Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (52 page)

And that the worlds overlaid each other,
intersecting only at certain points where portals were guarded
vigilantly. He spun, seeking the tower he had climbed and could not
distinguish it from its companions.

Evidently that portal had already been
veiled.

Any lingering doubt Alasdair might have
still had, any conviction that good sense could explain away all he
had seen this day, died a quick death.

He was truly trapped in the domain of
Morgaine le Fee.

And he did not know quite how to
proceed.

The male advisor who Alasdair had already
thought showed good sense, now exhibited a measure more. “You look
like you could use a drink,” he suggested with a friendly smile.
“How about joining us for lunch?”

Morgaine inhaled sharply, but Alasdair had
to risk her annoyance for the moment.

After all, if a man did not deserve a
healthy measure of whisky when he has been whisked unexpectedly to
the land of Faerie, then when could events merit a drink?

“
Aye, a wee dram would be
welcome just now!” he agreed with enthusiasm.

“
It was your whisky that
landed you square in the trouble you’re in,” Morgaine said
disapprovingly.

She was right, of course, for if Alasdair
had not been celebrating the night before, he would never have
taken the lads’ dare. All the same, he felt in need of something
fortifying in this moment.

“
Aye, that would be true
enough, and I have the bump to show for it,” he conceded, giving
her a sample of his most winning smile. It had earned the favor of
a reluctant lass on more than one occasion, and Alasdair reasoned
that it could not hurt to try his charm on the enchantress, too.
“Just a wee sip to set matters straight, my lady Morgaine, then you
can have your way with me.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously and Alasdair
knew he had overstepped a mark. Before he could make matters right,
she stepped away and tossed her hair like a flighty filly.

“
Go on and have your
whisky!” she snapped. “What does it matter to me if you waste your
life?”

And with that, the sorceress turned and
stalked away.

Alasdair started in pursuit, but the woman
advisor laid a hand upon his arm. “It’s all right,” she purred with
a reassuring smile. “Morgan is a bit sensitive about alcohol.”

The man appeared on Alasdair’s other side.
“But that’s no reason not to have a ‘wee dram’ ourselves, is it?”
He smiled cheerfully and Alasdair saw that he was being corralled
by this pair. “Maybe a wee bit o’ haggis to keep it company?”

The familiar words echoed strangely in the
man’s flat tones, as though they were not pronounced quite right.
Alasdair had seen enough of battle to understand that these two
were deliberately befriending him.

Though
why
he could not say.

“
But you do not
understand,” Alasdair protested, flicking a worried glance to the
rapidly disappearing Morgaine. “I cannot let her out of my
sight!”

The pair exchanged a quick glance that
Alasdair did not miss. Indeed, if he had not been between them, he
knew the woman would have given the man a nudge with her elbow.
That intent glance - and the elbow nudge - was a signal he had
endured many a time from Fenella.

Particularly at family gatherings, where
much was left unsaid. Were these two a pair, then?

“
I’m Blake Macdonald,” the
man said cheerfully. A Macdonald of which persuasion? The clan had
cleaved into those who avidly followed the Bruce and those who just
as avidly did not.

This Blake had not been upset at the mention
of Alasdair’s name, so he must be with the Macdonalds who followed
the Bruce. And ’twas clear this Blake did not realize what Alasdair
had done to Fenella, a member however distant of his clan.

Alasdair shook Blake’s hand and had a good
look into the man’s eyes. Reassured, he looked after Morgaine.

She had disappeared back through the doorway
where they had met only moments past. Alasdair suddenly had a
niggling feeling that there was something he should remember. His
head throbbed vigorously at the effort and that whisky - not to
mention a bite to eat - sounded even better.

Aye, he had been fou as a puggie the night
before, that much was certain, and now he had the aching head to
show for it.

“
And this is my wife,
Justine,” Blake continued. “We’re just here on vacation, from
Chicago, you know, and we’d just love to buy you lunch. We were
going to eat in the restaurant here - do you know whether it’s any
good?”

