The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (14 page)

Kit struggled to his feet, blood flowing from his nose and lip, his cheekbone reddened and swelling. “Are you hurt, Morrigan?”

“No,” she gasped, rolling away as Douglas stood.

“I didn’t shame her,” Kit said. “Believe us or not, it’s no difference to me. I’m away to America, and pleased to never see you again in this life, you damned useless mucker.”

“Papa,” Morrigan said. “He was only saying goodbye!”

Douglas swung on her so sharply it brought a small scraich of fear from her throat. “Don’t you speak.” His narrow-eyed stare burned her skin. “Panting after him. In your nightclothes.”

“Christ,” Kit said. “It’s a waste of breath. Let him think whatever he wants.” He stalked away but paused at the edge of the road. “If you hurt her, you’ll see me again, Douglas Lawton, and I’ll kill you. D’you hear?”

“Kit… are you going?” Morrigan asked.

“I love you….” His words floated so low through the honey sweet air she could almost believe he spoke directly into her heart.

Douglas seized Morrigan’s arm and dragged her into the barn.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” she cried.

He slapped her, causing a tooth to cut her lip.

“Whores…” His scowl was like a stabbing blade. “That’s what you are, all of you.” His voice dropped, becoming quiet, the voice she most hated and feared. “You, especially.”

Knowing defiance would make things worse, she stamped out her thoughts. The barn smelled of hay and dung and horses, pleasant, homey aromas, but for times like this, when Douglas strapped his children. He lit the lantern. Morrigan backed away from him, stopping in front of the nearest stall. Cloud nickered at her, and the foal nosed her hand through the slats.

“Bend over,” Douglas said, low and raspy.

She gripped the top pole and bent over the gate, dull apprehension stiffening her muscles. The tawse hummed then landed and she met the mare’s dark gaze, instantly terrified. Something about this strapping was different. It felt like she’d been slashed with a white-hot knife blade. She’d always had the protection of her clothing. This time, her corset and petticoat lay on her bed and the wrapper she wore was simple muslin, with nothing beneath but a chemise and drawers.

Again he struck her, and she had to fight to keep silent. He’d enjoy that, hearing her cry, knowing he hurt her. It was what he wanted. But when the strap lanced across other forming welts, a small, involuntary shriek escaped. She ground her mouth against her arm and bit, hard.

Two more times he lashed her. Then there was a pause. He said something, but she couldn’t hear what through the screaming in her throat.

He whipped her around. “Did you hear me? I said take down your dress.”

In the shadows and lantern light he resembled a beast dredged from blackest nightmare. He stared at her as though she was a stranger.

Because she hadn’t wailed or wept, he must think her unhurt. He stood there, holding a lash wet with her blood, as much as promising he wouldn’t stop until she screamed, begged for mercy, or died.

“Thrawn….” He spat. “Just another bitch in heat.”

“Don’t call me that!” She crossed her arms over her chest, pressing her hands over her shoulders.

“A hoor then?” He grasped her collar and tore her robe open to the waist. Buttons popped and flew. Only the knotted belt around her waist prevented it from being pulled clear off.

Flinging away the tawse, he grabbed her wrists and forced them down, restraining both in one hand. His skin was splotched. His breath wheezed and his lips contorted into a feral grimace. “Now you’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Morrigan pulled and wrenched against him until she managed to free her hands. She clutched at the shreds of her wrapper and chemise as he backed her against the planks of the stall.

“Don’t play the innocent,” he said. “You think I can’t tell this is what you’ve been wanting? The vet’s son saw it. You probably think he cares, stupid cow. All he cares about is between your legs.”

She gagged, suffocating in his close, hot breath. She strained and fought, trying to push past him, but he grabbed her by the hair and jerked, hard.

Stop, make him stop
, she prayed, but there never was any answer to her prayers, and this time was no different.

Resolve formed like an iron spear.
I’ll kill you for this, Papa. I swear I will
.

He lifted his free hand, reaching for her, and she angled away, slapping him as hard as she could. He yanked her hair so brutally she screamed.

The big door gave a harsh squeak. Morrigan looked up, half-afraid and half-hopeful Kit had come.

