As easily distracted as a two-year-old, she said, “I’m away to visit my brother, my nephew, and my niece. They live in Stranraer, but you know that. My brother is Douglas Lawton. Your papa got him the fee, d’ye mind? He’s an innkeeper now.”
“Ah, aye, I do remember Mr. Lawton. I hope they’re doing well?”
“Aye, indeed they are. Thank you for asking.”
The time passed slowly as Mrs. Maclean waxed into ecstatic descriptions of how breathtaking her niece had become and what a prodigy she was with music. “She sat down at a piano at the age of three,” Isabel claimed, “and played complex pieces of music after simply listening to them. It’s truly amazing, I swear.” She continued with stories of her braw young nephew, and how desperately frustrated she was by her brother’s refusal to allow his bairns any of the finer graces in life. He’d even cut off Morrigan’s music instruction, though Isabel was the one paying for it. It was a crime against art! She told Curran she often traveled to Stranraer to give the wee things a break from their perpetual chores. Douglas treated them like servants, slaves, or hired hands, and she was not exaggerating.
He forced himself to pay attention, to nod, smile, agree when it was needed, and to show the proper concern at the dreary life her niece and nephew were forced to live.
“Is that—” she pointed toward his temple, “hurting, Mr. Ramsay? You do seem to be rubbing it rather vigorously.”
He hadn’t even realized. The scar did hurt. Truthfully, he could hardly see through the haze of pain, and drew his fingers away prepared for blood, but there wasn’t any. He couldn’t remember the last time the old wound had caused such discomfort— not for years, not since the attack in the cold, desolate wilds of Northwest Scotland, up by Loch Torridon. He’d always been self-conscious about the disfigurement, though it wasn’t so bad— just a defect that sliced through the outer edge of his left eyebrow and curved in a crescent shape past his eye to end at the top of his cheekbone. Women seemed to find it fascinating.
Today was a bad day all round. He’d be grateful to get home again. Maybe it was the pain that caused him to voice such an ignorant statement. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could unsay them, but, of course, it was too late.
“I am lost, Mrs. Maclean. I often have this feeling, but it’s so much worse today.” Even as he spoke, he thought of the other dream he often had, for it, too, involved a scar. In this dream, he held a woman. He lifted her hand and turned it, kissing an odd, reddish mark on the inside of her wrist, a scar of some kind, or a blemish left by an old burn. The woman pulled him closer, saying, Kiss me. Kiss me again. He could never recall her face when he woke, though he spent countless hours trying, and could never be sure if this was someone he knew, or a fabrication shaped wholly in his head.
Simply thinking of it made his heart speed up and shortened his breathing. He turned away from the prim and proper Isabel MacLean, making a show of refolding the newspaper on his lap while tamping down an almost overwhelming erotic hunger.
Thankfully, before she had a chance to give him stern, commonsense platitudes about the healing power of tea and toast, and how one must never eat cheese before bed, and how he needed a wife to be happy, the train whistle pierced his eardrums, disintegrating the last remnants of desire birthed from the memory of that dream.
They’d arrived in Stranraer.
CHAPTER TWO
“Morrigan! Morrigan Lawton!”
An insistent, rather braying voice carried over the rush and bustle of busy townsfolk, arriving passengers, and even the resting growl of the train engine. Reining in Widdie, Morrigan glanced over her shoulder toward the station.
“Here— over here—”
A white square handkerchief waved, vanished behind a group of tall solemn-frocked gentlemen, then reappeared as they passed.
She squinted, trying to see who held that wee flag. A short, squat woman, dwarfed even more by her enormous feathered hat.
Aunt Isabel, Papa’s sister from the Highlands.
Morrigan wheeled her mount. She’d be even later getting home, but it couldn’t be helped. Maybe the arrival of his only sister would soften Papa’s anger.
As she dismounted, brushing hair out of her eyes, Isabel pulled her into a hug, released her, and gave her a thorough examination, going so far as to turn her niece in a circle.
“Where’s your hat? How many times must I remind you that a lady never goes out with her head uncovered? And will you look at this? We’ll be hours on these tangles. You’re seventeen, Morrigan, a lady of marriageable—”
“I’m eighteen, Auntie, halfway to nineteen—”
“Well, then, you’re old enough to mind a hat. I’ve made you enough for a countess to choose from. Surely one of them appeals to you. There is simply no excuse. Why has Beatrice allowed you to ride out half dressed?”
Humiliation burned Morrigan’s cheeks as the last departing passengers sent varying glances of disapproval or amusement her way. Aunt Isabel’s voice tended to carry.
“I left before she woke up. And I love the hats you’ve made me, Aunt Ibby. I love them, truly.”
“If only you would spend more time with that lass— what’s her name… Enid. She could teach you a thing or two about the habits of a proper lady.”
