Or the clearings.
Or Glenelg, that place of secrets.
She thrust back the ivory curtains to let in more light and perched the daguerreotype beside her looking-glass. Feeling equal measures of trepidation and anticipation, she compared the face in the daguerreotype to her own wavy reflection, seeing immediately that her eyes were deep-set, like her mother’s, and that she could imitate Hannah’s expression.
She touched the solemn, still face. Hannah Stewart. Redheaded witch.
Everything she’d ever heard her father say about her mother was the lie. It was right there, in Hannah’s face. She was simply a lass perched on the verge of womanhood, eyes serious but hopeful, mouth unsmiling but serene, ready to smile. The whole together gave an impression of dreamy imagination, and her steady gaze seemed to cover vast distances. This girl longed for the same things as other women. Happiness. Freedom. Love.
Then Morrigan searched for some kind of revelation in the mirror. What had Curran Ramsay thought of her? What sensations had she roused in him? She ran her hands over the places he had touched, her mouth, her throat, her breasts, and lower, where an ache lingered. It was a mysterious place, a place of power, the one spot on a woman’s body to be hidden and protected at all times, a place that didn’t belong to the woman who was born with it, but to her future husband. She had allowed Curran Ramsay, almost a stranger, to ransack it, not once but four times.
Slow heat spread, lifting the hair on her scalp, turning her cheeks scarlet. What was it she felt? What she’d done was the worst thing a woman could do. She stared at her face, wondering if her sin would be visible to others.
Diorbhail Sinclair was persecuted, reviled, and shunned. Morrigan was sure Diorbhail hadn’t announced her crime when she came to Stranraer. In fact, she remembered hearing that Diorbhail tried to pass herself off as a widow. Yet her secret had been uncovered.
Would Curran desert her as the father of Diorbhail’s child had done?
Curran! He’s with Papa!
She finished dressing in a rush, certain they’d slaughtered each other. But the gentleman was sitting alone in the dining room with a cup of tea, studying the local newspaper. At the sight of her, he dropped the paper, rose to his feet, and blushed like a wayward schoolboy.
Somehow his shyness made everything bearable, and routed all hint of embarrassment and shame. Morrigan leaned across the table with newfound confidence and gave him a kiss.
He clasped the back of her head and returned her smile. Then, pleasure fading into worry, he came around to her side of the table, asking formally, “How are you? When I arrived last night you’d fainted on the stairs.” He removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat without looking at it, snapped open the lid, and absently polished the crystal with his handkerchief.
“Oh. I wish you hadn’t seen that.”
“Miss Stewart allowed me to carry you to your bed since she couldn’t manage.” He lifted a frowning gaze to hers. “What happened? Was it… was it something I did?”
“My aunt and I had a disagreement.” She spoke dismissively, though she was mortified to realize he’d seen her in a swoon. “Nothing about yesterday. When I ran up the stairs, I got breathless. I’m fine now.” With a sideways smile, she added, “Perhaps our stroll left me in a weakened state.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “I cannot get enough of you, Miss Lawton,” he said, caressing her fingers.
“I am happy to hear that, Mr. Ramsay. It’s you I’m worried about. Beatrice told me you had words with Papa.”
“Aye.” His face acquired a harder demeanor unlike any she’d seen on him before. “I believe I made my point.”
“What the devil have you done?”
He sat on the edge of the table and leaned over to fetch his teacup. He sipped as he looked her over, neat bun to black boots, the picture of proper decorum. “Have I told you you’re the bonniest lass I’ve ever laid eyes on?” His gaze was half-smiling, half-serious.
“You’ve laid more than eyes on me.” She could scarcely believe her audacity. It was the inner Morrigan, kicking and feisty as the colt, awakened by his appreciation.
He grinned; through it she saw lust spring. He liked her wicked tongue. “There are other things I’d tell you,” he said, setting down the cup, “but I suppose they can wait for a better time.” Though surely he must recognize this was not that time, he glanced at the doorway. Upon seeing no one, he caressed her shoulders then lowered his hands to her waist.
