Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (78 page)

As usual.

He shrugged now, and leaned back in his
chair. “Well, it’s funny but things didn’t go so well at his agency
after that. He and Morgan moved in the same circles, you know, and
people like Morgan. There was a well-deserved feeling that he
hadn’t treated her right, and when he lost a lot of business, they
turfed him out. Eventually, he moved out west to start over again.
We’ve never heard anything more.”

Alasdair nodded approval, his expression
fierce. “An outlander. ’Tis a finer fate than such a deserves.”

“
That’s for
sure.”

“
French fries!” cried the
waitress, and Blake quickly drained his beer.

“
Gotta go.” He got to his
feet, then cocked a finger at Alasdair, his tone only half joking.
“Hey, don’t make me send Pete after you.”

Alasdair smiled. “There is little chance of
that. Morgaine believes I am cut from the same cloth as this foul
man and fears to trust me.”

Blake leaned on the table. “You can’t really
blame her for being cautious, can you? And you’re not like him,
anyone can see that. It’s only a matter of time before Morgan sees
it, too.”

Alasdair glanced up, a heat burning in his
eyes. “Aye, you speak aright, Blake Advisor. Your counsel is
good.”

He got to his feet and finished his water in
one swallow, setting the glass back on the table with a thump of
resolve. “I shall prove to Morgaine that I am different. I shall
prove to her that I can be trusted. I shall prove to her that I am
worthy of sliding between her thighs!”

Blake blinked at the bluntness of that
statement, but Alasdair had turned away. He strode to the door, the
very image of masculine confidence, and Blake couldn’t think of a
thing to say that wouldn’t sound silly after such a
pronouncement.

So, he went to get Justine’s french fries
instead.

And wondered whether that would prove him
worthy of sliding between her thighs.

*

Room 7 was ominously quiet, but the door was
unlocked. Alasdair nudged it open with his toe, wincing when the
hinges creaked slightly.

But the sorceress slumbering on the bed did
not stir.

Alasdair crept into her lair on silent feet,
closing the door securely behind himself. The room was filled with
the soft rhythm of her breathing. The last rays of sunlight slanted
orange through the windows and gilded the edges of the papers
spread on the table.

Curious, Alasdair went to look, then gaped
in amazement.

Pages of intricate, fanciful drawings
spilled across the surface. Script rolled between the images,
evidently some verse written in an elegant hand.

’
Twas like the great
illuminated Bible that the monks consulted and had shown Alasdair
once when he was but a boy. He reached out as though he would touch
the script, but fearful of smudging it, ran his hand a finger’s
breadth above the page.

And let himself feel the fullness of his old
longing to read.

Alasdair swallowed and bent closer,
examining the elfin faces peering from behind leaf and blossom. His
heart leapt in recognition of a woman who could only be the lovely
Jenny, her hair flowing long, her hand cupping the fullness of her
womb as she waited at a crossroads beneath a starry sky.

And here! Here was Tam Lin himself, his
bonnet cocked, his white steed prancing beneath him as he rode
among the Faerie host, his gaze straining ahead as he sought some
glimpse of his beloved Jenny. Alasdair sat down and bent over the
page, smiling as he identified countless details of the tale he had
told Morgaine.

’
Twas clear the words were
those he had sung to her. And on the right were the embracing
lovers, Tam Lin brilliantly shown in contortions of change, Jenny
stoically holding him fast, the Faerie Queen’s lovely face twisted
with malice.

And there they rode together, the moon
hanging low over the victorious lovers, their limbs entwined, their
faces shining with happiness.

Alasdair stared long at the marvel of this
work, then carefully laid it aside. Beneath were several pages
recounting the tale of Thomas Rhymer, he recognized it immediately.
And half completed to one side was a sketch that could only be the
tale of Robert the Bruce, contemplating the spider, then standing
before a radiant Isobel of Buchan as she set the crown upon his
brow.

