“Who gives this bride to be married?” Ruairidh’s voice was nearly lost beneath the throbbing of her blood. The aunts murmured and stepped away.
Curran placed her hand on his forearm and covered it with his. The nearness of the man who would soon be her husband left her breathless, her heart palpitating. Once, when she glanced at him, his face was overlaid with Douglas Lawton’s. She blinked hard to make it disappear.
Lifting his Bible, Ruairidh recited words that managed to filter through Morrigan’s anxiety.
For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known.
Would she, one day, see things clearly? Her life seemed little more than a mystery of mismatched puzzle pieces, understanding a pinnacle that lay beyond reach.
The minister began a tale about how God created woman from Adam’s rib while he slept, and how Eve became the mother of every living person. Morrigan liked the sound of that. It made females seem more important than she’d been led to believe.
She stole another glance at Curran. For the rest of her life he would have the final word, the power, legal and otherwise, to command her every action. He could beat her if he wished. She had dreamed of freedom, freedom to go places, do things, make her own choices, but she’d always known it was impossible, and now all hope was gone. She’d thrown away any chance of it the day she’d defied society’s rules.
Even if she hadn’t, there would have been some other way of binding her.
“You now surrender your individual lives in the interest of the wider, deeper life which you’ll have in common.” Ruairidh’s voice boomed through the dim nave. “Henceforth you will be one in mind, one in heart, and one in affection.”
Morrigan’s lungs constricted. Was Curran only standing here because of his unborn child? Would he grow tired of her, sorry to be bound to a penniless tavern-keeper’s daughter?
“I promise before God to be thy loving, faithful husband.” Curran looked steadily into her eyes. “True and loyal in every condition of life, in prosperity and adversity, in sickness and in health. I promise to keep myself unto thee until death do us part.” He smiled, lifted his hand, and stroked her cheek through the veil.
Scarcely hearing the minister’s instruction, she stumbled through her own vows, needing his patient assistance with every sentence.
The ring, a concoction of emeralds and amethysts that prompted an amazed “ooh,” was slipped onto her finger as Ruairidh said, “Forasmuch as you have consented together in holy wedlock and have pledged your undying devotion and fidelity, I do pronounce you husband and wife. What therefore, God has joined together this day, let no man separate.”
After such a solemn speech, the minister’s grin startled her. “You may kiss the bride,” he said, “and hurry up about it, for I’ll be wanting one of my own.”
While she stood at a loss, Curran threw back her veil, put his hands on her waist, and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss seemed different than any other he’d given her. It was quick, easy, and possessive.
“Now you’re mine,” he said, eyes glinting. “Forever and ever, Mrs. Ramsay, ’s tu mo bhean is mo rùn.”
It was Seaghan who explained. “It means you’re his wife and his love.” He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “He’ll never fail you.”
BOOK TWO
THE DISCOVERY
CHAPTER ONE
BACK AT THE inn, Morrigan and her aunts changed and repacked the wedding dress. Two lads carried the trunk to the pier, where a trim sloop, hung with garlands, waited to carry them up the Sound to Glenelg. The revelers collected seashells and danced on the pier to the piper’s lively reels and Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald’s songs. The lads fired their guns and passed around the whisky. The minister was there as well, having accepted Curran’s invitation to attend the wedding festivities.
Hints of winter nestled beneath a punching wind from the east. Morrigan wished she had a jacket.
Seaghan stood apart from the others, staring at a cluster of seals basking on the rocks a safe distance from the noisy merrymakers.
Morrigan approached him. “Thank you for coming, and for standing with Curran.”
“It was an honor I’ll never forget.” His pensive expression vanished into a wide, toothy smile. “Due entirely to the beauty of the bride.”
She smiled shyly.
“He’s a good man, Lady Eilginn. You can trust him. Never doubt it.”
“Did I seem to doubt it?” Inwardly she reeled at being addressed as “Lady.” Lady Eilginn. Me.
“I did think your eyes might pop right out of your head.” He traced her cheekbone with his index finger. “You turned as white as a prisoner facing the guillotine.”
She flushed. “Truthfully, I’ve not known Curran very long.”
