Beatrice ordered her niece to bed early. It didn’t matter that Morrigan was now formally known as “Lady Eilginn,” or that she was a married woman, or expecting a child. Had High and Mighty Miss forgotten she’d nearly lost her unborn babe? Was it too much trouble to err on the side of caution?
No doubt the other women would stay up late. They’d roast the lamb and celebrate while the men drank whisky and guarded Curran’s stallions.
She fell asleep at last to dream of Kyle and Logan stumbling drunkenly through Glenelg, terrifying evil spirits with their off-key singing.
* * * *
Curran woke Morrigan in the half-light of dawn, so they could dress and attend Father Drummond’s Mass. She’d never seen the coastal landscape this early. Crimson light fought with stark shadows, creating an illusion of skeletal grinning mouths and enormous black eye sockets in the craggy mountains over on Skye.
It was the first time Morrigan had ever been inside a Catholic church. She listened to the Latin and watched folk cross themselves as they drank the wine and consumed the host. Incense stung her nose and candlelight flared. These were ancient, sacred traditions, going clear back to the Christ himself, so Agnes said. Morrigan couldn’t understand why it caused her palms, encased in fine black leather, to break out in a sweat.
Curran took her to the Protestant service in Glenelg as well, for the laird didn’t like to play favorites. Morrigan could almost hear Douglas Lawton’s disgusted snort at all this church-going. After the services there was the noisy and satisfying Michaelmas feast, followed by wrapping up leftovers for the poor. “Master Curran never forgets those who struggle,” Fionna told Morrigan. “He wants none to go hungry.”
At last the time came to loosen tight collars and begin what everyone had most anticipated— the seaside festivities. An impressive crowd from several parishes congregated in preparation for the oda at the long stretch of beach hugging the Kyle Rhea.
“Pardon me, Morrigan,” Curran said. “I want to see….” He disappeared into the throng without finishing his sentence, shouting for Malcolm and Padraig.
Morrigan watched Tess offer her carrots to Kyle. With a stiff, formal bow, he accepted them and handed her something in return. Morrigan couldn’t see what it was, but Tess smiled and appeared pleased. Not far away, Agnes Campbell kissed her husband’s cheek. He put his arm around her shoulders and said something that made her giggle.
It felt as though every lass had found her lad as Morrigan lost hers. Curran’s new wife, foolish woman, stood alone in the midst of couples. There was Seaghan, grasping Fionna’s bunch of carrots. Aye, Fionna, blushing like a virgin.
Morrigan retreated, embarrassed and jealous as she wondered if he had gone to meet another girl. Intending to duck away until all this mooning was done, she turned, and almost ran into Aodhàn Mackinnon.
She stared up into his face, mortified to be caught so blatantly deserted, and somehow that it was by him made it worse. He returned her stare, one brow lifted.
Without thinking, she held up a carrot.
It hung there, suspended by lacy greenery from her fingers, one of the most warped of those she’d unearthed, she saw with dismay. Sunlight glittered against the stones in her wedding band. Deep within, she floundered. What am I doing? She only knew that she’d pictured Mackinnon more than once the day she dug up the bloody things, and had imagined giving him one.
The slightest hint of a smile lifted one side of his mouth. He reached out, fingers brushing hers, and accepted her offering.
“Morrigan.” Curran appeared from behind and swept her into a hug, lifting her off her feet. “Someone’s managed to steal my Glendessary, but I still have Brutus. I’m going to win this race for you, I swear it.” He kissed her soundly and dragged her away, giving her companion a careless, laughing nod.
Morrigan glanced back once as she trailed behind her husband. Aodhàn’s hand rested over his jacket pocket, where he’d tucked her gift.
She handed her remaining carrots to Curran, trying to ignore the skittering of her heart.
“Thank you, my love,” he said, but she saw his competitive nature had already returned to the race, leaving nary a thought for her or silly vegetables. What had it all been for, anyway?
She thought of Eleanor’s grievance on Carrot Sunday, and for a fleeting instant, saw clearly to its heart. If females directed their own lives as men did, would they still choose the same things? Would it cause change so profound the world would fracture, as William Watson claimed?
