Curran rested his arm along the back of the loveseat behind Morrigan. When she smiled at him, he ran a finger over her cheek.
He stole a glance at Aodhàn, but the man was staring at Morrigan’s portrait on its easel by the fireplace. Curran inwardly cursed, having completely forgotten about that when he’d brought them in here, thinking only that this was one of Kilgarry’s warmest rooms.
Yet, as the laughter and conversation continued, Morrigan paid scant attention to Aodhàn. No more than she paid Seaghan, and every bit as inoffensive.
Maybe she had only been trying to make him jealous at Michaelmas. Damn her, she’d succeeded, and he was ashamed of his weakness.
Seaghan though, was puzzling. His voice audibly gentled when he addressed her. His eyes revealed the pride of a father or husband. Curran observed the phenomenon as Morrigan began telling a story. All three men watched her, never interrupting, as though whatever she said was the height of wit and wisdom. Aodhàn kept his features guarded, but Seaghan’s lay guilelessly unmasked. He was obviously, openly, happily enraptured.
Curran caught himself wondering if Seaghan could be his true rival, and almost laughed. He feared her affections straying like a rutting stag whose favorite doe was in season.
“Aunt Ibby and I went exploring the first time Curran brought me to see Kilgarry,” Morrigan was saying. “She got tired and wanted to rest, and I left her. The hills were covered in mist. I felt I was walking in another world. It was completely quiet; there wasn’t even any birdsong. In Stranraer it was never quiet. There were always folk about, carriages, ships coming and going, and the train. In a way, the silence was frightening. It made me feel someone was watching.” She paused. “Then I heard something. You’ll think me daft, that’s why I’ve never told anyone.” Giving them each a challenging glare, she said, “Bagpipes. It was the saddest sound. And I heard a woman singing.”
“Could you make out the words?” Seaghan asked.
Curran propped his cheek against his palm, captivated by her voice, the lash-shadows, the habitual restless gestures she made with her hands, and her mobile expressions.
She nodded. “‘What did it mean when I lost the soft hills,’” she said. “‘Time melts into mine, jewels and ancient forgiveness.’ There was more, but the wind blew it away, and as I mind it now, it seemed she sang in the Gaelic, yet somehow I understood.”
“It was the woman of the hills,” Seaghan said quietly. “She sings for those who can never come home. She sings for all that is lost.” His head drooped as though he was beyond weary.
“The woman of the hills?” Morrigan frowned. “I tell you, the song was familiar, so familiar, as if I’d known it all my life.”
“Of course it was.” Seaghan lifted his head and gazed at her. “It’s in your blood, as it is in ours.” He cocked his chin towards Aodhàn.
For a long moment the silence was only broken by the crackle of pine boughs in the fireplace. Aodhàn stood and strode to the far window.
“Aodhàn?” Curran asked.
“Curse na Sasannaich. Curse the Lowland Scots and all who conspired.” Mackinnon’s voice was rough, almost breaking. “They destroyed us and called it progress. Highland children died for want of a taste of milk while Southerners burst their guts on meat paid for with our blood and the blood of our children.”
The ensuing silence didn’t last long. “Meanwhile, the queen fancies us a land of enchantment,” Seaghan said. “She imagines the Highlands filled with brave men and bright tartan plaids, all happy and singing ballads. Charming, the English cry. Romantic. None have a notion of the rage that has bled into our soil. If they’d heard such a sound in the hills, they’d no doubt scraich in terror and leap upon the first train home. It’s a sad thing, and you’re too young to understand what’s been done, lass. Besides, your father raised you in the south. It’d be a wonder, I suppose, if you weren’t poisoned to us. But maybe you are. You wed the son of one of those men who had visions of wool smearing our hills.”
In unison, Curran said, “Are you saying my father hurt Glenelg?” as Morrigan said, “I’m of peasant stock!”
Shock, anger, and unexpected pain flared through Curran’s nerves.
Seaghan had been frowning at Morrigan. Now he faced his host. “He wanted profit, didn’t he? Because of rich men wanting to be richer, our folk were swept out like rubbish to make room for sheep. Your life is one of comfort and plenty because of his investment. This land you love— how many Scotsmen live on in other countries, never to see their own again? Scotsmen whose kin lived here, on this land, for generations, gone forever because Randall Benedict wanted to sell and Thomas Ramsay wished to buy. How many weans grow up on tales of Scotland without a hope of seeing what inspired the writers?”
