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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  She watched him startle. He blinked. Realization dawned on his face.

  “She told me what she was before she married Richard. A whore. If you need a woman, she’ll oblige. She made that clear enough. Maybe I’ll make friends with Richard.”

  “You might, if Aodhàn Mackinnon will let you. What about that man in Stranraer who painted you? You blush every time his name comes up. Shall I list the others who’ve tried to bed you since we married? Tell me. Which ones succeeded?”

  What was going on with the creature inside her, the wild, selfish girl? I only want to be with you, she whispered. Only you. You may not be the Greek Theseus, but you are my hero.

  Shoving the traitorous liar down where she couldn’t be heard, Morrigan said, “They all did. Every one. Lily has nothing on me.”

  “Damn you. Morrigan. Damn you. You’re a witch.”

  Horror and helpless resignation flooded her.

  Olivia woke, flailed, and whimpered.

  He came forward and caught her hands, but she pushed him away. Words tumbled out of her mouth, words she didn’t plan to say, or know had been inside her. “You think you can do whatever you want. Have whatever you want. Everything is so easy for you, so bonny and blithe. But it isn’t for me. I’m… tired. So tired. One thing I know. No one will force me again. No one. Not you. Not my father. No one, not ever again.”

  His expression changed. Anger transformed into shock then comprehension. “Morrigan,” he said, aghast.

  As she realized what she’d said, her hands rose and covered her mouth. But it was too late. The words could not be rolled back into her throat. This would be the final death-knell. Disgust would trounce any lingering sentiment. She bent over the cradle and lifted Olivia, pressing her face to the baby’s cheek, closing her eyes, blocking out Curran and breathing in the fine, clean scent of her child. I love you Olivia, she thought. You have made me better.

  “I’m going for a walk,” she said.

  “We’re not finished.”

  She expected to see loathing when she opened her eyes, but the only thing she discerned beyond doubt in his expression was weariness. “You’re exhausted, and we’ve both said too much. I need to be alone for a while. I’ll be back before dark. Mingulay is perfectly safe.”

  His jaw clenched several times, but in the end, he sighed and let her go.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HARPALYCUS OF TIRYNS couldn’t ignore Beatrice Stewart’s foibles and ailments. The woman suffered from intermittent waves of flushing heat that left her drenched in sweat and unable to sleep. She often left her bed and wandered through the night, weather permitting, and now, Harpalycus found he was obliged to do the same.

  In an effort to overcome the irritating habit, he’d been wearing out the body by walking to exhaustion in the evenings. After the Laird of Eilginn appeared, sopping wet from his ill-advised swim in the bay, Harpalycus set out. He circled the village, trudged through the sand at the water’s edge, and hiked to an overlook on the east coast. There he rested, drinking brandy from a flask as he read through Morrigan’s diary, which he’d noticed on her dressing table while she was tending to her husband. He’d filched it when no one was looking.

  Hot, hungry, and well on his way to drunk, he eventually returned to Taigh na Gaoithe. Climbing up the hill from the village, cursing the old woman’s weak lungs and heavy skirts, he was nearly there when he spotted Morrigan coming out of the cottage, holding her baby. She walked the opposite direction, climbing the hill towards the western cliffs. He stopped. Shouldn’t she still be with her half-drowned husband? She lifted the baby above her head, making her shriek with laughter, but never looked back. Curran emerged a moment later, his hair wet and his collar open, but he remained on the steps, merely watching until she was out of sight. Then Diorbhail joined him.

  “Where is Morrigan going?” The whore asked in her timid voice.

  “For a walk.” Curran sounded tired, resigned. In truth, quite unhappy.

  Harpalycus, in the body of Beatrice Stewart, grinned. The master’s tone said it all. They were at odds again. Those two could find something to fight about every day of the week. It wasn’t all that surprising that Beatrice’s niece suffered from a deep mistrust, and in some cases, hatred, of men. It was obvious to the outside eye. But the twit had always denied this truth, and continued trying to mold herself into a proper lady. Like she could ever be anything close.