Because they seemed to be waiting for an
answer, Alasdair shook his head. Vacation? Chicago? Restaurant? How
could he understand anything about their world when he had only
just arrived?

“
Well, we’ll try it anyway.
You know, there’s nothing like hearing the perspective of someone
right from a country…”

“
But, Morgaine!” Alasdair
protested as they turned in the opposite direction.

“
Will join us later, I’m
sure,” Justine interjected, then slid her hand into Alasdair’s
elbow with a smooth grace.

She reminded him of Elizabeth de Burgh -
Robert the Bruce’s wife - always the perfect hostess and never at a
loss for the right thing to say. Alasdair found such women slightly
dumbfounding. They were so different from his gran who was feisty
and spoke plainly.

As Morgaine did.

Now there was an unsettling thought! Oh, he
had need of a bite in his belly. Alasdair stifled a desperate urge
to turn tail and run from all of this.

An eerie scream carried below the mount,
something setting the very ground to rumbling. Too late, Alasdair
recalled that detail of Morgaine’s domain and jumped despite
himself.

Aye, he was in a fine fankle, to be
sure.

“
Morgaine’s dragon!”
Alasdair muttered.

Blake shook his head, frowning at a band
strapped to his wrist. “No, no. 11:30.” He fanned through another
book. “That would be the
Highland Chieftain
leaving Waverly
Station for London. Right on time.” He glanced up to Alasdair.
“
Morgaine’s Dragon
isn’t on my train schedule. Are you sure
it leaves from here?”

“
No,” Alasdair conceded,
not having any clue what the advisor was talking about. Blake
fumbled through his book, evidently looking for something, while
Justine tapped her toe.

Perhaps it would be a wise course to curry
the favor of these trusted advisors of Morgaine’s. They might be
able to help him escape the clutch of her spell.

Alasdair could not outrun the land of
Faerie, that much at least he knew as well as he knew his own name.
’Twas those who outsmarted the enchanted folk who returned to the
world Alasdair knew to tell their tales.

“
Look, Blake, just leave it
for now,” Justine said smoothly. “We’ve invited Alasdair to join us
for lunch, after all.” She smiled up at Alasdair. “So, you like
Morgan. You know, I just have the strongest feeling about the two
of you…”

“
Oops, bad news,” Blake
interrupted, glancing up from his ledgers. “Says here that they
only have tea and snacks at this restaurant.” He frowned
indecisively.

Alasdair did not know of this tea and
snacks, but it sounded less than promising, given Blake’s response.
“A man has need of a proper drink when matters go awry,” he said
firmly.

Blake winked at Justine. “And we’re
real
men, aren’t we, Alasdair? No quiche and tea for us!” He
fanned through his book before Alasdair could make sense of that,
jabbing victoriously at the page. “Hey, here’s a pub in the
Grassmarket.” He glanced up brightly.

Alasdair had to ask. “A pub?”

“
Public house. We can get
our wee dram there, or a beer.”

Ah, a tavern. Alasdair nodded understanding
as Blake consulted his volume again. “It’s called the Hangman’s
Drop. What do you think?”

Justine rolled her eyes, but Alasdair
thought the name oddly appropriate. Those lost to the world of
Faerie might as well be dead, after all.

“
What about your one
o’clock gun?” Justine asked enigmatically.

“
Maybe tomorrow,” Blake
said with dismissive wave. “Today, we’ll enjoy a bit of local
color.” He grinned. “Hey, Alasdair, stand with Justine, will you?
I’ve
got
to take your picture!”

Alasdair watched as Blake held a small black
box to his eye and made it click. They were a strange lot in the
world of Morgaine le Fee, that much was for certain.

Alasdair could not be trapped here for all
eternity. Nay, he had to escape.

And Morgaine le Fee herself held the sole
key to his release.

*

What was it with men and booze?

And why did Morgan invariably find men who
couldn’t stay away from the stuff so attractive? She should have
learned her lesson by now! Morgan stormed across the grassy bailey,
as angry with herself as with the highlander, jumbled memories
crowding into her mind.

