Late in the afternoon, Morrigan asked for a bath to be drawn, saying she felt grimy after the sea crossing and strenuous walk. She begged out of the evening meal with the excuse of being tired.
After Olivia had been put down for the night, she sat at the dressing table in her bedroom, combing her hair, trying to recall more details from the dreams she’d had that seemed to take place on this island. She saw herself running barefoot along the cliffs, a man laughing as he chased her, a man her imagination fashioned into Mackinnon. She let the dream unfold, and embellished it.
What of her resolve to do whatever she must for the sake of her husband and child? She thought of Emma Bovary, of Iseult. Were all adulteresses condemned to tragic ends? What of men who were unfaithful to their vows?
The golden heart locket winked at her in the lamplight. Whither thou goest, I will go. Where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.
It had been placed in the wedding cake for Curran, not Mackinnon, yet it was Mackinnon’s voice she heard. Tonight she would ask him to explain, if he could, what he’d said when trapped in fever. She had to know, especially after reading Tristram and Iseult. Was it death he wanted, or had his words been meaningless delirium?
It’s the only way.
Sin never escaped punishment. Father Drummond, the Bible, and Jamini had confirmed it. Jamini had described how humans were reborn, hopefully to ascend higher and higher, becoming purer and purer, until no more lives were required, and eternity was spent in the sweet liberation of moksha.
If her belief was truth, then death was not the end. It was a doorway to new possibilities.
She heard the others climbing the stairs, retiring to their rooms for the night. If she was careful, she could sneak away and be home before daybreak. Before the guard dog Seaghan woke. Before Olivia clamored for her breakfast. Curran was gone. No one would ever know.
Was she really contemplating this?
Beside the wee loch at Torridon that night in June, she’d dreamed of a boat. She remembered the carved lady in the prow turning, regarding her. Curran, glowing with moonlight, had offered to lead her up the plank. She’d wanted to go. She’d reached out to him… but then she’d awakened.
Every time she tried to shut out Mackinnon’s face it returned more vividly. There had been desperation in his eyes when he’d asked her to meet him.
He’d told her the motto of his clan. Fortune favors the bold. Could she venture into the realm of boldness? You have to, whispered the inner Morrigan, or you will always regret, and wonder.
She removed her wedding ring and placed it gently beside her hairbrush. Fortune favors the bold.
What if she climbed the hill to that abandoned hut and he was nothing more than an echoing laugh upon the wind? It did seem fantastic that he would be here, on this obscure island. How had he known she would come? Maybe she’d had some kind of dream or vision on the cliffs and he wasn’t here, not really. It might be a good thing if she went to the bothy and found nothing but mice and mold. Then she could put these longings out of her head and get down to her duty— being a decent wife, a good mother, and vanishing into oblivion when she died.
At last she crept down the stairs to the side door off the kitchen. The night sparkled and for once, the wind had subsided. She climbed the slope behind the house, stumbling in hidden divots and over treacherous stones.
As she ran up to the bothy, holding her skirts, a shadow separated from it. Aodhàn pinned her against the wall and kissed her, on her mouth, her face, and neck, kisses that made his long-restrained passion clear.
My Mackinnon. Her hands told her he was real and solid, no dream to scatter at the sound of Beatrice calling her to her chores.
He pulled her inside. She waited, blind in the dark, listening to him move about. The hearth fire caught, leaping, giving off curls of blue aromatic smoke that funneled upward through a hole in the thatch. Its light revealed a pile of blankets and peat stacked against the wall.
“You planned this,” she said. None of it had been here earlier, except for the old trunk in the corner, which had been padlocked.
He crossed to the trunk and opened it, bringing out his treasures— sheepskins, pewter goblets, a bottle of whisky, fat white candles, which he lit, salted mutton, a crusty loaf of oat bread, a hunk of cheese, a knife, and a large cloth.
She pictured him collecting these things, placing them in the trunk, preparing for this moment. A terrible fear rose up within her and she heard Diorbhail’s voice. He is not what he seems.
