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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Curran shook his head. He met her gaze and drew in a deep breath. “I will never separate them.”

  “Do you know what this means?” How it ached to keep saying the things she knew he couldn’t bear to hear. “You could find yourself raising—”

  “Stop.” He took another ragged breath. “I know what it means.”

  “I adore you.” She kissed him on the mouth.

  “No, Lily, I can’t. Don’t. Don’t ask me.”

  “Of course not.” She smiled. “Like Donaghue says. Advienne que pourra. You’ll stand by Morrigan, no matter what, and I love you for it. Let me talk to her. We’re friends, your wife and I. She’ll tell me the truth. I’ll help you repair this trouble. Your marriage will be wonderful again. I promise, Curran.”

  Make it happen, those divine eyes pleaded as the doctor came in.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  VIOLET LOOKED UP as Eleanor Graeme entered the kitchen at Kilgarry, her hands stuffed with letters, saying she’d run into the delivery boy.

  Separating one from the others, she waved it exuberantly. “I believe this must be from the laird, or his wife.”

  They all ran to Eleanor’s side, but for Beatrice. She stayed in the rocking chair, a surly frown on her face.

  Violet, who needed the most practice, read the letter to the others. Apparently, the couple had been busy dining, dancing, and meeting people— artists, politicians, even Prince Edward, when they went riding in Rotten Row. Oh, and James Whistler was painting her.

  “Her head’ll be too swollen to thole,” Beatrice said.

  “’Tis grand.” Tess sighed. “Meeting the Prince of Wales. And to have her portrait painted.”

  “Have you forgotten the picture in the drawing room? How many portraits d’you think a glorified scullery maid needs?” Beatrice snapped.

  “This is different,” said Violet. “I’ve heard of Whistler. He’s famous. We don’t know who painted the one we’ve got.” She frowned as she stared at the letter. “There’s one more thing,” she said. “It says that….” She paused as she read. Her brows elevated and she blinked.

  “What?” Fionna and Tess asked together.

  “It says they’re coming home, but they plan to leave again right away. They’re going across the water to Barra. It says if you want to go along, Miss Stewart, you’d be welcome. They’re bringing Mistress Ramsay’s Aunt Isabel.”

  Beatrice snorted. “Barra,” she said. Then, “Barra,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. She laughed. Everyone stared at her as she rose heavily to her feet and left the kitchen, snorting one great, indelicate belly laugh after another.

  No matter what anyone said, Violet knew Beatrice had changed. She’d never been easy or kind, but now she was angry, cold, and insulting. She hardly ever came out of her room, and when she did, spent most of her time eating or walking, who knew where. Her appetite had increased, and so had her taste for Master Ramsay’s brandy.

  She also had a new, unpleasant smell, an acrid odor that made Violet’s nose itch. Fionna made excuses for the woman, saying she probably missed Morrigan. After all, her niece had been gone a long time, leaving Beatrice with no one for company but Kilgarry’s servants. Besides, Morrigan was married now, preoccupied with her husband and baby. Beatrice probably felt as though she was no longer needed.

  “I’m passing by Seaghan’s on the way home,” Eleanor said into the silence. “I’ll share the news with him.”

  “What about Aodhàn Mackinnon?” Tess asked. “Should he be told?”

  “Neither Seaghan nor I have any idea where he’s gone,” Eleanor said. “Besides, isn’t he the cause behind this long absence? Why in the name of all that’s holy would he have any right to know?”

  “Oh, it’s just hard not to think of one without the other. Everything is so changed.”

  Eleanor agreed and took her leave.

  Violet helped Tess fill shortbread pastry with currants, walnuts, and sugar. She hoped the mistress’s homecoming would return Beatrice to her old self, but in the next breath hoped Beatrice would go away with them to Barra.

  As if reading her thoughts, Tess glanced at the door. “It’s pleased I am God didn’t make me kin to Beatrice Stewart.”

  Violet snickered, but the minding of her troubles soon etched the frown back into her forehead. Logan, I believed I’d changed you. You promised I was the only one.

  “I do wish the laird and his mistress would stay awhile when they come home.” Janet sliced potatoes into a pot of simmering water. “I want to make tempting dishes again.”

  “Amen.” Fionna nodded.

