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

by Rebecca Lochlann

In an hour Curran Ramsay’s elbows would be propped on the ferry rail, his face turned to the wind, and it wasn’t likely he would ever come back. In fact, he might thank his God for the narrow escape from marriage-obsessed women and their penniless spinster nieces.

  When would Aunt Isabel relinquish these hopeless matchmaking efforts?

  Morrigan paused on the front stairs as she glimpsed Isabel’s young golden male through the open doorway into the dining room. Light poured through the window, making a halo of his hair, and a signet ring glinted on the little finger of his right hand. The man outright dazzled, like the sun had come alive and slipped into their home.

  For a moment, she was confused by a sense of familiarity. She derided herself for the fancy, yet it persisted, this feeling that someone very dear, missing for an ungodly length of time, had at last returned.

  Her aunt was regaling him with tales of an Edinburgh holiday she’d taken with Uncle Gregor. Mr. Ramsay’s expression was so politely engaged Morrigan couldn’t hazard a guess to his thoughts.

  If she could travel, maybe she would acquire the ability to engage in sophisticated discourse with handsome gentlemen. Oh, to have confidence. It would be grand. Whenever Beatrice or Douglas ordered Morrigan to entertain their guests in the parlor, she spent the whole time damning her blushes, straining to think of the next stilted topic, and trying to remember not to bite her fingernails, which she always ended up doing anyway.

  Seldom had the task of determining a man’s designation been so easy. She watched him laugh at something Isabel said and felt her lips curve in response, though she hadn’t caught more than a word or two.

  Years ago, while reading about Robert Burns, she’d learned Scotland’s beloved poet put men into two categories: grave and merry. She’d adopted the game, and ever since grouped whatever male she met into one box or the other. Nicky was merry. Though he had dark interludes, they never suffocated his innate cheerfulness for long. Douglas landed with ease into an ominous container labeled “graver than grave.”

  Curran Ramsay was definitely merry.

  “There you are,” Isabel said when she entered. “Mr. Ramsay and I are sharing tales of Edinburgh.”

  “I’ve never been farther than Ballantrae,” she admitted.

  “Believe it or not,” Ramsay said, “I spent the first seven years of my life here, in a house on Rose Street. Three cousins live there still. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed the Wren’s Egg before.” He smiled and his eyes subtly darkened as he added, “I must remedy that error in the future.” He paused, then drew in a decisive breath and stood. “Mrs. Maclean, Miss Lawton, if you will excuse me, I believe I should make my way to the ferry.”

  “I’ll fetch you something for the trip over.” Morrigan wanted to show, in an unobtrusive way, how much she appreciated his kindness to her aunt. She added, “You’re welcome to take our trap and leave it there. My brother can fetch it later.”

  Isabel said, “No need to bother Nicky. I’ll go with Mr. Ramsay and bring it home myself.”

  When Ramsay looked at her, Morrigan didn’t lower her face but smiled for the first time. It felt braw to allow it, like water bursting free from a broken dam. He returned the smile, and for one instant, Ibby, the inn, and her life vanished into a golden wave of warmth and comfort.

  She turned and fled to the kitchen, fearing utter loss of self-control.

  Cheese, a cold kidney pie, and a half-bottle of decent Strathisla went into a wicker hamper cushioned with a towel. As she approached the barn, she saw Nicky had escaped the fields after all and was harnessing Widdie to the trap. The difference between the two lads struck her: one black-headed, ragged, sweat-stained, and grimy, the other elegant and clean, bright as the brass bell atop the Presbyterian kirk on Bridge Street.

  “Thank you, Miss Lawton.” Ramsay relieved her of the hamper. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

  Was that a blush on his cheeks? Aye, it was slight, but there. She’d always thought she was the only fool on Earth cursed with that betraying affliction. She’d never seen Nicky, her father, or Beatrice show any sign of embarrassment.

  A longer visit would’ve been pleasant. She imagined him sharing tales of swift dogs and diamond-crusted Highland castles. But there was no help for it. She didn’t believe his promise to return for an instant, and knew she’d never see him again.

  “Goodbye,” she said, adding, “Good luck with the puppy.”

