Chapter Twenty-Six #2
It had been two days since he’d carried her back to the castle, Cyrus completely naked until Kenan had retrieved and draped his plaid around his waist to keep him from offending the villagers.
He’d carried Laria through the multitude of festivalgoers and across the packed Great Hall as a cacophony of questions and curses had lifted to the rafters.
But he’d ignored them all, trudging up to his own bedchamber with Morag and Sophie following.
He went to the side of the bed where Morag stood and took Laria’s other hand. “How is she?”
“Good,” Morag said, her voice cheerful. “The Lady of Loch and Sea will live a long life.”
Cyrus’s head dropped in utter relief, and he lifted it to see that Laria’s lovely blue-green eyes had opened. Her long lashes blinked, and her cheeks had color in them. She no longer looked like a drowned heroine from a Greek tragedy. He inhaled fully, as though it were his first breath in days.
Kenan and Rory had followed him into the room, ready to push forward under his orders if the women continued to block his way.
“I’m not the Lady of Loch and Sea,” Laria said, but she didn’t break the tether between their gazes.
“Aunt Morag thinks a bit differently than most,” Kenan said. “She’s decided that Sara is a phoenix representing fire and Tierney is a goddess representing air.”
“And I am water,” Laria said, having apparently heard it over the last two days. She glanced at Morag. “I’m not some mermaiden.”
“But water is your element,” Morag said. “It saved you, washing away the poison from Jasper Whitt’s blade before it could worm its way into your blood. Now you will heal quickly with my poultices and tinctures.”
“Lady Morag is a great healer,” Sophie said. “I knew her and her twin sister, Elspet, when they were younger. Both of them were very talented.”
“I am the sour sister,” Morag said with a grin at Sophie. “Elspet was the sweet one.”
Sophie nodded with a solemn look. “Sour survives more often than sweet.”
“I would like to rise,” Laria said and pushed up in the pillows. “The cut wasn’t too deep, and the poison is gone.”
Cyrus frowned, but before he could question her safety she said, “I would like to speak with you. Alone.”
Morag looked at Sophie. “I would like to speak more with you about your grandson, Iain. His nursemaid, Penny, spent a few nights with me when his mother sent her from Tuath. There was…a malicious mind behind her motherly face.”
Sophie nodded, her face grim but interested. “I’ve had my suspicions about the woman.” The two waved their hands at the others to shoo them from the room before following them out.
Cyrus sat, watching Laria look at the blanket before her. She exhaled and raised her gaze to his. “You said…at the loch…you believe me.”
Relief helped Cyrus inhale. She wasn’t taking back her declaration of love. At least not yet. “Aye. Iain is planning to take over Clan Mackinnon.”
“Did Jasper say—?”
“Rory killed him before he could answer questions.”
“And yet…you believe?”
Cyrus took her hand, which she’d hidden back under the covers.
Was it a habit to hide her scars, or did she still worry about him seeing them?
“I believe ye, Laria Macqueen. There is no madness in yer mind. Iain is clever and patient and hungering for our powerful clan. Ye know his heart to be foul, and I trust yer witness of his murderous plans.”
Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but she blinked them away. “I am sorry that means Grace is in danger. She wouldn’t leave with me.”
The tightness of worry filled his middle once more. “I’m going to rescue her whether she wills it or not.” That would be one hell of a fight, one he didn’t relish.
He squeezed her hand, which felt warm and strong in his. Thank God she’d jumped into the loch where the water and outward flow of blood could wash the taint of the blade away.
She squeezed back. “I’m going with you.”
He shook his head, fear adding to the tightness. “Ye’ve been stabbed and must rest.”
“I am healing—”
“I’m leaving within the week.”
“Bonnie will be my nursemaid,” she said, waving a hand toward the door. “Or my grandmother, but I am going.” She took his hand with both of hers. “Did I dream all the words you said to me at the loch? Or were they just said because you thought I was dying?”
Her question hit his chest like a punch, and he fought to draw breath. “Ye said ye loved me. Was that because ye thought ye were dying?”
They stared at each other, both of them assessing.
Was his courage, so strong on the battlefield when life was in jeopardy, crumbling under the threat of another rejection?
He’d played life safe from the start, being the irresponsible son who would never lead.
The idea had been ingrained in him with every snide comment from his father.
But now he was the chief. He’d survived torture and near starvation at the hands of the English.
He’d helped the brotherhood forge peace on Skye, something that had never happened before.
His heart was not safe, but he would no longer barricade it away.
Cyrus took Laria’s hands in his. “Laria Macqueen, I love ye. I might call ye ‘lass’ from time to time, but ye will always be my love.”
Her eyes shone bright as a smile lifted her lips. “I love you, too.”