The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (29 page)

Since she’d already heard more than once of Curran’s great friendship with this man, she held out her hand with a timid smile. Seaghan gave an impressive bow and took it gingerly. It was like watching a tadpole vanish into the ocean.

“I was hoping we’d see you,” Curran said. “Where’s Aodhàn?”

“He didn’t come.” Seaghan’s eyes twinkled as he gazed down into Morrigan’s face. “Why in the name of all that’s holy are you wasting such a grand day with this dull fellow?” Releasing a bellowing laugh, the titan slapped Curran on the shoulder.

“You’re speaking to my betrothed, I’ll have you know,” Curran said with obvious satisfaction.

“What?” The giant swiveled. “At last! You’ve found yourself a lass who does no’ run from the sight of you?” His grin was as huge as the rest of him, but as his eyes traveled over her, taking in her mourning garb, he looked a bit puzzled.

“I have another surprise.” Curran gestured to Beatrice and Ibby, who stood nearby, watching.

Seaghan and her aunt stared at each other. “Beatrice.” Seaghan’s voice lowered to a barely audible rumble. “Beatrice Stewart.”

“Seaghan,” she replied in her usual emotionless manner.

“It’s been aye long,” he said. “An aye long time.” Morrigan thought she heard a tremble beneath his words.

“That it has.”

“What’s brought you to the Upper Country?”

“My niece.” She nodded towards Morrigan. “Mr. Ramsay’s intended.”

Again Seaghan examined Morrigan, from her black ostrich-feathered bonnet to her trim black boots.

“Niece…” he said. “Morrigan… Morrigan…
Lawton?
”

“Aye.” Beatrice’s face remained inscrutable but for one lifted brow.

“Douglas… Douglas and Hannah’s….” His ruddy face went frighteningly pale then flushed crimson. “Hannah’s wean….”

“You knew my da and mam, sir?” Morrigan asked.

He glanced at Beatrice, whose mouth curved into a brief, cold smile.

“I did,” he said, still muted. “May I ask… who is it you’re mourning?”

There was a pause; Ibby said hesitantly, “Douglas and Nicky. Both have slipped away from us.” Her face was full of something. Sympathy? Grief?

Morrigan’s hardly heard what they were saying. Here stood someone who might be persuaded to
speak
of her mother, who might share those things she longed to know. It was nearly impossible to remain quiet and calm, to not burst forth with every pent-up question she’d ever had.

“You have Hannah’s face,” he said.

She knew that, from the daguerreotype, and nodded. “I know little about her. She died when I was born.”

“Aye, and now you’ve lost your father
and
your brother? I’m so sorry, lass.”

Ibby cut in. “You look shaky as a newborn lamb, Seaghan. Let’s find ourselves a dram of
uisge-beatha
.” She curled her arm under his. “Whisky has great rejuvenating properties.”

“Sweet Isabel,” he answered, kissing her cheek. “It’s been too long. How have I not seen you in all these years?”

“I’m away to taste the jams,” Beatrice said brusquely. She turned and walked off.

“Dour as ever,” Seaghan said.

“Pay her no mind.” Ibby preened and fluttered her lashes like a young girl. “We’ll be happy and lively without her here to remind us of our sins.”

“Aye,” Seaghan said, laughing. “Have you been in Mallaig all this time, Isabel Lawton?”

She nodded. Morrigan thought she seemed quite giddy. Her excitement at being on Seaghan MacAnaugh’s arm was woefully clear.

“It’s Maclean now,” Ibby said. “I was married, you know.” She sobered. “Gregor died four years ago.”

“Oh, I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I wish I’d known you were so near. You must tell me everything, all about your life.”

“And you must tell us of yours,” she said, pulling at his arm. “Come away, Seaghan, for I’m thirsty!”

Half turning, he offered his free arm to Morrigan. “Would you join us, lass?”

Morrigan took his arm with one hand and Curran’s with the other; the foursome left the dancing square and walked along the wide path between the food stalls.

Seaghan gave Curran a glower. “Why did you tell me naught of this?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“That you have done. She’s comely, your lass.”

His eyes glinting with mischief, Curran said, “I cannot wait until she’s mine at last. She’s guarded so well I’m amazed I was ever able to propose.”

“No’ quite so well!” Ibby growled.

“Let the lad blether.” Seaghan patted Ibby’s hand. “After the wedding, you’ll have your revenge. He’ll be faced then with all the men who’ll be pleased to steal her out from under his nose.” He lifted an amused brow and grinned as he met Morrigan’s astonished regard.

