No sense arguing with the damned stubborn devil now. It would keep. “Stay here. I’ll just be a moment.” Seaghan stumbled over his earlier footprints to fetch a blanket from the waulking women.
Agnes returned with him. “Lord have mercy, he’s soaked clear through and half frozen!” She wrapped the plaid around Aodhàn, making the clucking sounds she was so fond of. “And you want us to believe there’s no difference between him and other men? The differences are plain enough to those not afraid to see.” Drawing the material close, she pushed wet hair off his face then pressed her hand to his cheek.
“Saint Brigit preserve and keep us from harm!” She recoiled, making the sign of the cross. Agnes had no trouble mixing pagan superstitions with Christian devotion, and would pray to anything she thought might aid her.
Seaghan’s nerves, already raw, felt as though they were on the verge of explosion. “What ails you, woman?”
“Weans, crying for their mother. Brothers, split into mortal enemies. Guilt, murder, betrayal. Again and again and again.”
The alarm on her face smothered Seaghan’s desire to scoff. He contemplated his mysterious friend, who seemed to have retreated into a private inner world.
Gooseflesh washed uneasily across his arms.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JUDGING BY THE bright slant of sunlight through deep-set windows, morning had come and gone.
Morrigan observed her sleeping husband, with his tousled hair and the countenance of an angel.
Did she love him? Would she have led him to the moor shieling and forced the issue, if he’d been an ordinary, ungolden man?
Beauty was a strange, powerful snare.
She thought of Padraig Urquhart’s bent, grizzled features. He with his long ears, thinned lips, and yellowed teeth. Did those reddened, chapped hands, marred by brown spots, freely explore Rachel’s tender youth? Their baby proved it.
She touched Curran’s earlobe gently, so not to wake him, and tried to picture what he would look like when he was old. And what of her? Grey hair, wrinkles softening her skin, pain in her joints maybe. What would happen to this fiery passion then? If they’d seduced and wed on a foundation of beauty, then what would the passage of years do to it?
Two and a half months since Beatrice had declared Morrigan was pregnant. On no more evidence than that she lay in this bed, married. But what if Beatrice was wrong, and the nausea, nearly vanished now, had really been some illness? What if there was another reason she’d stopped having monthly courses?
Smooth bedclothes slid like cool water over her skin. How different from the scratchy coarse sheets she’d grown up with. Everything was different. For the first time in her life she didn’t have to rise at dawn and begin an endless circle, repeating the same tedious chores as the day before. By God, she and Curran could lie in bed all day if they wished— lie here touching, enjoying their flyaway, beautiful youth.
Last night, Curran had shown a different side. When he’d torn the ribbons at her waist, she had seen something in his eyes, and part of her had been afraid. But the wild, inner Morrigan had roused to meet him. Like two warriors, their lovemaking had been ferocious, breathless, inflamed.
Immersed in consummation, she’d briefly forgotten guilt, fear, longing, and nightmares. There had been no thoughts at all. For her, that was true beauty.
Twining her legs around his, she woke him with a kiss to his bare shoulder. He yawned, smiled, and ran a hand through his hair. “Madainn mhath,” he said. “Ciamar a tha thu, a ghràidh?”
He pulled her against him and nuzzled her throat. Before she could ask what the Gaelic words meant, a timid knock from the sitting room interrupted them.
“Come in,” Curran called, drawing blankets over them.
Violet blushed as she entered. “Good day, master, mistress.” She bobbed a curtsy and knelt to light the fire.
“Good morning, Violet.” Morrigan suppressed the urge to jump up and help.
“Bring a tub, please, Violet.” Curran kissed Morrigan’s earlobe. “I’ll wash your back, hmmm?”
“What time is it?” Morrigan asked, pushing at him.
“Just after midday.” Violet kept her gaze averted. “Father Drummond has come to say good morning. My mother put him in the dining room with everyone else. I’ll be pleased to help you dress, mistress, whenever you’re ready. Bell pull’s there by the window seat.”
“Thank you.” Lounging while a servant tended her needs. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not. It felt… odd.