Morrigan sighed. Enid Joyce was blessed with wealth, an impressive home, and, as she often boasted, an introduction to the queen’s youngest daughter. Her finest accomplishment in Morrigan’s opinion was a tongue so sour it could blacken a pickle, and she used it freely to belittle others. Aunt Isabel, forced to take up a trade after the death of her husband, had become a seamstress, and did quite well. For years, she’d showered her niece with fine, hand-sewn clothing. This had drawn Enid’s scrutiny to one she never would have deigned to notice otherwise. Over the last three years or so, Stranraer’s bachelor gentlemen had begun to openly admire the innkeeper’s daughter, they being so much less discriminating than Enid. In response, Enid’s castigation had escalated into the righteous outrage of the wellborn against peasants who dared ape their betters.
Morrigan tried to change the subject. “Does Papa know you’ve come, Auntie?”
“No.” Isabel’s stern expression melted into an unpretentious smile. “It’s a surprise. I’ve brought a friend, and he’s fair anxious to meet you. Now where’s that lad gone off to? He was right behind me a moment ago.”
Stinging pain burned through Morrigan’s thorn-pricked finger. She stuck it in her mouth to soothe it, tasting lingering bitter remnants of yellow gorse and the slightest mineral hint of blood.
“Did you see where my traveling companion went?” Isabel asked a nearby porter.
“No, mum.” Though his voice was blandly polite, Morrigan thought she could decipher his thoughts by the briefest lowering of his brows and narrowing of his eyes. He not only hadn’t seen where the bothersome lady’s companion went, he had no idea who her companion was and moreover, didn’t care.
Isabel, oblivious to such subtleties, replied tartly, “Well, help me find him. We dinna have all the day to stand about. And where is my trunk?”
The fellow half-ran to keep up with Isabel’s rotund figure as she hurried toward the back of the train, chastising him all the way.
“She’s a remarkable lady, your aunt.”
Morrigan’s gaze followed the sound of the voice into the nearest car. A figure stood there, still and dark, no more than an outline. The fine hairs along the edge of her scalp lifted.
She hastily removed her finger from her mouth and tucked it behind her back.
“Aye,” she replied.
“You, without a doubt, are Miss Lawton.” Mellow whispers of ripe barley touched by warm autumn breezes underlaced the disembodied voice.
“I am,” she said, taking a half-step back. There was nothing to fear. She heard her aunt berating the porter a few cars away. Nevertheless…. She lifted one brow. “How d’you know that, sir?”
“Forgive me.” He descended the steps. A
shaft of sunlight, finding its way through a hole in the station’s wood and glass ceiling, pinned him in a halo of light.
For one instant that seemed unending, the world stopped. The train engine’s pant faded into the overpowering pulse of her blood.
“Beg your pardon, Miss Lawton? I don’t quite follow.”
The words sank into her brain as though struggling through sticky muck.
“Wha-what?” she managed.
“Did you just say, ‘Theseus?’”
She felt sluggish, wrapped in muffling cotton. Then everything burst. Her heart lurched. A surge, what a lightning bolt must feel like, streaked through her body, almost drawing her up on tiptoe. It felt as though she’d lain dormant her whole life until this moment. She wasn’t at all certain her heart could handle the strain. Along with a thousand other mental pictures here then gone too quick to absorb, she saw herself clutch her chest, fall and expire, right before the physical embodiment of her long-cherished illusion.
A breeze lifted his unruly blond hair. It fair begged for a woman’s smoothing hand.
Young supple skin, unquiet mouth curving on one side, bringing out a playful dimple. Alert twilight blue eyes beneath dark brows, full of hints, confidences, and merriment he’d like to share. Moustache caressing his upper lip. Five and twenty? Older perhaps, the direct gaze and confident stance hinted; maybe younger, said the unlined skin, riotous hair and lips sporting the fullness of youth.
Her frozen muscles grew hot and began to tremble. Daftie. He’s a man, not a Greek hero come to life.
“Is everything all right?” He stepped closer, lifting a hand as though in contemplation of grasping her shoulder. “Miss Lawton?”
She swallowed. Her gaze locked on a white scar, marring his otherwise perfect face. It curved around his left eye, ending at his cheekbone, and was shaped rather like a miniature crescent moon, or one of those Moslem curved swords, a scimitar. “I’m fine, Mr.— Mr.?”
“Ramsay.”
“You’re the— my aunt’s traveling companion?”
“I had that pleasure, aye.”
“There you are, Mr. Ramsay.” Isabel’s voice intruded with the hearty insistence of a magpie. “I’ve located our bags. Have you met my niece?”
“If this young lady is your niece, Mrs. Maclean.”
Throughout her aunt’s dialogue, Mr. Ramsay kept his gaze on Morrigan. Enthralled herself, partly due to the undisguised admiration in those vivid blue eyes, she easily dismissed the notion that in her many ardent reveries, she’d always created her hero with eyes of green. She supposed she was like most females, and couldn’t resist a man canny enough to display his appreciation.
He smiled, his lips curving ever so slightly, as though they shared some private, affectionate joke about Aunt Ibby.
