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

by Rebecca Lochlann

Pleading a headache, Morrigan retired to her bedroom. She wanted to be free of all the eyes, especially Seaghan’s, that watched her so closely. Something new had appeared in his gaze since their talk. It seemed almost possessive, and made her uncomfortable.

  Sinking with a sigh into the armchair beside the window, she looked upon the village below, folk going about their business unaware that someone in the big house was watching them.

  She couldn’t bear to think of Mackinnon waiting for her. She had Olivia, Curran, Diorbhail, Seaghan, and the aunts. Mackinnon had no one. No one but her, and she remained set on denying him. How long would he wait before he gave up?

  Come with me. Do you love me enough? Those words replayed, along with Lily’s voice, reciting what a grief-stricken Tristan had shouted in the Wagner opera. Let the day to death surrender!

  She fetched the black-bladed knife from her cupboard and held it, turning it over and over in her hands. In the dimmer light of her bedroom, she could see a nearly transparent red glow around it, and thought of Jamini’s belief in reincarnation.

  She suspected this knife had lived many lives. It grew and changed as she did. There was savageness in the blade, and definite heat. As she held it, she felt its destiny weave into her own.

  Somehow, this weapon had a way of making her feel strong, confident, as though a warrior’s blood coursed through her veins. It made her feel she could do what was required of her, if that time ever came. She put it into a deep pocket in her apron and buttoned the flap.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE WATER WAS so frigid that for an endless moment, Curran couldn’t draw breath. Then he was shoved under. Cold sliced like razors. The water rolled his body as though he was a weightless fragment of seaweed. Rocks lunged out of the deep black and struck him everywhere. All he could do was put his hands over his head and pray for a quick death.

  He couldn’t tell which way was up. The swells kept coming, each bigger than the last, pushing him farther from air and light, mighty godlike fists set to annihilate him.

  His knuckles struck sand. He was so desperate, so close to drawing water into his screaming lungs, he tried to seize it. It disintegrated but he grabbed at more, and, little by little, dragged himself out of the bottomless shelf until the swells spewed him onto the beach where he lay, a senseless, sodden lump. A village man came across him at some point. He turned Curran over and expertly pumped the water from his lungs, pulling him back from the chasm of death.

  Curran choked and vomited. His lungs burned as though they’d been set afire. He gasped a long while, and had to accept the man’s support so he could stagger off the beach and into the village, but gradually, a little strength returned to his legs and he remembered his purpose. Thanking his rescuer in a voice so rough and hoarse he couldn’t recognize it, he left him and stumbled, like an old, old man, up to the Donaghue house.

  * * * *

  Morrigan jumped to her feet as the bedroom door flew open. She gasped at who, or what, stood there. Curran… soaking wet, emanating a strong aroma of the sea. His forehead was swelling and dribbling blood from a gash. His arms, hands, and knuckles were scraped and raw. His lips were blue and he shuddered uncontrollably. She yanked the blanket off the bed and ran to him, throwing it over his shoulders, and rubbed him with it, trying to get his blood moving. “Bring tea and coal!” she called down the stairs, and pushed him into the armchair.

  The aunts and Seaghan came running, but Morrigan could tell by the way he turned from them that he didn’t want them there. She sent them off, saying he needed rest and quiet. They left after she assured them she would tell them everything as soon as she knew it.

  The fire was lit and a tea tray brought. She had to hold the cup for him, and much of it was spilled due to his pained coughing before he finally began to lose the tinge of blue and his shudders diminished.

  When he’d had two cups of tea, she cleaned his cuts and abrasions then sat on a footstool by the chair, one hand on his knee.

  After a long while, light began to glimmer in his eyes. He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. “Are you well?” he asked, his voice weak and hoarse.

  She couldn’t help laughing. “Much better than you, I think. What happened?”

  “I… I fell overboard.” She heard the lie in his voice, but his condition certainly made it believable.

  “Curran, you might’ve drowned.”

  “Is there more tea?”

  “A whole pot.”

  He held the cup himself now, drinking voraciously to get the taste of the ocean from his throat. “Is Olivia well?”

