The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (45 page)

“It’ll be your husband or Aodhàn Mackinnon!” Rachel bounced her daughter so hard the babe wailed in protest.

Morrigan clenched and unclenched her hands. Her injured ankle throbbed, but the worst was her heart, scuttling with such mad strength it made her light-headed.

The riders veered at the far end, hardly more than sand clouds and smudges, and began the return. Glendessary and Brutus continued, neck to neck.

“Aodhàn has it,” William Watson announced.

“No, the master must win!” someone else shouted. “He’s the newlywed and in most need of good luck!”

Morrigan ignored the malicious tittering as a salvo of disconnected phrases erupted from the depths of her subconscious.

You are the skin covering the heart of the apple.

You are the spear of lightning after his roar of thunder.

You are the ocean battering his cliffs
.

Sun and moon. Mountain and sea. Good and evil, woven together, joined yet separated, one unable to exist without the other.

Aodhàn Mackinnon and Curran Ramsay. Two halves of a whole, like a rope spitefully unraveled. More than friends, more than enemies, more than could be explained.

Pounding hooves threw sand in skyrocketing fountains. The bystanders fell silent. Could they sense, as she did, that this race had unspoken yet immeasurable significance?

Curran, crouched low against Brutus’s neck, whipped furiously with his seaweed. Aodhàn gripped Glendessary’s mane. He rode with his mouth near the Clyde’s ear as though he was whispering to him.

Two women held a red streamer across the sand to mark the finish line.

“Oh, come away, come away,” Morrigan whispered.

Brutus leaped and snagged it. A unanimous deafening shout rose as Curran straightened. Wind had flayed his sark, baring a sweaty chest and abdomen dusted with sand. Lifting the ribbon, he searched the crowd, and when he spotted Morrigan, kicked his horse towards her.

She touched his foot. Grinning, he reached down, caught her, and swept her up, sitting her before him as though she weighed no more than a midge. Amid shouts and folk cramming ever closer, he seized her face and pressed upon her a long, heated, suffocating kiss. She felt half-affronted at being treated like plunder, but excitement ran so bright and joyous across his features that she stifled her protest and laughed with him. Anyway, the crowd was cheering as though the laird had single-handedly defeated an entire English army.

Brutus pranced and preened, not at all afraid of being hemmed in so closely. Morrigan glanced to the finish line, where Aodhàn Mackinnon sat astride Glendessary. As though he’d been waiting for her to seek him out, he nodded, lifting a brow like he’d fulfilled his end of an unspoken pact.

Had she really seen him jerk on Glendessary’s mane seconds before the end? But why would he do that?

Next came the women’s race on horses of every make and description. Morrigan longed to participate, but her stern midwife would never countenance such a thing. Utterly astonished, she watched her ladies’ maid, Violet, mount Stoirmeil, the flighty Arab mare Morrigan had ridden but once. Who had stolen her? The answer was revealed in Logan’s swelling pride, the way crusty old Padraig Urquhart slapped him on the shoulders, and the glee with which Kyle was laughing.

Violet won of course. The young woman Morrigan had judged acutely shy looked triumphant and uncommonly beautiful. Her dark brown hair spilled over Stoirmeil’s russet flanks and her cheeks bloomed with color. Not only were her feet bare, but her ankles and fine white calves, yet no one appeared shocked. Malcolm led her, astride Stoirmeil, to the pine-draped Michaelmas barn, and escorted her onto a platform, handing her over to Curran. The jubilant pair raised clasped hands, sparking a resounding cheer which no doubt terrorized every bird for five miles.

Tess, known throughout the parish for her sweet, lilting voice, stepped forward to sing. She stood between the victorious pair, giving voice to a mournful lament while Malcolm accompanied on his fiddle.

I search the far distance for my sailor-lad,

I sing to the spindrift of the love we once had.

I long for the day when thy fortunes bring thee,

Back to these heartsick mountains, back searching for me
.

The listeners swayed. Seaghan put his arm around Fionna’s shoulders.

I mind when you warmed me so bonny and bold.

Now the wind shakes this high hill, so empty and cold.

I search the green ocean but it laughs at me.

Your love is your tall ship and my love is thee
.

