The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (5 page)

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 would expect the prince to display humble appreciation over his good fortune, since he was, after all, naught but a damned Englishman.

CHAPTER THREE

“WHERE THE DEVIL
have you been?”

It took all of Morrigan’s will to keep from seizing her skirts and running at the sight of Douglas Lawton’s scowl. His eyes were as icy as half-melted slush.

“Widdie n-needed a run. I meant to be home sooner.”

Mr. Ramsay’s arm tightened, squeezing her hand against his ribs. The gesture lent her a momentary sense of courage, and was accompanied by a feeling of sparks, like wool blankets being rubbed together.

“I waylaid her at the train station and made her wait for us,” Isabel snapped. “Are you no’ going to acknowledge that I’m here?”

His brows lifted. No one in his own household would ever dare speak to him in such a tone. “I see that you’re here, Isabel,” he said, and bent so his sister could kiss his cheek, but the scowl remained, lingering so pointedly on his daughter’s hand resting upon the gentleman’s forearm that she released it and stepped away.

Isabel’s love of drama was clearly on display. “See who I’ve brought? It’s—”

“I’ve no’ gone blind,” said Douglas. The two men shook hands. “You’ve changed. Grown into your height.”

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Lawton, and doing so well for yourself,” Ramsay said.

Morrigan stared. They knew each other. Aunt Isabel had claimed this Mr. Ramsay knew her, too.

Could she have formed her imaginary hero from forgotten memories of Curran Ramsay? Perhaps it would all come clear in time if she kept her mouth shut and her ears open.

Beatrice appeared at the front door, stout, firmly corseted, her grey hair pinched into a bun, a white apron covering her ample breasts and stomach. “Your breakfast is going stone cold.” She paused, observing the newcomers with no change in her dour countenance. “I see you’ve come again, Isabel.”

The lift of one brow and subtle emphasis on the word
again
revealed Beatrice’s annoyance. Her aunt had said it out loud more than once.
Why does she come here so often? Extra cooking, extra cleaning. Don’t we have enough to do?

Isabel ascended the steps, holding out her arms. The women embraced briefly, without much warmth. “How I’ve missed all of you,” Isabel said. “Mallaig is too lonely and quiet without my Gregor.” She turned to Mr. Ramsay. “Mind you Beatrice Stewart? She makes a grand kidney pie, Mr. Ramsay.”

“Good day, Mrs. Stewart,” Ramsay said, smiling. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Beatrice frowned as she regarded the stranger, then she blinked as she recognized him.

“Aye,” Isabel said, “it really is the same pale skinny lad. He’s turned out well, eh? No longer all elbows and shinbones.”

Morrigan’s maternal aunt quickly regained her composure. “You thought he might turn out poorly?” she said. “I didn’t.”

“Come, sir,” Isabel said.

Ramsay handed the mare’s reins to Morrigan. “I hope you’ll join us,” he said.

She kept silent, her father’s fury bombarding her like a tangible thing.

Isabel waved the gentleman up the steps and led the way inside, rambling on without pause.

Hoping to escape, Morrigan brought Widdie around, but as she did, the satchel slipped off her shoulder;
A Translated Greek Mythology
slid out and fell to the ground. A gust of wind ruffled the pages, causing Widdie to snort and prance. Morrigan tried to quiet her, which gave Douglas time to retrieve the book. Smearing the cover with his grimy fingers, he looked at it then his gaze lifted to Morrigan. She pressed into the pony’s solid, comforting side.

“So this is what you were doing. Leaving Beatrice to prepare breakfast alone.”

She said nothing, knowing better. Inwardly, she gave thanks that she and Nicky had left their wooden swords by Loch Ryan, under a stone. Outwardly, she appeared contrite.

“Get your bloody arse inside.” He jerked Widdie’s reins out of her hand and looped them around the post. “Lazy
glaikit
.”

His calling her names wasn’t anything new, but what would he do to her precious book? No doubt he was jealous, since he’d never been taught how to read, and couldn’t decipher more than the simplest script.

Her sneaked morning rides had always vexed him, but today he was like a boiling thunderstorm. She couldn’t decide what had set him off. Isabel’s arrival? The gentleman friend?

It’s you. The mere sight of you is all it takes
.

Misbegotten leeches
, he called women.
What use have they ever been?

The wild, secret Morrigan spoke up.
Well, if it weren’t for women, how would males get their precious rose-scented arses onto the earth?

They probably had an answer for that, as well.

