Then his head cracked on the cold stone floor and Alasdair knew no more.
*
“Hoy!”
“Stop, lad!”
“Hold up!”
A dozen besotted men stumbled down the stairs in pursuit of their fallen companion. They rounded the last corner and burst as one into the hall below, half afraid to see the bloodied sight each and every one anticipated.
Naught greeted their bewildered eyes but the dancing shadows cast by their blazing torch.
Alasdair was nowhere to be seen.
That was enough to sober the most drunken of them all.
“But where…?” Iain whispered as the others carefully checked the corridor.
After a flustered search, the men faced each other once more, their eyes dark with suspicion.
“Perhaps he but plays a prank upon us,” muttered Iain skeptically. “Alasdair is not above a trick.” The others turned on him, unanimous in their conclusion that this was no jest.
“Then where has he gone?”
“There is no sign of the lad!”
“And where is the old crow?”
It was the first that they noticed she was no longer among them.
One of the younger men ran to the parapet again, his footsteps slower as he descended to the expectant group. His eyes were wide when he came into sight. “Gone as if she had never been!” he whispered.
A chill fell over then, and they glanced at each other in trepidation. There was no other escape from the parapet – unless she had taken flight.
“They will think us mad.”
“Or that we played foul with Alasdair.”
“Robert the Bruce will be ill pleased. He favors the lad, ’tis well known.”
That thought was not received well, and more than one frown darkened a brow in that huddled group.
“He was a good man.”
“A fine soldier.”
“A man of determination and honor.”
“And a man with nary a whisper of his past,” Iain concluded. The men exchanged worried glances. “What did we know of Alasdair MacAulay, in truth?”
“All the more reason to hold our tongues,” advised an older man.
The men nodded slowly, then their glanced lifted to the heavy stone walls around them. Suddenly the castle they had considered no more than a strategic site seemed alive. Danger lurked in every shadow, and the men instinctively drew closer to each other.
For if the doughty Alasdair could be taken so readily, what caprice of Fate left them untouched?
A woman’s laughter echoed suddenly, carrying from everywhere and nowhere at all.
“Morgaine le Fee!” Iain muttered.
“She comes for us!”
It took no more than that to set the entire group running for the gates.
*
Some time later, they halted, panting, in the same camp where they had lain the night before. The spot seemed haunted by Alasdair’s measured tones, and more than one could fair see him crouched in the midst of them as he described his plan of attack.
“Look!” Iain whispered and pointed to the high mount of Edinburgh’s keep.
Every heart sank like a stone as a line of ascending torchlights pronounced the English reclamation of Edinburgh’s prize.
They had failed.
And the English would not succumb to the same deception again.
What would this turn in the tide mean for the course of Robert the Bruce? For the freedom of all Scotland? Could the witch have stolen more than Alasdair this night?
*
Chapter One
Edinburgh, September, 1998
By their sixth day in Scotland, Morgan was beginning to suspect that this trip had not been one of her better ideas.
It had sounded so good - using a plump advance to research her book on site in Scotland. But far from the relaxing meander Morgan had envisioned, the trip had become a nightmare in military precision. Vacation with Blake and Justine was proving to have a more demanding schedule than Morgan’s working life.
Which just didn’t fit any of Morgan’s plans.
As they trudged through Edinburgh Castle in the wake of a kilted guide, Morgan thought their relative positions said it all.
Her brother-in-law Blake was right behind the tour guide, his pencil and notebook at the ready, interpretative guidebook - heavily marked with florescent yellow Highlighter - tucked in his windbreaker, Day-Timer and map stashed in the opposite pocket. He pushed his wire-frame glasses up his nose and obediently looked as bidden, his profile reminding Morgan of a hawk on the hunt.
Six-foot-two and so lean that his Adam’s apple looked like a golf ball lodged in his throat, dark-haired Blake was a font of information on bonnie Scotland, as he was on everything else.
Blake was certainly not Morgan’s idea of a knight in shining armor, though she had learned the hard way that her romantic ideals were unrealistic at best. Her brother-in-law was good-hearted, if overly driven, but she supposed a successful corporate player had little choice. And organization had proven to be an addictive habit for Blake.
Justine, poised, elegant and groomed with a precision Morgan had long ago given up trying to emulate, strolled beside her spouse. Justine exuded tranquility in the most harried circumstance, a trait that balanced surprisingly well with Blake’s intense drive. Her Mona Lisa smile and easy assurance had been known to calm the most stressed mother of the bride and had given her catering business a definite edge in the wedding market.
Justine carried the camera, changing lenses before her husband even asked, and she had the enviable ability of finding their location the minute Blake cast the map over his shoulder in disgust.
But then, Justine had always been the Problem Solver.
In contrast to her composed sister, Morgan could get lost in an elevator. Her hair was unruly, her makeup and finesse nonexistent, her culinary skills meager and her inability to be punctual an old joke.
Morgan had the same coloring as her older sister and the same fine-boned build, but while Justine was tall and slender, Morgan was petite. Morgan’s hair, instead of being straight and thick, was a disorderly tangle of curls that fell to her waist. Like Justine, she had green eyes, though hers tipped up at the outer corners.
