The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (102 page)

She stared at him, certain she’d heard wrong. That note of compassion in his voice was her imagination.
My children need their mother
, he’d said. No, she couldn’t hope. When he had time to think, and wasn’t consumed by pain, he would hate her.

“Diorbhail,” he said, “Could you help get me to the cottage? I don’t think I can make it on my own.”

“Aye, Master Curran, of course.” She approached, sending Morrigan an encouraging smile.

In a few nights the moon would grow fat and full, but right now it was a lopsided hunchback. Its light spilled over them as they worked to get Curran to his feet. Silver-white phosphorescence trailed across the sea like a road, beckoning to an invisible, magical place. Avalon, perhaps, or some other long forgotten sunken city.

Moon-glade
, she’d once heard this path of light called.

They put their shoulders under his arms and helped him, step by slow step. The worst was the incline, where they needed to prevent him from stumbling while not dropping Olivia. No, the worst was the rope ladder where he was forced to climb, with them pushing at him from below while holding a baby. When he finally stood on Mingulay proper, he was white, shaking, and drenched in sweat, pressing his left arm tightly against his ribs.

As they passed over the central hill, Curran nearly lost consciousness, wheezing that his ribs were stabbing through his lungs. They made him sit down and rest.

Morrigan wiped her arm across her forehead and looked into the night sky.
Aunt Ibby said I was a miracle. Mackinnon claimed I was Aridela, a great queen. Can it be?

At first there was no answer. Then a star soared, shimmering, across the high heavenly arc.

“Ah, ’tis bonny,” Diorbhail said. “And a blessing to you.”

“I hope for all of us,” Morrigan said.

Eventually Curran said he could go on. By the time they reached the cottage, his limp was much worse and his breathing had again degenerated into gasping.

Oddly, there was light in the windows, though it was late. Perhaps someone had left a lamp burning. The women assisted Curran carefully through the door.

“Morrigan,” Curran said through harsh, struggled breathing. “There’s something else I have to tell you. Something has happened.”

Ibby came out of the parlor. When she saw the state of the Laird of Eilginn, she blinked rapidly and swayed. Diorbhail went to her quickly, catching her.

“Auntie?” Morrigan said. “Would you bring your laudanum?”

Ibby seemed to rally. Her lips pressed together and she straightened. She patted Diorbhail’s hand. “I’m fine, dear,” she said. “Let’s get you upstairs, Curran. Leave the other, for now. I think we’ve all had enough for today.” She paused and added, “There’s nothing that needs to be done or said right at the moment, not by you anyway. Diorbhail can help me with what needs taking care of.”

Mystified, Morrigan looked from one to the other, but Curran only nodded. Diorbhail returned, taking Curran’s other arm. Together they maneuvered him up the stairs and finally into bed, where he heaved a constricted, grimacing sigh.

Ibby brought her bottle of laudanum and a spoon. She looked at Curran anxiously. “Two spoonfuls, I think,” she said. “I’m so blessedly glad you’re here with us, Curran Ramsay. Blessedly glad, and I thank you for bringing my niece and great-niece home safely.”

“Get some sleep, Ibby,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

She kissed an uninjured place on his forehead and left as Diorbhail came in with a basin of hot water, cloths, strips for bandages, needles, and thread.

“If you don’t need me,” she said, “I’ll see to your aunt.”

“Of course.” Morrigan gave Curran a spoonful of bitter elixir, then another. “What does she need help with?”

Diorbhail only shrugged and left them.

Morrigan cleaned his face and assessed the damage. “You need stitches. I can do it. I used to stitch Nicky up when he drank and brawled.”

“Press on,” he said.

She brought the lamp over and set to work, making neat, close stitches on his eyebrow then his cheekbone. That hurt, she could tell, but he kept still except for one or two muffled groans.

Diorbhail brought tea and set the tray on the table by the fireplace. She and Curran exchanged glances and Diorbhail nodded once before leaving.

After a few minutes of silence, while Morrigan finished the last stitch on his cheekbone and wrung out a cloth in the basin to cool his flesh and dab away the last of the blood, he said, his voice beginning to slow and slur as the laudanum took effect, “I wanted to protect him.”

She paused, drew in a breath, and replied, “You had to do it.”

“I climbed that hill,” he said, “and saw you, at the edge, with him.”