  He frowned almost imperceptibly before swinging up onto the seat beside her aunt and taking the reins.

  Isabel clapped one hand to her hat and waved with the other. “Don’t run off, dears. I’ll soon be back, and I’ll want to hear your news.”

  As they rolled away, turning towards the wharf, an eagle swooped overhead; it soared past the barn, flying so low Morrigan heard the wind through its wing feathers. She stared at it, charmed by its grace and beauty.

  “Seems a fair sort,” Nicky commented. He scratched his earlobe and waved off a bumblebee.

  “She said she met him in Glasgow. His name’s Ramsay.”

  “Didn’t she tell you who he is?”

  “She said something about knowing him when he was young.”

  “Curran Ramsay babbed you on his lap when you were an infant.” Reaching for a shovel, he scooped up Widdie’s leavings and tossed them on the midden heap. “Da half-feared he’d drop you on your head.”

  She didn’t much care for the picture of that sophisticated gentleman carrying her about in her hippins. “Where? Glenelg?”

  “Aye. Curran Ramsay’s father is the one who found Da this innkeeper’s fee.”

  She cuffed him on the shoulder. “I knew you were lying. Sir MacAndrew’s our landlord.”

  His eyes narrowed and she saw revenge coming. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Thomas Ramsay, who wrote the letter of recommendation. No doubt we’d have starved long ago in whatever’s left of that sorry pile of rubble.”

  “Nobody told me.”

  He leaned close with a fiendish grin. “Because you’re a daft, useless karriewhitchet,” he mocked. Lifting his thumb and forefinger, he flicked her cheek.

  “Don’t call me that!” She rubbed at the sting. “I’m almost twenty and I’ve run the Wren’s Egg for at least ten years. You should respect me.”

  Laughter brightened his eyes, but he blocked her threatened punch. “You turned eighteen not six months ago, you run nothing and never have, and you must earn respect by cultivating a modest air, producing fourteen weans, and learning how to cook.”

  Beatrice scolded from the kitchen door. “Morrigan, can you be bothered to finish the washing?”

  “The washing,” she said. “And if it’s no’ the wash, it’s dusting, or the bloody milking, or boiling the jams….”

  “Well, you’d best show Da you’ve done something.” Nicky ladled water over his head then rested one big hand on her shoulder. “Have ye seen our unicorn?” he said, close to her ear. “She comes out when the moon is full… stands right under your window, polishing her horn on an arse as white as milk and glittery as a star. You should look for her.”

  “If she’s not careful, everyone will see,” Morrigan said, “and they’ll make us change the name of the inn to the Silver Unicorn.”

  “Like it always should’ve been.” Tightening his grip briefly, her brother gave her a cockeyed grin and sauntered off to his labors.

  A fanciful poet— that was the Nicky nobody ever saw but Morrigan. Not Papa, not Beatrice, not even his closest cronies, she’d wager. Especially not them.

  In the close, Morrigan removed her shoes and stockings. She’d taught herself to enjoy the washing, as she could do it without giving it much thought, and could allow herself to stray into flights of fancy. She was re-envisioning Curran Ramsay’s face before she had her sleeves rolled up.

  In her imagination he dropped to his knees, overcome with emotion. Kissing her palms, he expressed undying love. She must leave with him this very day and become his wif
e and ally, his partner in the trials of living. Like Theseus and Antiope, the great Amazon queen, they would remain loyal, passionate until death forever separated them….

  Depending, of course, on which version of the myth one learned. The one where Antiope died defending Theseus and Athens against an Amazon army, or the version where Antiope survived, only to be betrayed and murdered by Theseus after he decided he wanted to marry the daughter of the Cretan King Minos.

  Morrigan and the dominie had spent much time discussing the myths and tales from ancient Greece. He’d told her she knew more about those old stories than most anyone else in Southwest Scotland, including Carlisle. She was his prize student, and she reveled at the gleam of pride in his regard. She was careful to never breathe a word of how often she was skelped for getting home late, or how she had to hide the books he gave her then sneak them into her bedroom after her papa fell asleep. When Douglas put an end to her schooling she had wept bitterly for weeks. The dominie even came to the inn to personally try and reverse Douglas’s decision, but his efforts had failed.

