The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (36 page)

Grave… merry? Graveness definitely had the upper hand. Merriment had long been stifled. He, like Louis Stevenson, defied easy categorization.

“Is there any more of that punch?” She offered Seaghan her brightest smile. “I’m as parched as an Arab in the Sahara.”

Seaghan grinned. “That’s why I’m here. They’re all asking where you went. They want to toast you, and your lucky husband.” He held out his arm. She took it, and together they walked inside, the train on her skirts rustling against the flags, soft as a whisper of warning.

CHAPTER SIX

TESS AND FIONNA
filled tall crystal flutes and passed them around.

Morrigan peered into a froth of magically renewing sparkles. “What is it?” she asked. Before Curran could reply, Seaghan lifted his glass.

“Eilginn found a wife!” he shouted. “May he never regret it!”

There was hearty agreement and everyone drank.

Bubbles effervesced on Morrigan’s tongue. It was a cold, bewitching taste, like a love potion.

Curran laughed as Morrigan held a second sip in her mouth.

“Champagne,” he said. “Careful, it’s tricky. It hides how strong it is, and I want you to recall your wedding for years to come.”

“To the bonniest lass ever caught by the canniest of men,” announced Malcolm Campbell. Fionna and Tess quickly refilled empty glasses.

Even Beatrice offered a toast. “
Tha am pòsadh coltach ri seillean-tha mil ann ’s tha gath ann
,” she said, without the hint of a smile.

“Aye,” cried Agnes, holding out her glass a bit unsteadily. Liquid sloshed over the rim, wetting her fingers. “True, though I’d wager that marriage to our master will offer few stings and much honey.”

“It’s an old proverb,” Curran told Morrigan. “‘Marriage is like a bee, there’s honey in it and there’s a sting in it.’”

“You’ve been warned.” Morrigan grinned. “Though it’s too late to run away now.” She noticed that Aodhàn Mackinnon made no toast, nor did he drink to the others. He’d moved away to the big doors and turned his gaze outward, to the darkness and the murmuring forest.

She had no idea how much more time passed before Father Drummond, with plenty of assistance, climbed onto a stool and clapped for silence. “The best gift we can give this couple is to
leave,
” he said, smiling rather stupidly.

“I agree,” Seaghan said, “though without a doubt it’s the finest cèilidh these mountains have ever seen. We’ll away, and leave this couple to find their own entertainment.”

Morrigan blushed at the sniggers, but Curran lifted his glass and downed the rest of his drink with zeal.

Her head buzzed and her limbs were numb. Hadn’t she had only a sip, perhaps two? Yet it was a pleasant sensation. She felt quite happy.

Ibby pulled Morrigan aside through the crush of bellows, winks, and elbows pushed against ribs. “Neither Curran nor I think the traditional bedding is seemly. Not with him being the laird and these his tenants. You’ll throw your stocking from the top of the stairs.”

“Aye,” Morrigan said.
Thank you
, she added to whatever deity had rescued her from that.

Being escorted to the marriage bed by her wedding guests, forced to endure lewd comments and suggestions, would’ve required more courage than she possessed.

At the staircase landing, Ibby on one side and Agnes on the other, she tossed an old worsted stocking and watched, amazed, as men and women, young and old, fought and clambered to catch it.

From the crush rose a victorious Fionna, waving the article like a battle flag.

“Ah.” Agnes nodded sagely. “Fionna set her cap for Seaghan many a year ago. For him to get the ring in the cake and now this… I wager we’ll attend another wedding afore yours grows comfortable.” She faced Morrigan and gripped her elbow. “I’ll take this moment to warn you, mistress. Be on your guard. Selkies have a way about them. Male or female, they can enchant humans… can make them do anything. Beware the selkie.”

“What are you on about, Agnes Campbell?” Ibby snorted. “Is there a selkie among us tonight?”

Morrigan couldn’t scoff. She remembered Curran and Seaghan telling her the seal story and warning her about Agnes. She stared at the revelers in the foyer, realizing for the first time that they’d all been gossiping about her going outside alone with Aodhàn Mackinnon. She felt her cheeks turn guilty hot.

“Not everyone here is as he seems,” was all Agnes would say, with a meaningful frown. She tromped down the stairs. Ibby, shaking her head and sighing, led Morrigan after her.