  A strange flash blinked around Diorbhail’s head, there then gone, probably sunlight catching on a pin in her hair. But Harpalycus’s instincts sharpened. He stared at Diorbhail Sinclair, wondering for the first time if she could be one of the followers. Just in case, he would be on his guard around her. He didn’t know if they had the same protections as the others, and he didn’t want to find out.

  Ibby stuck her head out the door. “Curran, why are you out here? Seaghan’s built a fire in the parlor, and you still look a bit chilled to me.”

  With a last glance towards the hilltop, Curran allowed himself to be pulled inside. The door closed.

  Groaning a little at the painful rheumatism in Beatrice’s joints, Harpalycus approached the steps. He paused before entering, and looked again at the scrap of paper he’d found tucked in the pages of the diary.

  Nam chridhe gu bràth. Once more. Tonight. Dùn Mhiughalaigh.

  He reread the last entry. She always made things so easy.

  Harpalycus, with the benefit of Beatrice’s memories, would wager his last coin on the willful besom’s destination. Pools, lochs, seas, and oceans. Water drew her like she was part fish. Aye, she loved to stand on cliffs, didn’t she? Right on the edge.

  The note was from Aodhàn Mackinnon, obviously— Chrysaleon. So he had followed her here. That must be where the chit sneaked off to three nights ago. Harpalycus had been standing at the window, unable to sleep for the sweating. She’d witnessed Morrigan running off into the night. Now it made sense. She had cuckolded her husband.

  No doubt Aodhàn Mackinnon had conjured up a plan to have the bitch and humiliate Curran Ramsay at the same time.

  It would give Harpalycus much pleasure to thwart his old enemy’s schemes.

  “Let’s see if we can start some excitement,” he said. “You want Morrigan to meet you? And what if Curran comes after her? What will happen then?”

  Harpalycus had perfected the art of making weak-willed men jump to his whim like they were marionettes and he the puppeteer. The lies he’d told were awe-inspiring, and now he’d invent one of the best. Using Beatrice’s memories and her old, bitter resentment, he’d stoke Curran Ramsay’s frustration into a fevered rage, and once he had him boiling, he would send the fool off to shoot Aodhàn Mackinnon dead, right before his lover’s eyes. Considering the master of Kilgarry’s present mood and ill-controlled passion for his wife, it would be easy. Curran had no idea how many thousands of years of buried obsession were egging him on.

  It seemed poetic. Chrysaleon had slaughtered Menoetius on Crete, and then there was that betrayal at Cape Wrath. No doubt he’d played a part in Daniel’s death on Barra. Menoetius was long overdue a day of recompense.

  If Harpalycus managed his lies well, he would soon be free. He could hardly wait to be rid of this disgusting body, with its drooping paps and belly.

  “Someday you’ll learn, Chrysaleon of Mycenae,” he said. “When you least expect it, there I’ll be, staring at you from your nightmares.”

  Beatrice opened the door and entered.

  Curran came swiftly out of the parlor, his face hopeful. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Where have you been? Have you seen Morrigan?”

  “I have.” Beatrice smiled. “But she didn’t see me.”

  Curran sighed and raked back his hair. The man was at the end of his wits over that wench. But he had much more to endure this night… maybe near as much as what he’d suffered the night he gave himself to the barley, on Crete, all for love of that country’s queen.

  Seaghan stepped into the hall, glaring. Behi
nd him, stupid Ibby was blubbering, and Diorbhail was trying to soothe her.

  “It’s my fault,” Ibby cried. “I should’ve refused to tell her. Beatrice, I told Morrigan of the clearings at Glenelg.”

  “Why?”

  “She wanted to know.” Ibby wrung her hands. “I thought she had the right. Now Curran has told her his da’s part in it. It was too shocking. It’s upset her.”

  Beatrice snorted. “She doesna care about that old history. She’s just gone off to be with her paramour.”

  Curran stared at her, eyes widening, while Beatrice removed her shawl and shook the sand from it.

  “Worthless hussy!” Seaghan growled. “What are you on about?”

  “How am I a hussy?” Her laugh faded to a glower. “You’d be more honest to call your dear Hannah that.”

  Seaghan stepped towards her, fists clenching, but Curran placed a restraining hand on his forearm. “Wait,” he said, frowning.

