The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (11 page)

After the wash was finished, Morrigan simmered vegetables, wrung the necks of two chickens, and set herself down in the close to pluck the feathers.

Ibby joined her. “I ordered a bolt of velvet last month,” she said, settling onto a three-legged stool. “Cisele, it’s called. Also a good dimity and I couldn’t resist two yards of Spanish lace, though I fear lasses have small need of a lace shawl the way the wind blows off the Sound. I should’ve ordered tartan, but there you have it. Your aunt is a wretched daft woman.”

A feather floated against Morrigan’s cheek.

“But I’ve found that lasses don’t always use their heads when they fancy something,” Ibby added more cheerfully. “Did I tell you I’ve had a few customers clear from Fort William?”

“I’m happy you’re doing so well.” Morrigan didn’t reveal that after Uncle Gregor died, Douglas had predicted Ibby would soon be on their doorstep, destitute, and he’d have another mouth to feed.

Pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, Ibby wiped her nose and regarded the frolicking horses. “My bones long for a warm place.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sometimes I dream I live on a tropical island. Kings trust me. Folk bow to me wherever I go. I still have dreams where you’re my child.”

“You do?” Morrigan smiled. It was too bad Ibby had never given birth. She loved steadfastly, and would’ve made the grandest mother.

“Aye, every few months.” Her aunt’s laughter faded into reflection. “For years I’ve thought I should pack up and move here so I could be closer to you and Nicky. Now he’s gone, and you’re alone.”

“Don’t fret, Auntie. I’ll make do.”

Ibby picked up the other chicken and plucked a few feathers. “Of course you will… but I’m thinking I want you to come with me to Mallaig.” She paused. “I can’t in good conscience leave you here.”

“You want me to leave the inn? To live with you?” She could hardly believe it. After a lifetime of bondage, two tenuous avenues of escape had been broached in a matter of days.

“You’d be a great help to me, though it’s a shame you’ve never learned to make a straight seam, and your mending is…” she shook her head. “A sight is what it is.”

Morrigan hated sewing. Delicate, painstaking work appealed to Ibby, but Morrigan invariably snarled the thread, broke the needles, and ended up wanting to set fire to the whole mess.

“It was different when Nicky was here,” Ibby said, low. “He watched out for you. I knew he wouldn’t let things go too far.”

“You really mean it?”

“D’you want me to ask?”

“It’s useless. He’ll never agree.”

“We can try,
isoke
.”

The pet name was one Ibby used only when they were alone, and when asked, she’d laughed and shrugged. “I don’t know where it comes from,” she’d admitted, “or when I first thought it. But its always there, every time I think about you.”

When the chickens were basted and roasting in the oven, Beatrice asked Morrigan to go to town and buy a sugarloaf so she could make fruit pastries, adding that maybe on the way home she could pick some wildflowers for the dining room table. The invitation to dawdle was kind and rare. Perhaps Ibby had suggested it. Morrigan seized gloves and a bonnet and ran before her aunt could reconsider.

After she’d made her purchase, she strolled to the seafront to watch the gulls soar, marveling as she always did at how much their cries sounded like sad, lonely babies. A half-buried shell twinkled at her. She brushed it clean and listened to the surf inside.

Fresh wind teased from the west, carrying an earthy fragrance of bracken, gorse, and open moorland. She followed eagerly, coming soon to the edge of town, where she turned inland, climbing the hill that would give her an unobstructed view of Loch Ryan and Stranraer. At the summit she watched the
Princess Louise
glide up to the wharf, and the tiny black figures swarming down the pier like ants emerging from an anthill. The way the light struck the humped isle of Ailsa Craig to the north made it appear closer than it was, nearly close enough to swim to.

She rambled on into undulating moor that soon hid all evidence of Stranraer, giving an impression of vast, uninhabited expanses. Up and down over rough ground she clambered, taking off her boots and stuffing her stockings inside them so she could wade through a burn. Away in the west, a lochan sparkled in a froth of blue-green, and the only living things she saw were grazing sheep and an eagle, gliding joyously. Roving wind stirred about her feet, sparking an urge to dance, blowing away fear and sadness and all dark things, away into the wild, empty land she loved.

The wind sharpened, billowing her shawl. She removed it and folded it over her arm; her gloves and bonnet soon followed, so she could feel the warmth of the sun on her hair.

