The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (34 page)

Oh, she’d die of shame if she fainted now.

Yet, through the strange physical sensations, she wanted to call out, to leap into the air.

This… is life
, she thought then wondered why.

She knew those eyes, the prominent cheekbones, that fall of dark hair.
Knew
them, somehow. But the beard seemed wrong, as did the length of his hair and the rustic, ill-fitting clothes.

“Allow me to present Aodhàn Mackinnon,” Curran said, clasping her fingers and drawing her forward. He turned to the men. “Aodhàn, my wife, Mrs. Ramsay.”

There was a brief pause. Aodhàn Mackinnon didn’t move, but for a nearly imperceptible narrowing of his eyes.

“Well, it’s done.” Seaghan’s voice was oddly muted. “You’ve come back to your birthplace, and as the laird’s wife. Are you pleased, d’you think, with the way your fortune’s turned out, Lady Eilginn?”

Morrigan glanced at Seaghan, blinking. “It feels like home in a way,” she replied, embarrassed at the unsteadiness of her voice. “And that’s true, isn’t it?”

How alive her skin felt, like it might burst into flames.

In that curiously quiet voice, he said, “You have the look of your mam this night.” An expression flickered through his eyes that seemed like weariness, but it was early, and the man had just arrived.

His companion stepped away. “Whisky, Seaghan?” With a nod to Curran and then, more formally, to his wife, he propelled the giant across the room.

“Morrigan?” Curran asked.

She fanned herself and drew in a deep breath, feeling the blood pulse inside her head, dark and rich.
Alive
. “It’s hot in here,” she admitted. “I’m… hot.”

“Don’t let Aodhàn vex you. He’s never bothered to learn the proper form when it comes to ladies. You’ll have to take him in hand.” Curran’s gaze veered towards the two men as they helped themselves to amber whisky. “I don’t know what it is about him. From the moment Seaghan returned to Glenelg, lugging Aodhàn like a lost puppy, I felt I knew him. I’m younger than he by a good measure, but in some way it feels like I’ve watched over him forever.” He laughed. “I love him like a brother, yet in some ways I hate him, sometimes so much I wish he were dead. Never have figured out why.”

I felt I knew him
. Aye, something about the man awakened that sense in her as well. In fact, she could swear tonight was not her first meeting with Aodhàn Mackinnon. She would have to ponder it. It was probably nothing more than he’d traveled south and stayed at the Wren’s Egg.

But Curran’s other words puzzled her. “How can you love and hate him at the same time?”

“He wastes his life. He acts like he doesn’t care about anything. It irritates me. But that’s not it. Aodhàn’s not what he appears. You know, he’s had an education, though he tries to hide it. He speaks Latin and Greek. No matter how rough he acts, I have a feeling he could stroll into any London drawing room and convince the most blue-blooded lord and lady that he’s one of them. Yet he remains with Seaghan in a blackhouse hardly better than a bothy, living on boiled potatoes, fish, and gruel. I think he does it deliberately; he knows he doesn’t have to, but he chooses it. I often want to knock some sense into him.”

Fionna appeared in the doorway then, bobbing a curtsy as she announced, “Dinner is ready.”

CHAPTER THREE

AODHÀN FORCED AN
index finger under his stiff collar and pulled, hoping to loosen the damned thing.

“God forgive me.” Seaghan gazed after Curran and Morrigan as they left the drawing room behind the other guests. “It’s like Hannah has stepped from the grave and this last nineteen years never passed. She used to do her hair that way. Even after we were betrothed, I’d stutter like an ignorant green lout around her. Oh aye, she knew what she did to me. She’d smile and wink. I’d gowk and wonder how she kept her eyes open— her lashes were that heavy.”

“You handled it well.” Aodhàn himself was reeling. He sought a last glimpse of Morrigan’s head before she disappeared into the corridor.
The faery who speaks to eagles is an ordinary woman like any other.

No. Not she, not the lass who faced an eagle without fear.

“I’ve never seen your Hannah,” he continued, “but there’s someone else Curran’s wife resembles.” She’d frowned at him as though he was an apparition. Her teeth had caught her lower lip. As he pictured it, he lost himself in a vivid imagining of being that lip, of feeling the warm bite as she tucked it into her mouth against her tongue.

Seaghan glared at him. “Who?”

“You. I can’t pin it down though. Something about her smile.”

