Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (63 page)

“
Go, go now,” Justine
urged.

“
Four!” Morgaine
interjected. She leaned between the seats and pointed at a road
ahead on the left. “That’s it, that’s the one!”

Alasdair eyed the road she indicated and
could not discern how they would get from here to there without
being mangled by other chariots in the process.

Despite his religious skepticism, Alasdair
saw no harm in a few Ave Maria’s under such circumstance. He
muttered them under his breath and tried to hide his fear from the
sorceress.

’
Twas no small thing to
know oneself immortal at such a moment, which was the only thing
that could explain her sparkling eyes.

“
Second gear,” Blake
declared, but this time when he moved the stick, the chariot made a
high-pitched whine.

“
If you can’t find ‘em,
grind ‘em,” Morgaine whispered and giggled.

Blake fired a hostile glance over his
shoulder. “I’d like to see you do this.” He looked back to the
road, cranked the wheel hard and the chariot obediently lunged into
the outside lane.

A heartbeat later - if indeed Alasdair’s
heart had been beating - the little chariot darted along an open
stretch of roadway.

“
We did it!” Morgaine cried
triumphantly, and Alasdair breathed a sigh of relief.

The humming Micra was filled with gleeful
cheers and Blake earned not only a pat on the shoulder but a sound
kiss from Justine.

The car swerved dangerously close to the
ditch during this exchange of esteem. Morgaine cried out, Justine
gasped, and two pairs of hands steadied their path.

Alasdair felt a cold trickle of sweat run
down his back. The comparative solitude of his cottage was sounding
better and better all the time.

“
Christ save me,” he
muttered gruffly. “You are all mad.”

The enchantress took one look at him and
laughed so that it seemed she could not stop.

“
You should see your face!”
she managed to gasp before convulsing in yet more gales of
laughter. Her merriment made her look so young and fetching that
Alasdair nearly forgot the extent of her foul powers.

All the same, he could not look away.

He was so lost in her eyes that he missed
the glance that Justine and Blake exchanged before they turned
their broad grins to the road once more.

*

On the northern outskirts of Perth, Blake
pulled the Micra into the generous parking lot of Scone Palace.
Morgan thought the palace looked disappointingly modern for a site
of such historical significance.

“
Well, here we are!” Blake
declared. “Scone Palace, Moot Hill, and all that jazz.” He set the
emergency brake, killed the ignition and accepted his highlighted
travel guide from Justine. “Let’s make sure we know what we’re
looking for here.”

Morgan noted from the corner of her eye that
Alasdair seemed similarly unimpressed. In fact, his expression had
turned quite grim. He slanted a very blue glance in her direction
and folded his arms across his chest.

The move made his shoulders nearly fill the
entire back seat of the car.

“
This is not Scone,” he
said with precision.

“
Of course it is.” Justine
folded her map and tucked it into the glove box.

Morgan was not nearly as unconcerned as her
sister. Alasdair looked fit to kill, and she had an inkling that he
could break the neck of any of them with his bare hands.

All that advice about not picking up
hitchhikers came to mind a bit late for comfort.

“
You have lied to me,”
Alasdair declared through clenched teeth. He was positively
seething.

“
Get serious. This is
Scone.” Blake was dismissive. “Listen.” He leafed through the pages
and lifted one finger in his best imitation of a professor about to
lecture learnedly.

“
Scone Palace took its
current form in the sixteenth century, although it contains
fragments of earlier construction. It is located near Moot Hill,
where the Stone of Scone, or Stone of Destiny, was the traditional
crowning site of the Scottish kings.”

“
Until the English stole
the stone away,” Alasdair muttered. He looked so lethal that Morgan
tried to edge away from him.

The Micra offered little chance of that.

Blake glanced over his shoulder, his finger
running down the page. “No, it says here that the Scottish
gave
the Stone of Destiny to the British as a token of
esteem when they welcomed foreign rule.”

