“You handled it well.” Aodhàn himself was reeling. He sought a last glimpse of Morrigan’s head before she disappeared into the corridor. The faery who speaks to eagles is an ordinary woman like any other.
No. Not she, not the lass who faced an eagle without fear.
“I’ve never seen your Hannah,” he continued, “but there’s someone else Curran’s wife resembles.” She’d frowned at him as though he was an apparition. Her teeth had caught her lower lip. As he pictured it, he lost himself in a vivid imagining of being that lip, of feeling the warm bite as she tucked it into her mouth against her tongue.
Seaghan glared at him. “Who?”
“You. I can’t pin it down though. Something about her smile.”
A blooming rush of scarlet raced up Seaghan’s neck and disappeared beneath his beard. He drank off his whisky and coughed. “You insult the poor lass,” he said, but it was a weak joke at best. Almost immediately, he added, “There’s not a speck of Douglas Lawton in her. Hannah played a deranged game and has left us to untangle the coil. Devil take the scheming of females.”
In a calmer voice, he said, “I’ll ponder this, especially now you’ve seen it too, but I don’t want gossip to reach her ears.”
Aodhàn scowled. “You think I’d carry tales?”
Again Seaghan flushed. “Forgive me. I’m fair muddled. Out of every lass that breathes, in Scotland, in the world, could Curran have married my own lost wean?” He set his glass down. “Why did I let myself believe so easily that Morrigan was his? I should’ve searched her out, just to be sure. Instead I let Douglas take her without a whimper.”
“Watch yourself,” Aodhàn said. “She could well be his. You’re letting yourself imagine things that might not be true.”
Two women came to the doorway, their brows crinkling as they blinked at the empty room. The elder held herself aloofly regal in a fancy black dress and velvet choker. The younger, in subdued grey, fanned her face.
“There’s the one who could tell me,” Seaghan said. “But she won’t. Pure spite, that’s what she’s made of, the bitch.”
“Which one?”
“The one in black. Hannah’s sister, Beatrice. Curran told me she’s lived with Douglas and Morrigan all these years. Isabel Maclean is the other. Douglas’s sister.”
As they watched, two more latecomers appeared behind the women. William Watson, the local Presbyterian minister, and Father Drummond, the parish priest.
Old, nagging discomfort swelled inside Aodhàn at the sight of the priest. Curse it; he’d grown weary of this itchy, bewildering urge to put entire continents between him and every Catholic. He used to blame the religion, the popery, the black robes, and incense, but now he wasn’t sure. It felt like something deeper. Not knowing what it was made him want to shoot something or start a brawl.
The priest appeared frail tonight, bent more than usual. He leaned heavily on his cane. Yet his eyes perused the room with spry interest. He grinned as he clasped Ibby’s hand, then Beatrice’s, and asked after their health.
Seaghan inhaled deeply and left Aodhàn’s side, plastering on a polite smile. “Ladies,” he said, bowing. “They’ve all gone off to dinner. Reverend Watson? Father Drummond? If you’ll come with me, I’ll lead the way.”
He held out his right arm for Beatrice, his left for Ibby, and led the small procession into the hall. Their voices faded away.
Aodhàn knew there was no other choice. He’d allowed Seaghan to talk him into coming, so he might as well make the best of it. It would be noticed if he never appeared in the dining room. More gossip would erupt. That was the last thing he wanted.
He tried to push out the niggling thought that he’d only see her again if he joined the others.
Drinking the last of the whisky, he set down the glass and stalked into the corridor.
Laughter and lively conversation came from somewhere ahead. As he followed the sound, he glanced into the open doorway of another drawing room. What he saw brought him to a halt.
Someone had painted her. The artist had seen what Aodhàn had glimpsed, that day in the clearing, and captured it on canvas.
Illuminated by lamplight, the sea-maiden’s unblinking gaze rested on him almost accusingly. He stared back, fighting indecipherable emotions, until he realized he had grown physically aroused, flesh shivering, prick unraveling, elongating, searching in its selfish heedless way for satiation….
