Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (67 page)

“
I see naught amusing about
our embrace,” he began to huff, but Morgan pointed to his bare
butt.

“
It’s true,” she managed to
choke out. “It’s really true.”

“
You find my buttocks a
source of amusement?” Alasdair demanded.

“
Not at all,” Morgan said.
“They’re magnificent.”

Alasdair inhaled sharply. “Then you mock my
embrace!” He shoved open the car door, no doubt intending to sweep
regally out of the Micra.

Instead, opening the door proved that they
had been braced against it. They tumbled together to the asphalt
outside and landed with an ingracious thump.

Morgan was delighted to note that, even
though he was miffed, Alasdair ensured that he took the brunt of
the fall. She heard a click as her favorite hair clip took a hit
and a clattering as more than one piece of it fell to the
ground.

It had only been a matter of time before she
broke it. Morgan confronted the sad truth that she was such a klutz
she couldn’t even make out in a car with the most handsome hunk
she’d ever met.

Before she could think too much about that,
Alasdair bounded to his feet. He snapped his kilt back into place
with a self-righteous flick of his wrist and glared at her.

From her vantage point, sprawled on the
parking lot, Morgan could see straight up those legs with their
dusting of golden hair. She squinted, caught a glimpse of something
swinging free, and giggled again.

It
was
true!

Alasdair harumphed, but Morgan held up one
hand. She wiped away her tears while he glowered at her, clearly
not inclined to share the joke.

“
Scotsmen really don’t wear
anything under their kilts, then,” she said when she caught her
breath.

Alasdair raised a fair brow and crossed his
arms over his chest, looking only a little less insulted. “And what
would my lady suggest a man wear beneath his kilt?” he demanded
coldly.

Morgan propped herself up on her elbows, her
smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Ever heard of
Calvin Kleins? Harvey Woods? Maybe something nice from Mr.
Brief?”

If Morgan thought Alasdair had taken umbrage
before, that was nothing compared to his outrage now.

“
I would suffer no man
mucking about beneath my tartan, of that you can be certain!” he
roared. “No matter in what esteem you might hold this Calvin and
Harvey, neither is welcome beneath my plaid.”

He thought she thought he was gay?

Alasdair stormed a few paces away before
pivoting to jab a finger through the air at Morgan. “Of all the
lies that have been told about me, my lady, that is far and away
the most loathsome.”

Despite herself, Morgan started to chuckle
again. She had never before been so absolutely positive that a man
was straight. As the laughter spilled from her lips, Alasdair’s
ears turned bright red.

Then he stalked farther away.

And this time, he didn’t look inclined to
stop.

That stopped Morgan’s laughter cold.

“
No, wait, that’s not what
I meant. I wasn’t laughing at you.” Morgan stumbled to her feet.
“Alasdair, don’t be angry. I can explain…”

Suddenly Alasdair seemed to notice his
surroundings for the first time. He halted and looked about himself
with such dismay that Morgan took a look too.

The Micra was parked on a point facing a
romantic little lake complete with a photogenic ruined castle.
Behind the car sprawled a perfectly pedestrian asphalt parking lot,
a little inn on the opposite side with cars clustered near it.
Apparently the inn had a pub, because a neon Guinness sign shone
red in the window.

Morgan almost died when she saw the big tour
bus parked less than twenty feet away from the car. Dozens of
Japanese tourists studiously pretended not to have noticed her and
Alasdair, snapping pictures in every other direction. Morgan looked
back at the car and saw that the front and rear windows were
fogged.

She couldn’t help but blush.

Alasdair spun abruptly to confront her,
looking as though he found their surroundings morally offensive.
“This is not my home!” he roared, and everything feminine within
Morgan delighted in his masculine indignation.

Whether Alasdair was a time traveler or a
nutcase, at this moment Morgan didn’t care. She wanted to grab him
by the hair and pounce on him until he begged for mercy.