Morrigan was sorry she’d allowed herself to be talked into a corset. She wanted to feel his caress, plus, as the numbing power of the liniment declined, the thing chafed; the welts were throbbing.
“I confess I prefer you as you were yesterday,” he said.
“Hush. Tell me what you said to my father… and maybe I’ll reward you.”
He obediently removed his hands. “That his landlord, Sir MacAndrew, has received complaints from folk who’ve stayed at the Wren’s Egg. They accuse him of battering his children in a most vile manner, which they find cruel and affronting.”
“No.”
“Since I planned to stop here, Sir MacAndrew entrusted me with a message for Mr. Lawton, which would save him from sending his factor. If there are any more complaints of this nature, Sir MacAndrew, who enjoys a fondness for children, promises to dismiss Mr. Lawton without reference.”
“Is this true?”
“MacAndrew and my father were close. I’ve sent him a telegram and I know he’ll support what I’ve done. He is fond of children. I promised you your father would never beat you again. I intend to see he doesn’t.”
Morrigan fell into one of the chairs. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Overstepped my bounds?” His forehead creased.
She gave an impassioned shake of her head. “You’ve given me hope.”
He smiled, slow and seductive. Yielding to an unexplainable urge, she grabbed his hand and pulled him closer so she could touch the scar by his eyebrow. Lion scar. Moon-marked.
“You’ve a sweet smile, Curran Ramsay,” she said. “And you well deserve your reward.”
* * * *
The next day a letter arrived for Curran, forwarded from Glenelg.
“It’s from my aunt’s doctor in Edinburgh,” he said. “She is dying, and I’m her nearest kin.”
“I’m sorry,” Morrigan said.
“She’s been ill a long time. Consumption.” He crumpled the paper. “This is bad timing. I have to go right away. What about you?”
“All will be as it always is for me.”
“Your father was angry after I spoke to him yesterday.”
“Truly, Curran, I’ll be fine,” she said with a confidence she didn’t feel. She couldn’t tell him she hadn’t glimpsed Douglas once since he had attacked her. It was a fine holiday, after a fashion, but there was a chance he was biding his time, waiting for Curran to leave.
“Then I’d best pack my things,” he said.
They parted on the road beyond the inn. Morrigan wanted to kiss him but something of that nature would outstrip the wind in its eagerness to reach every ear in town. Giving her hand a quick, unobtrusive clasp, he promised to return at the first opportunity.
She wanted to believe him, but the practical part of her warned she might never see him again. Wealthy lairds didn’t return to country girls. They probably didn’t even remember them for long. Yet, no matter how coldly she thought it, no matter how rudely she sneered at her female notions, Morrigan couldn’t completely stamp out a hollow sense of loss, twined at the edges with anticipation, as she mended a tear in her father’s trousers. She tried, but Mr. Ramsay’s winsome smile and the blue spark in his eyes kept returning, offering promises she couldn’t quite expunge.
Boys were always throwing stones at Diorbhail Sinclair, shouting obscenities, and laughing at her.
If anyone discovered what she’d done, Morrigan understood that she would suffer the same fate— before Douglas took her life.<
br />
They hadn’t been so far from town, though the rolling hills and vast skies made it feel like a different world. What if someone had seen them?
Kit wed Enid a fortnight after, on the twenty-second of July. Creeping unseen among the well-wishers at the terminal, Morrigan watched Kit wave jauntily and Enid give an affected smile. They may have suffered disgrace, but Kit had redeemed himself, and the lass, through marriage.
The train reversed from the station. Never again would she see him, never this side of death.
She pressed one gloved hand briefly to her stomach. The risk she had taken and its possible consequences sent her heart thumping erratically.
Curran held every playing piece in this game. If indeed a child sprouted, her future and the child’s depended solely on his whim. Misery, poverty, shame… or marriage, a home, security.
She’d made herself hostage to a virtual stranger. His pleasing demeanor could have been a trick. He might turn out worse than Douglas Lawton.
With a determined shake of her head, she set out for the inn but someone blocked her way. The instant her eyes met Diorbhail Sinclair’s, the woman averted her face, gripped her daughter’s hand, and retreated towards the arched exit.
