“You know you can’t wait that long. You’ll have to tell her.” He rolled on his back and rested his head in her lap, his golden hair a bright pool against her onyx-black skirts.
“I want to show you off. Glenelg’s men’ll be aye jealous. Seaghan has hounded me for years to get myself married and start a family. Doesn’t make much sense. He’s older than I by at least thirty years, yet never wed.”
“Seaghan?”
“The fisherman who lives in Glenelg. I told you of him before.”
“Oh, aye, the one who thinks the whole world would move to the Highlands if they could.” Something about the name nagged at her. She frowned, concentrating, and was chilled as she remembered. Douglas had accused her of protecting a “Seaghan” during his attack.
“That’s the one,” Curran said. “There’s a whole village to prepare you for. Seaghan, for instance, shares his home with another bachelor, a man he saved from a watery death.”
She put away the memory and returned to the blithe, sunny day. “I don’t know whether to ask you why Glenelg men never marry, or to explain the tale behind this near-drowning.”
“Oh, plenty are wed, and no doubt rue the fact daily— bloody hell!” Laughing, he grabbed her wrist to stop her from punching him again. “Sheathe your claws and I’ll tell you about Aodhàn. It was the day Glenelg was burned to the ground. The landowner had a ship at Loch Hourn, the Bristol, ready to take his evicted crofters to Nova Scotia. They’d passed the cliffs of Berneray when Seaghan spotted Aodhàn in the water. He hauled him on board, pumped the water from his lungs, and stitched up a wound in his chest. They’ve stayed together ever since… almost nineteen years. He’s told me he thinks of Aodhàn as his son, though there’s only about ten years difference between them.”
If Seaghan was in his fifties, and had lived in Glenelg when the village burned, that would make him Douglas’s contemporary. He’d been in Glenelg when she was born. He and Douglas must have known one another. She wanted to ponder this, but it was hard with Curran kissing the birthmark on her wrist and changing the subject.
“So, my love, will you tell your aunt, or will you let your expanding belly notify her?” A quick flip brought him upright and facing her.
She saw his intent. He pushed her, slowly, inexorably, backward.
“You promised my aunts you’d behave….” Take me and be quick about it, she left unsaid, though it fair beat at the confines of her throat trying to come out.
His unruly hair made her think of the underwater castle, of the lion he’d fought and died with. Yet, undefeated, he’d risen from death and joined with the woman in the oak tree. Morrigan trembled with lust and longing, like the woman in Curran’s underwater world must have done. Curran had absorbed the soul of the lion into his body and both had revived. Together, he and his deadly foe made love to the woman. She pictured it so clearly… the lion’s warm breath, his tawny mane shutting out everything else, flashes of Curran infused with victory….
I will have victory floated through her imaginings, the phrase somehow familiar, recalling her daydreams of Theseus and his Cretan lover, the one she always wanted to call Aridela rather than Ariadne.
“Shall I leave you alone?”
Many scathing answers rose to the surface, but in the end they evaporated. She considered what that other woman might have said. “Kiss me.” When he rose up from that, she whispered, “Love me, please, love me, Curran, I can no’ thole it.”
So he did.
* * * *
On clear days, Morrigan could look out the window in the cramped room she shared with Beatrice above Ibby’s shop, and see the jagged black summits of the Cuillin of Skye in the west, across the Sound of Sleat. She often walked to the harbor, a few hundred or so steps from her aunt’s shop, to watch Mallaig’s ferries as they departed for Skye, or the blue humps of Eigg and Rum. The sough of water and shriek of gulls, the barking of seals and the odor of fish filled every hour of the day and night.
She at last gathered enough courage to confess her secret.
“You’re what?” Ibby’s face collapsed into disbelief then horror. “Sweet Saint Brigit, how could such a thing happen? Who is the man? It had better be the Laird of Eilginn.”
“Of course it is.” Shame caused Morrigan to dip her head. If her loyal aunt could contemplate her being with more than one man, she was lost. “I’m sorry, Auntie.”
Then that is the lesson you needed to learn.