And maybe even a little longer than that.
Alasdair’s kiss had more than demonstrated how thorough he would be
about any amorous adventure, and part of Morgan regretted that she
had declined his invitation that very first day.

It really might have been an interlude
unlike any other.

And she was sure he could teach her a few
things she didn’t know about lovemaking. Her experience was pretty
limited, after all. Morgan had already picked up some kissing
pointers from this highlander.

Alasdair clenched his fists when she didn’t
respond. Morgan heard a murmur from the Japanese tourists, then the
clicking of cameras turned on her and Alasdair.

Which reminded her that Alasdair didn’t
photograph well.

He
had
to be from the past.

And she had to help him.

“
Unleash me from your
spell, Morgaine le Fee,” Alasdair demanded with obvious impatience.
“Release me and send me home to my son.”

His son?

Morgan blinked, but he glared at her. Had
she heard right? “You have a son?”

Alasdair’s expression turned ominous.
“Already I have told you that there’s naught amiss beneath my
plaid.” He shook a finger at her. “But do not be thinking that I
will stand by and let you seize him for your own. I will fight you
for my son with every last fiber of my being, make no mistake about
that.”

His fierce protectiveness of his child
warmed Morgan to her toes. But all the same, this shouting had to
stop. She held up her hands in a peaceful gesture and slowly walked
toward him, trying to remember every hostage movie she’d ever
seen.

“
I don’t want your son,”
she said in a low, even voice, making sure she maintained eye
contact with Alasdair. “And I really do want to help you get
home.”

Some of the tension eased out of his
shoulders. His eyes were still narrowed slightly with suspicion.
“Aye?”

“
Aye,” Morgan agreed and
smiled. She stopped before him and tilted her head up to hold his
gaze. “I promise you that.”

Alasdair sniffed. “Is your word worth so
little as your advisor’s pledge?”

“
No. I keep my
word.”

His lips thinned as though he believed her
but wished he didn’t. Alasdair folded his arms across his chest and
his expression turned stubborn. “Swear it to me, then.”

“
I swear to you, Alasdair
MacAulay, that I will do everything I can to send you home,” Morgan
vowed softly. “Wherever – and whenever – that is.”

Alasdair eyed her carefully and Morgan felt
some of his resistance dissolve. Then he arched a fair brow.
“Whenever?”

Morgan frowned as she tried to think of how
to begin, then she looped her arm through his. “It’s kind of a long
story,” she confessed, urging him to walk toward the inn.

To her relief, he fell into step beside
her.

“
And I have an idea that
you might want one of those wee drams to make it all go down a
little easier.”

Despite everything Morgan had against
alcohol, this was one time when she couldn’t have blamed anyone for
having a drink to dull the shock.

In fact, if she was right and Alasdair had
skipped through the better part of seven centuries in the blink of
an eye – never mind leaving a child far behind – she wouldn’t blame
him for getting stinking drunk.

Morgan’s heart contracted with a compassion
of frightening intensity.

Surely she was only worried about a little
boy, left alone?

Surely. There couldn’t be any other reason.
Morgan knew that she didn’t need – or want – any man in her life,
especially one who was more lost than she had ever managed to
be.

Obviously, she just felt sorry for
Alasdair’s son.

It couldn’t be any more than that.

*

Alasdair fingered the dram of whisky that
had been placed before him and studied the sorceress. ’Twas
unsettling how somber she had become. What was amiss?

He did not drink the spirits, fairly certain
that if matters were as dire as her expression suggested, he might
need it more once she had had her say.

Was she going to tell him that he could
never go home? Alasdair’s gut went very cold at the very thought.
Was it because of some deficiency in her power? Or the terms of the
witch’s spell that had sent him here? Had he failed a test?

Or was she simply unwilling to release
him?

Morgaine pushed her glass of water across
the table, making circles with the wet mark it left on the wood.
Playing she was, as though she knew not where to begin.

And it was driving him mad.

Alasdair captured her glass with one
resolute gesture. When his fingers closed over hers, Morgaine met
his gaze with obvious reluctance.