“Why am I here?” She backed away towards the door. “Why are you such a part of me? What of Curran?”
In two long strides he reached her and gripped her arms. “Don’t. Tonight, you’re mine.”
The intensity in his voice and eyes sparked an image, so fleeting she received only the barest impression of falling through starlit air, of a pounding sea, of strong hands, and rocks yawning like black teeth.
She knew instantly it was Eamhair, jumping to her death.
“No,” she said. “I cannot do this.” She twisted, trying to free herself.
“Why did you come here?” He spoke furiously, and his grip only tightened.
Did he mean to force himself upon her? If so, she had only herself to blame.
“I… I don’t know. I don’t know, Mackinnon! I shouldn’t have!”
His lips tensed. His regard narrowed then sharpened. “You’re afraid of me?” he said, low, and released her.
She rubbed her arms. She could go no farther. The rough, splintery door pressed against her spine.
He raked through his hair, hissing “Mhic an Diabhail.”
“I’ll go,” she said, reaching for the latch.
He sighed and fisted his hands. “Don’t do this to me, Morrigan.” He closed the space between them. “If you don’t want to be with me that way, it will not happen. I don’t care. All I ask is that you stay. I need… I need to be with you. I’ve waited a long time.” He held out his hand.
She considered. At last she put her hand in his and let him lead her to the fire.
* * * *
Outside it was misty and cold, with the vast Atlantic chilling the air, but in the bothy the warmth of the peat fire kept them comfortable.
Mackinnon rolled up his sleeves. Earlier that day she had ripped most of the buttons off his sark, so it hung open. Morrigan sat on one of the sheepskins, watching him as he cut a slice of bread and topped it with cheese.
When he handed it to her, she asked, “Is that the scar Seaghan told me about?”
Looking down, he pulled the material away, revealing it— a raised, rough line resembling a snake. It wound from his collarbone to the middle of his chest.
“Aye, Seaghan stitched it up for me. He decided I shouldn’t die that day.”
“I must thank him.”
He poured her whisky and took some himself. There was no tension now, no fear. He obediently maintained space between them, though not much, and seemed perfectly content to feed her bread and cheese, to fill her goblet with amber whisky and keep the fire going. She began to feel as relaxed as if she were sitting with Diorbhail.
“Shall we toast?” He held out his goblet.
“To what?”
He thought a moment. “To cheese.”
She laughed, but struck her cup to his and drank. “Mackinnon.”
“What? Cheese was a good invention.”
“I was expecting something profound.”
“To beauty, then.” He waited, holding up his goblet. “Well?” he said, when she didn’t respond. “Is beauty not profound enough for you?”
“No.”
“You’re beautiful. Don’t you want to hear me say it?”
She drained her cup without toasting. “Is that why you’re here? Because of how I look?”
His regard didn’t change. “Do you think so?”
“You don’t know me. I could be ugly inside. Would it matter?”
He laughed. “You have no idea what ugly is.
”
Morrigan shrugged. “Folk talk about my face like it’s the only thing I possess of value. Yet to me it seems the least important. What does any woman have that breaks through to a man’s heart other than beauty?” She caught herself before blurting, My own father wanted to lie with me. Sickened, she turned her face away. Beauty was a curse if it could make a father want to do such a thing.
Placing two fingers on her cheek, he brought her gaze back to his.
“Understanding.”
Aye, true understanding was a braw thing, especially if accompanied by acceptance. Braw, aye, and rare. She remembered the time she’d spent alone with Diorbhail on the mountain, and how the woman’s instinctive understanding made her feel whole, and strong, and valuable.
“Every man, woman, and child craves to be understood,” he said. “Communion. It’s more nourishing than bread, for everything that breathes.” He leaned forward. “There’s none on this earth who understands me like you. Every time you look into my face, you free me of my demons. You say I don’t know you? You’re aye wrong about that. You and I know each other. Look into your heart. I am there.”
