He relived the vivid images that had overpowered him while Morrigan gave birth. He saw himself running up an endless set of stairs to save the child. She was bleeding profusely, but she watched his face with an expression of such transfixed awe it left him confident he could work miracles.
Sighing wearily, Curran forced his attention back to the book.
He’d never considered himself particularly imaginative or visionary, though he had recurring dreams so vivid they seemed like real experiences. Last night he’d dreamed of a child named Rosabel. He was the girl’s father, or brother, or guardian. They were picking raspberries in an alpine setting, and she was eating more than she was putting in her basket. He had to warn her about making herself sick. Later, when he put her to bed, he knew she would ask for another story about her dead mother.
A black filigree pattern….
Oh, aye. The sewing basket. Morrigan had a pair of scissors with a black filigree pattern, and a little wood figure dangling from the handle on an emerald green ribbon. Curran dropped his book and picked up the basket, digging through the fabric, pins, and thread. Shock jolted through him at what he saw buried at the bottom. The scissors were bent, broken. One point was missing. Fetching the piece from the bedroom, he fit it against the jagged edge and sat on his heels.
I lose control, she’d told him after Michaelmas. My temper consumes me.
Certainty gripped him. The dogs hadn’t destroyed the doll.
Morrigan had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MORRIGAN DIDN’T KNOW what caused such gratifying exhilaration— warmth and sunlight, the scent of spring, or Patrick Hawley’s subjugation. She didn’t care. Stoirmeil caught her mood and danced from one narrow rut to the other, arching her neck and flinging her black mane from side to side like a flirtatious debutante enjoying the attention of ten different swains.
The sun climbed almost to the center of the sky. She would ride home, carry Olivia into the garden, and nurse her beneath the oak.
As Stoirmeil clambered onto Glenelg’s main track, Morrigan saw Kilgarry’s gig pulled off to the side next to the kirk’s dry stone fence. Agnes stood next to it, conversing with a seated Diorbhail. Morrigan kicked her mare to a gallop, her heart thudding. “Diorbhail?” she said, bringing Stoirmeil to a snorting halt.
“No need to fret.” Diorbhail lifted a blanket-clad bundle out of a basket beside her. “Your daughter’s hungry. I thought fresh air and a ride would distract her, and also we might find you.”
Morrigan took the child. Olivia, who lately had discovered the sound of her own voice, was chattering and waving her hands. At the sight of her mam she gurgled and grinned, but soon her mouth curled into a sulky frown and the gurgle switched to vexed hiccups.
“Master Curran was looking for you as well,” Diorbhail said. “Why not tie your mare to the gig and we’ll go home together?”
“Aye, that’s what I was thinking,” Morrigan said, but as she glanced towards the kirk, a movement distracted her. She squinted.
Someone was walking along the track. She was sure by the height and leanness that it was Mackinnon, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets and his face turned down as though refusing to give the bonny day any credence.
“But I confess I’d like to stay out awhile longer,” she said impulsively, giving silent thanks to Aunt Ibby for the specially made nursing corset she’d purchased for her niece. “It’s such a braw day. Here.” She returned Olivia to Diorbhail, dismounted, and tied Stoirmeil’s reins to the rear of the gig, keeping her face averted from her perceptive friend, who had made her distrust of Mackinnon clear, and who would not hesitate to voice many protests if she discerned what Morrigan was contemplating. “I’ve been locked up so long.” She was careful not to glance Mackinnon’s way again as she came around, holding out her arms for the babe. “I think I’d like to take her for a walk. Will you tell Curran? I promise to be back for tea.”
Diorbhail snapped the reins. Somehow, fortune had conspired and she hadn’t noticed Mackinnon, or if she had, failed to recognize him. The glare off the water was almost unbearably bright, casting the figure into silhouette. “I understand,” she said. “I’d feel the same if I were you. But mind, the wean’s hungry.”
“I’ll feed her beneath the yews by the kirk.”
Diorbhail nodded and looked pleased. She turned the gig and headed towards Kilgarry, Stoirmeil trotting along behind.
