The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Hugh doubted it. It was much more likely he would destroy this fragile family without remorse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IN HIS CALM, authoritative way, Father Drummond had made everything simple and clear. Dreams, no matter how powerful or inexplicable, didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but her husband, her child, and her duty. Life might descend into blankness, like a sheet of paper before it’s been written on, but unsullied paper held purity and grace, like a virtuous wife. Though they fit together in ways she didn’t understand, like a chessboard’s king and queen, she would put Mackinnon from her, for Olivia, and for Curran. Her path was illuminated, well traveled by countless other women.

  But first she must have an answer. Before she turned her back on Mackinnon, she would confront him; she would ask him how she could have dreamed of him before she’d ever met him, and she would watch his eyes to see if he told her the truth. For there was one thing she was certain of— Mackinnon knew something he wasn’t sharing.

  Hidden at the edge of a copse of trees, Morrigan sat upon her horse and watched Mackinnon’s home by the bay, hoping he would see her and Seaghan would not.

  She waited a long time, close to two hours, and had almost given up when Mackinnon appeared, coming around the side of the blackhouse, a spade in one hand.

  Stoirmeil pricked her ears and nickered, drawing Mackinnon’s attention. He frowned. Morrigan beckoned and pointed behind her, to the east, then turned her horse, directing Stoirmeil towards the eagle’s glen, hoping Mackinnon would understand.

  Sunlight filtered through the tree branches, blinding then dim, contributing to Morrigan’s sense of stumbling unbalance.

  For five days, since the night Mackinnon had walked her through the mist, her muscles had remained stubbornly tense and every unexpected sound caused her to jump. She’d spent more nighttime hours in the library, reading or staring at the wall, than she had sleeping. A catapult drove her, one she could no longer ignore or deny. He had devised it by sharing a mythical tale of tragic love. He’d cemented it when he’d led her through a white, formless world and handed her to her husband, doubtless knowing he’d profoundly changed her, knowing she would, from that moment, be torn, unhappy, imprisoned in a cage of his making.

  Light showered the open patch of ground in the clearing. She dismounted and paced, crumpling dried leaves.

  It didn’t take long. The sunlight was so blinding that for an instant, as he approached, he resembled the phantasm she had often dreamed of. Then she blinked and the fancy vanished. The man before her was Mackinnon, pale and thin like the daoine sìth, down to the suggestion of a reddish glow issuing from his fingertips.

  She faced him. “Why do I feel we know each other… have known each other, since before I was born?”

  He stopped. “You’re mine and I am yours,” he said, “no matter what separates us. No matter what fool you marry.”

  It was not an answer, nothing anyway that explained what she needed to know, and she was determined to have it out. “I dreamed of you… months ago, before I came to Glenelg. You were young, and I…. You called me Lilith. You were arguing with me. I hadn’t met you yet!”

  He opened his mouth then closed it. With a curse, he picked up a rock and threw it savagely, striking the trunk of a tree.

  “Mackinnon! How could that happen? Can you explain it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. His voice and his eyes were cold and mocking, causing her to blush with shame. He shrugged. “Dreams. You’re asking me to explain your dreams, Lady Eilginn. No one can explain such things.”

  Why was he angry? If her question was truly daft, then why?

  The lines etched in his face spoke of more than age, more than the mark of sun and wind. They told a story of long years filled with loneliness and grief.

  Pity, that’s what she felt, for him or anyone who lived such a sad, solitary life. But it didn’t matter. “I’ll never be separated from my child,” she said. She dug her nails into her palms. “I’ve given Curran my vow. Leave us alone, Mackinnon.”

  The repeated clamp of his jaw and his white-knuckled fists betrayed his faltering control.

  She had to be careful not to make the same mistake. He mustn’t see any hint of the hurricane inside her. She stared into his eyes, not blinking, not allowing any movement or expression to give her away.

  “I have done nothing but leave you alone,” he said softly. “And yet, here you are.”

  “I mean….” She gestured at her head, “in here.”

  The slightest arc of a smile passed over his mouth. A few seconds passed before she realized what she’d said. She bit her lip and silently cursed.

