The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (87 page)

Lily gave a hushed laugh. “What’s the word she used about
Tristram and Iseult?
Braw. Yes. You’re braw as toast and jam.”

Curran’s mouth curved into a slight smile. Maybe there was hope yet.

“Could she be pregnant?”

He stared. “Why d’you ask that?”

“This fainting, for one thing. And she lost her breakfast the other day. Think about it. Has she had her monthly courses?”

He frowned. “I… don’t remember.”

Lily gave him a moment then wrapped both her hands around his. “If, as you say, she is having an affair—”

“No.”

“Oh, darling, you have to face this. Has she ever told you you’re braw? Let her go, if she wants, with this man. Perhaps it isn’t worth the pain and trouble.”

“We’ve been together nearly every night. She and I… we….” His eyes closed. Tearing free of her grasp, he bent his head and buried his face in his palms, digging his fingertips into his scalp. “Olivia….”

* * * *

Could she be pregnant?

Curran made some shocked reply, but Lily’s voice wouldn’t relent.
If she is having an affair
….

Let her go with this man
.

She was saying everything that couldn’t be said, all that would destroy their lives, annihilate any trust that might remain.

This wasn’t Lily’s fault. Morrigan had done it herself with the way she’d allowed Aodhàn Mackinnon to infest her imagination.

She heard Curran’s desperate
No
. But Lily would convince him. In a matter of moments, Curran would believe. At that point there would be no use telling him she hadn’t been unfaithful, even if she could say it without blushing.

All at once, in a rush that felt like a swooping gust of wind, Morrigan knew. She cupped her hands over her breasts. They were tender, so tender she could hardly bear the pressure of her own touch.

Curran would take Olivia and this new babe away from her. He would install Lily at Kilgarry. Somehow they would rid themselves of Richard. Morrigan would never be allowed to see her babies. She would never again disperse into pliant delirium under Curran’s touch.

She’d held his heart in her hand. He’d freely given it. In nurturing that gift, maybe she could have healed herself. But look what she’d done instead. She’d been more Mackinnon’s than Curran’s before they’d left, even if she hadn’t succumbed to the final indignity of physical betrayal. When they returned to Glenelg, how long would it be before that changed? Could she and Mackinnon live together in the same wee village and never surrender to this thing that was so palpable between them? Some part of her knew he would never stop until he got what he wanted.

My children will never know me. They’ll think Lily is their mother… Lily, who cannot have children, so she’ll take mine!

Just tonight she had congratulated herself for having a friend who would never betray her.

Stupid… stupid.

Behind tightly squeezed eyelids a picture materialized. The pool near the Wren’s Egg. Louis Stevenson, chewing a stem of wild grass.

What of the father?
he’d asked.
Do you love him?

She had done the honorable thing by marrying her child’s father. That path had taken her to safety and redemption. Her thoughts had carried her no farther.

Needing to escape Curran and Lily and all the terrifying things they were plotting, Morrigan crawled across to the open window. She grasped the sill and pulled herself to her knees.

I’ve a notion your heart will steer you rightly,
Louis had ventured. How wrong he’d been.

The luminescent moon hovered in a starry midnight heaven.

Night and day. Shadow and sun
. No, Curran wasn’t the sun, so intense one couldn’t bear to look at it. He was the softly mesmerizing face of the moon. A quiet steadfast presence, showering her with, with….

Freedom,
sang the Judas-wench inside her.

She had thrown joy aside in order to embrace enigmatic sorrow. Now she’d had enough sorrow and wished joy back, like a spoiled child whose long-neglected doll had been thrown into the rubbish, who sobbed, broken-hearted, at the loss and demanded Time be rewound.

She wanted both joy and sorrow to be hers forever in a world that never allowed such things.

Another stark image materialized. She saw herself seizing the horns of an angry bull.

Her laughter flew high as she used the jerk of the bull’s head to propel herself into the wind.

Wind was invulnerable. Neither bullets nor despair could affect it.

A breeze stirred the lace curtains. They brushed her face as though in encouragement.

Roaming the earth with no need to rest, eat, or sleep, unhampered by mountains, oceans, cities, or love, wind bolted from zephyr to hurricane on its own momentary impulse. It was utterly invulnerable to attack or entrapment.

The wind spoke in her throat with Nicky’s voice.
Feel me. I am with you
.