“Tha ise bòidheach.” The unexpected sound of his own voice returned him from wherever it was that face had taken him. He swiveled away with a growled curse. His heart was racing; he couldn’t catch his breath. She was beautiful, but this response was too overwhelming to be mere reaction to beauty. When he tried to walk, he stumbled; as much as he hated giving in to weakness, he had to lean one shoulder against the wall, close his eyes, and inhale deeply until the lightheadedness faded and his legs would once again support him.
CHAPTER FOUR
LINEN NAPKINS BLOOMED from wineglasses so fragile Morrigan feared they might shatter if touched. Six candelabra centerpieces scattered warm flickering light over two heavy-laden tables. Flowers exuded an intoxicating scent. Fionna opened the drapes, baring deep-set narrow windows framing on one side Kilgarry’s gardens and on the other the silver-black expanse of sparkling water, set before a moonlit suggestion of Skye’s craggy mountains.
The seat of honor at the table’s head was given to the bride. Curran, observing old custom, made his way around, filling glasses and offering food like any good footman.
Haggis and roast venison followed a variety of soups and broths. Wine and home-brewed ale flowed. Cream-drenched puddings made a rich, unaccustomed dessert.
After the final round of cheeses, Janet presented her masterpiece, a magnificent bride’s cake in fancy European tradition, three tiers, complete with glossy white frosting and pretty blossoms. She allowed several moments for dutiful admiration before removing the top two tiers and handing Morrigan a large knife.
The bottom layer was already scored into the proper number of slices; Morrigan only had to complete the cuts and scoop each bit onto a ready plate.
“Careful,” Janet warned as she passed them out. “For this be no ordinary cake.”
They all waited politely for Morrigan to begin. As she cut her slice, her fork encountered something hard, and her husband, a trickster’s gleam in his eyes, ordered her to share what she’d received. She lifted the object on her fork, half covered in frosting, glimpsing the unmistakable shine of gold. Curran took it, polished it on his napkin, and returned it to her with a solemn bow.
It was a heavy gold Luckenbooth pendant, of the type, only finer, that was sold all over Scotland. Two entwined hearts, surrounded by a Celtic knot, with the inscription Eternal bond of love carved into the back.
Pretty. But why the devil was it in her cake?
“Mistress found the hearts!” Janet announced, though she seemed more satisfied than surprised. “Now, the rest of you, search out your own treasures.”
The wedding guests dismembered their segments with no consideration for all the toil that had gone into the baking. Rachel Urquhart uncovered an ivory wishbone. “To grant me any wish,” she cried, holding it in front of her babe, who promptly tried to stuff it in her mouth. Padraig’s was a coin. “Gold to bring good fortune. I could do with some of that.” Quentin Merriwether’s silver bell promised a wedding, which he said he hoped meant his son, as he was already married, and Father Drummond’s horseshoe foretold good luck. The somber minister, William Watson, received the blessing of a pewter thimble, but all he said was “Pagan rituals,” disdainfully, and set the item aside.
“A harmless custom, in the spirit of the day.” Curran’s tone brooked no argument.
William shrugged.
To break the short silence, Morrigan asked Seaghan, “What is yours?”
Grinning sheepishly, he displayed a cairngorm ring, dangling at the tip of his pinkie finger, which was as far as the thing would go.
“
He’ll be next to marry,” Janet cried. “Our Seaghan, a bachelor these many years.” Her smile turned crafty. “And who might be willing, I wonder?”
Laughter inflamed the group. Fionna blushed and ducked her head.
“And you, sir?” Morrigan asked Aodhàn Mackinnon. “What was in your cake?”
Agnes Campbell pushed his shoulder, crying, “Come away, Aodhàn. Show us your charm.”
He lifted a plump, heart-shaped gold locket.
Scarlet suffused Janet’s round cheeks. She rushed to him and snatched the trinket, exclaiming, “Lord, I gave you the wrong slice. This was meant for the groom, Aodhàn Mackinnon, no’ you. You must exchange with the master.” She carried the locket to Curran, wiping it furiously on her apron.
“Never fear, Janet. A mistake easily made, easily mended.” Curran gave her the ornament from his cake, a perfect rose carved from jade.
