Though his father would have his head if the mandolin came to harm, he barely glanced at it. “Hist,” he cried, his eyes traveling over her. “I thought you were a ghost.” Coming closer, he bowed and offered his hand like a gentleman, then ruined it with, “You’re no’ dressed properly, you floozy.”
He’d be right about that, since she wore nothing but her nightgown. “It’s the dead of night. You’re the one who shouldn’t be here. I want to see the foal, and I won’t be put off.”
They obediently led her to Cloud’s stall. Morrigan fed the mother lumps of sugar she’d filched and stroked the colt’s velvety black nose. He stood on spindly legs, eyes bright, droplets of milk clinging to the baby whiskers about his mouth.
“You smell so new,” she said, kissing him.
The lads said Och, and Females, and returned to their whisky.
“Sing to us, Morrigan,” Kit called, his words half-slurred.
“Whisht… you’ll wake Da,” Nicky said. “Do you want a dishing?”
“Bollocks! I’m sick of your da. You treat him like he’s God in Heaven, and he’d never lay a finger on me. He can’t afford to lose the good will of the only veterinary in Stranraer.” Kit wandered back to the stall. “Morrigan, come away.”
“I don’t want to sing.” She stepped out of the stall, now self-conscious. “I’ll go.”
“Aye, well. I’ll sing to you then.” Kit placed the whisky bottle on the bale of hay with great care, picked up the mandolin and gazed into the rafters, weaving like a ship’s captain caught in rough seas.
“Bonny wee thing, canny wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine….”
A thrill fluttered through Morrigan’s breast. The way he lowered his gaze from the roof to her eyes, the way his brows lifted, made it clear he was singing to her, sending yearning and wishes from his soul to hers. His mouth moved softly over each word as though caressing a lover’s face.
“Wishfully I look and languish
In that bonny face o’ thine…”
She opened her mouth, wanting to say something… but she didn’t know what.
“… And my heart it stounds wi’ anguish,” he finished, “Lest my wee thing be na mine.”
He strummed a few more chords. Their eyes locked. Then he leered, and the spell was shattered.
“What you’ll never do, Christian Lindsay,” she said, “is sing on key.” Yet her taunt sounded weak and shaky.
Man’s love for woman. It stirred anticipation… for caresses. For ardent promises.
She pictured the warrior. He could throw a spear straight and strong— decapitate an enemy without care or emotion. Yet he could also kiss a woman’s lips with unparalleled tenderness in the dark green of a summer night.
How she wished the fantasy could be real.
“I asked you to do it, didn’t I?” Kit said. “Would you care to dance instead?”
In truth she was a simplehead. Where was the sense in languishing over an imaginary lover when right before her stood this fair fellow with warm hands and canted smile? She could see and touch Kit. He’d be here tomorrow, the next day, and the next, waking and sleeping. He was real.
“Let me do the singing,” Nicky said, “else the dogs’ll howl and poor Burns’ll rise from his grave and curse us.” He cleared his throat and strummed the mandolin. When had he learned to do that?
“Wit and grace and love and beauty…”
Kit caught Morrigan’s hands and pulled her into the yellow wash of lantern light. He watched her, eyes half-closed, the hint of an indecipherable smile on his lips.
“In ae constellation shine…”
Holding up the hem of her nightgown, Morrigan followed his lead though he stumbled twice and trod on her foot.
“To adore thee is my duty,
Goddess o’ this soul o’ mine….”
He bent to kiss her cheeks, and Morrigan returned the gesture with a formal curtsy, as though they stood in Queen Victoria’s court.
Nicky yawned loudly. “I’m to thin the onions and turnips tomorrow, and God only knows what Morrigan must do. Away to bed, ye doxie, you’ve scorned decency enough for one night.”
Morrigan scrutinized her brother’s comrade as he held out his hand for the mandolin.
Christian Brynmor Lindsay, the veterinary’s son. He’d make a fine husband, and he loathed Papa, which displayed unerring good sense.
Grand day we’re having, Mistress Lindsay. Could your fine husband tear himself away from you to see my sick cow?