“Wait.” Morrigan blinked, astonished, at the appearance of a faint white mist around the woman. She watched it twirl and rise, almost as though it was trying to draw her attention. It extended outward, assuming a pale pink hue before it disappeared into the gloom at the terminal’s ceiling.
First Curran, the day she’d met him, and now Diorbhail Sinclair. Were her eyes tricking her, or had it really been there?
Diorbhail stopped. She turned, looking at the ground.
Morrigan glanced around the station. There would be no end to the punishment if word ever reached Beatrice that her niece had conversed with Stranraer’s whore.
An inner warning sounded. Don’t go too close. “Were you here to see off Kit Lindsay?” Because it surely couldn’t have been Enid.
“Aye.” Diorbhail continued to study the ground in front of her.
“You know him?”
With a quick, furtive glance, Diorbhail said, “No’ so well as you.”
“What-what….” Morrigan forced her mouth shut to stop the betraying stutter. Who could’ve told her what they’d done but Kit himself?
“Be careful. What you do can haunt you the rest of your life. It could turn you from your path, and change everything.”
Not giving Morrigan a chance to recover her equilibrium, Diorbhail turned and walked away. But she slowed as she reached the exit. She stood there a few seconds then again faced Morrigan. “I feel I know you. There’s something…” she struck her chest with a fist, “makes me want to help you.” A ragged laugh escaped. “Fine joke, that. Me, helping anyone.” Sunlight from outside touched her face and Morrigan saw that her eyes were both blue and green, like Loch Ryan’s shallows could be in certain conditions.
“They say Satan rules women.” There was a red jagged scar on the woman’s forehead, a memento from a well-thrown stone. “Do you believe it?”
“Men or Satan. What’s the difference?” Morrigan spoke on a crest of anger she hadn’t known was simmering so close to the surface.
Diorbhail blinked as though Morrigan’s words shocked her, too. “Everything that steps from the cave throws a shadow. Within the shadows are lessons, if you listen. If you look.” She paused. “Men fear the shadows women throw. They fear we’ll win back our power. It’s why they submerged us.” She approached Morrigan again, still holding her daughter’s hand.
Morrigan snorted. “We’ve all seen how much men fear you.”
Diorbhail let go of her daughter to reach out gingerly and touch Morrigan’s forearm. “Avatar,” she said, frowning. Her eyes stared intently. “Learn of those who cleared the way for you. The warriors.” She drew in a breath. “The shadow you throw is long… it will swallow you up if you’re not careful.”
Abruptly turning, Diorbhail held out her hand. Her daughter clasped it and together they walked away, leaving Morrigan struck and saddened by the child’s grave dark eyes and solemn face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MORRIGAN LAY IN bed, contemplating the changes this summer had wrought, wishing for a wind to move the curtain… a storm, anything to break this endless stretch of hot, clear, motionless days. If it rained, something might happen. Maybe Nicky would write, telling her it was time to come to Edinburgh.
Right now, were she in Enid’s place, she’d be far from the Wren’s Egg and Douglas Lawton. No one would lash her or call her worthless, not ever again.
She and Kit would hold hands as they climbed onto a ship bound for America. What a grand adventure it would be. She continued on, seeing them in the American wilds, maybe friends with the savage natives she’d read about.
She knew she was dreaming about Kit to avoid thinking of the absent and silent Mr. Ramsay.
“Morrigan!”
Beatrice’s voice ricocheted up the stairs. Morrigan had lazed too long and now must hurry. Flinging off the bedclothes, she leaped out of bed, took two steps, and doubled over, clutching her abdomen.
Oh… mucker.
She barely made it to the washbasin before losing last night’s dinner. The room spun, bounced, yawed.
A second wave of nausea returned her to the basin. She retched helplessly. Any moment her entire stomach would heave from her mouth.
When the gagging subsided, she slid to the floor. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her muscles trembled.
“Morrigan! Get your lazy dowp down these stairs afore I come away and skelp your arse! The kye are cryin’ for a hand to milk them.”
Morrigan pushed herself onto her knees and worked her way upright, using the legs on the commode. She staggered to her wardrobe and dressed. In wee measures, the nausea lessened until she could straighten and walk with a modicum of dignity.