  “Happy as a puffin. Island life agrees with her.”

  He brushed a hand through her hair. “I missed you,” he said.

  His tenderness made her remember what she’d done. She dropped her gaze. Would it be like this for the rest of their lives? Seeing him, hearing all that was in his voice and his face, made it so much worse.

  She glimpsed the future, saw her guilt grinding and chewing until it devoured everything but itself.

  * * * *

  He didn’t want to sleep. He said he would have nightmares of drowning. He asked Morrigan to keep him company while he bathed.

  “I’ll tell you about the winter my father brought me to Glenelg. The winter you were born.”

  “But your throat….”

  He shook his head. “I kept thinking of it as I was sinking, how much I wanted to share it with you. Besides, I’m sure Ibby’s already told you most of it. I only have my father’s bit to add.”

  The housemaids had gone to their homes in the village, so she made him another pot of tea and carried up buckets of hot water from the copper boiler while he dragged out the cast iron tub.

  When he was comfortably installed in a steaming, soapy bath, a cup of tea next to him on a stool, she settled into the armchair to listen.

  * * * *

  “My father knew how to make a profit,” he said. “He was ingenious at that sort of thing. He came home one day and told us he’d purchased an estate in the Highlands, overlooking the Sound of Sleat. We were going to live there and raise sheep. He promised we would make a fortune.

  “Mother was less enthusiastic. She said she’d read about whole populations being forced from their homes. My father assured her that the Highlanders were starving, that because of the potato blight they couldn’t grow food enough to survive on. He claimed landowners were paying passage for these people to relocate to America, or moving them to villages on the coast, which offered better livelihoods as herring fishermen. He said the parcel he bought was already empty anyway, ready for a good Lowland shepherd.

  “He didn’t want to wait until spring, and moved us immediately, promising us a fine new home at the end.

  “We arrived on the first of February, 1854, just after a bad snowstorm. I mind him standing in Kilgarry’s vestibule, laughing as my mother ran from room to room, yanking sheets off furniture and shouting about how bonny it was. She made us both dance with her.”

  Curran paused, squinting at the fireplace. “I still feel her there,” he said. “In the tables, the chairs, the kitchen, the walls. Everywhere. She’s part of why I love Kilgarry.”

  “I feel my mother in Glenelg,” Morrigan said, nodding. “Especially in the forest. I don’t know why.”

  Curran traced his fingertips over her knee and smiled. “The next morning, my father and I explored. Our horses frightened a red grouse. I’ve never forgotten it because when it flew up, it shrieked. It sounded like it was warning us. Go go go go! From that moment, I felt ill at ease.”

  “Shall I rinse the soap from your hair?” Morrigan asked.

  “Aye,” Curran said, and tilted his head for her.

  When she finished and handed him a towel, he continued. “We followed an old track inland from the sea, which took us past Dùn Teilbh. I asked him what it was. He didn’t know, so we rode over.”

  Curran stopped again, frowning. “A man was lying beside the stones. He was little more than
a skeleton. His skin was grey and an awful stench came off him. At first I thought he was dead. My father jumped off his horse and said, ‘Sir, what are you doing there?’

  “The old fellow could hardly talk. I think he had lung fever. He pointed up the hill and said, ‘The babies. Don’t let the babies die.’ We could see the top of Dùn Trodan. I thought he was daft, but my father hiked up to the other pile of stones, and I followed on horseback.

  “That’s where the rest were. Children scattered in the snow and mud. Three women, so still and colorless I was sure they were gone. I admit I wanted to turn my horse and go away, just pretend it never happened. But when my father’s boots scraped against the stones, one of the women opened her eyes, and one of the children coughed. All those weans put together wouldn’t weigh as much as I did.

  “My father told one of the women not to be afraid of him, and he took the baby she was holding. He glanced at me, and I knew it was dead. The woman begged him not to take her son. She hadn’t enough strength to lift her hand in protest.

  “My father told her he’d never do such a thing, and put the baby in her arms. He walked over to a lass, and asked her what her name was. She told him she was Tess.