  She had loved Curran, of the bright hair and brighter smile, of tenderness and talk and kisses. Part of her loved him still, adored him, and longed to restore the joy they’d shared. She hated Mackinnon for destroying it.

  No! Mackinnon could destroy nothing without her consent. It was weakness to give him that power. It was what he wanted.

  She would return to the happy times with Curran. With distance and resolve, Mackinnon would be no more than a memory.

  He stepped closer. “I miss you,” he said. “I miss you… so much. It’s like a wild animal, eating me alive.”

  She wouldn’t let herself succumb to his pain. She gritted her teeth.

  That muted smile returned. His eyes flickered.

  “My child is all that matters,” she said.

  The smile died, to be replaced with a black frown.

  “I brought this.” She turned her face down to break that bewitching gaze, and fished in her pocket for the driftwood box. She held it out. “I cannot keep it.”

  “It was a gift,” he said. He sounded, for the first time, hurt. He cursed again. “Give me the bloody ring.” He took the box from her. “It changes nothing. It won’t stop what is between us.”

  She backed away, fighting off waves of remorse, hating the pain she clearly saw beneath his anger.

  “You’ll see,” he said. “I never give up what’s mine.” He didn’t blink. “And you are mine.”

  She felt like a butterfly, stuck with a pin behind a glass frame, wings fluttering helplessly.

  “My marriage lines say differently,” she said, but he merely laughed.

  Tearing free of his stare, she stumbled to her mare, climbing onto a stone and heaving herself into the saddle. She fled the clearing, kicking Stoirmeil onward, not letting herself crumple against the warm mane until she’d gone far enough that he would never know.

  * * * *

  Curran saddled Augustus, his mood so churlish that Logan disappeared into the shadows and didn’t show his face again.

  Happiness had flowed through every facet of life, from the walls of his beloved manor house to the crofters’ pleased faces when he rode up to chat. Now he fancied his crofters’ expressions had grown furtive, and his home seemed little more than the discarded husk of a mayfly.

  Had Morrigan ever really come with him to Kilgarry? Her body had, but her soul resided elsewhere. Maybe beside the graves of her father and brother.

  Maybe with Aodhàn Mackinnon.

  He galloped from the courtyard, giving the stallion his head.

  He could have believed Aodhàn’s tale of bringing her home because of the mist if it hadn’t been for the silence, the sadness, the distance, that had built between them like a fortress wall ever since.

  He kept waking at night, alone, and twice had gone searching for her. He’d found her in the library, sitting with no light but a candle, staring at the tamped fire. Both times he’d gone away silently.

  Has she given herself to him?

  He thought of the doll’s poor, ripped body. Why had she done that? Was it Olivia she wanted to ravage? Was his baby safe? He shuddered, pushing away the thought.

  He found himself at the ancient ruin, Dùn Trodan. Growing up, this was where he’d come when troubled, to these monuments where he and his father discovered the last survivors of the Glenel
g clearings.

  The remnants of the tower silently proclaimed the inevitability of endings, no matter how strong or thick the walls.

  This was where his wife had entered the world and fought to survive. Others who had sheltered here hadn’t been so fortunate. Beth Dunbar had died of starvation and cold. So had Padraig’s wife and child, and Fionna’s husband, Morrigan’s grandmam, and Kyle’s mother.

  Dismounting, he rested his forehead against the stones and closed his eyes, feeling the curse of the place sink into his bones.

  A breeze ruffled through the leaves in the nearby trees, bringing the voices to life. I’m so hungry.

  Few men wed for pleasure or love. Marriage was an institution, designed to provide money, titles, land, or prestige. Many never experienced a single moment of harmony with their wives. Yet he and Morrigan had enjoyed an instinctive rapport from the moment they’d met.

  Now she seemed to think he could shut off his passion like the valve on a steam engine. He remembered her spiteful expression when she’d inquired about his virginity. She knew he’d been with other women, half-forgotten though they were. But never had he known anyone like her. It had struck him, that day on the moor, how artlessly she’d given herself, without thought or care to consequences, decency, or the fleshly sins Christianity dwelled upon and tried to deny.

