Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (49 page)

Trust an accountant to make every moment
count, Morgan thought mutinously. She had an idea that Blake’s
understanding of “wandering through the Grassmarket” would differ
enormously from her own.

“
And now, ladies and
gentlemen, take a look down the rock wall of Edinburgh Castle,”
their kilted guide instructed in his brisk brogue. The band of
tourists looked as bidden and Blake craned his neck to
see.

Morgan, though, tipped her head back and
watched the Scottish flag - the white cross of St. Andrew on a pale
blue field - flutter overhead against the azure sky.

She closed her eyes, dismissed the real
world, and thought of medieval pennants and banners flying above
fairy tale turrets. In her mind’s eye, Morgan saw knights in
shining armor, riding proud-stepping horses with ribbons braided in
their manes.

“
It was here in March of
1314 that a small band scaled the rock, then entered a hidden
passageway,” the guide declared. “That night, they easily routed
the English and reclaimed the keep in the name of Robert the
Bruce.”

The guide rolled the “r” of the Scottish
hero’s name with gusto. “Not four months later, the English were
soundly defeated at the Battle of Bannockburn. If you visit
Stirling Castle, the battlefield and site of the reclamation of
Scottish independence is not to be missed.”

The guide cleared his throat. “As many of
you may have heard, there was a referendum this month in Scotland.
The Scottish people voted overwhelmingly in favor of
re-establishing a Scottish National Assembly. This will effectively
make Scotland an independent nation by the turn of the millennium,
bringing the legacy of Robert the Bruce full circle yet again.”

Morgan did not have to look to know that
Blake was scribbling a notation in his Day-Timer. No doubt, they
would soon be bundled into their teeny rental car and headed for
Stirling.

Blake flipped to a map of Scotland, frowned,
then whispered confidently to Justine. “Up at six, out by seven, we
could be in Stirling and tour the castle before lunch tomorrow. We
have
to go to Bannockburn!”

He tapped his pencil decisively. “We’ll do
Bannockburn in the afternoon - it probably has an interpretative
center - hmmm…we could still make Perth for dinner.”

“
Blake!” Justine murmured
through her teeth with a pointed glance to her sister. She dropped
her voice, but Morgan still heard her words. “How will Morgan meet
anyone if you keep rushing us on?”

Blake blinked owlishly at Morgan, clearly
not having considered this side of things. Morgan shrugged,
assuming her sister was talking about the research for her
book.

It was to be a children’s volume of Scottish
fairy tales, one that Morgan would both compile and illustrate. The
book was destined to be part of a new hardback series and, with
luck, she could be entrusted with further volumes.

Morgan hoped to collect some unusual stories
on site, but she didn’t think Edinburgh was the place to do that.
“I don’t need to meet anyone here,” she said. “In fact, the smaller
towns will be better for finding folktales.”

Blake grinned once more. “See? No problem.
Stirling in the morning, then.” He snapped his notebook closed and
nodded with the conviction of a man who has just successfully
settled a dispute.

Justine exhaled in a way that told Morgan
there
was
a problem and that Blake’s thinking on the issue
would shortly be straightened out.

The guide cleared his throat portentously.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we shall return to the keep proper and
descend into the vaults.” The older man, in full dress of the
Sutherland Highlanders, turned a corner smartly and summoned his
brood of sightseers with a flick of his wrist.

“
These vaults date from the
sixteen century and are best remembered for their use as prisons
for foreign prisoners of war in the late seventeen century. If you
look carefully, you will see initials carved by the prisoners,
mostly Frenchmen, in the very walls during their
incarceration…”

Blake clicked his teeth. “Nothing like a
little gory detail,” he whispered in his terrible imitation of a
Scottish accent. He winked and trotted behind the group, alert and
attentive. Justine raised a slender eyebrow and singled out a man
from the group with a glance.

“
He
keeps looking at
you,” she whispered. “He’s alone and he’s cute. Why don’t you hang
behind and see what happens?” Justine winked conspiratorially and
sailed after Blake.