But Alasdair’s fingers continually strayed
to the words he could not read. His gran’s voice echoed in his
ears, admonishing him to recall his station, but even knowing his
place was to sow and to fight could not dispel Alasdair’s desire.
The monks had seen the urge in him, he realized now, which was why
they had been so welcoming to him.

His gran had undoubtedly feared her wee lamb
would go to the church, leaving her to fend for herself.

Alasdair’s lips twisted. Indeed, he had gone
much farther, leaving his gran no less alone in his quest to aid
Robert the Bruce. And with a squawling babe, as well.

Alasdair glanced guiltily to the sorceress,
recalling well how her eyes had burned with her own desire for a
child. She had wanted the child for its own sake - yet put her own
wishes aside when she feared her home would not be adequate for
that child’s happiness.

Alasdair was ashamed to realize that his own
motivation had been markedly less noble. He had desired an heir, a
child to carry his name, a son who would grow to become a warrior
straight and true.

He had never considered whether Angus would
be happy or not. The boy was his son, his responsibility, and the
honor of Alasdair’s name - or lack thereof - a weight upon Angus’s
shoulders. Alasdair wanted to ensure his son could walk tall, but
in his zeal to correct an error, he saw that he had lost the
child.

If indeed Alasdair made his way home
successfully, Angus would not know him. Nor would he know Angus,
unless the child strongly resembled Fenella or himself, though that
would at best be a guess.

For the first time, he questioned the wisdom
of the choice he had made seven years past. Indeed, Alasdair had
never expected the conquest to take so long. And at the time, with
rumors of his dishonor ringing in his ears, it seemed he had had no
choice.

But now, Alasdair wondered. He had missed
seven years of his son’s life. Morgaine’s fervor made him see the
gold that had slipped through his fingers.

But what manner of sorceress yearned so for
a child? Could Morgaine not have simply summoned one from her
cauldron?

Alasdair stood back with a frown and looked
between drawings and sorceress. Morgaine, he well recalled, denied
that she was an enchantress and beneath the current assault of
doubts, Alasdair dared to give credence to her words while she
slept.

Her right hand lay unfurled before her on
the bed and he took due note of the smudges upon her fingers and
the heel of her hand. They were of the same grey as the drawings
themselves. And she slept like one exhausted by their efforts.

Alasdair frowned. A powerful enchantress
like Morgaine le Fee need do no such labor to summon images.

He wondered whether Morgaine had told him
the truth. She had said she was an artist, that she illustrated
books, that she was not the Queen of Faerie.

Alasdair rubbed his chin. A sorceress had no
need to labor with her own hands. A sorceress had no need of a
protective Auntie Gillian - nor even a sister or brother-in-law. A
sorceress had no need of a spouse - especially one like this
Matthew James Reilly. A sorceress need not long for anything, for
all was within her power to concoct.

And a sorceress would not need an advocate
to extoll the pound of flesh due for indignities rendered to her.
Indeed, could any man smite a sorceress and live to tell the tale,
even as an outlander?

Nay, Morgaine’s tale sounded all too mortal
for her to be a great sorceress. Her impulses were all too human -
her sympathy for the plight of others, her compassion, her concern.
The vulnerability that oft shone in her eyes belied Alasdair’s
original conclusion.

Though indeed, were she a mortal woman,
Morgaine was a woman beyond compare.

Alasdair frowned. What if she
had
told him the truth? He paced the room silently, glaring out the
window at intervals while he puzzled the matter through. Could the
witch in Edinburgh have sent him forward in time, as Morgaine
suggested?

’
Twas a numbing
proposition, but Alasdair could find naught to refute it, beyond
the basic lunacy of the idea. The world certainly could have
changed markedly in seven hundred years, perhaps even as markedly
as this. His heart clenched as he recalled one assertion Morgaine
had made.

Alasdair’s travelling in time had vastly
changed the course for Robert the Bruce. ’Twas true enough that
Blake certainly had no esteem for the man Alasdair knew to be a
hero.

But what could have happened? Alasdair
fought to recall every detail of that night in Edinburgh - he must
have disappeared when he fell down the stairs. And what then?

