Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Just as ripples spread out when a single pebble is dropped into water, the actions of individuals can have far-reaching effects.”
Another day of pledges followed as farmers and families from the outskirts of Mackinnon territory journeyed into the village to swear their allegiance to the new chief.
Laria stood on the bottom step with her grandmother.
It had been easy to convince Morag to let her out of bed, so easy that Laria was certain she wanted her below.
She’d bathed in a warm tub and was now dressed in a gown the color of the loch on a sunny day, blue with brown stitching along her sleeves, bodice, and parted petticoat.
It had been Grace’s ensemble, but she’d left it behind because the color didn’t suit her ebony locks.
After the last man and woman joined the mass in the Great Hall, Morag left Cyrus’s side, turning to walk to the alcove. “Good,” she said when she saw Laria, and gave her a nod. “Follow me.”
“Where are we going?” Laria asked, frowning softly.
“To introduce you to the Mackinnons.”
Laria swallowed but followed Morag when she turned to reenter the hall. Sophie remained on her arm.
Olive was talking with the castle steward, William, but they both turned with wide eyes when she entered.
Morag’s voice rang out, capturing the attention of everyone inside.
“I have found the Lady of Loch and Sea.” At the back, more people pushed into the Great Hall, wanting to see.
She turned before Cyrus and bowed her head in respect.
“Chief Mackinnon. She has risen healed after surviving a great attack.”
Olive came forward, her lips pursed. “Laria Macqueen is the cousin of Chief Iain Macqueen. The title you’ve given her has no meaning here.”
“That’s because you’ve let the monks turn you from the power in the very earth we stand upon, against the roots of your ancestors,” Morag said. Her tone made it sound as if Olive herself was the example of what was wrong on their isle.
“I am a good Christian woman,” Olive said, drawing herself up.
But Morag had already turned away from her. She looked out upon the people who’d refilled the hall. “Our isle is in danger,” Morag pronounced, then waited as a rumble rose.
“Milady,” Cyrus said, and took Laria’s arm to lead her up to the raised platform.
Even though Laria had understood that Morag planned to introduce her to the Mackinnons as something special, she wanted to shrink back before someone could call her a fraud. The accusation was surely slithering up Olive’s throat.
“Hold yer tongues,” Cyrus commanded, and the room silenced immediately.
Morag looked out upon the throng. “There has been petty war among clans for centuries, but now we face a larger enemy, England.” She let the men’s curses rise and settle before continuing. “King Henry has his sights on Scotland, and our loss at Solway Moss showed him how easily we can be defeated.”
Before the men could yell in defense, she raised both arms, her sleeves hanging in pointed Vs toward the floor.
“The four warriors from Clans Macdonald, MacLeod, Mackinnon, and MacNicol escaped his brutal dungeon, returning to build a stronger Scotland, starting with their own beloved Isle of Skye.”
Cheers rose like an unstoppable wave. Laria stared, along with the rest of the room, at the great lady in blue.
She was majestic and exuded power and otherworldly strength, her words almost like an inciting spell.
She lowered her arms, and the room quieted as if she were the sun setting, bringing peace once again to the world.
“I have studied the signs of the coming trial for us and for Scotland,” she said into the sudden silence, “and I believe that we must unite our isle and then our country if we are to defend our land against these foreign devils.” She overrode their raised voices by continuing unheeded.
“The four elements—fire, air, water, and earth—will make us strong, keeping our isle safe like a woman does a child in her womb.”
Prickles infused Laria’s skin at Morag’s words, and her heart sped, feeding her desire to help defend their country from oppressors.
The Mackinnons felt the call, too. Some thumped their fists against tables, others pulled their swords, holding them tip up, and others cupped their hands around their mouths and hooted in support.
Morag held out her hand to Laria. “Come, Lady of Loch and Sea.”
Laria walked forward and turned to stare out next to Morag. “This is Lady Laria of Tuath Tower, Lady of Loch and Sea. With her by our side, combined with the ladies of fire, air, and earth, we will be victorious.”
The hall gave a great whoop of cheers. Morag leaned into Laria’s ear. “They cheer for you, my dear. Breathe it in—and for God’s sake, smile.” Morag turned back to the room. “If the clans of Skye come together, we will keep the English off our isle.”
Laria couldn’t catch her breath. How could Morag know this for certain? She was making promises that she had no power to keep.
Morag took Laria’s hand and led her to the two steps up to the dais where Cyrus stood. Mother Mary’s tears! What was she planning to do?
“Just go stand next to him,” Morag said, as if reading her mind.
Laria took the steps and stood next to Cyrus, and the room cheered. The woman certainly knew how to make the clan accept her. Laria wore white gloves, but Cyrus tugged one off. Before everyone, he kissed the back of it. No one, not even the ones up close, murmured about her scars.
“Let me through!” a man called from the back. “A missive for Chief Kenan Macdonald.” He held a sealed letter high above his head.
“Tomas?” Kenan said from his place beside the dais.
“Who is he?” Laria asked.
“Kenan’s second-in-command, come from Dunscaith Castle,” Cyrus said and stepped down.
“Let him through,” Cyrus called.
“What’s happened?” Kenan asked, and Rory came close, too. The three chiefs stood before the bowing man. Laria stepped down to their level.
Tomas handed Kenan the letter. “Much, milord.” His body was stiff, and his face filled with reined rage. “Yer brother, Gilbert, has been poisoned.”
“Winnie Mar,” Rory said, the name released through gritted teeth.
Laria grabbed Cyrus’s arm. “She might be going now to poison Grace.”
“No!” Olive gasped, stumbling forward. The steward, William, caught her as her legs gave way.
…
Laria wrapped her cape around herself as she stood alone on the deck in the gray weather.
