The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (96 page)

“Here, let me put her in the cradle,” he said, sighing. He carried it from the wall over to Morrigan’s chair and tucked Olivia in, covering her with a light blanket. Then he dropped, loose-limbed, into his chair and resumed the tale, idly rubbing the scar beside his eye.

“My father brought a surgeon from Fort William in time to save you and most of your kin. But that first old man we saw died. I cannot remember his name now. Wynda Urquhart died. Beatrice told my da she wouldn’t let anyone take Hearn, and never stopped speaking to him as though he lived. We had them buried together. Your grandmother died, John Dunbar, and Kyle’s mam. His father had died years before, so the clearings made him an orphan. And, of course, your mother.”

Morrigan thought she glimpsed the faintest reflective sheen pass through his eyes, but he continued without pause. “My mother asked Douglas how they kept you from starving, and he told her about the goat.”

Morrigan rocked the cradle with one hand. “I’ve always wondered about these things.” She felt light-headed, like she had at the beginning of her first pregnancy. Something about the way their lives had woven into each other’s from the start seemed dreamlike… unreal yet almost planned. She most certainly would have died if not for Curran’s father.

“Ibby told me how Douglas never let anyone speak of those days,” he said.

“I’m glad I finally know it all. I’m not a child any longer, who must be sheltered and protected.”

The second pot of tea had grown cold. Olivia sighed in her sleep. “That’s why you were afraid of the forest,” Morrigan said.

He glanced away and ran a hand through his hair.

“No wonder,” she said. “That’s why your father sent you with Fearghas. To get over finding us.”

“But finding you was worth any amount of fear or nightmares. You lived. What if we hadn’t gone riding that day?”

She stared at the cradle.

“Will you talk to me, Morrigan?” he said.

She gritted her teeth, refusing to look at him.

“I can’t get anything out of you anymore,” he went on. “You’re not here. You’re a ghost. Where have you gone?”

“Nowhere.” She fanned her anger by reliving the picture of Lily kissing him. She added, “I’m right where you want me.” Damn it, she
was
angry. Fury flowed like white-hot lava.

His head jerked as though she’d slapped him. The scar by his eye whitened. “Is it the pregnancy that makes you this way?” His gaze bored into her. “Are you sorry to be carrying another child of mine?”

She turned away and stared at the fireplace.

“Bloody hell.” He rose and bent over her, imprisoning her between his arms. “Look at me.”

Douglas had done that once, furious over some transgression— made bars out of his arms. He bent over her and proceeded to threaten in his hateful, quiet voice. Though she’d forgotten his words, the fear and powerlessness returned, undiminished by time.

Curran couldn’t understand. Had he grown up seeing himself as hated, a child who enraged his parent merely by breathing? No. Thomas Ramsay had loved and honored his son. His mother had adored him. Curran could never comprehend her devils.
Every man, woman, and child craves to be understood
, Mackinnon had said. Mackinnon did, because of his suffering. It wasn’t Curran’s fault, but he didn’t; he couldn’t.

“You think you can browbeat me?” she said. “I learned from the best.”

“By God, you’ll speak to me if I have to keep you here all night….” the hoarseness resurfaced, making his voice rough.

Balling her hands into fists, she struck, throwing herself into the old rage, welcoming it, for it camouflaged the voice deep inside that wanted to
hold him, tell him how sorry I am, how much I wish
—

He took blows to the jaw, temple, and nose before managing to pin her wrists. She kicked him in the shin.

“Morrigan!” He dragged her from the chair, forced her arms behind her and secured them with one hand. The other held her against him, deliberately off-balance to prevent her from kicking again. How could he still be so much stronger than she after what he’d gone through? It wasn’t fair.

“Talk to me,” he said.

At least he was breathing hard. Morrigan hadn’t felt so infuriatingly helpless since before Douglas died. “Let… me… go….”

She would’ve screamed, but Olivia was asleep. It was almost amusing, the way they carried out this battle in quiet undertones. More like proper
Sasannaich
than a pair of tempestuous Scots.

“Why are you acting like this?” His eyes, so close to hers, narrowed. “Ever since that night when you fainted at Richard’s. We were happy before then. What changed?”

Don’t let him make you feel. Feeling makes you weak.

