His eyes darkened, stilled. He pulled her close, carefully, and kissed her in the hollow between her collarbones.
Swallows and blackbirds broke the silence as they probed for insects. From far away came the plaintive sound of the train whistle. Breezes rustled through the heath. In this wild place, it was easy to imagine invisible faeries ridiculing these two ungainly humans who wore little more than sunlight.
“The cut on your lip,” he said. “It wasn’t the foal.”
She inclined her head. “Please. Our afternoon. You’re spoiling it.”
“And that bruise on your jaw, the first time you and I were here. I wondered then who had struck you, but thought I must be wrong.”
“Is this the best you can do for wooing? I don’t want to think of those things. Not now, not today.”
His frown suggested he might argue, but then he plucked a few sprigs of miniature white flowers from the bouquet and presented them to her. He shook out his frock coat, which he’d gallantly placed beneath her earlier. She inhaled the seductive fragrance and thanked him with a kiss, but that was a mistake, wasn’t it? Next thing she knew, he’d thrown the poor abused coat down again, and pulled her on top of him.
She giggled.
He was tender now. His kisses and hands cajoled her into incoherent response. The first time, she’d been nervous, fighting guilt, trying not to show fear and not sure what to do. For her at least, it hadn’t ended as pleasantly as it began, and seemed to suggest Beatrice’s warnings had some merit.
This time, she didn’t think about sin or suffering. She gave herself to breathless fascination and the erotic response of her skin as he stroked it. She observed him as he reached his fulfillment. His face expressed a strange mixture of pain and joy.
Why was this a thing to worry over, to endure? It wasn’t something she couldn’t live without, but it was nice. The kissing, especially. She’d be sorry if she never got to do that again. Poor Auntie Beatrice. Having never married, she obviously didn’t understand.
Kit’s face intruded, his desolate expression when he said, Don’t you know how babes are made? It’s the same as the bull and the cow, the stallion and the mare, the dog and the bitch, damn you!
“Oh God,” she said as her lover pressed kisses to her throat. “What have I done? Am I going to have a child?”
His eyes flew open. He blinked several times and she felt him wince. “I… ah….”
“Isn’t this the way children begin? When you make water inside me?”
“It isn’t like that,” he said, flushing. “I mean… it is the way… but I don’t….” He stopped. She was sure he was holding back laughter from the way the skin around his eyes crinkled.
“He’ll kill me,” she said before thinking better of it.
“No he won’t.” Curran’s eyes flashed like blue and white lightning. “He’ll never touch you again.”
CHAPTER NINE
BILLOWING CLOUDS FRAMED a single dark speck that soared and circled. It was high above them, but Morrigan recognized the glorious wingspan of an eagle, and heard its singular screeling call.
She’d just started to wonder if it could be the same eagle she’d seen several times at the inn when Curran, who had been gazing contentedly into the sky at her side, turned to face her.
He caressed her cheek. “You’ve never been with a man, have you?”
She shook her head, embarrassed, wondering what she’d done that made it so obvious.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Hurt me?”
“When we… when I…. I’ve heard there’s pain for a girl, the first time.”
“Really?” She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t remember.”
He smiled, and she knew her answer relieved him. He truly didn’t want to hurt her. She could see he didn’t want her to regret what they had done— what she had done.
She tucked in closer and pulled his face down. “Kiss me,” she said, happy to speak the words she’d stopped herself from saying the first time, and as soon as he did, demanded, “again. Kiss me again.”
Another word formed, sliding through her thoughts. Menoetius. But she put it aside as his kisses took precedence.
She wasn’t sorry. Yes, her reckless act had come from a need to punish Douglas Lawton. But there was more to it. She’d been driven to experience one act of her own making, something beyond her father’s control.
“The strangest thing happened the day I met you,” he said, much later, after kissing led to other things.
“Aye?” His mouth was captivating. She was certain she would never tire of kissing.