* * * *
Contestants rode the oda bareback and barefoot, using bridles woven from dried bent grass. The men spurred with their heels and used whips of seaweed. Curran, eagerness manifested in his hot-bright eyes and flushed cheeks, leaped upon his glossy bay, Brutus. Pressing his thighs against the stallion’s shoulders and grabbing handfuls of mane, he became as near to a Greek centaur as Morrigan could ever wish to see.
Looking at him, she couldn’t imagine making any other choice. This golden hero, shining like the sun upon a snorting, magnificent, dark as sin behemoth, was hers— hers to sleep with, wake up with, grow old with.
Then mighty Glendessary thudded onto the scene, bringing with him ripples of laughter. Astride his broad back, displaying an enigmatic smile, sat Aodhàn Mackinnon.
“Damn you,” Curran shouted. “You stole him, Aodhàn!” He turned his face to the sky and laughed as if he couldn’t be more pleased.
The man’s gaze met Morrigan’s for a long moment then traveled down, clear to her boots and up again. At that moment, Padraig Urquhart slapped Brutus’s rump, eliciting a startled rear. Curran put his attention on staying astride and calming his steed, giving Morrigan the time she needed to dismiss the promise she fancied she’d seen in Mackinnon’s eyes.
No one else appeared to have noticed anything amiss. Aodhàn’s expression had only seemed, for an instant, lascivious.
His regard remained steady; a slight smile implied her thoughts held no secrets.
Glendessary pawed the sand and tossed his mane, eager to run. Just before swinging the horse around, Aodhàn nodded and mouthed something. It looked like My jo.
Had the world turned inside out? Had this dour, sullen man— for surely he was that, though intriguing— transformed into one who smiled, who flirted with his expression, and followed that up with suggestive endearments?
Then she remembered what Seaghan had told her. One thing came out of it. His lost memories. The sea stole them long ago, and it appears the sea has finally given them back.
That’s what was different. No wonder he appeared lighter, as unfettered as an eagle.
This Aodhàn might require an entirely new designation.
Morrigan tore her gaze from the fisherman and rested it on her husband. But as Aodhàn had pulled his mount next to Curran’s, she couldn’t help comparing the two: Curran like sunfire on a fine June morning, Aodhàn dark and cool as a mist-shrouded October night.
The massive Clydesdales, prized by crofters above any other creature on earth, milled at the starting line. One gigantic hoof could kill with a single blow, yet the majority of the great beasts stood quiet and docile, muscles rippling beneath the knees of their jockeys. The scent of fresh dung permeated the air.
Kyle, astride a monstrous brute, leaned down to speak to Tess. Next to him, Logan’s sideways grin settled on Violet. Seaghan’s mount bared his teeth and swished his long tail.
“Where did that sorry beast come from?” Curran asked.
“I’d advise you not to ask such questions, Curran Ramsay.” Seaghan winked at Morrigan. “Now don’t tire yourself, Lady Eilginn. Sit you down in the bent where you can be properly impressed by our manly exploits.”
Seaghan’s rebellious steed broke loose from the starting line and Brutus bit Glendessary’s shoulder as Morrigan dutifully moved to the side and sat in the grass.
Father Drummond pointed a revolver into the sky. When it discharged, the crowd surged forward like a roaring wave. Morriga
n leaped to her feet.
Seaghan pulled in front but soon lost his advantage when his mount stopped to rear and thrash. Brutus and Glendessary swept past on either side, Curran’s golden hair blowing wildly behind him, Aodhàn’s longer, giving off a sheen like raven-feathers. White sarks billowed. Legs fused to horseflesh. In unison, the two settled into their stallions’ manes and drew ahead of the rest.
“It’ll be your husband or Aodhàn Mackinnon!” Rachel bounced her daughter so hard the babe wailed in protest.
Morrigan clenched and unclenched her hands. Her injured ankle throbbed, but the worst was her heart, scuttling with such mad strength it made her light-headed.
The riders veered at the far end, hardly more than sand clouds and smudges, and began the return. Glendessary and Brutus continued, neck to neck.