Morgan didn’t even look at the man in
question.

Nor did she follow the tour.

Now she understood who Justine expected her
to meet! But Justine
knew
! Morgan fumed silently, then
pivoted and stalked to the outer wall of the keep. She wanted no
part of anyone’s matchmaking schemes and Justine, of all people,
should know why!

Oh, now Morgan saw the signs she had
ignored. How often had Justine “accidentally” invited one of
Blake’s coworkers - always a
male
coworker - over while
Morgan was there? How often had the sisters “bumped into” an old
friend who just happened to be a single man while they shopped
together? An old friend who just happened to be a single man.

Morgan gritted her teeth. Trust Justine to
have a scheme of her own! Trust Justine to think she knew best!

There were moments when being the younger
sister was a distinct disadvantage. Morgan glared out over the
city, certain she could happily live out her life without having
her older sister - or that woman’s husband - try to improve it.

Morgan was never going to be dumb enough to
get involved with a man again and that was that.

A crisp wind made her jacket snap and
tousled her hair, as she looked down on the city of Edinburgh
arrayed in the dappled sunlight. The sounds of the city that rose
to her ears were so muted that they might have been passing through
a layer of cotton batting.

She was alone, as she hadn’t been since
coming to Scotland, and slowly her usual even temper returned. It
was easy to forget Justine’s meddling and Blake’s organizing with a
view like this. Morgan took a deep breath and studied the maze of
streets below as the tension eased from her shoulders.

This was the Scotland she had come to
see.

Edinburgh was unspeakably old and
deliciously romantic. Mist still clung to the distant valleys,
which Morgan could see but not name. Down below was a labyrinth of
countless nooks and alleys, little passageways that led to secret
courtyards and hidden doorways. Wrought-iron signs creaked in the
wind and lace curtains fluttered from opened casement windows.
Morgan eyed the way the fortress walls rose steeply from the rock
face and deliberately let her imagination take flight.

What secrets did these heavy old stone walls
keep locked within themselves? What great plays of power had they
witnessed? Had lovers once trysted in that alley below? There must
be a dozen ghosts rattling through these old stone corridors.

She stared down the rocky outcropping and
remembered the guide’s words. What kind of men had scaled this rock
face? The artist within Morgan painted a starry night in her mind’s
eye and a luminous moon riding high above the determined
silhouettes of the climbing men.

Rough men, and strong, in kilts that showed
their legs to advantage. Their faces would be somber with
determination. Maybe one would carry the blue-and-white flag they
intended to plant atop the high tower, another would glance down in
apprehension. Dangerously gleaming dirks would be clenched in their
teeth for the battle that awaited them at the summit.

Morgan shivered with delight. The past was
always more romantic than the present. She tried to put her
brother-in-law in the ranks of the rebels and laughed aloud. They
might have had accountants in the fourteenth century, but Blake
would have been lost without his Day-Timer.

Morgan strolled toward a small tower,
letting her fingers skip across the old gray stone. A sunbeam
danced amid the shadows inside the tower room, the narrow band of
light creeping through an arrow slit.

The narrow vertical opening would frame a
perfect picture of the city. Far, far below, thousands of daffodils
were blooming in the park alongside Princes Street, the memorial to
Sir Walter Scott rising in dark Gothic splendor from the midst of
the flowers. On the other side of the street, the bright awnings
above the shop windows fluttered in the morning breeze.

Perfect. There were even red double-decker
buses cruising along the street at intervals. If she timed it just
right…

Morgan studied the Polaroid camera that
Blake had declared “idiot-proof - a label Morgan had already
challenged twice - making sure she wasn’t going to waste another
shot.

Just as Morgan raised the viewfinder to her
eye and a bus slid into the perfect place, somebody moaned.

Morgan froze. Was her vivid imagination
playing tricks with her?

The moan came again, echoing from below.

Ghosts?

Once more she heard it, this time a very
human sound of pain. Morgan’s eyes grew used to the shadows and she
saw the stairs within the slender tower.

