Chapter Twenty-Two
“Water is life’s matter and matrix, mother and medium. There is no life without water.”
Cyrus stood, and the other men at the table followed in respect for the Macqueen matron.
Sophie Macqueen stood still like a mountain before the arched antechamber, unmoving so that Olive had to step around her, neither lady acknowledging the other.
As soon as Olive began to climb, Sophie’s smile returned, and she held Laria’s arm as they walked across to the table.
Thanks to Tierney’s help in acquiring clothes for both her and Laria, the elderly lady looked her station once again.
That morning, Sophie wore a yellow-dyed ensemble of soft wool, embroidered with birds in blue thread along the bodice and the hem of her petticoat.
Laria wore a simple petticoat and bodice of green wool that hugged her lush figure, showing all the hills and valleys Cyrus had kissed and nibbled the night before last on Poseidon’s Fist.
Henry Macqueen hurried around the table to hold a chair for Sophie. “My lady, ’tis so wonderful to have ye here at Scorrybreac.”
“Thank you, Master Henry. I see why you decided to remain here.” She nodded to the one-time Staffin Village resident. “There is an undercurrent of strife at Tuath Tower. Has been for a long time. Here, the waters are refreshingly smooth.”
Tierney, holding her daughter, May, over her shoulder, walked in with Sara and Tierney’s mother, Fanny MacNicol. Tierney’s other daughter, six-year-old Maggie, walked beside a giant white dog that looked as fluffy as a cloud in a summer sky.
“I’m so pleased to reacquaint myself with my great-granddaughter.
” Sophie held her hand out to Maggie, making Cyrus wonder if the woman was as touched in the head as she’d seemed before.
The woman remembered that her grandson, Wallace, had been married to Tierney, and she spoke with decorum and grace.
Maggie came forward tentatively. She didn’t know her father’s grandmother, since Tierney and she had escaped when the child was still a toddler. And there was the fact that the Macqueens wouldn’t help Tierney at all after Wallace had died.
Sophie reached out to squeeze the hand of the lass, a beautiful miniature of Tierney with a mane of golden curls.
“I petitioned Iain, your father’s brother, to send forces to protect you when the Mathesons tried to take over Scorrybreac.
” Her very lucid gaze rose to Tierney. “I was ignored.” She smiled back at Maggie.
“But I am glad to see you are both well and safely aligned with the Macdonalds.”
“’Tis nice to meet you,” Maggie said and curtsied.
Cyrus noticed a shine in Tierney’s eyes.
Perhaps healing would come. Kenan’s wife had been abandoned in the worst possible way before meeting him.
Cyrus had considered her a meddlesome problem when she’d ruined his plans to marry Grace and Kenan together, but the look on Kenan’s face when he gazed at her was complete adoration.
The union between the Macdonalds and MacNicols was secure.
Laria kept a neutral expression as she looked among the warriors and chiefs. “The common problem is Iain Macqueen. He ignores anything that doesn’t benefit him, and he abhors anything that doesn’t build up the facade of perfection with which he surrounds himself.”
Cyrus crossed his arms, feeling his muscles tighten. “And ye think he’s a danger to Grace.”
Laria crossed her arms, too. “Yes, but only when she doesn’t seem perfect to him. If she plays her part, never disagreeing with him—”
“Mo chreach,” Cyrus said, grabbing the back of his neck, which suddenly ached. “Grace disagrees with many things.”
“She’s also very clever, Cy,” Kenan said, taking his daughter from Tierney’s shoulder. “If she didn’t leave with Laria after finding her tied up, then she didn’t feel threatened. She wouldn’t have stayed if she had.” He patted his daughter’s back and was rewarded with a soft burp.
Sara took a seat at the table, her face quite pale. Rory handed her a goblet, pushed a bun before her, and rubbed her back in little circles. The progressing pregnancy did not seem to agree with her. “Would she stay for the alliance?” Sara asked and took a nibble of the roll.
