Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Life is like the river, sometimes it sweeps you gently along and sometimes the rapids come out of nowhere.”
“There you are.” Laria squatted down beside Loch Seanta as Cleas pushed partway up the bank, then scurried over to her.
The otter was skittish with most people, but she came right up for Laria to scoop into her arms, wetting her tunic.
Cleas chirped away, as if she were trying to tell Laria everything that had happened in the ten days she’d been gone.
“I told you I’d return,” she said and let the sleek creature down.
Cleas slipped back into the loch, and Laria noticed another otter swimming just under the surface, its eyes watchful. “And you have a friend.” Laria smiled as the two swam after each other, tumbling about in the clear water.
Laria walked along the familiar path farther into the woods.
Without the fear of Jasper finding her, she concentrated on her footfalls instead of constantly looking behind her.
She didn’t want to run for fear of pulling her stitches, but she kept up a brisk pace.
The changing leaves fluttered in splendor above her as the sun, which had broken through the mist, slanted down.
She heard a rustling and saw Cleas and her new friend scurrying along through the ferns, following.
After an hour, she spotted the bothy. A few spots of fresh thatch made Laria hopeful that she’d guessed Erskine’s location correctly.
She moved around the dwelling but remained among the trees.
Cleas ran ahead to the porch while her friend stayed back.
Her claws tapped on the wooden boards, and a dog barked inside.
The door opened. “Cleas, bloody hell, I could have shot ye.” The otter dashed back to her mate in the bushes.
“Erskine,” Laria said, stepping into the clearing.
With the instincts of someone who’d hidden his whole life, Erskine spun around, raising his nocked arrow.
She raised her hand. “Cleas was supposed to tell you that ’twas me, but she clearly left that part out.” Ginny, the dog, ran out from around Erskine’s legs straight toward Laria.
Her brother’s serious slash of a mouth turned upward at the corners.
Even with his white hair and strangely colored eyes, Laria thought him very handsome.
If only her mother hadn’t abandoned him, he’d probably be the chief of Clan Macqueen right now, and everyone would have a home in Staffin Village.
How different their lives would have been.
Would he be married to Grace Mackinnon, or would she have turned up her nose at the thought of wedding a man with no coloring on his body?
“Ye’re back from Dun Haakon,” he said, his grin fading. “Is the chief dead?”
She nodded, bending down to pet the prancing dog. “I’ve returned with Cyrus. He’s now the Mackinnon chief.”
Leah scooted past Erskine, her smile broad across her red-stained face. “Laria! You’re back! Is Lady Sophie with you? I want to show her our defenses.” She pointed to rocks piled neatly along the porch.
“She is still on progress.” Laria knelt to hug the girl. These were her people, her clan. They were more family than Iain could ever be. “Are Errol and Oscar living apart, nearby?” Laria asked, glancing at the small cottage.
“Aye,” Erskine said. “We decided to split up for the winter so we could live in huts or cottages instead of together in the wild. ’Tis easier to hide if need be, but Iain and Jasper have left us alone since ye left.”
“We have visitors, though,” Leah said, taking Laria’s hand.
Laria didn’t have her gloves on, but the little girl didn’t react to her scars.
Laria wouldn’t have given her the chance to see them before Cyrus and his undeniable acceptance of her flaws.
His worship of her body included every part of her, the smooth and the imperfect.
“Come eat,” Kate called from inside, and Ginny ran ahead of them.
“I’m hungry,” Laria said, letting Leah guide her up the two steps to the porch.
“The stew is delicious,” Erskine said.
Leah threw him a reprimanding look that mimicked perfectly the one her mother used. “You weren’t supposed to eat it until it had time to cook through. Winnie said so.”
Winnie? Winnie Mar? Holy Mary!
Cleas squeaked from the yard, and Laria saw the two otters staring at something on the ground. Sitting on a stump at the edge of the clearing was a bulbous mushroom with a little collar under the pure white cap. A destroying angel.
“Winnie Mar is here?” Laria asked, looking at Erskine. He nodded, a questioning frown replacing his smile.
“She came with Reid,” Leah answered, pointing toward the open door. “Winnie said they have nowhere to go this winter. Papa says we will find them a cottage, but for now they can live with us.”
Laria’s stomach clenched in panic. “Leah, where is Reid?” Could he be helping his sister?
“He’s around somewhere,” Leah said, her face turning to the forest. “I think he was hunting today.”
Winnie set the pot down on the table inside, her face turning to the open door. The woman’s gaze connected with Laria’s, and a small grin settled on her lips.
Laria’s breath caught, and her head snapped around to her brother. “You ate her stew.” Iain had tasked Winnie with poisoning Erskine so he couldn’t challenge him for the Macqueen chieftainship. But she didn’t need to wait for his answer. Winnie’s wicked grin answered for him.
…
In Tuath Tower’s kitchen, four maids pounded dough on a worktable. One young woman roasted a goose on a spit over the fire, her face red from the heat.
Grace guided Cyrus between sturdy tables to the hearth. The maid managed to keep the goose rotating while she curtsied to his sister. “Milady.”
“Hazel, this is my brother, Cyrus.”
“Oh, I know who he is,” she said with a smile. “I have a sister named Mary.” Her already flushed face grew redder. She curtsied again. “Milord.”
Grace continued. “I am concerned that the mistress who used to be here, Winnie Mar, may have returned.”
