Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (64 page)

Curse Morgaine le Fee!

Alasdair pivoted at the sound of a light
step, only to find the sorceress herself closing the distance
between them. A man with naught to lose – and one with a temper
still simmering – Alasdair spoke his mind before he could stop
himself.

“
Come to smite me, have
you?” he demanded boldly.

Morgaine’s chin snapped up and her green
gaze fixed upon him. Her footsteps faltered a dozen steps away, but
Alasdair was interested in little she might have to say.

“
Smite me then and be done
with it!” he cried and flung out his hands. “Surely there could be
naught worse than this? Filthy and tired I am, surrounded by your
adder-tongued advisors whose words cannot be trusted even while
they are uttered.”

“
Blake means no
harm.”

Alasdair spat on the ground. “He can mean no
other when he breaks his word as readily as he makes it.”

The enchantress visibly bristled. “He didn’t
break his word. This is Scone and it’s on the way to Lewis.”

A bald-faced lie!

Had Blake acted under her dictate?

Ha! Alasdair should have expected no
less.

Alasdair shoved a hand through his hair and
glared at Morgaine. “’Tis naught but lies from start to finish. Why
tell me this is Scone, when any thinking man can see ’tis not? Why
call that keep of yours Edinburgh, with its clarty English flag
waving above it? Why insist he would see me home, when ’tis clear
he intends no such thing?”

Alasdair swore in exasperation and paced the
hilltop with rapid steps. “And
why
does Blake Advisor wear
that torture device over his eyes if he has the power within him to
remove it?”

Morgaine made a choking sound at that,
though when Alasdair turned to look, she tried to hide her laughter
from him with her hand. Something within him softened at the
sight.

Another part of him did precisely the
opposite.

’
Twas an unwelcome reminder
of his predicament.

“
Do not push me, my lady
fair,” Alasdair growled, shaking a warning finger in her direction.
“If you mean to twitch your buttocks and tempt me with maidenly
flushes, you had best keep your distance.”

Morgaine blushed pink, which only made
matters worse from Alasdair’s perspective. ‘I have never twitched
my buttocks…”

“
Oh, I would insist the
contrary!”

She gasped and stared at him, as though
uncertain what to say. ’Twas all a game to her, no doubt, a game
she played most artfully. And how could she not, privy as she was
to Alasdair’s hidden desires? ’Twas no small advantage she had in
her power to read his very thoughts.

Aye, but Alasdair could make her moan aloud,
he could, and in this moment, the prospect was tempting indeed. On
all sides, the heather grew knee-high and waved in the sunlight,
fairly inviting man and lass to make use of its soft
concealment.

“
Be warned, mistress
Morgaine.” Alasdair growled as though in anger, though in truth a
different heat had laid claim to his tone. “Venture too close and
I’ll be buried to the hilt afore you can gasp a breath.”

Morgaine took a cautious step back, as
though she should be afraid of him. “You wouldn’t.”

“
I would, with nary a
regret.” Alasdair knew the truth when he heard it. “A man can only
be tempted so much long, my lady, and make no mistake, my threshold
is near.”

Morgaine looked so alarmed by this earthly
reality that Alasdair turned his back upon her. What was she
expecting of him, if she fashioned herself to appeal most strongly
to his desires? He raked a hand through his hair again and paced
across the mound Blake had so fecklessly called Moot Hill.

From first glance, she had set a fire within
him, and that blaze showed no signs of dying down to embers soon.
Alasdair took a deep breath and struggled to curb his raging
desire.

He deliberately recalled the last time he
had stood on the true Moot Hill. It had been a gloriously clear
day, one not unlike this one, with a crisp wind on his face and a
blue sky arched overhead. Robert the Bruce himself had lounged
amidst them all, smiling in reminiscence as his squire shared the
tale of his crowning on that very spot.

Well aware of the sorceress’s bright gaze
resting on him, Alasdair turned. She had not moved, the dark
tendrils of her hair lifting in the wind, her eyes wide, her manner
uncertain.

