The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (95 page)

It is my belief that your Aodhàn Mackinnon came here and killed those men. It may not be Christian of me to say so, but I hardly blame him.

Here are the bare facts: he was married, but his wife is long dead, as are his offspring, all but the adopted girl. I understand she survived the attack and was sent back to her homeland.

I would be most happy to sit down with you and discuss what you want to do next, my friend. I hope to meet with you in Mallaig

— Quinn

Curran stared at the letter a long while as he imagined the horror of what Aodhàn had suffered. Then he raced to the kitchen tell Fionna he was leaving immediately.

* * * *

“I’m sorry, m’lord, but there will be no landing today.” The wizened fisherman tapped the bowl of his pipe against the boat rail. “It would be suicide.”

“I have to land.” Every muscle in Curran’s body clenched. “We’re here. The shore’s right there in front of us. It’s urgent.”

“D’you see that?” The fisherman pointed, a bit too patiently, at the way the heavy swell climbed up then dipped into a fathomless trough, over and over. “D’you see how the waves are hitting the rocks? They’re moving too fast. You cannot race them and win, no’ to mention the dinghy would be swamped as soon as we put her in the water. Is landing so important you’re ready to drown, or have your head bashed in? Now, I’m willing to wait awhile. Things could calm down after sunset.”

“No.” Curran knew the old sailor was right. There was nothing to be done, no way to get to Morrigan, not with these waves. But everything within him shouted that he must reach her, no matter the cost. He could hardly breathe through the compulsion.

Before the captain could discern what this young fool meant to do and grab him, Curran seized the rail and leaped overboard.

* * * *

Pleading a headache, Morrigan retired to her bedroom. She wanted to be free of all the eyes, especially Seaghan’s, that watched her so closely. Something new had appeared in his gaze since their talk. It seemed almost possessive, and made her uncomfortable.

Sinking with a sigh into the armchair beside the window, she looked upon the village below, folk going about their business unaware that someone in the big house was watching them.

She couldn’t bear to think of Mackinnon waiting for her. She had Olivia, Curran, Diorbhail, Seaghan, and the aunts. Mackinnon had no one. No one but her, and she remained set on denying him. How long would he wait before he gave up?

Come with me. Do you love me enough?
Those words replayed, along with Lily’s voice, reciting what a grief-stricken Tristan had shouted in the Wagner opera.
Let the day to death surrender!

She fetched the black-bladed knife from her cupboard and held it, turning it over and over in her hands. In the dimmer light of her bedroom, she could see a nearly transparent red glow around it, and thought of Jamini’s belief in reincarnation.

She suspected this knife had lived many lives. It grew and changed as she did. There was savageness in the blade, and definite heat. As she held it, she felt its destiny weave into her own.

Somehow, this weapon had a way of making her feel strong, confident, as though a warrior’s blood coursed through her veins. It made her feel she could do what was required of her, if that time ever came. She put it into a deep pocket in her apron and buttoned the flap.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE WATER WAS
so frigid that for an endless moment, Curran couldn’t draw breath. Then he was shoved under. Cold sliced like razors. The water rolled his body as though he was a weightless fragment of seaweed. Rocks lunged out of the deep black and struck him everywhere. All he could do was put his hands over his head and pray for a quick death.

He couldn’t tell which way was up. The swells kept coming, each bigger than the last, pushing him farther from air and light, mighty godlike fists set to annihilate him.

His knuckles struck sand. He was so desperate, so close to drawing water into his screaming lungs, he tried to seize it. It disintegrated but he grabbed at more, and, little by little, dragged himself out of the bottomless shelf until the swells spewed him onto the beach where he lay, a senseless, sodden lump. A village man came across him at some point. He turned Curran over and expertly pumped the water from his lungs, pulling him back from the chasm of death.

Curran choked and vomited. His lungs burned as though they’d been set afire. He gasped a long while, and had to accept the man’s support so he could stagger off the beach and into the village, but gradually, a little strength returned to his legs and he remembered his purpose. Thanking his rescuer in a voice so rough and hoarse he couldn’t recognize it, he left him and stumbled, like an old, old man, up to the Donaghue house.