“
Hello?” Morgan peeked down
the stairs, but could not see their end.

“
Oh, my bleeding head,” a
man muttered, as though he hadn’t heard her.

Blood? He must have fallen and hurt
himself!

Maybe she could help. The stairs were
tightly curled and narrow - it was easy enough to see how someone
could have lost his footing.

“
Are you all right?” Morgan
called out, starting down the stairs.

The only answer was another very miserable
moan.

Morgan looked back over her shoulder, but
there was no one in sight. She couldn’t leave him if he was
bleeding! Morgan gripped the rail and descended purposefully.

She found a man sprawled on the floor,
cradling his head, but there was absolutely no sign of blood.

He looked as though he had stepped right out
of her imagination. Morgan froze and gaped.

His hair was a dark gold, his hands were
strong and deeply tanned. He was wearing a kilt and Morgan
understood for the first time how masculine a garment it was. His
legs were superbly muscled, tanned and dusted with golden hair.

Second glance showed, however, that he was
less fastidiously attired than most of the men in kilts Morgan had
seen since her arrival. In fact, even calling his a kilt was a
loose usage of the term. It was plaid, woven in earthy hues of
green and deep red, shot with the occasional line of white, but
wasn’t pleated with anything close to perfection.

It looked like he had just wound it around
his waist and tossed the end over his shoulder. It was far from
pressed and more than a bit dirty. His lace-up boots were encrusted
with mud and he had shoved his linen shirtsleeves up to the elbow,
revealing tanned, muscular forearms.

All the same, he was the most assertively
masculine man Morgan had seen in a long time. The little tingle
within her that had been in exile came awake with a vengeance.

He glanced up and impaled Morgan with a
bright blue glance, a slow smile stealing over his firm lips.

The tingle became a roar.

“
Well, well, well,” he
mused in voice as languid as honey in the sun. “I have not seen you
about before.”

The intensity of that look stole anything
Morgan might have said right from her mouth. He could not have been
called a handsome man, but he had a rugged appeal, even with
several days’ growth of beard.

Perhaps because of it.

Certainly there was the air of the rogue
about him. And Morgan knew plenty about rogues. She took a cautious
step back.

His jaw was solidly square, his nose had a
kink in it that told Morgan he had lost one fight in his life, and
a long-healed scar graced his cheek. Morgan found herself wondering
just what kind of troublemaker he was.

But his eyes blazed blue with breathtaking
intensity. His slow smile made Morgan feel feminine and incredibly
desirable.

Even Matt had never looked at her like
this.

Morgan had a weird certainty that this man
wouldn’t do anything by half-measures and her skin tingled at the
prospect. She realized with sudden clarity exactly how long it had
been since a man had touched her.

To the minute.

His gaze danced openly over her dark green
tights and hiking boots, lingered with some puzzlement on her
purple Polartec fleece and green Gore-Tex jacket, then lighted on
her face with what could only have been astonishment.

Morgan bristled at the disapproval she
sensed from him. She looked like a tourist and she knew it, but
this sort of clothing was practical for traveling. And it wasn’t as
though she was the first American tourist he had ever laid eyes
on!

“
I asked whether you were
all right,” she repeated in her best facsimile of Justine’s
businesslike tone. “You said you were bleeding.”

His eyes narrowed assessingly, though he did
not answer her directly. “Well, I would well recall a lass as
bonnie as you, that much is for certain.” His words rolled in a
brogue that was delightfully Scottish and totally unaffected, and
to her own dismay, Morgan couldn’t think of a single thing to
say.

He then winked with devilish charm. “Be a
good wench and fetch me a wee dram of whisky.”

Whisky! Now Morgan smelled the telltale
whiff of the liquor and guessed how he had come to fall down the
stairs.

Her tone turned harsh but she didn’t care.
“You don’t seem to have hurt yourself too badly for falling down
drunk!”

His smile flashed unexpectedly and he
fingered his head. “Ah, lassie, you are only thinking as much
because you have not got the ache between your ears that I
have.”