter Twenty-One #2
“All right,” she whispered, and he stared at her as the word registered.
The cloak dropped from her shoulders as Cyrus pulled her into him, his lips covering hers.
The salt of her tears mixed with the heady warmth of his mouth.
The heat and desire in the kiss tore through any reservations Laria might have had.
There was more than lust in the press of his lips—there was raw need, and it called to her own honest desire for this man.
The fear when Jasper had taken her, gagging her and hauling her away from her room, and the pain of watching Cyrus’s ship preparing to leave melted under the heat.
There was so much turmoil swirling around them, echoed by the pitch of the ship and the sound of the gale against the portholes.
But their exploding hunger for one another drove it all out, and she could finally inhale fully.
They didn’t speak, letting their breathing and kisses and tantalizing touches express their need for one another.
Clothes dropped from their bodies like leaves in autumn, the cold in the air conquered by their combined body heat as Cyrus drew the coverlet over them on the captain’s bed.
They stared into each other’s eyes as he plunged into her, both of them groaning as his lips descended again onto hers.
Under the blankets, she wrapped her legs around his pumping arse, giving her more leverage to take him deeper.
Laria threw her head back, and Cyrus kissed along her neck. She panted, keeping their rhythm as they rutted wildly, in reflection of the storm outside. Her nails raked his back, and she flexed internally to squeeze along his length, making him groan.
“Oh God,” she wailed as her climax came swiftly and her whole body tightened.
“Bloody aye,” he roared.
They stayed like that until the waves slowed, Laria’s face nestled in the hollow at the base of his throat.
Their legs remained entwined, and she felt his hand searching for hers.
In the glow of the lantern, she watched him lift their hands between them.
He wove his fingers with her own scarred ones as if they were soft and smooth.
They held each other for long minutes. “I am going with you to Dun Haakon,” she said and held her breath, waiting for the telltale stiffness in his arms, but he remained relaxed.
“Ye are strong and clever and honed to steel. My father won’t even make a nick in yer armor, lass.”
She smiled in the dimness. Cyrus Mackinnon respected her. It was a start.
…
“I’m assuming a letter is waiting for each of us at our respective seats,” Rory said, holding up the missive they’d just passed between them.
Cyrus was sitting with Rory, Kenan, Chief Douglas MacNicol, his son, Gabriel, and the MacNicol advisor, Henry Macqueen, at the long table in Scorrybreac Tower’s Great Hall.
As soon as the worst of the storm had let up, they’d rowed from the ship to the shore.
Laria and her grandmother were above, changing Laria into whatever dry clothes Lady Fanny MacNicol and Tierney, Kenan’s wife, could find for them.
Cyrus took the letter from him to read over again.
XXIII July in the year of our Lord MDXLV
To Chief Douglas MacNicol of Scorrybreac, Isle of Skye
You are ordered to surrender Asher MacNicol immediately to the English border at Carlisle.
He is charged with murder against two guards during his illegal departure from England.
His compatriots are also ordered to appear under lesser charges.
Charges of these crimes have also been sent to James Hamilton, the 2nd Earl of Arran, who acts as regent for Queen Mary Stuart.
If Asher MacNicol is not handed over, it will be considered an act of war against England, and troops will be deployed to arrest this criminal.
The other three escapees may remain in Scotland if they pledge their allegiance to the gracious King Henry of England and pay the ransom of one hundred pounds each.
Otherwise, they must also report to Carlisle until such ransom can be made.
Sir Thomas Warton, Captain of the Guard at Carlisle Castle with support from Sir John Baker, Chancellor of the Exchequer, in the name of my sovereign, Henry the Eighth, By the Grace of God, King of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, and of the Church of England and also of Ireland on Earth Supreme Head
“Captain Wharton is furious that we escaped Carlisle Dungeon,” Rory said.
Cyrus nodded slowly. “He must have convinced King Henry that our crimes were sufficient reason to invade Scotland.”
Kenan sniffed. “Wharton really wants Ash’s head on a stake after he killed some of his men in the escape.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Cyrus said. “Even if we could find Asher, we’re not turning him over to the English. He’s part of the brotherhood.”
Rory nodded, and Kenan murmured, “Agreed.”
“And we won’t be paying the hefty fine and pledging our support to England, either,” Cyrus said. “It would be considered treason to the Scottish Crown.”
Threats of English troops marching or sailing all the way up to the Isle of Skye weren’t pressing, since there would be time for them to respond. Although it was another reason that the isle needed to come together in unity.