Curran jumped to his feet.
Morrigan rose too, and seized his arm. “No.”
Seaghan stared blankly, his eyes glittering with fury.
Aodhàn left the window to stand beside Kilgarry’s laird. “Curran nor his father can be blamed for what happened here, Seaghan, you know that. ’Tis over and done years ago. But ghosts will haunt the hills for a long time yet. If you’re frightened by it, Lady Eilginn, you’d best leave exploring to others no’ so fey.”
Her gaze, anxious as it journeyed from her husband to Seaghan, softened for an instant as it met Aodhàn’s. Curran felt himself go cold then hot.
“I wasn’t frightened,” she said. “Sad, aye, and sorry.”
Seaghan stood, rubbing his forehead. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean what I said. Sometimes the anger in me comes out all over the place. It’s Randall Benedict I blame. Aodhàn’s right. If your father hadn’t bought the land, someone else would have. And what that could’ve meant, to Morrigan especially, I cannot bear to think. Thank God it was Thomas Ramsay. I mean that. Thank God.”
Curran’s hands relaxed. He turned away, thinking not of his father or the clearings, but of her, the woman he’d wed. Had she ever looked at him the way she’d looked at Aodhàn a moment ago? He scowled at her portrait by the fireplace. Whenever he contemplated this work by Christian Lindsay, he didn’t see Morrigan as much as the faceless artist. Sometimes he fancied he glimpsed the man within the brush strokes, desperate, unable to show love in any other way than this, his painting. A man who tried to erase the force of his emotion by imprisoning the woman in canvas and paint.
But no one could imprison Morrigan. The authority Curran attempted was laughable. Somehow she eluded everything, the expectations and rules, the requirements. She escaped him while living in his home, sleeping in his bed, even giving birth to his child.
* * * *
Curran escorted Aodhàn and Seaghan to the door after Morrigan went upstairs to check on Olivia.
“I forgot my hat,” Seaghan said. “Go ahead, Aodhàn, I’ll catch up.”
Aodhàn nodded and descended the steps. “Good night, Ramsay,” he threw back. “Thank you for the fine meal and finer whisky.” Cold winter darkness quickly engulfed him.
“Are you still vexed with me?” Seaghan asked as he and Curran went inside.
“Of course not,” Curran said, wishing the conversation had never taken place.
“Then give me a moment, for I’ve decided there’s something you should know.”
Puzzled, Curran took him into the study and closed the door. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing, and offered a cigar as well.
“No, Curran. I need to catch Aodhàn before he suspects I was after more than my cap.”
Curran began to feel uneasy.
“It’s about something that happened the morning after your wedding. Aodhàn disappeared and I went searching for him. I found him by the water. He was… peculiar. Rambling. Almost like he was drunk.”
“Isn’t that the day he remembered his past?”
“Aye.”
“Well, recalling nineteen years all at once couldn’t be easy. And isn’t he usually a bit off after these vanishing episodes?”
“Not… like thi
s. It was unnatural. I’ve never told anyone what he said at the edge of the sea that morning, but I’m going to tell you now. He’s married. His wife is alive, or was, on Barra, if I understood him. Apparently she used to call him ‘Mackinnon,’ like Morrigan does. Maybe that’s what made him remember. I don’t know, damn it! But then… what he did at Michaelmas… I have never betrayed a confidence, but this seemed like something you had a right to know. As usual, I can get nothing more out of him. I’m surprised he said as much as he did. It shows how affected he was. I almost wonder if, those two months Aodhàn disappeared again, he didn’t go to Barra, searching for his wife. If so, he must no’ have found her, or why would he come back?”
“Why indeed?” Curran wondered if the jealousy he’d felt all evening had been so easy to see.
“It has been a long time. Maybe she died or is gone.”
Aodhàn Mackinnon… married. He would have to mull over this startling information, and decide how to use it. Curran smiled and shook Seaghan’s hand. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “I know it wasn’t easy.”
