Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (83 page)

Morgan and Alasdair stood up simultaneously,
but Frances barely seemed to notice.

“
I’m sorry, but I just had
to be out when the sun was exactly right. We don’t get enough of it
that I can afford to be picky.” She laughed, dumped the canvasses
in Alasdair’s direction - he caught them - and peeled off her hat.
Her hair was same gingery shade as the cats’ but faded with age.
Her smile made Morgan smile back.

Frances stuck out her hand. “I’m Frances
Fergusson.”

“
Morgan Lafayette and
Alasdair MacAulay,” Morgan contributed, shaking Frances’s hand
while Alasdair got a better grip on the canvasses.

“’
Tis indeed a pleasure to
make your acquaintance,” Alasdair said nobly. Morgan wasn’t
surprised that he had summoned his best manners.

Frances’s lips quirked as she glanced
between the two of them. “Well, what can I do for you?”

“
We’re looking for records
of Alasdair’s family, from the early fourteenth
century.”

Frances whistled. “That goes a ways back.”
She fired a glance to Alasdair. “You are certain that the
MacAulay’s were here then?”

“
Aye.”

“
Well, then, let’s have a
cup of tea - I know I could use one - and we’ll set to work. No
doubt you know exactly what you’re looking for and will know it as
soon as you see it, but I can help you get your bearings in
there.”

And Frances bustled past them into the
house. The door was unlocked, but Morgan had little chance to think
about that before one ginger cat made a run for freedom.

“
Stop him!” Frances cried.
With his spare hand, Alasdair just managed to scoop the feline up
in time.

The cat hissed at the highlander in
appreciation as he was dropped back inside of the house. Frances
closed the screen door firmly and left the cat pacing in the
foyer.

She rolled her eyes. “He got out yesterday,
you know, and I had to chase him all over the island once I got
home.”

“
But he was on the porch
when we came.”

“
Oh yes, he only runs for
my benefit.” Frances dumped her paint box on the kitchen floor. “I
have no doubt at all that he sat on the porch sunning himself until
he saw me coming.”

The cat meowed loudly, as though he would
protest this assault on his character and Frances shot him a
warning glance. “Be nice to me, Balthasar. I haven’t dished up
dinner yet.”

When she retreated to the kitchen, the cat’s
ears pricked up, then he ran after her like a shot. By the time
Morgan entered the kitchen, he was twining himself around Frances’s
ankles and purring to beat the band.

Moments later, they were settled into
Frances’s eclectically furnished parlor. The room was a testament
to a bygone age, the walls covered with a dark and busy William
Morris wallpaper and hung almost solidly with framed oil paintings
of everything from Lewis landscapes to still lifes and
portraits.

The furniture was simple oak, Arts and
Crafts style, upholstered in burgundy leather and studded with
brass tacks. A vase brimming with the purple foxgloves held court
on the coffee table. One ginger cat – undoubtedly Balthasar –
prowled the perimeter while the other slept in the sunbeam that
streamed through the window.

Morgan immediately saw that the paintings
were from the same talented hand and guessed that this was
Frances’s work. Alasdair fumbled with the bone china teacup and
lost the battle against looking painfully out of place.

“
Looking for your
ancestors, are you? Well, you’ve come to the right place, that much
is certain.” Frances passed a plate of shortbread, then dropped
into a morris chair, her eyes sparkling. “Although you’re probably
thinking how terribly difficult it has been getting ahold of me, I
have to tell you that if it weren’t for me, there wouldn’t be any
records to check.”

She waved one hand. “These country folk, you
know, their hearts are in the right place, but they just don’t
understand. I spent twenty years working at the library of the
university – Harold was a doctor, you know – and I know how these
files have to be taken care of.” She wagged a finger at them both.
“Things were just rotting away. I finally had to march right into
that musty old monastery and commandeer everything before it
mildewed beyond recognition.”

Frances topped up everyone’s tea and pressed
the plate of shortbread on Alasdair again. He took two.

