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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Aye,” Seaghan said, laughing. “Have you been in Mallaig all this time, Isabel Lawton?”

  She nodded. Morrigan thought she seemed quite giddy. Her excitement at being on Seaghan MacAnaugh’s arm was woefully clear.

  “It’s Maclean now,” Ibby said. “I was married, you know.” She sobered. “Gregor died four years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I wish I’d known you were so near. You must tell me everything, all about your life.”

  “And you must tell us of yours,” she said, pulling at his arm. “Come away, Seaghan, for I’m thirsty!”

  Half turning, he offered his free arm to Morrigan. “Would you join us, lass?”

  Morrigan took his arm with one hand and Curran’s with the other; the foursome left the dancing square and walked along the wide path between the food stalls.

  Seaghan gave Curran a glower. “Why did you tell me naught of this?”

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “That you have done. She’s comely, your lass.”

  His eyes glinting with mischief, Curran said, “I cannot wait until she’s mine at last. She’s guarded so well I’m amazed I was ever able to propose.”

  “No’ quite so well!” Ibby growled.

  “Let the lad blether.” Seaghan patted Ibby’s hand. “After the wedding, you’ll have your revenge. He’ll be faced then with all the men who’ll be pleased to steal her out from under his nose.” He lifted an amused brow and grinned as he met Morrigan’s astonished regard.

  “I’ve taken care of that, I think,” Curran said. “At least for a few months?”

  Morrigan could only hope that Seaghan wouldn’t notice her mortified blush, or discern the meaning of Curran’s words.

  Twilight brought the sword and dirk dances, bright bonfires, and uninhibited behavior from those who had enjoyed too much whisky. Kilted gentlemen tripped light-footed as ballerinas between sharp blades. Bards told ancient tales and recited poetry. Late in the night, the festivities wound down with the customary Burns:

  My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, my heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; a-chasing the wild deer and following the roe, my heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.

  “I am pleased to meet you,” Seaghan told Morrigan outside Ibby’s shop. In a gallant flourish, he bent over her hand and kissed her knuckles. “And should you grow weary of yon lad,” he added, cocking his chin at Curran, “Aodhàn and I will take you out sailing and show you the coast, any time you wish it.”

  Morrigan contemplated her newest acquaintance. Deep-etched lines marked his forehead and framed his eyes. A white scar, shaped like a turned-up horseshoe, puckered the center of one cheek. But those eyes held an irrepressible twinkle and a smile dogged his mouth. “I’d like that,” she said, giving up the attempt to look solemn and returning his grin.

  Merry. He was the sort who’d never be sad for long. Time spent with him would be full of laughter.

  Curran appeared inordinately pleased as he looked upon them. If the rest of Glenelg’s residents proved as dear as this giant, everything might just turn out.

  She couldn’t wait to get on with her future, to marry and move into her new home. The turrets had nearly punctured the clouds, hadn’t they? She would be forever grateful to this handsome lad who had made it possible.

  Her dream had come true. Though she hadn’t done a thing to deserve it, ardent love had found her. She could almost see the incandescent luster of a unicorn in the shadows behind him.

  She reached out and caressed Curran’s arm, adding, “But I’ll not be growing weary of my lad. Not ever.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THROUGH THE USE of shrewd inquiry and stealthy eavesdropping, Ibby discovered a minister on Skye with a reputation of nonjudgmental kindness towards couples who had snubbed Christian modesty. A letter was posted, and when the minister replied consenting, the couple set their wedding date for the thirteenth of September, a Friday, when the moon was waxing. There wasn’t enough time to have the banns read, nor did Ibby want to draw attention to the fact that her niece was getting married while still in mourning, but before she could work herself into a new fret and fever, Curran had the necessary special license in hand, claiming it was no trouble at all.

  For the first time since she’d been told about the pregnancy, Ibby relaxed. “No one on Skye will know we’re in mourning,” she said. “Everything’ll seem proper.” But then she added darkly, “It’ll be a different story at Kilgarry.”

  Ibby said she’d not have Morrigan wearing black, no matter what. “You’ll return to it after,” she declared.

