The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Of course, I do remember Mr. Lawton. I hope they are well?”

  “Indeed they are. Thank you for asking.”

  The time passed sluggishly as Mrs. Maclean waxed into ecstatic descriptions of how breathtaking her niece had become and what a prodigy she was with music. “She first sat at a piano when she was three,” Isabel claimed, “and played complex pieces of music by simply listening to others perform. It’s truly astounding.” She continued with stories of her braw young nephew, and how desperately frustrated she was by her brother’s refusal to allow his children any of the finer graces in life. He’d even cut off Morrigan’s music instruction, though Isabel was the one paying for it. It was a crime against art! She told Curran she often traveled to Stranraer to give the wee things a diversion from their perpetual chores. Douglas treated them like servants, slaves, or hired hands, and she was not exaggerating.

  He forced himself to pay attention, to nod, smile, agree when it was needed, and to show the proper concern at the dreary life her niece and nephew were forced to live. His memories of Douglas Lawton’s children were blurry; all he could picture was a vague image of his mother fawning over the infant.

  “Is that hurting, Mr. Ramsay?” She pointed to the scar by his eye. “You’re rubbing it rather vigorously.”

  He hadn’t realized. The scar did hurt. Truthfully, he could hardly see through the haze of pain, and drew his fingers away prepared for blood, but there wasn’t any. He couldn’t remember the last time the old wound had caused such discomfort— not for years, not since the attack in the desolate wilds up by Loch Torridon. He’d always been self-conscious about the disfigurement, though it wasn’t so bad— a simple defect that sliced through the outer edge of his left eyebrow and curved in a crescent shape past his eye to end at the top of his cheekbone. Women seemed to find it fascinating.

  This had been a long journey. He was tired, and would be grateful to get home again. Maybe it was the pain that caused him to voice such an ignorant statement. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could unsay them, but, of course, it was too late.

  “I am lost, Mrs. Maclean. I often have this feeling, but it’s much worse today.” As he spoke, he thought of the other dream, for it, too, involved a scar. In this dream, he held a woman. He lifted her hand and turned it, kissing an odd, reddish mark on the inside of her wrist, a scar of some kind, or a blemish left by an old burn. The woman pulled him closer, saying, Kiss me. Kiss me again. He never could recall her face when he woke, though he spent countless hours trying, and couldn’t be sure if this was someone he knew, or a fabrication shaped wholly in his head.

  Simply thinking of it made his heart speed up and shortened his breathing. He turned away from the prim and proper Isabel MacLean, carefully refolding the newspaper on his lap while tamping down an almost overwhelming erotic hunger.

  Thankfully, before she had a chance to give him stern, commonsense platitudes about the healing power of tea and toast, and how one must never eat cheese before bed, or how he needed a wife to be happy, the train whistle blared, disintegrating the last remnants of desire.

  They’d arrived in Stranraer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “MORRIGAN! MORRIGAN LAWTON!”

  An insistent, rather braying voice carried over the rush and bustle of busy townsfolk, arriving passengers, and resting growl of the train engine. Reining in Widdie, Morrigan glanced over her shoulder.

  “Here… over here!”

  A white square handkerchief waved, vanished behind a group of tall, solemn-frocked gentlemen, then reappeared as they passed.

  She squinted. A short, squat woman, dwarfed by an enormous feathered hat. Why, it was Aunt Isabel, Papa’s sister from the Highlands.

  Morrigan wheeled her mount. She’d be even later getting home, but it couldn’t be helped. Maybe the arrival of his only sister would soothe Papa’s anger.

  As Morrigan dismounted, brushing hair out of her eyes, Isabel pulled her into an exuberant, perfumed hug, released her, and gave her a thorough examination, going so far as to turn her niece in a circle.

  “Where is your hat? How many times must I remind you that a lady never goes out with her head uncovered? And will you look at this? We’ll be hours on these snarls. You’re seventeen, Morrigan, a lady of marriageable—”

  “Eighteen, Auntie, I’m halfway to nineteen—”

  “Old enough to mind a hat, then. I’ve made you enough to suit a countess. Surely one of them appeals. There is simply no excuse. Why has Beatrice allowed you to ride out half dressed?”