Justine often said that her sister looked like one of the little fairies from Morgan’s own detailed illustrations come to life. Certainly Morgan would rather have lived in one of the delicate paintings she created for children’s books than the modern world that she often found so challenging.
Morgan was the Artist. It was a role that fit her fairly easily, at least when she wasn’t feeling inadequate in comparison to her sister.
And Morgan finally had a chance to build a fire under her artistic career. This book was a turning point for her - if it was on time and brilliant, she could be looking at years of good work. Morgan had bet the farm to gather the folk stories she needed right here in Scotland, in order to give this book her best shot.
But that hadn’t quite made it on to Blake’s agenda. Not out of malice or bad intentions - Blake just didn’t understand anything that didn’t come with a decimal place. It wasn’t in his nature to sit still and listen to the voices in the wind.
Morgan’s other objective - and her ulterior motive for inviting Justine and Blake along - had suffered pretty much the same fate. Morgan was running zero for two and wasn’t happy about that.
Having a child was the one goal that so far had eluded Blake and Justine, and that was the one thing they both wanted most of all. Morgan was convinced their hectic lifestyle lay at the root of their fertility troubles. And she hoped that a niece or nephew would fill a little hole in the void that love had left in her life.
Now, it seemed almost a joke to remember her conviction that a leisurely vacation would solve everything. She had talked Blake and Justine into taking a vacation they would never get around to booking themselves, but victory had ended early.
Morgan looked longingly
towards the city below, wishing she could escape the Scottish Invasion, as she had come to call it, and wander through Edinburgh on her own.
As though he had heard her thoughts, Blake Macdonald wound his way back to her, Justine trailing behind. He leaned toward the sisters and spoke in a low voice, tapping his perfectly sharp pencil on his Day-Timer as he checked his watch.
“It’s eleven-oh-nine. This tour should be finished by half past the hour. We’ll have an early lunch here in the castle so we don’t have to pay admission again to hear the one o’clock gun.”
Justine walked her fingertips up her husband’s arm. “Then, we could go back to the bed-and-breakfast for a couple of hours to relax before dinner,” she suggested with a provocative smile.
Finally! At least something was going to plan! And Morgan could have some time to herself. Three was definitely a crowd when conception was on the agenda.
“Great idea,” Morgan concurred. The tour guide cleared his throat and eyed them sternly.
Blake frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous, Justine. There’s not enough daylight in this country to risk wasting any of it. Besides” - he consulted his notes while the women exchanged a glance of exasperation – “we can zip down High Street and make the last tour of Holyrood House before teatime.”
“Then, we’ll go back to the room and put our feet up?” Justine suggested more gently.
Blake shook his head. “We have to have high tea at this hotel on Princes Street, Justine. All the books say so. Then, we’ll wander down to the Grassmarket…”
Trust an accountant to make every moment count, Morgan thought mutinously. She had an idea that Blake’s understanding of “wandering through the Grassmarket” would differ enormously from her own.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, take a look down the rock wall of Edinburgh Castle,” their kilted guide instructed in his brisk brogue. The band of tourists looked as bidden and Blake craned his neck to see.
Morgan, though, tipped her head back and watched the Scottish flag - the white cross of St. Andrew on a pale blue field - flutter overhead against the azure sky.
She closed her eyes, dismissed the real world, and thought of medieval pennants and banners flying above fairy tale turrets. In her mind’s eye, Morgan saw knights in shining armor, riding proud-stepping horses with ribbons braided in their manes.
“It was here in March of 1314 that a small band scaled the rock, then entered a hidden passageway,” the guide declared. “That night, they easily routed the English and reclaimed the keep in the name of Robert the Bruce.”
The guide rolled the “r” of the Scottish hero’s name with gusto. “Not four months later, the English were soundly defeated at the Battle of Bannockburn. If you visit Stirling Castle, the battlefield and site of the reclamation of Scottish independence is not to be missed.”
The guide cleared his throat. “As many of you may have heard, there was a referendum this month in Scotland. The Scottish people voted overwhelmingly in favor of re-establishing a Scottish National Assembly. This will effectively make Scotland an independent nation by the turn of the millennium, bringing the legacy of Robert the Bruce full circle yet again.”
Morgan did not have to look to know that Blake was scribbling a notation in his Day-Timer. No doubt, they would soon be bundled into their teeny rental car and headed for Stirling.
Blake flipped to a map of Scotland, frowned, then whispered confidently to Justine. “Up at six, out by seven, we could be in Stirling and tour the castle before lunch tomorrow. We have to go to Bannockburn!”
He tapped his pencil decisively. “We’ll do Bannockburn in the afternoon - it probably has an interpretative center - hmmm…we could still make Perth for dinner.”
“Blake!” Justine murmured through her teeth with a pointed glance to her sister. She dropped her voice, but Morgan still heard her words. “How will Morgan meet anyone if you keep rushing us on?”
Blake blinked owlishly at Morgan, clearly not having considered this side of things. Morgan shrugged, assuming her sister was talking about the research for her book.