But it was so hard when he was this close. Her defenses were unraveling. If only she could slip through his fingers and climb into the heavens— wind in truth.

“Christ,” he said, “Love me, hate me, but don’t ignore me. Damn you, don’t ignore me.” He bent and kissed her in a way he’d never done before, a kiss that held nothing of gentleness, tenderness, or affection, but it had plenty of demand. She felt every last fragment of his repressed frustration in that kiss. He held nothing back.

Time vanished. When had she stopped fighting? When had he released her? Her arms were around his neck, but she couldn’t remember putting them there.

Fear sparked.

If she allowed him to carry her to the bed as his eyes said he meant to, it would be like stabbing him and filching the rings off his fingers as he bled to death. He didn’t know what she’d done while he was gone. He didn’t know Mackinnon was now on Mingulay, waiting for her to come to him.

She stiffened and managed to escape his grip, quickly constructing an expression of cold blankness.

Curran’s arms dropped to his sides. The dark triumphant seduction in his eyes slowly faded. He sighed.

“D’you think I didn’t see what happened that night?” she said. “You were kissing Lily. You thought I was unconscious, but I wasn’t. I saw everything. If I hadn’t been there, if you’d had more time before the doctor came, you would’ve stripped her naked and had her, right there on the floor. I saw how much you wanted to.”

She watched him startle. He blinked. Realization dawned on his face.

“She told me what she was before she married Richard. A whore. If you need a woman, she’ll oblige. She made that clear enough. Maybe I’ll make friends with Richard.”

“You might, if Aodhàn Mackinnon will let you. What about that man in Stranraer who painted you? You blush every time his name comes up. Shall I list the others who’ve tried to bed you since we married? Tell me. Which ones succeeded?”

What was going on with the creature inside her, the wild, selfish girl?
I only want to be with you
, she whispered.
Only you. You may not be the Greek Theseus, but you are my hero
.

Shoving the traitorous liar down where she couldn’t be heard, Morrigan said, “They all did. Every one. Lily has nothing on me.”

“Damn you. Morrigan. Damn you. You’re a witch.”

Horror and helpless resignation flooded her.

Olivia woke, flailed, and whimpered.

He came forward and caught her hands, but she pushed him away. Words tumbled out of her mouth, words she didn’t plan to say, or know had been inside her. “You think you can do whatever you want. Have whatever you want. Everything is so easy for you, so bonny and blithe. But it isn’t for me. I’m… tired. So tired. One thing I know. No one will force me again. No one. Not you. Not my father. No one, not ever again.”

His expression changed. Anger transformed into shock then comprehension. “Morrigan,” he said, aghast.

As she realized what she’d said, her hands rose and covered her mouth. But it was too late. The words could not be rolled back into her throat. This would be the final death-knell. Disgust would trounce any lingering sentiment. She bent over the cradle and lifted Olivia, pressing her face to the baby’s cheek, closing her eyes, blocking out Curran and breathing in the fine, clean scent of her child.
I love you Olivia
, she thought.
You have made me better.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said.

“We’re not finished.”

She expected to see loathing when she opened her eyes, but the only thing she discerned beyond doubt in his expression was weariness. “You’re exhausted, and we’ve both said too much. I need to be alone for a while. I’ll be back before dark. Mingulay is perfectly safe.”

His jaw clenched several times, but in the end, he sighed and let her go.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

HARPALYCUS OF TIRYNS
couldn’t ignore Beatrice Stewart’s foibles and ailments. The woman suffered from intermittent waves of flushing heat that left her drenched in sweat and unable to sleep. She often left her bed and wandered through the night, weather permitting, and now, Harpalycus found he was obliged to do the same.

In an effort to overcome the irritating habit, he’d been wearing out the body by walking to exhaustion in the evenings. After the Laird of Eilginn appeared, sopping wet from his ill-advised swim in the bay, Harpalycus set out. He circled the village, trudged through the sand at the water’s edge, and hiked to an overlook on the east coast. There he rested, drinking brandy from a flask as he read through Morrigan’s diary, which he’d noticed on her dressing table while she was tending to her husband. He’d filched it when no one was looking.