* * * *

Morrigan jumped to her feet as the bedroom door flew open. She gasped at who, or what, stood there. Curran… soaking wet, emanating a strong aroma of the sea. His forehead was swelling and dribbling blood from a gash. His arms, hands, and knuckles were scraped and raw. His lips were blue and he shuddered uncontrollably. She yanked the blanket off the bed and ran to him, throwing it over his shoulders, and rubbed him with it, trying to get his blood moving. “Bring tea and coal!” she called down the stairs, and pushed him into the armchair.

The aunts and Seaghan came running, but Morrigan could tell by the way he turned from them that he didn’t want them there. She sent them off, saying he needed rest and quiet. They left after she assured them she would tell them everything as soon as she knew it.

The fire was lit and a tea tray brought. She had to hold the cup for him, and much of it was spilled due to his pained coughing before he finally began to lose the tinge of blue and his shudders diminished.

When he’d had two cups of tea, she cleaned his cuts and abrasions then sat on a footstool by the chair, one hand on his knee.

After a long while, light began to glimmer in his eyes. He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. “Are you well?” he asked, his voice weak and hoarse.

She couldn’t help laughing. “Much better than you, I think. What happened?”

“I… I fell overboard.” She heard the lie in his voice, but his condition certainly made it believable.

“Curran, you might’ve drowned.”

“Is there more tea?”

“A whole pot.”

He held the cup himself now, drinking voraciously to get the taste of the ocean from his throat. “Is Olivia well?”

“Happy as a puffin. Island life agrees with her.”

He brushed a hand through her hair. “I missed you,” he said.

His tenderness made her remember what she’d done. She dropped her gaze. Would it be like this for the rest of their lives? Seeing him, hearing all that was in his voice and his face, made it so much worse.

She glimpsed the future, saw her guilt grinding and chewing until it devoured everything but itself.

* * * *

He didn’t want to sleep. He said he would have nightmares of drowning. He asked Morrigan to keep him company while he bathed.

“I’ll tell you about the winter my father brought me to Glenelg. The winter you were born.”

“But your throat….”

He shook his head. “I kept thinking of it as I was sinking, how much I wanted to share it with you. Besides, I’m sure Ibby’s already told you most of it. I only have my father’s bit to add.”

The housemaids had gone to their homes in the village, so she made him another pot of tea and carried up buckets of hot water from the copper boiler while he dragged out the cast iron tub.

When he was comfortably installed in a steaming, soapy bath, a cup of tea next to him on a stool, she settled into the armchair to listen.

* * * *

“My father knew how to make a profit,” he said. “He was ingenious at that sort of thing. He came home one day and told us he’d purchased an estate in the Highlands, overlooking the Sound of Sleat. We were going to live there and raise sheep. He promised we would make a fortune.

“Mother was less enthusiastic. She said she’d read about whole populations being forced from their homes. My father assured her that the Highlanders were starving, that because of the potato blight they couldn’t grow food enough to survive on. He claimed landowners were paying passage for these people to relocate to America, or moving them to villages on the coast, which offered better livelihoods as herring fishermen. He said the parcel he bought was already empty anyway, ready for a good Lowland shepherd.

“He didn’t want to wait until spring, and moved us immediately, promising us a fine new home at the end.

“We arrived on the first of February, 1854, just after a bad snowstorm. I mind him standing in Kilgarry’s vestibule, laughing as my mother ran from room to room, yanking sheets off furniture and shouting about how bonny it was. She made us both dance with her.”

Curran paused, squinting at the fireplace. “I still feel her there,” he said. “In the tables, the chairs, the kitchen, the walls. Everywhere. She’s part of why I love Kilgarry.”

“I feel my mother in Glenelg,” Morrigan said, nodding. “Especially in the forest. I don’t know why.”

Curran traced his fingertips over her knee and smiled. “The next morning, my father and I explored. Our horses frightened a red grouse. I’ve never forgotten it because when it flew up, it shrieked. It sounded like it was warning us.
Go go go go!
From that moment, I felt ill at ease.”