Alasdair’s snort made his opinion of that
clear.

The really scary thing was that Morgan
agreed with him – and not with Blake’s tour book.

Blake read on, oblivious to raised hackles
in the back seat.
“Originally, the kings of Dalriada – an
ancient name for Scotland – were crowned at Dunadd, a hillside fort
in Argyll. But in the ninth century, the Stone of Scone was
purportedly carried to Scotland from the high seat of Tara in
Ireland and located on Moot Hill.”

“
That at least is not a
lie,” Alasdair acknowledged tightly.

Blake fired a glance between the seats.
“They brought it
here
. This is Scone.”

“
That it is
not.”

The two men locked gazes in some silent
challenge of testosterone, and Morgan knew she wasn’t the only one
holding her breath.

Blake was the first to look away. He
abruptly cleared his throat and continued.
“Eventually, the seat
of royal power moved southwards, first to Dunfermline Abbey, then
to Edinburgh. Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh remains the official
residence of the monarch in Scotland.”

“
And which monarch would
that be?” Alasdair demanded coldly. “Some poppet from south of the
wall, that much is certain, and ’tis just as certain that no
rightful monarch could come from such ranks.”

Blake twisted in his seat to face the
highlander. “Look, I don’t know where you learned your history, but
you’ve got it wrong. The Scottish
welcomed
British
rule.”

“
A filthy lie!” Alasdair
retorted hotly. “The Scots would
never
welcome British
rule!”

“
Look.” Blake took off his
glasses and jabbed them through the air toward Alasdair. “All this
kilt business is very showy, but I really would have expected a
real Scotsman to know his history…”

“
I am a truer Scotsman
than you will ever see!
” Alasdair bellowed, the volume of his
voice enough to rock the Micra. He looked like a cornered bear and
his eyes flashed lightning. “’Tis clear enough which camp of
Macdonalds you call your own, for there is naught but lies falling
from your lips!”

“
Lies?” Blake inhaled
sharply and the color rose on his neck. “I haven’t told any
lies!”

“
It is one lie after
another as I hear it,” Alasdair shot back. “With nary but a broken
promise betwixt and between!
This is not Scone!
”

Justine laid a restraining hand on Blake’s
arm and used the same tone that had successfully talked down
countless hysterical brides. “Maybe it’s all changed. When were you
last here, Alasdair? Have they added some new signs or
something?”

The tone – which should have been patented
for its unfailing success – had no effect on the highlander.

“
Nay!” Alasdair looked fit
to explode. “There is not a bit of it that resembles the Scone I
know!” He gestured angrily. “That very building was not here, nor
this foul expanse of blackness spread upon the ground! The land was
not cluttered with your fearsome chariots, nor crowded with folk in
odd garb.”

Alasdair flung out a hand. “And I know
naught of this sixteenth century you tout. Sixteenth century since
what
? Always have I known right-thinking men to count their
years from the birth of Christ!”

Morgan blinked, for the reference
was
to the sixteenth century since Christ.

Blake frowned, and picked his issue. “Well,
it is Scone. No doubt about it.”

“
I have my doubts, ’tis
clear enough.” Alasdair leaned between the seats and Morgan watched
Blake draw back ever so slightly. The highlander’s voice dropped
with a threat so tangible that Morgan shivered.

“
You have
lied
to
me, Blake Advisor. You do not take me to Scone this day, nor do you
ever intend to take me home. Be man enough to admit the
truth.”

“
Of course, we’ll take you
home,” Justine assured him. “This is just on the way.”

“
Another lie in the company
of many!” Alasdair roared. He pushed at the confining wall of the
little car and growled when nothing moved. Morgan was torn between
a desire to put as much space between him and herself as possible
and an unexpected urge to reassure him.

Alasdair tipped back his head and shouted.
“For the love of God, let me out of this foul prison!”