  When Queen Victoria married she began a new tradition of wearing white, and Ibby happily embraced it. She purchased yards of white satin, tulle, chiffon, and lace, and the three, plus two ladies of Ibby’s acquaintance who volunteered to help, began constructing a wedding gown. It was a lovely creation, “Fit for a princess,” she said, “which is what you always have been to me and what you always will be, no matter what you do. I will no’ be cheated of making it, nor of seeing you stand at the altar in it.”

  Work on the dress began early and continued with hardly a pause until the failing light stopped them. “I have a reputation to uphold, don’t I?” Ibby shook out a swath of fabric. “And I’ve dreamed of this day since you were born. It’s my last chance to spoil you, to make you look as beautiful as you deserve.”

  Morrigan’s paternal aunt acquired a curious and unfamiliar thin-skinned tenacity. She reluctantly gave up the idea of fresh orange blossoms for the headdress, but was nearly as satisfied with the pink and sea green chiffon roses to be tucked beneath the tulle veil.

  Beatrice and Ibby exchanged scorching words over the bodice. Ibby, surprisingly, wanted a V shape— Because you’ve a fine bosom, she said when alone with Morrigan. Beatrice demanded a modest high collar. The chit’s insulting all decency as it is. Will we slap everyone in the face with her shamelessness?

  Crossing her arms, Ibby stated, “It shall be as I wish it. If you fear for your reputation, you may return to the Low Country.”

  Morrigan could only shake her head and wonder where her meek aunt had gone.

  Tight sleeves flared at the elbow, inset with a profusion of lace. The fitted bodice— You can breathe after you’re married— was fashioned in the popular cuirass style. That, coupled with tight lacing, completely disguised the reason for the rushed wedding. It’s a good thing you’re small-boned, Ibby said as she had Morrigan turn in a circle. Some women show right well by this time.

  The final accents were fingerless lace gloves and silk slippers— I do pray it doesn’t rain, Ibby said, with a pleading glance at the ceiling. She brought out the pearl-drop earrings she’d worn at her wedding to Uncle Gregor, and shed a few tears as she held them to Morrigan’s ears, but grief vanished as she had a vision of seed pearls sewn into the bodice of the dress.

  “I’m not a princess, you know,” Morrigan snapped one late evening. She’d sewn all day, which she detested, only to hear her efforts weren’t right— she must rip everything out and start over. “We’re marrying in a half-mark kirk as far from civilization as we can get. No one’ll see me but you, Beatrice, and Curran. You’re dressing me up like I’m marrying the king of America, and spending a fortune on something that will never be worn again.”

  “There are no kings in America,” Ibby said mildly, breaking a strand of thread with her teeth. “And never have been. I’d think you would’ve learned that much before your father stopped your education.”

  Morrigan sighed, knowing her protests made no difference. The gown was the bonniest thing she’d ever seen, finer by far than the one Enid Joyce had worn to marry Kit. She would have to be carved of stone to not want to wear it. What difference did her comments make, anyway? Not caring a fig about practical matters, Ibby repeatedly said that she would rob a bank, if need be, to see her beloved niece dressed to perfection, and often reminded Morrigan that the dress wou
ld become an heirloom for her daughters.

  “My niece has no business becoming your wife if she cannot provide her own dress,” Ibby told Curran when he offered to cover the expense. She did allow him, however, to purchase dresses for herself and Beatrice, as was the custom.

  For the first time, Morrigan observed a dollop of Douglas Lawton in his sister. Custom! Form! Tradition! became the tiresome bywords of every conversation.

  For most of the week before the wedding, Curran stayed at an inn not far from Ibby’s shop so he wouldn’t have to ferry back and forth from Glenelg.

  “Would you care to honeymoon abroad?” he asked her one evening, as they chatted on the front steps.

  She shook her head. “Auntie wouldn’t like it, not while we’re in mourning, and I want to go to Kilgarry. Are you disappointed?”

  A sideways grin, accompanied by a flash of blue as he lowered his eyelids, told Morrigan she’d given him special pleasure. “If you want to go to Kilgarry, what sort of man would I be to refuse you?” He pressed her hand to his chest and gave her a pious leer.