The memory of Louis Stevenson’s words brought confusion, fear, even guilt that she’d chosen marriage. He was a man who would always follow his own way. But what else could she do? Defy society? Condemn her innocent child to starvation and suffering? Give birth in some shack or barn, beside a road, and maybe, like Hannah, die?
She shuddered. There was another truth as well, one she hardly dared examine. She couldn’t bear the possibility of never again seeing Curran Ramsay, of never laughing with him, never feeling his hands upon her, never seeing that light in his eyes that made her feel so safe and cherished.
Ibby fanned her face with her handkerchief, fluttering her eyelids like she was going to swoon. “And I brought him to meet you. I brought him! How could he do this to me? If this gets out, I’ll lose my patrons. I’ll be ruined.”
“They’ve caused a fine scandal,” Beatrice said. “Thinking of themselves, no’ the others who’ll be blamed for their actions.”
“How far along are you?” Ibby asked.
“Two months.” Morrigan wadded her own black-edged handkerchief in clammy hands. Poor Ibby. Here they were in deepest mourning. Weddings should be the furthest thing from their thoughts.
Not for the first time, she imagined them as a coven of ravens. Ibby allowed no more than the smallest hint of white at the throat and black jet beads to decorate their bodices. Even their handkerchiefs and fans had broad black borders. Morrigan was weary of it already. How did the queen go on year after year, eleven since Albert had died, yet Victoria still wore black and lived in almost total seclusion.
She’d noticed slight changes in her body. Though it was still flat, her abdomen felt harder, tighter, and so did her breasts, fuller too. She was always hungry, and oh, the ache of longing for Curran was relentless. At night, erotic fabrications wove through the deep thick hours, checked only by the snoring bulky presence of Beatrice next to her. Before she fell asleep, the lover she fashioned wore Curran’s face. Yet after, in the dream world, the man who pursued her so ardently never resembled her gentle golden betrothed. There he was tall and thin, his hair very black.
“Two months.” Ibby sighed. “Well, at least he’s willing to marry you, which is more than you deserve.” Tears leaked from her eyes. “Oh, my dear, dear Lord. I don’t know how we can keep this a secret. There would be no other reason for a wedding, not while we’re in mourning.” Her aunt sounded angry with Morrigan for the first time in her memory.
“It must be done nevertheless,” Beatrice said. “We’ll need to find a minister willing to marry them clandestinely.” She paused. “If there were still handfasting….”
Ibby sighed. “Long and sadly dead, if it ever truly existed.”
“We’ve allowed England to change far too many of our traditions.”
“Aye.” Ibby nodded. “‘No One Provokes Me With Impunity,’ we shout, all grand and glorious arrogance. Yet in the last fifty years we’ve become so anglicized we might as well all live south of Carlisle. And we’re overrun with them. They pour into the Highlands like tea at tea time.”
“Handfasting?” Morrigan asked.
“A mere legend, really, supposedly an old Highland custom. A trial marriage, fancifully known to last a year and a day. If the couple was satisfied with the arrangement, the marriage was recorded and became permanent. If not, they separated. But any child born from the union was legal, and considered an heir to its father’s estate.”
“A trial marriage… legal, but not binding?”
“In a way. If the handfasting didn’
t please, the woman’s name and reputation wasn’t damaged. She could look forward to another marriage as if nothing had ever taken place. Virginal purity was no’ the be-all and end-all it is now. There was a time when Scotswomen enjoyed freer lives than you could possibly imagine. I mind my grandmam telling me it was women who taught the great Celtic heroes their fighting skills.”
Morrigan stared at Ibby’s plump face. “Are you teasing me, Auntie?”
“No, why would I?” Ibby lifted her chin and harrumphed. “The stories have passed from generation to generation. There must be a reason. It’s said the great Cú Chulainn learned his art from Scatach, the witch, and from her sister, Queen Aife, who was known far and wide as a formidable warrior.”
Could this “Eefah” be one of the women Diorbhail Sinclair had been referring to?
“Didn’t you learn about Queen Boudicca at least?” Ibby settled herself more comfortably in her rocking chair. “I know it isn’t proper, but I’ll admit I send a prayer her way every now and then.”
