The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (31 page)

Her words replayed like a grim prediction as Morrigan watched the sunset create deep, frowning shadows on Beinn Sgritheall.

* * * *

Morrigan woke full of energy on her wedding day, though she’d hardly slept. She traced the slight swell, the tautness of the flesh over her womb, which she hoped lacing would disguise. Outside her window, the sea lay calm, speckled by sunlight. “I wish you could be here, Mama,” she said.

The image of Douglas’s face reared before her.
Don’t play the innocent.
She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the glass, fighting despair and a sinking sense that he could somehow still take everything from her.

Ibby burst in without bothering to knock. “We’ve much to do,” she said by way of a good morning. “First you will eat. I don’t want you fainting today. How d’you feel? Is there any sickness?”

“Hardly any,” Morrigan said. “I was queasy when I woke, but it’s gone now.”

“I’ve heard that many expectant women have more energy than they know what to do with, once the first sickness is done.”

“That would be grand.”

Ibby threw orders like a desperate leader in the midst of heated battle. Whenever she heard the clop of a horse or the grating wheels of a carriage, she rushed to the window, but Curran still hadn’t made an appearance by the time Morrigan was dressed.

“Where’s our bridegroom?” Ibby wrung her hands.

“Don’t worry, Auntie. No doubt he’s gone straight to the kirk.”

Beatrice arranged her niece’s hair, rubbing each lock with silk to make it shine. She braided and coiled it with the chiffon roses, and positioned the lace veil.

Draped white satin gleamed through tulle, shocking in its contrast to the black she’d been wearing since the beginning of August. The eyes staring back at Morrigan in the borrowed looking-glass seemed brilliant as polished crystals, and huge, perhaps because her cheeks had scarcely more color than her dress. Under the veil, her hair appeared as dark as Beatrice’s special molasses cake.

The world felt as though it was lurching end over end, trying to throw her off.

“Here.” Beatrice dropped a rolled ribbon into Morrigan’s hand. It had likely been bright blue once, but was now faded almost to grey. “It was Hannah’s,” she said.

“Thank you.” Morrigan kissed her aunt and tucked the ribbon into her bodice over her heart.

“I’ve something old.” Ibby dug into her case and pulled out a worn velvet bag. Untying the silk strings, she produced a delicate fan with a threadbare violet tassel. “It was your grandmam’s. It’s the only thing your father brought home from India besides his uniform.”

Morrigan opened it. Though it was old and dull, the ribbon threaded through the slats held. She caught a hint of the warm, exotic scent Ibby called “sandalwood.”

Silence fell when she descended the staircase and the men in the pub caught sight of her. One bold lad raised his ale and shouted a toast to her happiness. She’d seen enough men making toasts to know, though he spoke the Gaelic. Another nearly tipped Ibby over trying to reach Morrigan, blowing kisses and pretending he was on the verge of collapse. Aye flattering it was, but she would have enjoyed it more had her aunts not acted so annoyed.

“I must say this is not how things were done when I was a lass.” Ibby put her hands on her hips. “Men didn’t dare speak in such a fashion or they’d have a father’s knife tickling their throats. Where has common decency gone?”

“Men are a brutish lot,” Beatrice said. “If it weren’t for women, the human race would still be living in caves and grunting like pigs.”

Ibby whisked Morrigan away to meet Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald, the long-married couple who would walk before the newlyweds. The lad who’d toasted her insisted on coming along and playing his da’s ancient fiddle. Morrigan was placed in an open carriage drawn by two lovely Clydes, and off they went, the tipsy men from the pub firing their guns, shouting, singing, and generally livening the passage. As they journeyed they drew more folk, including a few giggling girls, plus a barrel-chested grandfather with a set of pipes.

An eagle was perched on a rough stone dyke to the left of the kirk. It fluffed its wings at the ringing gun blasts and released a protesting scree, but it didn’t lift off.