“There you are, Aodhàn,” Janet said, carrying it to him. “A rose in green, to bring you true love. Wouldn’t that be a miracle!”
The group examined their gifts, laughing with intoxicated abandon.
Morrigan inspected the heart Janet had returned to Curran. It possessed a minute catch that flipped the top open when pressed. Inside was a lock of her hair, bound with red string, and an inscription: Ruth 1:16.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t you know?” Curran replied, his grin full of mischief. “You’re giving it to me.”
William Watson’s gaze seemed predatory. “You don’t know your Bible verses, Lady Eilginn?”
The scorn accompanying Lady Eilginn was so subtle Morrigan suspected she was the only one who heard it. She stilled, as frightened as a deer spotting the hunter. They must never discover, these faithful Christians, the things Douglas had said about religion. They couldn’t find out she’d never read a word of their Bible.
“Don’t torment the poor girl,” Father Drummond cried. “D’you expect her to have memorized every chapter and verse?”
Ruairidh clasped Morrigan’s hand. “Let me recite it to you,” he said. “It’s a sweet saying, and perfect for the occasion.”
“Please,” she said.
“Ruth said, ‘Whither thou goest, I will go. And where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.’” He squeezed her hand. “That’s been a favorite of mine my whole life. It’s a bonny way of professing true love, is it not?”
“Aye.” She smiled at Curran. Though a bit overdone with death.
Curran pushed back his chair and stood. “Time for dancing,” he shouted. “It isn’t a proper wedding without dancing. And ale. Plenty of ale. Away to the barn!”
With a great cheer, the wedding guests rose, echoing, “Away to the barn!” Gossip and laughter bounced off the walls then into the sky as they all trooped outside.
Morrigan found herself swept on a tide of folk who shook her hand or spoke advice in her ear as she smiled and searched for Curran, who had gone missing. She wondered briefly why they weren’t using Kilgarry’s beautiful ballroom, but as she entered the brightly lit and decorated barn, smelling of hay and horses, she decided this was much better, especially for the present crowd. When Curran reappeared he’d changed from his formal wedding clothes into casual garb he might wear when riding on his land. He clasped her elbow and bowed elaborately, causing her to laugh and return the gesture with a deep curtsy.
The hired fiddlers began a duet, and were joined by a tin whistle and flute. One man set the beat with a hand-held drum and another played a clàrsach. The music swept into the traditional shaimit reel and bounced off the high wooden timbers.
Curran seized Morrigan’s arm and pulled her to the dancing area. Padraig, Malcolm, and Quinn stayed by the punch barrel, which held a concoction brewed from whisky, sugar, and boiling water. Violet and Tess took turns stirring it as they engaged in flirtations disguised behind insults with the lads from Skye.
For several moments she and Curran danced alone, but with the help of the whisky— she remembered it was called uisge-beatha— and soul-stirring music, their guests soon joined in, singing and shouting the words to the tunes as they dipped and whirled.
Morrigan’s circumspect sips of punch began to add up to a drink or two. Through the wild, sweaty uproar and disjointed, reverberating sound, the image of him returned. The tall thin man with the black hair and bleak eyes.
She heard a faint, familiar voice, but couldn’t place it.
Come to me. I’ve waited so long….
CHAPTER FIVE
AODHÀN ENTERED THE barn after everyone else. He hated dancing, though his feet seemed to know the proper movements.
Curran and Morrigan had moved off the dance floor and were chatting with the priest and minister. Mrs. Ramsay appeared to have difficulty catching her breath— no surprise when one considered the daft folderols women bound themselves in. In this setting, there was no hint of red in her hair, only rich, dark brown that made her seem like a different woman altogether from the one he’d watched in the glen.
Father Drummond clasped Morrigan’s hands, kissed her cheeks, and accepted the glass of punch Fionna offered him. The bride’s aunt, Isabel, led the old man to a chair where he could watch the festivities more comfortably. He enjoyed immense popularity with Protestants and Catholics alike. His opposite was William Watson, the minister, who held himself stiff, cold, and mysterious, his collar of office as formal and unapproachable as armor. Curran spent only a moment with him before pulling his wife into the center for another dance.
