Aodhàn Mackinnon loves me.
He had repeated that phrase, the one she thought was hers alone. She remembered the day she’d first met braw, beautiful Curran. She’d been lying in the grass by Loch Ryan, half-asleep, daydreaming of Theseus, imagining herself as Queen Aridela.
Shortly after, riding her fat mare along the cliffs, she’d lost her hat and envisioned a man standing near the water.
The color of his hair might have changed. He might now be a lowly fisherman rather than a great warrior, but it was he. She’d found him.
Surfaces could no longer fool her. Faces couldn’t fool her.
Aodhàn Mackinnon had the same eyes, exactly, as that blond champion.
The dull thud of hoof-beats penetrated the mist. They separated. Aodhàn plucked the primrose from behind her ear and dropped it to the ground.
Curran loomed on his stallion, Augustus, Stoirmeil in tow.
Morrigan lowered her face, knowing if her husband looked into her eyes just then, he would see.
A terrible mistake has been made.
“There you are,” he said. “Finally. Thank God.” He swung off his mount.
“Feasgar math,” Mackinnon said.
“Oidhche mhath, ciamar a tha sibh?” Curran replied, not bothering to mask his irritation.
Mackinnon paused. His left brow lifted, and there was an edge to his reply. “Tha mi toilichte.”
Curran frowned. His eyes narrowed.
Morrigan understood this common salutation, but their reactions warned her that the deceptively simple words were hiding something, and she sensed it had to do with her.
She froze, wondering what might happen next, but they seemed to relax slightly, like two adversaries circling. Mackinnon explained how he and Seaghan had taken her out on the Endeavor, and how the sea haar had trapped them.
Morrigan stroked Stoirmeil’s nose and said nothing.
Aodhàn held Olivia while Curran helped Morrigan into the saddle. She mounted, reached down, and took her child.
“Thank you,” she said, and spurred the mare quickly away.
“Oidhche mhath, Aodhàn.” Curran tipped his cap. “Thank you for bringing her safely through this.” He sent his horse after Morrigan, and when he caught up, said almost apologetically, “I was worried. Here, let me take her.”
She handed the baby to him and caressed his shoulder. “I should’ve come home with Diorbhail,” she said. “I had no plan to be gone so long. I know you were fashed. Forgive me, Curran.”
Later, in the big master bed, her husband drew her close, his hands trailing over her nightgown.
Morrigan closed her eyes and tried to respond, but at the last instant, she jerked away, gasping, fighting a sense that she was suffocating.
“Be patient.” She heard the tremble in her voice. “I overdid things today. I’m stiff and sore.”
He murmured his sympathies. She watched the dying fire long after he’d fallen asleep, his cheek against her chest.
Curran loved three things: Kilgarry, Morrigan, and Olivia. He’d eagerly sought to unite them, the mother of his child with his beloved home. She would never have come to Glenelg but for him.
Yet, in bringing her here, he might have destroyed whatever chance of love they’d had.
* * * *
Morrigan felt more tired than refreshed when she woke, and yawned repeatedly as Violet helped her dress. Curran had eaten his breakfast but was having coffee in the dining room.
“How are you, a ghràidh?” he asked, pouring tea.
“Sleepy,” she said, and clasped his hand. Could I betray you, Curran Ramsay? Could I do such a thing?
Daughters of whores usually turn out whores themselves, Enid Joyce had taunted. Had she seen some awful truth Morrigan had blinded herself to?
No. She nearly said it out loud, but caught herself. Curran loves me. I think Seaghan loves me. Eleanor loves me. Diorbhail loves me. Most of all, Olivia loves me. Enid lied. Papa lied. I am not a whore!
“Rest today,” he said. “Why don’t you read in the garden?” He bent his head, a mischievous smile playing about his mouth. “I want you. Do you know how long it’s been?”
A flush heated her cheeks. Some part of her, perhaps the part bespelled by Mackinnon’s selkie gaze, wanted to shout, Leave me alone!