Douglas MacNicol cleared his throat. “I will send a letter to Edinburgh telling them I have no idea where Asher is and that we have no intention of pledging allegiance or giving King Henry any money.”
Further discussion stopped as Cyrus’s mother hurried from the arched stairwell into the Great Hall. “You left Grace there? Married to a possible madman?” Olive practically ran across the hall to Cyrus. She must have just heard the story from Laria above.
Cyrus placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders, meeting her furious eyes.
“Grace wouldn’t leave. She told Laria she was certain Jasper Whitt was behind Laria’s abduction, that it had nothing to do with Iain.
” He glanced toward the still-empty stairwell.
Laria certainly didn’t need to hear whatever would come out of his mother’s unguarded mouth when she was fearful for Grace.
Olive’s lips tightened, but the gesture failed to dam her loud words. “That wild woman doesn’t know what is true and what’s imagined.”
Cyrus felt the stares of all in the room. Did they wonder about his mother’s incorrect logic, too? “Mother, either ye think Grace is perfectly safe and Laria is mad to think Iain is a scoundrel, or ye believe Laria is sane and that Grace is in peril,” Cyrus said. “Ye can’t believe both.”
“Nonsense! I can fear for my daughter and still think that woman is mad,” Olive said, throwing herself into a chair with the same drama Grace used when she was spewing emotion.
She grabbed a goblet and sipped, making a face when she realized it was ale and not wine, and set it back down.
“And I fear for you, too, believing that woman who took her poor grandmother to live in caves with otters and ruffians.” She pointed a long finger at her son.
“You might be just as mad for believing her.”
Cyrus didn’t want to believe Grace was in danger, but he believed in Laria’s ability to observe her cousin over the years. She might be adventurous and not tied to convention, but she wasn’t mad.
“Patrick surely wouldn’t believe what she’s spouting,” his mother added.
Bloody hell. Patrick had been a bigger pain in his arse since he’d died than when he’d been alive and strutting around like the king of Skye.
Henry Macqueen, the advisor for the MacNicols at Scorrybreac, cleared his throat. “I only knew Iain as a lad and a young man, but he always wore a smile.”
Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “Was he smiling when his twin brother fell to his death?”
Henry’s eyes widened. “I…I can’t believe he was.”
“Did he grieve?” Cyrus asked.
“What are you saying?” his mother asked.
Cyrus’s jaw was rigid. “The man hates any type of disfigurement, and I want to know the source.”
“I remember his mother grieving muchly, sir,” Henry said. “The lad’s nursemaid took care of him.”
“The one named Penny,” Cyrus said, rubbing his chin. “And he calls all his servants that same name.”
Henry looked at Olive, who dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I believe he will be kind to yer daughter, my lady.”
“Ye also thought Wallace Macqueen was a decent man,” Kenan said, a sneer heavy in his voice. “And he was a raping bastard who locked my wife and her bairn in a closet without clothing, food, or drink.”
Henry frowned, his ruddy face turning red. “I believe Wallace turned mad after wedding Tierney.”
Chief Douglas MacNicol thumped down his ale, skewering his advisor with a stare. “His heart was black from the beginning. Tierney did not turn him mad.”
“I didn’t say that,” Henry said.
Kenan stood, leaning forward toward the flustered man, who wasn’t used to his chief disagreeing with him. “Be careful what ye insinuate about my wife.”
Henry held up his hands in surrender. “I meant no disrespect.”
Rory’s hand on Kenan’s shoulder held him in place. “This isn’t about Wallace and Tierney. We need to figure out if Grace is safe and if there’s anything we can do about the damn English coming to Skye.”
If Kenan had married his sister instead of Tierney, Cyrus wouldn’t have to worry about Grace.
And he could marry Laria to form the alliance with the Macqueens.
He could help Erskine challenge Iain successfully.
But he didn’t say any of that. It would only anger Kenan more and bring up the idea that Cyrus should look to other clans to marry for an alliance, something that no longer seemed important.
There was truth in what Kenan had told him when he’d said he wouldn’t marry Grace. If a marriage union ended up souring, the alliance between clans wouldn’t hold. It could even cause war.
Kenan backed up but kept his frown, turning it on Rory. “And even if Ash was still here, we wouldn’t give him up.”
Rory had been furious over Asher trying to escape Carlisle without them, then going off and killing the guards when they escaped.