  Humiliation burned Morrigan’s cheeks as the last departing passengers sent varying glances of disapproval or amusement her way. Aunt Isabel’s voice tended to carry.

  “I left before she woke up. And I love the hats you’ve made me, Aunt Ibby. I love them, truly.”

  “You need to spend more time with that lass, what’s her name… Enid. She could teach you a thing or two about the habits of a proper lady.”

  Morrigan sighed. Enid Joyce was blessed with wealth, an impressive home, and, as she often boasted, an introduction to the queen’s youngest daughter. Her finest accomplishment in Morrigan’s opinion was a tongue so sour it could blacken a pickle, and she used it freely to belittle others. Aunt Isabel, forced to take up a trade after the death of her husband, had become a seamstress, and did quite well. For years, she’d showered her niece with fine, hand-sewn clothing. This had drawn Enid’s scrutiny to one she never would have deigned to notice otherwise. Over the last three years or so, Stranraer’s bachelor gentlemen had begun to openly admire the innkeeper’s daughter, they being so much less discriminating than Enid. In response, Enid’s castigation had escalated into the righteous outrage of the wellborn against peasants who dared ape their betters.

  Morrigan thought it best to move on to another topic. “Does Papa know you’ve come?”

  “No.” Isabel’s stern expression melted into an unpretentious smile. “It’s a surprise. I’ve brought a friend, and he’s fair anxious to meet you. Now where’s that lad gone off to? He was right behind me a moment ago.”

  Morrigan’s thorn-pricked finger stung. She stuck it in her mouth to soothe it, tasting bitter remnants of yellow gorse and the slightest mineral hint of blood.

  “Did you see where my traveling companion went?” Isabel asked a nearby porter.

  “No, mum.” The man was blandly polite, yet Morrigan caught the brief narrowing of his eyes, the flicker of annoyance. I have no idea who your companion is, and moreover, I do not care, his frown suggested.

  Isabel, oblivious to such subtleties, replied tartly, “Well, help me find him. We don’t have all day to stand about. And where is my trunk?”

  The porter half-ran to keep up with Isabel’s rotund figure as she hurried along the platform, chastising him all the way.

  “She’s a remarkable lady, your aunt.”

  Morrigan turned towards the nearest car. A figure stood there, still and dark, little more than an outline. The fine hairs along the edge of her scalp lifted, and she hastily removed her finger from her mouth, tucking it behind her. “Aye,” she replied.

  “You must be Miss Lawton.” His voice reminded her of the way barley whispered in warm breezes.

  Thinking something had gone wrong with her sight, she blinked. A mist of color surrounded the being on the step, like a rainbow glimmering through watery clouds, but this rainbow offered only the blue spectrum, with hints of violet.

  She managed to contain a desire to reach out and ruffle the colors like the surface of a pool. “I am,” she said, taking a half-step backward. There was nothing to fear. She heard her aunt berating the porter a few cars away. Nevertheless…. She lifted one brow. “How d’you know that, sir?”

  “Forgive me.” He descended the steps. A shaft of sunlight, finding its way through a hole in the station’s wood and glass ceiling, pinned him in a halo of light.

  For one instant that seemed unending, the world stopped. The train engine’s pant fade
d into the overpowering pulse of her blood.

  “Beg your pardon, Miss Lawton?”

  The words sank into her brain as though slogging through mud. “Wha-what?”

  “Did you say, ‘Theseus’?”

  For an instant more, she remained trapped in muffling cotton. Then the world burst apart. Her heart lurched. A surge, what a lightning bolt must feel like, streaked through her, almost drawing her up on tiptoe, as though she’d lain dormant her whole life until now. She wasn’t at all certain her heart could handle the strain. Along with a thousand other mental pictures, gone too quick to make any sense of, she saw herself clutch her chest, fall, and expire, right before the physical embodiment of her long-cherished illusion.

  A breeze lifted his unruly blond hair, fair begging for a woman’s smoothing hand. Supple skin, mouth curving on one side, bringing out a playful dimple. Alert twilight blue eyes beneath dark brows, hinting at confidences and merriment he’d like to share. Clean-shaven. Five and twenty? Older perhaps, the direct gaze and confident stance hinted; maybe younger, said the unlined skin, riotous hair and generous mouth.