  “Aye.” Beatrice nodded. “You’ll not want to miss what I’ve got to tell. But first, I’d like a cup of tea.” Dropping the shawl on a table, she moved past them into the parlor.

  Diorbhail helped Ibby to a chair and remained at her side, staring at Beatrice, saying nothing, but taking it all in.

  “She’s naught but lies and tricks,” Seaghan said. “Throw the witch out. You don’t know her like I do, Curran.”

  “There’s fear in you, Seaghan,” Beatrice said, “and every one of us can hear it.”

  “Leave her be, Seaghan,” Curran said. “She obviously has something to say.”

  Ibby looked confused. Seaghan leaned against the doorjamb, scowling.

  “You’ve always got tea, hot and ready to drink.” Beatrice took a cup and settled in the rocking chair. “It’s one of the best things about living in the Laird of Eilginn’s home.”

  Would Aodhàn be prepared for a husband so blinded by rage that nothing short of cold-blooded murder would satisfy him? The prince of Mycenae had always been shortsighted, caring only for the moment, a night’s pleasure, having whatever female he’d taken a fancy to. He probably wished to humiliate Curran by flaunting Morrigan’s infidelity. But, using a bit of well-turned imagination, Beatrice would see to it that Aodhàn had trouble enough of his own to deal with.

  “My Douglas enjoyed his tea,” she said. “I made it dark and strong. He hated a watery brew. Hannah now, she preferred the uisge-beatha. That lass could drink like a stevedore. Sit, Master Ramsay.”

  “I warn you,” Curran said. “I’ve had a trying day, and I’ve no patience at the moment for idle blethering.”

  “Stop me whenever you wish. This tale’s waited over twenty years to be shared, and there’s none left alive who know it but me. I think you’ll find it interesting. I know Seaghan will.”

  “Should it wait for Morrigan? She promised she’d be back by sundown.”

  “Well, let’s begin. If she returns, she can hear the end of it.”

  Curran stared at her. She waited. His eyes narrowed and his hands clenched, but after a long pause, he sighed and sat in one of the other chairs.

  “You never knew Hannah,” she began, “or how men went mad over her. Her daughter’s given you a taste though, hasn’t she?”

  The stubborn lout said nothing but, “Are you drunk?”

  She snorted. “Hannah inherited all the beauty. Makes a body wonder if we didn’t have different fathers. If I’d received even a small portion, well….” She shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “You’re a cow next to her,” Seaghan said.

  Beatrice flushed. “Hannah used folk for her own ends. She didn’t care what it did to them. We’ll see if you still think she’s so lovely when I’m finished.”

  “You bloody bitch. You couldn’t change what I think about anything.”

  “Seaghan.” Curran waved sharply. “Let her get on with it.”

  Beatrice sipped tea and examined her audience— Ibby, the baffled innocent, murderous Seaghan, Diorbhail, who was strangely unsurprised and alert, and lastly the exhausted, scunnered Curran Ramsay.

  “Hannah stole everything from me. I can’t mind when I began to hate her.”

  “I thought you were inseparable,” Ibby cried. “You always took such care of her.”

  “Aye, well, Mam didn’t like her much either,” Beatrice replied scornfully, “so she made Hannah my fee, in a manner of speaking. Of course, I didn’t get paid to change her hippins and feed her. Da seemed to think I was born to be her maidservant. Like that’s all I was good for.”

  She inspected her fingernails then lifted her gaze to Curran’s. “Your wife is planning a change in her circumstances tonight, Master Ramsay,” she said. “If you want to know what it is, you’ll hear me out.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MORRIGAN AMBLED ALONG the precipices, keeping a safe distance from the edge. The breeze, the ocean, the scent of wildflowers and call of seabirds— all helped cool her panic. Olivia, ever a trusting baby, was content in her mother’s arms.

  Soon she stood at Dùn Mhiughalaigh, the hulking promontory that thrust into the sea like a giant’s great nose, which must be why they called the far end of it Sròn an Dùin, Nose of the Dun. She crossed over the wide, sinking dip where it linked to the main part of the island.