Had Curran made her pregnant to keep her from the man who had been searching for her? No. Morrigan had seduced Curran, not the other way around. And Mackinnon had never met her. It made no sense to think he’d been searching for her, no matter what he said.
“Is something else bothering you?” Curran asked.
Morrigan closed her eyes, trying to block the events that in one short day had ripped gaping holes in the fabric of her shiny new life. “I saw my father’s burned home. It sickens me to think of those days, of how much was destroyed. And… and I… I have to tell you about Patrick Hawley.”
“What of him?”
“I wanted to be alone, so I sent Aunt Ibby away. He found me there. He attacked me.”
Curran went as stiff, straight, and still as iron. A long moment passed. “You’re joking,” he said.
She shook her head.
“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot. You forgot?” He stared at her. “Did he, did he….”
“No. He meant to, though.” She fanned her face with one hand. “I… I don’t want to speak of this. Fionna or Tess might hear.”
“I’ll have his heart.”
“Just send him away.”
He stood, reaching for his coat.
“Where are you going?”
Cold fury hardened his face, much like the expression he’d had the day he’d seen the whip marks on her back. The crescent scar by his brow undulated over the clench-release, clench-release of his jaw. It was terrifying.
“Curran, what are you going to do? Promise you won’t—”
He turned and seized her arm. An odd light glittered in his eyes. “Why were you so free with me? I find it difficult to believe you were a virgin when I met you. Were you? Well?” He shook her.
She gasped. “You blame me for what he did!”
“This has nothing to do with him. Answer me. You’d never been with a man?”
The memory of the night in the barn with Kit, his hands under her nightgown, left her mute. Should she confess?
He released her. “It’s no wonder they think they can have you. Aodhàn, now Hawley. I was right when I said I’d need to keep you pregnant.” He laughed without humor. “But even that didn’t work. Why do you do what you do? Look at men that way?”
“What way?”
He shoved his hair off his forehead. “Like you’re in their beds. Like any moment you’ll beg them to take you.”
“I don’t… I have never done that! I can hardly stand to be in the same room as Patrick Hawley!”
He paced, his loose-limbed strides, swinging arms, and tawny hair reminiscent of a restless lion. “I’ve never understood why I forgot myself on the moor that day. I knew I’d taken unforgivable advantage. But the way you acted, like you wanted it more than anything, wanted me to do it.” He glared at her. “Like you knew what you were doing.”
“Are you saying you’re sorry you married me?”
“Answer me. Did you plan what happened that day?”
“No one ever told me about men and women. It felt good, and it took me away from my life for a moment. Away from my father. You were handsome. You said kind, flattering things. That’s why I didn’t want you to stop. I didn’t think about what could happen, that a child could come of it. Not till after.”
He regarded her, filtering her words through some inner judgmental sieve. After a long pause, he spoke in a lower voice, as if to himself. “You were a virgin.”
Her hands balled into fists. “Why do you want me to feel shame over that day? You don’t. What man ever feels shame over the things he does?” She laughed. “Were you a virgin?�
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He blinked. “I’m sorry. I’ve a… damnable jealousy of you.” He paced again, like he couldn’t contain his energy. “They’re trying to steal you right out from under me. Even Aodhàn, my friend these last ten years. I thought we respected each other.”
“You’re wrong about him.” She strained any emotion but resentment from her voice. “I told you, I went outside with him on Michaelmas to make you jealous.” She gave him a one-sided smile. “Damn thorough job I did of it, too. I wish I could undo it, but I can’t.”
“Did you ever stop to think what that would do to him? You say you wanted to make me jealous. But you’ve started something, Morrigan. You’ve made him think you have feelings for him. Now he wants you for himself. Every man here does. I’ve seen Malcolm’s face light up at a glimpse of you. And Seaghan. Maybe I should put you in rags, smear dirt on your face.”
“You’re daft.”
“You may be right about that.” He shrugged into his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“To find Patrick Hawley.”