Fionna wiped tears from her cheeks. After a moment of silence, Seaghan raised his tankard, blinking away his own tears, and cried, “No lass’ll weep over any lad this night. Come away! To the dance!”

Regal as Peers of the Realm, Curran and Violet promenaded around the barn. They shared a goblet of wine and began the dancing with the traditional
Cailleach an Dùdain
.

Gossip eddied. Morrigan caught many surreptitious glances thrown her way when Violet seized Curran’s face and kissed him on the mouth. And did he protest? No indeed. His hands circled Violet’s waist and he returned the kiss with enthusiasm.

Fiddle-music filled the air and whisky made the rounds. Tess draped a daisy garland around Curran’s neck as tipsy singing echoed off the high eaves. He lifted his tumbler and shouted something in Gaelic. Countless toasts ensued.

It would seem this horse race was the most daring act ever performed. Fawning women, young and old, mobbed Morrigan’s husband.

“I believe he’s forgotten the blackening we gave him the night before your wedding. You should’ve seen him frantically scrubbing himself clean.”

She didn’t turn to see who spoke into her ear, but warmth expanded through her chest, where a moment before cold jealousy had reigned. “What did you use?”

“Soot, eggs, and dirt. And feathers. A right good amount of feathers. Now look at him. He’s aye proud of himself.”

Morrigan glanced at Violet, whose fingers clutched Curran’s forearm tightly. “It appears I’ve been replaced anyway.”

“Men are fickle creatures. Generally not worth a woman’s trouble.”

Aodhàn offered his arm like a practiced gallant. She placed her hand upon his wrist lightly— no mad clutching for
her
— and followed him from the barn, wondering if he’d planned this all along.

The cool air was refreshing after the close heat of packed bodies. Others had abandoned the barn as well. There was almost as much talking, laughing, drinking, and flirting here as inside.

Malcolm Campbell lifted his whisky as they passed. “Mistress,” he said. “’Tis a braw night. I’m pleased Eleanor allowed you to come.”

“You’re missing your daughter’s glory, Malcolm.”

He shrugged. “We do it every year, and I’ve seen any number of winning couples. Does no’ mean they won’t boak later and feel quite sorry for themselves… beg pardon for my crudeness.”

His conciliatory tone stung her pride even as she snickered at the image of her husband and Violet vomiting into the bushes. Had her jealousy been so plain? “My only regret is that I couldn’t take part. Had I been riding Stoirmeil, I would’ve won.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” he returned, with an approving smile.

Morrigan and her escort strolled to a flat-topped boulder next to the water’s edge. He gave her a hand up and she arranged her skirts. The seat brought her level with his face; she could, for the first time, observe him straight on, like an equal.

Away in the hills, bagpipers played. The sound floated so faintly she almost thought it her imagination.

For a moment, everything… her new life, Kilgarry, Curran, and most especially Mackinnon… seemed no more solid than a cloud.

She used conversation to keep hold of reality. “You stole Curran’s horse.”

“Aye.” His self-deprecatory nod didn’t fool her. “Though I still lost. You’re getting most of the accolades.”

“Why?”

“He made more of an effort to win than he ever has before.”

“Have you stolen one of his horses before?”

Light spilling from the doorways betrayed the flash in his eyes and the smile playing at the corners of his lips, but he didn’t answer.

She wrapped her arms round her knees and listened. “I can almost hear voices in the sea tonight.”

“Oh aye, it speaks. Try getting it to stop.”

“I’ve had dreams of the sea since I came here.” She met his gaze. “I can swim without being cold, and I don’t need to breathe.”

His regard grew more intent, but he said nothing.

“There are porpoises. Seals.”

He remained still but for the slightest narrowing of his eyes. No doubt she saw more in his expression than was really there, thanks to Agnes and the dreams.

Seaghan had once mentioned that Aodhàn Mackinnon spent days staring at the ocean, hidden in some secluded place. Perhaps he, like the lass in the song, longed for a lost love. What if he’d been married? He might have children. Now that he remembered all that had been lost, would he leave and go searching for his past? The idea that he might left her uncomfortably anxious.

How could she be angry with Curran for anything he did when she entertained decidedly unforgivable ideas and fantasies about one of his closest friends? She wished Aodhàn would call her
my jo
again. She wished he would place his palm against her cheek, so she could see if his touch still made her flesh tingle, like two wool blankets being rubbed together. She could almost imagine his fingers resting on her temples and combing through her hair, and it carried a familiar feel, like an oft-repeated thing.