Remembering Beatrice’s suggestion, she picked bluebells, campion, coltsfoot, and yellow rattle. Then she spotted a patch of tormentil and farther on, purple mallow. It was too bad there was no heather. Beatrice would be dissatisfied with this pitiful cluster, and would no doubt inquire why she hadn’t gone to the meadows and woodland, where wildflowers of every type and hue abounded.

As she shaded her eyes, searching for color, she spied a figure approaching from the direction of Stranraer, and with a jolt of surprise recognized Curran Ramsay, the Highland gentleman who had gone to Ireland days ago to acquire a puppy. His golden hair, being blown about by the wind, gave him away.

He waved and quickened his step. “I saw you from the pier,” he said, “standing on the hill like a statue.”

“You’ve good eyesight, Mr. Ramsay.” Morrigan held out her hand. He appeared highly pleased; it seemed cruel to wish he hadn’t spotted her. She’d so wanted some rare time alone.

“Aye.” He clasped her fingers as he shrugged a bulky leather knapsack off his shoulder. “I was on my way to the inn to show you something.”

Sunlight brought out the diverse shades in his hair, from gold and honey to wheat and flaxen. It reminded her of a watercolor rendition of the Greek god Apollo in his sun-chariot, which had hung on the dominie’s schoolroom wall. Curran Ramsay could have been that painting brought to life.

Belatedly she remembered she was barefoot, bareheaded, and gloveless. Would she ever be prepared when something like this happened? Enid Joyce would never tramp about on the moor at all, much less without shoes.

A white pup with dark grey patches on its face and ribs popped its head out of the open flap, its mouth open in a grin, and she forgot her shortcomings.

“Oh!” She fell to her knees, carelessly dropping everything: the wildflowers, her boots, her shawl, and the sugar cone. The pup jumped on her lap and licked her face, whining as though she was a long lost friend. Morrigan fondled velvety ears and soft new paws. At last she set it on the heath and wiped her hands on her apron, blushing as she glanced at its owner.

But Mr. Ramsay didn’t appear to notice what a fool she’d made of herself. He gallantly picked up her sugar and shawl so they could follow the youngster’s curious meandering. Morrigan gathered the flowers and tucked them into one of her boots.

“Choose a name for her, Miss Lawton.”

Morrigan considered. The pup’s owner had at first reminded her of the Greek hero, Theseus, who, according to the tale, had wed an Amazon queen, a lass no doubt slim, graceful, and strong, much like this greyhound would become in a year or so. One title almost forced its way out of her. “Antiope.”

He tilted his head and murmured, “Odd.”

She remembered that a proper lady was expected to appear refined without seeming bookish. He’d think her uncouth, if he didn’t already. His gaze was keen, searching her face as though he would like to pierce her flesh and invade her brain. “Antiope was a great queen,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “Strong and free. I’ve always admired her.”

“Have you, then?” he asked softly.

Damn these blushes she couldn’t control. She’d like to sink into the ground. Now he’d lost any respect he may have entertained for her. If she would only learn how to keep her mouth shut.

But he interrupted her mental scolding with, “Antiope it is. Thank you, Miss Lawton. Tell me, has your aunt returned to Mallaig?”

“No, she’s still here. She’s going to ask Papa if I can live with her.”

His face lit, or maybe it was his smile, so devastatingly arresting. “Would that be possible? You appear invaluable to the workings of the Wren’s Egg.”

She barely stopped herself from snorting. “Oh, aye, I’m fair important, but she’s going to try anyway.”

They walked on. Loving the feel of coarse grass and warm earth beneath her feet, Morrigan continued to carry her boots. It was too late to make a better impression, and no doubt they’d cross another burn sooner or later. Besides, she much preferred to be barefoot.

They climbed a knoll. The day was so clear she felt she could see forever. “Look,” she said, pointing. “There’s Ireland.”

“And Ailsa Craig,” Ramsay said.

Nodding, she turned the other direction. “And the Galloway Hills. What a bonny day it is.”

“Aye.”

“It’d be grand to go wherever one wished,” she said. “Have you traveled, Mr. Ramsay?”

“Oh, aye. My father was in shipping. I set sail at a young age.”

“Where have you gone?”

“India, Europe, China, Australia. One day I hope to visit America.”

She stared, trying to comprehend being to so many foreign countries. “Paris?” she asked. Kit’s image loomed. She hadn’t seen or heard a word from that stripling since the night of kisses in the barn. With Nicky gone, and having offended him so badly, she might never see him again.

