Blake blinked at the bluntness of that statement, but Alasdair had turned away. He strode to the door, the very image of masculine confidence, and Blake couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t sound silly after such a pronouncement.
So, he went to get Justine’s french fries instead.
And wondered whether that would prove him worthy of sliding between her thighs.
*
Chapter Thirteen
Room 7 was ominously quiet, but the door was unlocked. Alasdair nudged it open with his toe, wincing when the hinges creaked slightly.
But the sorceress slumbering on the bed did not stir.
Alasdair crept into her lair on silent feet, closing the door securely behind himself. The room was filled with the soft rhythm of her breathing. The last rays of sunlight slanted orange through the windows and gilded the edges of the papers spread on the table.
Curious, Alasdair went to look, then gaped in amazement.
Pages of intricate, fanciful drawings spilled across the surface. Script rolled between the images, evidently some verse written in an elegant hand.
’Twas like the great illuminated Bible that the monks consulted and had shown Alasdair once when he was but a boy. He reached out as though he would touch the script, but fearful of smudging it, ran his hand a finger’s breadth above the page.
And let himself feel the fullness of his old longing to read.
Alasdair swallowed and bent closer, examining the elfin faces peering from behind leaf and blossom. His heart leapt in recognition of a woman who could only be the lovely Jenny, her hair flowing long, her hand cupping the fullness of her womb as she waited at a crossroads beneath a starry sky.
And here! Here was Tam Lin himself, his bonnet cocked, his white steed prancing beneath him as he rode among the Faerie host, his gaze straining ahead as he sought some glimpse of his beloved Jenny. Alasdair sat down and bent over the page, smiling as he identified countless details of the tale he had told Morgaine.
’Twas clear the words were those he had sung to her. And on the right were the embracing lovers, Tam Lin brilliantly shown in contortions of change, Jenny stoically holding him fast, the Faerie Queen’s lovely face twisted with malice.
And there they rode together, the moon hanging low over the victorious lovers, their limbs entwined, their faces shining with happiness.
Alasdair stared long at the marvel of this work, then carefully laid it aside. Beneath were several pages recounting the tale of Thomas Rhymer, he recognized it immediately. And half completed to one side was a sketch that could only be the tale of Robert the Bruce, contemplating the spider, then standing before a radiant Isobel of Buchan as she set the crown upon his brow.
But Alasdair’s fingers continually strayed to the words he could not read. His gran’s voice echoed in his ears, admonishing him to recall his station, but even knowing his place was to sow and to fight could not dispel Alasdair’s desire. The monks had seen the urge in him, he realized now, which was why they had been so welcoming to him.
His gran had undoubtedly feared her wee lamb would go to the church, leaving her to fend for herself.
Alasdair’s lips twisted. Indeed, he had gone much farther, leaving his gran no less alone in his quest to aid Robert the Bruce. And with a squawling babe, as well.
Alasdair glanced guiltily to the sorceress, recalling well how her eyes had burned with her own desire for a child. She had wanted the child for its own sake - yet put her own wishes aside when she feared her home would not be adequate for that child’s happiness.
Alasdair was ashamed to realize that his own motivation had been markedly less noble. He had desired an heir, a child to carry his name, a son who would grow to become a warrior straight and true.
He had never considered whether Angus would be happy or not. The boy was his son, his responsibility, and the honor of Alasdair’s name - or lack thereof - a weight upon Angus’s shoulders. Alasdair wanted to ensure his son could walk tall, but in his zeal to correct an error, he saw that he had lost the child.
If indeed Alasdair made his way home successfully, Angus would not know him. Nor would he know Angus, unless the child strongly resembled Fenella or himself, though that would at best be a guess.
For the first time, he questioned the wisdom of the choice he had made seven years past. Indeed, Alasdair had never expected the conquest to take so long. And at the time, with rumors of his dishonor ringing in his ears, it seemed he had had no choice.
