The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  At last. A short, rusty grin. “Why would you want to waste your time in such a useless manner?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Something about that brief smile made her want to coax another. “My Aunt Ibby’s near made a livelihood out of matchmaking. She brought Curran to Stranraer to see what she could start.”

  Was he grave? She had to be careful not to label him too soon. It couldn’t be easy, having an entire life’s memories lost in the ocean.

  “It appears to have worked,” he said.

  “I was cross at first.”

  “As I’ve been with those who have tried it on me.”

  “So others have already tried. I see.” She paused. “You’ve no wish to marry, sir?”

  “I’m not a sir, a lord, or even a gentleman.”

  She smiled. “What shall I call you then? Mr. Mackinnon? Aodhàn?” She shook her head. “No, neither of those sounds right. Mackinnon. Aye.” The name rolled so readily off her tongue she half-believed she’d said it a thousand times. She tried again, hesitantly, paying attention. “Mackinnon.”

  A change came over him. His eyes turned glacial. His lips tensed. She felt odd as well, half-drowned in jumbled emotion. “Could we stop?” she asked. “I’m thirsty.”

  Tess gave Aodhàn whisky and Morrigan sugared ale.

  “I’ve never seen Aunt Ibby laugh so much,” Morrigan said. “She’s pleased with herself.”

  Aodhàn said nothing but glanced at the big open doors on the other side of the barn. She sensed his discomfort as though it spawned in her own stomach. Any moment he’d make an excuse and leave.

  “It’s so hot,” she said, using her fan. “I wonder if it’s cooler outside?” She strolled towards a smaller door, also open, that led to an enclosure, walled in with a dry-stone fence. Elation bloomed when he followed— she’d been half-sure he wouldn’t, and she did want to continue talking to him.

  Someone had decorated the space with paper lanterns and bales of hay. Candlelight through colored paper gave off a lacy glow.

  The crisp September air revived her. She faced him, meaning to say something about the beauty of the night, but the words trailed off at the sight of a reddish vapor eddying around his upper body. She stared, entranced, all plans for conversation forgotten.

  He returned her stare. She realized she’d lifted her hand, was reaching out to this fascinating curiosity, and lowered it, blushing. Retreating a step, she managed a smile. “So, Mackinnon,” she said. “You don’t want to settle down?”

  His brow creased. He swirled the whisky in his glass and leaned against the wall, resting his forearm on the capstones. “There are times I feel I can scarcely breathe I’m so settled. But if you mean married, no. Any female daft enough to consider it would soon be throwing herself into the Sound to get away from me.”

  “You’re satisfied then, with only Seaghan for company?” The mist of color disappeared when he leaned against the wall. Maybe she’d imagined it.

  “Aye, well, there is his cooking. If I say it’s wanting, I’m being kind.”

  “So, in order to eat decently, you must wed. Does Glenelg have a good selection of young ladies for you to choose from?”

  “There are a few. Mostly in your house, but they’ve wisely never noticed me, not with two young louts right under their noses.”

  He must mean Violet and Tess. “Rachel Urquhart’s a comely lass. What a sweet child she and Padraig have. I wonder why he waited so long to begin a family.”

  “He didn’t. His first wife, and their son, died.”

  “Oh.” She started to touch her stomach but stopped herself in time. “Did she die in childbirth?”

  He shook his head. “A fever killed the child when he was five months old. His mother died soon after, of starvation and madness.”

  Morrigan stared. “Madness?”

  “They were cleared in ’53. Padraig wouldn’t put them on the emigrant ship.”

  “I was born in ’53.”

  “You were more fortunate,” he said, nodding. “Seaghan has told me Padraig’s wife nursed you as well as her son, for as long as she could.”

  Morrigan swallowed three times before the lump in her throat would allow her to speak. “Aunt Ibby said my papa fed me goat’s milk.”

  “You’ve gone pale.” He picked up her glass from the wall and handed it to her.

  She sipped. “Folk bring it up. The clearings, the troubles. But nobody will explain. My father refused to speak of it.”

  He paused. “This isn’t the time,” he said. “Not on your wedding day.”

  “It’s so horrible?”

  A brief shrug, and, “Aye.”