After their bath, Morrigan examined the contents on the dressing table while Curran combed tangles from her hair. A heavy silver brush, a hand mirror, and a framed daguerreotype of Curran’s mother lay neatly on the lace runner. Morrigan studied the delicate, expressionless face. The son had obviously inherited his mother’s hair. It was bright, drawn up in a loose, heavy bun. She couldn’t help but wonder what this woman would think of her new daughter-in-law.
Curran kissed the nape of her neck. “My bonny, bonny Morrigan,” he said, gripping her shoulders. “Mine at last.”
An unexpected and unwelcome flash of annoyance surprised her. She met his gaze in the looking-glass, stifling a rude urge to ask him if he knew the difference between her and one of his greyhounds. But he had no desire to offend. Just the opposite.
He kissed her again. “I’d hoped to show you the estate,” he said. “It’s best done on horseback, but—”
“I can ride.”
“No, Morrigan.”
She faced him. “I want to do things I’m used to doing. I’ve been tied up in corsets and slippers and fancy dresses, afraid of getting them dirty, afraid of saying something wrong, doing everything wrong. It sounds bonny… fresh air, seeing your land, being on a horse. Don’t you have a docile mare? Please.” The desire strengthened beyond all sense, as though she was soliciting a reprieve from a long prison sentence.
His regard was frowning and serious at first, then his mouth turned up on one side in a clearly sly manner. “Will you promise to keep the nag to a walk, and tell me at once if anything seems amiss?”
“I promise.”
“My mother was convinced months of idle confinement worsened the pain of labor. She rode every day when she carried me, until it became uncomfortable. Then she walked every day, no matter the weather, and danced. My father told me she astounded the midwife with how easily she managed the birth. She hated how expectant women are hidden away like they’ve done something shameful.”
“I’ve worked hard my whole life, Curran. I can’t suddenly become a wee fragile useless thing.”
“Call your maid, then,” he said, “and we’ll do this. I’ll go down and soothe our ignored guests.” He laughed. “I wonder what the minister is thinking?”
“And Beatrice.” Proper Beatrice, who never allowed the slightest indecent talk or action. What must everyone think? Half the day gone, and the master and mistress still locked in their bedroom. It was no excuse that they were newlyweds, not in Scotland. Yet, strangely pleased at her small victory, she couldn’t worry too much.
He yanked the bell rope as he left. Violet soon arrived with a tray of steaming dishes, a china bowl containing salted porridge, which Morrigan consumed ravenously, along with black pudding, bacon, and a pot of tea.
The maid’s shyness disappeared with the master gone. “You’ve a fine appetite,” she said. “Most ladies do seem like milksops to me. They pick at food and half the time are swooning. I do wonder if they don’t lace their corsets tighter than they should.”
I’m no lady, Morrigan started to say before she caught herself. “Aye, I’ve wondered the same thing,” she said instead. “Do you know if my riding habit was brought from my aunt’s? Curran wants to show me the estate.”
Giggling inexplicably, Violet led her into her dressing room and flung open the doors on the wardrobe.
They were nearly overwhelmed by an explosion of color and fabric. Morning dresses, evening gowns, tea gowns, riding habits; new c
lothing crowded one upon the next, and a nearby cupboard held fancy corsets and lacy underthings of every type.
Morrigan stared. “These are for me?”
“Master Curran did have it all made,” Violet said, “with your aunt’s help.” She drew out a slim-cut forest green habit and held it up to Morrigan’s body.
“This’ll look grand on you, mistress. Let me help you put it on.”
“No,” Morrigan said regretfully. “I promised Aunt Ibby I’d go back into mourning, now the wedding’s done. I don’t suppose there’s a black one?”
“Oh aye,” Violet said. “And it’s bonny as well, never fear.” She pulled another swath of material out and held it up. Fine and fashionable it was, and had a matching black top hat with streamers. Morrigan thought herself rather elegant as she perused the image in the fancy Cheval glass; the female reflected back at her appeared in every respect a decent, purebred lady. She nearly laughed.
As Violet pinned the hat, the sitting room doors burst open and Curran entered, surrounded by a mad scramble of dogs, who loped and sniffed, wagged their tails, and begged for attention before being distracted by some interesting smell. Antiope leaped on Morrigan’s skirts, was shooed off, and immediately jumped again.
