The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (15 page)

“It may be time to plan your flight.” One brow lifted, daring her.

He resembled her dream-lover so much. It made her knees weak. Well, there was the matter of the eyes, which were the wrong color, and the hair, which in her fantasy was longer. Her dreams always designed her warrior more huskily built than Curran Ramsay, too, not as tall, and not nearly so polished.

Resting her palm on his lapel, she said, “I do long to see your Kilgarry,” and looked at him through her lashes.

“You’ve ruined everything, you know.” He frowned. “I can’t go anywhere without wondering what you would think of it… without wanting to show you the spots most dear to me.” His frown deepened. “Miss Lawton… I….” One after the other, he placed his hands against the timbers on either side of her head and lowered his face to hers. Sounding almost vexed, he said, “I can’t remember my own name….”

This time she would allow no misunderstandings, hesitation, or belated gentlemanly propriety. She clutched his lapel and pulled him in. Even before they kissed, she felt the incandescent glittering leap between them, like a river of invisible sparks.

“Pretend you love me.” She was so close she saw the wee speckles of green and violet interspersed with a thousand variances of blue in his eyes. “Just for this one day. This moment.”

His lashes shadowed his eyes as he stopped her from saying more.

Languor scattered everything: the breeze, the pain, and the awful memories. All burst and flew away, leaving nothing but a downpour of shared passion.

So. That was the wild girl’s plan. As it turned out, it was a damn fine one.

* * * *

Curran Ramsay was golden and blithe, with a mouth designed for kissing, and eyes like the gloaming. But now he was changing. The crescent-shaped scar at his left eyebrow lengthened, forging downward to his mouth, disfiguring the entire side of his face. His hair spilled over his shoulders, darkening like a waterfall in shadow. His features transformed as well; they turned hard, almost cruel, and his bare chest carried more scars. He looked like a man who spent more time in battle than out. Only his eyes were the same, and made him recognizable.

Morrigan lay near a radiant ember fire. Water dripped off stalactites with a steady
ping, ping, ping
. Damp, the smell, confined, the scent of a deep cave, of the underworld.

Though he looked different, she saw Curran Ramsay tempting her from behind this bearded stranger’s face. His touch, his longing, made her want to give him everything he asked for, and more, but something stopped her. Though she yearned to share the gifts of the goddess with him, she couldn’t.

He was angry.
I will bind you to this pallet until the day of your death
.

You’ll tether me like a goat? That is your image of victory?

I will have victory, Aridela
.

His oath echoed through the dream, then there was silence.

* * * *

Her back was stinging. For a moment she wondered if she had managed to fall asleep on thorns before she remembered.

Douglas’s face. The thrashing. His unbearable words.
Take down your dress
.

She smiled. Aye, it felt good to defy him, to become what he’d accused her of being. The
hoor
.

Her papa thought her so bad? Well, now she was, and he could never undo it.

Warm and inert, Curran lay comfortably against her side, one arm flung over her stomach, his cheek on her chest.

She wished she could savor this moment, but she couldn’t bear the pain. She rolled, pushing at him. His head lifted and his eyes opened drowsily, reminding her of a dozing cat’s. He gave her a sweet kiss she wanted to enjoy, but when his hand slipped around her waist, she flinched.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“It’s my back. It hurts.”

He rose on one elbow, turning her onto her side, and spoke some Gaelic word she didn’t know as he pushed at her chemise.

“You’re bleeding.” He sat up and so did she. “These are whip marks.”

She sighed. “Aye.” Through the throb and burning, she attempted a smile. “To be honest, I nearly forgot.” She stroked hair from his eyes and touched his lips with her index finger.

“Who did this?” he asked insistently, but clasped her hand.

“God and Country give a father the right, I believe, to discipline his offspring. What should I call you now? I wager we know each other well enough for Christian names. Unless you prefer ‘Mr. Ramsay.’” She pressed her palm to his jaw. “Your cravat’s missing, Mr. Ramsay.”

He would not be distracted. “Why did he do it?”

She paused, looking away over the rolling moorland. “I vexed him. My brother’s run away because of the whippings. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Nicky again, and he was my best friend. My only friend.”