“I’ve taken care of that, I think,” Curran said. “At least for a few months?”

Morrigan could only hope that Seaghan wouldn’t notice her mortified blush, or discern the meaning of Curran’s words.

Twilight brought the sword and dirk dances, bright bonfires, and uninhibited behavior from those who had enjoyed too much whisky. Kilted gentlemen tripped light-footed as ballerinas between sharp blades. Bards told ancient tales and recited poetry. Late in the night, the festivities wound down with the customary Burns:

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here
,
my heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; a-chasing the wild deer and following the roe
,
my heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go
.

“I am pleased to meet you,” Seaghan told Morrigan outside Ibby’s shop. In a gallant flourish, he bent over her hand and kissed her knuckles. “And should you grow weary of yon lad,” he added, cocking his chin at Curran, “Aodhàn and I will take you out sailing and show you the coast, any time you wish it.”

Morrigan contemplated her newest acquaintance. Deep-etched lines marked his forehead and framed his eyes. A white scar, shaped like a turned-up horseshoe, puckered the center of one cheek. But those eyes held an irrepressible twinkle and a smile dogged his mouth. “I’d like that,” she said, giving up the attempt to look solemn and returning his grin.

Merry. He was the sort who’d never be sad for long. Time spent with him would be full of laughter.

Curran appeared inordinately pleased as he looked upon them. If the rest of Glenelg’s residents proved as dear as this giant, everything might just turn out.

She couldn’t wait to get on with her future, to marry and move into her new home. The turrets
had
nearly punctured the clouds, hadn’t they? She would be forever grateful to this handsome lad who had made it possible.

Her dream had come true. Though she hadn’t done a thing to deserve it, ardent love had found her. She could almost see the incandescent luster of a unicorn in the shadows behind him.

She reached out and caressed Curran’s arm, adding, “But I’ll not be growing weary of my lad. Not ever.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THROUGH THE USE
of shrewd inquiry and stealthy eavesdropping, Ibby discovered a minister on Skye with a reputation of nonjudgmental kindness towards couples who had snubbed Christian modesty. A letter was posted, and when the minister replied consenting, the couple set their wedding date for the thirteenth of September, a Friday, when the moon was waxing. There wasn’t enough time to have the banns read, nor did Ibby want to draw attention to the fact that her niece was getting married while still in mourning, but before she could work herself into a new fret and fever, Curran had the necessary special license in hand, claiming it was no trouble at all.

For the first time since she’d been told about the pregnancy, Ibby relaxed. “No one on Skye will know we’re in mourning,” she said. “Everything’ll seem proper.” But then she added darkly, “It’ll be a different story at Kilgarry.”

Ibby said she’d not have Morrigan wearing black, no matter what. “You’ll return to it after,” she declared.

When Queen Victoria married she began a new tradition of wearing white, and Ibby happily embraced it. She purchased yards of white satin, tulle, chiffon, and lace, and the three, plus two ladies of Ibby’s acquaintance who volunteered to help, began constructing a wedding gown. It was a lovely creation, “Fit for a princess,” she said, “which is what you always have been to me and what you always will be, no matter what you do. I will no’ be cheated of making it, nor of seeing you stand at the altar in it.”

Work on the dress began early and continued with hardly a pause until the failing light stopped them. “I have a reputation to uphold, don’t I?” Ibby shook out a swath of fabric. “And I’ve dreamed of this day since you were born. It’s my last chance to spoil you, to make you look as beautiful as you deserve.”

Morrigan’s paternal aunt acquired a curious and unfamiliar thin-skinned tenacity. She reluctantly gave up the idea of fresh orange blossoms for the headdress, but was nearly as satisfied with the pink and sea green chiffon roses to be tucked beneath the tulle veil.

Beatrice and Ibby exchanged scorching words over the bodice. Ibby, surprisingly, wanted a V shape—
Because you’ve a fine bosom
, she said when alone with Morrigan. Beatrice demanded a modest high collar.
The chit’s insulting all decency as it is. Will we slap everyone in the face with her shamelessness?

Crossing her arms, Ibby stated, “It shall be as I wish it. If you fear for your reputation, you may return to the Low Country.”

Morrigan could only shake her head and wonder where her meek aunt had gone.

