The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (21 page)

“There’s been too much. And now this.” Placing the pot and two cups in front of Curran, she sat in the opposite chair and rubbed her forehead.

He could think of nothing to say.

“I trust you’re not planning to accost Douglas with your schemes. It’s pure evil, to think you can steal away his daughter before he’s had a chance to bury his son.”

“You’re right, now isn’t a good time. But what of the… the baby?”

“You should have thought of that before you made a slut of my niece, aye?” She drummed her fingertips against the table. “July had scarcely begun when you and that hissy snaked off together. It doesn’t bear recalling, the condition she came back in. Her dress, her hair… like a slattern.”

“The seventh,” he mumbled, inwardly writhing like she no doubt wanted. Yet through the shame he couldn’t help picturing Morrigan lying on his frock coat, holding a sprig of periwinkle to her nose. He stiffened helplessly, already wanting her again, but he sensed his sexual desire was changing into something more. Every thought of her, every remembered detail of expression, scent, and touch in Edinburgh had caused physical
thrills
to run through his limbs. He’d never experienced such a thing, and if asked, would have called the notion romantic tripe.

Antiope,
she’d said.
She was a great queen, strong and free.

What other female in the world would have said such a thing? He’d assumed she was simple, because most country girls were. But now he was beginning to realize. She was a depthless well. There was fear in her too, hesitation, and that distrust he sensed so strongly. Was it because of her father, or was there something else?

He wanted… needed… to know.

With a caustic smile, Beatrice said, “So she’s near a month along, and will give birth, if all goes well, next April.” Her gaze upon him was nerve-racking, as cutting as a blade. “You’ll not have the luxury of waiting if you don’t want your bride at the altar showing the world what you did.” She plucked a lump of sugar from the bowl and stirred it into her tea.

“You needle me like an old sock, Miss Stewart. Are you sure you’re not a missionary, sent to reform my sinful ways?”

“I need no church to explain right from wrong.”

“Morrigan doesn’t seem to know how we all originally met.”

“We never speak of it. What would be the purpose? Folk died, Morrigan’s mam for one. Douglas flees his pain sure as the wind over the Sound.”

“She knows nothing?”

“I’ve told her a few things about her mother. Other bits she may have put together herself or found out from Nicky.”

“D’you remember Seaghan MacAnaugh?”

Beatrice’s spoon stilled then started stirring again, more slowly than before. “He was betrothed to my sister. Of course I remember him.”

“He’s back. Did you know? From the moment that ship… the
Bristol
, wasn’t it? landed in Nova Scotia, he took any fee he could, saving to come home. He’s told me about the clearings, and the promises your landlord made.”

“He claimed Nova Scotia had fertile soil. That every child would have shoes and go to school. He made it sound like heaven.”

“Seaghan told me that near three quarters of those on the ship died without ever setting foot on land. More died after, of smallpox and dysentery. When they arrived, there was no land. No shoes for the weans… what weans were left. Randall Benedict lied.”

Beatrice stood so abruptly her chair tumbled over. “Don’t.”

He saw her trembling. “Forgive me, Miss Stewart. I’ve done nothing but vex you. It wasn’t my intent.”

She gave a shaky laugh. “What a brave speak, that Douglas flees from his pain. I suppose I’m no better.”

“Who could live through such horror without being affected?” He picked up her chair, and after a short pause, she resumed her seat.

“Seaghan spotted a man in the ocean, just off the cliffs of Berneray,” he said as he mopped up the spilled tea. “He talked the captain into a rescue, pumped the water from the man’s lungs, and sewed up his wounds. Saved his life, but there were consequences. To this day, Aodhàn cannot remember how he came to be in the ocean, or much of anything else, not even where he was born. It’s all gone but for his name, and I don’t think he’s completely sure about that. Seaghan brought Aodhàn home with him, and they built a blackhouse by Glenelg Bay.”

She smiled slightly, but it held no warmth or affection. “Seaghan always did adopt wee homeless beasts.”

“Aodhàn’s hardly a ‘homeless beast,’ though there’s some who might say so. He’s rumored to be a selkie, trapped in a man’s body as punishment for some crime. I’m certain Agnes Campbell started that tale. You wouldn’t know her. She and her husband came along a few years after the clearings, bound for Fort William, but in the end, they stayed.”