“Aodhàn has it,” William Watson announced.
“No, the master must win!” someone else shouted. “He’s the newlywed and in most need of good luck!”
Morrigan ignored the malicious tittering as a salvo of disconnected phrases erupted from the depths of her subconscious.
You are the skin covering the heart of the apple.
You are the spear of lightning after his roar of thunder.
You are the ocean battering his cliffs.
Sun and moon. Mountain and sea. Good and evil, woven together, joined yet separated, one unable to exist without the other.
Aodhàn Mackinnon and Curran Ramsay. Two halves of a whole, like a rope spitefully unraveled. More than friends, more than enemies, more than could be explained.
Pounding hooves threw sand in skyrocketing fountains. The bystanders fell silent. Could they sense, as she did, that this race had unspoken yet immeasurable significance?
Curran, crouched low against Brutus’s neck, whipped furiously with his seaweed. Aodhàn gripped Glendessary’s mane. He rode with his mouth near the Clyde’s ear as though he was whispering to him.
Two women held a red streamer across the sand to mark the finish line.
“Oh, come away, come away,” Morrigan whispered.
Brutus leaped and snagged it. A unanimous deafening shout rose as Curran straightened. Wind had flayed his sark, baring a sweaty chest and abdomen dusted with sand. Lifting the ribbon, he searched the crowd, and when he spotted Morrigan, kicked his horse towards her.
She touched his foot. Grinning, he reached down, caught her, and swept her up, sitting her before him as though she weighed no more than a midge. Amid shouts and folk cramming ever closer, he seized her face and pressed upon her a long, heated, suffocating kiss. She felt half-affronted at being treated like plunder, but excitement ran so bright and joyous across his features that she stifled her protest and laughed with him. Anyway, the crowd was cheering as though the laird had single-handedly defeated an entire English army.
Brutus pranced and preened, not at all afraid of being hemmed in so closely. Morrigan glanced to the finish line, where Aodhàn Mackinnon sat astride Glendessary. As though he’d been waiting for her to seek him out, he nodded, lifting a brow like he’d fulfilled his end of an unspoken pact.
Had she really seen him jerk on Glendessary’s mane seconds before the end? But why would he do that?
Next came the women’s race on horses of every make and description. Morrigan longed to participate, but her stern midwife would never countenance such a thing. Utterly astonished, she watched her ladies’ maid, Violet, mount Stoirmeil, the flighty Arab mare Morrigan had ridden but once. Who had stolen her? The answer was revealed in Logan’s swelling pride, the way crusty old Padraig Urquhart slapped him on the shoulders, and the glee with which Kyle was laughing.
Violet won of course. The young woman Morrigan had judged acutely shy looked triumphant and uncommonly beautiful. Her dark brown hair spilled over Stoirmeil’s russet flanks and her cheeks bloomed with color. Not only were her feet bare, but her ankles and fine white calves, yet no one appeared shocked. Malcolm led her, astride Stoirmeil, to the pine-draped Michaelmas barn, and escorted her onto a platform, handing her over to Curran. The jubilant pair raised clasped hands, sparking a resounding cheer which no doubt terrorized every bird for five miles.
Tess, known throughout the parish for her sweet, lilting voice, stepped forward to sing. She stood between the victorious pair, giving voice to a mournful lament while Malcolm accompanied on his fiddle.
I search the far distance for my sailor-lad,
I sing to the spindrift of the love we once had.
I long for the day when thy fortunes bring thee,
Back to these heartsick mountains, back searching for me.
The listeners swayed. Seaghan put his arm around Fionna’s shoulders.
I mind when you warmed me so bonny and bold.
Now the wind shakes this high hill, so empty and cold.
I search the green ocean but it laughs at me.
Your love is your tall ship and my love is thee.
Fionna wiped tears from her cheeks. After a moment of silence, Seaghan raised his tankard, blinking away his own tears, and cried, “No lass’ll weep over any lad this night. Come away! To the dance!”
Regal as Peers of the Realm, Curran and Violet promenaded around the barn. They shared a goblet of wine and began the dancing with the traditional Cailleach an Dùdain.