  “Let’s sit here awhile, eh dablet?” she said. “Then we’ll go home to your papa.” She settled on the northern edge of the dip, crossing her legs, her full skirts forming a hammock for the babe to lie in.

  The ocean sang. Below her feet it was angrier, thundering as it funneled into the narrow space between her resting spot and Gunamuil, the lower outcropping next to it. A storm skulked on the northern horizon, bringing coolness that teased her ankles and calves. Two quick flashes of blue-white lightning streaked through the clouds.

  Olivia shoved strands of her mother’s hair in her mouth. She cooed, kicked, and played with her blanket. Morrigan held her child close, soothed by her sweet smell, the smoothness of her flesh, the grip of her miniature fingers.

  But Olivia didn’t want to be hugged. She protested until Morrigan propped her in the pool of fabric where she could stare at the birds and the ocean, and play with her mother’s delicious long hair.

  Morrigan had imagined herself a wind creature, and perhaps she’d succeeded too well. For were not hurricanes, mistrals, monsoons, and cyclones all examples of wind, leaving destruction in their wake?

  Why had she said such terrible things to Curran? What Douglas had done was her deepest, darkest secret; one she’d believed would go with her into death. Why had she revealed it? She couldn’t be certain. The workings of the heart and brain seemed beyond her understanding.

  She glanced at far-off lightning, fast-moving clouds, and the sun, making its way down to the sea. She’d promised Curran she would be back before dark, but she didn’t want to leave this landscape. The cottage offered only arguing, unhappiness, and pain.

  Even so, there was a niggling, uneasy conviction that part of her had remained behind with him, and that more was breaking off even now, rolling back over the hill towards him.

  “Mama,” she said. “What have I done? What should I do?”

  She dropped her gaze to the sea.

  Diorbhail had once claimed that women could cause their own pregnancies, using the north wind or water.

  Water is the beginning and the end of all things, and woman is water’s guardian.

  Washed in sea breezes, Morrigan experienced an instant of connection to the water. She sensed how it would feel to break down, bones dissolving, rising and falling according to the whim of the moon. The cadence stole into her, glimmering like fired oil.

  The wind’s breath carried a rumble of thunder, but a swift examination convinced her the cloudbank was retreating, blowing off to the northwest.

  She stayed in the furrow between Dùn Mhiughalaigh and the main island, observing the myriad faces of the water as it stretched into an unknowable beyond. Waves edged with foam, curling, sliding, lost in vastness
, murmuring then pounding like bass drums.

  “See, a leannan?” Supporting Olivia under her arms, she helped the wean stand upright. Olivia’s legs stiffened in the instinctive primal rush to grow and be independent. Lightning flashed, followed by thunder, and the baby laughed as though it was a puppet show put on for her enjoyment.

  “Yonder Clouden’s silent towers,” Morrigan sang. Olivia turned her head up to her mother’s face, wide-eyed.

  “Where at moonshine’s midnight hours,

  O’er the dewy bending flowers,

  Fairies dance sae chearie.”

  It was enticing to imagine stepping off this cliff and onto that sparkling pathway created on the surface of the water by the setting sun. They would be forgotten, nothing to mark their passing, lost yet joined with immense magnificence. Finally they would descend to the underwater castle and live for eternity among pearls and lost gold from sunken galleons.

  She helped Olivia take a few stumbling steps.

  If things were different, the idea of death might overwhelm me, she’d written that morning in her diary. I might turn it into magic and poetry, and succumb to it as Iseult did. But I choose life. Life for my babies. My weans will grow up with their mother, knowing they are loved.

  And when death comes, somewhere, somehow, Mackinnon and I will find each other, we two who understand the darkness in the other’s soul.

  She picked Olivia up, kissed her temple, and to quiet the beginnings of a sulk, sang again.

  “Fair and lovely as thou art,

  Thou hast stown my very heart;

  I can die— but canna part,

  My bonny bonny dearie.”

  Only then, as the last words whisked away on a playful breeze, did she realize where she was, and what it meant. Mackinnon had asked her to meet him here. She had forgotten in the anxiety of Curran’s injuries, then their argument. Or had she? Had she come here in unconscious acquiescence to her lover’s demand?