Chapter Twenty-Four
“Heavy hearts, like heavy clouds in the sky, are best relieved by the letting of a little water.”
For a long moment, Laria held her breath as her heart thudded and her body prickled with her need to call Cyrus back.
She could throw everything she’d just said away into the sea, tell him that it was all untrue.
That she craved his touch and heat. That she’d never felt the way she did with him, both naked and clothed.
That he’d shown her that her first marriage had been inadequate in its infancy, and that neither she nor Malcolm had really respected or loved one another.
But she couldn’t. Her pride stopped her, held her fast as her gaze traced the swells of the water below.
Cyrus had called her a lass, not even a lady, and certainly not his bride or love or partner.
Since the time they met, he’d spoken of aligning all of Skye to strengthen the isle.
And now that England had threatened to come, the isle needed to become strong.
It was better for Cyrus to focus on his father and the threat to his clan and sister.
She would focus on Erskine and on liberating her clan from Iain.
As Cyrus descended in silence, she felt as if a layer of flesh were being scored away from her back, leaving her scarred inside where no poultice could heal her.
Cold instantly penetrated her cloak, adding to the ache, and she lowered herself into a crouch, wrapping her arms around her knees in the lad’s trews she wore.
Totally alone up there in the shadows, Laria allowed her tears to swell out of her eyes.
At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to dive into the clear water, to let the cold wash away the hot turmoil itching inside her, to let it numb her and the pain gripping her body.
A sob blossomed up from her chest like a bitter bubble of loneliness.
“I don’t need him,” she whispered and rubbed her tear-sticky face on her knees.
“I don’t need anyone.” He might help her dispose of Iain and perhaps support Erskine, too.
Then the Macqueens would still be allies without her.
And that would take months, maybe longer.
Cyrus would marry someone else, a lady from a powerful clan on the mainland.
Her pride wouldn’t let her wait in the wings to see if he’d still want her then.
“’Tis better this way,” she whispered.
“Laria. Are you still up there?” Sophie’s voice came from below.
She wiped quickly at the dried tears on her cheeks. “Yes, Grandmama. I’m coming down now.” With a fortifying breath, she climbed down the rope rungs, concentrating on the feel of the damp fibers.
As she touched down, Sophie’s wrinkled hands grasped onto her arms, and she stared into her face. Sophie released a little breath, the last glow of the setting sun giving her skin a golden hue. “Love is complicated.”
The kindness in her tone brought more tears squeezing out of Laria’s eyes. “Bloody hell,” Laria whispered, blinking them back. “There is no love here. My hope is that we will be allies, even though I have nothing to offer.”
Sophie nodded. “Love is expensive. Too expensive for some.”
“And I have nothing.”
“Oh, child.” Sophie slipped her arm into hers, leading her toward the small cabin they’d been given for the night.
“What I mean is that love requires giving up one’s pride, having faith in another, and being honest even when the risk of pain and rejection is high.
’Tis expensive, and right now, you might not want to pay the price.
” She patted her hand. “You might change your mind.”
But it didn’t have to do with her mind. The pain she was feeling was stronger than when she’d learned that Malcolm had been killed. Great pain like she felt on turning away from Cyrus was probably love. And her grandmother was right. She wasn’t willing to pay the price.
…
Cyrus walked into the Great Hall of Dun Haakon at first light, having sailed through the night by the stars. He hadn’t been able to sleep anyway after Laria’s speech. “Is he still alive?” he asked his father’s steward, William Bland, who stood ready to greet them with a look of relief.
“Aye, but barely.”
Olive walked in behind him, pulling her cloak from her straight shoulders. “We need the hearth stoked down here, and tell Mistress Anne that I need a bath drawn and heated in my chambers.”
“Not going to see Father first?” Cyrus asked, but she ignored him and continued toward the stairs, a hen in her old roost.
“William, tell Cook that we will have five more for the morning meal,” she said by way of welcoming her visitors. At least his mother didn’t intend to starve Laria, Sophie, and Bonnie.
Rory and Kenan entered. “Want us to accompany ye up to his room?” Rory asked. “It might be…unpleasant.”
“The room has been freshened from his latest purging,” William said. “And I wouldn’t wait too long. Gower says he may die today. His eyes and skin are yellow and he’s swelling, signs that his kidneys and liver are ceasing to work.”
“I’ll go to him now,” Cyrus said.
