She stepped over a disrupted pile of stones. “Nicky played here. Dear lad. Mam and I tried to make up to him for the loss of his mother. Hannah treated him well, too. But we never could make him understand why Neala wouldn’t come home. He couldn’t understand death left her no choice.”
Nicky, I know. My heart knows. As blithe and carefree as you seemed, you weren’t. An ocean of hurt lived inside you.
“My God.” Ibby knelt and pulled at some grass. Whatever she worked for gave her difficulty. She had to dig, but in the end the ground yielded its treasure. She held it out, a waterlogged, moldy hunk of wood. “This was your brother’s. I remember it.”
It was a carved wooden boat. There was still the broken-off stump of a mast, and a bit of twine that probably had fastened a scrap of cloth for a sail. He’d watched it bob on the water, maybe at Loch Alsh, to the north, or down on the Kyle Rhea, or perhaps in this wee burn that trickled past her father’s old ruin.
This was her land. Hers, where she should have grown up, meshed in the traditions and customs that now had to be explained. The Gaelic should’ve been her natural tongue, with English sounding strange and foreign to her ears. If her kin had not been cleared, she would have married and borne her babes here, in this meadow, in a blackhouse that no longer existed. Lifting her head, Morrigan closed her eyes and listened. She heard sparrows chattering, and breezes through the grass. She drew in air, and more. A thwarted life. If the clearings hadn’t ravaged Glenelg, perhaps Douglas wouldn’t have become that violent, horrible thing she’d known.
With her eyes closed, Morrigan allowed in a silence that echoed, bringing her castrated life into focus. Wee Nicky playing with his boat. Douglas ploughing his strips. Hannah stirring porridge over a fire.
Her legs gave way. She fell to her knees. Crimson cartwheels leaped across a fathomless black background. Almost able to step into it, the smells, the sounds, the life, she pressed the boat to her cheek and breathed in the scent of earth and wet wood. “Why did you do it?” she whispered. “You knew this would happen. You let it. You caused it. You’re a cruel god.”
Ibby knelt beside her. “Lord love you, child, forgive me. I shouldn’t’ve brought you here.”
Morrigan couldn’t open her eyes. It was frightening, how her blood pounded, She knew weeping would bring relief, but her eyes refused to part with a single tear. They were there inside, locked away. Perhaps the wild, hidden Morrigan held them prisoner.
“This is more emotion than I’ve seen in you since… well, as long as I can mind,” Ibby said. “I thought your heart had gone stone hard, or something inside you had been killed. But you must not hold back. Don’t be afraid to mourn. Sometimes, it’s all we can do.”
“I want to be alone, Auntie.”
“Don’t be daft. Let’s go to Kilgarry. We’ll have tea and you can cuddle the wean.”
“No. I want to think. I need time.”
“I will no’ go off without you—”
“Leave me alone.”
Ibby paused. She looked stricken. But, after a moment, she nodded. “Very well.” Rising, she brushed at her habit and blotted her eyes with her handkerchief before handing it to Morrigan. “We all need time alone now and again. If you forget the way, Glenelg is that direction. Go to the top of the hill and you’ll see it.”
“I won’t forget.”
“You’re sure?”
“Aye.”
After Ibby and her mare disappeared, Morrigan ran her fingertips over the miniature boat, feeling the splinters and warped roughness of her dead brother’s toy as she held a one-way conversation with God.
I know what love is now, because of my Livvy. But you’ll destroy it, won’t you? Like you did to Papa. The toy wavered into a dancing brown water spot and for an instant Morrigan thought she might weep after all. Why did you hate me, Papa? God did those things, not me.
“Well, what have we here? Lady Eilginn.”
Morrigan scrambled to her feet, blinking frantically. “M-Mr. Hawley.” Of all the people who might have come upon her this way, it had to be him— the cold, oppressive Englishman who made her flesh crawl. “I-I thought you were traveling.”
He wrapped his mount’s reins loosely around one of the tree stumps. “I returned just now. No luck today, I’m afraid.”
Averting her face, she stared at the Kyle Rhea. Damn him. She’d only wanted a minute, one brief moment in time, to think.
