The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (40 page)

Morrigan jerked upright, crying out, but as she met the woman’s gaze, she careened into a sense of recognition so potent that her agitation was completely quelled.

A greenish shimmer surrounded the woman’s face. She frowned at Morrigan, then, “Welcome,” she said, and smiled, her expression transforming to genuine pleasure.

“Morrigan.” Curran came forward and clasped her hand, breaking the spell.

“What is she doing?”

“Don’t worry.” He kissed her forehead. “This is Eleanor Graeme, the midwife.”

“May I examine you, mistress?” the woman asked.

Morrigan received the reassurance of Curran’s nod. “Aye.”

“Lie down, please.”

Morrigan was glad to obey, as sitting up so quickly had awakened an intense wash of dizziness. The midwife bent to her task, leaving Morrigan to clench her teeth and grip Curran’s hand. “When you fell,” she said soothingly, “you hit your head and one of the horse’s hooves struck your ankle. I fear it’s swollen, but it isn’t broken.” She paused before adding, reluctantly, “And you’re bleeding a bit from your womb.”

“Bleeding?” Morrigan tried again to rise but Curran prevented it.
Oh, Aunt Ibby
.
You were right. I’m losing my baby
.

Eleanor withdrew her hand and washed in a basin held by Rachel Urquhart. “Aye,” she said, “but I feel no contractions, and it’s not uncommon to have a bit of bleeding the first few months. You mustn’t sit up though. You’ve had a shock. D’you feel any cramping?”

“No.” Morrigan placed her hands on her stomach, concentrating. “I’m just dizzy.” She looked up at Curran. “What happened?”

“It’s my fault.” Rage dug grooves alongside his mouth. “The damned dog bit Stoirmeil on the leg. That’s why she bolted.”

“Antiope did it?”

“Father Drummond said I couldn’t shoot her without your permission.”

“No!” She bolted upright again. The dizziness swirled, coming dangerously close to vertigo.

“I see he was right.”

“Promise me, Curran. She didn’t know.”

“Lie back Morrigan, please, darling.”

She did, reluctantly, and regarded the midwife as she dried her hands. “Do I… know you?”

Eleanor nodded. “You seem familiar to me, as well. I grew up in Edinburgh, mistress, lived my whole life there until your husband convinced me to come here. Could it have been in the city?”

“I’ve never been to Edinburgh,” Morrigan said.

Rachel Urquhart dipped another cloth in the water and laid it gently over Morrigan’s injured ankle. Agnes Campbell peered over Eleanor’s shoulder, clucking her sympathy. Morrigan had a feeling Agnes would always be nearby when anything out of the ordinary happened.

She closed her eyes, afraid she was going to vomit.

“Master Curran,” Eleanor said, “I want you to take your wife home in a wagon. She’s to have bed rest, without relations, if you’ll excuse my bluntness, and no more riding until after the child is born. None at all, for any reason. It shouldn’t have happened to begin with, since, as you say, she’s near three months gone.” She paused, still frowning. “I think you’d best put off the kirking.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Agnes cried.

“The kir-kirking?” Opening her eyes, Morrigan regarded Curran fearfully.
What now?

He waved his hand in dismissal. “A church custom. It’s supposed to bring happiness and good luck to the newlyweds.”

“It’s more than that, Master Ramsay,” Agnes said sternly. “Dire consequences follow those who have no kirking to bless the marriage in the eyes of the parish.”

“Not another bad omen,” Morrigan said. “We have to go.”

Curran tightened his grip on her hand. “I won’t risk it. We’ll put it off a week. It’s not important.”

“No. Promise me, Curran, promise you’ll take me to this kirking, for the wean’s sake… for the wean.”

He shook his head stubbornly. She tried to construct a better argument, but Eleanor interrupted.

“We’ll see how you do the rest of this day,” she said. “Let’s get you home, mistress, and into bed. I’ll fetch my herbs and bring them round.”

Morrigan glanced at Curran, at the disappointment and anger on his face, and wondered if he blamed her for this. “I swear there’s no pain but for my head and ankle,” she said. “Everything where the babe is feels fine.”

His expression remained angry, but he nodded.

Logan was sent off to find a wagon they could borrow. Eleanor rearranged Morrigan’s skirts and Curran gathered her up. Over his shoulder, Morrigan saw a leaded glass window. They must be in William Watson’s church. As usual, thinking of him made her nervous and embarrassed. Was he hovering nearby? She hoped not.