“You’ll never regret this day.” He bent and gave her a kiss then faced the seals again as if embarrassed. “I wish I could find a lass for Aodhàn,” he said. “It’s what he needs, and sorely.”
“The man who lives with you? Curran said you saved his life.”
He nodded. “We were stuffed in the hold of the Bristol like herrings, hundreds of cleared folk from up and down the coast. I sneaked up on deck when nobody was looking, to get away from the stink.” He absently smoothed the puckered scar on his cheek. “There was a storm. Huge waves, rain lashing us like whips. The surf was deafening, and the sailors had to rope themselves to whatever they could. I was sure we’d sink.”
She shuddered. He noticed, and said heavily, “Aye, nothing makes a man feel so small as being on a plank of wood in the ocean during a storm.”
Having watched many a gale work Loch Ryan into a rage, she could only nod. It must be that much worse on the open ocean, with nothing at all to break the fury of the wind.
“We’d passed the lower Hebrides when I saw him,” Seaghan continued. “I figured someone from the hold had come up like me and fallen overboard. Luck saved Aodhàn, for the waves carried him closer. If they hadn’t, the captain would never have agreed to a rescue. I volunteered to pick him up myself.” Seaghan pursed his lips. “Maybe the bastard thought I’d drown as well and he’d have one fewer body to deal with. They put me off in a dinghy, and right away, Aodhàn was there, next to me. The boat capsized just as the men hauled us on board.”
“You saved him.”
“The wound in his chest alone should’ve killed him, but the bleeding was slow, no doubt from the cold. We emptied his lungs of water and I stitched up the cut. I’ve watched over him ever since. He’s a good-hearted man, but I’m the only one who knows it. If he could find a decent woman, it’d cure him from his dourness. I know it would.”
“What’s he unhappy about? His life was saved.”
“Well, lass, his life might have been saved, but his memories weren’t. To this day, Aodhàn remembers little more than his name, and it was a good two months before that happened. He thinks he lived on one of the islands. He says he remembers cliffs, which made me sure it was Berneray, as we were right off those cliffs when I fished him out of the ocean, but we went there, and nobody knew him, and nothing about it seemed familiar. Of course, nine years had passed by then. He didn’t want to go on looking. I don’t know why. It was as though he no longer cared.”
A pair of hands slipped around Morrigan’s waist. Startled, she swung around to find her new husband, who shrugged out of his coat and placed it over her shoulders.
“What’s Seaghan telling you?” Curran asked. “The old seal story?”
“Whisht, Curran,” Seaghan said roughly.
With a derisive laugh, Curran guided her a few steps closer to the seals. Heads rose; two slipped into the water, hardly disturbing the surface. “Seals are special,” he said, close to her ear. “One must never harm them, since no one knows if they are seal or human in a seal’s body.”
She frowned and turned to him, expecting to see the joke in his eyes.
“It’s true.” He no
dded gravely. “Seals change form at will, a ghràidh. Have you never heard how maidens from the sea beguile poor human men? Offspring from those unions are not ordinary children but human and seal in one. When a man kills a seal, he never truly knows if he has killed a beast or a human… maybe a member of his own family.”
“I see. And what does this have to do with the drowned man?”
“Aodhàn is Glenelg’s selkie.”
Morrigan stared at Seaghan. “You didn’t mention that.”
“Stop it now, Eilginn.” Seaghan grinned. “He’s repeating Agnes Campbell’s nonsense. She’s full of selkies, devils, spirits, and ghosts. Watch out for her, or you’ll end up terrified of your own shadow.”
“It’s not true, then?”
“Of course not. It’s bloody superstitious drivel. Forgive me, lass, but if it weren’t for Agnes, that rumor would’ve faded away years ago.”
“If he could remember his past,” Curran said, “he could tell everyone where he’s from. That would take the wind out of Agnes’s sails.” He tapped Morrigan gently on the temple. “But he remembers nothing. Nothing at all other than his name.”
“That’s sad.” It did seem quite sad, and lonely. Morrigan felt a pang of sympathy for the fellow.