  She should be grateful for his rescue. He’d given her everything, but damn it, in the end, it hadn’t been enough. She preferred the penniless fisherman!

  After the wedding, Ibby confessed that Douglas died in the act of attempting to murder his daughter. When Curran thought of those bloody marks on Morrigan’s back, still discernable as narrow white stripes, impotent rage left him shaking.

  Yet life had flowed from that girl, the one who lived under her father’s iron thumb in Stranraer. Her fiery spirit had sucked him in. Now she was quiet. Her spirit had gone hollow, fragile as a champagne flute.

  He wanted his Amazon. He wouldn’t give her up.

  His jaw clenched at the unwelcome thought that perhaps her fascination for Aodhàn fit perfectly with the warrior he craved. That woman didn’t care about being rescued. He suspected a ferocious matching of souls was more enticing to her than a manor house, silk gowns, or jewelry.

  He longed for his wild, selfish, pagan lass, the one he’d fallen in love with. The one who’d vowed never to be a man’s possession.

  Resentment conjured images of Aodhàn’s death. Curran could shoot him and throw his corpse in the sea. Folk always said Mackinnon would vanish one day. No one would suspect.

  “Why can’t you die?”

  Faint mocking laughter brushed through the pines. Do you want me to, my brother?

  Aye!

  It was time for truth. He wanted Morrigan’s uncontrollable qualities only when it suited him. But could wildness be bottled, released at his convenience? Life was never so neat. His wife’s undomesticated spirit was tearing their lives apart like a lion bringing down a gazelle, painful to watch, sad, yet natural. Even necessary.

  No. I don’t wish you to die, brother. No matter the cost.

  He slid into a squat, the ruin at his back.

  Curran had searched until he found Patrick Hawley in Glenelg’s pub. He pulled the man up by his lapels and broke his nose with one blow.

  The other men’s shocked silence lasted but an instant before they pushed off their stools and stood, forming a half moon around their laird.

  Working his way to his feet and giving Curran a blood-smeared smile, Hawley said, “What lies did she tell you? You’ve married a whore, in case you haven’t realized it yet. She’ll cuckold you every time you’re not looking. It’s what she’s always done. And you’ll let her, you spineless cunt!”

  Curran smashed Hawley’s cheekbone. The man flew, crashing into a table. “I’ll kill you right now,” he shouted, the lust for blood pounding, blinding him.

  Only then, as Hawley again pushed himself to his feet, this time more slowly, did Curran notice the wounds. Hawley’s face was swollen, covered with purple blotches. His eyes were puffed— the left one nearly shut. The cheekbone Curran had punched split open, releasing blood and pus. He held one arm against his ribs as though protecting it. Had Morrigan done such damage to him? She’d said she had cut him, but these wounds appeared to be some sort of putrefaction.

  Patrick touched his cheek and drew away blood-drenched fingers. More blood dribbled from his nostrils. “We’ll see.” He put his hands on the table, swaying weakly. “You’re like a dog, the way you drool after her. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same if I’d found her first, but unlike you, Master Ramsay, I know how to keep that bitch in line.”

  Curran hadn’t killed the man though. The others seized him by the arms and prevented it. They told Hawley to get himself out of Glenelg, or they’d let the master loose.

  One of them had tripped Hawley as he tried to leave. “You wait,” Hawley shouted. “You’ll be sorry.” He was jeered at and tripped again for speaking like a paddler.

  A drop of rain struck, and another. Soon a downpour soaked Curran’s clothes and ran down his face. Augustus nickered, shook his head, and trotted to the shelter of the trees behind the ruin.

  A horse and rider cantered past on the track. He was startled to recognize his wife, almost as though his thoughts had conjured her. She held her head upraised, her face turned to the sky. He thought he discerned a smile, as though she enjoyed the warm rain caressing her skin.

  A gust of wind blew over the stones and through the pines. Be strong… it admonished. Protect.

