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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  He turned her. “Lift your hair,” he said. When she did, he unfastened the hooks down the back of her dress, one by one, kissing her as he went. The ties on her petticoat were loosened, then the laces on her corset. “Your aunt armored you well,” he said, next to her ear. “But it’s no match for me.”

  Her head spun as she faced him, as he freed her of everything but her chemise and the lacy drawers Ibby had made for the occasion. He slipped the chemise off her shoulders and lowered it to her waist. Yet he was still fully dressed.

  It was mortifying. She grabbed at the undergarment and sought to cover herself.

  “No,” he said, stopping her. “Let me savor this.”

  She could hardly bear it, but she drew in a breath and gave him his way.

  The ties on her drawers were stubborn. “Bloody knots,” he said, and before she could help him, he’d seized the material and ripped it.

  Was he vexed now? His tone cast her out of the languorous spell he’d created. Why were men so angry? She was half convinced that those who appeared friendly were hiding their true natures, simply waiting for a chance to turn violent.

  Aodhàn Mackinnon’s anger had seemed barely contained the whole night. He was grave, aye, but more. There was pain in his eyes. It was disquietingly similar to what she’d seen more often than not in Douglas Lawton’s. Her father’s rage had controlled everything for years on end, the need to avoid igniting it, or, if it was ignited, the need to hide until it passed.

  His rage had frightened her, but she’d always known his anger was birthed in some kind of awful pain.

  Before she’d awakened that day on the moor outside Stranraer, to warm sunlight and the weight of his head on her breast, she’d dreamed of Curran, though he’d looked different, marred with terrible scars, the worst of which was rather like the one he bore now, only much bigger, disfiguring the entire side of his face. I will have victory, he’d said. It had been tenderly spoken, yet threatening as well.

  She placed the palm of her hand on his cheek and moved her fingers up to the scar by his eye. She felt the slight ridge of it, and a strange vein of heat.

  It was gratifying how her touch instantly gentled him and drove away all hint of irritation, reminding her of the ancient princess and unicorn fable. She tucked his hair behind his ear and stroked his face, feeling newly sprouting stubble.

  He drew her in, kissing her palm, her cheek, her throat, until she lay pliant and willing against him, worry vanished like shadows in bright sunlight.

  She felt his heart pounding, and was deeply moved. It raced for her. Because of her. He wanted her. Loved her. She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands over his warm skin.

  “Mine,” he whispered, trailing his fingers over her ribs. Something in his eyes, his voice, suggested he couldn’t quite believe it. He gripped her arm where it lay against his neck, and kissed her wrist. “Mine,” he said again, almost indecipherably.

  She closed her eyes, but that brought a fancy of dropping down an endless tunnel where she would disappear, truly be his, no longer herself at all.

  Will I never be my own?

  Wood collapsed in the fireplace, creating a small eruption of sparks. Then there was no more thought or fear. There was only the swift need to rid him of clothing, followed by the sensation of flesh, the joyous pattern of breathing, of joining and kissing, of seizing his shoulders and crying out, then succumbing to the heat of him like a candle beneath flame.

  Gradually, she returned to awareness, to the crackle of wood, the rough-soft texture of the Brussels carpet, the fragrance of her perfume mingled with the sweat and weight of his body.

  His voice was an ardent murmur against her ear. “You’re going to wake in my bed every morning for the rest of your life.”

  “Loved…?” she asked.

  His arms tightened. “More dearly than life.”

  “Forever? Will you love me forever?”

  “Nothing will ever part us.” He lifted his head and met her gaze. “Nothing ahead but years and years of happiness. I adore you, Morrigan. I’ll adore you forever.” He kissed her on the mouth. “This time, I will make the right choice.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHELL AND PEBBLES crunched beneath their boots as Aodhàn and Seaghan made their way home. Traces of mist floated above the water and snagged in the branches of the nearby alders.

  “Such a night brings back my trysts with Hannah.” Seaghan’s breath clouded in the moonlight. “We had a secret spot not too far from here.”

  The call of a late-flying curlew keened above their heads.

