And there was that birthmark. The one he’d dreamed of. Dreamed of. How could he have done that, before ever meeting her?
“Morrigan,” he repeated, picking up a lock of her hair. Memories of the strap marks flamed his senses into teeth-clenching rage. No one would harm her from this day on. No other man would touch these white limbs, in rage or lust. The idea ignited ferocious jealousy.
In truth, loneliness and edgy discomfort— the searching he’d described— had gnawed at him all his life until he’d spent the afternoon ravishing Hannah Stewart’s daughter. The incessant pins and needles had dissipated much like a raincloud emptied of water. They hadn’t returned, not even while he was away.
Morrigan brushed at her ear. Here was another face… snaring him closer yet. Not wind-kissed, remote, or impassioned. Innocent rather, a warm sleepy girl. This face awakened subtle memories of the baby his father rescued after the clearings, weak and malnourished, pathetically skinny, with sadly chilblained skin. Curran’s mother had embraced the infant, vowing she would not die.
He pressed his mouth to the pulse beneath her jaw, tracing with his tongue to her collarbone, and she woke at last. “Curran.” She blinked uncertainly. Her hands slid up. When she turned upright, her nightgown caught underneath her; he had to unbutton it, did he not, to make her more comfortable? Wicked, the way she roused him, fair wicked. Maybe she was a witch.
Morrigan dragged him onto the bed with her. Tumultuous thoughts fled, leaving only the conviction that if he didn’t have her right now, this minute, he’d spill his seed on her sheets.
“Love me,” she said, voice catching, eyes darker than he remembered, almost black, as deep and mysterious as the ocean.
He pushed up her nightgown and gave himself to the drowning.
* * * *
I will love you, Menoetius, until only dust remains of my bones.
He swam through a stygian sea, searching for the surface, following the sound of that adored voice.
“Curran….”
I pray she’ll reunite us somehow, somewhere, if I do what she wants. Wherever she sends me, I will wait for you.
“Curran? Please wake up.”
He opened his eyes, letting go of the dream with reluctance. Stretching luxuriously, he smiled into his lover’s face, so close to his on the pillow. He opened his mouth to say her name, yet for an instant, the name he wanted to say was not hers. It was something else… something that now escaped him.
Her expression routed any remaining pleasure. Passion no longer flushed her skin. Instead her eyes were webbed with grief. “My brother. He’s… dead.” The last word was spoken in incredulous disbelief.
The fleeting notion that she might be joking was eliminated by the obvious sorrow in her voice and expression. His entire body roused in protest. He couldn’t bear her pain. He must right it, protect. But how? What could he say? “Morrigan.” He pulled her face to his throat.
Before he could ask what had happened, the door flew open, crashing against the wall, eliciting a squeak from the girl and a startled surge of apprehension in him.
Fury quivered in every line of Beatrice’s unpleasant face. “Is this how you carry on the very day after you’ve been told your brother’s dead? You truly are a hoor!”
To Curran, she cried, “Get off from her!”
She sprang at him, fingers curved into claws. He had no choice but to grab her wrists and push her away before she could rake those nails over his face. His skin crawled as he stood and buttoned his trousers, glad he hadn’t removed them. “Calm yourself, madam,” he said.
Morrigan yanked her nightgown over her knees. She sat up, staring from her aunt to her lover. Fear etched her face. Terror, more like.
“Don’t you speak to me of calm. How dare you? You’ve taken all she had that might persuade a decent man to marry her.” Beatrice gasped and pushed her fists against her eyes. Her shoulders rose. For an instant, Curran thought she was weeping, but no, it was a convulsion of anger she fought to keep in check.
“Am I not decent enough?” he said. “I intend to wed your niece. I’ll speak to Mr. Lawton today. Now.”
“Curran!” Morrigan blinked at him as if he’d turned into a seahorse.
“You.” Beatrice turned on her. “Spreading your legs for any lout what winks at you. How dare you act this way in your father’s house! And Nicky not even cold—”
Curran seized Beatrice’s arm. “Don’t blame her. It’s my fault. She was asleep when I came in. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
Beatrice’s mouth fell open. Horror made her stagger. “You forced her?”