She studied him, absorbing his statement, shredding it in a private search to determine its truth.
“Curran doesn’t know your soul. He doesn’t understand. You’re here with me because I do.” He frowned. “What did it mean when I lost the soft hills,” he quoted.
“Time melts into mine,
Jewels and ancient forgiveness.”
“That’s the song I heard,” she said.
“It was my wife’s song. She sang it to our children.”
“Wife? You’ve a wife?” Morrigan’s heart stopped, or seemed to, before wallowing sickly in her chest. “Where is she?”
The skin around his eyes tightened and his jaw clenched. “Dead.”
Silence stretched between them. Then she asked, lower, “Your children?”
“Dead.”
This was what tortured him, made him so quiet and withdrawn. “Mackinnon.”
Fear, doubt, and guilt washed out of her.
“What was her name?” she asked, taking his hand.
She knew before he said it.
Lilith.
* * * *
“They came in the night,” he said, his voice catching. “Splintered the door. Our children were screaming. I looked at her. I saw by her face she knew what would happen. They had plenty of men. Six it took and a rope to keep me, and another six could hardly hold her. My Lilith bloodied the nose of one of them with her forehead. But they were mad, full of whisky and righteous piety. One of the bastards slit my daughter’s throat— she but seven, and another threw my four-year-old against the hearthstones.”
His lips drew back and his hands, violently shaking, closed upon themselves. “I couldn’t stop— I couldn’t stop them—”
Morrigan seized his wrists. “Oh, Mackinnon. Mackinnon.”
“They killed them. All three of them. Left their bodies on the floor. Gave me a good long while to look before they dragged me out on their boat. They cut me open and threw me overboard, laughing about how I’d still be alive when the fish came to eat me. She did it to punish me for being happy. You will follow and follow without end. Glimpses of joy will be ripped from you. That was the curse she laid upon me, and God, how she loves making it happen….”
Morrigan knew she had to deliver him from whatever hell he was drowning in. “You would’ve given your life to save them, but you couldn’t.”
“Would I? History proves my truth.” He seized a fistful of her hair and stared into her face. His eyes were greener now, as green as that Greek warrior’s she dreamed of. “If you knew what I’ve done, you would hate me. You might kill me yourself. Whenever I start to forget, she proves all over again what I really am. For me, there is no redemption.”
Morrigan held his face. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry this happened to you. I think I love you more, more than I did.”
He reared up and put the fire between them, clenching and unclenching his hands. His shadow leaped across the floor and climbed the wall, rippling in the firelight.
“They were murderers.” Morrigan kept her voice calm and controlled, knowing she hadn’t yet reached him. “And they paid for what they did. Imagine what they thought when they woke the next morning, sober. It had to be with them always, every minute.”
Mackinnon turned and stared at her, his face as colorless as a skeleton’s, but he was listening at last. His fists uncurled.
She stood and stepped around the fire, taking his cold hands in her own. “I would weep for you, my Mackinnon… if I could.”
He looked down into her face for a long moment then drew her tightly against him, murmuring something in Gaelic, his voice breaking.
He raised his head. His lashes were clumped and a sheen of tears made his eyes as brilliant as the emeralds Curran had given her. “I will weep for both of us,” he said softly, before picking her up and laying her on the sheepskins. He pressed his mouth to her neck, until she could no longer think about stopping him, or think at all.
He kissed the pulses in her throat and at her wrists, telling her how much he’d missed her, ached for her, longed for her. “’S tusa gaol is rùn mo chridhe. Thou art my love, my heart. Gu bràth. Forever. M’ ulaidh bhuaireanta. I’m not sure I want you to know what that means.”
But he remembered his promise, and made no attempt to remove her clothing, nor did he touch her in a sexual way. Somehow, that made his kisses, and the touch of his hand against hers, far more intimate than any sexual act could have been.
He regarded her, his face at last tranquil. His eyes, for the first time, were open and relaxed, no longer squinting. “You love me, Morrigan?” He kissed her knuckles. “You said it. I won’t let you take it back now.”