  “The next child was Beth Dunbar, Fionna’s other daughter. She was dead, her skin white as porcelain.

  “Father rolled a boy over, and nodded to let me know he was alive. That was Logan. Then he stood and stared. I’d never seen him look like that before, like he’d lost everything.

  “Fionna was there and Ibby, both barely able to speak or keep their eyes open. While we were checking these people, a man came out of the forest. He accused us of coming to burn them out. He had only rags to protect his feet from the snow, and could barely stand, yet he awed me. He meant to fight us both, no matter that he was starved and weak. Of course you know who it was. Your own father. There were more with him. Beatrice, Nicky, Kyle. Padraig, leading a half-starved goat. And you. Beatrice had you strapped to her chest with strips of cloth.

  “My father asked Douglas how many more there were. I remember what Douglas said. ‘Not so many as before. Soon we’ll be dead, and your land will be empty for your damned sheep.’

  “I’d never seen my father so angry. He shouted, ‘Not one more will die!’ and he asked Douglas if he could take you to Kilgarry right then and there. He promised to bring wagons, to have all the rest moved to our home, where they would be fed and treated by a doctor.

  “At first Douglas refused. ‘Over my dead body. Don’t you touch her,’ he said. My father swore before God that he wanted to help, that not one more would die if he could prevent it. But he told Douglas it was up to him.

  “They stared at each other, and finally, Douglas allowed it. My father wrapped his coat around you and took you onto his horse. We rode home like madmen and he rounded up drivers and wagons, and all the rest were brought to Kilgarry.”

  “Your father saved us,” Morrigan said.

  Curran had finished his bath while he talked. He’d dried himself and dressed, and looked nearly recovered.

  “I was jealous,” he said. “Once you came along, nobody else seemed to exist for my mother. She’d rock you and sing lullabies for hours. I held you myself a time or two.”

  Diorbhail knocked and came in with Olivia, saying she’d been crying for her mother. She went out again, sending Curran an anxious glance. Olivia cooed and played for a few minutes, but soon fell asleep on Morrigan’s shoulder.

  Curran leaned forward. “You were the first female in my life besides her. Maybe that’s why I never married. I was waiting to find you again. That’s what I think, because of how I felt the moment I saw you from that train. Like I was complete at last.”

  Morrigan kept her face expressionless, but inside, Lily’s last words reverberated.

  I don’t understand you. Do you love your husband? Why won’t you talk to me? She’d stormed from the room with the parting remark, Curran deserves better.

  Aye, he did. She would never argue that fact. But she tightened her grip on Olivia and recited her litany.

  I am made of wind. I am as cold as winter stars. I am formless as the Aurora.

  “Here, let me put her in the cradle,” he said, sighing. He carried it from the wall over to Morrigan’s chair and tucked Olivia in, covering her with a light blanket. Then he dropped, loose-limbed, into his chair and resumed the tale, idly rubbing the scar beside his eye.

  “My father brought a surgeon from Fort William in time to save you and most of your kin. But that first old man we saw died. I cannot remember his name now. Wynda Urquhart died. Beatrice told my da she wouldn’t let anyone take Hearn, and never stopped speaking to him as though he lived. We had them buried together. Your grandmother died, John Dunbar, and Kyle’s mam. His father had died years before, so the clearings made him an orphan. And, of course, your mother.”

  Morrigan thought she glimpsed the faintest reflective sheen pass through his eyes, but he continued without pause. “My mother asked Douglas how they kept you from starving, and he told her about the goat.”

  Morrigan rocked the cradle with one hand. “I’ve always wondered about these things.” She felt light-headed, like she had at the beginning of her first pregnancy. Something about the way their lives had woven into each other’s from the start seemed dreamlike… unreal yet almost planned. She most certainly would have died if not for Curran’s father.

  “Ibby told me how Douglas never let anyone speak of those days,” he said.

  “I’m glad I finally know it all. I’m not a child any longer, who must be sheltered and protected.”

  The second pot of tea had grown cold. Olivia sighed in her sleep. “That’s why you were afraid of the forest,” Morrigan said.

  He glanced away and ran a hand through his hair.