The carriage pulled to a halt and Morrigan’s attention moved on to the structure. Though fallen into a state of disrepair, it retained its charm, nestled as it was in the lithe of two heathery hills, near the Sound and a ruin she was told had been a MacDonald stronghold in centuries past. The minister, a man with a great mass of curly hair, came out and welcomed them in rapid Gaelic, which left Morrigan blushing and mute. Ibby replied with a gesture towards her, and he immediately switched to fairly decent English. Patting her hand, he told her his name was Ruairidh Ogilvy, and he drew her to the peeling wooden doors. Morrigan turned once more before entering. The eagle had flown up and now circled above them, its wings motionless, resting, perhaps, on cushions of air.

Their impromptu entourage remained outside, sipping from flasks and listening to the piper, who played one tune after another.

The black garbed, white-collared clergyman coaxed her through the doors and off to his sitting room. “Who’ll be giving away the bride?” he asked, pouring tea into sturdy china cups.

“My da and mam have both… passed on,” Morrigan said.

His smile dissipated. Handing her a cup, he said, “You’re too young to have suffered such a loss.”

“She lost her brother as well,” Ibby said. “Beatrice and I were all she had left until today.”

Both the aunts regarded her expectantly. Ibby was more like a mother, but she owed Beatrice. “Could both my aunts do it?” she asked shyly.

There was a squeal and a bang. Ruairidh stood. “That’ll be the bridegroom, or your admirers have knocked down the door. Don’t come out. You don’t want him to see your dress, which, by the way, is the grandest these old walls have ever witnessed.” He left to investigate.

Morrigan’s knees quivered. A wave of dizzying heat spread from forehead to toes. Pressing lace-covered hands to her breast, she fought to breathe. “I think I’m sick.”

Both aunts jumped to their feet. Beatrice dipped a handkerchief in the water basin and dampened Morrigan’s cheeks while Ibby fanned her.

“At least now you’ve some color,” Beatrice said. “You were
wambly
as a squashed kitten before. Put your head between your knees.”

“You wouldn’t worry if God himself appeared, would you?”

“I’d ask why he bothers where he’s not needed.”

The fanning and cool water soon helped. Morrigan sat up, rubbing her forehead. “I should walk,” she said, and paced from door to window.

What was she doing? This was pure daftness. Marriage, for the rest of her life, to a man she hardly knew.

Did she love him? Would they be happy? No answers presented themselves.

She saw Louis Stevenson’s face, his drooping moustache and luminous eyes.
I’ve a notion your heart will steer you rightly
.

Oh, how she hoped he was right.

“I almost forgot.” Ibby emptied her beaded reticule onto the table. “Here, Morrigan. Slip this sixpence into your shoe.”

“You’ve been havering yourself to a froth with your superstitions since the day this began,” Beatrice said. “The chit never had a swain before Curran.” She turned an emotionless gaze upon her niece. One brow lifted. “Did you?”

Kit’s face materialized, his eyes blazing with unspent passion, his hands gripping her shoulders like steel clamps.

Give me your promise.

Will you wait for me, Kit? Will you wait for me to grow up?

Had she broken an oath to him the day she’d seduced Curran on the moor?

Christian kissed you. Bold as could be. And you let him
. The cynical expression on her aunt’s face suggested she knew everything Morrigan and Kit had done, and maybe what was racing through Morrigan’s brain right now, too.

A sixpence, worn in the bride’s left shoe, had the power to avert any evil wishes of past suitors, unless the woman had made a vow and broken it. Then the coin lost its lucky ability. Dire consequences would befall not only the bride, but her firstborn child as well.

“Of course, only Curran, Auntie.” She felt sick again.

She’d heard of cursed births, of babies with no arms, or shrieking mad, or dead, all born to women who’d broken vows to honorable gentlemen in order to wed another.

Kit’s marriage to Enid must release her. They hadn’t made any real promises anyway. But she couldn’t ask. Ibby would swoon after the unlucky omen on the mainland. Two bad omens were more than the poor woman could be expected to bear.

Ruairidh opened the door, flourishing a bouquet of pink hollyhocks, daisies, purple and white heather, and masses of sweet clover. Morrigan buried her nose in the blooms as he said, “Your groom brought these for you, my dear, and a friend as well. A man by the name of MacAnaugh. If you prefer, he could give you away.”

“That’s a lovely idea,” Ibby said, “and far more proper.”