“A bonny day indeed,” Agnes said. “But don’t spend too much time in the sun, or you’ll be burned red as a savage, and you’d best keep the wee one covered.”
Morrigan agreed, and headed towards the water, trying to appear casual, but Agnes reached out and stopped her long enough to say, low, “Don’t look in his eyes.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Morrigan said, laughing. “The sun’s eyes?”
She picked up speed the farther she got from Agnes, and soon was trailing close behind her objective, who walked on, oblivious it would seem. “Mackinnon,” she said.
At the sound of his name, he lifted his face and turned. Had he truly not heard her approach? His surprise said he hadn’t.
“It’s a braw day,” she said.
He smiled so warmly it sparked a fire inside her. “Aye.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Home. Where are you going?”
“Hold Olivia, would you?” she asked by way of an answer.
He took the baby rather gingerly. Morrigan removed her cap and, one by one, pulled the pins out of her hair and threw them into the grass. Her braid fell free of its staid round knot.
Aodhàn’s brows lifted.
“Olivia and I are having a walk.” She took off her jacket, hooking it over one shoulder before retrieving her child. “I’d rather die than stay inside.” She laughed. “Look at the sea, Mackinnon. Look how it glitters!”
His gaze followed her pointing finger, but the more familiar somber expression replaced that instant of pleasure.
No matter. It was too late for him to pretend it hadn’t been there. He was pleased to see her.
“I saw what was left of my father’s home today,” she said.
“Still delving into your past, then?”
“A man found me there. He’s an Englishman Curran invited to stay at Kilgarry while he searches for Highland property.”
He waited.
“I don’t believe he has any sense of gratitude for my husband’s hospitality.”
“Why?”
“He thought to frighten me.”
“Frighten you?” He stopped walking and faced her. When she didn’t speak, he gripped her upper arm. “Would you care to elaborate?”
Her heart tore into an impromptu race, born not of fear, but fascination. There was the tingling that his touch seemed to cause. Curran’s had, too, once, but not in a long while. She blushed, feeling alive in a way she’d almost forgotten. Months of abstinence and a difficult labor had blurred the reckless intimacy birthed on the moor above Stranraer.
What if Mackinnon put his arms around her? Light would catch in his eyes, and he would draw her in, claiming their love would outlive the pyramids.
She smiled up at him. Light flared in his eyes exactly as she had imagined. Slow upon slow, grave curving into merry, he returned her smile.
Robert Burns had no category for a man like this.
She untangled her tongue. What had they been talking about? Patrick Hawley. “N-now I must decide whether to tell Curran, or pretend nothing happened, for the sake of peace and harmony.”
“What did this man do?”
“Well… he seemed to think… he tried to take… liberties.” Her face grew hot as she struggled with how to say such a thing. “He meant to force himself on me.”
As she spoke, she remembered some of the incomprehensible and sickening things the bastard had said. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed your flesh. Will you beg for mercy?
Mackinnon’s smile faded. Grave returned full force
, along with a tightening of his grip. “Did he harm you?”
“No. I cut him.”
He frowned, obviously puzzled.
“I had a knife. Diorbhail gave it to me.” Tucking Olivia into the crook of her arm, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the weapon.
His reaction was strange. For a moment, he appeared nearly as shocked as Patrick Hawley had. He blinked as she held it up. She saw his jaw clench repeatedly.
“I was lucky, wasn’t I?” she said, suddenly unsure. “To have it, I mean?”
Mackinnon took the blade from her. “Diorbhail gave you this? Where did she get it?”
“She had a dream of it, and then she found it, somewhere along the river.”
“You say you wounded him?”
She nodded. “He lost all interest in me after that. He couldn’t get away fast enough. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Have you ever seen anything like it? The blade— it looks like glass.”
“Obsidian,” he said.
She regarded him with interest. “Aye? What is that?”
“It’s created by the heat of volcanoes.” He looked up from the blade. “You must tell Curran. Today.”
She nodded.
“Give me your promise.”
“Aye, Mackinnon. I’ll tell him today. Are… are you vexed?”
