But he interrupted her mental scolding with, “Antiope it is. Thank you, Miss Lawton. Tell me, has your aunt returned to Mallaig?”
“No, she’s still here. She’s going to ask Papa if I can live with her.”
His face lit, or maybe it was his smile, so devastatingly arresting. “Would that be possible? You appear invaluable to the workings of the Wren’s Egg.”
She barely stopped herself from snorting. “Oh, aye, I’m fair important, but she’s going to try anyway.”
They walked on. Loving the feel of coarse grass and warm earth beneath her feet, Morrigan continued to carry her boots. It was too late to make a better impression, and no doubt they’d cross another burn sooner or later. Besides, she much preferred to be barefoot.
They climbed a knoll. The day was so clear she felt she could see forever. “Look,” she said, pointing. “There’s Ireland.”
“And Ailsa Craig,” Ramsay said.
Nodding, she turned the other direction. “And the Galloway Hills. What a bonny day it is.”
“Aye.”
“It’d be grand to go wherever one wished,” she said. “Have you traveled, Mr. Ramsay?”
“Oh, aye. My father was in shipping. I set sail at a young age.”
“Where have you gone?”
“India, Europe, China, Australia. One day I hope to visit America.”
She stared, trying to comprehend being to so many foreign countries. “Paris?” she asked. Kit’s image loomed. She hadn’t seen or heard a word from that stripling since the night of kisses in the barn. With Nicky gone, and having offended him so badly, she might never see him again.
“I was ten the first time I went to Paris,” Ramsay said. “You’ll think me a fool, Miss Lawton, but I’ve yet to find anywhere in this world that compares with home. Every time I go, I only want to get back to Kilgarry, to my garden, my dogs, my blue mountains.”
He spoke as though all the Highlands belonged to him alone. Such arrogance comes easily to rich, powerful men, she thought.
“Where would you go, Miss Lawton, if you could?”
“I don’t know. I would like to see an elephant.”
“Maybe you feel as I do. Few places compare to Scotland.”
Wouldn’t Kit jeer if he overheard Ramsay speaking of their country with such appreciation?
“Have you heard of a fellow named Heinrich Schliemann?”
She shook her head.
“He’s digging up the coast of Turkey, hoping to excavate the fabled city of Troy.”
Could it be? Would the ancient tales she loved so dearly be proven real, not fanciful myths at all? “Och, aye? How I’d love a keek of that!”
So much for her effort to appear refined.
But he didn’t display a bit of contempt at her country bumpkin dialect. “I hope you can,” he said.
“That’d be a right miracle.” Inwardly she reeled at his expressive sincerity. “My future’s been planned by others, down to my last dying breath.”
His grin held a hint of deviltry. “We’re a rebellious lot in the Highlands. We do what we wish. If anyone’s bothered by it… we cut off their heads.”
Morrigan laughed. “You cannot say you are one of those ‘Highland savages,’ as my Aunt Beatrice calls them. Not after telling me you were born in Stranraer.”
“I’ve lived in the north since I was seven. My mother and father are buried there. Something about those mountains changes you, makes you see and think differently. You’ll understand if you visit.”
She remembered suddenly that he was a laird of sorts. He behaved so naturally, as though there was no difference between them. He’d managed to make her forget wanting to be alone, as well. Being in his company rejuvenated her.
“There’s a man in my village,” he said. “Seaghan MacAnaugh, a fisherman. He believes the whole world would come to the Highlands if they knew of its magic. Many years he traveled, for he was cleared in ’53, and only managed to get home ten years ago.”
“Oh, look, the pup!” Morrigan sprinted to snatch it from the edge of a burn, but she was too late. It fell in, yipping. She fished it out, laughing at it for looking so startled.
Raindrops spattered from a heavy black cloud. They’d gone too far by now, and couldn’t possibly reach town before getting soaked if this sprinkle turned into a storm. Morrigan met Mr. Ramsay’s gaze and determined from his expression that he didn’t want their afternoon to end any more than she did, so she led him to an abandoned shieling she knew of, which sat at the edge of a small coniferous wood; they squeezed beneath the half-rotted lintel-piece and overhanging section of lumber that had once supported thatch. It soon began raining in earnest, but she didn’t think it would last, as bright rods of sunlight were arcing and wheeling through the clouds to the west and south.