Could it be that the men had not held the
keep without his leadership? Alasdair suddenly felt cold and he
paced with renewed vigor. His only dream had been to see Angus grow
to manhood with a name he was proud to call his own, in a Scotland
free from England’s heavy yoke.

Had Alasdair unwittingly jeopardized that
dream by taking a wee witch’s dare?

’
Twas madness! ’Twas
impossible for a man to travel across seven centuries in the blink
of an eye!

But Alasdair had a strange conviction
dawning within his heart that that was precisely what had
happened.

Though ’twas not a conclusion he could
accept readily. Still his gran’s tales echoed within his mind and
though Alasdair had never been a fanciful man, they made more sense
to him than this wild tale of Morgaine’s.

Alasdair wondered whether he simply took
refuge in the familiar and grimaced. How would he ever know the
truth for certain?

Then the certainty dawned in his heart.
Blake and Justine had pledged to take him home, back to Callanish.
And in Callanish, Alasdair would know the truth.

Naught could lie to him there. In Callanish,
he would know. His gran would be there, his son, his home, his
livestock.

Or they would not.

Alasdair swallowed with difficulty at the
possibility.

What if he could
not
return home?
What if he had sacrificed not only seven years with Angus, but all
eternity? Too late, he saw the value of what he had left behind and
desperately wanted to set matters aright.

If only he could have the chance.

Morgaine stirred and Alasdair spun to face
the bed. His heart softened as he watched her sleep, for if she
spoke aright, she was no Faerie Queen. Alasdair frowned as he
considered his behavior of the past day and could not blame
Morgaine for defending herself from his amorous plans.

But ’twas a different matter, to seduce a
woman of good heart and abandon her, than to win the way to a
sorceress’s bed and earn her indulgence. The chance that Morgaine
spoke aright demanded that Alasdair abandon his plan to seduce her,
though indeed, he had no alternate plan.

At least not until he saw the isle of Lewis
with his own eyes.

Alasdair rubbed his brow tiredly. He eyed
the wide expanse of bed beside Morgaine and could not bring himself
to retreat to his cot. The light had faded in the room as the sun
slipped behind the hills and Alasdair let exhaustion slip through
his body.

Never had he felt so alone in all his days
as he did in this moment. Cast across the centuries, beyond the
reach of any he knew and uncertain how to repair matters, Alasdair
was in dire need of the warmth of another beside him.

And there was one in particular whom he
longed to hold close. If Morgaine was naught but a wee lass who had
been buffeted by what life had offered her, then he had naught to
fear from her.

Carefully, so as not to disturb her,
Alasdair cast his kilt aside and doffed his boots. He climbed into
the bed beside Morgaine and caught his breath when she rolled over
and bumped into his side.

But she merely curled up beside his heat
with a sigh.

Alasdair eased back against the pillows and
slipped his arm beneath Morgaine’s shoulder to hold her close
against him. The sweet clean scent of her filled his nostrils and
battered down his flimsy defenses.

Though he willed himself to breathe deeply,
’twas long into the night that Alasdair MacAulay stared at the
ceiling overheard and wondered.

What if she spoke aright?

*

Morgan awakened with the odd sense that she
had lost something but couldn’t remember what it was. She opened
her eyes to find a suspicious warmth lingering beneath the sheets,
though Alasdair’s whistle carried from the bathroom.

Morgan stretched, knowing she had slept like
a rock for the first time in a long time.

And felt very good as a result. Her
sketching had gone really well the day before, although she’d been
so exhausted she’d just fallen into bed. She looked down and
realized in horror that she had slept in her clothes.

And she was starving. Morgan couldn’t
exactly recall - she acknowledged few intrusions from real life
when absorbed in her work - but she was pretty sure she had
forgotten to get any dinner.

Which was one incentive to getting up.
Morgan rolled across the bed as she stretched luxuriously and
thought she caught a whisper of Alasdair’s scent on the linens. Her
heart skipped a beat, but another sniff was inconclusive.

Had he slept with her? If Alasdair had
crawled into the bed, he certainly hadn’t made a pass at her.