  Her frozen muscles grew hot and began to tremble. Daftie. He’s a man, not a Greek hero come to life.

  “Miss Lawton, are you well?” He stepped closer, lifting a hand as though in contemplation of grasping her shoulder.

  Her gaze locked on a scar marring his otherwise perfect face, curving around his left eye. It was shaped like a miniature crescent moon, or one of those Moslem curved swords: a scimitar. “Aye, I’m well, Mr.— Mr.?”

  “Ramsay.” He inclined his head. “Curran Ramsay.”

  “You’re the… my aunt’s traveling companion?”

  “I had that pleasure, aye.”

  “There you are, Mr. Ramsay.” Isabel’s voice intruded with the hearty insistence of a magpie. “I’ve located our bags. Have you met my niece?”

  “If this young lady is your niece, Mrs. Maclean.”

  Throughout her aunt’s dialogue, Mr. Ramsay kept his gaze on Morrigan. The undisguised admiration in those vivid blue eyes helped her dismiss the notion that in her many ardent reveries, she had always created her hero with eyes of green. She supposed she was like most females, and couldn’t resist a man canny enough to reveal his appreciation.

  The strange colors that had sparkled around him were gone, banished perhaps by the light of the sun. He smiled as though he and Morrigan shared some private, affectionate joke about Aunt Ibby, and Morrigan’s knees turned to butter. The smile was angelic, yet to charm her so, it must be diabolical. She clamped down on her wayward thoughts, fearful of spouting more half-witted nonsense. Theseus. For the sake of blessed pity, had she really said that out loud?

  “And is she not all I claimed?”

  “Indeed, Mrs. Maclean, you failed to do her justice.”

  Morrigan glanced from the gentleman to her smirking aunt and thought her cheeks might erupt in flames.

  “Mr. Ramsay’s an acquaintance of yours, my dear, though you couldn’t possibly remember. He hails from Glenelg.”

  She returned her scrutiny to him. Light glanced off his gold tiepin, a fancy scrolled “CR,” one wee diamond separating the two letters.

  No, she could not have actually met and forgotten this sun god, the male who’d haunted her daydreams for as long as she’d been alive. Everything about him seemed to shout, I am here to rescue you.

  She cleared her throat. “Aye?” Her voice sounded faint and tinny through the drumbeat of blood in her ears. Theseus. In the flesh. The golden dream-lover.

  Yet he wasn’t exactly the same. His hair wasn’t nearly as long, and he was dressed like any other proper gentleman, in striped trousers, tie, and waistcoat, not in leather armor and greaves. She nearly laughed out loud as she imagined what would happen in conservative Stranraer if a man stepped off the train adorned in such a costume. Now that she put cold logic to it, she realized he didn’t resemble the hero in her fantasy, really, except for the color of his hair. She must have been half asleep, still floating in her dream spell, to think it. The stench of acrid smoke, windblown rubbish, and sullen porters were returning her to common sense and drab reality.

  There was no denying though, that part of her longed for him to exclaim his own happy knowledge, to clasp her in his arms and refuse to let her go.

  But he merely bowed like every other gentleman she’d ever been introduced to. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Lawton.”

  “And I you, Mr. Ramsay.” She’d never worked so hard to keep her voice steady.

  Isabel tugged Morrigan towards the street. “Will you join us, Mr. Ramsay? Come and break your fast at my brother’s inn.”

  “I’d love to,” he said.

  She gave the porter detailed instructions on what to do with their luggage then swept towards Stranraer proper, heels clicking on the cobblestones. “D’you care if we walk?” she asked. “It’s only a bit up the road and I feel the need to stretch my legs.”

  “Certainly.” Mr. Ramsay took Widdie’s reins and offered Morrigan his arm. His left brow came up, causing two horizontal lines to crease his forehead, and elongating the crescent scar.

  What would it be like… to touch it?

  She curled her hand obediently around his forearm, hoping he couldn’t feel her nervousness through his coat sleeve.

  Enid Joyce, enthroned on the seat of a shining victoria drawn by two matched bays, chose that moment to pass. Her well-fitted jacket, strung with lace, accented an hourglass figure. Blue eyes, beneath a head of perfectly coiffed hair, narrowed as the lass observed her rival so neatly ensconced on the arm of this handsome stranger.