“No. Listen.” He shook her arm. “I will marry her. We aren’t the first who haven’t waited for the wedding night. Aye, it was wrong, but no real harm’s been done.” Marry. The word rippled through the air, or was it him, trembling as he threw away his freedom?
He didn’t care. The realization made him feel he could fly to the stars. She’ll be mine. Mine. A shiver crept over him, as it had when he’d written I’m in love with you, Morrigan Lawton in his letter. He’d stared at the words, words he never intended to write; yet he couldn’t make himself discard the paper and start over. He wanted to say them. He almost felt as though he had to. She was beyond his control, perhaps beyond his reason.
“Oh, aye?” Beatrice’s narrowed eyes riveted on him. “You’re so sure you’re the first? Certain, are you, that you’re the father of that bastard in her belly?”
A stifled moment passed as he glanced from one to the other. “Bastard?”
Morrigan shook her head. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
Beatrice snorted. “You may no’ understand it, silly mutchit, but you’re breeding. Why do you think you’ve been puking your guts out?” To Curran, she said, “In a man’s selfish way you took what you wanted. Now she, barely grown herself, is with child, too innocent to realize what’s been done to her. Yet you say ‘no harm done.’”
He couldn’t stop the betraying flush. Clenching his muscles, he fought the urge to flee from the woman’s penetrating eyes, or put his fist in her jaw. “Have you been ill, Morrigan?”
“Aye.”
She was trembling. He wanted to touch her cheek, reassure her.
“Sick to my stomach,” she added. “But what would a child have to do with that?”
I will marry you. His thoughts still careened, up and down, in anxiety and elation. You’ll be mine. You’ll be my wife.
Then Beatrice’s you’re so sure you’re the first? echoed through the shock. It did seem incredible that Morrigan would prove fertile the first and only time she’d ever been with a man. As he regarded her, cold speculation reared. When he’d given in to what she so obviously wanted, he’d told himself she knew what she was doing. He surely wasn’t the first. There was something in her eyes, knowledge that seemed the opposite of innocent. But he’d been wrong. For the first time in his life, he’d taken a girl’s virginity.
Could that be why he felt responsible for her? Was it merely his upbringing that made him offer marriage to a girl he’d ruined?
No. He knew it in his bones. He had to have her. No matter the cost. Whether or not she was a virgin. Even if she bore another man’s child.
“Damn it,” he said, shoving away ridiculous fears. He strode around the bed, pulling her into an embrace. That cow Beatrice could choke on her spit. “This proves we should marry, doesn’t it?” He gave her a smacking kiss then returned her to the bed and knelt in front of her. “Marry me,” he said, clasping her hands. “Will you, my Morrigan?”
She stared at him, pale and shocked.
“Be my wife,” he said. “Be mine, forever.”
She started to smile, but almost immediately it faded. Her eyes darkened.
He couldn’t sweep away this pain, couldn’t make everything perfect though he would rip out his eyeteeth if that would do it. Nicky’s death must chafe like a raw wound at the edge of every other thought. He knew it, for he’d experienced
the same ache the night his mother had died, and for a long time after.
“Oh, I canna thole any of this right now,” she said. She glanced at Beatrice, standing there like a fiery demon.
It was a terrible way to propose. He rose and stroked her cheek. “I know, a ghràidh. We’ll go. Later I’ll bring you tea and toast. Rest.”
She nodded and lay back, her hair fanning out on the pillow. He kissed her temple and stepped away from the bed.
Beatrice sighed sharply. She held the door, forcing him to exit first.
“What happened?” he asked. “How did Nick—”
“Our affairs are not your concern.”
“I’m not your enemy, Miss Stewart. I apologize for what I’ve done, but I will make her my wife. Everything I have in the world will be hers. And you. You’ll always have a home with us.”
Giving him a long, measured glare, she spun away and descended the stairs. “Trying to purchase my silence?”
