Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (88 page)

He was on his feet to go awaken Morgan
before he realized the Micra was gone.

Had she left him?

Alasdair spun, seeking some sign of the blue
chariot, only to realize that no black ribbon of road wound its way
across the countryside. There was no pool of black beside the
standing stones, no houses, no wires strung along the roadway.

And there was a crusting of frost yet
lingering in the shadows. The growth was deadened, compared to
where he had been, and Alasdair smelled the snap of winter in the
air.

But Callanish was exactly as Alasdair knew
it to be.

Even if his memory was not. Only now he
became aware of the passage of time, of the fact that he had long
been without Morgan. Unfamiliar memories flooded his mind, of the
barest moment lost in the keep of Edinburgh, of a string of
victories beside Robert the Bruce, of an ache of loss burdening his
heart. They were hollow recollections, as though they had been
lived by another.

He had endured a spring and summer of
knowing his lady was lost to him for all time. Alasdair’s mouth
went dry.

Nay! It could not be! They had just been
together, Morgan had only just lain in his arms.

A primitive panic swept through him and
Alasdair’s heart turned cold. A part of him knew he deceived
himself, a part of him recalled the long walk home. A part of
Alasdair knew that he had slept here, beneath the stars,
deliberately evoking the memory of his magical night with
Morgan.

But Alasdair did not want to believe it. His
days with Morgan were more real than anything else he had ever
known.

And he was not prepared to let her go, much
less to live his life without her smile. Alasdair ran wildly toward
the stones, shouting Morgan’s name.

But to no avail.

He was alone, as that part of his heart had
long known.

“
Morgan!” Alasdair bellowed
again in frustration and a pair of tow-headed boys peeked out from
around the stones.

“
Morgan?” the fair-haired
one echoed.

“
He summons Morgaine le
Fee!” the other one declared, his eyes round with alarm.

“
I call a woman, name of
Morgan,” Alasdair corrected gently. The blonder boy took a step
back, just as Alasdair recognized something in those young
eyes.

They were of an unusual shade of dark grey,
the same as Fenella’s had been. A lump rose in Alasdair’s throat
and he recalled his last wish.

Some witchery had sent him home.

“
Ha! A witchy woman
indeed,” the dark haired boy taunted. “Angus knows all about
Morgaine le Fee - his da was stolen away by her!” And he lunged at
the fair boy in mock attack.

Alasdair liked well how quickly Angus
defended himself. “My da is a hero, no less than that,” he retorted
proudly. “My da helped Robert the Bruce, King of All Scots, and
does not sit around with his nose in his ale all the day long.”

The other boy’s features contorted with rage
and the mock fight turned quickly into a real one. Alasdair waded
into the midst and hauled the boys apart, gripping one in each hand
by the neck of the shirt.

“
I will not be watching
such fighting,” he declared solemnly. “’Tis not fitting of good men
to beat each other senseless over naught.”

“
He mocked my father!” the
dark-haired boy claimed hotly.

“
Not before you mocked
mine!” Angus retorted. The two would have gone at it again, but
Alasdair gave them a shake and held them an arm’s length
apart.

“
And who might your father
be?” he asked the dark-haired lad.

“
Duncan MacIver.” The boy’s
expression was sullen, the distinctive turn of his lips clearly the
mark of his sire, now that Alasdair knew to look.

Alasdair smiled wryly. “Aye, I know Duncan
well enough. A good-hearted man he is and a strong warrior, though,
indeed, he has a fondness for his ale.” He squeezed his son’s
shoulders. “’Tis not the mark of a man to note another man’s
weakness instead of his strength,” he said gently.

Angus hung his head. “I am sorry.”

MacIver’s son shook off Alasdair’s grip and
darted away. “But your da was still snatched by the Faerie Queen!”
he cried and scrambled over the rocks. “And he is
never
coming home to you!”

Alasdair looked to his son, not surprised to
find the boy dejected. This was what he had wrought by needing to
see his name clear of taint.

Alasdair squatted down beside the boy and
Angus flicked a glance his way. ’Twas devoid of the dark lights
that had haunted his mother’s gray eyes and Alasdair ached that
such a taunt should hurt his son.