It was to be a children’s volume of Scottish fairy tales, one that Morgan would both compile and illustrate. The book was destined to be part of a new hardback series and, with luck, she could be entrusted with further volumes.
Morgan hoped to collect some unusual stories on site, but she didn’t think Edinburgh was the place to do that. “I don’t need to meet anyone here,” she said. “In fact, the smaller towns will be better for finding folktales.”
Blake grinned once more. “See? No problem. Stirling in the morning, then.” He snapped his notebook closed and nodded with the conviction of a man who has just successfully settled a dispute.
Justine exhaled in a way that told Morgan there was a problem and that Blake’s thinking on the issue would shortly be straightened out.
The guide cleared his throat portentously. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we shall return to the keep proper and descend into the vaults.” The older man, in full dress of the Sutherland Highlanders, turned a corner smartly and summoned his brood of sightseers with a flick of his wrist.
“These vaults date from the sixteen century and are best remembered for their use as prisons for foreign prisoners of war in the late seventeen century. If you look carefully, you will see initials carved by the prisoners, mostly Frenchmen, in the very walls during their incarceration…”
Blake clicked his teeth. “Nothing like a little gory detail,” he whispered in his terrible imitation of a Scottish accent. He winked and trotted behind the group, alert and attentive. Justine raised a slender eyebrow and singled out a man from the group with a glance.
“He keeps looking at you,” she whispered. “He’s alone and he’s cute. Why don’t you hang behind and see what happens?” Justine winked conspiratorially and sailed after Blake.
Morgan didn’t even look at the man in question.
Nor did she follow the tour.
Now she understood who Justine expected her to meet! But Justine knew! Morgan fumed silently, then pivoted and stalked to the outer wall of the keep. She wanted no part of anyone’s matchmaking schemes and Justine, of all people, should know why!
Oh, now Morgan saw the signs she had ignored. How often had Justine “accidentally” invited one of Blake’s coworkers - always a male coworker - over while Morgan was there? How often had the sisters “bumped into” an old friend who just happened to be a single man while they shopped together? An old friend who just happened to be a single man.
Morgan gritted her teeth. Trust Justine to have a scheme of her own! Trust Justine to think she knew best!
There were moments when being the younger sister was a distinct disadvantage. Morgan glared out over the city, certain she could happily live out her life without having her older sister - or that woman’s husband - try to improve it.
Morgan was never going to be dumb enough to get involved with a man again and that was that.
A crisp wind made her jacket snap and tousled her hair, as she looked down on the city of Edinburgh arrayed in the dappled sunlight. The sounds of the city that rose to her ears were so muted that they might have been passing through a layer of cotton batting.
She was alone, as she hadn’t been since coming to Scotland, and slowly her usual even temper returned. It was easy to forget Justine’s meddling and Blake’s organizing with a view like this. Morgan took a deep breath and studied the maze of streets below as the tension eased from her shoulders.
This was the Scotland she had come to see.
Edinburgh was unspeakably old and deliciously romantic. Mist still clung to the distant valleys, which Morgan could see but not name. Down below was a labyrinth of countless nooks and alleys, little passageways that led to secret courtyards and hidden doorways. Wrought-iron signs creaked in the wind and lace curtains fluttered from opened casement windows. Morgan eyed the way the fortress walls rose steeply from the rock face and deliberately let her imagination take flight
.
What secrets did these heavy old stone walls keep locked within themselves? What great plays of power had they witnessed? Had lovers once trysted in that alley below? There must be a dozen ghosts rattling through these old stone corridors.
She stared down the rocky outcropping and remembered the guide’s words. What kind of men had scaled this rock face? The artist within Morgan painted a starry night in her mind’s eye and a luminous moon riding high above the determined silhouettes of the climbing men.
Rough men, and strong, in kilts that showed their legs to advantage. Their faces would be somber with determination. Maybe one would carry the blue-and-white flag they intended to plant atop the high tower, another would glance down in apprehension. Dangerously gleaming dirks would be clenched in their teeth for the battle that awaited them at the summit.
Morgan shivered with delight. The past was always more romantic than the present. She tried to put her brother-in-law in the ranks of the rebels and laughed aloud. They might have had accountants in the fourteenth century, but Blake would have been lost without his Day-Timer.
Morgan strolled toward a small tower, letting her fingers skip across the old gray stone. A sunbeam danced amid the shadows inside the tower room, the narrow band of light creeping through an arrow slit.
The narrow vertical opening would frame a perfect picture of the city. Far, far below, thousands of daffodils were blooming in the park alongside Princes Street, the memorial to Sir Walter Scott rising in dark Gothic splendor from the midst of the flowers. On the other side of the street, the bright awnings above the shop windows fluttered in the morning breeze.
Perfect. There were even red double-decker buses cruising along the street at intervals. If she timed it just right…
Morgan studied the Polaroid camera that Blake had declared “idiot-proof - a label Morgan had already challenged twice - making sure she wasn’t going to waste another shot.
Time Travel Romances Boxed Set Page 36