  They came to the road above the coast. Here and there a star twinkled in the eastern heavens, while overhead, a plump waxing moon— good luck for the wedded couple— offered milky radiance. To the west, ominous blackness outlined a coming storm.

  Aodhàn listened to the sea’s husky murmur. If he could stop, if he could go into the water, maybe he would finally understand the message it tried to convey. Was he the only man who heard voices in the waves? No one else had ever mentioned such things.

  He suspected the sea held his lost memories, in trust, so to speak. The secrets, the key, lay deep beneath the surface; he could retrieve them if he could find a way to hold his breath long enough.

  Lightning streaked, briefly silhouetting the sharp-tipped Cuillin of Skye.

  The two men slid down the scree as they descended to the bay. Lightning flashed again, and struck something on the island. Thunder cracked and wind rose, roughing the water.

  “What of you, mate?” Seaghan asked. “Have you ever spent time in the arms of a lass, deep in the forest with only rabbits and deer to witness?”

  “Who knows?”

  Seaghan shook his head and sighed. “Maybe Curran’s new wife might tempt you to give it a try?”

  That got his attention. “Say what you mean.”

  “Do I need to tell you it was wrong to go off outside with her? You didn’t hear the gossip, but I did. No doubt Curran did too. ‘Hist,’” he quoted, mocking a woman’s voice. “‘Look at Aodhàn Mackinnon, who never bothers with the lasses, sneaking out alone with the new mistress of Kilgarry, and it her wedding night.’ Oh, aye, they had a right eager time of it, damn them.”

  “She’s the one who wanted to go outside. Should I have left her?”

  “It would’ve been more like you. What went on out there? You both appeared far too serious for a wedding party, and for two who’d never before met.”

  “She was asking me of the clearings.”

  Seaghan’s breath huffed as he took that in, and he rubbed his forehead. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m drilling you like a Sasannach judge. But when I went looking for you, you seemed….” He jerked his chin. “I thought you about to be improper.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  The sky sparkled as lightning scattered between clouds. Thunder rumbled. Both paused, caught up by the show. Aodhàn turned his face towards the cold wind, breathing in a sweet clean smell of rain.

  “This reminds me of the first time I saw you,” Seaghan said. “The waves were so high I almost missed you altogether. You’ve never told me what happened, why you were in the sea, stabbed and half drowned.”

  “I cannot remember. You know that.”

  “Aye, well, I thought it might’ve come back sometime in the last nineteen years, and you neglected to let me know.” He stared into the night, his face illuminated by intermittent lightning flashes. “As for me, I recall when Hannah and I were promised. We met in the forest one night. There was nothing different, nothing amiss. She was happy. In the morning she was gone, had run off with Douglas Lawton. By the time I saw her again she was his wife, and about to give birth. I wanted to throttle her.”

  “She smiles like you.”

  “Lady Eilginn?”

  Aodhàn nodded.

  “Do you think she’s mine?”

  “How can we ever know?”

  “Aye, with Douglas and Hannah dead, who is left to know?” Aft
er a moment, Seaghan brought out the ring he’d received in the wedding cake. “Me, married,” he said. “An ugly grizzled old man, poor as sin and set in his ways.” He shook his head. “I’m going inside.” He went away across the sand; Aodhàn saw a wee flare as he lit a lamp.

  Waves sucked the shoreline. Aodhàn’s fingers curled around the jade rose in his pocket.

  A rose for true love. Wouldn’t that be a miracle!

  Lightning created a silvery luster on the water. It reminded him of the amazing portrait of Morrigan emerging from the ocean, clad in a gown of foam. It almost seemed she swam there now, coming in close. Her head rose above the surface, loose hair trailing, black in this light. She beckoned, her fingers long, webbed, betraying what she was. Her eyes reflected the fitful light, big and dark as a newborn seal’s.

  She lifted her arms above her head and retreated. She was naked, her flesh shining, her lower torso fused into a mermaid’s tail. She went under and surfaced again, farther out. When she laughed, the sound of it was as cold as the ocean itself.

  “Can you forget me so easily?” Her voice crooned inside his head. “Come to me, Mackinnon. My Mackinnon. Aodhàn. Come and kiss me.”

