The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (82 page)

It reminded Morrigan of a letter she’d received from Louis Stevenson. He’d written in his fanciful way that he sometimes wished he could live inside an opera.

As the maid draped a morning gown over her head, enveloping her for an instant in a cocoon of darkness and fabric, she felt as though she was falling headlong into the poem, or her dream.

Sometimes, she thought uneasily, she couldn’t tell the difference.

She was soon dressed. Lily took her arm again. They left the bedroom and came upon Richard and Curran at the foot of the staircase.

“How I wish you could see the opera,” Lily said as they all entered the dining room. “I do wonder if it will ever come here. I would love to watch prim, proper London being bombarded with all that sexual desire and tension, the moment when everything is forgotten in blissful frenzied fulfillment. It’s all there, in the singing, the music. Yet it’s about escaping our sexual longings as well, through the release of death.” She shrugged. “I confess that part makes little sense to me. Why escape our sexual longings? They were molded within us for a reason— to enjoy!”

“Lily, please.” Richard gripped his wife’s chin sternly, though Morrigan was certain she saw hints of a smile. “Mrs. Ramsay will run screaming from our home if you don’t stop talking in this indecent fashion. She’s a lady, unlike you, my strumpet. Look at her! Her face is as red as those drapes, and you know you only hung those to scandalize the neighbors.”

“Nonsense. Ramsay would never wed one of those long-nosed spinsters who swoon at the sight of a bloomer. You insult Mrs. Ramsay by grouping her with them.”

“There is a happy medium, my love, between a long-nosed fainting spinster and a brazen tart, for which you don’t allow. Surely our Mrs. Ramsay fits into the vast middle ground.”

“Please don’t argue,” Morrigan said. “I’m no’ offended, I swear.”

She glanced at Curran, thinking of her life before she’d met him, of the thrashings, the dreadful entertaining of strangers, the soul-numbing chores, and the night Douglas Lawton had sought to end her life… not to mention that other night she couldn’t bear to think of at all.

Then she pictured the day she had given this man what propriety claimed was a woman’s only asset, if she didn’t have land or a title.

He seemed to understand. He twined his fingers through hers and kissed her temple.

“Now, now, Donaghue insists we act with decorum.” Lily flicked the back of his hand with her napkin, but her smile was pure benevolence.

* * * *

Glenelg’s scruffy delivery boy perused Aodhàn curiously as he handed over a sealed envelope. The fisherman had never before received a letter.

Aodhàn unfolded the missive, his gaze going first to the signature. It was from Faith, Lilith’s aging mother on Barra, and was scrawled in nearly unreadable Gaelic.

An Englishman is staying at the MacNeil house. He is asking questions about you, about Lilith, about what happened. He hired me as cook and maidservant. He does not know who I am. His name is Quentin Merriwether.

It was easy to guess why Curran’s solicitor was snooping around on Barra. Curran must have sent him. But why? It could only be because of those careless things he’d said to Seaghan the morning after Curran and Morrigan’s wedding, when his memories were freshly returned, burning through him like lightning. Aye, he was almost certain he’d said something about Barra, and his wife. Seaghan must have told Curran.

Aodhàn’s long friendship with Seaghan was destroyed. Curran and Morrigan were gone for the foreseeable future. He hadn’t yet determined a way to get to London, but he could find someone to sail him over to Barra for the cost of a red fish or two. Quentin Merriwether needed to be dealt with. It would only take a few days.

The man’s blood would be on Curran’s hands.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MORRIGAN’S GOWN, A
mossy green taffeta creation, was finished the very day of the Hamilton ball. Lily’s French maid, Hélène, arranged her hair in a beautiful twist, adding a few loose wisps in front of her ears and on the neck. She shocked Morrigan by insisting the already plunging décolletage be coaxed lower. Thankfully the rosettes in the center added a teasing hint of subterfuge to her cleavage.

With a diamond tiara sparkling in her piled black hair and a sapphire-blue gown, Lily resembled a celestial goddess. Her neckline was even lower than Morrigan’s, and, far from embarrassed, the saucy wench plumped her breasts higher and gave an irrepressible laugh. “I’ll have those gentlemen drooling like infants,” she said.

“Do you vex your husband with the things you do?” Morrigan blurted.