Seaghan spied Aodhàn and crossed to his side. “I vow you look like a ghost,” he said. “Have you had too much to drink?”
Aodhàn shook his head. “I may suffocate, thanks to this bloody necktie.”
“You’ll survive,” Seaghan said callously. He glanced at Morrigan’s aunts. “I’m going to get reacquainted. Beatrice and I were allies of a kind, once. Wish me luck.” Setting his shoulders, he stalked towards the woman in black.
Aodhàn backed up until he felt the wall against his spine. Ill at ease, dressed in stiff, borrowed clothing, he knew his scowl would keep most of these folk at a distance— and that was how he wanted it.
Seaghan and Beatrice whirled by. Seaghan sent his comrade a private grimace.
One of the young men from Skye cut in on Morrigan and her husband. The lass changed arms and allowed the lout to waltz her away. For a moment they twirled without incident then Aodhàn saw him draw closer— too close. No doubt he was drunk, and had lost whatever kernel of sense he’d been born with. Lowering his head, the stripling said something, his mouth curving into a leering grin. Mrs. Ramsay acquired the taut mien of a cornered rabbit and overtly tried to create more space between them. Glancing over at the barrel, Aodhàn saw the other Skye lads watching and sniggering.
Curran was dancing with young Rachel Urquhart, her babe tucked securely in the crook of his arm. He’d noticed nothing, no doubt certain in his naïve heart that all was safe in his own barn at his own wedding.
Don’t ask me to do this. He is your brother, my lord.
Whose was that voice? Why did it keep invading his damaged brain? Why did it speak the same words, over and over, and only around Curran?
When next the bride waltzed by, Aodhàn tapped, harder than necessary, on the fool’s shoulder. “May I?” he asked, and stole her so swiftly, the daftie was left blinking like a sheep.
Her thankful gaze sent confusing pain mingled with thrills of pleasure down his spine. It took every mote of willpower to tamp down the erection that wanted to claim her right now, here, on the polished floor, to feel her respond beneath him. He could hardly bear the thought that there might be a bit of that Skye lout in him.
But no. He hadn’t grown hard for a woman in years… not since he’d come out of the ocean. She caused this craving, a need he’d thought destroyed years
ago.
At least that’s what he told himself.
Could she be Seaghan’s daughter? Where was the nymph from the portrait tonight? Why did she seem so cursedly familiar?
* * * *
Much like the day she’d met Curran Ramsay, Morrigan felt she might leap out of her skin. She hoped this time she wouldn’t make a fool of herself spouting whimsical nonsense about Greek heroes. Thank goodness, Aodhàn Mackinnon didn’t resemble the dream-lover.
Her flesh tingled where his palm pressed against hers. She felt another tingling at her waist, where his other hand rested. The sensation worked its way through her body as though she were a tree, struck and consumed by a thousand-armed lightning bolt. “I doubt I’ve ever known anyone as tall as you, Aodhàn Mackinnon,” she said, for she could think of nothing else, and she must say something. “Dancing with you fair puts a crick in my neck.”
“Sorry,” he said, shrugging. “I’m helpless to change it.”
His hair was long, falling past his shoulders, slightly threaded with silver. Some was pulled into an untidy knot at the back of his head. Beneath heavy brows, framed in thick black lashes, his eyes were green, like subdued light under forest cover. They seemed guarded: not suspicious in the way of Curran’s solicitor, but possessing rather the look of a man who willfully refused to trust anyone.
“Seaghan told me he pulled you out of the ocean.”
That odd tingling strengthened, as though his skin was suffused with crackling friction, or maybe it was a conducted charge from the Devil’s spear, if this ill-tempered frown was any indication.
“Aye. He did.”
She tried a beguiling smile, knowing the power it held with most men and wanting to see if it would affect him. “He says you need a wife, now Curran’s married.”
One brow lifted, but other than that, there was no reaction.
She glanced about at the dancers. “Everything is so well managed here. There’s really nothing for me to do. Perhaps I could help find you one.”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 27