“No. I mean it.” He stopped her at the landing. “You’re Morrigan’s kin. That alone makes you welcome.”
She stepped away from him and continued to the front hall. “We don’t know what happened. A telegram came. It said Nicky was dead. Nothing else. Douglas has gone to Edinburgh to bring him home.”
They entered the kitchen where the long unattended kettle was furiously steaming. She brewed tea.
“I’m sorry.” Curran sat at the table. “Was he in good health?”
“Aye.”
“Edinburgh can be rough. I hope—”
“There’s been too much. And now this.” Placing the pot and two cups in front of Curran, she sat in the opposite chair and rubbed her forehead.
He could think of nothing to say.
“I trust you’re not planning to accost Douglas with your schemes. It’s pure evil, to think you can steal away his daughter before he’s had a chance to bury his son.”
“You’re right, now isn’t a good time. But what of the… the baby?”
“You should have thought of that before you made a slut of my niece, aye?” She drummed her fingertips against the table. “July had scarcely begun when you and that hissy snaked off together. It doesn’t bear recalling, the condition she came back in. Her dress, her hair… like a slattern.”
“The seventh,” he mumbled, inwardly writhing like she no doubt wanted. Yet through the shame he couldn’t help picturing Morrigan lying on his frock coat, holding a sprig of periwinkle to her nose. He stiffened helplessly, already wanting her again, but he sensed his sexual desire was changing into something more. Every thought of her, every remembered detail of expression, scent, and touch in Edinburgh had caused physical thrills to run through his limbs. He’d never experienced such a thing, and if asked, would have called the notion romantic tripe.
Antiope, she’d said. She was a great queen, strong and free.
What other female in the world would have said such a thing? He’d assumed she was simple, because most country girls were. But now he was beginning to realize. She was a depthless well. There was fear in her too, hesitation, and that distrust he sensed so strongly. Was it because of her father, or was there something else?
He wanted… needed… to know.
With a caustic smile, Beatrice said, “So she’s near a month along, and will give birth, if all goes well, next April.” Her gaze upon him was nerve-racking, as cutting as a blade. “You’ll not have the luxury of waiting if you don’t want your bride at the altar showing the world what you did.” She plucked a lump of sugar from the bowl and stirred it into her tea.
“You needle me like an old sock, Miss Stewart. Are you sure you’re not a missionary, sent to reform my sinful ways?”
“I need no church to explain right from wrong.”
“Morrigan doesn’t seem to know how we all originally met.”
“We never speak of it. What would be the purpose? Folk died, Morrigan’s mam for one. Douglas flees his pain sure as the wind over the Sound.”
“She knows nothing?”
“I’ve told her a few things about her mother. Other bits she may have put together herself or found out from Nicky.”
“D’you remember Seaghan MacAnaugh?”
Beatrice’s spoon stilled then started stirring again, more slowly than before. “He was betrothed to my sister. Of course I remember him.”
“He’s back. Did you know? From the moment that ship… the Bristol, wasn’t it? landed in Nova Scotia, he took any fee he could, saving to come home. He’s told me about the clearings, and the promises your landlord made.”
“He claimed Nova Scotia had fertile soil. That every child would have shoes and go to school. He made it sound like heaven.”
“Seaghan told me that near three quarters of those on the ship died without ever setting foot on land. More died after, of smallpox and dysentery. When they arrived, there was no land. No shoes for the weans… what weans were left. Randall Benedict lied.”
Beatrice stood so abruptly her chair tumbled over. “Don’t.”
He saw her trembling. “Forgive me, Miss Stewart. I’ve done nothing but vex you. It wasn’t my intent.”
She gave a shaky laugh. “What a brave speak, that Douglas flees from his pain. I suppose I’m no better.”
“Who could live through such horror without being affected?” He picked up her chair, and after a short pause, she resumed her seat.
“Seaghan spotted a man in the ocean, just off the cliffs of Berneray,” he said as he mopped up the spilled tea. “He talked the captain into a rescue, pumped the water from the man’s lungs, and sewed up his wounds. Saved his life, but there were consequences. To this day, Aodhàn cannot remember how he came to be in the ocean, or much of anything else, not even where he was born. It’s all gone but for his name, and I don’t think he’s completely sure about that. Seaghan brought Aodhàn home with him, and they built a blackhouse by Glenelg Bay.”