  She gazed at the forest beyond the outer paddock. “Now that I’m here, where he grew up, I intend to learn all of it.”

  “Why wouldn’t he tell you?”

  “He thought women stupid. ‘Misbegotten leeches,’ he liked to call us. But he has no say now. If I want to discover what happened when I was born, he cannot stop me.”

  “Well then, be careful… Morrigan. Knowledge could be worse than ignorance.”

  So he wouldn’t call her mistress, or Lady Eilginn, like everyone else. Her hand released the glass and crept forward, stopping when she felt his sleeve. “Why do you say that?”

  “Secrets are kept for a reason.”

  With disturbing certainty, she knew what it would look like if he smiled. A mesh of lines would crisscross a certain way at the outer edges of his eyes; one line would be longer than the others, beneath his left eye. There was a… a tic there, too, but only when he was angry. She saw herself touching that spot, pressing to soothe it. She was filled with the sensation that this face had long delighted her, just as she thought she knew the words he would say during the act of love.

  No one can have you but me. Only me.

  “I feel as if I know you,” she said then stopped, embarrassed.

  Another murmur rose to the surface. You will marry me, Lilith.

  The tips of her fingers felt his sleeve shift. “Do I? From Stranraer, maybe?” she asked.

  “There you are.” Seaghan burst upon them, as shocking as a clap of thunder.

  “Seaghan.” Morrigan drew away, appalled to see how close she’d moved to Aodhàn.

  “I see the lout is troubling you. Did I not give you fair warning? He could make the archangel Gabriel leap into the pit of Hell. Say the word, lass. I’ll fetch my dirk and slit his throat.”

  “I don’t think so. At least not yet.” She glanced into Mackinnon’s eyes. They revealed nothing now, but it didn’t matter. An instant past she’d seen the same bewildered craving in them that simmered even now through her blood. She knew it as certainly as she knew a babe was forming in her womb.

  Grave… merry? Graveness definitely had the upper hand. Merriment had long been stifled. He, like Louis Stevenson, defied easy categorization.

  “Is there any more of that punch?” She offered Seaghan her brightest smile. “I’m as parched as an Arab in the Sahara.”

  Seaghan grinned. “That’s why I’m here. They’re all asking where you went. They want to toast you, and your lucky husband.” He held out his arm. She took it, and together they walked inside, the train on her skirts rustling against the flags, soft as a whisper of warning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TESS AND FIONNA filled tall crystal flutes and passed them around.

  Morrigan peered into a froth of magically renewing sparkles. “What is it?” she asked. Before Curran could reply, Seaghan lifted his glass.

  “Eilginn found a wife!” he shouted. “May he never regret it!”

  There was hearty agreement and everyone drank.

  Bubbles effervesced on Morrigan’s tongue. It was a cold, bewitching taste, like a love potion.

  Curran laughed as Morrigan held a second sip in her mouth.

  “Champagne,” he said. “Careful, it’s tricky. It hides how strong it is, and I want you to recall your wedding for years to come.”

  “To the bo
nniest lass ever caught by the canniest of men,” announced Malcolm Campbell. Fionna and Tess quickly refilled empty glasses.

  Even Beatrice offered a toast. “Tha am pòsadh coltach ri seillean-tha mil ann ’s tha gath ann,” she said, without the hint of a smile.

  “Aye,” cried Agnes, holding out her glass a bit unsteadily. Liquid sloshed over the rim, wetting her fingers. “True, though I’d wager that marriage to our master will offer few stings and much honey.”

  “It’s an old proverb,” Curran told Morrigan. “‘Marriage is like a bee, there’s honey in it and there’s a sting in it.’”

  “You’ve been warned.” Morrigan grinned. “Though it’s too late to run away now.” She noticed that Aodhàn Mackinnon made no toast, nor did he drink to the others. He’d moved away to the big doors and turned his gaze outward, to the darkness and the murmuring forest.

  She had no idea how much more time passed before Father Drummond, with plenty of assistance, climbed onto a stool and clapped for silence. “The best gift we can give this couple is to leave,” he said, smiling rather stupidly.

  “I agree,” Seaghan said, “though without a doubt it’s the finest cèilidh these mountains have ever seen. We’ll away, and leave this couple to find their own entertainment.”