A curlew called, wretched and lonely.
“Why are you alone out here?” His clipped accent sounded harsh to her ears. “Something is wrong, Mrs. Ramsay.”
“I’m simply feeling sorry for myself, Mr. Hawley.”
“May I ask why?” His words were solicitous, but his manner mocking.
She shrugged. “I was imagining how things might’ve been, if the world were different.”
“I will not stand for this.” He extended his hand. “Come, I’ll see you home.”
“No, thank you Mr. Hawley. Women may be delicate, but surely we can have a moment of solitude every so often.”
“Not if it makes you sad. Please, sit at least. I insist.” He clasped her forearm and led her to a stone that was tilted vertically, its flattened crown offering a likely seat.
She didn’t want to display bad manners. Manners were so important to the upper class. Yet, what of his own? She hadn’t forgotten the way he’d leered at her.
His touch, even through her sleeve, made her shudder. Thank God, today she wore a high-necked, long-sleeved, full-skirted riding habit, along with a cap, jacket, and gloves, not to mention her undergarments. So many layers leant a sensation of safety, as though she resided behind an impenetrable fortress.
He perched on another stone beside her. “Imagine such treasure, hidden away in that backwater village.” He crossed one long leg over the other and kicked at the grass. “What was it? Stranraer? Makes me want to explore the entire country, it does!”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Hawley.” Though his words were embarrassingly out of bounds, he didn’t appear lustful, only attentive. She couldn’t expect him to understand how giving such a compliment, especially to a woman he hardly knew, was as demeaning as it was flattering. She sighed. He was simply attempting to lift her spirits, and no doubt assumed the quickest way was to give homage to her features. Curran often said similar things. She must be more patient. But Curran’s compliments never made her feel threatened or uneasy.
“Do call me Patrick.”
She inclined her head. Did other women ever resent the flattery men tossed about so carelessly? Perhaps, unlike her, they appreciated the admiration. She had heard tales, after all, of lasses forcing their corsets so tight their lower ribs snapped, but wasn’t sure if it was true. She’d also heard of ladies drinking arsenic to make their complexions fashionably pale. Were there women who were actually willing to barter their very lives—
Hawley’s hand cupped her knee.
Morrigan started. His cheeks were flushed. The man had no sensibility. He seemed educated, but Scotland’s rudest shieling boy knew better than to lay hands on a married woman.
“I was certain one of these days you’d go out by yourself.” He sounded a bit breathless, and his fingers tightened. “I was starting to wonder how long I would have to wait, though I would have waited all summer if I had to. Maybe through the winter as well.”
“I don’t understand.”
His gaze veered away. He pushed at his hair with fingers that trembled. Abruptly, he stood and seized her arms, forcing her to her feet. “You like to pretend you’re standoffish and proper. That’s one thing that never changes.” Leaning forward, he burrowed his face against her throat. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed your flesh. I swear you still smell the same.”
Morrigan tried to escape him and lost her balance as her feet became tangled against the stone she’d been sitting on. She would have fallen if he hadn’t been gripping her. “Let me go,” she cried.
Patrick pinned her arms at her
sides. His breath was hot against her cheek. “Playing innocent? Again? When you’d put the whores in the Haymarket to shame?”
Morrigan managed to pull one arm free. She slapped him as hard as she could and arched, shoving at him. Nothing had any effect. The man, though thin, possessed a wiry strength far superior to hers.
He laughed. “I’m ready for you, little vixen. You’ll not break my nose as you once did.”
In the depths of her brain, Douglas formed. Take down your dress, he commanded, in that silky, dangerous voice.
No, not again. Never again.
Patrick Hawley bit her earlobe, at first gently, then hard enough to hurt, to let her know that if she made him angry, he would inflict real pain— maybe rip it clear off. The way he tongued her flesh implied he was contemplating it.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll keep the secret from your oblivious husband, unless you think he’d like to watch. Remember Lycus? He watched, though he didn’t seem to enjoy it.” He rubbed his cheek against her bodice. “Keep your mouth shut and please me, if you want me to leave your husband alone.” He fumbled at her buttons.