Cyrus exhaled. “I convinced her that the alliance with Clan Macqueen was all-important.”
Tierney shook her head. “From what I know of Grace Mackinnon, she wouldn’t have gone along with the union if she’d hated the idea of being with Iain Macqueen. Alliance or not.”
“But she didn’t know what Iain didn’t show her before her vows,” Cyrus said. “I need to go back and make certain she’s safe there.”
Laria stepped before him. “After you secure your position as chief at Dun Haakon.”
“He could act in haste while I’m away.”
“Iain is too patient to act rashly.” Laria’s arm went out, as if she were encompassing the whole hall. “He has planned this all. Do you not see that?”
“Planned what?” Rory asked.
Laria began to count off things on her gloved fingers.
“He marries Grace Mackinnon. He tasks me with killing Cyrus Mackinnon. And then he sends his mistress down to Dun Haakon to kill the Mackinnon chief.” She shook her head, the loose curls from her upswept hair moving along the skin of her long neck.
“He plans to take over Clan Mackinnon through Grace. Once he does that, something then might happen to her, but not before.”
She reached out to squeeze Cyrus’s arm. “Right now, you need to secure the chieftainship at Dun Haakon before a mushroom finds its way into your own soup.” Her brows rose high, framing her gorgeous blue-green eyes.
Her long lashes held steady as she stared at him, willing him to agree.
There was a protective intensity in them as if she cared deeply. For him?
…
Morag Gunn, Sara and Kenan’s aunt and renowned seer of Skye, sat in her cottage south of Dunvegan Castle.
The window was open, and her crows cawed to each other outside in the rare sunshine.
She closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrance of the coming fall that wafted in with the breeze.
It mixed with the smell of the dried lavender buds she’d placed before her, laid out in a single layer in a circle on her wooden table.
She’d drawn an X through the center, dividing it into four quadrants: fire, air, water, and earth.
A candle burned in the fire quadrant facing south, representing her niece, Seraphina—Sara.
Herbs burned in a small pile in the east quadrant next to a feather draped with one of Tierney’s hairs to represent the element of air.
In the northern quadrant sat a chunk of salt for earth.
And in the western quadrant, Morag set a small bowl of water before closing her eyes in prayer.
“Hear my plea, Mother Goddess, and help me strengthen my isle. Help me to use the elements to protect it and those who call Skye home. Show me your representatives of water and earth.”
She imagined the coastline of the Isle of Skye, rugged boulders and crystalline sand and frothy surf rushing up on the shores.
She imagined the wildflowers dancing in the breezes across the moors and the stars burning brightly in the heavens over her at night.
And she thought of the glittering waterfalls on the isle and the cold, clear lochs.
This isle was her home, her sanctuary. But as the rumblings to the south grew and England stretched its tempests farther up into Scotland, Morag felt the threat like a coming plague.
Without strength on Skye, the English would wash over her isle, killing all those she loved. She was determined to stand against it.
“Help me, Mother Goddess, protect this place, protect the clans of Skye.” As she spoke and prayed, the breeze outside picked up, and darkness grew behind her lids. Morag opened her eyes.
Clouds had moved across the sky outside her window, blocking the sun.
With a gust that made her jerk in surprise, a rush of rain dropped, causing the crows to retreat to the dryness of the barn.
The wind, fragrant with the sudden rain, rushed into the room, scattering the lavender over the surface of the table.
Morag inhaled and felt the prickles of magic along her skin.
The ends of her hair rose around her face, tugged by the stormy breeze swirling through the dwelling.
She clasped her hands together in prayer.
“Please, Mother Goddess.” And with another full inhale, her eyes widened.
Images blew into her mind as if she’d breathed them in with the rain-soaked wind.
It was time to journey. “To Dun Haakon,” she whispered, and the wind sucked back through the room, pulling the window closed, its message sent and received.