Beatrice gave her a sour stare as she entered the kitchen. “Did you plan to spend the day in bed, m’lady? Get to your chores. You’re aye lucky your father left early.”
“Sorry, Auntie. Bellyache.”
Queasiness rumbled the entire day, along with two more violent bouts of heaving. When she refused breakfast then wanted nothing at midday, Beatrice sent her a narrowed, piercing glance and asked if she’d been snaking the honey again.
The next day brought nausea even more severe. Morrigan hoped she wouldn’t die still wishing to hear from Curran.
She finally received a letter from him on the twenty-sixth, then one from Nicky on the twenty-eighth. Curran said his aunt wasn’t expected to last the month, and faded more each day. After her death he’d have to arrange the funeral. Would Morrigan please write at once to assure him of her continued safety?
Morrigan searched for something in his words that would indicate his feelings, other than a gentlemanly concern for her health.
Nicky’s letter shared news from the last two months. He’d composed his first story and enclosed a clipping. It was all about a new Stevenson lighthouse at Dhu Heartach, which had been under construction for five years and was now nearing completion. Due to the unpredictability of the weather, the workmen had spent their summers living on site in an iron drum-like building, set atop narrow stilts high above the tumultuous sea. Night and day they labored on that treacherous rock, a place notorious for wrecked ships and lost lives. Nicky wrote that he’d been given permission to spend three nights in the barrack; that was enough to convince him of what terrible power the ocean possessed, had he ever doubted it. Waves slammed against the high-flung metal sides. Echoing, thunderous booms offered hints of what the workmen had endured during construction. His letter added that Thomas Stevenson’s son had made a brief appearance and they’d struck up a friendship. You’d like him, I think, Nicky wrote. His health isn’t good, but he’s the opposite of morose about it, and has a fine disregard for pious convention. I think, next to Kit, he’s become my closest comrade. He’s off to Germany and asked me along, bu
t I have too much work and had to refuse. You’ll meet him when you come.
On his next assignment, he was traveling south with a more seasoned writer to cover the Cutty Sark-Thermopylae race. Imagine being fee’d to travel! By the way, he’d met a lass who didn’t seem to hate him, could she believe it?
Oh, and had Da disowned him? Not that he cared…. The bastard could go fuck himself.
I miss our walks on the moor, Morrigan wrote to Curran. She tore the letter up then wrote it again on new stationery. To Nicky, she sent sage advice: Bring your new friend for a visit when Papa isn’t so vexed, and your lass, if she hasn’t come to her senses.
They had a larger than usual number of guests, many of whom were proper couples, and not inclined to drink away the evenings in the taproom, so she was ordered to entertain them at the piano.
Performing for strangers made her fingers clumsy and sweaty. To ward off fear and the mistakes it caused, she’d developed an intricate game. She closed her eyes, imagining her body diffusing through the window-glass and floating up over the inn. Chopin’s romantic nocturnes lent themselves nicely to such flights of fancy. Higher and higher, into fleecy clouds, the wind pulling her hair free of its knot, she glided across her father’s barley fields, above spreading oaks, stately beeches, and forget-me-nots half-hidden in velvety moss. Her eagle— the one that seemed so interested in her— swooped close, gazing at her from one fierce yet curious amber eye, and stayed with her, soaring away but always keeping her in sight.
She coasted across Loch Ryan, cold waves slapping her outstretched hands, then along high wet cliffs, over braes covered in gorse and heather. There was Nicky… working the fields, leather straps draped over powerful bare shoulders as he called to their great Clyde Leo to move on.
The eagle came so close she could touch its wing as she skimmed over green-checkered fields, ancient fortresses and villages, up to craggy mountains laced in mist. Switching easily from Chopin into the last movement of the Allegro Assai, her favorite Mozart sonata, she soared faster above dazzling snow as her fingers danced upon the keys. She usually imagined Loch Ness below her, but this time she pictured moody Loch Torridon, where Curran had fought a lion in an underwater castle made of pearl. The eagle’s cry, high and shrill, echoed across still water and off somber mountains.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 14