“Who?” Morrigan said.
She snorted her disgust. “You had the benefit of eight years of schooling, yet you’ve never heard of Boudicca? What did that man teach, anyway?”
“How to read, spell, how to work sums and some history—”
“History, yet no’ a word of Boudicca?”
“No.” Morrigan blushed beneath Ibby’s scowl. Perhaps it would be better if her aunt remained ignorant of how much Greek history the dominie had imparted, or for that matter, the thorough study of male historical figures, from Alexander the Great to Sir William Wallace. There had also been many dry hours learning about Lord Palmerston and other statesmen, far more than what was taught about Queen Victoria.
“She rallied men and women from every corner of the land when the Romans outraged her daughters and stole her inheritance. She and her people sacked Britain, London included.”
“The way I mind it,” Beatrice cut in, “she failed.”
“Not before she’d destroyed Roman towns across England and struck terror into her enemies. Mam told me Boudicca called upon the women in her army specially.” Flushed with color, Ibby rose from her chair and raised a fist to the ceiling. “‘This be a woman’s resolve! As for men, they may live and be slaves.’”
Beatrice snorted. “All these years I thought you a good Christian, Isabel Maclean. Now I wonder if there isn’t a liberal beneath all that fluff and lace.”
Morrigan watched her paternal aunt deflate, and for an instant, she disliked Beatrice. “I wish I had learned about our women warriors,” she said quickly, as Ibby returned to her rocking chair. “They sound majestic and strong. No namby-pamby creatures with their smelling salts always nearby.”
“Aye, well.” Ibby wiped her nose with her handkerchief. “Maybe it’s best if such traditions are forgotten. After all, women’s lives have changed, and no doubt for the better. I can’t imagine going off to fight a war, myself.”
Beatrice gave another snort, making it clear she could not imagine that either.
They stitched without speaking for some time. “Everything seems so different from the old days,” Morrigan said at last, tired of listening to the endless ticking of the mantel clock and hoping Ibby might offer more interesting historical tidbits about women’s power in Scotland’s distant past.
“It’s the queen,” Beatrice said. “She’s turned us from wildcats into tabbies.”
Ibby nodded. “But she means well, I think. She loves Scotland. Not like some. A trend was set when she bought Balmoral. Now all the rich Sasannaich want to own their bit. But it’s the way they use it that vexes me. First we were cleared away like rubbish to make room for their sheep, now they’re destroying the ancient forests so they can kill the deer more easily. They won’t leave a twig for the poor beasts to hide under. Sometimes I fear they’ll not stop until the Highlands are emptied of flora, beast, and man, and the only sound left is the cry of the lapwing.”
“Auntie,” Morrigan asked, “will you tell me of these clearings? What the devil happened? What was it?”
Ibby leveled a warning stare upon Morrigan. “I suspect you’ve enough to answer for without adding blasphemy to your list of sins,” she said, emphasizing every word.
“Sorry.” Morrigan dropped her gaze to her lap.
“Douglas would fly into a rage if we ever brought it up. Yet you were born in the thick of it. Here you are, expecting a child of your own, and you know nothing of your past, or what caused the loss of your mam.”
“You could tell me.”
“What we need to discuss,” Beatrice interrupted as Ibby opened her mouth to reply, “is what to do about these wicked youngsters.”
Morrigan frowned. Every time the subject came up, someone always cut it off.
But Ibby agreed. “Aye, there’s more pressing matters. And just you wait until Curran Ramsay comes next to visit. Lord, how he’s offended me! Laird or no’, I vow I’ll have a great bit of his flesh in return for what he’s done.”
* * * *
Soothed, perhaps, by the wash of waves outside her window, or the proximity of the Hebrides and wild Highlands, Morrigan’s dreams took on a honed, lifelike quality.
She was walking along a high, sheer cliff. A man ran up and grabbed her hand, ostensibly out of concern for her safety.
It was exhilarating, being next to such a precipitous drop. It made her heart beat fast. To fall would mean watching death come for you as you plummeted helplessly through cold, uncaring space. She turned her face upward, her gaze caught by an eagle circling, almost as though it was watching them.