Regal and calm, a towering deerhound watched the rest with an expression of aloof superiority.
“I hope you don’t object,” Curran said. “My dogs usually have the run of the house.”
“Aye? And what other surprises do you intend to spring on me?”
“Wait and see.” He cocked his brow and nodded. “Come away, layabed. Everyone’s waiting to see how the bride has fared. They’re beginning to wonder if I didn’t kill you and bury your body in the garden.”
“The dresses, this habit. Thank you, Curran. I never expected—”
“We must keep you happy,” he replied lightly, “so you won’t entertain an urge to flee.”
She laughed. “Only a daftie would want to leave you.”
Their guests were enjoying tea and conversation as they awaited her attendance. Ibby rose and came round the table, giving her niece a kiss before her regard turned suspicious. “Why are you wearing a habit?”
Morrigan tried to ignore the various expressions of amused indulgence, and, in Beatrice’s case, disapproval. “Curran’s taking me to see his land,” she said. “Would any of you care to join us? Mr. Merriwether?” The bloody man was impossible to read. She couldn’t tell if he was amused, annoyed, disgusted, or pleased.
“No thank you, Mrs. Ramsay,” he said, setting down his cup. “Regretfully, I must set off for London.”
“Nor me,” Ibby said. “The two of you deserve some sort of honeymoon, so I’ve persuaded Beatrice to come to Mallaig and stay with me awhile.”
“Alas.” Ruairidh held a napkin to his lips and spoke around a mouthful of pudding. “I, too, must go. Tomorrow is Sunday, and my sermon needs attention.”
“I’d love to ride with you, child,” Father Drummond said. “It’ll give me a chance to get to know you better.”
Curran’s dogs joined in the goodbyes, making the group on the pebbled drive quite noisome. Antiope bedeviled the carriage-horses’ fetlocks until Curran caught sight of it. He shouted and threw a well-aimed rock, thunking her hard on the shoulder.
She yipped and crept away, head lowered, tail between her legs. “You frightened her,” Morrigan said. “Call her back.”
“You’d be less forgiving if she ever caused your mount to throw you,” he said.
“He’s right, lass,” Hugh Drummond agreed. “That’s a dangerous habit and must be broken.”
Ibby pulled her away from the others. “Expectant women do not ride,” she said quietly. “Didn’t you hear what Curran said just now?”
“Oh, Auntie, I’ve never lost my seat on a horse.” Morrigan kept the impatience from her voice with effort. “Curran will be there. We’ll keep to a safe, boring amble.”
“No. I forbid it. We must make an excuse.”
Anger crept down Morrigan’s spine. Her hands clamped and she took a deep breath. “I am going for a ride,” she said.
“Morrigan—”
“I’m riding.” Morrigan walked away, knowing her aunt wouldn’t force the issue in the hearing of others.
She was right. Ibby followed and kissed her. “Goodbye, isoke,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m so happy. My faith in matchmaking is renewed.”
“So is mine.” Curran bent and kissed her cheek, which made her flush with pleasure.
“The both of you are too stubborn to bear, but I suppose that’s why you fit each other so well. Will you watch over my niece, sir?”
“With my life.”
“Then I’ll have no fears.” She allowed Curran to help her into the carriage.
“I’ll return in a fortnight,” Beatrice said.
“Don’t go unless you want to,” Morrigan said as she kissed her aunt.
“Had you traveled to the Continent, I could’ve put the household to rights in your absence.”
“Is there something wrong with it?”
“They’re on their best behavior. Once you’re complacent, they’ll no doubt grow shiftless and laggard.”
“Thank God you’ll be here to watch them.” A devilish glint lit Curran’s eyes.
“You don’t know the servant class as I do, Curran Ramsay,” Beatrice said coldly.
Ruairidh, sitting up front with Kyle, broke in. “I hope I see you again.”
“Please, our home is yours,” Curran said. “Thank you for all you’ve done.” He shook hands with Ruairidh, then with Quinn.