Behind Cyrus, the large cook snorted. “I wouldn’t let that woman in my kitchen even if she was lady of the tower. I’d quit before that.”
Cyrus turned. “So she hasn’t had the opportunity to tamper with any food?”
The woman looked affronted, her frown so deep one could fall into it. “Absolutely not. Master Reid warned us about her antics.”
“How she uses poisons?” Grace asked, her brows high.
“Aye,” the cook said. “I even sleep down here, so I’d know if she were about. Haven’t seen her since milady arrived.” She nodded to Grace.
Grace sighed with relief. “Excellent,” she said.
“Please let me know if you see any sign of her here or in the village.” She looked at the whole kitchen staff.
“Or if she contacts any of you. She’s responsible for three deaths south of here and is believed to be coming back to Tuath Tower to do more of the same. ”
Gasps and wide eyes preceded vigorous nodding. The cook who’d been directing everything strode over to the back door that led out to the kitchen gardens and lowered a bar over it. “I or one of my cooks will remain in the kitchen always. The food will remain guarded.”
“Excellent,” Grace said. “Thank you.” The maids smiled timidly.
Cyrus grabbed one of the warm buns that had come from the ovens, feeling much better about biting into it. He turned toward the door as Rory walked in and tossed him a warm bun.
“Iain left the tower,” Rory said.
“Why?” Cyrus asked, his open hand spanning his sister’s back to usher her toward the corridor leading to the Great Hall. His sense of urgency was growing, and Cyrus didn’t ignore his instincts. They’d kept him alive at Solway Moss.
“In the middle of his meal?” Grace asked as they followed Rory.
“He excused himself to check on something when a man came to the entryway, and when he didn’t return, I went out to the bailey. One of the stable lads said he’d ridden off with three other Macqueen warriors and…” He looked at Cyrus. “Errol, the old blacksmith with the scarred face.”
“Bloody hell,” Cyrus said. What was one of Laria’s group doing leading Iain anywhere?
“Did you hear what they were discussing?” Grace asked.
“Nay, milady,” the lad said, bowing his head. “Chief Macqueen had me outfit a horse for Errol, too. He requested yer white charger, milady. They left in haste.” He pointed down the path from the tower.
“The white charger named Lancelot?” Cyrus asked.
“Aye, milord.” The lad glanced nervously at Grace.
“That is Laria’s horse,” Cyrus said.
Grace’s face tightened, and she gave a little nod. “He gave Lancelot to me as a wedding gift.”
Cyrus looked at Rory. “Errol might be leading him to Laria.” Would he use a threat to Lancelot as a way to manipulate her?
“Laria’s here?” Grace asked.
“We weren’t sure who Winnie might target next, ye or Laria’s brother, Erskine,” Cyrus answered. “Laria went to warn him while I came to ye.”
“Erskine, the pale man, is her…brother?” she asked.
Cyrus looked at his sister. Was she one to judge the man for his unique coloring? “Aye, and he’s a clever, good man who was thrown out as a bairn by a mother who wanted only perfection.”
“He would be the next chief after Iain’s uncle died,” Grace said softly. “Chief Sandris was his father.”
“We need horses,” Rory said and jogged down the aisle with the stable lad.
“Erskine could challenge Iain,” Grace said, crossing her arms. Cyrus wasn’t sure where she stood. At the root of it, she’d wed a man he’d deemed honorable not for love, but for the sake of alliance.
“Aye, but Iain has created an environment that doesn’t allow any variations on what society thinks is the right way to look. When Erskine was pulled into the square and lashed by Jasper, no one came to his defense before Laria jumped in.”
Grace grabbed Cyrus’s arm, her fingers curling into his sleeve like the teeth of a saw biting into a log. “I married Iain for the alliance, which I agree is important. Are you planning to break it? Cause a war with Clan Macqueen by supporting Erskine?”
“We will figure everything out once I find Iain. I don’t want to ruin the alliance, either.”
“But you will in order to save Laria,” Grace said.
He met his sister’s gaze so she’d see the truth. “Aye.”
Her lips pressed together until they were pale, but then she relaxed. “Amazing,” she said softly and inhaled. “My roguish brother is in love.”
Rory and the lad trotted out two horses, their hooves clip-clopping on the hard-packed earth. “Let’s go,” Rory said. “We’ll be slower just because we must look for fresh tracks.”
Cyrus swung up into the saddle. “Pack what’s dear to ye, Sister, for I’m not leaving ye here with a monster who’s prettied himself up with lies.”
Grace turned to hurry back into the castle, for once not arguing.
The tracks were hard to discern through the village where other animals were herded, but Cyrus knew which direction Laria was headed. “Erskine’s cottage sits along the burn feeding the loch where we found her,” Cyrus said and spurred his horse forward.
In no time, Cyrus was dismounting at Loch Sheanta where he’d first seen Laria. She’d risen like the Lady of the Lake from the old tales his tutor had shared with him and Patrick. It had become part of her mystery to him, the curiosity that pulled at his mind. But so much more had followed.
“She came through here,” Cyrus said, pointing down to a smallish boot print near the marks of her otter friend.
Rory pulled his horse alongside his, nodding. “There are more horse tracks.”
“She continued on, and so did Iain and Errol.” Cyrus pushed his horse forward, his entire body tense. He felt the urgency of time running out.