“
I just knew that I had to
do
something
. My Harold was always saying how imperative it
is to give something back to the community, so I appointed myself
archivist. It seemed like a good way to get to know some people and
keep my hand in, you know.”

Frances laughed lightly. “But, of course, I
only meet tourists because everyone who lives here knows exactly
what happened to their forebears. They’ve been listening to the
stories in front of the fire all their blessed lives.”

Suddenly she got to her feet and drained her
teacup. “But then, you didn’t come here to listen to an old woman
ramble on about nothing. Come along. I’ll show you where everything
is. Hopefully we’ll be able to narrow in on the right box quickly
enough that you don’t waste years in there.” She darted to the
door, then waved at the table. “Bring your tea, if you’d like.”

Morgan did.

Alasdair brought the plate of
shortbread.

*

The women set to work with a vengeance as
soon as they entered the room piled high with cartons. Alasdair
poked at one or two, painfully aware that there was naught he could
do to aid them. He sat glumly in the corner and ate biscuits.

He fetched tea for the women, like some
child bidden to serve their wants, and waited hopefully for some
news of Angus.

It took far longer than Alasdair had hoped
and granted him some heartily unwelcome time to ponder his
circumstance. He had had more than enough of that during the past
week and had come to few conclusions about anything.

’
Twas apparent that he had
traveled through time, despite the odds and now found himself
separated from his son and gran by some seven centuries

As though that were not trouble enough,
Alasdair had left matters half done, and he had no inkling how to
go back.

But even as he itched to know his son and to
repair the long years he had spent away from home, there was a part
of Alasdair that did not truly want to return. He told himself that
’twas merely a case of adjusting to something he knew he could not
change, but Alasdair was far from certain that was what lay at the
root of the matter.

Alasdair eyed the back of Morgaine’s neck as
she bent over a box. She had tied her hair back in a bundle, though
a few ebony tendrils had escaped to curl against her neck.

Alasdair had a sudden urge to brush them
aside with his lips. What was it about Morgaine that brought out
such tenderness from deep within him? What was it about her that
nigh drove him to distraction, yet made him want to ensure that all
came aright in her world?

What was it about her that made him want to
stay and ensure that she was happy for all of her days? For truly,
Alasdair was loath to leave her. If Morgaine was not a sorceress,
then her allure could not be due to some unearthly spell.

And that had kept Alasdair thinking all the
week long.

Was there a reason he had been fairly dumped
into her lap? Morgaine was unlike any woman Alasdair had
encountered, with her blend of softness and strength, her passion,
her laughter, her compassion and determination to do right.

’
Twas true enough that
Morgaine touched Alasdair as no other woman ever had. He recalled
too well his gran’s conviction that there was but a single true
love to each man and woman on this earth, and he could not help but
wonder.

Was Morgaine the woman he was destined to
love? Could it be that theirs was a match fated to be, and one that
not even time could stand against?

’
Twas a heady thought.
Alasdair tried to hide his response to the appealing idea – not
that either woman was paying attention – by indulging in another
biscuit. He felt his ears heat and his gaze dropped to Morgaine’s
legs.

Was it truly so bad to be lost in this time?
Angus must have grown to manhood, married, and had bairns of his
own. Gran must have finally passed away, after many years of health
and happiness. Would it be so foul to know that they had lived the
fullness of their lives, even as he had a rare opportunity to win a
woman’s heart?

There was naught else to draw Alasdair home,
beyond concern for his loved ones and his own sense that he had
erred in leaving Angus alone. Could news from these records set his
mind at ease?

Could Morgaine’s compassion soothe his
doubts?

For Alasdair knew that if he stayed in this
time, he would bend his every effort to win the love of his
Morgaine. He would make her forget this Matthew James Reilly who
had treated her so poorly. He would pledge himself to her and prove
himself worthy of her affections.

Alasdair would make Morgaine happy if ’twas
the last thing he did.

He crunched another biscuit with resolve.
Aye, Blake would not have to send his buggering advocate after
Alasdair.