Men moved with confident grace around Poseidon’s Fist as it slowed inside the cove before Tuath Tower.
By now, Iain would have been alerted to their arrival.
He’d be assembling his warriors in case they were hostile.
Cyrus flew the Mackinnon banner with the boar’s head on it, but Iain would take all precautions.
He was a guilty man waiting to be discovered, and he didn’t plan to get captured.
If he’d sent Jasper down to Dun Haakon, had he deduced that she was there?
Or had Jasper been sent to ensure that Winnie poisoned Cyrus’s father?
A dead man gives no answers, and Jasper was certainly dead.
Cyrus stepped up beside Laria, his arm against hers.
“Any pain?” His hand slid gently to the bandaged gash on her back.
He’d been the one tending it after explicit instructions from Lady Morag before they’d left Dun Haakon.
They weren’t wed, so Laria had been given the captain’s cabin while Cyrus had made sure to be seen sleeping in a bunk with his men.
But before going above in the morn, he came to the cabin to change her bandages and apply a new poultice.
“No,” she said, smiling even though tension held her rigid. What would today bring for them? “My doctor has taken exceptionally good care of me.”
He set his hand over hers on the rail. “I will go up to Tuath Tower, but I think ’tis best for ye to stay aboard,” he said, looking out.
“But you know that I won’t.”
He exhaled and squeezed her hand. “Aye.”
“I need to find Erskine,” she said, her voice soft. She’d spoken with her grandmother before leaving her with Bonnie and Morag. She was in agreement that Erskine should be the next chief. “With Jasper dead, and you keeping Iain busy, there is no one to challenge me.”
She turned her face to him, admiring his strong profile. His hair was lush and curled into waves, framing his noble features. She looked back out toward the shoreline. “Will you kill Iain?”
Cyrus exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck, which was a gesture she now knew he employed whenever he felt the heaviness of distress. “I need to speak with Grace and find out if Winnie Mar is here.”
“He will still be lying to Grace, keeping her ignorant of his true nature.”
Cyrus turned to face her. “Grace is clever, and given time, she will discover if someone is being false with her.”
“I hope so.”
They both stared out for a long moment until Cyrus spoke. “We should talk about what Morag said at Dun Haakon.”
“I am no mythical, powerful lady of the loch.”
“And sea.”
“Neither loch nor sea.”
“Sara doesn’t think she’s really a phoenix, either,” he said. “But no matter. I love ye for who ye are.”
There was another long pause, but Laria didn’t try to fill it.
“Ye still love me,” he said, but the inflection at the end sounded like a question.
Her heart twisted at the worry in his voice, and she turned her face to him. Raw emotion sat in the lines around his narrowed eyes. “With every bit of me, inside and out,” she said.
He exhaled in a huff and murmured something that sounded like a prayer of thanksgiving. Cyrus had steep challenges plaguing him: England’s threats, becoming a new chief, Winnie Mar on the loose, and Iain wed to his sister. And yet knowing that she loved him brought him relief.
She smiled, but it faded quickly. “But what happens when your clan realizes there’s nothing special about me? That I can’t help strengthen Skye against England? Morag made it sound like I’d be standing at the front of your army, ready to charge, striking down King Henry with a waterspout.”
He chuckled softly. “I don’t think anyone truly believes that ye control the oceans.” He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders. “But they will see that ye make me stronger, more patient, and wiser.”
She inhaled, nodding. Laria studied his face. “Will you support Erskine as the chief of Clan Macqueen?”
“If he proves to be a leader.” His gaze connected with hers so directly that she found it difficult to breathe. “Otherwise, I will support ye as Chief Laria Macqueen.”
“A woman as chief?” she asked.
“And a member of the Council of the Isles. Tierney would like to have another woman on the council with her.”
They stared into each other’s eyes. “But all that happens only if Iain is stripped of his power,” she said. She squeezed his upper arms. “And you don’t die, Cyrus Mackinnon.”
“’Tis not part of my plan.” He smiled that grin that always made her heart beat faster.
But she couldn’t smile back. “’Tis very much part of Iain’s plan.”
Someone cleared his throat, and they both turned to see Rory standing in the mist that engulfed the cove and ship. “We are ready to row across.”
Cyrus’s body tensed as if he’d suddenly remembered that his sister was in jeopardy. “And Laria will remain on board to stay safe.”
She snorted. “I will go to Erskine’s cottage. ’Tis a small bothy on the bank of the creek that runs west from Loch Sheanta. ’Tis where he’d take Leah and Kate.”
He pulled her to him for a brief, warm kiss. “Stay out of trouble.”
“Don’t eat anything at the castle unless you know ’tis safe. Iain could have Winnie working in the kitchens.”
Cyrus exhaled with a nod, and the two walked to the rowboat waiting off the port side of the ship.
He held her hand, their fingers woven together.
The feeling was so intimate. Perhaps it was a simple gesture to others, but to Laria, who had rarely felt the slide of fingers against fingers since her burning, it flooded her with warmth.
Would she ever get used to his unflinching touch?
“I think Iain awaits at the docks,” Rory said, squinting through the mist.
“Mother Mary’s tears,” Laria swore. “You row across. I’ll take the second rowboat after you’ve left the dock.”
“Ye’ll be seen by his guards,” Cyrus said, blocking Laria so anyone looking out toward them wouldn’t see her standing on the deck.
“I’ll beach farther down, not at the dock. Now go. Save your sister.”
From her spot behind the thick mast, Laria watched Cyrus unlatch the opening in the gunwale and climb down the rope ladder. His eyes remained locked with hers until he stepped below the deck line. Rory followed, along with six other Mackinnon warriors. “Just stay alive,” she whispered.