  Morrigan blushed at the sniggers, but Curran lifted his glass and downed the rest of his drink with zeal.

  Her head buzzed and her limbs were numb. Hadn’t she had only a sip, perhaps two? Yet it was a pleasant sensation. She felt quite happy.

  Ibby pulled Morrigan aside through the crush of bellows, winks, and elbows pushed against ribs. “Neither Curran nor I think the traditional bedding is seemly. Not with him being the laird and these his tenants. You’ll throw your stocking from the top of the stairs.”

  “Aye,” Morrigan said. Thank you, she added to whatever deity had rescued her from that.

  Being escorted to the marriage bed by her wedding guests, forced to endure lewd comments and suggestions, would’ve required more courage than she possessed.

  At the staircase landing, Ibby on one side and Agnes on the other, she tossed an old worsted stocking and watched, amazed, as men and women, young and old, fought and clambered to catch it.

  From the crush rose a victorious Fionna, waving the article like a battle flag.

  “Ah.” Agnes nodded sagely. “Fionna set her cap for Seaghan many a year ago. For him to get the ring in the cake and now this… I wager we’ll attend another wedding afore yours grows comfortable.” She faced Morrigan and gripped her elbow. “I’ll take this moment to warn you, mistress. Be on your guard. Selkies have a way about them. Male or female, they can enchant humans… can make them do anything. Beware the selkie.”

  “What are you on about, Agnes Campbell?” Ibby snorted. “Is there a selkie among us tonight?”

  Morrigan couldn’t scoff. She remembered Curran and Seaghan telling her the seal story and warning her about Agnes. She stared at the revelers in the foyer, realizing for the first time that they’d all been gossiping about her going outside alone with Aodhàn Mackinnon. She felt her cheeks turn guilty hot.

  “Not everyone here is as he seems,” was all Agnes would say, with a meaningful frown. She tromped down the stairs. Ibby, shaking her head and sighing, led Morrigan after her.

  Happily tipsy, cake trinkets in hand, the guests took their leave. Malcolm Campbell and his wife gushed about the pleasant evening. Morrigan was a sweet and bonny bride, and Curran must treat her with kindness or he’d answer for it. Agnes kissed her cheeks. Malcolm bowed. One by one the others followed.

  She giggled as she watched Father Drummond weave and stumble, half-supported by the sober William.

  Amid a cloud of whisky fumes, Seaghan kissed Morrigan’s cheek.

  “You’re a lucky man, Curran Ramsay,” he said. “You’d best not forget it.”

  “It’s not likely, with all of you to remind me as you seem fair inclined to do.”

  “And I’ll continue, since you’re a young man, and no doubt foolish like most young men.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Morrigan said.

  Aodhàn Mackinnon shook Curran’s hand. He nodded to Morrigan. “Good night.”

  Not a word of congratulation or wishes for her happiness. Yet she felt closer to him than to any of those who had been so kind.

  She and Curran waved until their guests disappeared into the night. The lads from Skye departed in a drunken mass of song, shouting, and shooting, to be ferried home.

  “I hope none fall overboard,” Curran said as he guided Morrigan indoors.

  Ruairidh and Quinn were waiting on the staircase landing. “Thank you for allowing me to have a part in your celebration,” Ruairidh said, “and for giving me a bed. I’m weary, to be honest.”

  “Can I get you anything?” Morrigan asked.

  “We’ve servants to tend his needs,” Curran said. “Forget your days at the inn, Morrigan. That’s over forever.” He picked her up and swung her in a circle until, dizzy, she begged him to stop.

  When he released her, she stumbled.

  “Morrigan?” His smile faded into stricken concern.

  “It’s the drink.” She sent a guilty glance up the stairs. Ruairidh had gone, but Quinn was still there, watching, his gaze as sharp as ever.

  Curran wrapped her in a laughing hug. “Not one drop more.”

  Ibby swished in from the drawing room. “I’m half-dead. It’s been a long while since I’ve celebrated so late. Beatrice has already gone up.” She kissed her niece. “Dear, sweet Morrigan. This is the happiest day of my life.” Waltzing to the staircase, she caught up to Quinn, who bowed and proffered his arm. “Did you have a good time, Mr. Merriwether? Was it worthwhile coming up from London?” Together they climbed the stairs, his answer an indecipherable murmur.