“
Tell me,” he urged in a
low voice. “Tell me the worst of it.”

The lady licked her lips and looked from one
side to the other before she began. “It’s not good,” she admitted,
such a vision of maidenly softness that Alasdair actually longed to
reassure her.

Her fingers trembled slightly beneath his
grip, and Alasdair gave them a squeeze before he could stop
himself. “’Tis true that tidings are always worse before the
telling. Giving voice to the worst lessens its bite.”

“
You’re probably right. And
there’s no point beating around the bush.” She smiled sadly, then
squared her shoulders. “Alasdair, where do you think you
are?”

Alasdair sensed a trick, but her expression
was guileless. “In your domain.”

“
Which is
where?”

Would he earn some loathsome fate by giving
voice to such names? Alasdair’s mouth went dry, but he forced out
the words.

He would balk before naught. “In the land of
Faerie.”

“
And that would make me
who?”

“
The sorceress Morgaine le
Fee.”

She shook her head slowly, and Alasdair
feared he had erred in naming her occupation so boldly.

But before he could apologize, Morgaine took
his hand in the two of hers and looked deeply into his eyes.
Alasdair knew ’twould be fair dreadful whatever she meant to say.
He braced himself against the worst calamity.

But he could never have prepared himself for
what she did say.

“
Alasdair, you’re wrong.
I’m not Morgaine le Fee and this isn’t the land of
Faerie.”

She was deadly serious. A cold tremor of
fear rolled over Alasdair’s flesh.

What was this?

“
You’ve traveled almost
seven hundred years into the future, I don’t know how.” The
sorceress gave his fingers a squeeze, her expression now turning
apologetic. For a fleeting instant, Alasdair was almost fooled by
the sincerity in her steady green gaze.

It he was not in Faerie, then where could he
be?

“
I can’t explain it,
Alasdair, but the year is 1998, and I’m guessing that you think
it’s a good bit earlier than that.” She stared deeply into his eyes
as he slowly absorbed what she had said.

1998?

But that could not be. The sorceress held
his gaze, as though she would will him to believe her.

’
Twas impossible! Alasdair
blinked. Indeed, ’twas such a daft load of bunk that his lips
twitched. ’Twas a jest, no more than that. Or a test of his
gullibility.

And one he had nearly failed.

Nearly fooled him, Morgaine had. Traveling
through time – stuff and nonsense! ’Twas beyond belief. As though
the world could have turned to such a hellhole, even in seven
hundred years.

Alasdair grinned.

Morgaine did not smile. Instead her
expression became concerned. “You have to believe me,” she
insisted. Aye, she was a clever one, to stick so firmly to her
lie.

But the way he had fallen prey to her
allusions of doom was so perfect that Alasdair chuckled. What a
daftie he was.

Aye, he had fallen like a witless rock for
her jest. He, Alasdair MacAulay, who was broadly considered to be a
man of good sense, had nearly swallowed Morgaine’s feckless tale
whole! How the lads would mock him for this.

Beneath the sorceress’s astonished gaze,
Alasdair began to laugh and could not stop.

*

Oh, she had led him on beautifully, teasing
him with imports of doom, when she meant to make a joke! The more
Alasdair thought about it, the harder he laughed.

And ’twas so good to feel laughter rippling
through him again that he did not want to stop. An errant tear
trickled from the corner of his eye.

But the sorceress stared at him. “Alasdair,
you don’t understand.” Her words were emphatic. “My name is Morgan
Lafayette. I’m a book illustrator. I’m not a dark queen, or even an
enchantress.”

The intensity of her manner captured
Alasdair’s attention more securely than anything else could have
done. His eyes narrowed in consideration and his laughter came to
an abrupt halt.

Why did she deny her own identity?

Why would a sorceress want him to believe
she was not her powerful self? There could be no import of good in
this.

Had Morgaine decided not to aid him in
returning home? A cold weight settled in Alasdair’s belly. Had her
advisors decided his cause was not worth the trouble?