But now, Alasdair wondered. He had missed seven years of his son’s life. Morgaine’s fervor made him see the gold that had slipped through his fingers.
But what manner of sorceress yearned so for a child? Could Morgaine not have simply summoned one from her cauldron?
Alasdair stood back with a frown and looked between drawings and sorceress. Morgaine, he well recalled, denied that she was an enchantress and beneath the current assault of doubts, Alasdair dared to give credence to her words while she slept.
Her right hand lay unfurled before her on the bed and he took due note of the smudges upon her fingers and the heel of her hand. They were of the same grey as the drawings themselves. And she slept like one exhausted by their efforts.
Alasdair frowned. A powerful enchantress like Morgaine le Fee need do no such labor to summon images.
He wondered whether Morgaine had told him the truth. She had said she was an artist, that she illustrated books, that she was not the Queen of Faerie.
Alasdair rubbed his chin. A sorceress had no need to labor with her own hands. A sorceress had no need of a protective Auntie Gillian - nor even a sister or brother-in-law. A sorceress had no need of a spouse - especially one like this Matthew James Reilly. A sorceress need not long for anything, for all was within her power to concoct.
And a sorceress would not need an advocate to extoll the pound of flesh due for indignities rendered to her. Indeed, could any man smite a sorceress and live to tell the tale, even as an outlander?
Nay, Morgaine’s tale sounded all too mortal for her to be a great sorceress. Her impulses were all too human - her sympathy for the plight of others, her compassion, her concern. The vulnerability that oft shone in her eyes belied Alasdair’s original conclusion.
Though indeed, were she a mortal woman, Morgaine was a woman beyond compare.
Alasdair frowned. What if she had told him the truth? He paced the room silently, glaring out the window at intervals while he puzzled the matter through. Could the witch in Edinburgh have sent him forward in time, as Morgaine suggested?
’Twas a numbing proposition, but Alasdair could find naught to refute it, beyond the basic lunacy of the idea. The world certainly could have changed markedly in seven hundred years, perhaps even as markedly as this. His heart clenched as he recalled one assertion Morgaine had made.
Alasdair’s travelling in time had vastly changed the course for Robert the Bruce. ’Twas true enough that Blake certainly had no esteem for the man Alasdair knew to be a hero.
But what could have happened? Alasdair fought to recall every detail of that night in Edinburgh - he must have disappeared when he fell down the stairs. And what then?
Could it be that the men had not held the keep without his leadership? Alasdair suddenly felt cold and he paced with renewed vigor. His only dream had been to see Angus grow to manhood with a name he was proud to call his own, in a Scotland free from England’s heavy yoke.
Had Alasdair unwittingly jeopardized that dream by taking a wee witch’s dare?
’Twas madness! ’Twas impossible for a man to travel across seven centuries in the blink of an eye!
But Alasdair had a strange conviction dawning within his heart that that was precisely what had happened.
Though ’twas not a conclusion he could accept readily. Still his gran’s tales echoed within his mind and though Alasdair had never been a fanciful man, they made more sense to him than this wild tale of Morgaine’s.
Alasdair wondered whether he simpl
y took refuge in the familiar and grimaced. How would he ever know the truth for certain?
Then the certainty dawned in his heart. Blake and Justine had pledged to take him home, back to Callanish. And in Callanish, Alasdair would know the truth.
Naught could lie to him there. In Callanish, he would know. His gran would be there, his son, his home, his livestock.
Or they would not.
Alasdair swallowed with difficulty at the possibility.
What if he could not return home? What if he had sacrificed not only seven years with Angus, but all eternity? Too late, he saw the value of what he had left behind and desperately wanted to set matters aright.
If only he could have the chance.
Morgaine stirred and Alasdair spun to face the bed. His heart softened as he watched her sleep, for if she spoke aright, she was no Faerie Queen. Alasdair frowned as he considered his behavior of the past day and could not blame Morgaine for defending herself from his amorous plans.