“Ah, you feel sorry for him now, but when you meet him, trust me, his scowl and gruff manner will slay all your romantic notions.” Curran’s lips touched her ear and he drew her away from Seaghan. “Your wedding dress was lovely, did I tell you?” He held up one hand, smiling at her cry of surprise and delight. A necklace lay across his fingers, delicate gold supporting a set of emeralds, each one surrounded by diamonds. It swayed, sparkling in the glare from the setting sun. “Ibby outdid herself. But you’re far more charming naked. Tonight, I’ll have you in nothing but this, and your aunts be damned.” He cocked a brow. “What d’you say to every night, Mrs. Ramsay?”
All the labor on that daft dress, and he dared tell her he preferred her naked. Aunt Ibby would be scunnered to hear it, and that was a fact.
Playful breezes sought to free her hair from the snood beneath her hat. “This weather’s grand,” she said, resting her head against Curran’s shoulder.
Tendrils of warmth and poetry stole through her. She curled in closer and sighed.
“Aye,” he answered, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
She’d never heard him sound so content.
I do love him, she thought. I will make him happy.
CHAPTER TWO
THE SUNSET FLARED, sending glowing rays across the sky as though trying to add to the gaiety of the occasion. Morrigan discovered she had a passion for standing as near as she could get to a bowsprit, watching white veins of foam intersect the waves. She absorbed the land, sky, and swells, wishing this journey up the Sound never had to find a dock… that they could sail on to world’s-end. Gusts of wind caught the ribbons on her straw hat and sent them thrashing, reminding her of the day she’d lost another cap to the sea. The day I met Curran. Long ago it seemed, and she quite another person.
Whitecaps sprayed. A shooting fountain signaled the presence of a whale. Its tail fin slapped the water with a great noisy crack.
Kilgarry’s turrets appeared in the distance, each leaded window refracting rainbows carved of sunlight.
While Curran chatted with their skipper, Seaghan remained at her side. “The Sound is a dangerous crossing,” he said, knocking ash from the bowl of his pipe and leaning on the rail. “A body has to know what he’s about, or these currents will leave nothing but splinters. In the olden days, folk prayed for disaster. They needed the wood, you understand, and lost cargo could be sold.”
Belying Seaghan’s words, they sailed into Glenelg Bay as efficiently as a seagull to a plump mackerel.
Cool purple twilight fell across the earth, and the wash of water grew quiet.
Seaghan left them, promising to come to Kilgarry as soon as he rounded up Aodhàn Mackinnon. And, he added, he would gladly drag the lout by the scruff of his neck if he had to.
Kyle drove up with the wagonette and Morrigan relaxed into the curve of Curran’s arm as he sent the geldings trotting to Kilgarry. Curran conversed with Ruairidh Ogilvy, Ibby, and Beatrice, leaving Morrigan to drink in the landscape and reflect on the day.
Several of the Skye revelers had begged to come along, and as soon as they disembarked from the boat, the lads among them raced away, fighting to be the first to reach Kilgarry. Morrigan heard their old pistols and revolvers blasting; the winner returned to meet them, bringing a bottle of whisky and a cup, his sweaty face wearing a triumphant grin.
Touching his cap, wishing her good fortune, mistress, Kyle led away the horses and wagonette. Kilgarry was bright with lamps in every window and Fionna curtsying in the open doorway. “Welcome,” she said in a voice of respect. Many others crowded behind her, their faces smiling and inquisitive.
Curran captured her into his arms once more and carried her over the threshold. Cheers and clapping reverberated as he set her down in the entry. No devil’s work will ever bother this sonsie bride, some female shouted.
Fionna lifted the bride’s-cake and brought it down smartly on top of Morrigan’s hat. The cake broke and crumbled over her shoulders and she released a surprised squeak. Everyone laughed, including Morrigan as she brushed at her shoulders and bodice, sending crumbs to the floor.
“It’s a sorrow that I must perform these tasks in Mistress Therese’s place,” Fionna said. “I’m sure we all wish she were here to welcome her son’s bride.”
Some in the crowd, perhaps those who had known Curran’s mother, nodded somberly.