Another hour passed before Curran remembered how Morrigan had once described a dream she said came often to her, a dream in which she was married… and lived on Barra.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MACKINNON KEPT HIS distance from Morrigan at the Beltain feast on the first of May. When she tried to reach him to say good evening, he’d vanished into the crowd.
Padraig Urquhart received the blackened cake and leaped over the fire while Father Drummond explained that in the old pagan days, the person who drew the black portion of cake was sacrificed— aye, murdered, he clarified at the sight of her shock. Sacred human blood was believed to preserve the fruited harvest. Nowadays, since everyone was civilized, the chosen merely jumped over flames to ensure good fortune and healthy crops.
Rachel Urquhart held Jean on her hip. Her free hand rested on her belly, where another babe was beginning to show.
Morrigan wondered if Padraig’s wife ever had inexplicable nightmares, questioned where she belonged in the world, or longed for things she could never attain. Judging from her relaxed smile, Morrigan thought not.
Agnes and Fionna were chatting and laughing. Curran, holding a cup, nodded at something Seaghan was saying. Kyle and Logan were eating ravenously and flirting with two lasses Morrigan had never seen before.
Morrigan felt as out-of-place as an otter up a tree. Why was she so different? Why did she feel, more often than not, that she was spinning end over end through a dark, barbed landscape, that any moment she might shriek and throw herself from a cliff?
This was not more of her father’s ingrained hatred. No, this was a scratching sort of sensation like she had forgotten to do something important or ignored an obligation, and there would be terrible consequences.
Then Diorbhail and Eleanor appeared, one on either side. Eleanor put her hand on Morrigan’s shoulder as Morrigan took the baby from Diorbhail. The twining echo faded, and the world again settled into sense.
* * * *
It was a fine, fresh morning, the kind of morning, Seaghan liked to claim, only possible here, at the foot of the Five Sisters.
All of Kilgarry but for shy Diorbhail had turned out to mark the arrival of Quentin Merriwether, Curran’s solicitor, who was making the long journey from London to attend Olivia’s baptism. The child herself was on hand, securely ensconced in Fionna’s arms.
“I’m not sure Mr. Merriwether approves of me,” Morrigan said quietly to her husband, who squeezed her hand and grinned.
“That’s his way,” he said, also low. “He’s reserved. Part of his English personality, and in a solicitor, I prefer that to a gasbag.”
“This other man. What’s his name again? Where was it you met him?”
“Patrick Hawley. I met him in Liverpool, when Quinn and I were there last July, remember? When I lost a ship. He’s one of Quinn’s wealthier clients. A factory owner. I suppose that’s why Quinn is going out of his way to accommodate him.”
“And now he wants a bit of Scotland.”
“Aye. He plans to travel around the Highlands, looking for likely property. I don’t think we’ll see much of him.”
“Patrick Hawley….”
Curran laughed. “You’re not going to fall down the stairs or spill tea on him. You’re an exquisitely intriguing woman, and every man is jealous of me. It’ll be no different with Patrick Hawley.”
Kyle drove through the gates then with the two gentlemen, and pulled up beside the steps.
“How delightful to see you again, Lady Eilginn.” Quentin bent over Morrigan’s extended hand and gave it a brief, cool kiss. “And what a happy occasion. I am so pleased to hear your daughter is gaining strength. Oh yes, Mr. Ramsay has kept me apprised. It’s an honor to be asked to her christening.” Gesturing to his companion, he said, “May I present Mr. Hawley?”
Morrigan had already become aware of Patrick Hawley in the way one becomes aware of the unwanted attention of a wasp. She felt him staring at her in a most uncouth fashion; when she met his gaze she was overwhelmed by a swarming hum inside her head, and a desire to pick up her skirts and run. Somehow, she managed to smile, though she feared it was more a shaky, unattractive caricature.
“A pleasure, Lady Eilginn.” Mr. Hawley’s cool English accent returned unpleasant recollections of arrogant, ill-mannered guests at the Wren’s Egg.
Where Quinn was short and ruddy, with thick, wavy hair the color of steel and a proud set of bushy sideburns, Patrick Hawley was tall, lanky, with receding strawberry blond hair and shallow blue eyes. They almost lacked color altogether. Pinkish freckles dotted his nose. His cheeks were hollow and his lips stretched in a flat, narrow line. He resembled a skeleton covered by a thin layer of ivory flesh.