  She saw her father exit the barn and gesture to her brother. They spoke, and then disappeared within. When Nicky reemerged, he waved at her.

  “Help Da, will you?” he said. “The foal’s coming. I’m away to fetch the veterinary.”

  At last! Leo’s foal out of Cloud, their finest mare. Morrigan ran to the barn, leaving the sheet she’d been washing half in and half out of the tub. She couldn’t wait to see it. Sometimes when she sneaked away and everyone thought her traipsing the moors she was actually in Leo’s warm stall, tucked in the hay near his enormous front hooves. She liked to read to him while he crunched his oats. He’d nod his massive head, nickering like he understood. Now his first foal was coming. It would be so fine if Papa would let her halter-break it.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Douglas left the stall, latching the door behind him.

  “Nicky told me to help you.”

  “You’ll try any excuse, won’t you? Prancing about like a bloody princess.” His fingertips ground flesh against bone as he grabbed her arm and bent, his stale breath laden with the aroma of boiled turnips. “God, what will it take to break you of that?”

  She stared into his unblinking eyes, longing to scream at him. But she kept her mouth closed, forcing down her resentment. Long ago she’d learned that defiance made matters much worse with Douglas Lawton.

  Something changed in those grey depths. There was an odd intensity she didn’t understand. His gaze dropped. His hand tightened, pulled her closer, too close, before he drew in a breath and shoved her away.

  “Get back to your washing. This be men’s work.”

  She ran from the barn, rubbing her arm. Fury and hate coiled in the pit of her stomach. Damn him. She was so tired of his contempt, the way he always looked at her like he wished she were dead.

  She scrubbed the bedclothes as if the Devil himself writhed under her fingers. Dizzy breathlessness brought an explosion of starbursts through her eyes, and an uncomfortable stuttering of her heartbeat. No, she would not swoon. No, by God, she would not.

  It was that crazed bitch hiding inside her making all this trouble. Morrigan always had to choke down her rage for fear of repercussions. The wild inner girl, though, never suppressed anything. Morrigan felt her seething, cursing, throwing things.

  The old delusion spewed… crystallizing into images of worldwide carnage and a suffocating drench of blood. No, she thought. Push it away. Drive it out. Don’t see it. Refuse to hear it. It’s merely a picture, not real.

  The eagle brought her back. Lodged in the silver birch at the edge of the close, its yipping cries penetrated the screams and moans of her hallucination. It fluffed its magnificent wings and hopped about in anxious fashion.

  Next was the vicious stinging. She stared, breathing hard, for a moment not comprehending how she’d come to be crouched on the dirt, her trembling hands immersed in warm water. The sheet lay mangled, a great tear across the middle. She’d ripped two of her nails on the washboard clear into the quick. Blood mingled with the soapy water, turning the froth of bubbles pink.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MORRIGAN ROSE FROM her laundry when she spotted the vet and his son, Kit. Kit and Nicky had met long ago at the school on High Street, before Douglas insisted Nicky needed no more education. An impatient scholar at best and tired of the dominie’s eternal haranguing, Kit had stopped going as well. He’d skipped classes more often than not in order to paint his pictures, and blamed the dominie for being too pinheaded to teach him what he needed to learn.

  The vet and Nicky disappeared into the barn, but Kit paused to wave when he saw Morrigan, and veered towards her.

  She took a few deep breaths and labored to present a calm demeanor as she dabbed at her torn fingernails with a cloth from the laundry basket.

  “What’ve you done, lassikie?” With a snort of laughter, he held up her wounded hand, glancing from it to the torn, blood-spattered sheet still draped across the washboard. “You’re a hopeless excuse of a woman. It’ll be a miracle from God himself if you ever find a husband.”

  Snatching her hand from his grasp, she said, “Papa won’t let me help with the foal,” and tried to swallow a cloying suffocation in her throat.

  He bent and kissed her cheek. “Wee simplehead, to him you’re a scullery wench, and Nick his ploughman. Don’t you understand he’d rather shove bamboo in his eyeballs than allow you a moment’s pleasure?”

  Euphoria swelled through her chest, submerging the rage and dread.