“Shall I rinse the soap from your hair?” Morrigan asked.

“Aye,” Curran said, and tilted his head for her.

When she finished and handed him a towel, he continued. “We followed an old track inland from the sea, which took us past Dùn Teilbh. I asked him what it was. He didn’t know, so we rode over.”

Curran stopped again, frowning. “A man was lying beside the stones. He was little more than a skeleton. His skin was grey and an awful stench came off him. At first I thought he was dead. My father jumped off his horse and said, ‘Sir, what are you doing there?’

“The old fellow could hardly talk. I think he had lung fever. He pointed up the hill and said, ‘The babies. Don’t let the babies die.’ We could see the top of Dùn Trodan. I thought he was daft, but my father hiked up to the other pile of stones, and I followed on horseback.

“That’s where the rest were. Children scattered in the snow and mud. Three women, so still and colorless I was sure they were gone. I admit I wanted to turn my horse and go away, just pretend it never happened. But when my father’s boots scraped against the stones, one of the women opened her eyes, and one of the children coughed. All those weans put together wouldn’t weigh as much as I did.

“My father told one of the women not to be afraid of him, and he took the baby she was holding. He glanced at me, and I knew it was dead. The woman begged him not to take her son. She hadn’t enough strength to lift her hand in protest.

“My father told her he’d never do such a thing, and put the baby in her arms. He walked over to a lass, and asked her what her name was. She told him she was Tess.

“The next child was Beth Dunbar, Fionna’s other daughter. She was dead, her skin white as porcelain.

“Father rolled a boy over, and nodded to let me know he was alive. That was Logan. Then he stood and stared. I’d never seen him look like that before, like he’d lost everything.

“Fionna was there and Ibby, both barely able to speak or keep their eyes open. While we were checking these people, a man came out of the forest. He accused us of coming to burn them out. He had only rags to protect his feet from the snow, and could barely stand, yet he awed me. He meant to fight us both, no matter that he was starved and weak. Of course you know who it was. Your own father. There were more with him. Beatrice, Nicky, Kyle. Padraig, leading a half-starved goat. And you. Beatrice had you strapped to her chest with strips of cloth.

“My father asked Douglas how many more there were. I remember what Douglas said. ‘Not so many as before. Soon we’ll be dead, and your land will be empty for your damned sheep.’

“I’d never seen my father so angry. He shouted, ‘Not one more will die!’ and he asked Douglas if he could take you to Kilgarry right then and there. He promised to bring wagons, to have all the rest moved to our home, where they would be fed and treated by a doctor.

“At first Douglas refused. ‘Over my dead body. Don’t you touch her,’ he said. My father swore before God that he wanted to help, that not one more would die if he could prevent it. But he told Douglas it was up to him.

“They stared at each other, and finally, Douglas allowed it. My father wrapped his coat around you and took you onto his horse. We rode home like madmen and he rounded up drivers and wagons, and all the rest were brought to Kilgarry.”

“Your father saved us,” Morrigan said.

Curran had finished his bath while he talked. He’d dried himself and dressed, and looked nearly recovered.

“I was jealous,” he said. “Once you came along, nobody else seemed to exist for my mother. She’d rock you and sing lullabies for hours. I held you myself a time or two.”

Diorbhail knocked and came in with Olivia, saying she’d been crying for her mother. She went out again, sending Curran an anxious glance. Olivia cooed and played for a few minutes, but soon fell asleep on Morrigan’s shoulder.

Curran leaned forward. “You were the first female in my life besides her. Maybe that’s why I never married. I was waiting to find you again. That’s what I think, because of how I felt the moment I saw you from that train. Like I was complete at last.”

Morrigan kept her face expressionless, but inside, Lily’s last words reverberated.

I don’t understand you.
Do you love your husband? Why won’t you talk to me?
She’d stormed from the room with the parting remark,
Curran deserves better.

Aye, he did. She would never argue that fact. But she tightened her grip on Olivia and recited her litany.

I am made of wind. I am as cold as winter stars. I am formless as the Aurora
.