Now he would ask,
Why did you go to him? Why were you unfaithful to me?

The breath left her lungs so thoroughly it seemed to carry away her essence. She’d never felt so drained, not even when she finally woke after giving birth. “He was saying goodbye.”

“Then why did he attack me?” Almost immediately, he added, “To force me to shoot him.”

She couldn’t tell him the truth, nor could she lie.

“He tried to talk you into abandoning me.” Curran’s stare missed nothing. Again, he answered his own question. “You refused.”

Was her face so easy to read?

“He chose death rather than life without you.” Curran’s voice was flat.

Aodhàn Mackinnon was mystery, agony, a knot she would no doubt attempt to unravel for the rest of her life.

They were silent, avoiding each other’s gaze. She gently prodded the massive dark red discoloration over his ribs, reassured when they didn’t shift beneath her hands. “I’m not sure what to do about this,” she said. “Nicky broke his ribs once, and I asked the apothecary what to do. He said not to wrap them, and that Nicky must breathe as deeply as he could. Otherwise he might catch lung fever.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

He was quiet a moment, watching her roll the bandages she hadn’t used. When he spoke, he sounded as if he’d had an evening of too much whisky. “My father told me that throughout my life, men would hold me to the fire and women would heal the burns. And that’s exactly how it’s been.”

She had to turn away to hide a smile.

His eyelids drifted shut and she sat, watching him. He startled suddenly and his eyes opened wide, as though he was back on that cliff, battling for his life.

“You’re safe.” She smoothed his hair. “You’re safe now,
’ille.
”

“Been learning some Gaelic, I see,” he replied, but his words were slurred, and she knew he wouldn’t remember when he woke. His eyes closed and his breathing became more regular.

The lamplight magnified the damage. Curran Ramsay would carry scars from this night for the rest of his life. It was possible he would never again be touted as the handsomest man in Inverness-shire. But he would always be beautiful to her.

She busied herself cleaning up the mess she’d made then stood by the bed, looking at him, knowing at last that she loved Curran Ramsay, loved his loyalty and determination, his kindness and generosity, his smiles and easy affection, his efforts to heal the damage left by Douglas Lawton. At last, when it was too late, she understood it and there was no doubt of it in her heart, no fear of facing it, no need to deny it. In that moment when she’d believed Mackinnon meant to throw Olivia over the cliff, all doubts and fears had sharpened into a blazing arrow of crystallized focus. Curran. Olivia. It was not guilt or duty she felt for them. It was love, and she would feel it for the rest of her days, no matter if she ever saw either one again.

She took his hand and held it against her cheek.

Even with a mangled face and untold other injuries, even after hearing the awful things Aunt Beatrice had said, even after her admission of being another man’s lover, he’d still offered her comfort.

Mackinnon would never have granted such charity. Yet, his last day on earth, he’d told her to go and be happy with Curran. For that final sacrifice that went so contrary to his nature, one small secret corner of her heart would love him too, for as long as she drew breath.

She dropped into the chair by the fireplace, mesmerized by the way the lamplight gleamed against Curran’s hair.

I should be gone when he wakes. Then he won’t feel obligated. He can divorce me. He’ll recover, and be glad he’s rid of me
.

But she was exhausted, and in a few moments had fallen asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AT DAWN, AFTER
an interlude of nightmares where she watched Mackinnon rolling off the edge of the cliff over and over again, always trying to catch him and never succeeding, Morrigan rose from the chair. She felt Curran’s forehead; it was cool and his breathing was even, so she went along to Diorbhail’s room, not surprised to discover her friend was also awake.

“I mean to walk to the cliffs,” Morrigan said, rubbing her sprained elbow. “I must try to find him.”

“He would’ve sunk,” Diorbhail said gently. “What could you do if he was there? There’s no way to get to him.”

“I have to try. If I do see him, I can ask one of the fishermen to… retrieve his body, so he can be buried.”

Diorbhail was shaking her head. “Is Master Curran awake? Did you tell him?”

“He’s asleep. That’s why I want to go now. You can tell him where I’ve gone if need be.”

“Oh, no, if you’re bent on doing this, I’m going with you.”

“I have to, whether there’s any hope or not.” The thought of him, lying broken upon the rocks, cold and alone, was more than she could endure.