“Bring Lady Eilginn to London,” Quinn said as Kyle flicked the reins. “We’ll take her to the opera and show her the sights.”
The carriage wheels crunched across the drive. Ibby waved her handkerchief until they passed through the iron gates and disappeared into the forest.
“Shall we have that ride?” Morrigan asked.
“If you think Logan can saddle the horses,” Curran said. “If he isn’t too laggard—?”
“Don’t take me to task over what Beatrice says!”
Father Drummond laughed. “The two of you are at the beginning of a long, bonny adventure. And so it comes full circle.”
“What do you mean, Father?”
“Why, that West Highland blood flows in your veins, lass, and you’ve come home at last where you belong. This is where you were born. I believe it called to you these many years, though you may not have known it for what it was.” He paused. “The Highlands never relinquish a soul.”
The barn, stables, and carriage house were situated beyond a gate at the far end of a graveled path. Rowan branches, heavy with scarlet berries, met overhead, tangling into a ceiling, and Scots pine sent the breeze sighing mournfully.
As they approached the cobbled courtyard, Logan led a chestnut stallion from the stable. The beast tossed his wheat-colored mane and lifted his head, nostrils dilating as he sniffed the air.
“Augustus,” Morrigan said fondly, having become acquainted with him during Curran’s time in Mallaig.
“How has his leg healed?” Father Drummond asked.
“It’s fine now,” Curran said. “We tried a new tincture. It reeks, but it cured the infection.”
Morrigan sighed. “I wonder how Leo fares, and Widdie, and Cloud, and the foal? I wonder if Sir MacAndrew is caring for them properly?”
“We’ll ride over to see them one day. Would you like that? In the meantime, I hope you can get some use out of this.” He nodded to Logan, who disappeared into the stables, leaving Curran to hold Augustus’s reins.
Logan soon reappeared, leading a slender mare. Her russet coat, black mane and tail almost shimmered in the variegated sunlight. A long white star swooped between dark, intelligent eyes.
“Do you like her?” Curran asked.
“Well, will you look at this?” Father Drummond cried.
Morrigan touched the velvety nose, but the mare
shied, snorting. Undaunted, Morrigan brought out a carrot she’d slipped into her pocket earlier.
The mare sniffed it, nickered as if to say thank you, and took it in her teeth.
“Her name is Stoirmeil. That means Stormy in the Gaelic, though she’s Arab,” Curran said. “I know better than to give you a gentle nag. But let’s not share that bit of information with your aunt.”
“Are you stormy?” she asked. Stoirmeil obligingly nodded.
Morrigan kissed Curran’s cheek. “I love her, Curran. You’re spoiling me.”
“I’ve only begun,” he replied. “I’d do anything to cause you to smile that way.”
Blushing, she turned to the priest. “Can you ride, Father? We could take the gig if you’d be more comfortable.” From beneath her lashes she gave the mare a longing glance.
“No, lass,” he said. “I’ll curl up and die when I can no longer ride.”
Logan bent over, cupping Morrigan’s boot in his hands, and swung her onto the sidesaddle, then returned to the barn for two more horses, one for Father Drummond and one for himself.
The four left the courtyard, following an overgrown track, and soon had climbed onto the road leading towards Glenelg.
Curran and the priest chatted as they rode, about the state of the wool market, and how much of the Highland forests were being cut away to suit English hunters.
Hugh Drummond sat his horse well, for an old man who had mentioned joint pain. Though Morrigan knew little of religion, she recognized an air of authority mixed with a generous helping of kindness. She had always pictured clergy berating from behind high, forbidding pulpits. Never would she have imagined she might see one in a loose-fitting sark, breeks, and old leather boots, looking much like an aging crofter. Douglas had ridiculed Catholics, the same as Presbyterians. There had been no difference save for the particular disgust he’d voiced for Catholic popery.
They crossed the bridge over a glistening river, and followed its course into Gleann Beag. Hills rose on either side of the glen, which wound away to the east like a discarded emerald hair ribbon. The riding party passed the waterfall, and the ancient ruin, Dùn Teilbh, then further on its companions, Dùn Trodan and Caisteal Chonil.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 30