But ’twas a different matter, to seduce a woman of good heart and abandon her, than to win the way to a sorceress’s bed and earn her indulgence. The chance that Morgaine spoke aright demanded that Alasdair abandon his plan to seduce her, though indeed, he had no alternate plan.
At least not until he saw the isle of Lewis with his own eyes.
Alasdair rubbed his brow tiredly. He eyed the wide expanse of bed beside Morgaine and could not bring himself to retreat to his cot. The light had faded in the room as the sun slipped behind the hills and Alasdair let exhaustion slip through his body.
Never had he felt so alone in all his days as he did in this moment. Cast across the centuries, beyond the reach of any he knew and uncertain how to repair matters, Alasdair was in dire need of the warmth of another beside him.
And there was one in particular whom he longed to hold close. If Morgaine was naught but a wee lass who had been buffeted by what life had offered her, then he had naught to fear from her.
Carefully, so as not to disturb her, Alasdair cast his kilt aside and doffed his boots. He climbed into the bed beside Morgaine and caught his breath when she rolled over and bumped into his side.
But she merely curled up beside his heat with a sigh.
Alasdair eased back against the pillows and slipped his arm beneath Morgaine’s shoulder to hold her close against him. The sweet clean scent of her filled his nostrils and battered down his flimsy defenses.
Though he willed himself to breathe deeply, ’twas long into the night that Alasdair MacAulay stared at the ceiling overheard and wondered.
What if she spoke aright?
*
Morgan awakened with the odd sense that she had lost something but couldn’t remember what it was. She opened her eyes to find a suspicious warmth lingering beneath the sheets, though Alasdair’s whistle carried from the bathroom.
Morgan stretched, knowing she had slept like a rock for the first time in a long time.
And felt very good as a result. Her sketching had gone really well the day before, although she’d been so exhausted she’d just fallen into bed. She looked down and realized in horror that she had slept in her clothes.
And she was starving. Morgan couldn’t exactly recall - she acknowledged few intrusions from real life when absorbed in her work - but she was pretty sure she had forgotten to get any dinner.
Which was one incentive to getting up. Morgan rolled across the bed as she stretched luxuriously and thought she caught a whisper of Alasdair’s scent on the linens. Her heart skipped a beat, but another sniff was inconclusive.
Had he slept with her? If Alasdair had crawled into the bed, he certainly hadn’t made a pass at her.
Which was a pretty strange change of attitude, given his amorous assault of the morning before. Morgan propped herself up on her elbows and surveyed the room, noting immediately that Alasdair’s bed was rumpled.
She frowned at the wave of disappointment that coursed through her. Obviously the highlander had gotten over his burning attraction to her.
That thought totally destroyed her good mood.
Morgan rolled out of bed with a grimace. She had a vague sense that her drawings had been examined, then returned to where she left them, but couldn’t be sure. Well aware of the merry whistling in the other room, Morgan quickly gathered up the sketches and put them away.
“Are you awake, my lady?” Morgan spun guiltily and shoved one hand through the nest of her hair just as Alasdair erupted from the bathroom. He nodded to her, fastening the end of his kilt with expert ease, then dropped into a chair to lace up his boots.
His tone was perfectly businesslike. “If you so desire, I shall seek a morsel to break our fast and discover Blake Advisor’s intentions for this morning.”
Alasdair was obviously in a rush to leave. Couldn’t wait to get away from her. Morgan forced a smile past her disappointment. “Great. I’ll be down in twenty minutes or so.”
He nodded with satisfaction, then strode to the door without looking back. “’Twill be a good thing to have an early start this day.” Before Morgan could blink he was gone.
Well, not only was Alasdair not interested in her, he wanted to go home tout de suite. Could anyone blame him?
That’s what she got for not only turning down the best offer she’d had in a long time, but for reminding Alasdair of the love he’d left behind.