  She pushed him, hard, then gasped as he dragged her off balance. He straightened before they sprawled off the steps and onto their faces, and caught her around the waist, drawing her close.

  “Morrigan.” From within the shop’s dark interior, Ibby’s voice cut the cool air like a flying dirk. “Mr. Ramsay. Behave.”

  He laughed, his exhalation warm against her ear. Her senses magnified the stroke of his fingertips on her temples; the clean scent of his shaving soap encompassed her like whisky fumes.

  “Shall I behave?” He kissed the junction of her throat and shoulder; the place, he’d learned through careful experimentation, which made her pliant as butter. “Tha thu gam chur às mo chiall.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That I’m going daft for want of you.”

  “Mr. Ramsay!”

  “Blether, blether, blether,” he said, but dutifully retreated, keeping hold of her fingers. They strolled down the front steps and walked to his horse.

  Twilight blurred the outlines of his face. “She can’t see so well,” Morrigan said. “Kiss me.”

  He did, until they heard the door squeak. “Morrigan? Has he gone, isoke?”

  “Why does she call you that? What does it mean?”

  “She doesn’t know.” Morrigan struggled to regain her composure, to slow her heartbeat, to still her blood. “She has dreams of us. I’m her daughter, and that’s her pet name for me. We live on an island in the South Pacific, or somewhere hot. Kiss me again.”

  He obeyed then laughed. “You’ve made it damned difficult to ride.”

  She snickered as she understood. Served him right for what he did to her.

  He swung onto the saddle, checking his restive stallion. Bending down, he grasped her hand. “It’s your dreams that concern me,” he said. “When I get you to Kilgarry, I’m going to have Eleanor Graeme take you in hand, not only because she’s a midwife, although I’m glad she’ll be there for that. She’s also one of the most capable women I’ve ever known, a healer of the top order.” He frowned. “I’ve had my share of queer fancies.”

  “Like the women and the lion?”

  “That. Well, I’m not sure what that was.” He paused. “One day, after we’re wed, I’ll share some of them, if you will.”

  She withdrew her hand.

  “You’re reluctant? You think it will change how I feel about you?”

  Her spine stiffened. “How did you—”

  He cupped her cheek and gave her a wry smile. “Why d’you think I won’t tell mine until after we’re married?” He shook his head and added, “Trust me, Morrigan. I know it’s hard….”

  “I do, Curran.” I love you trembled at the tip of her tongue. But when she tried to say it, her throat went dry and the pregnancy sickness, which hadn’t bothered her for several days, roiled to life again.

  She watched him ride away, his vow, We’ll always be together, you and I… surrounding her, as soft and comforting as goose down.

  “I love you.” She forced it out, not understanding the dread that trickled down her spine, and the disturbing sense that she was committing an unforgivable betrayal.

  * * * *

  Everything, from the fishing boats in the harbor to the rainbow sheen in the dew on the cobbles, took on special beauty. Morrigan was marrying a most intelligent, merry, handsome gentleman, and he had promised to take a sword to everything that tormented her, including her bad dreams. What’s more, her nausea continued to improve, and she enjoyed eating again. One of Ibby’s trusted volunteers, a mother of five, told her that was the way, the lightheadedness and queasiness vanished as the body grew accustomed to its new state.

  Not even Ibby’s near-constant concern over what would happen when everyone knew the truth could dampen this relish for life. Beatrice, on the other hand, didn’t seem to worry. She’d said all she had to say about it, and now went on exactly as she had in Stranraer, quiet, dour, and busy.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. This was Scotland, not England, and the Scots were far more practical than their prissy neighbors. Since she would soon be properly wed to the father of her child, all would be forgiven.

  Her aunt did her best to prepare Morrigan. She even continued with Curran’s initial dance lesson, teaching Morrigan the steps to the shamit reel and to waltz, after a fashion.

