Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“And this wee daisy is from my youngest. We call her Hope, and she’s three years this Christmastide.”
Cyrus took the wildflower, its little white petals perfectly shaped and uniform. “Thank ye, Angus,” Cyrus said and tucked the flower into his sash. “Let wee Hope know I’m carrying her gift next to my heart.” Angus beamed, nodding, and turned.
Cyrus’s gaze rose to the crowd as a stirring near the doorway made the warriors part. He stood from his chair as Morag Gunn, Kenan’s eccentric aunt, seemed to float toward him along the path cleared by his men. Her green robes barely moved, and she held herself as straight and regal as a queen.
“Lord help us,” Kenan murmured.
“At least she’s not naked,” Rory said.
A squelched gasp came up from the men, a caw piercing it, as a crow swooped through the outer door over their heads to glide forward. The large, black bird used its great wings to turn and perch on a beam above Cyrus’s head. It would probably shite on him.
Olive moved a step forward. “Welcome,” she said stiffly.
Morag was associated with both the Macdonald and MacLeod clans, enemies to Clan Mackinnon until the new alliances. She was both revered and feared by most inhabitants of the Isle of Skye. Even Cyrus’s father had considered her dangerous after her abusive husband had died mysteriously.
The last place Cyrus had seen Lady Morag was on Eilean Donan Isle, distracting the Matheson chief. “Lady Morag,” he said. “Welcome to Dun Haakon.”
Morag’s voice flowed out of her with as much strength as her stance. “I have come to meet the Lady of Loch and Sea to ensure she is part of the web that makes the Isle of Skye safe against the coming invasion. Where is she?”
Cyrus stared, stunned for a moment, and a murmur rose. “Ye foresee an invasion of our shores?” he asked.
“Since the disaster at Solway Moss,” she answered, “when you and your brothers were traded for lesser men, men who valued war over peace within Scotland.”
“England is the devil,” someone cried out from the crowd.
“Of course,” Morag’s voice answered. It sliced through the increasing murmur without seeming raised. It was as if she spoke into every ear in the room, and everyone quieted. “First, I must meet the Lady of Loch and Sea.”
Sophie stood, stepping forward like a queen meeting a queen. She met Morag’s gaze directly. “Lady Morag Gunn, it’s been a long time. I would have you meet my granddaughter, Laria Macqueen.”
Morag tilted her head slightly, and a smile touched her lips as if relief flowed through her. She glanced quizzically at Cyrus and then back to Sophie. “Yes, I would meet her now.”
“She has gone to the loch.”
Morag smiled. “Of course she has. Water is her element, a place to which she will return when under pressure or turmoil.” Her smile faltered. “And I feel turmoil.”
Even though the woman didn’t turn to him, Cyrus somehow knew she was referring to him. How Kenan’s aunt knew things was otherworldly, but usually correct, maybe always correct. Some said she listened to the wind or her black crows, and called her witch. Others felt she was blessed by God.
Sophie’s words penetrated, and Cyrus looked at her. “Laria went to the loch alone?”
“She prefers to swim alone.”
Mo chreach. He looked past the men filling the hall toward the door. “Is she in danger?”
“We all live in danger,” Morag said.
Her cryptic answer shot molten energy through his veins. Sitting all morning had already taxed his patience, and he could remain no longer. He looked to his men. “I am honored by yer attendance here, and by yer oaths. I will continue with them at the festival.”
Cyrus looked at his steward, William. “See that Lady Morag is given accommodations.” Sheathing his father’s sword, Cyrus strode along the path that had opened for Morag and heard Kenan and Rory clipping along behind him. Morag’s bird cawed, flying before them to dive through the open doors.
Cyrus walked quickly, nodding to those who wished him well. His mind was set on the path leading to Laria. She would be swimming naked. Alone. The entire village was close to the castle, leaving no witnesses at the loch.
“Should we get horses?” Rory asked.
“’Tis half a mile. ’Tis faster to run,” Cyrus answered and began.
The path led to a medium-size loch with a small waterfall feeding fresh spring water into it.
Which made it exceptionally cold all year.
Even if Laria was blessedly alone, she could drown, the cold making her muscles cramp.
The thought of her struggling, sinking into the water plants growing at the bottom, made Cyrus plow ahead, his blood thrumming.
Morag’s crow cawed overhead, landing on a low branch, observing their race.
The trees thinned to a meadow as Cyrus approached the loch. “Laria!” His voice carried over the sound of churning, rushing water. “Laria! Where are ye?”
The need to see her whole and alive became so intense that it seemed a part of him. Like his sword arm or his breath, it became important enough that without it he might die. When he saw her standing in the reeds on the far side, he stopped at the other edge.
She was dressed in her smock, her hair free around her shoulders. “Laria,” he breathed, but then he saw the large man holding a mattucashlass pointed at her back. Jasper Whitt.