For the briefest second, Lily’s finely arched brows lifted. Then she smiled and shook her curls. “We have a unique understanding,” she said, dabbing a crystal perfume applicator to the hollow in her throat. The tantalizing scent of roses entreated one to breathe deep. “Come with me.” Lily guided Morrigan to the freestanding looking-glass and rested an arm around her shoulders. “There you are,
cara mia
,” she said. “How lovely. I knew that color would be perfect on you. It brings out hints of red in your hair, and complements your skin.” She tilted her head. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

Morrigan blushed. She wanted to pull free of Lily’s touch and at the same time, longed to dissolve into it. Was it because she’d never known a mother’s embraces that the touch of women moved her so?

“Oh, I dinna ken,” she said, nervousness making her forget her attempts to cultivate a more patrician manner of speaking.

Lily smiled and fingered one of the wisps of hair in front of Morrigan’s ear. “My darling, that is one of your most delightful aspects. If you did know, you would be a formidable adversary to our blue-blooded witches. Morrigan. The name hardly fits, bella. Somehow it makes me think of a necromancer. Of blood and cauldrons. Definitely worldly. Fearless.”

“Then it’s a mistake on me,” Morrigan said. “Because I sometimes think I’m afraid of everything.”

Lily’s hand faltered then dropped to Morrigan’s shoulder and pressed it. “I think you’re quite brave.”

“Brave?” It was difficult to remain still. The only other women she’d ever been so close to were Eleanor and Diorbhail.

“I hope you’ll forgive us,” Lily said. “Ramsay told me about your father. Yet you never ran away.”

“Only because I was more afraid of what might happen to me elsewhere.”

“And it was also brave,” Lily continued without pause, “to accompany Ramsay to Glenelg and become his lady of the manor.”

“What other choice did I have? I was….” She caught herself.

“And now,” Lily went on, “you’re courageous enough to be kind to me.”

“Why would that take courage? You’re maybe the brawest lady I’ve ever met.”

Were those tears in Lily’s eyes? “
Merci, mon amie.
”

“What does that mean?”

“It means ‘thank you, my friend.’ It’s French.” The tears vanished as Lily laughed. “I made Donaghue hire French and Italian tutors.” They left the mirror and sat together on a damask loveseat. “I wanted to learn the languages of love, but I wasn’t interested in irregular verbs and conjugations.
Dieu
, how tedious.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I only wanted to learn things like
donne-moi un petit bisou.
That means, ‘give me a little kiss.’”

Morrigan giggled.

Lily shook her index finger, demanding solemnity. “Listen carefully, my dear. Tomorrow is your husband’s birthday, isn’t it? How old will he be?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“I believe I have the perfect idea for a gift. Something he would particularly appreciate. Tonight, when you and Ramsay retire, you have my permission to use whatever I teach you. Now repeat after me:
Embrasse-moi
.”

“Ahmbrasseh maw.”

“Try to give it a French accent, darling, not a Scottish one. That means simply, ‘Kiss me.’ Ah yes, I have a feeling he would appreciate that. He might give you little kisses in places you’d least expect, eh?”

Morrigan fought the urge to throw her skirts over her face.

“And, since you are a good girl, you must say ‘please.’
Embrasse-moi, s’il te plait
. Don’t forget to appeal to his vanity.
Délicieux garçon
. That means, ‘Delicious boy.’ Oh, and we mustn’t forget to tell him ‘happy birthday.’ That is
Joyeux anniversaire
. Although I think he might not hear that one after the other things you’ll be saying. Would you care to know more?”

“Aye.” Morrigan nodded. “
S’il te plait.
”

* * * *

Glittering chandeliers, plush carpet, bejeweled guests, and expensive champagne in the thinnest gold-edged crystal left Morrigan shyly awed. Elegant society paraded, gossiped, frittered, and danced, exhibiting a carefully cultivated air of nonchalance while managing to note and discuss every detail of the other guests. Morrigan was introduced to so many people her head began to swirl.

Lily fluttered her fan and smoothed one of Morrigan’s curls with lace-covered fingers. Drawing her attention to various personalities, she happily related the current scandals. “There’s Rossetti,” she said, smiling behind her fan. “If he hears that Whistler has asked to paint you, he’ll try to steal you away. His wife died, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Morrigan said, wondering at the glint in Lily’s eye.