*

The light was fading when Morgaine gave a
crow of delight. She emerged from deep stacks of record boxes with
an ancient bound book and a smudge of dust across the bridge of her
nose. “I think this is it!”

“
Oh, that’s one of those
books the monks created, when they transcribed all of the old
records that were crumbling away,” Frances said. She glanced at
Alasdair. “The monks of Newcombe Abbey.”

“
Aye, I know them well.”
These were the monks who had shown Alasdair their fine books and
first tempted him to learn to write.

But Frances blinked. “Know them?” She
wrinkled her nose. “The abbey closed during the Reformation. It’s
been gone for centuries.”

“
He means he knows of
them,” Morgaine interjected quickly. She flushed slightly at her
lie, even without looking at Alasdair and he wondered whether
Frances truly believed her.

The woman could not lie to save her very
soul, he thought with mingled affection and amusement.

Frances shook her head, adjusted her
glasses, and leaned over Morgaine’s shoulder to examine the book.
“Well, what does it say?”

Morgaine ran a finger along the text. “It
talks about Olaf the Black, King of Man and the Isles.”

“
Aye. My forebear.”
Alasdair nodded approval.

“
And of them coming to
settle on the west of Lewis. Then there’s a list of
names.”

“
My goodness, where to
start?” Frances murmured.

“
Look for Ismay of Mull,”
Alasdair instructed. “She wed Ranald MacAulay and bore him a son,
Angus Morgan.” Frances looked up in surprise, but Alasdair
continued undeterred. “That man then wed Fiona Campbell, who bore
him a son…”

“
Named Alasdair.”
Morgaine’s gaze sought Alasdair’s and held his for a long moment.
He saw that she knew full well who this Alasdair was.

Finally, she moistened her lips and looked
back to the text. “He married Fenella Macdonald in 1307, and she
bore him a son in 1308 named Angus.”

Alasdair could not make a sound, there was
such a lump in his throat.

Morgaine swallowed visibly. “Fenella died in
1308, Alasdair in the storming of Edinburgh castle in 1314 while he
was following Robert the Bruce.”

So, they thought him dead.

“
And what of that son,
Angus?” Frances demanded cheerfully, evidently unaware of the
tension in the room. “He must have had children that led to your
strain of the family.”

Morgaine ran her fingertip across the page
as though she would change what the script said. When she looked up
at Alasdair, her expression heavy with sympathy, he had a sudden
sense that he did not want to know the truth.

“
He died,” she said softly,
and Alasdair prayed his son had lived long. The sorrow in
Morgaine’s eyes made him fear otherwise. “In 1315.”

Alasdair blinked, but Morgaine’s expression
did not change. Angus had died, at seven years of age?
Impossible!

But Morgaine’s eyes did not lie.

Nor did the book she held.

A hot tide rushed through Alasdair. His son
had not even grown to manhood! He shoved one hand through his hair,
hating that such a fate should have befallen his only child.

Aye, he had failed the boy sorely.

“
Well, then, that must be
the wrong family line,” Frances interjected crisply, turning back
to the books. “Why, you can’t be descended from people who didn’t
have family, now, could you? Let’s look a little
further…”

Angus had died too young.

The fault for it lay squarely in Alasdair’s
own camp for he had abandoned the boy. Somehow, in some way, he had
to make it right. He did not know where he was going or what he was
going to do when he got there, but he was seized by the imperative
to move.

To
do
something immediately. His gut
churned with the knowing. ’twas his responsibility to make all come
right for his child, and ’twas a duty Alasdair had left undone too
long.

And clearly, whatever needed doing could not
be accomplished in Frances Fergusson’s cluttered abode. Alasdair
could not bear to remain in its cozy comfort while wrestling with
the stark reality of his failure.

He had to fix the oversight now.

Alasdair put down the plate of biscuits with
less than his usual grace. The women looked up, and he tried to
excuse himself in a civilized manner. When the words would not
come, he simply bolted out of Frances’s home, his pulse thundering
in his ears.