“I’m afraid of him.” She rose, working her napkin in one fist. “He’ll kill you, Curran. He has no guilt. No mercy. He’s inhuman.”
He shrugged. “Well, then….”
“Curran!”
In two strides he reached her, pulling her against him fiercely, holding her face at his throat. “Morrigan, Morrigan.” She felt the tremors running through him, and clung, understanding now that fear had birthed the words of anger.
He spoke into her hair. “What might have happened… what he might have done. I thought you were safe here, in my Glenelg. I thought you were safe in this place I love.”
“I’m not hurt. He didn’t hurt me. I swear it. I had a knife. I cut him. It was only a small cut in the arm, but it hurt him, and he ran away.”
His eyes were so dark. She sensed the murderous rage filling his body in great, overwhelming waves. “You’re wrong to think I didn’t feel shame over what I did that day,” he said, low. “But I would have married you, pregnant or not. I would have married you if I’d never touched you. From the moment I saw you, at the train station, I knew. You’re the only woman for me. I don’t know why, but it’s true. The only one.”
He turned then and strode out of the dining room, not pausing as she cried, “Curran!” She heard the heavy front portal slam behind him.
* * * *
Morrigan’s anxiety increased as the hours passed. She finally ordered Logan to go and find Curran, but he refused, saying he was not the master’s warden and could be banished if he did what she wanted.
She tried to read. She paced. She avoided Diorbhail’s questioning worry while she nursed Olivia, who seemed to sense Morrigan’s fear and cried inconsolably.
The sun lowered, and still he did not return. Fionna brought a tea tray filled with tempting refreshments, but Morrigan’s nerves had stolen any hunger and she left it untouched.
She went to their bedroom and attempted Eleanor’s hypnotism. She lay on the bed, staring at the flourishes on the mirror, but her thoughts went right on whirling, woven through with guilt. Violet came and helped her with her nightgown, then went away for the night. Morrigan took one of Curran’s shirts from his wardrobe and lay on the bed, holding it against her cheek, breathing the scent of him.
The mantel clock ticked quietly. She listened with all her might for the sound of the door downstairs, but finally drifted off.
The night had grown old when he slipped into bed, still chilled from being outdoors, and slid his arms around her. She murmured, “Where have you been?” only half-waking, and returned to sleep at his, “Don’t worry, a ghaoil. Everything will be all right.”
* * * *
Early morning birdsong brought Morrigan out of sleep. Curran was gone, and Violet hadn’t yet come to help her dress. She lay in a place between slumber and waking, not thinking or fretting, just remembering Curran’s embrace and his promise, and allowing herself to believe him.
But the quiet of the morning and the melancholy bird drew her down again, and another voice floated through her head.
I’ll build you a summer house here, since you love it so much.
Aodhàn Mackinnon reached for her hand. Morrigan heard the breakers far below. The air was thick with the screeching of birds.
Gradually, the busy sounds of Mallaig’s harbor intruded. Men shouting, boat whistles, women laughing, raucous birds foraging.
Mallaig’s pier.
Morrigan bolted upright, staring into her dim bedroom. She was not in Mallaig. She was in Glenelg, at Kilgarry.
Shall we force his hand?
You will marry me, Lilith.
She tried to discredit the revelation, but the more she examined it, the surer she grew. She had dreamed of walking along a high black cliff with a young Aodhàn Mackinnon.
Before she’d ever taken any witch’s cap, before the hypnotism, before she came to Glenelg. She’d dreamed it while living in Ibby’s small quarters above her shop in Mallaig, mashed into a narrow bed with Beatrice.
It wasn’t surprising that she’d forgotten, not when she considered all the strange dreams that invaded her sleep, but it had waited, tucked away in her memories, for this moment of quiet reflection.
How could it be? How could she have dreamed of him before she became Curran’s wife? Before she looked, for the first time, into his face at her wedding cèilidh?
It was… impossible, impossible to dream of a real person before meeting him or knowing he existed.