“You could have been hurt. Are you certain he didn’t—”
“I’m quite certain. He’s the one hurt. He was bleeding all over himself.”
“D’you want me to keep this? It’s sharp. It should have some kind of sheath.”
“No, I don’t want to be without it. Put it in my pocket, would you? It’ll be fine.”
He seemed reluctant, but then shrugged and returned the knife to her pocket. They walked again, the quiet bulk of the kirk on their right. Morrigan fancied eyes were watching, hidden behind threadbare curtains, and kept her distance.
His lips twitched as though he knew her thoughts and found them amusing. “How is your wean these days?” he asked.
“Spoiled half to death. Smiling. And she’s gained ever so much weight.”
“Good.” But he didn’t look particularly happy. What was that shadow in his eyes? Loneliness? Yearning? Morrigan wished she could take a spade and excavate his brain.
“Would you like to have children?” she asked.
“I doubt it,” he said, after a too-long pause. “What sort of father would I make?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a fine one.”
“Maybe,” he said, glancing into the sky. “But I’m fair particular about the mother.”
His brief grin suggested a game. “Well?” she asked. “What d’you require? Wealth? A title?”
“Red hair.” He glanced at hers. “Hair so dark red it fools everyone into thinking it a prim and proper brown, except in the sun, when its true wickedness shines forth.” He added lightly, “Though in the Highlands there’s nothing that carries more bad luck than a lass with red hair, and they do say dark red’s the worst.”
“So Nicky used to tell me, all the time.” For an instant, it had been Nicky’s mocking voice she’d heard.
“Nicky?” he asked. “Oh, aye, your brother.”
“What else?” she asked.
“Eyes as rich and dark as a Highland tarn, eyes so deep I could fall in and drown.”
She reprimanded herself for the idea that he was making love to her in front of every person who spied on them, in a way that circumvented any hint of scandal. “Aye?” she said, hoping for more.
His gaze turned to the Sound, which dazzled beneath the sun like a vast, trembling field of diamonds. “But that woman eludes me,” he said.
Morrigan felt a brief stab of fear, mixed with compassion.
Then, in defiance, his next words tumbled from him, tantalizing and seductive. “What do I require? A woman who speaks to eagles.”
Silence lengthened. She remembered the day in the secret glen, thinking she was quite alone. Yet she also recalled feeling as though she was being watched. Had he been there? Had he seen her?
“I’ll settle for nothing less,” he said. “So you see, I want too much. There is no female for me in poor Glenelg or anywhere, for that matter.”
“Are you certain you’ve looked hard enough? Maybe she’s right under your nose.”
His eyes transformed from frosty glacier to iridescent warmth.
A shout roused them and she freed her gaze from his with difficulty, wondering how long it had been since they’d stopped walking. Agnes would be apoplectic if she saw the way they’d been staring at each other.
It was Seaghan, waving as he released the tiller of Curran’s Loch Fyne pleasure skiff, the Endeavor. He lashed the boat to a buoy and leaped off into the dinghy that floated behind.
Morrigan propped Olivia on her shoulder and patted her as she and Aodhàn walked onto the creaking pier. Aodhàn steadied the dinghy as it approached, caught the line, and tied it off.
“Mistress Ramsay.” The giant climbed out of the boat, causing it to bob frantically. “Has Aodhàn abducted you? And see here, ’tis wee Olivia! At last!” He clasped Morrigan’s hand and squeezed.
Morrigan, sucking in a breath at the overwhelming strength in his grip, said, “I must away home, though. The wean is hungry, and her hippins need changing.” Olivia concurred with a whimper.
“Oh, no.” His grin vanished. “You needn’t go clear to Kilgarry. Let us take you out on Curran’s boat.”
“She’ll screech any minute,” Morrigan warned, “and she won’t stop till she’s fed and changed.”
“You have the means to feed her,” Seaghan said, shrugging.
Morrigan blushed and looked away.