Gossip eddied. Morrigan caught many surreptitious glances thrown her way when Violet seized Curran’s face and kissed him on the mouth. And did he protest? No indeed. His hands circled Violet’s waist and he returned the kiss with enthusiasm.
Fiddle-music filled the air and whisky made the rounds. Tess draped a daisy garland around Curran’s neck as tipsy singing echoed off the high eaves. He lifted his tumbler and shouted something in Gaelic. Countless toasts ensued.
It would seem this horse race was the most daring act ever performed. Fawning women, young and old, mobbed Morrigan’s husband.
“I believe he’s forgotten the blackening we gave him the night before your wedding. You should’ve seen him frantically scrubbing himself clean.”
She didn’t turn to see who spoke into her ear, but warmth expanded through her chest, where a moment before cold jealousy had reigned. “What did you use?”
“Soot, eggs, and dirt. And feathers. A right good amount of feathers. Now look at him. He’s aye proud of himself.”
Morrigan glanced at Violet, whose fingers clutched Curran’s forearm tightly. “It appears I’ve been replaced anyway.”
“Men are fickle creatures. Generally not worth a woman’s trouble.”
Aodhàn offered his arm like a practiced gallant. She placed her hand upon his wrist lightly— no mad clutching for her— and followed him from the barn, wondering if he’d planned this all along.
The cool air was refreshing after the close heat of packed bodies. Others had abandoned the barn as well. There was almost as much talking, laughing, drinking, and flirting here as inside.
Malcolm Campbell lifted his whisky as they passed. “Mistress,” he said. “’Tis a braw night. I’m pleased Eleanor allowed you to come.”
“You’re missing your daughter’s glory, Malcolm.”
He shrugged. “We do it every year, and I’ve seen any number of winning couples. Does no’ mean they won’t boak later and feel quite sorry for themselves… beg pardon for my crudeness.”
His conciliatory tone stung her pride even as she snickered at the image of her husband and Violet vomiting into the bushes. Had her jealousy been so plain? “My only regret is that I couldn’t take part. Had I been riding Stoirmeil, I would’ve won.”
“I’ve no doubt of that,” he returned, with an approving smile.
Morrigan and her escort strolled to a flat-topped boulder next to the water’s edge. He gave her a hand up and she arranged her skirts. The seat brought her level with his face; she could, for the first time, observe him straight on, like an equal.
Away in the hills, bagpipers played. The sound floated so faintly she almost thought it her imagination.
She used conversation to keep hold of reality. “You stole Curran’s horse.”
“Aye.” His self-deprecatory nod didn’t fool her. “Though I still lost. You’re getting most of the accolades.”
“Why?”
“He made more of an effort to win than he ever has before.”
“Have you stolen one of his horses before?”
Light spilling from the doorways betrayed the flash in his eyes and the smile playing at the corners of his lips, but he didn’t answer.
She wrapped her arms round her knees and listened. “I can almost hear voices in the sea tonight.”
“Oh aye, it speaks. Try getting it to stop.”
“I’ve had dreams of the sea since I came here.” She met his gaze. “I can swim without being cold, and I don’t need to breathe.”
His regard grew more intent, but he said nothing.
“There are porpoises. Seals.”
He remained still but for the slightest narrowing of his eyes. No doubt she saw more in his expression than was really there, thanks to Agnes and the dreams.
Seaghan had once mentioned that Aodhàn Mackinnon spent days staring at the ocean, hidden in some secluded place. Perhaps he, like the lass in the song, longed for a lost love. What if he’d been married? He might have children. Now that he remembered all that had been lost, would he leave and go searching for his past? The idea that he might left her uncomfortably anxious.
How could she be angry with Curran for anything he did when she entertained decidedly unforgivable ideas and fantasies about one of his closest friends? She wished Aodhàn would call her my jo again. She wished he would place his palm against her cheek, so she could see if his touch still made her flesh tingle, like two wool blankets being rubbed together. She could almost imagine his fingers resting on her temples and combing through her hair, and it carried a familiar feel, like an oft-repeated thing.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 35