Aye, dark-eyed Kit. He was the man for her.
* * * *
They went out into the brilliant, starry night. “I’m not a bit tired,” Morrigan said. “Are you, Kit?”
He shrugged.
“Will you stay awhile?”
Darkness disguised his expression, but after a slight pause, his shoulders again lifted. “A moment, maybe,” he said in an offhand way.
“Fools, the both of you.” Nicky made a rude gesture and disappeared. The kitchen door squeaked behind him.
Time to put away childish dreams of women leaping over wild bulls, of arrogant Greek princes and aye, of blond Highland lairds. She was a Woman, as Aunt Isabel so often pointed out, and must act like one. If she did not compose her future, Papa surely would. Let others conjure handsome faces, silk gowns, and castles. Long ago she’d relegated Kit to the category of “merry,” and when contemplating a spouse, merriment was her foremost stipulation. If she somehow got stuck to a grave man, she might as well stay with her father: that or slit her own throat.
It was time to use what the stares of men told her she had— beauty, and willingness to work hard. The latter was more valuable than the former, but it was the former that would get her where she wanted to be.
Leaning against the side of the barn, Morrigan turned her face to the sky and tried to think of something witty to say.
She could swear a god had abandoned his celestial game of jacks on a great black velvet cloth. The moon had risen higher, and was brighter. The night seemed perfectly constructed for bringing Kit around to her way of thinking. Not even the pungency of manure could spoil such magic. Robert Burns must have chosen a night like this to write his Bonny Wee Thing. The air was alive with delicate patterings, distant hooting, and the susurration of breezes dancing through grass.
“A bonny night,” Kit said.
She started and returned her attention to him, wishing she could see his face better. His voice gave nothing away.
“Look at the moon,” she said. “A jewel upon a woman’s forehead.” The dissolute inner Morrigan must be awake. Only she would dare speak such improper poetry. “Can you see her, the black-haired queen against the starlight?”
“Aye, almost,” he said, with more than a hint of mocking laughter. “Daftie.”
A gliding shadow became the queen’s sweeping arm, followed by a hollow cry. An owl on the hunt. At once there was fluttering as all wee creatures took cover.
The storybook vista caught Morrigan’s imagination. She stared, her skin livening as though stroked by a hundred fingertips. She saw herself lying beside a bright fire, beneath stars much like these, kissing the dream-lover, whose tawny hair was so long it draped her face. But then the earth exploded. The ground heaved. Ancient trees were uprooted. All was chaos, and fire burned the sky….
An arm slipped around her waist and a hand, smelling of hay and sweat, clamped over her mouth. “You’ve been asking for this, I think,” Kit said, and she felt the hammering of his heart as he nuzzled her temple.
She could hardly breathe with his hand covering her mouth and half obstructing her nose. Panic reared, and her own heartbeat thudded, fast and shallow. Succumbing to instinct, she seized the fleshy side of his hand in her teeth and bit, hard.
“Damn it, Morrigan!”
Oh my God.
They stumbled apart. He shook his hand, wrung it, and squinted at the damage.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked, trembling.
/>
“What the hell d’you think?”
“I don’t know why I did that. I wasn’t expecting… I didn’t… I thought—”
“Pity the man who ever does try to kiss you.” He stalked into the barn.
Morrigan followed. She found the tinderbox and lit the lantern. In ominous, frowning silence, he inspected his hand.
“There’s no blood.” Morrigan shifted from one foot to the other. “I didn’t break the skin.”
Kit abruptly snorted and caught her to him, pressing her cheek to his chest. His laughter reverberated through her head. “God save us poor louts from virgins and the Kirk,” he said. “I had an idea you wanted… well, more fool me. I suppose I got what I deserved. What else would you do?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, closing her eyes, savoring a renewed sense of happiness and safety. Heat radiated through his sark, and beneath was a structure of iron, kept pliant and alive by the strong, steady beat of his heart. His scent, that which always reminded her of the sea-wind off Loch Ryan, and currently redolent with whisky, drifted around her. She inhaled with enthusiasm.