“First…” William strode over to a wooden box that held important missives and pulled out a folded letter, the seal already broken. “This came, and I read it to yer father. From England, about yer escape from Carlisle.”
Cyrus took it, reading the familiar threats. He looked at Rory and Kenan. “Mostly identical to the one sent to Douglas MacNicol at Scorrybreac. One hundred pounds and a pledge of obedience to King Henry. The threat of troops. I’ll pen something to Edinburgh as well.”
He looked at William. “What did my father say when ye read this to him?”
William’s lips pinched, and for a moment, Cyrus thought he might not answer him. “Chief Mackinnon wasn’t in his right mind with the poisoning.”
Cyrus gave him a wry smile. “He said I should have remained in Carlisle Dungeon to die.”
William’s gaze retreated to the floor, his face turning red.
Laria entered then, with her grandmother and Bonnie.
Cyrus turned away, the pain of her rejection still raw.
His father’s words were a mere pinprick compared to the gash she’d served him on his ship.
“I will catch up with all of ye after I see my father.” He turned to William.
“See that each guest is assigned a bedchamber and given whatever they need for their comfort.”
“Certainly, milord.”
Cyrus walked toward the stairwell. Focus on my clan first and the strength of the isle. His silent order felt like armor, but her words resonated beneath, making him feel…fractured.
Cyrus reached his father’s door. Rap. Rap. He didn’t wait for admittance to be granted but pushed into the room that his parents had once shared. The smell of shite and vomit hit him like a fetid slap, even though a slight breeze funneled through the room from the open window.
Doctor Gower rose slowly from his seat by the fire. “Milord.” He nodded to Cyrus and went to the bed where Hamish Mackinnon lay still, his skin with a sickly yellow cast. Was he already dead?
Gower held his patient’s wrist and leaned in toward his lips with his ear. He straightened, glancing over his shoulder at Cyrus. “Chief Mackinnon is still with us.” He squeezed the lifeless hand. “Chief Mackinnon, yer son is here.”
Cyrus’s father stirred. His eyes remained closed, but the lids looked to be struggling to rise. His lips cracked. “Patrick.”
Cyrus stepped closer, his body numb. “Nay, da, ’tis Cyrus.”
The man sighed as if reality had washed back over him. He made a disgruntled noise and opened his eyes. The whites were yellow, and a film seemed to float over them, making him look half dead already.
Cyrus pulled a chair next to the bed but didn’t try to touch his father. “I’ve returned from seeing Grace successfully wed to Chief Iain Macqueen. The peace contract is signed.”
“Peace and war are no longer a care of mine,” he murmured. His eyes tried to focus on Cyrus. “Ye will be the new chief here at Dun Haakon once I’m gone to be with Patrick.”
“Aye.”
“And ye are still determined to form alliances across Skye and through Scotland?”
“If we don’t, the English will march upon us like locusts and steal our lands and subjugate our people.”
Hamish Mackinnon raised a hand, flicking it gently as if shooing away a pesky insect.
“So it has always been, lad. But I have no say in this world anymore, so proceed with yer plans and keep Clan Mackinnon protected through strength.” His gaze fastened on Cyrus.
“If that is the only way to keep King Henry from our shores, form more alliances with strong clans like the Mathesons and Sinclairs. Marry well, like Grace.”
This was not the time to tell him about Iain Macqueen possibly being a traitor to the alliance. His mother believed Iain was honorable, so she wouldn’t tell his father anything other than that his cousin was mad and had convinced their grandmother to go on progress across Skye.
With what seemed to be a sudden gust of strength, his father grabbed Cyrus’s wrist. His hand was like a rough talon, and he looked straight into his son’s face.
“I didn’t raise ye to lead, but Patrick is gone.
Leave yer foolish ways behind. Be wise. Lead with yer head, not yer cock nor yer heart. Don’t fok up and weaken my clan.”
He locked eyes with Cyrus until he nodded. Then the strength seemed to leak from Hamish into the bed. His hand fell away from Cyrus’s wrist, and his eyes closed.
Gower came beside Cyrus. “Father Bright delivered last rites the eve before last, but he stops in to pray each evening. I can let ye know when he passes.”
Cyrus stood, his father’s words churning around inside him. Lead with yer head. Don’t fok up. Laria didn’t fit into his father’s wishes. He looked at Gower. “Where is the mushroom that was left under the bed?”