  From the moment Nick first brought his new mate home, thirteen years past, to sample Beatrice’s girdle scones, Morrigan had fallen hard. Ever since that day, Kit of the gangly arms and bold brown eyes teased her mercilessly, but some instinct she didn’t quite trust had marked changes in his behavior over the last year or so— the same sort of change she’d seen in almost every other male, young and old. His teasing had acquired an edge; she’d caught him eyeing her in a way that made her nervously aware of odd things always taken for granted… the way inhaling lifted her breasts… how breezes caused her skirts to frolic at her ankles. Somehow his furtive observations kindled a desire to preen and parade, though she never did, not having a clue how to do it and too afraid of being laughed at.

  She was sure they belonged together, though he hated Scotland. What can a body do with himself in this damned country? he often complained.

  Her cheek burned where he’d kissed her. She longed to return the kiss, forget tiresome manners and self-restraint. They must marry and run so far away she’d never again see her father’s scowl. Somehow Kit would make his fortune. They’d live like kings, sleep till gloaming, and dance through the night.

  She swayed closer. He put a steadying arm around her shoulders and laughed into her upraised face, but the moment was ruined by Beatrice’s voice, echoing from the kitchen door like a thunderclap. “Stop bothering that silly besom. It’s plenty of trouble she’s found herself in this day without you to make it worse.”

  Kit would never risk vexing one of Stranraer’s finest cooks. “I’ll away to this birth, then. Don’t let him spoil your day, you daft nuisance.” With a meaningful backward glance and cocked brow, he whistled, “My Love She’s But A Lassie Yet” as he sauntered off.

  Ibby returned soon after, red-faced and breathless with her recent triumph. She seized Morrigan’s wrist and pulled her into a hug. “Mr. Ramsay sends his best wishes. He said you’ve too much work to do, and should have some help. I knew it would happen. What a fine catch, Morrigan. He’s aye rich, and you’ve seen with your own eyes how handsome he is, and kind. I didn’t want to embarrass him so I said nothing before, but he’s commonly known in the north as ‘Laird of Eilginn.’ It’s not a formal title— nevertheless, when he marries, his wife will locally be called Lady Eilginn.”

  “Oh, Auntie.” Morrigan blushed, wondering if she’d ever felt as mortified. Thank God she would never see him again. It would be too, too
awful.

  * * * *

  The night beckoned with lingering warmth and soft breezes. A fine colt had been born, long-legged, according to Nicky, blood-bay like his sire. Since she’d first heard Cloud was expecting, Morrigan had eagerly awaited the arrival of Leo’s offspring, and she would see him, with Papa never the wiser.

  An hour passed. Morrigan paced to her bedroom door and edged it open. Grating snores echoed through the corridor.

  Holding her breath, she crept down the stairs and let herself out. Above her, a milk-white crescent moon rested on a vast bed of diamonds. Warm dirt muffled her footsteps as she ran across the close. Victory infused her, made her feet as light as elf-wisp. She’d fooled the old man, and could spend the whole night with the foal if she wanted, while Papa snored— but the sight of the open barn door stopped her cold. Yellow lamplight flickered within and she heard quiet voices.

  Poised to flee if she recognized her father’s gravely rumble, she inched forward. But it was Nicky. A laugh followed. Kit. Kit, of course. One of them idly plucked the strings of some instrument, creating a harmonious sound.

  She stepped through the gap.

  “You’re daft, you know,” her brother was saying.

  “No, you are,” Kit replied, “to think you could ever be anything but half-starved and penniless if you stay here.”

  “I’ll not starve, and I won’t be penniless. I’ll have respectable work with The Scotsman, while you’ll be freezing in the wynds of Paris. You couldn’t choose a more miserable profession if you tried.”

  “Tell me again what you’ll be doing? Writing about rich old women and giggling debutantes?”

  “Shut your bloody gob.”

  “I can see you covering the Winter Ball to Benefit Our Puir Masses.”

  Morrigan stepped into the circle of light, startling Kit, who leaped from his bale of hay; his father’s prized mandolin slipped from his lap and struck the floor with a raucous jangle, prompting a horrified gasp from Morrigan. She could only hope the fact that it fell on straw saved it from damage.