Fionna led Morrigan to the fireplace in the nearest drawing room. With the flourish due such an occasion, she offered Kilgarry’s new mistress the poker and tongs.
Ibby had taken pains to make sure Morrigan knew what to do. She scattered the logs and ash, and then built it up again, ready for lighting. When she straightened, Fionna gave her the heavy silver chatelaine full of keys.
“Lady Eilginn,” the group cried, lifting their glasses. But before these eager well-wishers could surround her, Ibby seized Morrigan’s forearm.
“She cannot attend her wedding cèilidh in this dress. You must be patient.” Morrigan’s plump aunt pulled her charge up the curved staircase.
Morrigan glanced down from the landing. The unmarried lasses from Skye and Glenelg, including Violet and Tess, were busy scooping up cake crumbs from the floor. Ibby told her it was called “Dreaming bread,” and that lasses wrapped bits of it in handkerchiefs to put under their pillows, for bride’s-cake had the power to bring visions of future husbands.
A white evening gown lay upon the bed in the master bedroom.
“Where did this come from?” Morrigan asked.
“I had it made,” Ibby admitted. “You’ll be needing several.”
“You want me to change again?”
“You’re no longer an innkeeper’s daughter.” Ibby gave her niece an exasperated glance. “You’re wife to the Laird of Eilginn. Besides, you cannot dance in what you’re wearing, and this is a cèilidh. You do want to dance with your husband, don’t you?”
Morrigan stifled a sigh. Never in her life had she changed clothes three times in one day, but Ibby had gone to some trouble. “Thank you, Auntie,” she said, and suffered herself to be undressed and have her corset retightened.
The gown was simple yet sophisticated, with lace-trimmed cap sleeves, the bodice styled in a close-fitting cuirass, and three large bows draped one after the other beneath the bustle.
A sash of Ramsay tartan was draped over her shoulder, blood red with ebony squares, pinned with a silver unicorn’s head.
Once Nicky had constructed a horn out of straw, sticks and wire, and had tied it to their mare’s head. Widdie looked quite silly trying to dislodge it. Morrigan fingered the brooch, wishing her brother could be here to dance with her, tease her, and flirt with the lasses.
Violet, flushed and smiling, entered. Morrigan
had noticed two of the Skye lads vying for her favor.
“Would you fetch the fabric blossoms for her hair?” Ibby asked the maid. “They’re in my room on the commode.”
“Aye, mistress,” Violet said, and went out again.
Ibby got on her knees and fluffed the dress so the lace around the hem showed. “You’d best prepare yourself. I didn’t expect to see crofters and fishermen here tonight. These are folk of deep faith, and I have no doubt they’ve already fathomed the truth we’ve tried so hard to hide. They know we’re in mourning for Douglas and Nicky, and they’ll see through any tale we tell. They’re going to watch the changes in you, and they’ll be counting their fingers.”
“Now she’ll see what shame feels like,” Beatrice said.
“Some may judge you, child. There’s no way around it. And the gossip will spread. You must do everything you can to befriend these folk, to make them see you as virtuous, as far as you’re able, and do nothing from this night onward that can be deemed unworthy of the laird’s wife. With any luck, you’ll convince them you’re a good lass, chaste but for the one mistake. What you want more than anything is to let them see how you love Curran, and didn’t trick him into marrying you. They’ll never forgive you if they think that’s what happened.”
Morrigan’s high spirits drained away at this somber warning, but she was saved from having to say anything, as Violet returned, her hands overflowing with star-shaped flowers. She and Ibby dressed the bride’s hair and finally, with the addition of a velvet crimson choker set off by a teardrop pearl, she was ready.
“It’s a pleasure to dress you,” Ibby said as she allowed her protégé a peek in the mirror. “You remind me of your mother tonight.”
“Many used to say Hannah could charm the Prince of Wales himself, right away from his Alexandra,” Beatrice said.
“Which isn’t much of a trick from what I hear,” Ibby said with a wink. “Now pious Gladstone… there would be a conquest worthy of notice.” She handed Morrigan a pair of long white gloves. “Shall we?”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 25