“Our secret is no longer secret,” she whispered.

He warmed a little. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “As long as our baby is well, I don’t care. Do you?”

She pushed away the memory of the minister’s wintry gaze at the wedding cèilidh. No doubt he’d suspected from the first. “No.”

Outside the kirk, great old yews threw cool shadows. Gravestones poked through the grass, some neat, some slanted and overgrown with lichen. As Curran carried her towards the gate, the etching in one stone startled a gasp from her.

“What?” Curran said anxiously. “Is there pain?”

Through a suddenly pounding heartbeat, Morrigan said, “That grave….”

“Aye, it’s your mam’s.” Father Drummond opened the gate and approached. “I was going to tell you, before you were thrown.”

“You can see it later,” Curran said. “We must get you home.” He shifted her in his arms.

“She’ll never rest if you don’t let her see it now,” Eleanor said.

Sighing, Curran carried her to the grave and put her on her feet, supporting her on her injured side. But she wanted to be closer. With his help she dropped to her knees and touched the carved letters.
Hannah Stewart
, it said, and below that,
Beloved, 1833-1853.

“This gravestone,” she said. “These flowers. Who…?”

“Seaghan.” Tears brimmed in Agnes’s eyes. “He carved the stone, and every week he brings flowers. He never forgets.”

Rachel nodded, tears collecting in her eyes as well.

Morrigan stared.
Beloved
.

Hugh squatted on the other side of the headstone. “You resemble your mother, my dear.” He turned away, blinking, his forehead creasing as he gazed over the quiet graveyard.

“Come now, we must get you home,” Curran said.

Hugh remained where he was, one hand resting on the stone. He stared down at the grave as Curran carried Morrigan under the yew and through the gate, where Logan waited with horses and a wagon.

She tried to picture the priest in those days before the clearings. Perhaps he’d been handsome, with those long lashes and that thick head of hair. She wondered what color it had been when he was young. What was that, in his face? Grief? Regret?

Pewter clouds covered the sun. A flash of lightning rent the air, followed by an ominous rumble.

“The devil take this day,” Curran growled as he wrapped her in a plaid.

Eleanor climbed into the wagon and cushioned Morrigan’s head in her lap.

Before they got halfway to Kilgarry, the wind picked up and it started pouring, but the thick plaid kept out the worst.

Fionna, Tess, and Violet came at a run when they saw the wagon. Tess rebuilt the fire in the master bedroom while Violet helped Morrigan change into a nightgown.

At last she lay in warm comfort. Curran went off to his dressing room and changed into dry clothes. When he returned, she held out her hand to coax him onto the bed beside her. “Are you vexed with me?”

“Don’t be daft.”

“I shouldn’t have insisted on riding.”

“I’m responsible for this, not you. Not just riding but all of it. I took advantage of you. If you’re hurt, it’s me that’s to blame.”

Had he taken advantage of her? It seemed she’d tried her best to lure him into doing what he’d done that day.

Driven by guilt, she touched his mouth and pressed forward for a kiss, drawing him closer.

His kiss was cool, the sort of peck he might give his sister or mother, and almost immediately he pushed her away, but at that moment, Eleanor came in, carrying a tray. Brows lowered, she set the tray down with a sharp clatter.

“Were you not listening?” Glaring at them, she put her hands on her aproned hips.

Curran rose from the bed with alacrity, his face flushed, a guilty stallion.

“I know you’re newly wed, but do you not care about your wife? What of the health of your child? Shall I ban you from her presence altogether? Don’t think I won’t.”

“I wasn’t… we didn’t….”

Morrigan grabbed his hand, but the midwife’s expression, so stern, brought up the old terror she’d felt around Douglas, and she couldn’t form a single word of defense.

“Away with you, Master Curran. I want her calm and quiet. Strong emotions are not good for her, nor for the babe.”

Suitably chagrined, he inclined his head, sent Morrigan an apologetic glance, and left.

Eleanor perched on the bed and held out a spoonful of steaming liquid.

“What is it?” Morrigan asked. She had to admit it smelled good.

“Barley broth blended with honey. For strength. When you finish, I want you to drink this tea. Chamomile with red raspberry leaves. It’s good for soothing contractions, and helps control the flow of blood.”

“This broth is delicious.”