  Ibby insisted on voyaging to Skye a day early so that Morrigan could rise on the morning of her wedding rested, and there would be no need to risk the crossing, the weather, or unreliable transportation. Curran arranged for lodging at a decent inn in the area. So it was that early on the twelfth of September, the wedding gown was packed into a trunk amid layers of tissue and the three women set sail for the misty isle.

  Ibby’s cronies came to see them off, along with their children. The crowd thickened as others joined in and the departure burgeoned into a noisy throng. Two handy young lads loaded the trunk into a wagon while others wasted many a bullet shooting in the air to mark the occasion. Ibby’s female friends tossed old shoes and handfuls of grain. All assumed the banns had been called in Glenelg and that everything was proper and seemly.

  As they neared the harbor where they would meet their ferry, one Tamarisk, owned by Captain J. Fraser, Morrigan turned a fond farewell gaze to Ibby’s squat residence. After today, she would never have to sleep in that narrow bed above her aunt’s dress shop, flattened between the wall and a snoring Beatrice. Why, Curran’s bed was so large—

  “My God!” Ibby screeched. She grabbed Morrigan’s upper arm and jerked her hard. “What d’you think you’re doing?”

  Morrigan stared at her aunt, puzzled and frightened.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know you’re never to look back when you set off to marry?”

  Realization flooded with a sinking sense of dread. “I forgot.”

  “Oh, you careless chit of a girl!” Ibby cried, but soon let it go. “There’s no help for it. Perhaps fate’ll be kind and forgive you. It was my fault. I should’ve reminded you.”

  Beatrice merely snorted.

  The ferry’s departure was delayed for some reason. Beatrice, who claimed to hate sea travel— though how a born and bred Scot could say such a thing was hard to understand— went off to the stern. Morrigan and Ibby stood on the starboard side, watching incoming fishing boats and the seals swimming in their wake, hoping for scraps.

  In due course the ferry worked its way from the harbor. The noise and furor of Mallaig fell away. More and more seals became visible, basking along the rocky shore, bobbing in the water. There were even two pups, still covered in white baby fur.

  “Look Auntie,” Morrigan said, pointing. “The weans!”

  “Now here’s a bit of good luck.”

  “How?”

  “Seals are always good luck, but here in the Highlands, you’ll see it’s far more than that. And they’re almost revered on Skye. None but the daftest, coldest devil woul
d kill a seal, and if he did, he’d regret it.”

  “They’re so bonny. Who could ever want to harm them?”

  “Aye, it’s those eyes, making you want to cuddle them like puppies. Look at that great ugly brute, throwing sand on himself like he has no’ a care in the world. And here we are, making all this racket. Hard to believe such a wee bonny creature grows up into that, isn’t it? Maybe they’re blessing your marriage. See? There’s one clapping for you.”

  They laughed, but the next moment Morrigan cried out when one of the careless males, lumbering across the rocks, went right over one of the pups and crushed it.

  “Oh, what a shame,” Ibby said.

  The pup’s mouth opened in a howl as it disappeared beneath hundreds of pounds of blubber.

  Morrigan slapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes closed. She heard the pitiful, helpless cry, calling to its mam, and was flooded with the memory of the dream she’d had in Curran’s bed, a fortnight past. A stinking crowd of drunken men holding her immobile, their knives dripping with blood.

  “Sickening,” Ibby exclaimed. “I don’t think he even noticed what he did. Morrigan, child?”

  Morrigan opened her eyes, dimly realizing she was standing portside, though she had no memory of running there.

  Ibby’s forehead was creased with worry. Worse, Morrigan had managed to draw the attention of Captain Fraser, who came up next to Ibby, looking almost as fashed as her aunt. He worked his cap in his gnarled hands.

  “’Tis the way of beasts.” The captain patted Morrigan’s shoulder. “They have no sensibility. Life is ‘kill or be killed.’” He smiled kindly. “Can I get you a cup of tea, lass?”

  Morrigan gritted her teeth as the swift inner assault faded. She was on a ferry. Tomorrow she would be married. Though the dream sent spikes of panic through her, it was meaningless. There were no babies. It was strange, though, how her imagination could conceive such clear images out of nothing. “Thank you, no,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “I apologize for causing a fuss.”