But it wasn’t Kit. “Douglas.” Her aunt sounded calm, soothing. “Come away now.”

Her father’s hand dropped, releasing her hair, and she stumbled out of his reach.

“I’ve made tea,” Beatrice said. “It’s fresh and hot.”

The lantern’s yellow glare impaled them all like insects. The mare crunched her oats and stamped.

From the periphery of her vision, Morrigan saw her father slump. His breath seeped in a long wavering sigh.

“I… I shouldna… have done that,” he said. “I don’t know what….”

Their eyes met. His were shuttered, his skin deeply flushed. He spun like he couldn’t bear the sight of her, and she knew. He considered this her fault— this, as well as being born.

Beatrice held out her hand and they left the barn together.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MORRIGAN HELD HER
bloodstained wrapper up to the light, putting her fingers through the splits made by Douglas’s lash.

A mysterious, shadowed being had disgorged from Hell and possessed her father. She could almost smell the burning, sooty stench, could almost see crimson-tinged, leering eyes.

These were foolish thoughts. Only Beatrice had witnessed the horror. Why would the Devil waste time on her if God did not?

Unnerving silence blanketed the inn. She hoped the Irish couple hadn’t heard the disturbance. She tried to remember if she had screamed, but wasn’t sure.

She put on an old skirt and a loose blouse that could be worn with no corset. Rolling up her sleeves, she went downstairs.

Beatrice sat alone in the kitchen with tea and bread. “Your father’s in the fields,” she said when Morrigan entered.

Morrigan nodded and poured a cup of tea.

“You’re in one piece then,
a luaidh
?
”

“Aye.” Morrigan eased into a chair. Steam rose from the teacup, warming her cheeks.

It must have taken courage to confront Douglas when he was in such a rage. Morrigan felt guilty for the times she’d doubted Beatrice. At this moment her aunt seemed the only person in the world standing in defense of her. What would have happened if she hadn’t come to the barn?

As if to prove the point, Beatrice rose and fetched the old green tin of deadening liniment from the cupboard. Morrigan unbuttoned her blouse, lowering it enough in back so that Beatrice could smear the balm over the welts. It burned at first, but soon helped diminish the worst of the sting.

“Would you care for some gruel?” Beatrice asked as she put the tin away. Her eyes held familiar blankness. She wanted them to pretend nothing had happened. They were to have gruel, drink tea, and perhaps discuss their chores.

Morrigan shook her head and buttoned her blouse.

Once she’d seen an old woman being pushed in a wheeled chair by her tight-lipped maid. A dowager’s hump forced the old lady’s head down between her shoulders. The expression of hatred and pain in those colorless eyes told a bitter story. The woman had become a burden, even to herself. Morrigan had walked on, picturing her as she might have once been: bonny and sweet, with an eager entourage of young men.

Morrigan too, was a burden. Papa hated her. Beatrice thought her spoiled and held her to blame for her own misfortunes. Nicky feared for her.

Daughters of whores usually turn out whores themselves
.

She wanted to weep, but her eyes remained dry, gritty as though sprinkled with sand. She had often wished she’d never been born, or could die. But it had never coalesced so clearly or strongly. She saw herself in a coffin, peaceful… quiet… arms crossed, lilies wound through pale, translucent fingers.

When Beatrice touched her arm, Morrigan flinched.

“You don’t understand,” her aunt said. “He’s not evil. He has suffered.”

Morrigan leaped from her chair and fetched a skillet. “Our guests’ll be hungry.”

An hour later she told the travelers goodbye and climbed the stairs to clean their room. It had been hard to smile, to speak of the weather and other nonsense while wondering what they might have seen or heard, and she fancied they’d leveled several curious glances her way.

The front bell jingled. More travelers. No matter her situation, she was obliged to put on a welcoming face, to pretend she longed for nothing more in life but to serve this endless dribble of strangers.

Halfway down the stairs, her arms spilling over with bed linens, she stopped. A fresh, accursed blush crept over her cheeks and her heart began to hammer.

Curran Ramsay held a confection of flowers, the like of which she’d never seen, a riot of blue, purple, white, pink, and red. His smile almost touched her it came so warm and easy. Somehow, it managed to blow the night clear away. Before she could stop herself, her lips curved up in return.