“I would like to visit your Highlands.” Morrigan leaned against the jamb. “I can see how you love it.”
“Love.” He contemplated the downpour then he shrugged. “Somehow it’s more than that. Mallaig is an easy sail down the Sound from Glenelg. I hope your aunt succeeds in her request.” His eyes acquired such intensity that it sent a shiver through her.
“You should have an alternate plan.” His gaze broke from hers as though he, too, was unnerved. “We could snake you away in the middle of the night. Or we might simply announce it. Tell your father he’ll have to run the inn on his own. Come; practice a haughty tone and look down your nose at me.”
Having experienced such an expression leveled at her more than once, Morrigan knew exactly what he meant, and laughed again. When was the last time she’d so enjoyed a conversation, or laughed with such abandon? “While he’s sleeping would be best, I think,” she said. “I’d leave a note informing him I’ve gone to dig up Troy. I wonder what he’d make of that?”
The gentleman smiled. “You’ve a bit of thistle near your eye.” He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone.
Amidst a rush of startled apprehension, she realized she was alone with a man in this empty countryside, giggling as they made plans to run away. No one knew where she was, or that he was with her. Beatrice’s warnings played through her brain, slowly and distinctly.
Yet it was impossible to be afraid. At this moment she believed if she and Enid Joyce walked side by side down the street and Mr. Ramsay came along, he wouldn’t spare a glance for the lass touted as Stranraer’s greatest beauty. His manner made Morrigan feel nothing could distract him. For the first time in her life she experienced elation rather than shame as a sense of power ran through her. She was glad she’d made such an impression upon this man that he’d come searching for her. She had his undivided attention, and she didn’t want to release it. Just for this afternoon, she would revel, enjoy, and damn the consequences.
I would leave with him right now if he’d take me. Reckless, dangerous thoughts, but the beguiling vision of freedom made almost any risk worthwhile. Would she be free, though, or merely trading one master for another? Vivid imagining faded beneath depressing common sense. He was such an obvious gentleman. He’d never do anything to harm or compromise her. She sensed it, as clearly as she saw the rain subsiding and the return of sunlight.
Widening sunrays flared across the landscape. Antiope barked at birds until a raven swooped and clawed at her. With a yelp she scrambled beneath Morrigan’s skirts.
“Dinna moolet and cringe, lassie-wean,” she said soothingly. “Never show how feared you are.”
“Are you promised?” The color in Curran’s cheeks heightened as he blurted out the question. “Ha-have you any suitors? You’re old enough, aren’t you?”
“None of that for me, thank you,” she replied lightly. “Why should I exchange one gaoler for another?”
“It’s freedom you want, then?”
How quickly he saw beneath her words to the core of truth. “Surely that is every creature’s desire, after food and water.”
“What would you do with freedom, if you had it?”
No one ha
d ever posed such a question to her, not even Nicky. Heady as a dram of whisky, it leant all possible answers vast importance. She wanted to say something profound, but in the end, she gave her imagination free rein. “I’d live in a blackhouse, as far from civilization as I could get. I’d read poetry by a fire….” With clarity came craving and swifter speech. “I’d ride my stallion in the morning mist. I’d swim in lochs….” The vision curled, stretched, expanded, and she almost forgot she wasn’t alone as ideas crowded one upon the next. “I might fall in love,” she said, “and maybe have babies, but no’ unless I was sure I’d always love them. No man would own me, like horses or kye. And I suppose I’d be pagan, since I know nothing of God anyway. At the full moon I’d frighten folk who thought they saw me in the shadows, but couldn’t tell if I was real or a ghost.”
He said nothing for a while then seemed to collect himself. “That’s why you chose Antiope,” he said quietly. “You’ve a wild Amazon heart, Miss Lawton, and the soul of a poet.”
Feeling much like a lass caught in nothing but a petticoat, she blushed furiously. She’d called herself a pagan. Said she knew nothing of God. Desperately she tried to think of a witty response that would undo the damage, but while she floundered, he leaned forward and kissed her.