Morgan thought about beautiful Fenella and kicked her suitcase hard. It hurt more than she’d thought it would and she yelped in pain. She hopped on one foot, cradling her wounded toe, then tripped over her discarded sweater and fell on her rump.
Morgan contemplated a crack in the ceiling from where she lay sprawled on the floor. Could she blame Alasdair for not being interested in her? Not really - especially when his heart was held by a dead beauty. Whether Fenella had been dead seven minutes or seven centuries was immaterial - Alasdair clearly was going to love her forever.
Morgan closed her eyes and wished that one day she would find a guy who could do the same.
A guy just like Alasdair MacAulay.
*
Alasdair remained distant the entire day. He sat with his arms folded across his chest as they drove, clearly focused on where he wanted to be. They all seemed to pick up on his desire to get to Lewis ASAP. It was overcast and bone-chillingly damp, but every time Blake put on the heater, the little car’s windows fogged up.
So, they bundled up in anoraks, shoved their hands in their pockets and put up with it. Morgan wished they had a thermos of something warm.
That morning, there wasn’t a lot of conversation in the Micra. They passed Dunstaffnage Castle, where Alasdair had said the Stone of Scone had been sealed into the walls, but Blake zoomed right by. Morgan pressed her nose against the window glass and tried to catch a glimpse, but no luck.
They made Fort William by lunch and grabbed a sandwich there. Alasdair looked to the hills and brooding skies, apparently unaware of what he ate. He stared at gas stations and traffic lights, restaurants and apartment buildings, his brows furrowed, but he never said a word.
His lips drew to a thin line as the road narrowed to two lanes once more and the hills rose high on either side. Morgan, in contrast, was awestruck by her surroundings. The scenery was spectacular in the Great Glen and would have been more so in sunlight.
Silvery water stretched beside the road on one side and green clad hills rising sharply on the other. Eagles circled high overhead and signs marked hiking trails. Morgan was amazed to find such an expanse of wilderness in a land occupied for at least two millennia.
But Blake drove up the glen at purposeful speed.
It was teatime when the reached the coast and Justine was trying to negotiate a stretch-and-pee break. Morgan took one look at Eilean Donan castle and knew they had to stop. It was picture-postcard perfect and when she chimed in, Blake reluctantly conceded.
Eilean Donan Castle occupied a small island in a narrow bay stretching eastward from the sea. The loch was as still as a
dark mirror, the green-dappled highlands rose majestically around and behind the restored castle. The skies had cleared as they drove west and now only a scattering of fat clouds drifted across the azure sky, the ends of them tingled with the gold of the descending sun.
The hills stretching off into the distance, one behind the other, made it look as though Scotland went on forever. The seaweed washed against the retaining walls, though, was evidence that the Atlantic Ocean was just beyond the next curve.
The tide was in when they arrived, the water high on the narrow causeway that curves out to the castle gates. The castle nearly filled the island, its walls high old stone. Blake parked the Micra and the sisters practically dragged the men to tour the castle.
Morgan was sure Alasdair would remember this place - he must have passed it centuries ago. Maybe here she could convince him of the truth.
Or at least get him to talk again.
“Do you know this place?” she asked the stoic highlander. “Have you been here before?”
Alasdair shook his head.
“But we’re quite close to Skye now. You must have come this way when you followed Robert the Bruce.”
“We crossed to Skye and thence to the mainland near Loch Alsh,” he supplied tightly.
“That is Loch Alsh,” Morgan told him, indicating the lake to their right. Alasdair frowned and studied the hills.
He said no more, but his scowl deepened as they strode toward the castle. Blake paid their admissions, much to Alasdair’s evident confusion.
“This is a toll?”
“No, just an admission charge.”
Morgan wasn’t surprised that Blake’s explanation seemed to make no sense to the highlander. She fanned through a guidebook and quickly discovered why Alasdair didn’t know this place.
Time Travel Romances Boxed Set Page 58