“Aye.” The obliging lad seemed to sense her wish and did kiss her, on the mouth, the jaw, and finally, her shoulder.
She was sore by now, after three times, but maybe she could manage it once more.
“Colors surrounded you.” He spoke low, next to her ear. “I’ve never seen anything like it… well, only a few times. And another thing. Once, when lightning struck a tree, I was near enough that every hair on my head stood up; the heat of it went through me, as though I was lit from within. I felt I was being lifted off the ground. When I saw you at the train station, something very similar happened.”
“What colors did you see?” she asked, her voice nearly lost beneath the pounding of her heart.
“Pure gold, in a glitter like you were swimming in a sea of mica, with hints of lavender. It faded after a moment and I wondered if it happened at all. But a while ago, I saw it again.”
Yours was blue. Every color of blue that’s ever been dreamed. She didn’t say it, though she wasn’t sure why. She felt frightened, as though something of great import was happening. Nervous and jittery, she jumped up, straightening her chemise, and fetched the bouquet he’d brought her.
“See that cloud?” Curran pointed. “Zeus and his thunderbolts.”
“Zeus?” Morrigan gazed into the sky. “A child’s plaything, made up by foolish boys. Look into that one, there….” She used one of the flowers as a pointer. “The one all dark blue underneath, like it’s full of rain. Can you see her?”
Curran lit a cigar and exhaled a cloud of aromatic smoke. “A horse?”
Morrigan gave him an affronted scowl and a cuff on the shoulder. “It’s the Great Goddess. Athene. Are you blind?”
“Maybe… a horsey-looking woman with long hair. But there’s no helmet or shield. It can’t be Athene. Oh, wait. That might be a sword, going off to the right.”
“Don’t be daft. She was beautiful. And it’s a snake, not a sword. See how it curls around her arm?”
Curran sat up. He grabbed her wrist and kissed her palm, murmuring, “You really are an unco lass.” Then he frowned. His head tilted. She followed his gaze. She’d forgotten the ugly red birthmark. She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let go.
“What is this?” He turned an intent stare to her face.
“Nothing.” Again she tried to pull her hand free, but he wouldn’t release it. He bent his head and kissed the mark then covered it with his hand, so gently her embarrassment dissipated.
“Tell me about these flowers,” she said. “Did you choose them especially for me?”
He grinned, mocking her desire for flattery, but said, “Of course. Look.” He separated a spray from the rest. “Bluebells, for gratitude. I’m grateful you didn’t hate me after the last time.” Releasing those, he touched the lavender, then the periwinkles. “Lavender for the scent, mostly—”
“They mean devotion,” Morrigan interrupted.
“Aye.” He grinned again. “They do. Periwinkles, for sweet memories.” He sobered. “I haven’t stopped thinking of you, of us, of the last time we were together, and the memories have been sweet.”
“Tell me more. What are these?”
“Camellias. The pink is for how I’ve longed to see you again, and the red… perhaps I shouldn’t say….”
She didn’t answer, but her gaze demanded.
“That you’re a flame within my
heart,” he said with a slow smile. “Red is for how you hold my destiny in your hands.” He brushed a strand of hair from her eyelashes.
“No one’s ever given me flowers,” she said, working hard to keep her voice steady.
He took that as the invitation it was, and the bouquet was placed to the side.
* * * *
She traced the crescent scar where it severed his left brow and traveled around his eye. “How did you get this?”
It was his turn to blush. His gaze faltered.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s ugly, and reminds me of a time I wish I could forget.”
“It’s not ugly. It’s interesting, but if you don’t want to speak of it….”
With a short laugh, he ran a hand through his hair and regarded her, his blush intensifying before it faded away. “Perhaps you, with your imagination, could put a meaning on the bloody thing. I don’t really know how I got it.”
What a wondrous sensation of importance he granted her, and how kind to suggest she possessed a finer wit than his own. She would give her life now to solve the puzzle, whatever it was. “Tell me.”