“D’you think a mother feeding her child is something to be ashamed of?” Seaghan shook his head, solemn as a preacher. “This daft world tries to drain the glory out of everything, but we’re no’ in England, lass. Here in the Highlands, the mean-minded white-collars will never succeed.”
She hadn’t expected such forthrightness. Mackinnon stood by, his face revealing nothing.
“Come, we’ll away to sea,” Seaghan ordered. “You’ve never had the chance to explore, and it’s an uncommon afternoon.”
“Well….”
“If your husband loses his temper, he’ll have to face me, and I’ll tell you, lass, he knows better.” He added, canny-like, “I’ve got fresh-baked bannocks, cheese, and a bottle of fine Bowmore. It slips down the throat like sunlight.”
She laughed. “I suppose I’ll go home at your pleasure then, Seaghan. But what about the hippins?”
He snorted. “You think fishermen have no cloth or the means to clean a baby?”
She could only laugh again, and beg forgiveness for her ignorance.
Morrigan and Olivia were transported to the Endeavor with as much care as if they were royalty. Once she and the baby were comfortably settled, the men unfurled the sails and the boat swept towards open water.
Away to the right was Seaghan’s fishing boat, its long, low hull painted green and white, its mast, yard, and sail stowed. Hannah was outlined in neat black letters at the prow.
Aodhàn busied himself adjusting the sails, furling lines, and stowing several creels and the toolbox. Seaghan sat at the tiller, holding the baby in the bend of his free arm. He was expert at distracting her with his deep voice and vigorous bouncing, and soon had her making happy giggling sounds.
Morrigan watched them, laughing whenever her baby did. Seagulls veered past, shrieking. Whitecaps crested, subsided, and rose again elsewhere.
The wind died as they neared Skye. Seaghan relinquished Olivia and lit his pipe. “The Endeavor’s like a well-bred mare,” he said, stretching out his legs. “Curran designed her himself, and had her constructed at his yard in Glasgow. ’Tis one of the biggest, at forty-five feet. He and his shipwright sailed her here when she was finished. The man told us how Curran directed every detail, sometimes doing the work himself.” He ran his fingers along the shiny brass rail. “H
e lends her out generously. It’s one of the benefits of being friends with the laird.”
While he chatted, Morrigan took off her gloves. She draped the blanket over her shoulder, and, under its cover, unbuttoned her bodice and the first three hooks of the corset. The chemise was easily pushed aside and Olivia’s fretful whimpering faded. Oh aye, she was breaking a hundred different rules of etiquette, but these weren’t ordinary men, were they? And hadn’t she and Mackinnon gone past such tiresome restrictions anyway, the night of Saint Brigit’s Eve? Stealing a glance at Seaghan’s face, she was reassured to see that he didn’t appear to be in the least offended, or even interested.
Olivia kicked so forcefully she knocked the blanket clear off Morrigan’s shoulder. “I know little of boats,” Morrigan said, blushing as she retrieved it. “The one we passed in the bay. Is it yours?”
Seaghan kept his face tactfully averted. “Aye the Hannah is mine and Aodhàn’s. We catch a fair amount of mackerel, a few saithe, and some red fish. Sometimes in the spring we drift for herring. Our labors don’t make us wealthy, but we don’t starve, and the township always has a fresh catch. The Hannah was Curran’s idea as well. He had her built on the isle of Lewis; she’s a Sgoth Niseach, designed especially for these western seas. I pay him, as I can, but he says he considers it an investment for the prosperity of the village.”
“Curran’s rescued us all,” she said, and wondered what he was doing with his afternoon. She remembered her promise at breakfast, and his reaction. He’d blushed and spilled his tea like an embarrassed schoolboy.
She wanted to see him suddenly, and regretted not going home.
They watched Aodhàn edge onto the bowsprit, his bare feet sure and steady. He did something with a line then lay on his stomach, perfectly balanced, dangling his arms and catching water on his palms, at ease and at one with the docile movement of the boat. A pod of dolphins swept around the prow, leaping and calling, and Morrigan decided, as she cleaned Olivia and tucked her into a new cloth, that they and the man were communing.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 51