She jumped out of bed, rang the bell, and paced until Violet entered, and hardly heard her chatter as the maid helped her dress and arranged her hair. Impatience thrummed through her body, or was it fear?
She had to speak to someone. It couldn’t be Curran, not with everything else that had happened. Nor could it be Diorbhail, with her animosity. Perhaps Eleanor. But no. Eleanor saw too much, sometimes.
Who could she turn to? Who would listen without judgment?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FATHER DRUMMOND PERFORMED Mass and listened with grave attention in the confessional, though he had heard it all many times. Later, after his parishioners had gone off to their dinners, he knelt before the crucifix on the altar and gazed upon his savior.
Shouldn’t he try, at least try, to emulate such pure humility?
But my life has been wasted.
“Forgive me.” He crossed himself. The old unwelcome complaint often intruded, even after these many years. What did he think he could do, at sixty-one, to make a difference in this world? Though he scoffed at his fancies, the yearning remained, like a gnawed-out hole in the heart.
When he’d taken his vows, he’d expected his superiors to send him to a foreign land, maybe to India or heathen Persia. He’d prepared himself for adversity and hostility.
His corner of the West Highlands could almost be compared to a foreign land. It was cut off from the rest of Scotland by those lofty mountains affectionately dubbed the Five Sisters of Kintail. From the east, it remained nearly unassailable. Horses labored with the ascent from Loch Duich, especially if pulling any sort of load. Then there was the steep descent to accomplish. To the west roiled the Kyle Rhea, that treacherous stretch of water between the mainland and the Isle of Skye, where currents collected and intensified, to spill free farther south into the Sound of Sleat.
Time here was almost suspended, ruled by primitive superstition. These folk would be shocked, horrified, by London’s favored pastime of adultery, by the romantic scandals that hounded Prince Edward like a gadfly. Many in those circles believed even stuffy Queen Victoria was having an affair with her rough Scots servant, John Brown. Punch, the satirical city magazine, had caricatured Prime Minister Gladstone’s Christian charity when he invited prostitutes into his home, ostensibly to help them find other ways of feeding themselves.
Some things did make a body wonder, but the masses, in Hugh’s experience, were too eager to embrace the worst about their fellow huma
n beings. What if Victoria was having a liaison? She’d been in mourning for many years. Would the people expect a king to live without female companionship so long? Women and men were different, of course. No sense comparing kings with queens. God-fearing Christians expected more decorum in a female and that was that.
Glenelg’s villagers could never comprehend the subtle complexities of human nature, the passions that drove some against reason and upbringing. The worst sins he heard in the confessional were vexations with a spouse, impatience with a wayward child, or perhaps envy at a neighbor’s richer catch or crop. These contemporary times couldn’t compare with the late forties and early fifties. Hugh had never questioned his role during those terrible years, with blight on the potato, children starving, and landlords exiling tenants in favor of sheep.
But would God never ask anything else of him? For the last twenty years he’d done little more than perform Mass in a half-empty church.
Lethargy sapped his strength. He rested his forehead on his folded hands. “Breathe into me, Holy Spirit, attract my heart, Holy Spirit, that I may love only what is holy—”
Hesitant footsteps and the swish of a woman’s skirts interrupted his gloomy thoughts.
Although he knew the voices and sins of every one of his parishioners, he didn’t move, in case some penitent wished to enter the confessional in anonymity. Someone no doubt felt compelled to confess gluttony because she’d enjoyed an extra helping of fish or had indulged in unkind gossip.
Whoever it was, she stopped and waited. Hugh bowed his head, crossed himself, and stood.
A shocked breath escaped him. His sight degenerated into leaping spots and his eardrums hummed. Hannah Stewart Lawton stood before him, washed in varied color from the stained glass window. A dead woman.
“Father?” Her timid voice broke the spell. No, Hannah hadn’t returned from death. This was Morrigan, Hannah’s daughter.
“Father Drummond?” she repeated.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 54