Eleanor placed her hand on Morrigan’s forehead. “Are you still dizzy?”

“It’s better. My neck is stiff.”

“It may get worse over the next few days. Try not to turn your head sharply, and be careful getting out of bed.”

Eleanor watched her until she was finished, then removed the dishes and smoothed the blankets. “You’re an excitable woman, I think. In a stew about things most of the time. But I’ll warn you not to tease your husband. Do you want him roused when you cannot be with him? What if he chooses to console himself with someone else?” She added, “Do you think there would be none willing? Curran Ramsay could have most any female he fancied.”

“You’re outspoken.” Morrigan’s cheeks burned. Her head renewed its pounding, sending out repeated hammer blows of pain.

“I have better things to do than play coy. You’re aye young, and maybe such things are like a game to you, but I assure you, to men these are not light matters.” Eleanor’s scrutiny remained cold for a moment, but gradually her expression gentled. “You don’t even know that, do you?” She stared at Morrigan a moment more before she added, “You’ve much growing up to do, I think.”

Morrigan wanted to shout at her, tell her to mind her own affairs. But the way the woman could turn from understanding to steel-like judgment stopped her.

The midwife picked up the tray and straightened. “I’ll come again this gloaming,” she said, “and I’ll decide then if you can go to church tomorrow.” At the outer door she paused. “Have no fear, mistress,” she said. “I do believe you’ll recover.”

“Thank you,” Morrigan managed.

The mantel clock ticked. Kilgarry felt like a mausoleum.

Eleanor had been gone about twenty minutes when Curran reappeared. He crept into the bedroom, saw Morrigan was awake, and said, “Is it safe?”

She laughed. “Come away, Mr. Ramsay. Lie here with me. I swear to behave.”

He draped himself across the foot of the bed. “Eleanor’s tongue’s as sharp as a cutlass.”

“And I received a bloodletting. I’m no’ to tease you, for fear you’ll soothe yourself with some other female. There’s thousands willing, supposedly.”

“Is that so?” He threaded his fingers through hers. “I’d sooner cut off my own bollocks—”

“
Curran
.”

He laughed. “You need anything,
a ghràidh?
”

Her succinctly phrased answer sparked an appreciative laugh. He crawled over the blankets to lie by her side, and they spent a good half-hour kissing until Tess brought more of Eleanor’s herb tea.

“All my life I’ve had dreams of a man,” Morrigan told him after she left.

“Oh?” Curran’s left brow rose, accentuating the crescent scar.

“I’m telling you because I think it was
you
.” She set her cup and saucer on the table. “You wanted to know my dreams, didn’t you? You were a statue.”

“A statue.”

“Stop interrupting. A marble statue. But you came to life.” The memory returned; she’d dreamed it so many times it never completely faded. It puzzled her, because in the first part, the statue had Curran’s eyes, though his hair was long and dark. Then he changed. He became the blond male she’d long ago named
Theseus
.

“Morrigan? Aren’t you going to tell me after all?”

She returned to the moment. “I’ve always called the statue ‘Theseus,’ after the Greek stories.”

“Ah…. That’s what you called me when we met.”

“In many ways, you resemble him.”

“And you…” He bent and kissed her, “could easily bring a statue to life.”

After a moment, he said, “What of the dreams that frighten you? Will you tell me those?”

She hesitated. But why not? Perhaps speaking of them would break their somber spell.

“A crowd of men is all around me. They say I’m a witch….”

He didn’t laugh or smile. Didn’t even blink. But his brows did lower slightly.

“I’m not this evil thing they’re calling me. I’ve done none of what they’re accusing me of.”

She heard the rising defensive note in her voice, and her hands clenched.

Curran brushed strands of hair from her forehead. “Dreams are vapors of the night. You told me that.”

“Aye.”

“Is that what frightens you, being named a witch?”

How could she say it? She almost feared describing it might make it real.

“The wean….”

Morrigan shook her head. “I’m fine.” She picked up the teacup and held it in her lap, running the tip of her finger around the rim. “The dream feels like it’s in Scotland. Someone calls it… Barra.”

“Barra is an island. It’s part of the Hebrides.”

“Truly?” She hadn’t known that. The dominie hadn’t been too interested in geography.

He frowned. “Barra,” he said. “Barra.”

“Curran?”

“I think I’ve dreamed of it as well,” he said in an oddly contained voice.