Off to her right, beyond the cliff, lay the Atlantic, stretching away to the shores of America, and to her left nothing but peat, grass, wildflowers, and sheep.
The man didn’t like not being the center of her attention. His constant need annoyed her yet also made her laugh. His grip on her hand tightened.
“I’ll build you a summer house here,” he said, “since you love it so much.”
“I’m not a prostitute, sir. How many times must I explain that to you?”
He stopped. “You will marry me, Lilith.” He frowned, boldly trying to intimidate her.
“I’m nobody. Your da—”
“Is a factor.” His eyes turned ferocious. That, coupled with his black, windblown hair, gave him a devilish presence. “And I’m a factor’s son. Shall we force his hand? He’ll agree if your belly has his grandson in it.”
“I’m going to marry Daniel.”
After spending the day with him, she’d come to realize he wasn’t the ogre many thought him to be. Though he put on an arrogant face, she had glimpsed tenderness in him. Perhaps she was the only one he’d ever shown that face to. She cared about his feelings now, and didn’t want to hurt him. But that didn’t mean she would betray Daniel.
Daniel was like her. She pictured herself making his porridge, digging at his side in a garden, having his babies. They could build a life. Daniel’s hands were big, callused, and gentle. He had an equally big heart. She was drawn to him in ways she couldn’t explain. Didn’t it say something that she was still thinking of Daniel while walking along a cliff with this provocative character?
His hands weren’t callused, and never would be. His fingernails were clean, his coat smart. He didn’t smell of fish, or soil, or sweat, and for the last several years, he had been away at Eton. He’d only recently returned because of his father’s worsening consumption.
“Your father wants better things for you than a fisherman’s wean in a patched dress and fraying shawl,” she said.
The cliff vanished. They were lying on a machair-covered slope looking out over the sea, caressed in breezes as soft as rabbit fur. A jewel dangled from his fingers. A necklace. Someone had died, and the pain of it was terrible. But it was time to move on.
She spoke his name— Oo… something. He leaned in and kissed her.
Beatrice’s familiar morning shout sent the man swirling away. “Morrigan! Wake up! D
’you plan to sleep the day away?”
* * * *
Morrigan’s fine romance entered a dismal interlude of privation and difficulty. Ibby never gave her niece an unchaperoned moment with her betrothed. “I introduced you,” she said to Curran more than once. “I trusted you. Now here we are. You defied my feelings and her innocence.”
Morrigan began to suspect that Ibby berated him simply for the expression of guilt and chagrin he rewarded her with. She was sure the first time she caught Ibby smiling to herself as she walked away.
Her aunt would be scunnered if she knew how Morrigan had thrown herself at him, had barely given him a chance to resist. But Morrigan was confident he would never tell.
Ardent glances and the surreptitious touching of hands had to suffice. With stoic patience and unyielding good humor, Curran assured her that in the end, Ibby would lose this battle.
During one of his visits, he suggested an outing to introduce Morrigan to Kilgarry, chaperoned by the aunts, of course. They agreed, but insisted he return them in two days, as they were eager to attend Mallaig’s annual Highland Games.
He hired a local fisherman and his crew to ferry them up and they set out on a bright, sweetly scented afternoon. They passed Loch Hourn and the Sandaig islands, and Curran pointed. There, towering above that riotous portion of the Sound called the Kyle Rhea, framed within a thickly wooded hill, glinted the upper storeys of his home. With the help of the fisherman’s telescope, Morrigan saw crimson flags streaming from two turrets, and even the rearing silver unicorns embossed in the center. The late afternoon sun lit the reddish stones and blazed against the leaded windows in the nearer turret, exactly as Ibby had once described them. Diamonds, in a cinnabar setting.
The rocky coast of the Isle of Skye lay directly across on the other side of the Kyle Rhea. Hills clambered in an eager race to a finish line of bluish white clouds. Water reflected the land, deep blue-green fading to violet.
Dolphins vaulted alongside the boat, whistling a welcome. It was all so rich, green, and thrilling, yet without warning or reason, Morrigan’s heart began to thud heavily.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 20