“What’s this man done to cause such gossip?”

“He’s quiet, which is understandable, with such a big hole in his life; but his worst crime, at least with the villagers he lives among, is that he adamantly refuses to attend church… any church. I’ve managed to become his friend, but it took effort.” Curran paused. “I saw him once, staring out to sea.” Even now, far away and obsessed with Morrigan, he remembered the agony on Aodhàn’s face, and felt compassion for his bedeviled friend. He’d often wondered why he had such an urge to protect Aodhàn. It was a similar need to the one that had more recently galvanized, more powerfully, towards Morrigan. “I’ve never known anyone so miserable,” he said. “But there are other things as well. From time to time he disappears. Agnes claims he rejoins the seals. You know how superstitious village folk are.”

An awkward silence fell. He sounded like a pompous ass. No doubt he’d offended her again. It appeared so, the way she stared at him— like she fancied picking up one of her meat cleavers and parting his head from his neck. She and Hannah were city bred and raised, the offspring of a well-to-do Inverness merchant, but they had come to Glenelg meaning to live there after Hannah married Seaghan, to become, as it were, village folk themselves.

He rubbed the scar at his brow. “It isn’t my wish to disrespect Nicky’s memory, but you know I need to ask for Morrigan’s hand.”

She rose and paced. “You’ll take her to Glenelg.”

“Well, naturally,” Curran said. What bothered the old witch now? “It’s where I live.”

“Seaghan will be there,” she said, staring out the window.

“Aye.” Curran wasn’t entirely sure she was speaking to him. Why did it matter?

“Douglas will hate that.”

Oh, aye. With everything else, he’d forgotten. Hannah Stewart had jilted Seaghan. She’d run off in the middle of the night with Douglas Lawton, leaving Seaghan heartbroken.

It would be Seaghan who would suffer at the living reminder of her betrayal, but Curran sensed he should keep silent on that detail. “I know it’ll be hard.” He tried to sound sympathetic rather than exultant. If Douglas hated it so much, perhaps they would never see him. “I understand why Mr. Lawton wouldn’t want to be reminded of home.”

Beatrice stared blankly. Then she faced Curran, a thin smile playing about her lips. “Maybe it will be amusing,” she said. “Aye. Maybe it will.”

“Pardon me?” Curran put on an impassive expression, but inside he felt uneasy. The woman must know many things about Glenelg and its history, many old secrets Curran wasn’t privy to.

Then he was distracted as he remembered the strange halo of colors he’d seen floating around Morrigan. That glitter of gold, the watercolor wash of lavender. He couldn’t even concentrate on this important conversation with her aunt. Truly, he’d turned into a mooning calf.

If Seaghan or Aodhàn ever discerned this, they’d flay him raw with mockery.

Beatrice’s eyes cleared and she returned to stand beside the table. “She’ll be in mourning for six months,” she said coldly. “It’ll be the speak of Stranraer, her running off to marry on the heels of her brother’s death. I cannot fathom how we’ll drag ourselves through the shame. Maybe Douglas should send her to Isabel. At least she’d be out of sight.”

“And she’d be closer to me, away from him—”

“What are you suggesting?”

Curran silently cursed. If he had a knife right now, he’d slice out his tongue, damned if he wouldn’t. He was as stupid as a sheep today. Yet the image of those strap marks infuriated him. “You know what I saw that day we were together.”

“The chit needs more discipline than most.”

“She’ll carry the scars for the rest of her life.”

“She can be shameless, as you have learned. It didn’t bother you when you wanted to take advantage of it.”

“Watch yourself,” he said quietly. “Do you think Douglas Lawton would care to put the strap to me?”

“If he discovers how you’ve sullied his daughter, that’ll be the least of what he does to you.”

“I doubt he’d have the courage. It’s more his manner to prey on those unable to defend themselves, isn’t it?” He clenched his hands. “When did the beatings start? How young was she?”

“Don’t you dare malign Douglas in his own home! That glaikit girl showed in every measure she would shame us, aye, from the youngest days. We tried to make her into a decent lady.” With a harsh laugh, she added, “Yet here she is, with child, unwed. Exactly what we feared. Do you know what shame you’ve brought on us? Do you care?” She walked to the kitchen door, pausing to scowl at him. “You must be gone when Douglas returns. I’ll not have him more upset. When Ibby brought you here he saw right off what you wanted. Now we know he had good reason not to trust you, don’t we?” Giving him a final scowl, she left.