Bacon, eggs, and deviled kidneys filled the dining room with a delicious, crackly-hot scent. Morrigan poured tea into china cups, holding herself stiff as wood beneath the paternal stare boring through her scalp.

With the excuse, “I must tend my cakes,” Beatrice vanished into the kitchen.

“Mr. Ramsay’s away to Ireland,” Isabel said, spooning eggs onto a plate. “He’s aye kindled about some dog.”

“Sometimes I race them,” Ramsay said, “but mostly I breed them and sell the pups. A lad I know in Dungarvan deals in greyhounds descended from Master McGrath.”

“Oh, aye?” Morrigan said without thinking. “The three-time winner of the Waterloo cup?”

Ramsay rewarded her knowledge with an appreciative smile. “That’s the one.”

Laughter crinkled the skin around his eyes and deepened winsome lines on either side of his mouth. He seemed to savor every aspect of life. When had she ever enjoyed anything half this much?

She’d swear a June morning sat on one side of the dining room while a January blizzard darkened the other.

Could laughter be as contagious as fear… as catching as the dread and misery in this place?

“You’ll take the new ferry,” she said, solemn-faced, holding on with both fists to cool reserve, as Beatrice had taught her she must always do. “The
Princess Louise
.”

“I’ve read about it.” Mr. Ramsay glanced from her to her father, his brows creasing into the slightest frown. “I hear it makes the crossing in less than three hours.” He sat at the table with a small helping of bacon and eggs, and sipped the tea Morrigan had poured for him.

Douglas Lawton remained in the doorway, a sickle dangling from one dirty hand. Morrigan, who had several more books of Greek myths tucked away under her bed, thought he looked uncannily like Charon, the ferryman who rafted dead people across River Styx.

“Douglas, will you have your breakfast?” Isabel gestured to a chair. “You’re making my flesh creep, standing there like that. My brother seldom takes time for conversation,” she added. “He’s fair preoccupied with his crops. From the look of him, he’s labored since before sunrise, and seems to have forgotten about washing before coming into a dining room.”

Grey irises glittered between a wealth of black lashes as Douglas stared at his sister. He looked as though he might be contemplating throwing her across the room.

Not for the first time, Morrigan wished Isabel possessed more tact. One would think his own sister would know he often vented his rage on those who hadn’t necessarily annoyed him. Well, Ibby was eight years younger. Douglas had already taken a fee to support his mother and sister while Ibby was still a suckling babe.

She continued on, unaware or uncaring. “And I expect you’ll begrudge me any time with your children, though I’ve come all this way. Where is Nick?”

“In the fields, where he is every morning. We haven’t a woman’s leisure.”

She snorted. “I daresay leisure is something Morrigan and Beatrice would find unfamiliar. Go on, then.” She gave a dismissive wave. “But be warned, I’ll steal them when you’re no’ looking. I’ll force them to giggle, sing, and dance, and think of anything other than toil.”

Douglas’s jaw clenched. He turned, but before he left, he sent Morrigan a glance she couldn’t decipher. On anyone else she might have named it uncertainty, but she didn’t imagine her father capable of such an emotion.

Why was he leaving? He hadn’t yet had anything to eat. Somehow this was her fault, she knew it.

“He works them half to death,” Isabel grumbled, then seized Morrigan’s hand and pulled her into a chair. “Mr. Ramsay has a grand old manor house in the hills outside of Glenelg. It’s called Kilgarry. You can see the turrets from the Sound.”

“Aye?”

“The estate borders Glenelg to the south,” he said. “The central tower is one of those drafty old keeps, built by the Macleods in the 1600s, but various owners added onto either end, and my father updated it as well. It’s fairly modern now.”

“I’ll never forget the
cèilidh
of… 1860, wasn’t it?” Isabel said. “It was the only time we returned to Glenelg after the troubles, and the last time we were fortunate enough to see your dear father and mother.”

“Oh, aye,” Ramsay said. “There was a snowstorm, and everyone stayed until the roads were passable. We made a bonny long holiday of it.”

Isabel nodded, smiling. “Thomas Ramsay—” she leaned closer to Morrigan to say, “that’s Mr. Ramsay’s father— loved to throw parties, especially at Christmas. Kilgarry’s windows reflected the sunlight as we sailed by, like great diamonds….”

Strange, the expression in Isabel’s eyes. Sad. “What’s wrong, Auntie?”