“
What is it you want with
me?” he asked, a new gentleness in his words. She seemed to be
encouraged by the question, for she drew nearer as he watched. “I
thought you were not speaking with me.”

“
I’m not,” she asserted,
then evidently realized that her claim was nonsensical.

For she smiled. The winsome sight sent the
frustration easing out of Alasdair as surely as if it had never
been. The sunlight was golden between them, and Alasdair forgot
everything his wary mind was telling him about this woman’s danger
to his very hide.

Indeed, he felt an answering smile tug his
own lips. “Aye, I can tell.”

The lady laughed, an enchanting sound if
ever there was one.

Alasdair’s heart took a dizzying leap, and
he suddenly felt the cur for railing at her so severely. “I would
apologize, my lady. ’Tis true I have a fair temper when riled, but
’tis all bluster, as my gran is wont to say.”

Morgaine’s eyes danced. “I think I might
like your gran. Wasn’t that one of her stories last night?”

“
Aye, that
’twas.”

Morgaine took a tentative step closer. “I
meant to thank you again for sharing it with me.”

Alasdair felt his brow arch in skepticism.
“Even though you are not speaking with me?”

She chuckled and shook a finger at him.
“Don’t let this go to your head.”

They stared at each other for a long, very
warm moment, Alasdair recalling all too well how she had thanked
him once before. When her lips quirked so playfully, ’twas hard to
believe that this fragile creature held Alasdair’s fate in her tiny
hands.

She tilted her head. “Why don’t you think
this is Scone?”

“
Because it cannot be.”
Alasdair frowned at the palace, regal enough but unfamiliar, the
strange chapel, the clusters of people garbed as oddly as
she.

“
Why not?” the enchantress
whispered, and Alasdair was surprised to find her by his side. He
looked into the splendor of her eyes and saw the myriad shades of
the sea reflected there. A part of him acknowledged the danger of
staring too long, but Alasdair did not even want to look
away.

He was beguiled by the Queen of Faerie, and
in this moment, he did not care.

Indeed, he wanted no more than to win her
favor. Alasdair recalled suddenly her fascination with the tales of
mortals.

“
I shall tell you of the
Scone I know and what befell there,” he vowed softly. “Though this
is a tale of truth, not some fable told to keep bairns tight in
their beds.”

Morgaine’s eyes glowed. “Tell me.”

Alasdair took her small hand within his own
and led her to the far side of the hill, where the view was of
woods and fields. Here the sound of the crowds and chariots was
less and the heather waved freely in the breeze. He sat down, then
tugged the length of plaid off his shoulder and gallantly spread it
across the greenery, his back to the palace.

Morgaine seated herself regally beside him,
her bright eyes fixed upon him. Seated on the end of his tartan,
she was dangerously close, and every fiber of Alasdair’s being was
aware of her soft warmth. He could smell the sweetness of her skin,
and a part of him insisted there were better things to be done here
than share tales.

But Alasdair stared determinedly into the
trees as he braced his elbows on his knees. A promise made was a
promise kept.

“
Long ago, a part of
Scotland was known as the kingdom of Dalriada, established by men
who sailed bravely from Ireland to settle a new land. Those men
claimed Kintyre and called the ancient hill of Dunadd the crowning
place of their kings. ’Twas there on the rocks that each king
pledged to his people and had a circlet of gold set upon his
brow.

“
There came a day when
Saint Columba’s own kinsman was to take the kingship and Columba
came himself to set the crown upon that man Aidan’s brow. ’Twas
said that then the Stone of Scone made its first appearance, and
there are rumors that Columba himself brought it out of the mists
of Ireland. ’Twas said to have been a gift from the High King of
Tara to his distant kinsmen in Kintyre.

“
From thence, the stone
became known as the Stone of Destiny, for the future of his
countrymen was secure in the hands of any king crowned upon
it.

“’
Twas no long after that
the first Norsemen came to make war, to claim slaves, to capture
bonny lasses as their women, to steal plate and jewels. In time,
they saw the beauty of Scotland and came to stay, invading islands
and planting their seeds and seed. The land was hotly contested in
those times, for there was precious little of it fertile, and the
men of Dalriada lost more than their share of battles.