Happily tipsy, cake trinkets in hand, the guests took their leave. Malcolm Campbell and his wife gushed about the pleasant evening. Morrigan was a sweet and bonny bride, and Curran must treat her with kindness or he’d answer for it. Agnes kissed her cheeks. Malcolm bowed. One by one the others followed.

She giggled as she watched Father Drummond weave and stumble, half-supported by the sober William.

Amid a cloud of whisky fumes, Seaghan kissed Morrigan’s cheek.

“You’re a lucky man, Curran Ramsay,” he said. “You’d best not forget it.”

“It’s not likely, with all of you to remind me as you seem fair inclined to do.”

“And I’ll continue, since you’re a young man, and no doubt foolish like most young men.”

“Thank you for everything,” Morrigan said.

Aodhàn Mackinnon shook Curran’s hand. He nodded to Morrigan. “Good night.”

Not a word of congratulation or wishes for her happiness. Yet she felt closer to him than to any of those who had been so kind.

She and Curran waved until their guests disappeared into the night. The lads from Skye departed in a drunken mass of song, shouting, and shooting, to be ferried home.

“I hope none fall overboard,” Curran said as he guided Morrigan indoors.

Ruairidh and Quinn were waiting on the staircase landing. “Thank you for allowing me to have a part in your celebration,” Ruairidh said, “and for giving me a bed. I’m weary, to be honest.”

“Can I get you anything?” Morrigan asked.

“We’ve servants to tend his needs,” Curran said. “Forget your days at the inn, Morrigan. That’s over forever.” He picked her up and swung her in a circle until, dizzy, she begged him to stop.

When he released her, she stumbled.

“Morrigan?” His smile faded into stricken concern.

“It’s the drink.” She sent a guilty glance up the stairs. Ruairidh had gone, but Quinn was still there, watching, his gaze as sharp as ever.

Curran wrapped her in a laughing hug. “Not one drop more.”

Ibby swished in from the drawing room. “I’m half-dead. It’s been a long while since I’ve celebrated so late. Beatrice has already gone up.” She kissed her niece. “Dear, sweet Morrigan. This is the happiest day of my life.” Waltzing to the staircase, she caught up to Quinn, who bowed and proffered his arm. “Did you have a good time, Mr. Merriwether? Was it worthwhile coming up from London?” Together they climbed the stairs, his answer an indecipherable murmur.

“And you, Curran?” Morrigan asked. “Are you pleased?”

“I have you, don’t I? And no more sharing you with your aunts, or anyone, my Morrigan.”

Her name had never before seemed enchanting, an endearment in itself. She returned his laughter to hide how it affected her. “Let’s go to bed. I’m about to fall asleep standing.”

“Fall asleep?” He lifted a brow. “I’m sorry, m’lady?”

“Very well, my demanding husband.” She ran a finger down the line of buttons on his vest. “I want to be in bed with you.”

He took her hand. “Would you have a drink with me first?”

She nodded and followed him into the drawing room, where Fionna and Tess were busy collecting glasses, blowing out candles and turning down the lamps. “Finish tomorrow,” Curran told them. He poured whisky and pulled Morrigan down beside him on the Brussels carpet in front of the subsiding fire.

“Remember I promised to tell you my dreams?” he asked.

“Aye.” She lay on her side, propped on one elbow, and turned the Luckenbooth pendant in her hands. “Are you going to tell me now?”

He smiled, though it faded quickly. “One has plagued me for many years. I’m running up from a pit of some kind, holding a dying child. Sometimes that’s all there is. Other times I run into an open place, and the child is taken from me. I wake knowing one thing. I have a choice, but I’ve made the wrong one. Because I don’t do what I should, the child suffers, or dies.”

“What is this choice?”

“To stay, or leave.” Curran plucked at threads in the carpet. He frowned.

“Dreams are night’s invention, you know. Mere vapor.” She wound her fingers through his and smiled until she got an answering grin, but again it didn’t last.

He sipped his whisky and stared into the fire. “I shout until I’m hoarse, but that other me never hears. The dream changes, where I am, where we are, our clothing. Our faces look different. Sometimes she’s a child and sometimes a woman. What never changes is that I don’t protect her. I don’t know exactly what happens, but… it’s bad. I feel it.”

“What d’you think it means?”

He shrugged. “I had that dream the day we… we were together on the moor. The first time. Remember? When we fell asleep.”