  “Tess?” Janet held up a towel filled with raw turnips. “Help me with these. Did you lasses remember to put whisky in the tart?”

  * * * *

  The next several days were busy with cooking and cleaning. Violet fell into bed at night exhausted, almost too exhausted to dwell on Logan.

  Kilgarry felt wretchedly forlorn with no Curran, barging into the kitchen, begging in that endearing way for a bite of some delicacy, bringing the smell of heather and wind along with his dogs, who snuffled with wide canine grins and wagging tails. Violet couldn’t help smiling as she thought of how he’d always put his arm round Janet and kiss her cheeks to make her blush.

  The foursome gathered in the kitchen again a few days after the arrival of the letter, cleaning potatoes, cutting onions, and baking bread. Kilgarry was spotless, ready for the master’s return, and the larder was well stocked.

  “I miss wee Olivia,” Janet grumbled. “I’d just got her smiling, aye, and I miss the perfume the mistress uses. They have been gone too long.”

  A door slammed distantly. “Watch yourself, that’ll be Beatrice,” Tess said.

  “Mind your tongue.” Fionna rose. “Kyle, no doubt, tracking mud again. I’ll give him a thrashing so help me.” She left.

  The remaining three heard the sound of muffled laughter.

  “What’s happened?” Tess asked.

  “Let’s go see,” Violet replied.

  She and Tess ran through the corridor, their excitement mounting. Frantic joyous barking bounced off the walls. As she burst into the polished entry, Violet glimpsed Curran’s bright head of hair. Pòl, the deerhound, rose on hind legs and licked his master’s face.

  An invasive wash of sunlight sent Morrigan’s hair blazing. Dressed in an elegant striped costume so narrow-skirted Violet was surprised she could move, Mistress Ramsay fended off Antiope and two eager Border collies, waving her bonnet and crying Shoo! as she tried to move out of the way for the ever-increasing pile of crates, boxes, and trunks. Logan carried in more while Fionna brushed at her tears.

  “Oh, mistress.” Violet ran forward. At the last second her wits returned and she drew up short. She’d never hugged the laird’s wife, or touched her in any way other than to help her bathe and dress.

  Morrigan laughed and pulled her into a quick embrace, filling Violet’s senses with her honey-musk scent. Though she’d tried, Violet never could put a name to that wonderful aroma. It didn’t match any of the fragrances sitting upstairs in wee crystal bottles on the mistress’s lace-edged dressing table. And she’d know, wouldn’t she? Often enough she’d smelled them when tidying, and once placed a drop between her breasts, knowing Logan would find it later.

  She should’ve let Logan do all he’d wanted. Then she’d be the one carrying a child and making demands. It hadn’t done the mistress any harm, had it?

  Over the barking dogs, clatter of boxes, and Curran’s gruff, “Get off me, ye daft beast,” the mistress cried, “I’ve missed you.” She let go, gesturing. “See who we brought.”

  In walked her Aunt Ibby, holding Olivia and directing Logan’s every move.

  “Aye, they abducted me.” Ibby tickled the babe’s ear, adding, “And how could I resist such temptation? Logan, d’you know what you’re doing? Don’t pile that trunk on top of the other. You’ll break the lid.”

  “Auntie,” Morrigan said, “leave him be. Has anyone seen
Beatrice?”

  Violet couldn’t help flushing. “She might’ve gone for a walk. She often does.”

  “Oh.” Morrigan frowned.

  Violet wondered at the closeness between those two. It made no sense. What was there to love in that dour, sour woman? Well, she must try to be generous. After all, Beatrice was the only mother Mistress Ramsay had ever known.

  “You’ve brought home my wee ane?” Janet, slow from weight and gout, limped through the rear hall door.

  Ibby handed Olivia to her. Janet tickled the babe under the chin until she received the required giggles.

  “She’s a right wee replica of you, Master Curran,” Janet cried. “Look at all these curls, and the same color!”

  “Aye, she’s his, no doubt about that,” Morrigan said.

  Kyle opened the door. He hailed Curran, shyly tipped his cap to Morrigan, and gathered boxes to carry upstairs.