“No.” She wasn’t sure why she wasn’t screaming. Part of her didn’t want to draw the attention of whoever might hear, for fear of what they’d think of her. She was also terrified that if she did scream, he would hurt her grievously, and enjoy doing it. Some inner sense warned that he might want her to fight more than he wanted her to succumb.
He merely laughed and trapped her hand in his again. “I swear you’re a comely bitch. The way you turn a man hard as rock hasn’t changed.” His tongue trailed over her jaw. “I like how you make a bustle swing. You know what it does. A man can’t think of anything but having you. That’s why you do it. Will you beg for mercy? Beg me, my slave-queen.”
Rage formed, shifted to terror, and reformed again. Foisting bastards on innocent men, driving us daft with your shameless ways. You deserve what you get….
What could she expect from other men if her own father believed such things? “I’ve done nothing,” she cried. “Let me go. Now! Let me go!”
He forced her mouth open with his. Pushed his tongue so deep she gagged. Splinters from her brother’s toy boat wormed into her palm, stinging like an insistent messenger. She thought she heard Nicky, shouting. Fight for yourself.
She bit down as hard as she could, though her instincts warned that it would only enrage him. He gave a muffled scream and released her, leaving her free to spit out his blood.
“You bitch!” He pressed his hand over his mouth. “I’ll make you pay for that.” His words slurred. “I’ll break every bone in your body and send you to Kilgarry naked and bleeding. Ramsay will be a laughingstock, and yes, I’ll make certain this tale is heard everywhere.”
“Will you?”
He paused, frowning. He scanned the surrounding hills, his sandy lashes descending to protect his eyes from the glare. “All at once you sound quite brave.” He picked up the handkerchief Morrigan had dropped, spit, and wiped his lips. “I remember how you used to lead the prince and his bastard brother around by their noses. Now look at you, pretending to be respectable. You won’t be so proud when I’m done with you.”
Heat radiated against her thigh.
The knife.
“You’ll cry for mercy,” Hawley said, “or for more. Depends on you.”
He grasped the front of her bodice. His grip tightened then flexed, but the fabric was well made and resisted his attempts to tear it. While his attention was focused on that, she dropped Nicky’s boat and slipped her hand into her pocket, bringing out the blade.
Sunlight reflected off it, drawing his eye. His face turned sickly grey and he staggered. His arm rose in a defensive gesture.
She sliced swiftly through his coat and into his forearm. The wool darkened as blood saturated it. He tripped over one of the stones and fell, groaning, his face contorted.
Should she stab him again? With her attacker on the ground, moaning, she hesitated.
He scrabbled to his feet, his good hand pressing against the wound, his mouth open, waves of color washing through his cheeks.
“Come away, Patrick,” she said. “Weren’t you going to make me beg for mercy?” She had to fight a strong urge to stab him in the throat. You’re not a murderer, she told herself grimly. But she lifted the blade.
Hawley stumbled. He dragged himself to his horse and mounted, wheeling the animal, and galloped away as though all of Hell had come out of the ground to chase him.
Morrigan walked to the burn. She knelt on the wet rocks and rinsed her mouth until she no longer tasted Patrick Hawley’s blood, then washed the knife. She stood and returned to the ruin of her father’s blackhouse.
Douglas Lawton had been obstinate, unforgiving, often cruel, but he’d never shown fear. She’d learned instinctively, by his example, that to show fear was dangerous. Fear stole power. She’d kept her power today. She felt it resound through her.
Her earlier despair evaporated, like smoke rising into the clear spring air. She would keep this knife with its fearsome blade of glass. Never again would she be without it. And if another man proved daft enough to menace her or her child…
… she’d make him regret it.
* * * *
Curran searched for Morrigan when he’d finished updating his ledgers. Perhaps she’d returned from her ride. Nightfall might find her well, ready for love. He’d missed their intimacy, and God; it’d been so long, three months since Olivia was born, and how long before that? Months and months, if he didn’t count that one night of weakness when he’d defied Eleanor’s command and nearly caused the death of his wife and child.