When he bent to give her his usual amicable peck, she turned her head, placing her mouth in line with his. He started to jerk backward, but she flung an arm around his neck and held on tight.
For one long moment he remained motionless. Then he seized her arms. His mouth pushed against hers, forcing her lips open.
Nothing she had ever experienced could compare to this. She rolled her tongue against his, thinking she might well get drunk from the whisky she tasted. For the first time she thought she understood those couples in Stranraer’s wynds, why they’d done things, with only the barest privacy, that they weren’t supposed to.
She felt herself being lifted then deposited on a bed of straw. His body lay heavy upon hers. She heard herself protest when he stopped his kisses, but he’d merely lowered his mouth to the side of her neck, which instigated an entirely new level of delight.
“Oh, Morrigan,” he said, covering her breasts with his warm hands. “You’re so braw.”
The panic that ignited at this intimate touch disintegrated under the rare, longed-for endearment, and she tightened her grip, squeezing her eyes shut to keep out unwanted reality.
No rigid corset or petticoats separated them— nothing but her muslin nightgown. The barn, nearby horses, fear of discovery, all vanished. Again, the daydream floated through Morrigan’s head; it felt as though two men made love to her, one young, inexperienced and clumsy, yet warm and real, the other demanding, sure in what he wanted but insubstantial, like a ghost. Behind her closed eyelids she saw the flicker of a fire. She heard the sigh of wind in nearby trees and caught an unfamiliar, exotic scent, similar to the spices Beatrice kept on a shelf in the kitchen.
Impatiently, Kit— or was it the dream-lover— fumbled with the front of her gown. Eventually the two conspirators had her buttons undone, and oh, the feel of their mouths, the way their teeth pulled her skin… she could never have imagined such sensations existed.
Where was she? In the barn with Kit… or in a meadow, embraced by wind and dreams? Two realities fought for ascendance, one clear when she opened her eyes, the other bursting with life when she closed them.
“I can’t stop,” he said into her ear, and though she recognized Kit’s voice, was there another, underneath, hardly more than an echo?
Even death won’t break our bond.
“I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.” His hands crept beneath her, pulling her hips closer. “Please, Morrigan, don’t make me stop….”
Hearing her name severed the fantasy. She was in her father’s barn. There was but one man, one mouth, one set of hands. The aromatic crackle of burning embers and nearby murmur of oak leaves diffused into dry straw, hot lamp oil, fresh manure.
Everything recoiled as she realized he’d bunched her nightgown up around her waist, and was settling between her legs with determination. No, she screamed inwardly. Stop him, don’t let him, he can’t…. Her thoughts were disjointed, but the overwhelming terror wasn’t. She had to get away. Oh God, help me.
She pushed at his chest, yet he didn’t seem to notice, and he was so heavy she despaired of having any effect. “Stop! Kit, stop!” She craned away desperately, even resorting to balling a fist and striking him on the cheekbone, then the side of his head. Where a moment ago she had succumbed with unthinking joy, now her stomach churned with revulsion.
Oddly, the wild girl inside her agreed. He’s not the one.
Kit’s breath tore in ragged gasps. She cringed, fearful he’d be vexed enough to strike her. Could she stop him? If she didn’t, it would ruin everything. This was not right. He wasn’t… right.
He opened his eyes. Stared at her face then her breasts. Shame brought her hands up; she tugged the opened edges of her nightgown together.
“You taste grand,” he said, touching her neck where he’d chewed her almost raw. His eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong? Why are you stopping me? Damn you, Morrigan.”
“I… we can’t do this. It-it’s a mistake.”
Shuddering, he turned his face away. His eyes closed; he sucked in a deep breath.
Pushing at him again, she managed to roll out from underneath and scramble to her feet. She wished this night had never happened. She wished she could die. She wished herself into her squeaky, miserable bed.
Kit stood too, and grabbed her elbow. “Playing a whore’s game with me, then? Is it coin you want, or marriage? You think you can tease me into giving you whatever you want, don’t you?”
“No, I-I don’t want anything. I’m sorry.”
“Jesus and Mary! You think you can put a man aside like a goddamned book? Damn it! I knew you’d do this to me.”
