The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) by Rebecca Lochlann Page B

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