His eyes darkened, stilled. He pulled her close, carefully, and kissed her in the hollow between her collarbones.

Swallows and blackbirds broke the silence as they probed for insects. From far away came the plaintive sound of the train whistle. Breezes rustled through the heath. In this wild place, it was easy to imagine invisible faeries ridiculing these two ungainly humans who wore little more than sunlight.

“The cut on your lip,” he said. “It wasn’t the foal.”

She inclined her head. “Please. Our afternoon. You’re spoiling it.”

“And that bruise on your jaw, the first time you and I were here. I wondered then who had struck you, but thought I must be wrong.”

“Is this the best you can do for wooing? I don’t want to think of those things. Not now, not today.”

His frown suggested he might argue, but then he plucked a few sprigs of miniature white flowers from the bouquet and presented them to her. He shook out his frock coat, which he’d gallantly placed beneath her earlier. She inhaled the seductive fragrance and thanked him with a kiss, but that was a mistake, wasn’t it? Next thing she knew, he’d thrown the poor abused coat down again, and pulled her on top of him.

She giggled.

He was tender now. His kisses and hands cajoled her into incoherent response. The first time, she’d been nervous, fighting guilt, trying not to show fear and not sure what to do. For her at least, it hadn’t ended as pleasantly as it began, and seemed to suggest Beatrice’s warnings had some merit.

This time, she didn’t think about sin or suffering. She gave herself to breathless fascination and the erotic response of her skin as he stroked it. She observed him as he reached his fulfillment. His face expressed a strange mixture of pain and joy.

Why was this a thing to worry over, to endure? It wasn’t something she couldn’t live without, but it was nice. The kissing, especially. She’d be sorry if she never got to do that again. Poor Auntie Beatrice. Having never married, she obviously didn’t understand.

Kit’s face intruded, his desolate expression when he said,
Don’t you know how babes are made? It’s the same as the bull and the cow, the stallion and the mare, the dog and the bitch, damn you!

“Oh God,” she said as her lover pressed kisses to her throat. “What have I done? Am I going to have a child?”

His eyes flew open. He blinked several times and she felt him wince. “I… ah….”

“Isn’t this the way children begin? When you make water inside me?”

“It isn’t like that,” he said, flushing. “I mean… it is the way… but I don’t….” He stopped. She was sure he was holding back laughter from the way the skin around his eyes crinkled.

“He’ll kill me,” she said before thinking better of it.

“No he won’t.” Curran’s eyes flashed like blue and white lightning. “He’ll never touch you again.”

CHAPTER NINE

BILLOWING CLOUDS FRAMED
a single dark speck that soared and circled. It was high above them, but Morrigan recognized the glorious wingspan of an eagle, and heard its singular screeling call.

She’d just started to wonder if it could be the same eagle she’d seen several times at the inn when Curran, who had been gazing contentedly into the sky at her side, turned to face her.

He caressed her cheek. “You’ve never been with a man, have you?”

She shook her head, embarrassed, wondering what she’d done that made it so obvious.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Hurt me?”

“When we… when I…. I’ve heard there’s pain for a girl, the first time.”

“Really?” She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t remember.”

He smiled, and she knew her answer relieved him. He truly didn’t want to hurt her. She could see he didn’t want her to regret what they had done— what
she
had done.

She tucked in closer and pulled his face down. “Kiss me,” she said, happy to speak the words she’d stopped herself from saying the first time, and as soon as he did, demanded, “again. Kiss me again.”

Another word formed, sliding through her thoughts.
Menoetius
. But she put it aside as his kisses took precedence.

She wasn’t sorry. Yes, her reckless act had come from a need to punish Douglas Lawton. But there was more to it. She’d been driven to experience one act of her own making, something beyond her father’s control.

“The strangest thing happened the day I met you,” he said, much later, after kissing led to other things.

“Aye?” His mouth was captivating. She was certain she would never tire of kissing.

“Aye.” The obliging lad seemed to sense her wish and did kiss her, on the mouth, the jaw, and finally, her shoulder.

She was sore by now, after three times, but maybe she could manage it once more.