Before Morgan could sort out her feelings –
or Alasdair could explode – Justine opened her door and leapt out
onto the pavement. Alasdair pushed the front seat forward with
enviable grace and couldn’t seem to get out of the car fast
enough.

He shook back his hair when he was on his
feet and glared down at them with his hands on his hips. Morgan
couldn’t help but stare. Alasdair was magnificent in his anger,
larger than life, snapping with vitality.

He belonged outside, in the wind and the
sun, and before she could stop herself, Morgan updated her mental
image of how she would paint him.

“
Make no mistake, this is
not Scone.” Alasdair savagely bit out the words. “Second, the Stone
of Scone was stolen. And third, Robert the Bruce is no treacherous
dog, but a hero through and through. And that, Blake Advisor, is
the ungarnished truth.”

With that, he pivoted and marched away.

Morgan could almost feel the aching of his
heart. It was disconcerting to find her own memories perfectly
reconciled with his view of history.

The only question was
why
.

“
Alasdair, come back!”
Justine cried, but Alasdair didn’t even look back. His long strides
took him across the parking lot in record time. Instead of going to
the palace, he stalked right into the woods, his tartan quickly
disappearing into the shadows.

Justine turned back to Blake, and Morgan
almost laughed at her sister’s dismay. “Blake, stop him!”

Blake took his time putting his glasses back
on. He leafed through his tour book. “Let him go,” he said
grumpily. “If he won’t even pick up a book and read the truth,
there’s not much I can do about it.”

“
He can’t read,” Morgan
retorted, surprised to find herself defending Alasdair. She climbed
out of the car impatiently. “And until yesterday, you were the only
going on and on about Robert the Bruce.”

Justine and Blake both looked blank.

That was enough. Some of Alasdair’s
impatience must have transferred to Morgan, because she was
suddenly fed up with Alasdair’s mysteries. She was going to find
out the truth, and she was going to find out now.

Justine caught her breath. “Are you going
after him?”

“
You promised him a ride
home,” Morgan reminded her sister. “I guess I’ll have to make sure
you keep your promise.”

At least that was the excuse she would use.
She turned to follow Alasdair, deliberately ignoring her sister’s
quick smile of satisfaction. While she walked, she took the crystal
out of her purse and buried it carefully in the back of her money
belt, then retucked T-shirt and sweater to hide the money belt’s
new bulge.

The stone dug into her ribs, but Morgan
ignored it.

It was time to get to the bottom of things.
Alasdair MacAulay was going to have to be straight with her about
who he was and what he was up to if he really wanted that ride to
faraway Callanish.

And if he was as broke as Justine suspected,
Morgan was sure she’d get the answers but quick.

*

Alasdair glared at the chapel perched on
Moot Hill as the anger drained out of him.

And left him feeling like seven kinds of
fool.

Of all the glaikit things he could have
done! ’Twas no consolation to find his gran right about his temper
at this particular point.

Alasdair kicked at a clump of heather and
berated himself silently but thoroughly. Would he ever get home
now? Or had he trapped himself in Morgaine’s world for all
eternity?

He deserved no less for being such a
fool.

Yet he was still seething. How dare the
advisors promise to win Morgaine’s favor, pledge that they would
see him home, then break their word? Was a vow worth naught in this
twisted world? Such faithlessness nearly made him growl aloud.

A man’s honor was the only thing of value he
could call his own. But calling Blake Advisor the liar he evidently
was had undoubtedly not made Alasdair any friends. What an
addle-pated fool he was to have thought he could not make matters
worse!

What would he give to be home this very
moment? There was a certain irony in wanting no less than to be
back at the cottage that had not been able to hold him seven years
past, but Alasdair was not particularly appreciative of that.

He chose to forget that he had not been able
to shake the dust of Lewis off his boots – nor sweep the guilt from
his mind – fast enough in those days.

Alasdair was dirty. He was tired. He was
befuddled and frustrated beyond all by Faerie games. And he had an
erection that simply would not say die.