“
So, Robert the Bruce is a
hero and King of All Scots?” he asked.

The boy flicked an incredulous glance
Alasdair’s way. “All know it to be true,” he said without the other
boy’s scorn. “He defeated the British soundly at Bannockburn and my
own da helped him win the day. ’Tis the only reason he went
away.”

Angus’s defiance melted Alasdair’s heart.
“Aye? And who might your da be?” he asked, needing to hear the
words.

“
Alasdair
MacAulay.”

Alasdair cocked his head towards the fleeing
MacIver. “Is it true what he says, then?”

“
My da is a hero,” Angus
insisted stubbornly. “My da helped Robert the Bruce take Edinburgh
keep, my gran says ’tis so.” He took a deep breath. “My gran says
not to listen to the tales of his being in league with Morgaine le
Fee and using her dark arts to win the keep. Lies, they are,
jealous lies!”

“
Dark arts?” Alasdair asked
mildly.

“
Aye, a tale there is that
my da shimmered so bright that the others could not look upon him,
and that afterward he differed from afore.”

Alasdair frowned, seeing the seed of truth
in both the tale and his own memory.

But Angus continued heatedly. “My gran says
there was never a man on this isle the like of my da and I should
be proud to have him as my father.” His lips tightened and he
glared at Alasdair. “And I am.”

“
Good for you. A man should
be proud of the blood he carries in his own veins.” Alasdair
ruffled the boy’s hair and Angus looked up in surprise. “But
’twould be easier to be proud if the man were here, mmm?” Alasdair
murmured.

Angus looked away. “He will come home,” he
insisted, but there was little conviction in his words.

Alasdair frowned down at the ground. He knew
full well that if he confessed his identity now, Angus would not
believe him. What proof had he for the boy, after all, beyond his
own word?

But there was one who knew the truth.

“
I would like to meet this
gran of yours,” Alasdair suggested. “Do you think I
might?”

Angus eyed the newcomer warily. “She talks
only to strangers who bring news from the mainland.”

“
Does she now? Well,
perhaps I have some news for her.”

A spark of curiosity lit Angus’s eye and his
excitement was evident in his voice. “Do you know something of my
da?”

“
Aye,” Alasdair admitted
softly. “Aye, that I do.” When Angus might have asked, he shook a
finger. “But ’tis for your gran’s ears.”

And to Alasdair’s surprise, Angus seized his
hand and ran towards the path Alasdair knew so very well, as though
he would rush the journey that he might know sooner. To Alasdair’s
amazement, the pathway was exactly as it had been on the day he had
returned here with Morgan, and Alasdair braced himself for
disappointment.

But when the pair rounded the last corner of
the road, the valley ahead contained precisely the three cottages
that Alasdair recalled. A lean, silver-haired woman worked the
earth surrounding the uppermost one and now ’twas Alasdair who
encouraged his companion to run.

They raced up the valley as if they were
both young boys, Angus laughing at Alasdair’s enthusiasm.
Alasdair’s gran glanced up at the sound of their footsteps and for
once, that woman had naught to say. Her mouth fell open, the color
drained from her face and her piercing gaze faltered. Then she
flushed crimson and her eyes flashed with characteristic vigor.

“
Alasdair MacAulay!” she
shouted, her voice echoing down the valley as she braced her hands
on her hips. “Where in the devil’s name have you been?”

Angus gasped, and Alasdair could not help
but laugh at his gran’s response. “Aye, you have missed me, to be
sure.” His gran snorted disdain even as he scooped her up and gave
her a fierce hug.

She clutched him tight, whispered his name
as though she could not believe he had come home, then insisted on
being put back on her feet.

Gran poked Alasdair in the shoulder, her
gaze assessing. “We heard tell you were snatched away by no less
than Morgaine le Fee at Edinburgh Castle.”

Alasdair sobered. “Aye. ’Tis true
enough.”

His gran’s eyes narrowed, but Angus was
tugging at Alasdair’s hand. “You are my da?” he demanded excitedly.
“Truly?”

