CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MORRIGAN SAT UP in bed and stared about the room. It was familiar, yet for some reason it seemed she hadn’t been here, or seen it, in ages. She drew the soft, sweet-smelling covers up to her throat. They seemed wrong as well, far finer than what she knew.
Curran entered. When he saw her, he broke into a wide smile and came over to sit on the bed beside her.
“Curran,” she said. Her voice sounded hoarse. “I feel like I’ve been asleep for a month.”
He gathered her to his chest and pressed her face to his throat. “Morrigan, thank God.”
Feared to her core by the strange catch in his voice, she pulled away. His lashes were wet. “What’s happened?”
“I swear I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”
The wean. Nothing else would bring tears to Curran’s eyes. But when she touched her stomach, it felt the same, harder, slightly rounded.
Eleanor came in with a teacup. She approached the other side of the bed and sat on the edge. “I was hoping you’d be awake by now,” she said. “Would you drink this, please?” She held out the cup to Morrigan.
It was filled with steaming yellow liquid. “Tell me what it is, first,” Morrigan said, smiling at the older woman.
“Cinnamon oil, lemon, and honey, mixed with chamomile,” Eleanor said.
Morrigan’s memories returned as she took the cup from the healer’s chapped hands. The bothy. Diorbhail and Eleanor. Sleeping on straw and crushed wildflowers… and Mackinnon carrying her, league after tireless league, until they stumbled across Curran and Seaghan. Mackinnon had handed her off to her husband and swiftly vanished without saying goodbye.
“Drink it, please, darling.” Curran said.
She sipped. Honey sweetened the cinnamon’s bite.
“I’m so glad and grateful to Eleanor for thinking of that old ruin and going there to look for you. Who knows how long it would have been otherwise?”
“Aye.” Eleanor threw a narrowed glance at Morrigan. “I told him how I thought of the bothy two days ago and walked up.”
Morrigan nodded. It was only a small lie, after all. “Am I sick? My ears are stuffy.”
“I don’t think so, a nighean,” Curran said, “but you slept through a night, a day, another night, and half of today.” He glanced at Eleanor. “I’ll make sure she drinks it.”
Eleanor nodded and left, but as she opened the outer door, Antiope squeezed past her and rushed in. She leaped, splaying her long graceful legs on the bed and cocking her ears, which created a worried pucker between her eyes.
“Lassie-wean.” The presence of her dog brought a sense of calm, a return to comfort and safety. She realized she was happy to be home. It was daft to feel pangs of sorrow for that rotted, leaking hovel.
The dog tried to lick her mistress’s cheeks.
“Get down, ye cursed beast,” Curran said impatiently.
Her abject expression begged for forgiveness, but Curran pushed her away. She curled onto the floor, gazing from one to the other.
“Tell me what happened,” Curran said. “I cannot wait any longer.”
“D’you know how handsome you were on Saint Michael’s Day?” She ran her index finger along his jaw. “Like a centaur, joined with your horse. That’s exactly what you looked like.”
He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, so tightly she finally had to protest that she couldn’t breathe. He kissed her lips, eyelids, ears, and cheeks.
“But you and Violet.” She frowned. “I didn’t like that. I wanted to make you jealous.”
Amusement flashed in his dark blue eyes.
She remembered whipping the horse, knocking Curran clear out of the gig. There was a scabbed-over cut on his cheekbone, and a bruise fanning out around it. “Oh, my temper,” she said, horrified and aching with regret. “It’s like a great fire. Sometimes it consumes me.” She hesitated, searching for the words. “I lose control. I see what I do but I can’t stop. Like when I bit you.” she touched his lip. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for many things. Somehow I think the anger is really towards… myself.”
He gripped her shoulders. “That night, I would’ve deserved it if you’d whipped me. When I saw Aodhàn kiss you….” He paused. “I lost all sense and reason. I’m the one who should apologize, and I do. For everything, especially what I said. I was so afraid those were my last words to you.”
“So you were jealous?” She lifted a brow and slanted a teasing smile at him.
“Aye.” His tone brought Antiope’s head and ears sharply up. “You damnable woman, I was tortured by jealousy, as you wanted, but that’s no excuse.”