  “And you, Curran?” Morrigan asked. “Are you pleased?”

  “I have you, don’t I? And no more sharing you with your aunts, or anyone, my Morrigan.”

  Her name had never before seemed enchanting, an endearment in itself. She returned his laughter to hide how it affected her. “Let’s go to bed. I’m about to fall asleep standing.”

  “Fall asleep?” He lifted a brow. “I’m sorry, m’lady?”

  “Very well, my demanding husband.” She ran a finger down the line of buttons on his vest. “I want to be in bed with you.”

  He took her hand. “Would you have a drink with me first?”

  She nodded and followed him into the drawing room, where Fionna and Tess were busy collecting glasses, blowing out candles and turning down the lamps. “Finish tomorrow,” Curran told them. He poured whisky and pulled Morrigan down beside him on the Brussels carpet in front of the subsiding fire.

  “Remember I promised to tell you my dreams?” he asked.

  “Aye.” She lay on her side, propped on one elbow, and turned the Luckenbooth pendant in her hands. “Are you going to tell me now?”

  He smiled, though it faded quickly. “One has plagued me for many years. I’m running up from a pit of some kind, holding a dying child. Sometimes that’s all there is. Other times I run into an open place, and the child is taken from me. I wake knowing one thing. I have a choice, but I’ve made the wrong one. Because I don’t do what I should, the child suffers, or dies.”

  “What is this choice?”

  “To stay, or leave.” Curran plucked at threads in the carpet. He frowned.

  “Dreams are night’s invention, you know. Mere vapor.” She wound her fingers through his and smiled until she got an answering grin, but again it didn’t last.

  He sipped his whisky and stared into the fire. “I shout until I’m hoarse, but that other me never hears. The dream changes, where I am, where we are, our clothing. Our faces look different. Sometimes she’s a child and sometimes a woman. What never changes is that I don’t protect her. I don’t know exactly what happens, but… it’s bad. I feel it.”

  “What d’you think it means?”

  He s
hrugged. “I had that dream the day we… we were together on the moor. The first time. Remember? When we fell asleep.”

  She frowned. She’d dreamed of him that day, a dream so vivid she could still recall it in detail. He’d looked different, though. Maybe it hadn’t been him at all.

  She saw the self-recrimination and doubt in his face, and longed to comfort him.

  “Curran,” she said. “Dreams are not real.”

  Fine words, considering how often she woke in a terrified sweat, hearing the echoing shouts of Witch! This is Christian land! as a man pressed a blade to her throat.

  “Over the last few months it’s come nearly every night,” he said. “I wonder if something… something is trying to tell me I’ll abandon you when you need me most.”

  Before she could think how to reassure him, he rose, refilled his glass, and drank off the contents.

  “You’ll soon be drunk at this rate,” she said.

  He glanced at the tumbler in his hand as though seeing it for the first time. “Did I pour another?” He shook his head and set it on the table. “Tired, I suppose.” He roughed his hair. “Who painted the portrait?”

  “I told you. A local artist.”

  “What was he to you?” Curran returned and dropped, loose-limbed, beside her.

  She shrugged. “A friend of Nicky’s.”

  Loosening his necktie, Curran said, “You blushed when Ruairidh asked about it.”

  “Well, it’s not a proper sort of picture, is it? I look like….” She paused. She’d been about to say my mother. “We could store it.”

  Curran sat up and pulled pins from her hair, staring as it fell over her shoulders, along with silk flowers. “Every man in Stranraer must’ve been in love with you,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her throat.

  Everything he did was intoxicating. She wanted him to take off her dress and make love to her on the floor, but she didn’t know how to ask. Now, oddly, when they were properly wed, she was shy, tongue-tied, fearful of what he might think of his new wife.

  But he seemed to sense her fancy. He slid closer and unpinned the brooch from her sash.

  No overprotective aunt would stop them, not now. They were free to share all they had waited so impatiently to experience. Memories returned of the last time, here at Kilgarry, when she had learned what lovemaking could be. She hoped that would happen again.