Alasdair hunkered down beside the boy and
grinned. “Aye, that I am, lad, and I have missed you sorely all
these years. You’ve grown to be quite a man while I was gone.”

Angus’s eyes glowed. “And you truly were
captured by Morgaine le Fee?”

“
Aye, for a deadly
moment.”

For indeed, all those days and nights with
Morgan seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye.

“
Wait until Malcolm MacIver
hears tell of this!” Angus was clearly as delighted with this
wondrous tale as with his father’s return. Alasdair vowed silently
that he would change that, for truly, the boy knew naught of having
a sire.

“
But da,” Angus asked with
no less enthusiasm. “However did you win your freedom? What price
did the enchantress charge to send you back?”

Alasdair laced his fingers together and
stared at the ground, the fullness of his loss sweeping over him
like a great wave. To the boy, ’Twas no more than a game Alasdair
had played with the Faerie folk and one that Alasdair had won.

’
Twas no more than another
fanciful tale.

But Alasdair ached with the knowledge that
his lady love was separated from him by a rift of centuries, a
chasm far greater than any veil betwixt this world and the
next.

He knew that he would miss her solely for
all his days.

He was home, but alone as he had never been
with Morgan by his side. ’Twas a dreadful price to pay, even to see
his own son again. There was an ache within him that Alasdair knew
would never heal.

Too late, he wished he had told his Faerie
Queen of his love. Now Morgan would never know the truth of it, and
that wounded Alasdair as much as the loss of her.

“’
Twas a tall price I
paid,” Alasdair finally managed to say hoarsely. “For the lady has
kept my very heart for her own.”

“
Cor!” Angus’s eyes went
big and round. He grinned, then ran off, all legs and boundless
enthusiasm, as his sire watched, no doubt to tell his friends of
Alasdair’s return.

When Alasdair straightened, he met his
gran’s bright, steady gaze. She studied him for a long moment, then
turned away with some excuse of fetching him a meal, the light in
her eyes leaving Alasdair to wonder how much she had guessed of the
truth.

He stood alone and surveyed the valley he
had long called his home, a view so nearly the same as the one he
had shared with Morgan. And Alasdair wondered if he would ever look
at the world without being reminded of her.

*

Morgan stood on the porch of the Rose
Cottage Bed-and-Breakfast and waved at the retreating Nissan Micra.
She caught a last glimpse of Justine’s hand waving madly and bit
her lip as the little car disappeared over the crest of the
hill.

It felt as though a part of her had slipped
away. It was a much smaller part than the big chunk of her heart
that had disappeared with Alasdair, but still Morgan suddenly felt
very alone.

She and Justine had talked all through the
night, and Justine’s insistence that Alasdair loved Morgan still
rang in the younger sister’s ears. Trust Justine to take in stride
the fact that Alasdair had traveled across seven centuries. Nothing
could ruffle her sister, Morgan knew it.

Just the thought made her smile a little
bit.

Justine was certain – as Justine was always
certain – that Morgan should do whatever she had to do to be with
Alasdair. But Morgan wasn’t so sure.

What if Justine was wrong?

Because the simple fact was that although
Alasdair had said a lot of wonderful things, he had never said that
he loved Morgan.

Plus she knew he loved Fenella.

To Morgan’s immense relief, even Blake had
remembered Alasdair after they had checked the fate of the regalia
in everyone’s tour books. But it had been a struggle for Justine
and Blake to recall him, and Morgan ached to see Alasdair so easily
forgotten.

In fact, no one else at the
bed-and-breakfast had any memory at all of his presence. Robert the
Bruce was a hero again, Bannockburn had been the site of a winning
Scottish independence, there had been a recent referendum over
establishing a Scottish National Assembly, and Sir Walter Scott was
back in the books where he belonged. There was even a picture of
the regalia in Morgan’s guidebook, complete with a quartz crystal
mounted between the gold porpoises.

It was as though Alasdair had never appeared
in their time. But Morgan’s aching heart knew the truth, and she
hoped that Alasdair’s return had made a similar difference in the
fate of his son.

There had be something good about losing
him.