“Nothing.” Yet Isabel’s fingers tightened against Morrigan’s, and a tear spilled over her plump cheek.

“Auntie?” Morrigan jumped to her feet.

Ramsay stood too, proffering a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket.

Morrigan rubbed her aunt’s hand. “Are you ill? Shall I call Beatrice?”

Isabel wiped her cheek. “Of course not. I’m a daft old woman, giving childhood recollections more power than they deserve.”

“Can I do anything, Mrs. Maclean?” Ramsay seemed truly concerned.

“No,” she said. “I mind Glenelg, you know, and my childhood. Forgive me, both of you.”

“They weren’t happy years,” he said. “Perhaps they’re best forgotten.”

“Were such a thing possible,” Isabel snapped. “None but a soul who’d not lived through that would suggest they could be.”

Ramsay’s face revealed his anxiety and regret.

“Nevertheless,” Ibby continued, “I’ve a few cherished memories. You’d be surprised. Though we were poor, often hungry, we enjoyed good times before the coming of the sheep. We’d sing the most outlandish ditties. Lasses learned much of life from those songs….” Waving the handkerchief, she added, “Your grandmother used to send me to scratch dulse off the sea rocks to flavor the soup. It gave a nice salty flavor. But after the clearings, for days and days, dulse was the only thing we could find to eat. It got aye wearisome, I’ll tell you, and was scarcely what you’d call filling.”

“What does Mr. Ramsay know of your childhood?” Morrigan hadn’t missed the color blooming in their guest’s face. “And how did sheep destroy your good times?”

“I apologize, Mr. Ramsay.” Isabel returned his handkerchief. “My niece doesn’t know a thing of course, being an infant at the time. My brother’s never told her what happened. He won’t allow anyone to speak of Glenelg or those awful days. Maybe he doesn’t want her to be sad. He seems a harsh man, but I remember him before… when he was young, married to Nicky’s mother. I still believe there is a good heart in him, buried deep down inside.”

She patted Morrigan’s cheek. “Life was hard in those cold mountains, as Mr. Ramsay knows. He was only seven when Thomas moved them to Glenelg, and just eighteen when his father slipped away, isn’t that right, sir?”

“Aye,” he agreed softly.

“You lost your folk too soon.” Her eyes refilled with sympathetic tears. “Mr. Ramsay is a fine example of an indomitable spirit. Not yet twenty-six, isn’t that right? But responsible for an estate, a shipping business, and, I might add, the livelihood of a good number of folk.”

“Mrs. Maclean, please. You flatter me.”

“No more than you deserve.” Squeezing Morrigan’s hand, she said, “Tea, that’s what I need. Pour me another cup, would you, child? I can’t wait to show you the hat I brought. It has a plume of ostrich feathers. Lord knows where you’ll wear it. Oh, and will you play for Mr. Ramsay? I bragged about you all the way from Glasgow. Chopin… everyone loves your Chopin.” She sent their guest a speculative glance. “No doubt you thought I exaggerated, Mr. Ramsay, but I can prove it. My niece possesses a gift from the angels, as you’ll hear for yourself.”

Though Isabel’s cheery personality had rebounded, Ramsay’s constraint remained. “I believe the ferry leaves in a half-hour,” he said, consulting his pocket watch. “There’s hardly time to appreciate Miss Lawton’s playing. Perhaps when I return…?”

What secrets did Aunt Isabel, this man, and her father share? Mr. Ramsay appeared too distressed to ask, but Morrigan vowed she’d get the tale from her aunt at the first opportunity.

“I’d best check on Beatrice,” Morrigan said. “I should’ve helped with breakfast, but….” She shrugged and made her escape.

The scent of a golden-white bannock, cooling on the worktable, sent her stomach growling. Beatrice was washing dishes out of sight in the scullery, so she gouged a chunk from the edge and bit into it. Light as a cloud, warm and yeasty, it melted like butter on her tongue.

Before she could filch more, her aunt appeared in the doorway, wet skillet in hand. “Why d’you test your father’s patience, again and again?” she said, frowning. “I’m beginning to think you enjoy being strapped.”

“I didn’t hurt anything.” Retrieving a blue-striped towel from a hanger beside the worktable, Morrigan took the skillet, finished drying it, and put it away on the shelf above the range.

“Your chores were left undone,” Beatrice said.

“I would’ve been home long since, in plenty of time to help, if Aunt Ibby hadn’t stopped me at the station. Must I spend every moment I breathe doing chores?”