Grave. Cold as a jellyfish, Morrigan thought. She realized she hadn’t extended her hand. Nor could she, though she had for Quinn. It didn’t matter if this man thought her rude. She couldn’t do it, and was glad for the unspoken rule that a gentleman could not induce a lady into such intimacies.
He bowed, all propriety and courtesy, but as Curran drew Quinn’s attention to Olivia, his gaze traveled over her in a most improper way, as though he was trying to see through her gown.
Morrigan snapped open her fan, hoping to cool the discomposure that intensified with every penetrating movement of this man’s eyes.
“Have you burned yourself, Lady Eilginn?” Frowning in a fair imitation of alarm, he reached out, quick as an adder, and seized her wrist, exposing her birthmark.
She snatched her hand away, thinking she detected a smirk on the man’s face. “No, thank you for your concern, Mr. Hawley,” she said, holding onto courtesy with all her might.
Quinn and Curran rescued her. “Come inside,” Curran said, after shaking Patrick Hawley’s hand. To Fionna, he added, “We’ll have tea in the east drawing room.”
Both Curran and Quinn seemed perfectly at ease. Unfortunately, Mr. Hawley offered his arm before Curran; she had no choice but to take it and allow him to escort her. A pervasive smell hung about him. It was acrid, like stirring up a cloud of ashes in the fireplace, making one want to sneeze. She tried to hide both dizziness and queasiness, and wondered if she had imagined that sardonic smile.
“Where do you intend to search, Mr. Hawley?” Curran asked when they were seated.
“Oh, north I think, mostly in Ross Shire, and I might go down around Inverness. I do appreciate you offering Kilgarry as my base, Mr. Ramsay. It is kind of you. Do you know of any available properties hereabouts?”
Their conversation turned into a meaningless hum as Morrigan sipped her tea, smiled now and then, and waited for the moment she could make her excuses and go upstairs.
* * * *
Curran sat, staring out his study window, and smoked without tasting the cigar. He barely heard Quinn’s voice, and blinked only when his solicitor came around the desk and blocked his view.
“You’ve been damnably distracted si
nce we arrived,” Quinn said. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for a solid minute.”
“Sorry.” Curran half rose and motioned Quinn to one of the wing chairs. He opened his cigar box and Quinn took one.
“Has something happened? Are you worried about Olivia?”
“No, not anymore,” Curran said. “They’ve both pulled through, no thanks to me.”
“What do you mean?” Quinn, who often used his piercing gaze to quell miscreants or confound liars, now leveled it upon Curran.
Curran shrugged. It wasn’t like he could tell anyone his uncontrollable need for sex was the cause of Morrigan’s early labor. He poured his old friend a dollop of port and changed the subject. “I’ve been told something that’s disturbed me,” he said. Though he hadn’t planned to ever share with anyone what he considered humiliating, he found himself relating what happened at Michaelmas, how different Aodhàn seemed around Morrigan, and lastly, what Seaghan had told him in March. He stopped short of describing the soft look his wife had given Aodhàn that night, fearing he might choke on the words.
Quinn sat and smoked without interrupting, his face unreadable.
Damn it, Curran thought. I’ve given him the perfect opening to blame Morrigan, to question her innocence, her motives. I swear if he so much as—
“I’ve found these instinctive reactions are usually accurate,” Quinn said. “You should trust the worry you feel, though there isn’t any real evidence of wrongdoing… yet. You say this man has a living wife, on Barra was it?”
“Seaghan wasn’t sure, but that’s what Aodhàn said.”
“I wonder how he knows she’s alive, if he’s been here all these years, and why he hasn’t returned to her.”
“I wondered that, too. He did disappear for almost two months before Christmas. Maybe he went there. Maybe he found out she’s dead.”
“Or married to someone else. It should be fairly easy to discover. Why don’t I sail over to Barra and investigate? It wouldn’t take long. I’ve always thought it rather odd, his loss of memory. He could be anyone, anything. A criminal. A lord. Don’t I remember you telling me he’d been stabbed when Seaghan found him in the sea?”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 48