Resting his forearms on his knees, he said, “My father thought me weak, or so he said. I believe his true purpose was to weed out a certain… disquiet… about the forest.”
Morrigan watched a fresh wave of scarlet rise in his cheeks. Whatever the source of his injury, it still caused strong emotions.
His fingertips pressed against the scar. “He and I found the survivors of the Glenelg clearings shortly after we moved to Kilgarry. You and your brother… your father and aunts… the others. We rode out one morning and stumbled across them, some dead, most close to it. Several lay in two old ruins. More were in the forest. I’d never seen a dead person before that day.”
Clearings. Every time she’d heard that word, it had been spoken in a hush or an angry hiss, and she’d learned young that to ask questions brought anger and censure, sometimes a clout or a beating, if Douglas’s mood was bad enough. So she’d stopped asking, and she didn’t now. The shadow in his eyes warned her.
Yet the question rose in her throat. You found me, and my kin, half-dead in a forest?
“That started it,” he went on with a shrug. “What my father never knew was how the woods spoke to me after that day. I heard those dead folk, and I began to avoid the outdoors.” He glanced at her and made a sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Don’t look so troubled. I don’t think I’m ready for the madhouse.”
Her heartbeat stuttered; for one instant that seemed to flip her upside down, she felt as though her soul flew out and touched his. In that instant, he wasn’t the wealthy laird and she the penniless innkeeper’s daughter. For the first time, she realized how devastated she would be if he left and never returned.
She swallowed. “I wasn’t—”
“I know.” Rocking forward, he kissed the frown between her brows. “When I turned eleven, he sent me into the northern wilds with a primitive chieftain from the Shetland Isles named Fearghas. God only knows where he met the man or how he convinced him to nursemaid me.” He shook his head with a disgusted, one-sided smile. “Fearghas knew no English, and I hadn’t fully mastered the Gaelic, at least not his version of it. Gibberish, more likely— the language of Sholties. Anyway, I had no warning. My father thrust me out next to this tall thin hairy fellow and told me not to come home until I was as comfortable in the woods as my bedroom.”
“Oh.” Was there no end to what fathers were capable of? What a piece of work is a man, Hamlet had astutely stated.
He nodded, surprising her by adding, “I’m grateful now, but I hated him as Fearghas dragged me from the courtyard. It worked, as my father somehow knew it would. I vanquished my fear.”
“Was it this man, then, who hurt you…?”
“No, not Fearghas.” He slipped the tender stem of a weed from its stiff fibrous sheath with a faint eeek and chewed the end. “He often left me, though, days at a time, to fend for myself. One night when I was alone, up near Loch Torridon… d’you know where that is?”
She shook her head.
“It’s a bleak, lonely place north of Glenelg. I fell asleep beside a half-frozen tarn, and….” Again he stopped. He yanked another weed, glanced at her, and looked away. “It’s difficult to describe.”
Morrigan caught his restless fingers and caressed them. “Please?” Perhaps he’d murdered someone… Fearghas, no doubt.
He faced her again; his expression warmed her like a bottle of strong spirits.
“I say I was asleep,” he went on, “but it’s so vivid, and there’s this….” He flicked the scar. “I have a memory of waking and rising. The moon was full. Everything had a glow about it— the water, the rocks. I could see a glow around me as well. I walked to the tarn— and jumped in.”
He laughed, and Morrigan admired this image of him. Supple flesh, the stain of color in his cheeks, the way light seemed to adore his lashes, brows and hair, the warmth and pressure of his hand, and the indentations on either side of his mouth put there from an endless accumulation of smiles.
She wished she could capture this moment, fold him up, slip him into an envelope and carry him, tucked in her chemise next to her heart.
Only after this breathless moment of reverence did she comprehend what he’d said.
“You what?”
“As naked as the day my mother bore me.”
“But… you said it was half-frozen.”