“Oh, Curran. I regret what I did, too. Let’s just forgive each other.”
He nodded and kissed her. “Tell me about this woman you were with. Where do you know her from?”
“She lived in Stranraer. I didn’t really know her. My da hated her. Beatrice told me never to speak to her. Diorbhail was the ‘fallen woman,’ an outcast. That scar on her forehead? It’s from a rock. She had a wee daughter, but she’s dead. She was murdered.”
Curran’s brows lowered.
“She walked to Mallaig searching for me, but I’d already come here. She meant to come here on foot, can you believe it? I wonder if she would have survived crossing the mountains.”
“I doubt it,” Curran said.
“A fisherman brought her up on his boat.”
“Why did she hide? Why did she want to see you?”
“She’s afraid. She’s been so badly treated. She said she’d dreamed of me. That’s all I know. Promise not to repeat anything I’ve told you. I swore to her no one would ever know her past, and she must stay here, with us. She has no one in the world, Curran.”
“Of course,” he said, so quickly and honestly that she had to kiss him for not hesitating, or having to think about it.
“Where is she?” Morrigan asked.
“Fionna put her in a room and is taking her meals. I haven’t seen her since you were found.”
“She won’t come down alone. She’s far too shy. I’ll have to go and get her. Oh, I want to see Stoirmeil. I want to play with Antiope and sit in the garden.”
“Your ankle….”
She uncovered it and angled it in different directions. “It doesn’t seem so bad. I hardly had to take a step on my own the whole way down.”
“Aye, well.” Curran’s eyes darkened. It unsettled her, though she wasn’t sure why. “Drink your tea then, and we’ll do everything you want. Sometimes I think you would’ve been happier living in a shieling so you could always be one step from the outdoors.”
“Maybe.”
He rang for Violet, kissed her, and went off, calling to Antiope to follow.
* * * *
Fionna found Diorbhail a dress that didn’t need many alterations. Morrigan made her eat as much porridge as her shrunken stomach could hold, then she was coaxed outside to relax in garden chairs under the beautiful old oak.
“Are you certain you want me to stay here?” Diorbhail asked doubtfully.
“Aye, Diorbhail.” Morrigan threw a handful of crumbs for the ducks. “Look, there’s Curran. Now don’t be afraid. He won’t bite.”
Curran approached, smiling. He leaned down to kiss her then gave his attention to Diorbhail.
“This is Mrs. Sinclair,” Morrigan said. “Diorbhail, my husband, Mr. Ramsay.”
He bent over Diorbhail’s hand, which made her eyes widen and her cheeks flush. Seeing this, he knelt. “Our home is yours for as long as you wish it,” he said. Morrigan had seldom heard him sound so gentle.
Diorbhail stared at Curran. Then she did something that left Morrigan gaping. She placed her fingers on the side of his head and stroked his hair. Tears filled her eyes, but only one fell down her cheek.
Curran didn’t appear shocked or annoyed. He returned her gaze. Gradually, his brows lowered into a puzzled frown. He brought his hand up to hers and clasped her wrist. “Have we… met?”
>
“I’ve seen you.” Diorbhail’s voice was nearly too subdued to hear.
“In Stranraer?”
“No. Not there.”
Curran was obviously bewildered yet fascinated. “You seem so familiar,” he said. “Does the word Xanthe mean anything to you?”
“Aye,” she said, after a long pause. “But I know not why.”
“I don’t know either,” he said.
As if waking from a dream, Diorbhail blinked and turned to Morrigan. Her face acquired a mortified expression. Her eyes begged forgiveness.
Morrigan seized her free hand. “Is this how you felt when you saw Eleanor?”
“Aye,” Diorbhail said. “But… more.”
“He’s part of us, then?”
“I think so.” Diorbhail was visibly trembling. “We’re connected, all of us, somehow.”
“What’s she saying?” Curran asked, but he didn’t look at Morrigan. He seemed unable to tear his gaze from Diorbhail’s face.
“What do you see when you look at him, Diorbhail?”