Tight sleeves flared at the elbow, inset with a profusion of lace. The fitted bodice—
You can breathe
after
you’re married
— was fashioned in the popular cuirass style. That, coupled with tight lacing, completely disguised the reason for the rushed wedding.
It’s a good thing you’re small-boned,
Ibby said as she had Morrigan turn in a circle.
Some women show right well by this time
.

The final accents were fingerless lace gloves and silk slippers—
I do pray it doesn’t rain
, Ibby said, with a pleading glance at the ceiling. She brought out the pearl-drop earrings she’d worn at her wedding to Uncle Gregor, and shed a few tears as she held them to Morrigan’s ears, but grief vanished as she had a vision of seed pearls sewn into the bodice of the dress.

“I’m
not
a princess, you know,” Morrigan snapped one late evening. She’d sewn all day, which she detested, only to hear her efforts weren’t right— she must rip everything out and start over. “We’re marrying in a
half-mark kirk
as far from civilization as we can get. No one’ll see me but you, Beatrice, and Curran. You’re dressing me up like I’m marrying the king of America, and spending a
fortune
on something that will never be worn again.”

“There are no kings in America,” Ibby said mildly, breaking a strand of thread with her teeth. “And never have been. I’d think you would’ve learned that much before your father stopped your education.”

Morrigan sighed, knowing her protests made no difference. The gown was the bonniest thing she’d ever seen, finer by far than the one Enid Joyce had worn to marry Kit. She would have to be carved of stone to not want to wear it. What difference did her comments make, anyway? Not caring a fig about practical matters, Ibby repeatedly said that she would rob a bank, if need be, to see her beloved niece dressed to perfection, and often reminded Morrigan that the dress would become an heirloom for her daughters.

“My niece has no business becoming your wife if she cannot provide her own dress,” Ibby told Curran when he offered to cover the expense. She did allow him, however, to purchase dresses for herself and Beatrice, as was the custom.

For the first time, Morrigan observed a dollop of Douglas Lawton in his sister. Custom! Form! Tradition! became the tiresome bywords of every conversation.

For most of the week before the wedding, Curran stayed at an inn not far from Ibby’s shop so he wouldn’t have to ferry back and forth from Glenelg.

“Would you care to honeymoon abroad?” he asked her one evening, as they chatted on the front steps.

She shook her head. “Auntie wouldn’t like it, not while we’re in mourning, and I want to go to Kilgarry. Are you disappointed?”

A sideways grin, accompanied by a flash of blue as he lowered his eyelids, told Morrigan she’d given him special pleasure. “If you want to go to Kilgarry, what sort of man would I be to refuse you?” He pressed her hand to his chest and gave her a pious leer.

She pushed him, hard, then gasped as he dragged her off balance. He straightened before they sprawled off the steps and onto their faces, and caught her around the waist, drawing her close.

“Morrigan.” From within the shop’s dark interior, Ibby’s voice cut the cool air like a flying dirk. “Mr. Ramsay. Behave.”

He laughed, his exhalation warm against her ear. Her senses magnified the stroke of his fingertips on her temples; the clean scent of his shaving soap encompassed her like whisky fumes.

“Shall I behave?” He kissed the junction of her throat and shoulder; the place, he’d learned through careful experimentation, which made her pliant as butter. “
Tha thu gam chur às mo chiall
.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I’m going daft for want of you.”

“Mr. Ramsay!”

“Blether, blether, blether,” he said, but dutifully retreated, keeping hold of her fingers. They strolled down the front steps and walked to his horse.

Twilight blurred the outlines of his face. “She can’t see so well,” Morrigan said. “Kiss me.”

He did, until they heard the door squeak. “Morrigan? Has he gone, isoke?”

“Why does she call you that? What does it mean?”

“She doesn’t know.” Morrigan struggled to regain her composure, to slow her heartbeat, to still her blood. “She has dreams of us. I’m her daughter, and that’s her pet name for me. We live on an island in the South Pacific, or somewhere hot. Kiss me again.”

He obeyed then laughed. “You’ve made it damned difficult to ride.”

She snickered as she understood. Served him right for what he did to her.

He swung onto the saddle, checking his restive stallion. Bending down, he grasped her hand. “It’s your dreams that concern me,” he said. “When I get you to Kilgarry, I’m going to have Eleanor Graeme take you in hand, not only because she’s a midwife, although I’m glad she’ll be there for that. She’s also one of the most capable women I’ve ever known, a healer of the top order.” He frowned. “I’ve had my share of queer fancies.”