  “No wonder,” she said. “That’s why your father sent you with Fearghas. To get over finding us.”

  “But finding you was worth any amount of fear or nightmares. You lived. What if we hadn’t gone riding that day?”

  She stared at the cradle.

  “Will you talk to me, Morrigan?” he said.

  She gritted her teeth, refusing to look at him.

  “I can’t get anything out of you anymore,” he went on. “You’re not here. You’re a ghost. Where have you gone?”

  “Nowhere.” She fanned her anger by reliving the picture of Lily kissing him. She added, “I’m right where you want me.” Damn it, she was angry. Fury flowed like white-hot lava.

  His head jerked as though she’d slapped him. The scar by his eye whitened. “Is it the pregnancy that makes you this way?” His gaze bored into her. “Are you sorry to be carrying another child of mine?”

  She turned away and stared at the fireplace.

  “Bloody hell.” He rose and bent over her, imprisoning her between his arms. “Look at me.”

  Douglas had done that once, furious over some transgression— made bars out of his arms. He bent over her and proceeded to threaten in his hateful, quiet voice. Though she’d forgotten his words, the fear and powerlessness returned, undiminished by time.

  Curran couldn’t understand. Had he grown up seeing himself as hated, a child who enraged his parent merely by breathing? No. Thomas Ramsay had loved and honored his son. His mother had adored him. Curran could never comprehend her devils. Every man, woman, and child craves to be understood, Mackinnon had said. Mackinnon did, because of his suffering. It wasn’t Curran’s fault, but he didn’t; he couldn’t.

  “You think you can browbeat me?” she said. “I learned from the best.”

  “By God, you’ll speak to me if I have to keep you here all night….” the hoarseness resurfaced, making his voice rough.

  Balling her hands into fists, she struck, throwing herself into the old rage, welcoming it, for it camouflaged the voice deep inside that wanted to hold him, tell him how sorry I am, how much I wish—

  He took blows to the jaw, temple, and nose before managing to pin her wrists. She kicked hi
m in the shin.

  “Morrigan!” He dragged her from the chair, forced her arms behind her and secured them with one hand. The other held her against him, deliberately off-balance to prevent her from kicking again. How could he still be so much stronger than she after what he’d gone through? It wasn’t fair.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  At least he was breathing hard. Morrigan hadn’t felt so infuriatingly helpless since before Douglas died. “Let… me… go….”

  She would’ve screamed, but Olivia was asleep. It was almost amusing, the way they carried out this battle in quiet undertones. More like proper Sasannaich than a pair of tempestuous Scots.

  “Why are you acting like this?” His eyes, so close to hers, narrowed. “Ever since that night when you fainted at Richard’s. We were happy before then. What changed?”

  Don’t let him make you feel. Feeling makes you weak.

  But it was so hard when he was this close. Her defenses were unraveling. If only she could slip through his fingers and climb into the heavens— wind in truth.

  “Christ,” he said, “Love me, hate me, but don’t ignore me. Damn you, don’t ignore me.” He bent and kissed her in a way he’d never done before, a kiss that held nothing of gentleness, tenderness, or affection, but it had plenty of demand. She felt every last fragment of his repressed frustration in that kiss. He held nothing back.

  Time vanished. When had she stopped fighting? When had he released her? Her arms were around his neck, but she couldn’t remember putting them there.

  Fear sparked.

  If she allowed him to carry her to the bed as his eyes said he meant to, it would be like stabbing him and filching the rings off his fingers as he bled to death. He didn’t know what she’d done while he was gone. He didn’t know Mackinnon was now on Mingulay, waiting for her to come to him.

  She stiffened and managed to escape his grip, quickly constructing an expression of cold blankness.

  Curran’s arms dropped to his sides. The dark triumphant seduction in his eyes slowly faded. He sighed.

  “D’you think I didn’t see what happened that night?” she said. “You were kissing Lily. You thought I was unconscious, but I wasn’t. I saw everything. If I hadn’t been there, if you’d had more time before the doctor came, you would’ve stripped her naked and had her, right there on the floor. I saw how much you wanted to.”