Beatrice folded her hands across her middle and said nothing.

“No.” Morrigan shook her head. “He’s no kin to me. I hardly know him. I want my aunts, if you’ll allow it.”

Beatrice offered one of her enigmatic smiles and Ibby beamed.

The minister nodded. “We’re ready, then. Come along, bonny girl. You’ve lured the sun into this shabby old place.”

Ibby fluffed the satin skirts and lowered the veil over Morrigan’s face. Tears were already misting her eyes.

They took up their positions on either side of her.

Through a spangled haze no amount of blinking could clear, Morrigan glimpsed Seaghan standing next to Curran at the altar, his wild thicket of hair plastered down somehow, before her betrothed stole her attention as well as the remains of her composure.

She’d never seen such a grand gentleman, and gave thanks that her veil disguised her gowping like a simpleton. He observed her approach, his demeanor as calm as though he wed every week. But as she came closer, she caught a brief narrowing of his eyes, a muscle tightening in his jaw. The sickle-shaped scar stood out distinctly.

Infinite shades of blue eddied around him. As he took her hand, the colors swirled upward and turned white. A thread of energy ran from his fingers to hers, lifting the hair off her scalp. For an instant, she forgot where she was and saw only Curran, surrounded in a diffused glow.

“Who gives this bride to be married?” Ruairidh’s voice was nearly lost beneath the throbbing of her blood. The aunts murmured and stepped away.

Curran placed her hand on his forearm and covered it with his. The nearness of the man who would soon be her husband left her breathless, her heart palpitating. Once, when she glanced at him, his face was overlaid with Douglas Lawton’s. She blinked hard to make it disappear.

Lifting his Bible, Ruairidh recited words that managed to filter through Morrigan’s anxiety.

For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face
.
Now I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known
.

Would she, one day, see things clearly? Her life seemed little more than a mystery of mismatched puzzle pieces, understanding a pinnacle that lay beyond reach.

The minister began a tale about how God created woman from Adam’s rib while he slept, and how Eve became the mother of every living person. Morrigan liked the sound of that. It made females seem more important than she’d been led to believe.

She stole another glance at Curran. For the rest of her life he would have the final word, the power, legal and otherwise, to command her every action. He could beat her if he wished. She had dreamed of freedom, freedom to go places, do things, make her own choices, but she’d always known it was impossible, and now all hope was gone. She’d thrown away any chance of it the day she’d defied society’s rules.

Even if she hadn’t, there would have been some other way of binding her.

“You now surrender your individual lives in the interest of the wider, deeper life which you’ll have in common.” Ruairidh’s voice boomed through the dim nave. “Henceforth you will be one in mind, one in heart, and one in affection.”

Morrigan’s lungs constricted. Was Curran only standing here because of his unborn child? Would he grow tired of her, sorry to be bound to a penniless tavern-keeper’s daughter?

“I promise before God to be thy loving, faithful husband.” Curran looked steadily into her eyes. “True and loyal in every condition of life, in prosperity and adversity, in sickness and in health. I promise to keep myself unto thee until death do us part.” He smiled, lifted his hand, and stroked her cheek through the veil.

Scarcely hearing the minister’s instruction, she stumbled through her own vows, needing his patient assistance with every sentence.

The ring, a concoction of emeralds and amethysts that prompted an amazed “ooh,” was slipped onto her finger as Ruairidh said, “Forasmuch as you have consented together in holy wedlock and have pledged your undying devotion and fidelity, I do pronounce you husband and wife. What therefore, God has joined together this day, let no man separate.”

After such a solemn speech, the minister’s grin startled her. “You may kiss the bride,” he said, “and hurry up about it, for I’ll be wanting one of my own.”

While she stood at a loss, Curran threw back her veil, put his hands on her waist, and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss seemed different than any other he’d given her. It was quick, easy, and possessive.

“Now you’re mine,” he said, eyes glinting. “Forever and ever, Mrs. Ramsay,
’s tu mo bhean is mo rùn.
”

It was Seaghan who explained. “It means you’re his wife and his love.” He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “He’ll never fail you.”

BOOK TWO