She blushed and dropped her gaze to the ground.
“That’s all right.” Morrigan squeezed her hand. “You don’t need to speak of it.”
Curran released Diorbhail’s wrist and stood. “Here’s your bloody dog,” he said, as Kyle opened the gate and Antiope raced to them. She ran first to Morrigan, shoving her snout into her mistress’s hand, then thoroughly welcomed Diorbhail until she had the woman giggling, then she ran off to smell things and bark at the ducks.
“May I spend the day with you?” Curran asked humbly.
Morrigan laughed. “We’d be aye disappointed if you didn’t,” she said, tapping his forearm with her fan.
Seaghan came through the gate just then. He stood there, kneading his glengarry.
“Why won’t he come over?” Curran gestured, but Seaghan merely shook his head.
“What’s wrong with him?” Morrigan asked.
“I don’t know. Let me see what he wants. Forgive me, ladies.”
Morrigan watched him walk away, admiring those buckskin breeks that fit him like a second skin. She really must talk to Eleanor about reversing her decree that there be no relations until the babe was born. It would be hellish to wait so long.
“See?” She said, fanning herself. “He’s no’ so bad.”
“No.” Diorbhail kept her gaze locked on the pool. “He isn’t.”
Morrigan wanted to ask Diorbhail what had so moved her, but the woman appeared a bit shaky still. “Come,” she said, “we’ll promenade like grand nobles.”
She rose, pulling Diorbhail up beside her. Arm in arm, they strolled around the pool. “Would you allow Violet to arrange your hair? She’s quite good.”
“I’ll never be a lady. That’s no’ why I came here,” Diorbhail said angrily.
“I’m not trying to make you into anything. I only want to get the tangles out of your hair. I swear there’s a bird’s nest in there. I want your life to be better, and I’m going to make it happen. I’m no’ a lady either, you know. All my life I’ve been a chambermaid, a dishwasher, a laundress, a drudge. Oh, and Papa’s whipping post. I dread the day I have to meet Curran’s highborn friends and business associates.”
Diorbhail’s anger vanished. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you.” She cupped Morrigan’s cheeks in her hands. “I love you,” she said, her voice shaky. “I’d die for you. Never think otherwise.”
Morrigan pressed her cheek against this odd woman’s. “I wish I’d had the courage in Stranraer to stand up for you. But I was too afraid.”
“It’ll come. I know it.”
She wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet, but with such an ardent supporter, Morrigan felt it too.
Curran returned, leaving Seaghan at the gate. “Aodhàn’s gone off somewhere. Seaghan never seems able to accustom himself to it. He fashes like a wee lad who’s lost his puppy. I keep telling him the moody bugger just likes to be alone. I’ll help him look for an hour or so, then we’ll have a picnic.”
Morrigan fought to hide a flood of dismay, especially when she sensed Diorbhail’s eyes boring into her. But Curran’s dismissive attitude calmed her somewhat.
“I hope you find him,” she said, keeping her tone restrained. “He seemed so tired, and he carried me all that way. You’d think he’d only want to sleep.” She rested a hand on Curran’s forearm. “I understand why Seaghan is worried. It doesn’t seem right.”
“He’s inconsiderate, and always has been.” He covered Morrigan’s hand with his own then offered a bow. “Ladies, I promise to return as soon as I can.”
This time, as he walked away, Morrigan could only feel disquiet.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MOST OF THE ruin was obscured in early morning shadows.
The land upon which Bishop House had once stood was the highest point of the hill east of the village of Castlebay, which the Gaelic-speaking locals called Bàgh a’ Chaisteil, on the isle of Barra, or Barraigh. It was a craggy hill, lacking a single tree or bush to disguise him. If Aodhàn had come up here in daylight, he would’ve risked being seen by the villagers below, and that would seriously compromise his plans.
Cold wind buffeted him as he walked around the foundation. Many of the stones that had made up his stately multi-storied home were gone, filched, no doubt, to be used elsewhere, maybe by the same men who burned it after murdering Lilith and their children.
Lilith. You’re alive again, in the body of Morrigan Ramsay.