Hot, hungry, and well on his way to drunk, he eventually returned to Taigh na Gaoithe. Climbing up the hill from the village, cursing the old woman’s weak lungs and heavy skirts, he was nearly there when he spotted Morrigan coming out of the cottage, holding her baby. She walked the opposite direction, climbing the hill towards the western cliffs. He stopped. Shouldn’t she still be with her half-drowned husband? She lifted the baby above her head, making her shriek with laughter, but never looked back. Curran emerged a moment later, his hair wet and his collar open, but he remained on the steps, merely watching until she was out of sight. Then Diorbhail joined him.

“Where is Morrigan going?” The whore asked in her timid voice.

“For a walk.” Curran sounded tired, resigned. In truth, quite unhappy.

Harpalycus, in the body of Beatrice Stewart, grinned. The master’s tone said it all. They were at odds again. Those two could find something to fight about every day of the week. It wasn’t all that surprising that Beatrice’s niece suffered from a deep mistrust, and in some cases, hatred, of men. It was obvious to the outside eye. But the twit had always denied this truth, and continued trying to mold herself into a proper lady. Like she could ever be anything close.

A strange flash blinked around Diorbhail’s head, there then gone, probably sunlight catching on a pin in her hair. But Harpalycus’s instincts sharpened. He stared at Diorbhail Sinclair, wondering for the first time if she could be one of the followers. Just in case, he would be on his guard around her. He didn’t know if they had the same protections as the others, and he didn’t want to find out.

Ibby stuck her head out the door. “Curran, why are you out here? Seaghan’s built a fire in the parlor, and you still look a bit chilled to me.”

With a last glance towards the hilltop, Curran allowed himself to be pulled inside. The door closed.

Groaning a little at the painful rheumatism in Beatrice’s joints, Harpalycus approached the steps. He paused before entering, and looked again at the scrap of paper he’d found tucked in the pages of the diary.

Nam chridhe gu bràth
. Once more. Tonight. Dùn Mhiughalaigh
.

He reread the last entry. She always made things so easy.

Harpalycus, with the benefit of Beatrice’s memories, would wager his last coin on the willful besom’s destination. Pools, lochs, seas, and oceans. Water drew her like she was part fish. Aye, she loved to stand on cliffs, didn’t she? Right on the edge.

The note was from Aodhàn Mackinnon, obviously—
Chrysaleon
. So he had followed her here. That must be where the chit sneaked off to three nights ago. Harpalycus had been standing at the window, unable to sleep for the sweating. She’d witnessed Morrigan running off into the night. Now it made sense. She had cuckolded her husband.

No doubt Aodhàn Mackinnon had conjured up a plan to have the bitch and humiliate Curran Ramsay at the same time.

It would give Harpalycus much pleasure to thwart his old enemy’s schemes.

“Let’s see if we can start some excitement,” he said. “You want Morrigan to meet you? And what if Curran comes after her? What will happen then?”

Harpalycus had perfected the art of making weak-willed men jump to his whim like they were marionettes and he the puppeteer. The lies he’d told were awe-inspiring, and now he’d invent one of the best. Using Beatrice’s memories and her old, bitter resentment, he’d stoke Curran Ramsay’s frustration into a fevered rage, and once he had him boiling, he would send the fool off to shoot Aodhàn Mackinnon dead, right before his lover’s eyes. Considering the master of Kilgarry’s present mood and ill-controlled passion for his wife, it would be easy. Curran had no idea how many thousands of years of buried obsession were egging him on.

It seemed poetic. Chrysaleon had slaughtered Menoetius on Crete, and then there was that betrayal at Cape Wrath. No doubt he’d played a part in Daniel’s death on Barra. Menoetius was long overdue a day of recompense.

If Harpalycus managed his lies well, he would soon be free. He could hardly wait to be rid of this disgusting body, with its drooping paps and belly.

“Someday you’ll learn, Chrysaleon of Mycenae,” he said. “When you least expect it, there I’ll be, staring at you from your nightmares.”

Beatrice opened the door and entered.

Curran came swiftly out of the parlor, his face hopeful. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Where have you been? Have you seen Morrigan?”

“I have.” Beatrice smiled. “But she didn’t see me.”

Curran sighed and raked back his hair. The man was at the end of his wits over that wench. But he had much more to endure this night… maybe near as much as what he’d suffered the night he gave himself to the barley, on Crete, all for love of that country’s queen.