She wanted to leap from this window and become wind, join Nicky, spread out invisibly across the earth, scratch her spine in pine trees and send ripples over lochs with her breath.

There was another image from Torridon, of the living boat with the goddess sculpted into the prow. It swayed as the wind played with its sails, coaxing Morrigan to climb aboard.
I will take you away to a warm island, to endless peace,
the goddess said.
You are tired, my daughter, and you have suffered for me
.

A movement off to one side brought her swinging around with a gasp, but it was only her reflection in the looking-glass, cast in moonlight and shadows.

Something flitted across the face in the mirror, an overlay of another woman’s features. She was older. Her hair was dark, her eyes, haunted. She was both familiar and unknown.

No more children. No more love. Not until they all lie dead. Then we will begin again.

“Begin again.” Morrigan pitied the woman in the mirror, who had seen too much, endured too much.

She unbuttoned the pocket in her petticoat and pulled out the knife Diorbhail had given her. It felt hot.

The woman in the looking-glass seemed to stare at it too, then she lifted her gaze to Morrigan’s.
See
.

Morrigan blinked and the face in the mirror was her own again.

Her thoughts cleared into distinct separate drops, falling one by one into blank silence.

She would go to Barra. To Mingulay. Oh aye, she’d seen how much Curran hated the idea, though he’d said nothing. But she would go. She would discover why those places called to her. She would search until she found the reason those islands and Mackinnon were connected.

It seemed too much a coincidence, something akin to fate, that Richard would have a cottage on Mingulay. Everything was pulling her there, and she was done fighting her instincts. It was not only fate, but fatality.

Anger again boiled, scalding away her shame. She had done nothing.
Nothing!
Yet at this moment, her husband sat in the next room making love to another woman— a prostitute, by her own admission.

Damn
him. Was
this
what she had to look forward to? She had put Mackinnon away from her. She’d vowed to be faithful and honorable. And
this
was what she received for her efforts.

She would confront Mackinnon. This time, there would be no humiliating her into silence. He must tell her why she was so important that he was willing to destroy his long friendship with the laird of Kilgarry in order to have her. And Curran? Never again would he deceive her. She would turn herself into a wind-being. Transparent. Distilled. Untouchable. Nothing different to the outside eye, but inside, pure and blank. A thing without form or substance. A mirage none of them could harness or control.

* * * *

Lily knew what she had to say, but the words stuck like tar in her throat. “Yes, my darling. Olivia. You could keep her.”

Curran shook his head. He met her gaze and drew in a deep breath. “I will never separate them.”

“Do you know what this means?” How it ached to keep saying the things she knew he couldn’t bear to hear. “You could find yourself raising—”

“Stop.” He took another ragged breath. “I know what it means.”

“I adore you.” She kissed him on the mouth.

“No, Lily, I can’t. Don’t. Don’t ask me.”

“Of course not.” She smiled. “Like Donaghue says.
Advienne que pourra
. You’ll stand by Morrigan, no matter what, and I love you for it. Let me talk to her. We’re friends, your wife and I. She’ll tell me the truth. I’ll help you repair this trouble. Your marriage will be wonderful again. I promise, Curran.”

Make it happen
, those divine eyes pleaded as the doctor came in.

CHAPTER TWELVE

VIOLET LOOKED UP
as Eleanor Graeme entered the kitchen at Kilgarry, her hands stuffed with letters, saying she’d run into the delivery boy.

Separating one from the others, she waved it exuberantly. “I believe this must be from the laird, or his wife.”

They all ran to Eleanor’s side, but for Beatrice. She stayed in the rocking chair, a surly frown on her face.

Violet, who needed the most practice, read the letter to the others. Apparently, the couple had been busy dining, dancing, and meeting people— artists, politicians, even Prince Edward, when they went riding in Rotten Row. Oh, and James Whistler was painting her.

“Her head’ll be too swollen to thole,” Beatrice said.

“’Tis grand.” Tess sighed. “Meeting the Prince of Wales. And to have her portrait painted.”

“Have you forgotten the picture in the drawing room? How many portraits d’you think a glorified scullery maid needs?” Beatrice snapped.

“This is different,” said Violet. “I’ve heard of Whistler. He’s famous. We don’t know who painted the one we’ve got.” She frowned as she stared at the letter. “There’s one more thing,” she said. “It says that….” She paused as she read. Her brows elevated and she blinked.