  Water foamed around his knees. It was so frigid it burned, but he took another step, and another.

  “Aodhàn.” She swam close again. Her eyes glinted with moonlight, yet shadows lurked beneath brows, below cheekbones, making her appear skeletal, and there was a dark slash across her throat. He clasped her arms and lifted her, drinking her in. She was cold, wet, and salty.

  She buried her hands in his hair, drawing his face closer. Next he knew she’d pulled him over. Water bubbled around his head, the sound of wind and thunder abruptly severed. Nothing now but the voices.

  His siren turned and swam away, into the deep, where the hissing water warmed and there was no more need to breathe.

  * * * *

  Princess Aridela stared at the foreigner.

  “No man will have you but me. Only me.”

  The lamplight revealed green eyes and hair the color of ripened barley. He was different, exotic, exciting. “I cannot regret your taking what is so sacred on Kaphtor,” she said. Her own father, Damasen, had come from the mainland. Her mother had told her many times how much they loved each other.

  “Regret? It is moera, our share of fortune and fate, written before the sky was formed. I am meant to love the royal princess of Crete. I alone.”

  Stabbing pain brought Morrigan out of the dream. She was lying on the floor in the elegant drawing room at Kilgarry, speared by nothing more evil than the horn on the silver unicorn brooch from her sash. She’d rolled over on top of it.

  Curran pulled her sleepily against his chest.

  “I had an unco dream.” She saw him clearly, that blond hero, arrogant, exuding strength and confidence. No man will have you but me, he’d said. Her fantasies were insistent, as though fighting to make her understand something. Yet the message escaped her.

  She’d dreamed of the warrior many times. Once or twice he’d appeared when she was awake. Who was he? Why did her brain continue to conjure him?

  “No wonder,” Curran said, “sleeping on the floor. Let’s go up.” He paused, running his cheek along hers. “I was a lout with you earlier. The way they all ate you up with their eyes tonight… you’re too innocent to understand. I’m sorry.” He kissed her tenderly. “It was no way to conduct myself. Tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

  She frowned. “Ate me up with their eyes?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just know that I love you… Morrigan Anna Lawton Ramsay.”

  They gathered the discarded clothing and climbed the stairs, holding hands, her sash trailing behind like a long wedding train.

  * * * *

  Apprehension wormed its way to life when Seaghan rose and saw Aodhàn’s untouched bed.

  “Eh, leave him be,” he said, and boiled porridge.

  But like a splinter, it gave him no peace. A deep, inner alarm clanged. Find him, it insisted.

  He backtracked towards Kilgarry, trudging south along the coast. Sunrise was coming— the sky shimmered with promise along the hill summits. Three or four diamond-bright stars lingered in the vast expanse of cobalt, and airy clouds released insignificant veils of rain, which dissipated before reaching land. He stared at the green and purple sea awhile, watching it rush and foam. The air snapped at his cheeks.

  Where had that foolish lout gone?

  He came upon a group of women waulking cloth the old way, with their feet, shrinking and thickening it to make plaids, breeks and dresses. While they labored, they sang a ribald Gaelic tune, ridiculing their men’s prowess in bed. The sight of Seaghan sent them into giggles, and caused a flock of foraging sparrows to rise, making an angry protest.

  He removed his glengarry. “Have any of you seen Aodhàn Mackinnon?”

  “Missing again, is he?” Rachel Urquhart plucked her whimpering babe from a blanket and trilled soothing sounds.

  “Well, maybe.”

  “Let him be,” advised Agnes Campbell. “No doubt he’s with the seal-folk. He’ll not thank you for meddling.”

  “Oh, Agnes.” Seaghan sent a pleading glance heavenward. “It’s daft how you believe those tales. You’re a grown woman.”

  “And you’ll be a modern man of the world then, Seaghan MacAnaugh? You don’t believe in selkies, who come on land in human form, or the daoine sìth, or bean-nighe, who foretell our deaths?” She made a furtive gesture with one hand against her breast. “Go on and dismiss that he was found in the sea, that he’s always drawn to water, and that he has no memories. Dismiss all of that as coincidence. I will no’ be so foolish.”

  “Agnes, for Christ’s sake.” Seaghan shook his head.