“I was ten the first time I went to Paris,” Ramsay said. “You’ll think me a fool, Miss Lawton, but I’ve yet to find anywhere in this world that compares with home. Every time I go, I only want to get back to Kilgarry, to my garden, my dogs, my blue mountains.”

He spoke as though all the Highlands belonged to him alone.
Such arrogance comes easily to rich, powerful men
, she thought.

“Where would you go, Miss Lawton, if you could?”

“I don’t know. I would like to see an elephant.”

“Maybe you feel as I do. Few places compare to Scotland.”

Wouldn’t Kit jeer if he overheard Ramsay speaking of their country with such appreciation?

“Have you heard of a fellow named Heinrich Schliemann?”

She shook her head.

“He’s digging up the coast of Turkey, hoping to excavate the fabled city of Troy.”

Could it be? Would the ancient tales she loved so dearly be proven real, not fanciful myths at all? “Och, aye? How I’d
love
a keek of that!”

So much for her effort to appear refined.

But he didn’t display a bit of contempt at her country bumpkin dialect. “I hope you can,” he said.

“That’d be a right miracle.” Inwardly she reeled at his expressive sincerity. “My future’s been planned by others, down to my last dying breath.”

His grin held a hint of deviltry. “We’re a rebellious lot in the Highlands. We do what we wish. If anyone’s bothered by it… we cut off their heads.”

Morrigan laughed. “You cannot say you are one of those ‘Highland savages,’ as my Aunt Beatrice calls them. Not after telling me you were born in Stranraer.”

“I’ve lived in the north since I was seven. My mother and father are buried there. Something about those mountains changes you, makes you see and think differently. You’ll understand if you visit.”

She remembered suddenly that he was a laird of sorts. He behaved so naturally, as though there was no difference between them. He’d managed to make her forget wanting to be alone, as well. Being in his company rejuvenated her.

“There’s a man in my village,” he said. “Seaghan MacAnaugh, a fisherman. He believes the whole world would come to the Highlands if they knew of its magic. Many years he traveled, for he was cleared in ’53, and only managed to get home ten years ago.”

“Oh, look, the pup!” Morrigan sprinted to snatch it from the edge of a burn, but she was too late. It fell in, yipping. She fished it out, laughing at it for looking so startled.

Raindrops spattered from a heavy black cloud. They’d gone too far by now, and couldn’t possibly reach town before getting soaked if this sprinkle turned into a storm. Morrigan met Mr. Ramsay’s gaze and determined from his expression that he didn’t want their afternoon to end any more than she did, so she led him to an abandoned shieling she knew of, which sat at the edge of a small coniferous wood; they squeezed beneath the half-rotted lintel-piece and overhanging section of lumber that had once supported thatch. It soon began raining in earnest, but she didn’t think it would last, as bright rods of sunlight were arcing and wheeling through the clouds to the west and south.

“I would like to visit your Highlands.” Morrigan leaned against the jamb. “I can see how you love it.”

“Love.” He contemplated the downpour then he shrugged. “Somehow it’s more than that. Mallaig is an easy sail down the Sound from Glenelg. I hope your aunt succeeds in her request.” His eyes acquired such intensity that it sent a shiver through her.

“You should have an alternate plan.” His gaze broke from hers as though he, too, was unnerved. “We could snake you away in the middle of the night. Or we might simply announce it. Tell your father he’ll have to run the inn on his own. Come; practice a haughty tone and look down your nose at me.”

Having experienced such an expression leveled at her more than once, Morrigan knew exactly what he meant, and laughed again. When was the last time she’d so enjoyed a conversation, or laughed with such abandon? “While he’s sleeping would be best, I think,” she said. “I’d leave a note informing him I’ve gone to dig up Troy. I wonder what he’d make of that?”

The gentleman smiled. “You’ve a bit of thistle near your eye.” He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone.

Amidst a rush of startled apprehension, she realized she was alone with a man in this empty countryside, giggling as they made plans to run away. No one knew where she was, or that he was with her. Beatrice’s warnings played through her brain, slowly and distinctly.

Yet it was impossible to be afraid. At this moment she believed if she and Enid Joyce walked side by side down the street and Mr. Ramsay came along, he wouldn’t spare a glance for the lass touted as Stranraer’s greatest beauty. His manner made Morrigan feel nothing could distract him. For the first time in her life she experienced elation rather than shame as a sense of power ran through her. She was glad she’d made such an impression upon this man that he’d come searching for her. She had his undivided attention, and she didn’t want to release it. Just for this afternoon, she would revel, enjoy, and damn the consequences.