“She committed suicide over his infidelities. He buried several of his poems with her then regretted their loss. It was Whistler who talked him into exhuming her in order to recover them.”

Horrified, Morrigan glanced at the artist, who caught her looking and smiled.

In her other ear, Curran murmured, “She can spend all night doing this, you know, especially if you keep rewarding her with that shocked expression.”

“The more I hear of Whistler the more I dislike him.”

“He’s a bohemian. Bohemians thumb their noses at society’s sacred rules. That’s the source of their charm.”

Lily bent closer to Morrigan’s ear, using her fan to disguise her words. “You think Rossetti’s adventures disgraceful? They are nothing compared to the composer of
Tristan und Isolde.
Wagner was rumored to be King Ludwig’s lover.”

Morrigan tried to hide her shock but knew she’d failed by the wide smile on Lily’s face.

“You’re going to muss your hair, darling, if you keep fanning yourself so vigorously. Now come with me. I have more secrets to teach you. Isn’t this fun!”

* * * *

At close to two o’clock in the morning, Curran covertly loosened his cravat and searched for the ladies. He hadn’t glimpsed either Lily or Morrigan in over an hour, and the Hamilton mansion was enormous.

He was pleased he’d chosen London as their next destination, though the journey from Cape Wrath had been arduous. Morrigan enjoyed exploring the great old city. She and Lily had become fast friends, and most of the time she appeared quite happy.

Yet Aodhàn Mackinnon remained like a spectre between them. He would be, until they cleared the air, but every time they came close, she shied away.

He caught sight of her in her beautiful dress, shaped like an opening tulip, the skirts constructed into various layers and folds. The bodice sparkled, due to a scatter of miniature crystals. She stood across the room, gazing straight at him, the lower half of her face hidden behind her lace-edged fan. As soon as their eyes met she fanned it provocatively, disguising all but her eyes. Music, laughter, and the clink of glass faded as she deliberately shut the fan and reopened it. Then she turned and left through a dim alcove, pausing once to deliver one last meaningful look.

The message was obvious, even without the use of the fan. Where had she learned such a ploy? Lily, no doubt. Glancing around to make sure no one else had noticed, he set down his glass and followed.

She was waiting for him on one of the terraces, within the overhanging branches of a magnolia tree. He approached her with a faint smile, which she returned before taking his hand and leading him down a set of steps to the foot of the tree, where a wrought-iron bench kept company with deep shadows, hiding them from the colored lanterns and bright windows framing the dancers inside. The air was intoxicating.

“Curran.” She leaned against the tree trunk. Catching hold of his lapels, she pulled him close. It brought that day on the moor outside of Stranraer into sharp focus, the abandoned shieling and sprinkle of rain, the first time he’d kissed her.

She melted bonelessly against him and they descended as one to the bench.

Instead of magnolia blossom his lungs filled with the scent of the soft bracken in the Stranraer hills, and in the distance, perhaps only in his memory, he heard a solitary curlew’s haunting cry.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ONCE AGAIN, AODHÀN
Mackinnon stood on the bluff above Castlebay, looking out over the southern islands. Heavy fog obscured the farthest two, Mingulay and Berneray.

He kicked at a stone, one of the few that hadn’t been carted off, and contemplated the years he’d lived in Bishop House, first with his father, then, later, with Lilith and their weans. For a moment he thought he heard childish laughter, but no, it was only the wind, soughing through the grass.

He was surprised to discover warm tears running down his face, and wiped them away with a hard, angry swipe.

He’d provoked the punishment on Barra, first by having Daniel killed, and later, tipsy on a half-bottle of wine, when he’d given in to Lilith’s demands. One look from those eyes of hers and he became a babbling idiot, disgorging the secrets he knew better than to reveal… with certain embellishments, of course, a few necessary omissions. He had broken both of Athene’s cardinal rules.

He pictured Curran. The laird of Glenelg had a handsome face and an engaging charm. Both had helped make his life one smooth accomplishment after another. Were he to remember their incarnations, he wouldn’t have to omit or embellish facts. He could sleep at night without nightmares. He wouldn’t be forced to hear the screams of his murdered children.