“Colors surrounded you.” He spoke low, next to her ear. “I’ve never seen anything like it… well, only a few times. And another thing. Once, when lightning struck a tree, I was near enough that every hair on my head stood up; the heat of it went through me, as though I was lit from within. I felt I was being lifted off the ground. When I saw you at the train station, something very similar happened.”

“What colors did you see?” she asked, her voice nearly lost beneath the pounding of her heart.

“Pure gold, in a glitter like you were swimming in a sea of mica, with hints of lavender. It faded after a moment and I wondered if it happened at all. But a while ago, I saw it again.”

Yours was blue. Every color of blue that’s ever been dreamed
. She didn’t say it, though she wasn’t sure why. She felt frightened, as though something of great import was happening. Nervous and jittery, she jumped up, straightening her chemise, and fetched the bouquet he’d brought her.

“See that cloud?” Curran pointed. “Zeus and his thunderbolts.”

“Zeus?” Morrigan gazed into the sky. “A child’s plaything, made up by foolish boys. Look into that one, there….” She used one of the flowers as a pointer. “The one all dark blue underneath, like it’s full of rain. Can you see her?”

Curran lit a cigar and exhaled a cloud of aromatic smoke. “A horse?”

Morrigan gave him an affronted scowl and a cuff on the shoulder. “It’s the Great Goddess. Athene. Are you blind?”

“Maybe… a horsey-looking woman with long hair. But there’s no helmet or shield. It can’t be Athene. Oh, wait. That might be a sword, going off to the right.”

“Don’t be daft. She was beautiful. And it’s a snake, not a sword. See how it curls around her arm?”

Curran sat up. He grabbed her wrist and kissed her palm, murmuring, “You really are an unco lass.” Then he frowned. His head tilted. She followed his gaze. She’d forgotten the ugly red birthmark. She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let go.

“What is this?” He turned an intent stare to her face.

“Nothing.” Again she tried to pull her hand free, but he wouldn’t release it. He bent his head and kissed the mark then covered it with his hand, so gently her embarrassment dissipated.

“Tell me about these flowers,” she said. “Did you choose them especially for me?”

He grinned, mocking her desire for flattery, but said, “Of course. Look.” He separated a spray from the rest. “Bluebells, for gratitude. I’m grateful you didn’t hate me after the last time.” Releasing those, he touched the lavender, then the periwinkles. “Lavender for the scent, mostly—”

“They mean devotion,” Morrigan interrupted.

“Aye.” He grinned again. “They do. Periwinkles, for sweet memories.” He sobered. “I haven’t stopped thinking of you, of
us,
of the last time we were together, and the memories have been sweet.”

“Tell me more. What are these?”

“Camellias. The pink is for how I’ve longed to see you again, and the red… perhaps I shouldn’t say….”

She didn’t answer, but her gaze demanded.

“That you’re a flame within my heart,” he said with a slow smile. “Red is for how you hold my destiny in your hands.” He brushed a strand of hair from her eyelashes.

“No one’s ever given me flowers,” she said, working hard to keep her voice steady.

He took that as the invitation it was, and the bouquet was placed to the side.

* * * *

She traced the crescent scar where it severed his left brow and traveled around his eye. “How did you get this?”

It was his turn to blush. His gaze faltered.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s ugly, and reminds me of a time I wish I could forget.”

“It’s not ugly. It’s interesting, but if you don’t want to speak of it….”

With a short laugh, he ran a hand through his hair and regarded her, his blush intensifying before it faded away. “Perhaps you, with your imagination, could put a meaning on the bloody thing. I don’t really know how I got it.”

What a wondrous sensation of importance he granted her, and how kind to suggest she possessed a finer wit than his own. She would give her life now to solve the puzzle, whatever it was. “Tell me.”

Resting his forearms on his knees, he said, “My father thought me weak, or so he said. I believe his true purpose was to weed out a certain… disquiet… about the forest.”

Morrigan watched a fresh wave of scarlet rise in his cheeks. Whatever the source of his injury, it still caused strong emotions.

His fingertips pressed against the scar. “He and I found the survivors of the Glenelg clearings shortly after we moved to Kilgarry. You and your brother… your father and aunts… the others. We rode out one morning and stumbled across them, some dead, most close to it. Several lay in two old ruins. More were in the forest. I’d never seen a dead person before that day.”