“What?” Fionna and Tess asked together.

“It says they’re coming home, but they plan to leave again right away. They’re going across the water to Barra. It says if you want to go along, Miss Stewart, you’d be welcome. They’re bringing Mistress Ramsay’s Aunt Isabel.”

Beatrice snorted. “Barra,” she said. Then, “Barra,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. She laughed. Everyone stared at her as she rose heavily to her feet and left the kitchen, snorting one great, indelicate belly laugh after another.

No matter what anyone said, Violet knew Beatrice had changed. She’d never been easy or kind, but now she was angry, cold, and insulting. She hardly ever came out of her room, and when she did, spent most of her time eating or walking, who knew where. Her appetite had increased, and so had her taste for Master Ramsay’s brandy.

She also had a new, unpleasant smell, an acrid odor that made Violet’s nose itch. Fionna made excuses for the woman, saying she probably missed Morrigan. After all, her niece had been gone a long time, leaving Beatrice with no one for company but Kilgarry’s servants. Besides, Morrigan was married now, preoccupied with her husband and baby. Beatrice probably felt as though she was no longer needed.

“I’m passing by Seaghan’s on the way home,” Eleanor said into the silence. “I’ll share the news with him.”

“What about Aodhàn Mackinnon?” Tess asked. “Should he be told?”

“Neither Seaghan nor I have any idea where he’s gone,” Eleanor said. “Besides, isn’t he the cause behind this long absence? Why in the name of all that’s holy would he have any right to know?”

“Oh, it’s just hard not to think of one without the other. Everything is so changed.”

Eleanor agreed and took her leave.

Violet helped Tess fill shortbread pastry with currants, walnuts, and sugar. She hoped the mistress’s homecoming would return Beatrice to her old self, but in the next breath hoped Beatrice would go away with them to Barra.

As if reading her thoughts, Tess glanced at the door. “It’s pleased I am God didn’t make me kin to Beatrice Stewart.”

Violet snickered, but the minding of her troubles soon etched the frown back into her forehead.
Logan, I believed I’d changed you. You promised I was the only one
.

“I do wish the laird and his mistress would stay awhile when they come home.” Janet sliced potatoes into a pot of simmering water. “I want to make tempting dishes again.”

“Amen.” Fionna nodded.

“Tess?” Janet held up a towel filled with raw turnips. “Help me with these. Did you lasses remember to put whisky in the tart?”

* * * *

The next several days were busy with cooking and cleaning. Violet fell into bed at night exhausted, almost too exhausted to dwell on Logan.

Kilgarry felt wretchedly forlorn with no Curran, barging into the kitchen, begging in that endearing way for a bite of some delicacy, bringing the smell of heather and wind along with his dogs, who snuffled with wide canine grins and wagging tails. Violet couldn’t help smiling as she thought of how he’d always put his arm round Janet and kiss her cheeks to make her blush.

The foursome gathered in the kitchen again a few days after the arrival of the letter, cleaning potatoes, cutting onions, and baking bread. Kilgarry was spotless, ready for the master’s return, and the larder was well stocked.

“I miss wee Olivia,” Janet grumbled. “I’d just got her smiling, aye, and I miss the perfume the mistress uses. They have been gone too long.”

A door slammed distantly. “Watch yourself, that’ll be Beatrice,” Tess said.

“Mind your tongue.” Fionna rose. “Kyle, no doubt, tracking mud again. I’ll give him a thrashing so help me.” She left.

The remaining three heard the sound of muffled laughter.

“What’s happened?” Tess asked.

“Let’s go see,” Violet replied.

She and Tess ran through the corridor, their excitement mounting. Frantic joyous barking bounced off the walls. As she burst into the polished entry, Violet glimpsed Curran’s bright head of hair. Pòl, the deerhound, rose on hind legs and licked his master’s face.

An invasive wash of sunlight sent Morrigan’s hair blazing. Dressed in an elegant striped costume so narrow-skirted Violet was surprised she could move, Mistress Ramsay fended off Antiope and two eager Border collies, waving her bonnet and crying
Shoo!
as she tried to move out of the way for the ever-increasing pile of crates, boxes, and trunks. Logan carried in more while Fionna brushed at her tears.