Chapter Twenty-Three
“The sea is emotion incarnate. It loves, hates, and weeps. It defies all attempts to capture it with words and rejects all shackles.”
Cyrus’s defense against his mother’s piercing slander bounced through Laria’s mind over the rest of the day. He hadn’t shown outrage at Olive’s declaration that Laria was mad and worthless. He hadn’t called her anything but a lass he was choosing. Choosing for what? To be his mistress?
The word “lass” hissed in her head. Yes, she was a girl, a woman, but the word was basic.
There was nothing special in it at all. Her father had called her “lass” because he wanted a son—one who was without blemish, or he would have claimed Erskine.
Iain had called her all sorts of slanderous names, but not “lass.” Why did the word bother her so much coming from Cyrus?
“Kenan thinks we should call it the Council of the Isles,” Tierney said from across the table in Scorrybreac Tower’s Great Hall.
Laria waited there with her grandmother to leave on Cyrus’s ship, since the storm had abated.
“I still would like an elected leader of the council to be called the Lord of the Isles, since it was a true position before. The person holding the title and position could be changed each year, rotated through the members of the council.”
Kenan’s wife talked of governmental organization while she sat nursing her baby girl, a blanket slung over one shoulder to cover May and her naked breast. Only the infant’s swaddled legs stuck out.
Did Cyrus want children? Laria hadn’t conceived with Malcolm, but they’d only been wed for a year before he was killed. But it didn’t matter. She and Cyrus weren’t wed and never would be, not with such pressure against her from his family, and not if she wanted to see Erskine as chief.
Glancing toward the hearth where the men were planning the trip to Dun Haakon, Laria studied Cyrus.
His hair curled in natural waves, looking damp, as though he’d taken a swim when he’d woken.
He’d been assigned to a servant’s room on the top floor, but she had remained with her grandmother in the larger room below.
Since overhearing Olive, Laria had avoided Cyrus, telling herself she was giving him room to think.
And then there was that word, “lass.” She wasn’t his bride, his love, even his friend.
She was nothing special, never had been, to any man.
What would it feel like to be cherished?
Her face heated at the wish to be held dear.
When not attending Sophie, Bonnie was residing with Max and Bernice in a quaint, snug cottage in Scorrybreac Village.
They’d gathered the evening before to welcome her when they’d heard of Poseidon’s Fist mooring.
After an illness had taken up to half the MacNicol Clan two years ago, there were many vacant cottages.
If Errol and Oscar had come, they’d be warm and comfortable here.
Cyrus’s hand rested on the wooden mantel over the hearth, and a languid heat spread through Laria as she remembered where and how those hands had explored her.
“Lord of the Isles was a respected position, but the elected lord was treated like royalty,” Tierney continued.
Sophie’s wrinkled hands reached out for May’s swaddled legs whenever it looked like the child might slip out from under the blanket, but May never did.
“Edinburgh royalty will call your council treason,” Laria said. “But if the council keeps them informed like the individual chiefs are supposed to do, it might work without harassment. Cyrus is adamant about not causing more strife among clans in Scotland.”
“Certainly,” Tierney said. She nodded to Kenan, Rory, and Cyrus, who were by the fire, talking with her father, Douglas MacNicol.
“Their whole brotherhood revolves around making Scotland stronger so they can fight foreign invaders.” She tipped her head left and right.
“Which we all know means England. After what they went through after Solway Moss, they see better than any Scot. Fighting among ourselves only weakens us.”
“You have quite a mind for government,” Laria said. She needed to read more herself to help Erskine.
Tierney smiled. “And I’m now able to speak it.” She exhaled as if content. Reaching under the blanket, she adjusted her bodice and set May over her shoulder, rubbing the bairn’s back until she burped.
“If women can have more say in things, there will be more peace,” Tierney said and held May out to Sophie.
Sophie cradled the contented infant in her arms. “The world is changing,” Sophie said as she looked down at May, who blew small milk bubbles with her tiny lips. “Hopefully for the better.” She leaned in and kissed the bairn on the forehead.
But Laria wasn’t sure things were changing. Olive certainly believed in women being married to form alliances. Laria had heard what Cyrus’s mother had said as she’d stood in the alcove with Sophie the other morning.
Sophie’s hand had stopped her from walking right into the Great Hall.
Listen first. Enter only when you know what you’re walking into.