“
For fear of capture, the
Stone of Destiny was moved northward, along with the king, to
Dunstaffnage. A tale there is that the stone itself was mortared
into to wall of the fort to ensure that none might steal it
away.

‘‘’
Twas there that Kenneth
the Hardy, son of Alpin, became the first King of Alba. A fair king
he was and one with a dream for Scotland unified. Crowned upon it,
he later moved the Stone of Destiny to Moot Hill, where it would be
safe from raiding Norsemen. Even in those ancient days, Moot Hill
was a council place of great authority, and the king wisely blended
old and new beneath his hand. Kenneth made Moot Hill the site of
his court and so it was for many a year.”

Alasdair laced his fingers together, and
stared into the trees. He was well aware that the sorceress
attended his every word.

“
The years rolled by, the
kings birthed and died, feasted and killed, yet despite their
battles, Scotland endured. The Norsemen settled on the islands and
far north, the Norman knights were granted lands, and all grew to
prosperity. Alexander III was the last of the great kings, a man
who witnessed the death of his kin, of his wife and three babes,
yet was known to be religious, holy, wise and kind.

“
Aye, those were fine days
for Scotland, days of prosperity and peace beneath a just king’s
hand.”

Alasdair paused and the sorceress leaned
closer. “What happened to him?”

“
Late in his days, he took
a wee wife to his side, a French lass name of Yolande de Dreux, and
’twas his love for her that drove all sense from his mind.”
Alasdair shook his head. “But I stray from the tale in telling of
this too soon.”

He frowned at the woods. “There were
portents of doom in the last year of Alexander’s kingship, for foul
weather welcomed the new year. ’Twas on the lips of many that the
Day of Judgment was at hand, though the king believed naught of it.
’Twas the eighteenth day of March, the date foretold by many to be
that Judgment Day, when Alexander – perhaps in defiance of popular
belief – called his council to Edinburgh.

“
They conferred long hours,
then the good king entertained his favored ones with a fine meal
that stretched long into the night. A storm began to rage as they
dined, making more than one man shiver in dread. The king laughed,
though, and lifted his chalice high, urging all to fill their
bellies.

“
Perhaps ’twas the
influence of good Gascony wine, but when all made to retire,
Alexander wanted only to be with his beloved new bride. Yolande
slumbered at his abode of Kinghorn, not too far distant but across
the Firth itself.

“
He called for his ostler
and he called for the ferryman, and he rode to the port, though the
storm was ripping through the trees. All begged that he wait for
the dawn, but Alexander would not be swayed.

“’
Twas the blackest hour of
the night that they sailed across the Firth, fighting the waves all
the way to Inverkeithing. The innkeeper there begged the king to
tarry, but he would have none of it. Naught would suffice for him
that night but his sweet bride’s own bed, and he began the long
ride along to coast to Kinghorn. The heat of his desire sent
Alexander ahead of his party and wind stole away their warning
cries.”

Alasdair looked to his boots. “They found
him in the morn, a victim of his own recklessness,” he said
quietly. “In his haste, he had ridden carelessly. His steed had
fallen from the road, the necks of both broken on the rocks below.
And so it was that Scotland had no king.”

“
Didn’t he have an
heir?”

Alasdair shrugged. “A wee lass, who died
shortly thereafter.” His frown deepened. “And Edward of England saw
his long-sought chance to make Scotland his own.”

He plucked a stem of heather and twirled it
in his fingers, remembering all too well the tumult of those times.
And later, the distant uproar in Alasdair’s homeland had been
echoed before his own hearth.

For a Fenella displeased was a Fenella
impossible. And there had been much in the early days of their
match – indeed, throughout the match – that Fenella had found
displeasing.

Alasdair shifted awkwardly at the unwelcome
recollection. Morgaine waited silently, and he suddenly realized
that the heather he held was white of bloom.

Alasdair granted it to Morgaine with a wry
smile. “’Tis said to be uncommon fortune,” he said, before
realizing that an enchantress had no need of such tokens.