A blooming rush of scarlet raced up Seaghan’s neck and disappeared beneath his beard. He drank off his whisky and coughed. “You insult the poor lass,” he said, but it was a weak joke at best. Almost immediately, he added, “There’s not a speck of Douglas Lawton in her. Hannah played a deranged game and has left us to untangle the coil. Devil take the scheming of females.”

In a calmer voice, he said, “I’ll ponder this, especially now you’ve seen it too, but I don’t want gossip to reach her ears.”

Aodhàn scowled. “You think I’d carry tales?”

Again Seaghan flushed. “Forgive me. I’m fair muddled. Out of every lass that breathes, in Scotland, in the world, could Curran have married my own lost wean?” He set his glass down. “Why did I let myself believe so easily that Morrigan was his? I should’ve searched her out, just to be sure. Instead I let Douglas take her without a whimper.”

“Watch yourself,” Aodhàn said. “She could well be his. You’re letting yourself imagine things that might not be true.”

Two women came to the doorway, their brows crinkling as they blinked at the empty room. The elder held herself aloofly regal in a fancy black dress and velvet choker. The younger, in subdued grey, fanned her face.

“There’s the one who could tell me,” Seaghan said. “But she won’t. Pure spite, that’s what she’s made of, the bitch.”

“Which one?”

“The one in black. Hannah’s sister, Beatrice. Curran told me she’s lived with Douglas and Morrigan all these years. Isabel Maclean is the other. Douglas’s sister.”

As they watched, two more latecomers appeared behind the women. William Watson, the local Presbyterian minister, and Father Drummond, the parish priest.

Old, nagging discomfort swelled inside Aodhàn at the sight of the priest. Curse it; he’d grown weary of this itchy, bewildering urge to put entire continents between him and every Catholic. He used to blame the religion, the popery, the black robes, and incense, but now he wasn’t sure. It felt like something deeper. Not knowing what it was made him want to shoot something or start a brawl.

The priest appeared frail tonight, bent more than usual. He leaned heavily on his cane. Yet his eyes perused the room with spry interest. He grinned as he clasped Ibby’s hand, then Beatrice’s, and asked after their health.

Seaghan inhaled deeply and left Aodhàn’s side, plastering on a polite smile. “Ladies,” he said, bowing. “They’ve all gone off to dinner. Reverend Watson? Father Drummond? If you’ll come with me, I’ll lead the way.”

He held out his right arm for Beatrice, his left for Ibby, and led the small procession into the hall. Their voices faded away.

Aodhàn knew there was no other choice. He’d allowed Seaghan to talk him into coming, so he might as well make the best of it. It would be noticed if he never appeared in the dining room. More gossip would erupt. That was the last thing he wanted.

He tried to push out the niggling thought that he’d only see
her
again if he joined the others.

Drinking the last of the whisky, he set down the glass and stalked into the corridor.

Laughter and lively conversation came from somewhere ahead. As he followed the sound, he glanced into the open doorway of another drawing room. What he saw brought him to a halt.

Someone had painted her. The artist had seen what Aodhàn had glimpsed, that day in the clearing, and captured it on canvas.

Illuminated by lamplight, the sea-maiden’s unblinking gaze rested on him almost accusingly. He stared back, fighting indecipherable emotions, until he realized he had grown physically aroused, flesh shivering, prick unraveling, elongating, searching in its selfish heedless way for satiation….

“
Tha ise bòidheach
.” The unexpected sound of his own voice returned him from wherever it was that face had taken him. He swiveled away with a growled curse. His heart was racing; he couldn’t catch his breath. She was beautiful, but this response was too overwhelming to be mere reaction to beauty. When he tried to walk, he stumbled; as much as he hated giving in to weakness, he had to lean one shoulder against the wall, close his eyes, and inhale deeply until the lightheadedness faded and his legs would once again support him.

CHAPTER FOUR

LINEN NAPKINS BLOOMED
from wineglasses so fragile Morrigan feared they might shatter if touched. Six candelabra centerpieces scattered warm flickering light over two heavy-laden tables. Flowers exuded an intoxicating scent. Fionna opened the drapes, baring deep-set narrow windows framing on one side Kilgarry’s gardens and on the other the silver-black expanse of sparkling water, set before a moonlit suggestion of Skye’s craggy mountains.

The seat of honor at the table’s head was given to the bride. Curran, observing old custom, made his way around, filling glasses and offering food like any good footman.