Morrigan’s knees turned to butter. He had the smile of an angel, yet to hypnotize her so, it must be diabolical. She bit her lip, fearful of spouting more half-witted nonsense. Theseus. For the sake of blessed pity, had she really said that out loud?
“And is she no’ all I claimed?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Maclean, you failed to do her justice.”
Morrigan glanced from the gentleman to her smirking aunt and thought her cheeks might erupt in flames.
“Mr. Ramsay’s an acquaintance of yours, my dear, though you couldn’t possibly mind it. He hails from Glenelg.”
She returned her scrutiny to him. Sunlight flashed off his gold tiepin, a fancy scrolled “CR,” one wee diamond separating the two letters.
No, she could not have actually met and forgotten this sun god— the male who’d hounded her daydreams for as long as she’d been alive. Everything about him seemed to shout, I am here to rescue you.
She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Aye?” Her voice sounded faint and tinny through the drumbeat of blood in her ears.
Theseus. In the flesh. The golden dream lover.
Yet he wasn’t exactly the same, was he? His hair wasn’t nearly as long, and he was dressed like any other proper gentleman, in striped pants, tie, and waistcoat, not in leather armor and greaves. She nearly laughed out loud as she imagined what would happen in conservative Stranraer if a man stepped off the train adorned in such a costume. Now that she put cold logic to it, she realized he didn’t resemble the man in her fantasy, really, except for the color of his hair. She must have been half asleep, still floating in her dream spell, to even think it. Common sense and drab reality were beginning to return.
There was no denying though, that part of her longed for him to exclaim his own happy knowledge, to clasp her in his arms and never let go.
But he merely bowed like every other gentleman she’d ever been introduced to. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Lawton.”
“And I you.” She’d never given such labor to keeping her voice even.
Isabel tugged Morrigan toward the street. “Come with us, Mr. Ramsay, please. I can offer you the finest of breakfasts at my brother’s inn.”
She gave the porter detailed instructions on what to do with their luggage then swept into Stranraer proper, heels clicking on the cobblestones. “D’you mind if we walk?” she asked. “It’s only a bit up the road and I feel the need to stretch my legs.”
“I’d love to.” Mr. Ramsay took Widdie’s rein and offered an arm to Morrigan. His left brow came up, causing two faint horizontal lines to crease his forehead, and elongating the crescent scar.
What would it be like… to touch it?
She curled her hand obediently around his forearm, hoping he couldn’t feel her tremble through his coat sleeve.
An elegant Enid Joyce, enthroned on the seat of a shining victoria drawn by two matched bays, chose that moment to pass. Her pelisse, strung with lace, accented smooth white skin. Blue eyes, beneath a head of perfectly coiffed hair, narrowed as the lass observed her rival so neatly ensconced on the arm of this handsome stranger.
Morrigan, who’d almost managed to forget her shortcomings beneath Ramsay’s admiring glances, suddenly minded her bare head, windblown hair, and bitten, dirty fingernails. Her homespun work dress, still boasting a few stubborn stickseeds and patches of dust, offered evidence of her time on the moor. Next to Enid’s slim, corseted figure, Morrigan felt as cumbersome as an elephant seal, and shriveled, much like a blossom severed from its nurturing stem.
Aunt Isabel, of course, had to pause and say good morning. Enid replied with easy smiling grace, as though she and Morrigan were lifelong comrades. The lass displayed her saucy dimple and for good measure fluttered long black lashes. Removing lace-trimmed gloves, she held out one exquisitely delicate, clean, manicured hand.
“Now there’s a born lady, Morrigan,” Isabel said as Enid ordered her driver on. “See how she holds her parasol? It draws attention to her hat— you’d never catch her without a hat—”
Perhaps she noticed how her niece withered, for she patted Morrigan’s shoulder, adding, “Still, you’ve a charm she lacks. I cannot put a name to it, really….” She gave their companion a roguish wink. “Do you agree, sir?”
“Aye, indeed,” he replied. “A most intriguing and singular charm.”
Isabel’s face glowed, and Morrigan realized what was truly going on. Her aunt had deliberately brought this unsuspecting man here, using trickery, no doubt, for the sole purpose of meeting her. She’d die if he figured out he was being paraded as a candidate for marriage. His fine suit proclaimed his wealth and his manner of speech almost screamed expensive education. Heaven knew what Isabel thought he’d find attractive in a penniless innkeeper’s daughter, who’d only been allowed eight years of schooling.
She lowered her face to hide her mortification.
Aunt Isabel would drag Crown Prince Edward himself to Morrigan’s door if she could manage it. Aye she would.
And no doubt she’d expect the prince to display humble appreciation over his good fortune, since he was, after all, naught but a damned Englishman.
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
Epigraph
Teaser Page
Lunations
THE BEAST
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
AMARANTOS
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
THE RECKONING
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Author's Note
Thank You
About the Author
THE SIXTH LABYRINTH
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
In the Moon of Asterion (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 30