Initial surprise and alarm liquefied into that odd familiarity. I know this. I’ve missed this. It was like falling into warm, luxurious water and relinquishing all care. Shame and guilt slipped away and the inner Morrigan burst free with a stunned cry.
His mouth against hers caused a tingling sensation, like infinitesimal sparks were being ignited between them. She heard a faint silken murmur, and only realized it came from her throat when he turned his head and his kiss intensified. His mouth opened, coaxing hers to open as well. Their tongues met, and the sound escaped again, involuntarily. As though on command, his grip tightened upon her shoulders and she felt the tingling there as well, streaming from his hands, bringing her skin to life.
At the very moment she thought she might melt clear away or be absorbed into him, he stopped. Clasping her hands, he drew them away from his face, rubbing his thumbs over her palms before releasing them. She stared at her hands mutely. She could remember the feel of his hair, his earlobes, and a hint of stubble along his jaw, but not lifting her hands to his face. How could she do something like that and not remember it?
He stepped back, blinking as though coming out of a dark cave into glaring sunlight.
The only sound, for one long, tense moment, was a lonely curlew’s seeking cry.
“Forgive me,” he said, pushing hair off his forehead. “I had no right. I cannot believe I… I apologize, Miss Lawton.”
He wasn’t unaffected. His pupils were large, consuming the blue of his irises. His breathing was uneven. She saw him swallow as though something was caught in his throat, and his hands fisted at his sides.
Oh… aye. Her senses sluggishly returned from that place of heat and craving. With him, with this stranger, she’d forgotten what he’d done was a bad thing. Lowering her face, she fought to slow her breathing and banish the flush from her cheeks, but they only seemed to grow hotter, betraying her further. She should have screamed the instant he touched her. That’s what a proper miss would have done— not that a proper miss would have accompanied him to this forgotten shieling in the first place.
“You hate me,” he said, low.
Beatrice’s warnings reverberated. You must be spotless, or no man’ll ever have you, and no decent woman will speak to you. She’d said more, about how Morrigan must be ignorant if she wanted respect. Surely, the way she had returned this man’s kisses, she had forfeited all hope of that.
Taking a deep breath, she gave him a clear, steady regard. “I don’t hate you,” she said, surprised at how cold and calm she sounded. He mustn’t sense how she had to clench her hands to stop from reaching out to draw his mouth back to hers, or how she had to choke down the words rising through her throat. Kiss me. Kiss me again.
“You are vexed, Miss Lawton, and I cannot blame you. I’m deeply ashamed.” The crescent scar next to his eye stood out, white and defined.
“I am angry, aye.” She stepped out of the doorway into the fitful sunlight, picturing Douglas spitting on the ground at a mere glimpse of Stranraer’s fallen woman, Diorbhail Sinclair.
“Allow me to escort you home, I beg you.” He spoke quickly. “I’ll not touch you in any way… I swear. Can you forgive me?”
Long shadows stretched across the ground. The air had turned chilly.
Morrigan bent, hiding her face while she slipped on her boots and buttoned them. Ramsay picked up the sugar and her wilting flowers.
“Antiope,” she called, draping her shawl over her arms. The pup bounded over. Morrigan swept her up and cuddled her, holding her so close the poor beast squirmed and whined.
She felt raw, inflamed, as if she’d swallowed a nest of raging bees.
* * * *
Acrid smoke spewed from the train’s engine. It growled, a hungry black tiger impatient to be off.
Mr. Ramsay held out his hand then haltingly lowered it. Morrigan gave him the pup and at the same time took pity.
“Please,” she said, and smiled. “I forgive you. I’m not vexed. What must I say to convince you?”
“Do you mean it, Miss Lawton?”
“I do, Mr. Ramsay.”
“You don’t know what this means to me.”
The whistle screeched. He glanced over his shoulder.
“You’d best get on the train.”
Hesitantly, he said, “I’m traveling to Edinburgh in a fortnight. May I stop at the Wren’s Egg? Or would you prefer never to see me again?”