Haggis and roast venison followed a variety of soups and broths. Wine and home-brewed ale flowed. Cream-drenched puddings made a rich, unaccustomed dessert.

After the final round of cheeses, Janet presented her masterpiece, a magnificent bride’s cake in fancy European tradition, three tiers, complete with glossy white frosting and pretty blossoms. She allowed several moments for dutiful admiration before removing the top two tiers and handing Morrigan a large knife.

The bottom layer was already scored into the proper number of slices; Morrigan only had to complete the cuts and scoop each bit onto a ready plate.

“Careful,” Janet warned as she passed them out. “For this be no ordinary cake.”

They all waited politely for Morrigan to begin. As she cut her slice, her fork encountered something hard, and her husband, a trickster’s gleam in his eyes, ordered her to share what she’d received. She lifted the object on her fork, half covered in frosting, glimpsing the unmistakable shine of gold. Curran took it, polished it on his napkin, and returned it to her with a solemn bow.

It was a heavy gold Luckenbooth pendant, of the type, only finer, that was sold all over Scotland. Two entwined hearts, surrounded by a Celtic knot, with the inscription
Eternal bond of love
carved into the back.

Pretty. But why the devil was it in her cake?

“Mistress found the hearts!” Janet announced, though she seemed more satisfied than surprised. “Now, the rest of you, search out your own treasures.”

The wedding guests dismembered their segments with no consideration for all the toil that had gone into the baking. Rachel Urquhart uncovered an ivory wishbone. “To grant me any wish,” she cried, holding it in front of her babe, who promptly tried to stuff it in her mouth. Padraig’s was a coin. “Gold to bring good fortune. I could do with some of that.” Quentin Merriwether’s silver bell promised a wedding, which he said he hoped meant his son, as he was already married, and Father Drummond’s horseshoe foretold good luck. The somber minister, William Watson, received the blessing of a pewter thimble, but all he said was “Pagan rituals,” disdainfully, and set the item aside.

“A harmless custom, in the spirit of the day.” Curran’s tone brooked no argument.

William shrugged.

To break the short silence, Morrigan asked Seaghan, “What is yours?”

Grinning sheepishly, he displayed a cairngorm ring, dangling at the tip of his pinkie finger, which was as far as the thing would go.

“He’ll be next to marry,” Janet cried. “Our Seaghan, a bachelor these many years.” Her smile turned crafty. “And who might be willing, I wonder?”

Laughter inflamed the group. Fionna blushed and ducked her head.

“And you, sir?” Morrigan asked Aodhàn Mackinnon. “What was in your cake?”

Agnes Campbell pushed his shoulder, crying, “Come away, Aodhàn. Show us your charm.”

He lifted a plump, heart-shaped gold locket.

Scarlet suffused Janet’s round cheeks. She rushed to him and snatched the trinket, exclaiming, “Lord, I gave you the wrong slice. This was meant for the groom, Aodhàn Mackinnon, no’ you. You must exchange with the master.” She carried the locket to Curran, wiping it furiously on her apron.

“Never fear, Janet. A mistake easily made, easily mended.” Curran gave her the ornament from his cake, a perfect rose carved from jade.

“There you are, Aodhàn,” Janet said, carrying it to him. “A rose in green, to bring you true love. Wouldn’t that be a miracle!”

The group examined their gifts, laughing with intoxicated abandon.

Morrigan inspected the heart Janet had returned to Curran. It possessed a minute catch that flipped the top open when pressed. Inside was a lock of her hair, bound with red string, and an inscription:
Ruth 1
:
16
.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Shouldn’t you know?” Curran replied, his grin full of mischief. “You’re giving it to me.”

William Watson’s gaze seemed predatory. “You don’t know your Bible verses, Lady Eilginn?”

The scorn accompanying
Lady Eilginn
was so subtle Morrigan suspected she was the only one who heard it. She stilled, as frightened as a deer spotting the hunter. They must never discover, these faithful Christians, the things Douglas had said about religion. They couldn’t find out she’d never read a word of their Bible.

“Don’t torment the poor girl,” Father Drummond cried. “D’you expect her to have memorized every chapter and verse?”

Ruairidh clasped Morrigan’s hand. “Let me recite it to you,” he said. “It’s a sweet saying, and perfect for the occasion.”

“Please,” she said.

“Ruth said, ‘Whither thou goest, I will go. And where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.’” He squeezed her hand. “That’s been a favorite of mine my whole life. It’s a bonny way of professing true love, is it not?”