  One of the other women snapped, “Tell us, then, Seaghan. Where is it he vanishes to?”

  “I’ll admit I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “But that doesna make him a selkie now, does it?” Affixing his glengarry on his head, he waved and climbed down the hillside, hearing their voices rise again in song behind him.

  Disturbing memories revived, of Aodhàn’s sprawled body, cold and colorless on the deck of the Bristol. Seaghan had been surprised to feel a heartbeat. A gash across the man’s chest oozed blood. Everyone thought it a knife wound.

  He might live, Seaghan remembered thinking with pessimism.

  Dismiss all that as coincidence. I will no’ be so foolish.

  Many days passed before Aodhàn regained enough strength to walk. Seaghan well minded his comrade in those days— more a bent, greenish-pale weed than a man, dark circles etched deep beneath his eyes. Silent and brooding, he stared most of the time out to sea. Only the lack of wrinkles or grey hair suggested he was young. More than once Seaghan wondered if Aodhàn hadn’t meant to drown himself. He never spoke a word of gratitude, nor did his eyes ever lose their unrelenting torment.

  What the devil happened to you? Seaghan had asked.

  Aodhàn had frowned a long time as though concentrating, but finally admitted his memory was gone, stolen by the same ocean that even now lapped across Seaghan’s boots.

  He scuffed a divot in the sand and watched it fill with brown water. The rising sun spilled golden light across the hills.

  Where are you, damn it? The glare off the surface of the sea forced him to squint.

  He shaded his eyes with one hand. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in this far-reaching expanse of salt water, rocks, shingle, and the occasional dead fish.

  Yet… what was that? He glimpsed a huddled black speck, far along the strand, and sprinted towards it.

  Aodhàn knelt so close to the water it washed over his legs. He didn’t look up as Seaghan scrambled over a pile of soggy driftwood to get to him.

  “Aodhàn. Aodhàn.” Seaghan gripped his friend’s cold, damp shoulder, but there was no response. He might as well be a thousand leagues away, leaving only the shell of his body behind.

  Water ran over the man’s cheeks. Seaghan co
uldn’t tell if his face was wet from sea spray or if he’d been weeping. The suit he’d worn to the wedding cèilidh was soaked through.

  Yet there was fire in his eyes. Naked emotion. Aodhàn had always looked older than his age, but now, in some unfathomable way, he appeared younger.

  “What’s happened?” Seaghan knelt, almost afraid to know, and watched a muscle flinch in his friend’s jaw.

  “My wife. She’s alive.”

  “Christ save us all. You have a wife?”

  Aodhàn rubbed his forehead. A necklace was clutched in his hand, a chain holding a round silver charm upon which was carved two crescents on either side of a dark blue stone. The first time Seaghan had seen it was the day he’d pulled Aodhàn from the ocean. It had been knotted around his forearm. Many times they’d examined it, wondering where it came from, what it meant.

  “Where is she?” Seaghan asked. “Have you seen her?”

  “Aye,” Aodhàn said faintly.

  Seaghan scanned the coastline. He saw no lass, nothing but shingle, sand, and rising hills.

  Aodhàn dug into the wet sand and brought up a fistful, squeezing it between his fingers. “Every life is new for her. She doesn’t remember.” He gave a weak, stifled laugh then spoke something utterly indecipherable. “Zoi mou… agapi mou. T’aste’ri mou.”

  “Bloody hell. What’s that gibberish?” Seaghan tightened his grip on Aodhàn’s shoulder and gave him a rough shake. “Wake up, lad!”

  Aodhàn took a deep breath. “She called me ‘Mackinnon’ on Barra. And again last night.” He turned towards Seaghan; his lips were blue. “She almost remembers. She wants to remember. But if she does….”

  Practicality took over. “We must get you warm.” Seaghan half-dragged Aodhàn from the water to dry sand, feeling a strange swooping sense of having done all this before. “Have you regained your memory?”

  Aodhàn continued to gaze out at the water a moment more, then he actually seemed to see Seaghan, perhaps for the first time. His eyes shuttered. “Don’t… don’t ask me. I cannot speak of it.”