  “Wait.” Curran lifted the lid on a trunk and brought out parcels tied with ribbons, handing one to each lady. Fionna cried out over a beautiful fringed shawl in the iridescent shades of a peacock. She draped it across her bodice, extolling the master’s generosity. Violet received an original Whistler etching, his butterfly signature in the right-hand corner. Accompanying it were paints and fine sable brushes. Janet flushed crimson over a crate of preserves, smoked oysters, apples, roasted chestnuts, sugared rose-petals, chocolate, and other delicacies seldom found in these mountainous regions. Tess’s gift was perhaps the finest of all: a rosewood clàrsach, accented with mother-of-pearl and gold leaf. She touched the strings, sending a thrum of music through the vestibule.

  They’d brought gifts for the townsfolk as well, baskets of medicinal herbs and tonics for Eleanor, shawls, caps, and necklaces for the women, pipe tobaccos and whisky for the men.

  Logan and Kyle hauled the rest of the luggage upstairs to the master bedroom.

  “Tea is what you need,” Fionna said. “Violet, help the mistress change while Janet and I set it to brew.”

  Morrigan dropped her parasol in the umbrella stand and started up the stairs. Violet watched Curran bound to her side over a pile of boxes. Their heads, close together, caught shafts of sunlight from the high mullioned window at the landing.

  “What a bonny sweet pair,” Fionna said. “I feel I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face if I tried.” She mopped her eyes. “Ah, it’s fine, then. They’ve reconciled and are happy. Pray God now they’re home, nothing’ll happen to be mucking it up.”

  Leaving the unspoken name of Aodhàn Mackinnon hanging like a spectre, she went off to see to the tea.

  Violet banished a dark thought or two about the odd fisherman and followed the couple upstairs. She’d always observed more of life than folk gave her credit for. In the bedroom, she saw the mistress release the master’s hand without a glance his direction, then crawl onto the window seat where she scrutinized the gardens and the Sound.

  Curran, with an almost indecipherable shake of the head, tugged at his cravat and walked the other direction. Logan and Kyle finished with the luggage. To keep herself occupied, Violet opened a trunk and began unpacking.

  Morrigan came off the seat. “I want a wrapper,” she said. “This corset’s cut me to the bones.”

  Tongue-tied at the unfamiliar frosty note she heard, Violet nodded and fetched a robe, a slender green sheath she knew the lady favored.

  The master often said if he couldn’t dress or wash himself he oughtn’t to be breathing. Unconcerned with Violet’s presence, he shrugged out of his coat and trousers and went into his dressing room. When he returned he’d pulled on a pair of rough breeks, top boots, and a homespun sark. He tucked it in as he left, banging the door; she couldn’t tell if from exuberance or vexation.

  “Did you enjoy your holiday, mistress?” Violet asked as she took Morrigan’s corset.

  “Oh, aye,” came the muffled reply from behind the Chinese screen. “’Twas fair the round, never a moment to catch your breath. If Curran wasn’t dragging me to some fine, fancy thing, it was Lily.” Glancing around the edge, she impaled her maid with a somber examination. “Have the Donaghues ever come to Kilgarry?”

  “Aye, m’lady, many times, Christmases mostly.”

  “Do you know her well?”

  Violet wrinkled her brows. “Mrs. Donaghue? I’ve helped her dress.”

  Morrigan stepped out from behind the screen, donned in chemise and a petticoat that, freed from the form-fitting skirts, floated like a cloud of fluff. “I don’t want that one,” she said. “I’ve been bound up like a prisoner all day. Get me the lavender one. I want something loose, so I can breathe, and it’s cold in here.”

  Violet tossed the green robe on the bed and began digging through the wardrobe. How could she be cold? Impossible! ’Twas August! She pulled out the lavender creation. It was full from the waist down, with long sleeves, buttons up the front, and a high collar. She fancied she glimpsed goosebumps on that alabaster flesh as Morrigan shrugged into the garment and drew her hair free. “Leave it loose,” she said, but allowed Violet to brush it as she fastened the buttons. “I’ll have tea in the sitting room. Would you tell Fionna?”

  Violet bobbed a quick curtsy and started to leave.

  “Please send Beatrice when she comes in,” Morrigan called after her.

  “Aye, m’lady.” Violet went downstairs. Perhaps Master Curran’s wife was pregnant. That would explain this change of mood and shivering. Tales of expectant women’s foibles abounded in the Highlands.