He recalled coming here from Edinburgh just before his thirteenth birthday, how the empty rooms echoed and the newly hired servants giggled as they went about making Bishop House habitable for the new factor and his son. Colonel Gordon of Cluny had purchased Barra, but had no desire to live here, or even see it. Aodhàn’s father had been hired to relocate in his stead and make the island profitable.
Here, on this remote speck of land Aodhàn was dragged to against his angry young will, he had found Aridela.
The instant he yanked her from the hidden passage in the wall and looked into her frightened face, all his other lives resurfaced.
The return of the memories was an agonizing process. He likened the sensations to having his skull split open, his brain ripped out. The past came in a crippling barrage, image after image, screams, faces, words rushing past, dissolving into other words, his own bitter betrayals reforming in unbearable clarity. And always in the background, the murderous rumble of the earthshaking and searing ash-filled air.
His brain would gradually acclimate and he would begin all over, wooing her, loving her, vowing this time he would win. There was never any other choice for Chrysaleon of Mycenae.
What was Athene’s cursed plan, anyway? He hoped he was doing his best to thwart it, but he knew he might be doing exactly what she wanted.
He might be… but he doubted it, for in every life she was fainter. Weaker. More distant. He’d long ago convinced himself she was losing.
Aodhàn’s teeth ground together. His fists clenched, unclenched, clenched again.
I will have blood.
The morning after Morrigan’s wedding, after Seaghan found him at the edge of the bay, he’d gone to Kilgarry. He’d stood outside the iron gates. It was everything he could do to stop himself from forcing his way through the front door and dragging her off like a modern Genghis Khan.
But that would only get him shot.
A gold and crimson band burst above the eastern horizon, throwing the mainland into silhouette. Looking down, he saw the shadow of the medieval castle on its island in the bay. If any early riser were to glance up at this hill, they might see him, but he’d be little more than a ghostly outline. His mouth lifted in a snarl at the idea, before he turned and hiked down the far side, wondering if Lilith’s mother was still alive.
* * * *
The sight of her long dead son-in-law caused Faith to collapse, or start to. Aodhàn caught her, put her in a chair, and fixed her tea as she regained her normal
impassive calm.
When he set the teacup in front of her, she grabbed his hand and held it to her cheek. She wasn’t an affectionate woman, so he assumed it was a method of determining if he was real or spectre. “Aye,” she said, in confirmation. “It is you. You’re alive.”
“I’m no ghost.”
“Well then, where have you been?”
“The mainland.”
She was good with English, having been a schoolteacher, but she switched to her native Gaelic, perhaps out of shock. “Why have you come now?”
Aodhàn sat next to her, his direct gaze brooking no nonsense. “Where is my money?”
She seemed unsurprised. “The Church took it, long ago.”
As he’d suspected, but it still made him so angry he had to breathe deeply or he’d pick up the rickety table and throw it across the room.
“I petitioned them for assistance, and they dole out a wee sum every few months. Greyson Fullerton also receives a few pence. They keep the bulk for themselves of course, the bastards.”
“Greyson. He’s alive?”
“After a fashion. He lives south of Earsaraidh. I cook for him now and then, do his washing.”
Aodhàn could hardly believe his luck. His loyal slave, Alexiare, still alive. He must be in his sixties. The old man would have done whatever he could to preserve his master’s wealth and keep the priceless treasures safe. This was more than he could have hoped for, and he began to feel less enraged.
“Romy lived as well,” Faith said.
“She did?” Wee Romy had escaped gypsy captors and had been found by Evie and Claire, starving and lost, in the Black Forest. Lilith had insisted they bring her home to Barra, and the waif became their third daughter. “Where is she?”
“Returned to her homeland. Some outlandish place. The Church wrote to someone, and her kin were found.”
So she was, in essence, gone as well. The hope that leaped within at the news of her survival plummeted again.
While he sat there, immersed in his black thoughts, Lilith’s mother rose. She crossed to a chest, opened it, and brought out something wrapped in cloth, which she placed in Aodhàn’s hand. He unwrapped it, gritting his teeth and blinking at the burn of tears against the back of his eyelids.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 40