Matt with his insincere promises.

Matt laughing at yet another party, the
consummate charmer even when he drank far too much.

Matt snoring in the car as Morgan - stone
cold sober and deeply unhappy - drove home.

Again.

And again and again and again.

Then the final straw.

But Morgan would not think about it. The
subject was closed. Old business. Nothing to do with her life
anymore. That chapter was done and best forgotten.

What she should be thinking about was her
new book.

Or more to the point, why she hadn’t a clue
how to start.

Well, she could hardly collect stories by
racing through one town after another at breakneck speed. What she
needed was a few hours alone with her sketchbook. Then everything
would start to flow.

Morgan knew that she had to stop fretting
about Blake’s schedules and Justine’s chances for conception and
just treat herself to a little time to think about the work.

And Morgan would start by following the
first creative impulse she’d had all week. She would go back and
take that picture of Edinburgh through the arrowslit, the one she
had planned to take before finding Alasdair.

Morgan knew she
could
work this
camera and she would prove it.

The shot looked as good in the viewfinder -
in fact, the angle of the sun was little better than it had been
before - and Morgan carefully snapped the picture. The Polaroid
whirred as it spit out the shot and she lingered in the tower room
as it processed.

No point in leaving until she knew for sure
she had done it right.

Morgan refused to admit that she might be
deliberately avoiding any chance of being swept along with her
sister’s plans. Irritation surged through her at just the thought
of Justine’s unwelcome interference.

Honestly, fixing Morgan up with an actor
pretending to be an historic figure in an old castle. Couldn’t he
find any better roles to play?

Of course, the drinking could have ruined
his chances of serious acting. What would he do next? Detergent
commercials? Couldn’t Justine see that Alasdair was trouble with a
capital
T
?

Although he did have awfully good legs.

And Morgan had a picture of him. Unable to
deny her impulse, she rummaged in her bag for the Polaroid that she
had inadvertently snapped of Alasdair.

The picture, though, only showed the room
below.

Morgan frowned at it in disbelief. The last
step was there and the wall opposite where she was certain Alasdair
had been when the camera went off.

But he
wasn’t
there. The photo showed
only barren stone.

And Morgan’s own toe. How could he have
avoided being in the picture? Was the room below bigger than Morgan
had thought?

Intrigued, Morgan trotted down the stairs.
She held up the picture and compared it to the small room, squinted
between the two, but was unable to avoid the truth.

The room was so small that Alasdair couldn’t
have missed being in her shot somewhere. Even Morgan hadn’t been
able to stay completely out of it, evidenced by the tip of her
out-of-focus boot.

So, why wasn’t he there?

Morgan felt goosebumps rise on her flesh,
but she told herself it was just the damp chill of the air. There
had to be a logical explanation to this. She studied the picture
for a clue.

There was a funny glimmer on the floor in
the shot. Morgan checked the room again and saw something catch the
light in the same place.

It was a stone.

Without a second thought, Morgan crossed the
room and picked up the large quartz crystal, cradling its weight in
her palm. She turned it over and over, fighting against a sense
that she had seen it somewhere before.

But where? Morgan knew she hadn’t noticed it
here earlier.

She’d been too busy noticing Alasdair’s
legs.

Morgan climbed back to the sunlight
thoughtfully. She watched the light play within the stone, unable
to shake the feeling that it was somehow familiar.

Where had she seen this stone?

The memory came in a sudden flash. The
regalia! She had seen it this morning on the castle tour.

But how could Morgan be holding part of the
Scottish crown jewels in her hand? They were locked away in a
display case in the castle.

Unless Alasdair stolen the stone.

A sick feeling coiled in Morgan’s stomach.
It was a perfect plan - take a job working inside the castle, get
to know the staff, be amiable enough to be trusted and then steal a
precious antiquity.

All the same, Morgan had a hard time
believing that the man she had found could be a thief - at least on
such grand scale.