Morrigan the mother was as enticing as the virgin on Stranraer’s moor. She tempted him with every unconscious movement she made. But she had naturally been occupied with her sickly infant, and he wouldn’t let himself intrude. Twice in the last three days he’d had to leave the room as she’d nursed their daughter, such was the strength of his need battling determination to be patient.
With the repulsive Patrick Hawley off seeking land and out of the way, the setting was perfect for uninterrupted seduction.
Diorbhail had thrown open the casements in the nursery. The room smelled of warm earth, sea, and pine.
“Have you seen my wife?” he asked as he entered.
“Not since breakfast. Olivia’s hungry. I hope she’ll soon come home.” Diorbhail cooed to the wean and tickled one miniature ear.
Curran was pleased at how their daughter’s nanny had blossomed. She was pretty now, with the weight she’d gained, and the color in her cheeks. Being Olivia’s caregiver had helped, he could tell. He crossed to a deep-set window and gazed over the wooded countryside. “Did she say where they were going?”
“No, Master Curran. ‘Out for a ride’ was all I heard.”
As he turned, he glimpsed something in her eyes. She lowered her face, but it was too late. He hoped he’d mistaken that look, and that her gratitude wasn’t shifting into infatuation.
“If she comes in, would you send word?”
“Of course.”
Though always courteous, Diorbhail’s manner made him a bit uncomfortable. When he saw her walking outside with Morrigan, he couldn’t help wondering what they talked about. Sometimes they appeared to be grimly serious, and other times were laughing uproariously. It gave him a strong inner satisfaction to improve Diorbhail’s lot, yet at the same time a part of him wanted to avoid her.
He rambled through Kilgarry’s corridors and rooms, studying the priceless paintings his father had collected and his mother had so lovingly hung. Janet, who’d started the midday meal, asked if Lady Eilginn would join them.
“I don’t know. I hope so.” The house seemed too quiet. Empty. Somehow, without its mistress, not right.
An obviously irritated Fionna caught up to him outside the bedroom. “Master, d’you see what one of those dogs has done? I found it beneath your bed, up against the wall.” She held out
a doll he’d bought for Olivia. The poor thing was a mess, its head almost severed from its body. Stuffing billowed from its mangled torso.
“This is the end,” Fionna cried. “That doll was the bonniest thing. Why, a few months ago one of those worthless beasts tore up a pillow. I still find feathers when I dust. If ever I catch which one is doing it, I’ll have its tail under the butcher knife, so help me.”
“What could interest them about pillows and dolls?”
“I suspect it’s Antiope. She’ll chew on anything. Sometimes I do think she wasn’t worth the good sterling you spent on her.” She sighed her disgust. “Give it to me, and I’ll throw it out.”
“No,” Curran said, though he wasn’t sure why. “I wager Mrs. Ramsay’s aunt could fix it.” He entered the bedroom and laid the doll on Morrigan’s dressing table.
Bored and restless, he flung himself onto the bed. Speckled light through the stained glass window in the sitting room threw variegated colors over the doll’s face. A shadow marred the cheek like a bloodstain. The glass eyes regarded him, unblinking. He found his gaze returning to it again and again. At last he jumped up and knocked the doll into the chair where he could no longer see it.
As it fell, something dropped out of its torn chest. He picked it up. It was a bit of metal, black filigree patterning one edge. The fragment seemed familiar. Bothersome, that he couldn’t place it. He left it on the table and went into the sitting room where his book lay.
He read the same page of The Talisman three times, distracted by the thumps and bangs of a big, busy house. He stared at the freshly swept fireplace, and next to it, on the stones, his wife’s untidy sewing basket. Typical of her impatience with the ladylike art, it was an explosion of tangled thread and crushed material.
Her talents lay in less tangible directions— in her ability to interact wholly, unashamedly, with their daughter. There was wariness in her love for him, but Olivia received all of her without reservation. Then there was the unconscious way she had of absorbing and reflecting the quiet throb of life, making him intensely aware of his own heartbeat. He’d always sensed an inner turmoil within her, which somehow deepened her beyond other women he’d known, and filled him with a desperate need to give her peace.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 50