  He turned, staring at the trees. He wanted to get away from this place that watched and warned. Too many dead spirits lived here. Another movement caught his eye and he looked up. An eagle was circling. Curran watched it, fascinated by its grace as it descended, landing not far from him on a sturdy branch. He’d always loved the creatures, violent and beautiful beyond words, royalty with wings.

  Whistling for Augustus, he rode home, following Stoirmeil’s fresh watery hoof prints. For some reason, the eagle had given him a sense of hope.

  Father Drummond’s gig sat in the graveled drive.

  “No, I don’t want any,” he snapped to Fionna’s offer of tea. He brushed aside her concern, her exclamations on his poor dripping self and offers to take his wet clothes.

  She shrugged and turned away with the parting statement, “I’ve put Father Drummond in the west parlor.”

  Curran glanced at the staircase and sighed. The last thing he needed was a sermon. “Give him something to eat. I’ll join him after I change.”

  He leaped up the stairs and paced into the master bedroom. Morrigan wasn’t there. Leaving a dripping trail, he continued his search.

  The nursery door was ajar, and he heard low singing. He approached, careful to make no sound.

  “At noon the fisher seeks the glen

  Adown the burn to steer, my jo;

  Gie me the hour o’ gloamin’ grey,

  It maks my heart sae cheery O”

  She’d changed into a wrapper, and had flung her wet hair behind her shoulders. Olivia lay in her arms, giggling as Morrigan danced her around the room. After a moment she lifted the babe and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, and her chin. “Wee pud,” she said, burying her nose against the nape of the child’s neck. She touched Olivia’s toes and stroked the miniature belly, which expanded and contracted in the easy, guileless way of babies. Dropping into the rocking chair, she opened her robe. Olivia nursed happily, kicking. Morrigan hummed and rocked.

  Not a fig had she cared about the widespread fear of a spoiled figure from breastfeeding. “A wet-nurse?” she’d said. “That’s for grander ladies than me.”

  How could he have entertained the idea of her harming Olivia? He longed to stop time, capture this picture and trap it in a box so he could relive it whenever he wished. Every smile, every tender stroke she made, not knowing she was being spied upon, proved her adoration.

  She switched the wean to her
other breast and leaned her head back, closing her eyes.

  “Morrigan,” he whispered.

  Her eyes opened and she glanced about the room, but he was well hidden in the shadows outside the door. “He haunts me,” she said. “I hear his voice everywhere.”

  Olivia lifted her head. She regarded Morrigan, deeply intent.

  “Why, what’s this?” Morrigan asked. “D’you want to say something, lassikie?” She lifted her daughter, kissing her naked stomach. Olivia gurgled her delight.

  Warned by a slight sound, he swiveled. It was Diorbhail, a cup of tea in one hand, holding up the hem of her skirt in the other. She looked as dismayed as he felt.

  “I was bringing mistress some tea,” she said, low, as if she knew somehow that he didn’t want his presence discovered.

  He nodded shortly and gestured to her to go on. She passed him with a shy smile and entered the nursery, setting the tea on a table next to Morrigan. She crossed to the far wall, beside the crib, and folded a blanket.

  Protect, the pines had commanded. And he would, with his whole being, with everything he had.

  Curran watched Morrigan draw the baby close. “No one will ever take you from me,” she said, barely loud enough for him to catch the words. “I’ll kill them if they try.”

  * * * *

  Hugh waited a long time for the laird of Kilgarry.

  The priest saw the change in him at once. Shadows darkened Curran’s eyes. Irritation etched lines around a mouth that used to curve in easy, near-constant laughter.

  “Curran,” Hugh said. “How are you?”

  “Fine.” Curran shrugged. “The lambing is going well.”

  Hugh decided to waste no time. “Your wife has been to see me.”

  A glitter flickered then disappeared in Curran’s eyes, leaving them flat. “Why?”

  “She wanted my help.”

  Dropping into a chair, the lass’s husband drummed the surface of a table and sighed. “With what?”

  “What’s deviling her. It’s not caused by you, Curran.”

  “Scunner it!” Curran rose and paced, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve tried my best, Father. Apparently, what I’m offering isn’t what she requires.”