Her whispered advice was sound. Olive Mackinnon didn’t want Cyrus to wed Laria, whether she was mad or not.
Her words had cut into Laria more than anything Iain had said to her, slicing her confidence.
She didn’t belong here with these clan chiefs.
Where did she belong? Living in caves and dirt?
Sara appeared at the bottom of the steps, looking pale. Rory broke off from the group by the hearth and strode to her, taking her arm. “I’m fine,” Sara said, “just uncomfortable.” Rory had had the local midwife make certain it was pregnancy and not mushrooms causing his wife’s cramping legs.
“Shall I take ye back to Dunvegan?” Rory said.
“No.” Sara waved her hand. “’Tis all normal. My mother had body aches as her bairns grew inside her, and you need to go with Cy to support him.”
“You are welcome to stay here with us,” Tierney said. “With Dunscaith Castle still being set to rights, I’ve been living up here with my parents.”
“Especially when I’m away,” Kenan said.
Rory’s red-haired warrior, Jok Duffie, strode into the tower. “Poseidon’s Fist is ready to sail.”
They all looked at Cyrus, who gave a nod. “’Tis time to go.” His moved to Laria, but she looked away.
A fluster of activity ensued, with little Maggie’s large white dog running around everyone in excitement.
Laria hugged Sara farewell and helped her grandmother into a warm cape.
Sophie was determined to progress around the Isle of Skye as Laria had initially suggested to get her to leave Macqueen territory.
Sara and Tierney, along with Tierney’s young brother, Gabriel, escorted them to the docks, where sturdy rowboats sat waiting.
Bernice and Max came down, too, hugging Bonnie, Laria, and Sophie.
They all waved as Cyrus, Kenan, and Rory rowed the three women out to the ship.
Olive was already aboard. She’d risen before the sun and paid a villager to row her across for fear that Cyrus would leave her at Scorrybreac.
The wind was crisp and the sky clear. Every mile Laria could put between herself and Iain made it easier to breathe. She’d have to go back. She couldn’t be so selfish as to wed outside her clan and stay away forever. “No,” she whispered, building her resolve.
“Ye say something?” Cyrus asked as he rowed.
Laria sat in the stern of the boat next to Sophie, so he faced her as he rowed. She turned away from the dock to meet his gaze. His honed muscles pulled expertly against the waves, showing his conditioned strength. “I’m just thinking,” she said.
“About?”
She waved it off. “Wishes and regrets.”
“Some have more of one than the other,” Bonnie said from her spot behind Cyrus.
Sophie made a noise. “Both are important. The future and the past. The past cannot be changed, but it can be studied to make wishes come true.”
Laria pressed her hand against her thigh to squeeze her grandmother’s hand. “You’ve been hiding your clever mind from me, haven’t you?” If her grandmother was as addled as she’d seemed before and after Laria had taken her from Tuath Tower, she couldn’t have such thoughts.
Sophie sat straight, her eyes forward. “Perhaps we needed a cause to get my granddaughter out of the devil’s den.”
Cyrus stared across at her grandmother. “Ye worried that Iain would harm Laria, so ye gave her a reason to leave.”
Sophie’s gaze shifted from the ship to Cyrus. “Laria saves people. She doesn’t save herself.”
Laria blinked. Had her grandmother been acting mad? “Grandmama, ye slept in caves and ate sitting on dirt floors.”
Sophie patted her knee next to her own. “I like adventure, and I love my granddaughter.” Her smile dimmed. “And I wanted to get to know my other grandson.”
“Erskine,” Laria said.
Sophie looked at her. “I think he could make a very fine chief. He would have been raised that way from the start if my daughter hadn’t been so horrified by his strange coloring.
It gave control of the clan over to Wallace and Iain, both of whom inherited evil hearts from their father. ” She shook her head.
Laria watched the tension in Cyrus’s face stretch into all the angles and lines. He was in pain, but he didn’t look at her. She’d said no to wedding him, or at least she thought she had. Had he ever even asked? Laria felt brittle, as though she could snap if bent in any direction.
“Chief Cyrus,” Sophie said, “Lady Grace is strong and clever and will keep herself the perfect wife and lady until we return. She will placate Iain and remain safe.”
“And then what?” he asked. “I kill her husband? The man I just signed a peace agreement with?”
No one answered.
…