Had she really forgotten this handsome face, so bonnily put together, bringing with it not only pleasure but also a glorious sense of safety and trust?

“Mr. Ramsay,” she said. “Didn’t you mention you’d be seeing us again in June?”

“Trouble has a way of interfering with our most determined plans.” He scrutinized her, not making the slightest effort to disguise how pleased he was. “One of my ships wrecked off the coast of India. I was obliged to meet with the buyers in Liverpool. Thankfully, everyone on board survived.”

His smile increased. He looked almost… gleeful.

“I see.” She descended three more steps. “Are those for me?”

“D’you like flowers?”

“Of course. I love flowers, like any female.” Leaning over the bundle of laundry, she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of a warm garden, of buttery sunlight and the velvet bellies of honeybees. “What of the cargo?” She met his gaze, made bluer by the rich petals he held. That white scar curved so close to his left eye. There must have been concern about it threatening his sight.

“The cargo was lost, unfortunately.” His hand inched forward on the banister.

She straightened. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I far prefer losing cargo to people,” he said with a shrug.

Yet another thing to like about him. “How is our pup?”

“Pining for you.”

She came to the last step, watching the pupils in his eyes expand.

“Along with her master,” he added, as low and warm as a libation of simmered whisky.

Morrigan tossed the linens carelessly to the floor and dusted her hands. Giving him a smile Beatrice would’ve named her a
jillet
for employing— accompanied by a cuff for good measure— she accepted the bouquet, cupping one gloriously petaled red flower into the palm of her hand. “I fancy a stroll on the moor, Mr. Ramsay,” she said, not quite believing her boldness. It was that other lass speaking, the wild secret girl who flickered sometimes in her looking-glass or smiled from the pool in the forest. “Would you care to walk with me?” What was she doing? That wicked siren had some half-baked plan… but this time Morrigan welcomed the interference. The girl reminded her of the imaginary Princess Aridela, bravest of females, who laughed as she seized the horns of a charging bull. She lent her mistress purpose and strength, sensations the surface Morrigan all too often lacked.

“I am at your service, Miss Lawton.” Turning, he swept one arm towards the door and offered her the other. They exchanged smiles and strolled out, away onto the upper braes, into a cleansing wind.

“Why didn’t you bring Antiope?”

“I came straight from Liverpool. She’s doing well, and entertains herself by chewing everything I own to bits.”

Morrigan steered them with unobtrusive intent towards the same ruinous shieling they’d used as a refuge on their last encounter, though she refused to think beyond that. “I miss her.”

“And her master… I hope?”

“Aye….” One side of her mouth lifted in a most improper smile and the welts throbbed, as though in warning. “And her master.” Ah, it was good to possess a face fine enough to draw this man’s attention. Papa couldn’t take that away from her, no matter how much he might wish it.

She sat and removed her boots at the first burn they came to. He held her hand as she crossed, then went on holding it for a while longer.

“You’ve cut your lip,” he said at the following burn. He ran the tip of his index finger next to it, and a warm fire seemed to follow the path he traced.

“It’s nothing. I was… bending over the foal and it-it hit me with its forehead.” He would think her blush the result of shy innocence, but it came from a chilling realization. Douglas Lawton could indeed strip the beauty from her face if he so desired. A few well-placed strikes with his fists or the leather strap would easily accomplish it, and no man’s eyes would ever again light with admiration.

The need to escape her father filled her muscles with a tense, overwhelming urge to flee, but to where?

They approached the shieling at the edge of the wood. Morrigan dropped her boots in a shady spot and laid the bouquet beside them. She leaned against the doorjamb, protecting her back by folding her arms behind her and barely touching her shoulder blades to the wood.

He joined her in the doorway, so close she caught his intoxicating scent, which reminded her of clouds draped across the hills, approaching rain, of leaves turned dry and crackly and air that burned one’s cheeks to scarlet.

“I’m dying to know if there’s been any change to your circumstances since I last saw you,” he said.

“Life never changes for me.”

“Your father didn’t agree to send you to your aunt’s?”

She shrugged then wished she hadn’t. As delicate as her chemise was, it still chafed. “No. I suppose he can’t survive without me after all.”