She smiled slightly, but it held no warmth or affection. “Seaghan always did adopt wee homeless beasts.”
“Aodhàn’s hardly a ‘homeless beast,’ though there’s some who might say so. He’s rumored to be a selkie, trapped in a man’s body as punishment for some crime. I’m certain Agnes Campbell started that tale. You wouldn’t know her. She and her husband came along a few years after the clearings, bound for Fort William, but in the end, they stayed.”
“What’s this man done to cause such gossip?”
“He’s quiet, which is understandable, with such a big hole in his life; but his worst crime, at least with the villagers he lives among, is that he adamantly refuses to attend church… any church. I’ve managed to become his friend, but it took effort.” Curran paused. “I saw him once, staring out to sea.” Even now, far away and obsessed with Morrigan, he remembered the agony on Aodhàn’s face, and felt compassion for his bedeviled friend. He’d often wondered why he had such an urge to protect Aodhàn. It was a similar need to the one that had more recently galvanized, more powerfully, towards Morrigan. “I’ve never known anyone so miserable,” he said. “But there are other things as well. From time to time he disappears. Agnes claims he rejoins the seals. You know how superstitious village folk are.”
An awkward silence fell. He sounded like a pompous ass. No doubt he’d offended her again. It appeared so, the way she stared at him— like she fancied picking up one of her meat cleavers and parting his head from his neck. She and Hannah were city bred and raised, the offspring of a well-to-do Inverness merchant, but they had come to Glenelg meaning to live there after Hannah married Seaghan, to become, as it were, village folk themselves.
He rubbed the scar at his brow. “It isn’t my wish to disrespect Nicky’s memory, but you know I need to ask for Morrigan’s hand.”
She rose and paced. “You’ll take her to Glenelg.”
“Well, naturally,” Curran said. What bothered the old witch now? “It’s where I live.”
“Seaghan will be there,” she said, staring out the window.
; “Aye.” Curran wasn’t entirely sure she was speaking to him. Why did it matter?
“Douglas will hate that.”
Oh, aye. With everything else, he’d forgotten. Hannah Stewart had jilted Seaghan. She’d run off in the middle of the night with Douglas Lawton, leaving Seaghan heartbroken.
It would be Seaghan who would suffer at the living reminder of her betrayal, but Curran sensed he should keep silent on that detail. “I know it’ll be hard.” He tried to sound sympathetic rather than exultant. If Douglas hated it so much, perhaps they would never see him. “I understand why Mr. Lawton wouldn’t want to be reminded of home.”
Beatrice stared blankly. Then she faced Curran, a thin smile playing about her lips. “Maybe it will be amusing,” she said. “Aye. Maybe it will.”
“Pardon me?” Curran put on an impassive expression, but inside he felt uneasy. The woman must know many things about Glenelg and its history, many old secrets Curran wasn’t privy to.
Then he was distracted as he remembered the strange halo of colors he’d seen floating around Morrigan. That glitter of gold, the watercolor wash of lavender. He couldn’t even concentrate on this important conversation with her aunt. Truly, he’d turned into a mooning calf.
If Seaghan or Aodhàn ever discerned this, they’d flay him raw with mockery.
Beatrice’s eyes cleared and she returned to stand beside the table. “She’ll be in mourning for six months,” she said coldly. “It’ll be the speak of Stranraer, her running off to marry on the heels of her brother’s death. I cannot fathom how we’ll drag ourselves through the shame. Maybe Douglas should send her to Isabel. At least she’d be out of sight.”
“And she’d be closer to me, away from him—”
“What are you suggesting?”
Curran silently cursed. If he had a knife right now, he’d slice out his tongue, damned if he wouldn’t. He was as stupid as a sheep today. Yet the image of those strap marks infuriated him. “You know what I saw that day we were together.”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 16