It seemed it was just enough to make the English threaten to retaliate.
But Rory nodded and held his palm up to show the four scars they’d each cut into their hands after they’d escaped.
Their pledge to support each other in peace and stop their clans from fighting one another was strong.
“I know that. I’m not saying anything about sending Ash back to dance on foking Wharton’s pike. ”
Rory dropped his hand. “Right now, Cyrus needs to return to Dun Haakon, escorting Lady Olive.” He nodded to Cyrus’s mother. “Ye will want to be with yer husband when he passes. Poison can take its time to kill, and ’tis not an easy death.”
The woman gripped the goblet with two hands and took another drink, grimacing.
“And we are certain of this poisoning?” Cyrus asked, resting his elbows on the table as everyone took their seats again.
“Our surgeon, Gower, went to Dun Haakon,” Rory said.
“Looking at the symptoms, he thinks ’tis the same ailment that took Jamie.
” Rory’s brother had been poisoned through the destroying angel mushroom given to him by his mistress, Winnie Mar.
“And there was a mushroom wrapped up like a gift under the bed.”
“Winnie Mar is a murdering witch with a sick sense of humor,” Kenan said and took a drink of his own ale.
“And she’s yer sister-in-law,” Rory reminded him, “as long as Gilbert lives.” There was a question in his statement.
“He does,” Kenan said, leaning back in his seat. “He’s at Dunscaith, being cared for by several of the wives of our warriors. He hasn’t been the same warmonger since he attacked Tierney and she defended herself, but he’s alive.”
“Not having a stubborn need for war is a good thing,” Rory said, but he put a firm hand on Kenan’s shoulder to give gruff comfort.
Gilbert had suffered damage to his brain and needed help remembering basic living skills.
The emotions around the whole incident were twisted, and Kenan didn’t like to talk about how his brother almost killed his wife.
“If Winnie Mar is on the loose, Gilbert might be in danger,” Cyrus said. “And her brother, Reid, has been all up and down Skye.”
“He was on the mainland at Eilean Donan, too,” Kenan said. “He doesn’t seem to be as dangerous as Winnie, though.”
“Nay,” Rory said and exhaled. “He was a loyal man for a long time.”
“I don’t care about Reid, but Winnie Mar is dangerous,” Cyrus said and looked at Kenan. “Ye should return to Dunscaith in case she goes after Gilbert.”
Without hesitation, Rory said, “Nay, Kenan and I go with ye to Dun Haakon.”
Cyrus’s brows rose.
Kenan lifted his cup. “If yer father passes, we will be there to support yer right to be chief of the Mackinnons of Skye.”
Rory nodded. “In case anyone challenges.”
Olive spread butter on a warm roll she had plucked from a basket that had been set for the morning meal.
“If you bring that wild creature dressed in trews as your wife, you will be challenged,” Olive said.
“She brings no further alliance nor a dowry with her, and she is surely mad. Dragging her poor grandmother to live in caves, nearly killing you.”
She pointed her roll at him. “Oh yes, I heard about that.” She held up fingers on her empty hand to enumerate Laria’s supposed crimes. “Setting an otter to run through Grace’s wedding and accusing your sister’s husband of killing his own mother. Mad. Absolutely mad.”
Cyrus could plainly see where Grace got her caustic tone when she was angry. Did his sister know she was turning into their mother? He’d be sure to tell her next time they were together.
Cyrus set his large hand over his mother’s so she couldn’t lift the roll to her parted lips.
“Dearest lady,” he said with calm authority, “if ye plan to start a rebellion over my choice of…lasses, then I will ask Chief MacNicol and his wife to keep ye at Scorrybreac until things are settled in the south.”
Olive’s mouth opened and closed twice, like a bird who’d lost her voice.
Her cheeks grew red, and she looked over at Douglas MacNicol, who tilted his head as if already considering where they would house her for months.
Olive turned to Cyrus. “You would prevent me from going to my dying husband’s side? ”
“There’s no love between ye and Da, Mother. If ye wish to write a letter of farewell, I will read it to him.” He released her hand, but she just held the buttered bun.
“I won’t sit here being insulted.” Olive set the roll down and stood, striding toward the stairs. “Oh.” She stopped short.
Cyrus turned to find Laria waiting just inside the Great Hall with her grandmother. Sophie’s usually friendly face was hard and cold. But it was Laria’s lovely face caught in ice that told him she’d heard everything.