  Fionna hummed and smiled as she arranged cups on a silver tray. How long would it be before the housekeeper discovered all wasn’t well between the laird and his wife, and her prayers hadn’t been answered?

  Violet pressed her lips together and said nothing.

  * * * *

  Curran collected the dogs and went off to walk his land. Ah, he’d missed this. He hadn’t realized how much. The air had a scent, of heath and leaves, mixed with the sea, that he’d never smelled anywhere else.

  For him, it was the aroma of home, and had always offered comfort and peace, but today the peace was fleeting, as his thoughts immediately returned to Morrigan. She had inexplicably turned against him, after he’d come to believe all was healed. It had happened so abruptly, the night she had swooned. At first she clung to him like a boat in a storm, but later, he could have been an offensive stranger. She rebuffed any gesture and spent hardly any time in his company, always finding a way to leave. Once or twice he’d caught her staring at him, her eyes brooding, but she would not explain. She almost seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t know what.

  As of yet, she’d said little about expecting. Maybe she hated it. That prospect made him recoil, but he couldn’t blame her. It had only been six months since she nearly died giving birth to Olivia. Not many women would be overjoyed at the thought of going through that again.

  And why, of all the places in the world he would gladly take her, had she chosen Barra as their next destination? His teeth ground together as he stabbed the wet ground with his stick.

  Two nights before they left London to come home, he’d asked her. She’d gazed at him narrowly, almost accusingly. It doesn’t matter why. I want to go there.

  He’d convinced himself that Aodhàn Mackinnon was a fading smudge in their lives, but since that moment, he’d returned like a sneering devil, even invading Curran’s dreams.

  Well, they would go. With any luck they would find themselves confronted with Aodhàn’s wife, a living, breathing wife. Children, too. Grown children. Maybe Aodhàn the grandfather would put an end to her fantasies.

  But the fact that he hadn’t heard from Quinn worried him. There had been nothing in all these weeks, no letter, no messenger. Curran had finally written, but that letter, too, had gone unanswered. Where could he be? What could be taking so long?

  He didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until Seaghan grabbed his forearm. Blinking, he looked up to see not only Seaghan but Eleanor as well. B
oth were staring at him.

  “Curran Ramsay,” Seaghan said. “Wake up, man.”

  “Oh, I… I didn’t see you,” Curran said.

  “That is clear!” Seaghan released a thunderous laugh. He enveloped Curran in a great, suffocating embrace. “It’s been too long, damn you! Too damned long!” He belatedly turned to Eleanor, apologizing for his crudeness, which she waved away.

  “Welcome home, Master Ramsay,” she said, smiling. “Is your wife up at the house?”

  “Aye,” Curran said. “Unpacking, and packing again, I’m sorry to say.”

  Seaghan’s expression dropped into palpable disappointment. “It’s true? You’re leaving again?”

  Curran sighed and nodded. “Morrigan wants to see the isle of Barra.”

  “You weren’t merely playing with me, then,” the fisherman said, glancing at Eleanor, who shook her head.

  “Your letter arrived a few days ago,” Eleanor explained.

  “Well, that settles it.” Seaghan clapped his hand on Curran’s shoulder. “Can I go along?”

  “Well….” Curran couldn’t hide his surprise. “I’ve no objection. But why would you want to?”

  “Really? Why? Well, I’ll tell you why. Because I have no’ seen either of you since the beginning of June, that’s why. And while I do just fine without a glimpse of your pretty face, I would like to see your wife’s now and then. It appears as though I’ll have to chase you all over the country to do it!”

  Curran laughed. “You’re more than welcome,” he said, realizing it was true. He would be glad of Seaghan’s common sense. Turning to Eleanor, he added, “I know Morrigan would like it if you came along as well.”

  “I don’t think I can. I’ve a lass giving birth down by Àrnasdal in a week or two. I should stay here.”

  “Speaking of that,” Curran said, “Olivia might be gaining a brother or sister. Don’t say anything, for Morrigan hasn’t announced it yet, and it’s very early.”

  “Another babe!” Eleanor’s face lit up.

  “That is bonny news!” Seaghan added, his grin widening.