“The sea will bewitch you,” he said.

She started. “In the dream, that’s what I want.”

“Once she has you, she never releases you.” A frown deepened the lines between his brows. “The sea claims final possession.”

“And leaves nothing behind.” She had no idea where those words came from. Searching for equilibrium, Morrigan placed both hands on the rock, closing her eyes and drawing in a deep breath of cool air to clear her head. “In the dream, I didn’t want to be released. I wanted to drown.”

“She will take all of you without remorse.”

His flat, bitter tone brought Morrigan’s eyes open. He’d edged closer. Was he still speaking of the sea?

“What’s your purpose?” he asked. “Are you trying to make a fool of Curran?”

“Why… why do you say that?” she managed.

“Maybe it’s me you want to make a fool of.”

“I don’t want to make a fool of anyone.”

“Ah, so you’re already spoiled, and bored with your lot. Or a silly wean, ruled by selfish ignorance.”

She exhaled, incensed. “I am searching my way through life. I am not ‘spoiled,’ or ‘bored,’ or a ‘silly wean.’ I am
Morrigan
— Morrigan Lawton Ramsay. What of you? What is
your
purpose?”

“Mine? To follow. To fight. To die, and do it all again. To be God’s pawn.”

“Pawn? How? How can you die and ‘do it all again’?”

His gaze wavered then he glanced towards the water, shrugging. “I’ve had too much whisky.”

Morrigan knew she should let the subject die. But instead she heard herself say, “I picture God with the face of my father, which is daft because Papa hated God. God was to blame when he and Nicky nearly starved and my mam died, so Papa renounced God. In retaliation God took Nicky… the child he loved. I often see God snapping his fingers and laughing as he brought death to both of them. My father was arrogant, and he paid the price.”

She’d never said such things before. In truth, she hadn’t known they festered inside. She wanted to discover where this pain led, and instinct told her Mackinnon might be the only man in Glenelg who wouldn’t be offended. “This morning, Father Drummond talked of Paradise. He said Adam and Eve lived there, content, until God planted the Tree of Life in their midst.” She hesitated. “Why did he put it there, tell them not to touch it, then send the serpent to lure them? And of course it had to be the female who gave in to temptation. We’ve never been forgiven for that, and never will be.”

“Some say the Devil tempted her because of her strength.” Aodhàn’s eyes reflected sparks from the nearby bonfire. “He knew if he could sway her, Adam would follow. Adam was easy.”

She examined the idea, not sure if this was a compliment or another attack. “Was it a gamble, then? The Almighty and the Devil, wagering on how long it would take humans to commit the first sin? If so the Devil won, didn’t he, because Father Drummond says he was made king over us.”

Futility descended like a shroud over Morrigan’s earlier exuberance. A moment ago, emotions had burgeoned, clear and fire-bright, insisting on a voice. Now everything seemed murky, out of reach. “If there is a God,” she said, feeling her way, “he must want us to suffer, to know only failure and sorrow. If he hadn’t given us to the Devil, there would’ve been no need for his son to be crucified. We’d not know the meaning of sin.”

A midge landed on Aodhàn’s cheekbone— she brushed it away since he didn’t seem to notice. His prominent bones, coupled with the shadows, leant him a subtle predatory air. “So we have to refuse to be his pawns. That’s our revenge. I think I know why it’s such a sin to take your own life. God is furious, isn’t he, when we spoil his game by making our own choices?”

“Stop it.”

He sounded angry. She must have been wrong about him. Now she wondered, stiffening with a feathered edge of dismay, if he would tell William Watson of her blasphemy.

“Don’t let anyone hear you say such things,” he said. “They won’t forgive or forget it. When will you learn to think before you speak?”

“What?”

He blinked and turned his face away. “The world has worshipped many things. Gods, goddesses, love, money, land. Since the beginning we’ve blamed our idols for all that displeases us. Everything from wars, plagues, bad harvests, to a poor gambling hand. It’s the way of cowards, to blame something or someone else for what we do.” An expression flitted across his features, too hard to define in this indistinct light. “And we have done things, things beyond redemption.”