Curran slammed his fist against the table. He’d like to strangle her, the bitch.

Surely he deserved a few barbs for what he’d done. But he couldn’t quell this vicious fury. His fingers itched to smash every bone in her face. Well, damn it, she could go to hell. No one would keep him from Morrigan, no matter what they said or did. Desire for Morrigan outweighed any annoyance caused by her ill-begotten kin.

Not for the first time, he relived her expression when he’d shared his whimsical experience in the northern wilds. She’d absorbed his story with the rapt, open acceptance of a child, without any hint of suspicion or cynicism.

Through mere chance, because he’d decided to travel to Larne for a puppy, because he’d struck up a conversation with Ibby Maclean, because he’d allowed her to drag him to the Wren’s Egg, he’d found the one woman he knew he had to marry.

I’ll be your Theseus.
You’ll be my Ariadne. I won’t ever abandon you like he did, and I’ll defeat a hundred Minotaurs— even if they all look like Beatrice
.

It took several minutes to diffuse the simmering anger sparked by the dour, plainspoken aunt. At last, when he felt calmer, he trudged upstairs to tell Morrigan he must again leave her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SOME DAMNED STRANGER
beat Nicky to death.

Apparently he had come to the defense of a barmaid who was being harassed by three drunken patrons. A fight had ensued, three against one. Before it could be broken up, one of louts picked up a stool and struck Nicky in the head with it. He never regained consciousness and died the next day. The men who started the fight retained enough sense to vanish into the bowels of Edinburgh; they hadn’t been seen since, though the barmaid had given the police detailed descriptions.

Nicky, murdered, after swearing he would never be abused again. Morrigan was glad no one could see the inner fount of uncontrollable laughter, followed by horror and grief so overwhelming she wasn’t sure she could bear it.

Douglas resembled November’s fallen leaves, dry and brittle, like a gust of wind might blow him away.

The fatal blow left half of her brother’s face disfigured. Beatrice had no choice but to cover it with a white shroud.

Aunt Ibby arrived, looking as though she’d wept all the way from Mallaig. The news that Mr. Ramsay had proposed marriage was received with subdued happiness, and a low, “I knew he was smitten.”

Among those who gathered to say goodbye on the day of the funeral was Eddie Christopher, the mill owner’s son, a staunch Tory who reminisced about their political arguments. The baker and his wife brought whisky and bread; Mrs. Forbes, the florist, pressed Morrigan’s hand as she wiped her eyes. Kit’s father, Ian Lindsay, kneaded his old felt hat and shifted uncomfortably. One by one they filed past the coffin, touching Nicky on the breast, not only in farewell but also to gain protection from ghostly visits.

Matthew Weir, the minister of the nearby Free Church, had offered to speak at the gravesite, a kind gesture, Morrigan thought, since neither Douglas nor his children had ever attended his services.

Just before the men left with Nicky’s coffin, a stranger in a black suit approached the inn and hesitated in the doorway.

Morrigan came out of the kitchen at the sound of the bell. “We’re closed,” she said, drying her hands on a towel. “There are other places you can stay… the Sea Bank, the King’s Arms… the Albion.”

“Miss Lawton?”

“Aye?”

“I came to pay my respects.”

She held out her hand. He took it, gripping firmly, his steady gaze never wavering, his eyes luminous with grief. “I am Louis Stevenson,” he said. “Nick and I met—”

“Oh, aye. Nicky wrote to me about you.”

“May I come in?”

She stammered some apology and led him to the coffin. He gazed upon the shroud and finally said, “We knew from the moment we met we would be grand mates. We seemed to have the same ideas about everything.”

He gently traced the edge of the coffin Sir MacAndrew had provided. This man knew a Nicky she would never meet, one who made his own decisions and didn’t fall asleep dreading the dawn.

Beatrice came to the doorway. “It’s time,” she said.

As the men gathered around the coffin, Morrigan heard Nicky’s voice quoting his favorite poem, Shelley’s
Ode to the West Wind
.

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear
…

He had gazed into the sky when he spoke that line, as though imagining himself floating on a wayward breeze.

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;