“Please come.” She touched his lapel, making it appear she was innocently brushing away a spot of lint. “But isn’t it fair out of the way?”
Smoke belched. The train lurched and squealed. He ran, grasping the attendant’s outstretched hand. “Of course not,” he shouted when safely aboard. He waved and grinned. “Thank you!”
Men desired intimacy; that much was clear. Yet at the same time they feared it, thought it evil, something to be ashamed of. It was pure confounding. Why was this thing between men and women so queer and complicated?
Morrigan knew no one she could ask.
* * * *
A letter arrived from Nicky. Not only had he found lodgings in Edinburgh, he’d begun his fee. They were pleased he’d come four months before schedule and he was buried with work. His brain had never felt so weary, but his body was enjoying the rest.
Beatrice gave Douglas the news. She had a way with him, a talent for subduing his rages. He listened when she spoke, almost as though she were a man. For years Morrigan had suffered jealous torment over their closeness, wondering why he liked Hannah’s sister so more than his daughter, but long ago she’d closed away that pain, for it ached like a rotted tooth.
Two days after her encounter on the moor, Ibby broached the subject of taking Morrigan home with her. She picked her time carefully. Nicky was now known to be safe. Sunlight balanced with rain showers had urged their barley and wheat into vibrant sprouts. The new colt was healthy, a fine, strong beast, delightful to watch, and a group of men on their way to Ireland had spent a small fortune in the taproom.
While Morrigan placed his dinner before him, Ibby sipped tea and said, “I’ll soon be going home.”
“Aye,” Douglas replied.
“What would you think of me borrowing Morrigan for a few months?”
He examined first his sister, then his daughter, who dawdled nervously by the door. One eyebrow lifted. “What are the two of you plotting?”
“There’s no plot, Douglas. I’ve more orders coming in than I can take care of without help. You’re doing well here. A lass from town could lend Beatrice a hand on washday. It wouldn’t cost you more than a penny or two.”
Oh, that was a mistake. Her aunt should never have mentioned the financial repercussions of his daughter being absent.
“No.” Douglas returned to his bread and butter.
Ibby glanced at Morrigan then ventured on. “Morrigan is of weddable age. ’Tis past time she learned a few of the accomplishments that impress marriage-minded men. You do want her to marry well, don’t you?”
“She’s naught but a dawless wean. Beatrice will teach her whatever she needs to know.”
“She’s eighteen… hardly a wean, and anything but lazy. Many girls her age are married, mothers as well. Have you no pride?” Ibby’s voice rose. “And the way you leave her with your guests— with men— after you and Beatrice have gone to bed. You know what that will do— may have already done— to her reputation.”
Morrigan sighed. She almost turned and left, not wanting to see poor Ibby get her comeuppance.
“Who d’you think we are, lords and ladies? I’ve labored my whole life and so will she. I’ve been a fisherman, a crofter, and a soldier. Now I’m an innkeeper, and she’s an innkeeper’s daughter.” His voice lowered to a dangerous rumble. “It was you insisted she learn to play the bloody piano. It’s me what uses it to bring in coin. You do want her to eat, I suppose?”
Morrigan’s spine quivered uneasily.
Yet her aunt barreled on. “Are you telling me you don’t think it’s wrong to leave her unchaperoned with men?”
“She’s perfectly safe. I’d hunt and kill any bastard who dared touch her. Don’t think they don’t know it.”
“No man, rich or poor, will ever ask her to marry him if he hears such gossip! She’ll never have the chance to be happy, to be a mother.”
He rose from his chair, his face mottling. “Mind your own affairs or take yourself from this house. The hissy will bide for as long as I say. Bring you a hundred louts from Glenelg— it’ll change nothing. If I wanted to be reminded of that cursed spot, I’d go there.” He tossed his napkin on the table and stalked out.
“He’s a hard man.” Ibby fumbled for her handkerchief. “Lord knows how you’ve lived with him these many years.”
“It’s not as if I had a choice,” Morrigan replied, but Ibby acted like she didn’t hear. “Don’t fash over me, Auntie. Maybe one day, things will change.”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 9