“It was, but I don’t remember feeling cold. I saw a palace. The moonlight shining on it made it seem like layers of pearls. I swam towards it and a set of gates swung open. Should I stop now? I’ve never told another soul this, not my father, my mother, not anyone. I was afraid they’d think me… mad.”
“Don’t stop.”
“A lady was waiting, a beautiful lady with long red hair.” He gave her one of his slow, luxuriant smiles with the lowered eyelids. “Near bonny as you, I’d say.”
“Oh.” This feeling he caused… the fluttering, shyness, and yearning… was it love? Could one love another so quickly? No, no. No. Such a thing was impossible.
There would be time to contemplate that later, when she was alone.
“She took my hand,” Curran said, “and led me into the palace, all turrets, terraces, balconies, enormous chambers. We came to a long hall, and at the far end there was a throne. A woman sat there, holding a staff. She told me she was keeping the throne in trust for the rightful queen. These two ladies, one dressed in silver, the other white, led me to a door inlaid with pearl and carvings of runes, and snakes, and trees. The queen opened it. I could see only a few steps in— the rest was blackness. She told me I must enter, and conquer the beast. If I did, the enchanted palace would rise to the surface and be restored to its rightful place.”
“Could you breathe?” Morrigan asked.
Curran laughed. “Bless you.” He cupped her cheeks. “You haven’t once said I was dreaming or daft. I could breathe, I suppose, or I didn’t need to. I stepped through and they closed the door behind me. A candle was burning on a shelf; beside it was a knife, a wicked-looking thing with a curved black blade and ivory handle. I picked them up and followed a corridor through many twists and turns, and always, in the distance, I heard roaring.”
“The minotaur. The labyrinth on the isle of Crete. You were… you were Theseus.”
He smiled but his brows lowered. “Didn’t you call me Theseus once, the day we met? At the train station.”
“Aye.” She fought to halt the inner reeling, to display a calm demeanor though inside she was crying, Theseus. My Theseus. Even the inner lass seemed startled into rare silence.
For the first time she realized something that now seemed profoundly important. Not for a moment, not from the first kiss to the removal of her clothes, nor when their bodies joined, did she experience that inner revulsion that had sent her recoiling from Kit. With Curran, she’d wanted more and
more, to go deeper, and deeper yet. Now that she thought about it, she remembered the wild inner Morrigan shouting, It’s him. It’s him!
“Well, you’re right,” he said. “I was attacked in this maze, not by a man with a bull’s head, but a lion.” He paused. “Every time I thought I’d killed it, it sprang up again with more strength than ever. I was so tired. My wounds were bad, this one in particular.” He touched the crescent scar. “Never in my life have I wanted so much to give up, to lie down and die.”
“And then?”
“I heard weeping. I saw a woman behind the lion. She was chained at the wrist inside an oak tree upon a hill, and somehow,” he shrugged, “I could see through the wood. She was trapped, imprisoned inside the tree. Then the answer came. I dropped the knife.”
“You… but how could you….”
He shook his head. “The lion killed me, and it was as though I consented. It ripped out my throat.”
“Oh. Oh.”
“I was dying, but I saw the knife beside me. I picked it up and stabbed the lion through the heart.”
“So you both died?”
“It fell on me. I felt its breath on my face, the heaviness of it. Then… nothing. I floated, and the lion’s blood washed over me.”
Morrigan shuddered.
“His spirit entered me with his blood,” Curran said, “and I could breathe again. He and I were one. I’d never felt so strong and alive, and violently hungry. I ran up the hill and clawed through the oak. The woman welcomed me, and we drank wine from a chalice. Together, he and I… the lion, and me, we….”
She smiled, seeing what he couldn’t quite say.
He smiled too, and blushed. Oh, how she adored his shyness.
“So the lion made the scar?” Morrigan asked as she remembered the point of the tale.
He nodded. “I’ve never known such joy as that night, lying on the grass with her. I would’ve gladly stayed forever. She… that girl….” He stopped.
“What?”
“My God.” He was suddenly pale.
“What, Curran?”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 12