She frowned. She’d dreamed of
him
that day, a dream so vivid she could still recall it in detail. He’d looked different, though. Maybe it hadn’t been him at all.

She saw the self-recrimination and doubt in his face, and longed to comfort him.

“Curran,” she said. “Dreams are not real.”

Fine words, considering how often she woke in a terrified sweat, hearing the echoing shouts of
Witch! This is Christian land!
as a man pressed a blade to her throat.

“Over the last few months it’s come nearly every night,” he said. “I wonder if something… something is trying to tell me I’ll abandon you when you need me most.”

Before she could think how to reassure him, he rose, refilled his glass, and drank off the contents.

“You’ll soon be drunk at this rate,” she said.

He glanced at the tumbler in his hand as though seeing it for the first time. “Did I pour another?” He shook his head and set it on the table. “Tired, I suppose.” He roughed his hair. “Who painted the portrait?”

“I told you. A local artist.”

“What was he to you?” Curran returned and dropped, loose-limbed, beside her.

She shrugged. “A friend of Nicky’s.”

Loosening his necktie, Curran said, “You blushed when Ruairidh asked about it.”

“Well, it’s not a proper sort of picture, is it? I look like….” She paused. She’d been about to say
my mother
. “We could store it.”

Curran sat up and pulled pins from her hair, staring as it fell over her shoulders, along with silk flowers. “Every man in Stranraer must’ve been in love with you,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her throat.

Everything he did was intoxicating. She wanted him to take off her dress and make love to her on the floor, but she didn’t know how to ask. Now, oddly, when they were properly wed, she was shy, tongue-tied, fearful of what he might think of his new wife.

But he seemed to sense her fancy. He slid closer and unpinned the brooch from her sash.

No overprotective aunt would stop them, not now. They were free to share all they had waited so impatiently to experience. Memories returned of the last time, here at Kilgarry, when she had learned what lovemaking could be. She hoped that would happen again.

He turned her. “Lift your hair,” he said. When she did, he unfastened the hooks down the back of her dress, one by one, kissing her as he went. The ties on her petticoat were loosened, then the laces on her corset. “Your aunt armored you well,” he said, next to her ear. “But it’s no match for me.”

Her head spun as she faced him, as he freed her of everything but her chemise and the lacy drawers Ibby had made for the occasion. He slipped the chemise off her shoulders and lowered it to her waist. Yet he was still fully dressed.

It was mortifying. She grabbed at the undergarment and sought to cover herself.

“No,” he said, stopping her. “Let me savor this.”

She could hardly bear it, but she drew in a breath and gave him his way.

The ties on her drawers were stubborn. “Bloody knots,” he said, and before she could help him, he’d seized the material and ripped it.

Was he vexed now? His tone cast her out of the languorous spell he’d created. Why were men so angry? She was half convinced that those who appeared friendly were hiding their true natures, simply waiting for a chance to turn violent.

Aodhàn Mackinnon’s anger had seemed barely contained the whole night. He was grave, aye, but more. There was pain in his eyes. It was disquietingly similar to what she’d seen more often than not in Douglas Lawton’s. Her father’s rage had controlled everything for years on end, the need to avoid igniting it, or, if it was ignited, the need to hide until it passed.

His rage had frightened her, but she’d always known his anger was birthed in some kind of awful pain.

Before she’d awakened that day on the moor outside Stranraer, to warm sunlight and the weight of his head on her breast, she’d dreamed of Curran, though he’d looked different, marred with terrible scars, the worst of which was rather like the one he bore now, only much bigger, disfiguring the entire side of his face.
I will have victory,
he’d said. It had been tenderly spoken, yet threatening as well.

She placed the palm of her hand on his cheek and moved her fingers up to the scar by his eye. She felt the slight ridge of it, and a strange vein of heat.

It was gratifying how her touch instantly gentled him and drove away all hint of irritation, reminding her of the ancient princess and unicorn fable. She tucked his hair behind his ear and stroked his face, feeling newly sprouting stubble.

He drew her in, kissing her palm, her cheek, her throat, until she lay pliant and willing against him, worry vanished like shadows in bright sunlight.

She felt his heart pounding, and was deeply moved. It raced for
her.
Because of her. He wanted her. Loved her. She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands over his warm skin.