Ibby promised to watch over Olivia and Curran, though it required an argument and repeated vows to not take any chances on those devil cliffs.

They made their way down the rope ladder and up the incline. To the west, beyond the cliffs, a low-riding moon glistened with the brilliance of a newly minted coin. Morrigan stood at the edge, looking down, but the sun wasn’t yet high enough; darkness shrouded the water below.

“We’ll wait a bit.” Diorbhail rested her hand on Morrigan’s shoulder.

Morrigan sought to think of something, anything, other than what sunlight might reveal. “What were you, Curran, and Aunt Ibby hiding from me last night?” she asked.

Color rose in Diorbhail’s face, but she answered. “Master Curran should no doubt be the one to tell you.” She paused, frowning. “There’s no easy way to say it. Your Aunt Beatrice is dead.”

“What!” Morrigan stared, wondering if this was a terrible joke, but the grave sorrow on Diorbhail’s face told her it wasn’t. “Does… does this have something to do with… with those things she accused me of?”

Diorbhail nodded. “After you went out yesterday, she came back from a walk. She was drunk. She insisted Master Curran and all of us listen to a story about your dead mother, and… she had your diary. She forced Master Curran to listen to her for near on an hour, and then she told him you’d gone off to kill yourself, and Olivia, and that you’d been… Aodhàn Mackinnon’s whore. He was furious, but no’ so furious as Seaghan MacAnaugh. Seaghan… he… choked her. He choked her to death.” She had more to say, Morrigan could see it on her face, but she drew in a breath and fell silent.

Morrigan heard the words, but it was impossible to believe. “Aunt Beatrice… dead?” Dead. The woman who had raised her. She turned her face away to stare blankly at the setting moon. Dead by violence at Seaghan’s hand.

“One more of my family dead.”

“I am your family. I am your kin, and so is Eleanor.” Diorbhail embraced her, offering comfort, and Morrigan was comforted, but she noted that Diorbhail didn’t say Curran’s name. She must know there was no hope for kinship there, not now.

Mackinnon was dead. Curran was horribly injured, and Seaghan had murdered her aunt. Morrigan closed her eyes, inwardly tumbling, and wondered if things would have been better if she
had
killed herself.

Yesterday, she had wept for the first time in memory. She knew she should weep now— it seemed only right, a sign of respect to her aunt. Tears clogged her throat, but her eyes remained dry. Perhaps that brief ability had gone over the cliff with Mackinnon.

“Something changed in her while we were away,” Diorbhail said. “I felt the difference when we returned from London, and when I looked at her I saw a man’s face— a cruel face. She wanted to hurt Master Curran last night, and she did. But I know you loved her, and I’m sorry.”

“Where… where is she now?”

“We wrapped her in bedclothes while you took care of Master Curran. Ibby said that one of the housemaids is the undertaker’s daughter. She said she would send for him today.”

“I should see her,” Morrigan said, but reluctantly.

“I don’t advise it,” Diorbhail said. “Mind her as she was.”

Morrigan realized what she was saying. Beatrice had been throttled to death, and that would no doubt be evident. Seaghan… Seaghan would have to face the law.

“Seaghan murdered my aunt,” she said. “Seaghan… the gentlest man I think I’ve ever met.”

“There was long-standing hatred between them. From when your mother was alive. I felt it. I saw it.”

Morrigan rested her cheek on Diorbhail’s shoulder. “I should never have come to Glenelg. How I wish I could go back in time and undo it.”

“How could you have known?”

“Where is Seaghan? I just realized I haven’t seen him.”

“Ibby said he left the cottage last night, after… and he never returned.”

“He’s probably beside himself at what he’s done.”

“Maybe.” Diorbhail didn’t sound so sure about that. “Look,
a charaid
,
it’s getting lighter.”

They walked along the edge, examining every speck as best they could, but they saw nothing. It was too far. There was too much spray, obscuring everything beneath it.

“It’s no use,” Morrigan said.

“Come,” Diorbhail said. “We’ll pay a fisherman to bring us round in his boat.”

“I suppose there’s nothing else we can do.”

They made their way down the incline and crossed to the rope ladder. Then Diorbhail said, “What’s that?” and pointed.

Off to the right the frayed end of another rope was whipping in the wind, and beside it was a square, faded flag.