  Morrigan had almost forgotten her shortcomings beneath Ramsay’s admiring regard. Now she remembered her bare head, snarled braid, and bitten fingernails. Her homespun dress, still littered with a few stubborn stickseeds and patches of dust, offered evidence of her time in the wild, and she was sure she smelled of horse. Next to Enid’s slim figure, Morrigan felt as cumbersome as an elephant seal. She shriveled, much like a blossom left too long without water.

  Of course Aunt Isabel had to pause and say good morning. Enid replied with easy smiling grace, as though she and Morrigan were lifelong comrades. The lass displayed her saucy dimple and for good measure fluttered long black lashes as she extended a hand encased in a lace-trimmed glove.

  “Now there’s a born lady,” Isabel said as Enid ordered her driver on. “See how her parasol draws attention to her hat? You’d never catch her without a hat.”

  Perhaps she noticed how her niece flinched, for she patted Morrigan’s shoulder, adding, “Still, you’ve a charm she lacks. I cannot put a name to it, really….” She gave their companion a roguish wink. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

  “Aye, indeed,” he replied. “A most intriguing and singular charm.”

  Isabel’s face exuded satisfaction, and Morrigan realized what was truly going on. Her aunt had dragged this poor, unsuspecting fellow here, using trickery, no doubt, for the sole purpose of meeting her. She’d die if he perceived he was being paraded as a candidate for marriage. His fine suit proclaimed his wealth and his manner of speech almost screamed expensive education. Heaven knew what Isabel thought he’d find appealing in a penniless innkeeper’s daughter who’d only been allowed eight years in an unpolished, rural school.

  She lowered her face to hide her mortification.

  Aunt Isabel would drag Crown Prince Edward himself to Morrigan’s door if she could manage it. Aye, she would.

  And no doubt she would expect the prince to display humble appreciation over his good fortune, since he was, after all, naught but a damned Englishman.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “WHERE THE DEVIL have you been?”

  It took all of Morrigan’s will to keep from seizing her skirts and running at the sight of Douglas Lawton’s scowl. His eyes were as icy as half-melted slush.

  “Widdie n-needed a run. I meant to be home sooner.”

  Mr. Ramsay’s arm tightened, squeezing her
hand against his ribs. The gesture lent her a momentary sense of courage, and was accompanied by a feeling of sparks, like wool blankets being rubbed together.

  “I waylaid her at the train station and made her wait for us,” Isabel snapped. “Are you no’ going to acknowledge that I’m here?”

  His brows lifted. No one in his own household would ever dare speak to him in such a tone. “I see that you’re here, Isabel,” he said, and bent so his sister could kiss his cheek, but the scowl remained, lingering so pointedly on his daughter’s hand resting upon the gentleman’s forearm that she released it and stepped away.

  Isabel’s love of drama was clearly on display. “See who I’ve brought? It’s—”

  “I’ve no’ gone blind,” said Douglas. The two men shook hands. “You’ve changed. Grown into your height.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Lawton, and doing so well for yourself,” Ramsay said.

  Morrigan stared. They knew each other. Aunt Isabel had claimed this Mr. Ramsay knew her, too.

  Could she have formed her imaginary hero from forgotten memories of Curran Ramsay? Perhaps it would all come clear in time if she kept her mouth shut and her ears open.

  Beatrice appeared at the front door, stout, firmly corseted, her grey hair pinched into a bun, a white apron covering her ample breasts and stomach. “Your breakfast is going stone cold.” She paused, observing the newcomers with no change in her dour countenance. “I see you’ve come again, Isabel.”

  The lift of one brow and subtle emphasis on the word again revealed Beatrice’s annoyance. Her aunt had said it out loud more than once. Why does she come here so often? Extra cooking, extra cleaning. Don’t we have enough to do?

  Isabel ascended the steps, holding out her arms. The women embraced briefly, without much warmth. “How I’ve missed all of you,” Isabel said. “Mallaig is too lonely and quiet without my Gregor.” She turned to Mr. Ramsay. “Mind you Beatrice Stewart? She makes a grand kidney pie, Mr. Ramsay.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Stewart,” Ramsay said, smiling. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”