She couldn’t think of anything to say.
He stared at her, his jaw clenching, then he surprised her. “Well, you did the right thing,” he said coldly. “Not you or any other lass will keep me from what I want. I’m away to France, and there will be no wife, no scraiching infant, to tie me down. Do you hear?” He shook her. “D’you hear me? Not you or any… other… lass. I don’t care what happens to you!” Shoving her roughly, he hissed and paced towards the door.
She stumbled. Her shoulder struck the gate of the stall behind her. “D’you hate me, Kit?” Behind her, the mare shuffled and snorted.
He was her only friend besides her brother. Look what she’d done. She’d never felt so awful, ashamed, guilty, humiliated, and frightened, all at the same time.
Two more steps he took, and she thought he would leave without saying another word.
“Shite.” He hunched his shoulders and wheeled.
Morrigan held her breath.
With swift, heavy strides he returned and lifted her from the ground. He kissed her, long and hard, then lowered his head. He rubbed his bristly cheeks against her chest until the sting left her gasping, her eyes tearing. Then at last, he set her down.
“I suppose I understand,” he said. “You didn’t know what you were doing, and we went too far. In a few days, no doubt, I’ll thank God you stopped us.”
“But, Kit, are we, has this… is everything spoiled?”
“I won’t marry you, Morrigan, if that’s what you’re wanting. If you think about it, you’ll realize it’s for the best. I have nothing to offer.”
“You’ll be a veterinarian, like your da.”
“I’d die first. I’m leaving this damned place. I’m away to Paris and Rome, and nothing, nothing, will stop me. Now go to bed, damn you, or I-I’ll make you wish you had.” The way he was staring at her, gritting his teeth, gave his threat menacing weight.
She wrung the front of her nightgown. “Aye. Whatever you want.”
He squeezed her shoulders until they nearly pressed against her jaw. “And… don’t you ever do this again. D’you hear? One of these days, some man will make you sorry you played such a game. Give me your promise.”
“I didn’t mean to. I’ll never do
it again. I promise.”
He turned away, cursing under his breath.
“Will you wait for me, Kit?” she asked. “I need more time, is all. Will you wait for me… to grow up?”
He stood there, clenching his hands into fists, releasing them, and clenching again. She could see a portion of his cheek; his jaw was clenching too.
“I do… I think I—” Morrigan choked. She wanted to say she loved him, but she couldn’t. The word love caught like a burr on her tongue.
He didn’t look at her. “You are grown up, Morrigan,” he said. “It’s only you can’t see it.” Then he left, slamming his fist into the big door, sending it flying against the wall with an awful crack and studder.
After the door settled, there was silence but for the whish of the mare’s tail and the sucking sound of her nursing colt. Weak and defeated, Morrigan slumped to her knees. “I’ll never get away.” She struck her fists against the floor. “This is my madhouse.”
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN MORRIGAN ROSE in the morning, all the previous night’s seductive warmth had vanished, replaced by fine grey mist alternating with drumming rain and growling thunder.
“Mama,” she said, low. “I’ve ruined everything.”
Her reflection in the window, wavery and indistinct as it was, revealed the darkening bruise Kit had made on her neck. She rubbed it, flinching at the sting, thankful she had plenty of collars high enough to cover the evidence of her wrongdoing.
Her cheeks were reddened from his unshaven face, but she didn’t think anyone would notice that. Who would suspect her of meeting a man in the barn and nearly coupling with him like a witless animal? No one, not even Douglas, surely, though he was always eager to think the worst.
Morrigan didn’t need Hannah’s ghost to warn her about the risk she’d taken, the consequences she’d barely escaped. The ugly word “whore” said it all.
Stranraer could claim one whore of its own. Though the woman was despised and shunned, abused by gangs of unruly boys, forced to live in an awful shack on the outskirts of town, she stubbornly remained. Originally from somewhere in the Highlands, Diorbhail Sinclair wore clothes that were hardly more than rags, as did her fragile, bony daughter, but every time Morrigan had seen them, the wean’s face was clean and her hair combed.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 6