“I do.” It was such a betrayal. It broke her heart, but she couldn’t deny it, not after what he’d endured.
He spoke against her mouth. “Your skin calls to me with the voices of all the women you have been and will be. It brings me back, over and over, when all I want to do is give up.”
* * * *
Smoke from Aodhàn’s pipe tickled Morrigan’s nose. His head was pillowed on her stomach and she lay, half-reclining, supported by the stack of blankets. For the last hour, they’d watched the fire and listened to the wind pick up outside. He seemed more content than she had ever seen him, but her thoughts were whirling.
“We’ve been together before, somewhere,” she said, taking his hair out of its knot and combing it with her fingers.
She felt him tense and sat up, dislodging him so she could look into his face. “There’s something. I can almost catch it, but not quite. Why do I feel I knew you had a wife and children, and that they were dead?”
Still he said nothing, but she sensed him withdraw in some intangible fashion.
“That woman… the housekeeper on Barra, she said her daughter and grandchildren were murdered on the hill outside of Castlebay. She said her youngest granddaughter was four.”
His jaw clenched and he turned away, but she wouldn’t allow it, not again. “Look at me, Mackinnon,” she said. “Is she Lilith’s mother?”
“Aye.”
She pictured that hard, bitter woman, but she couldn’t pause, not with so many questions. “The night when you were ill. The night before Curran and I left Glenelg….”
“Aye.” He kissed her palm. “Your hands were cool.”
“You said you wanted us to die.”
He threaded his fingers with hers. “Is death really the end? Not for me. Not for you, either. Sometimes, death is the easiest way to start over.”
“What the bloody hell does that mean?”
He frowned. “I’ve said too much.”
“I’ve dreamed of the woman named Lilith, the slaughter of the girls. You know it. It was them I saw on Saint Brigit’s Eve.”
He closed his eyes. She discerned the trembling that came over him. He made a so
und in his throat, a hoarse, harsh sound of pain. “Damn it!” he said, and shoved his fists against his eyes. “You always do this. You keep pushing and pushing, and I never can resist telling you.”
She pried his hands away. “I have to know.”
He ran the tips of his fingers over her forehead, closing her eyelids, and put his mouth next to her ear. “I remember the lives I’ve lived,” he said. “And you… you’re always there. I always find you. The only reason it took so long this time was because of this….” He touched the scar on his chest, “and the deaths. It was all barricaded behind a wall I could not breach until you came back to me. You were my Lilith, and Taigh na Gaoithe is the summer cottage I built for you, because you loved Mingulay. You gave it its name. We conceived both our children here, on Dùn Mhiughalaigh.”
She stared at him. He was deadly serious. He drew her back down again, holding her between his arm and chest as he kissed each of her fingertips.
The dreams… were memories. She had broken champagne against the wall of the cottage. She had laughed on the cliffs at Mackinnon’s demand that she marry him.
“Do you want to see yourself?” Mackinnon rose, fetched his coat, and brought something out of the pocket. He handed her a miniature portrait of a woman with very dark hair, black, or almost, pulled up and off her face. Her eyes were dark too, far seeing, enigmatic, full of mystery, of secrets, and her skin was as pale as the moon. She stared out from the portrait solemnly, and Morrigan found herself wishing she could talk to her.
“You and I return,” he said. “Can’t you feel our long history? We’ve loved each other, lived as husband and wife, and you’ve borne my weans. You were my Lilith. You were the mother of Claire and Evie. Mo bhean. My wife.”
She was full of questions. How did we meet? Where did we live? On Barra, in that burned ruin? But the one that came from her mouth was, “Did you love me?”
“Always you, you alone, since the beginning of time. Does knowing that make it better? There’s no use judging yourself. If you were an ordinary woman, and I an ordinary man, you wouldn’t be here. You would never betray anyone— loyalty is your cornerstone, and always has been. But what we have… goes beyond all that.”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 73