These must be Morgaine’s advisors. All leaders gathered a cadre of like-minded men about them, in Alasdair’s experience. Perhaps including the woman, whose function Alasdair could not discern, was a concession to Morgaine’s own gender.
It seemed his eye was already bewitched by her, for his gaze kept dancing back to linger on those boldly displayed legs. Alasdair could not seem to stop it. She had fine legs, that was true enough, but still his attraction for her was unsettling.
Could Morgaine have already cast a spell over him?
“But I thought we were going to Stirling tomorrow,” Morgaine was saying as Alasdair drew near. She looked confused and he paused to eavesdrop on this unexpected development.
“Stirling?” The man frowned and shook his head with disdain. “There’s no reason to go there, nothing to see at all.”
That was true enough to Alasdair’s thinking - Stirling was the last of the royal burghs still held by the English, after all. Why would a right-thinking man want to go there, unless it was to attack? Alasdair warmed to the lanky man, despite the unnatural contraption fixed over his eyes.
The device was wrought of two wire circles, hooked securely to the man’s ears and linked over his nose. Some torture tool of Morgaine’s devising, Alasdair concluded, feeling sympathy for the man when he pushed it further up his nose.
It must be fiercely uncomfortable.
“Nothing to see?” Morgaine echoed. “But you just said you wanted to visit Bannockburn!”
“Visit the site where Scottish independence was lost forever?” The man rolled his eyes. “Morgan, there’s no way I would go there!”
Now, there was the sound thinking of a Scotsman! Alasdair himself could not have been convinced to visit such a place, wherever it might be.
But Scottish independence was hardly lost forever. Alasdair conceded that ’twas not unreasonable for an advisor of Morgaine - who clearly supported the English - should appear pessimistic about Scotland’s success in the current bloody fight.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Morgaine argued. “Bannockburn was the site of a Scottish victory! The guide was just telling us so.”
“Morgan!” The man looked down his nose at the enchantress. “What are you thinking? The guide just told us that the Scottish were soundly defeated at Bannockburn.”
The advisor’s manner was quite bold, to Alasdair’s thinking.
The other woman shook her head. “Honestly, Morgan. Didn’t you pay any attention?” she chided. “Remember - we’re going to the Palace of Scone tomorrow.”
“Where the Kings of Scotland were once crowned,” the male advisor added with gusto.
Aye, that was true enough. Robert the Bruce himself had been crowned there but a few years past.
Still, the manner of these advisors was still inexplicably forthright. Alasdair could only conclude that this pair must be close to the enchantress to challenge her so openly, especially when she looked distressed. Were they not terrified of her reprisal?
“You’ve got this backwards, Blake,” Morgaine insisted. She fanned through a book with an ease that belied the volume’s obvious value, then began to read aloud.
“After the effort to reclaim Edinburgh Castle from the English in 1314 failed…”
Morgaine’s voice faded and her dark brows pulled together in consternation. “But that’s not what he just told us!” She looked to her companions. “And it’s not what I read in this same book this morning!”
The woman rolled her eyes. “For the last time, Morgan, you’ve got to keep real life separate from your imagination.”
“But it said…”
“Morgan, you have to pay attention,” the woman interrupted crisply.
Morgaine closed her mouth firmly, but Alasdair knew she was not pleased.
The man pushed the device up his nose and glanced around himself, his face lighting up when he spotted Alasdair. “Ha! We’ll ask a real Scotsman for Scottish history,” he declared and beckoned to Alasdair. “Excuse me, sir, could you answer a question about your homeland for us?”
A real Scotsman. That was Alasdair. Alasdair stepped forward with pride at the advisor’s astute appraisal.
Morgaine turned slightly, her vivid emerald gaze lighting on Alasdair. Her eyes widened slightly, as though she were alarmed to find him so close at hand, and Alasdair’s gut clenched.
The force of his attraction to her was no less the second time - it could only be magically invoked. Alasdair was suddenly achingly aware of how delicately wrought the sorceress was.
Had she guessed his weakness for petite women and somehow taken this form to deliberately tempt him? Oh, he could toss her over his shoulder and find a quiet corner to show her a thing or two, that much Alasdair knew!
But Alasdair needed to court Morgaine’s favor if he meant to escape her kingdom and ’twas clear that a liaison was not to way to do so.
Alasdair summoned his best memory of fine manners and bowed slightly to her. “My lady Morgaine,” he murmured.
“Morgan!” the other woman whispered with undisguised delight. “Who is this?” She gave Alasdair a perusal that was openly assessing, and he felt awkward at the obviousness of her approval.
Then she looked to Morgaine and arched a questioning dark brow. To Alasdair’s amazement, the sorceress blushed like a young girl and that heat returned to his loins right on cue.
There was nothing softer or sweeter, to Alasdair’s mind, than a woman’s unwitting blush. Had she guessed his vulnerabilities so completely as that?
“We, um, we just met, in the tower there,” Morgaine said, with markedly less than her earlier assurance. Her cheeks turned steadily more crimson when she dropped her book, though the woman advisor seemed quite pleased by this news.
“Aye, that we did,” Alasdair contributed, certain his urge to help the faltering Morgaine was purely due to his need to earn her good will. He stooped and scooped up the volume, presenting it to her with a slight bow.
Their fingertips brushed in the transaction and an unholy tingle danced along Alasdair’s flesh. He made the mistake of glancing into those beguiling green eyes and found himself marveling at the thickness of her dark lashes.
But wait! Alasdair could not be feeling gallant toward an enchantress who held his fate within her cruel grasp. He forced himself to tear his gaze away, though the deed was more difficult than expected.
Morgaine fumbled with her book and Alasdair knew her discomfiture was due to the failure of her attempt to charm him. Faith, but she had a rare power! He would have to doubly brace himself against her allure.
“You’re a real Scotsman,” the man commented.
“Aye and proudly so,” Alasdair confirmed and squared his shoulders with pride. It was a relief to turn his attention on the advisor, though the weight of Morgaine’s gaze was heavy upon him. “I am Alasdair MacAulay, pledged to the chief of Siol Tormod, and sworn to the hand of Robert the Bruce, King of Scots.”
To his amazement, the advisors stared at him for an instant, then laughed aloud. Alasdair glanced to the sorceress to find even her lips twitching.
There was naught amusing about his name!
“Bravo!” The man clapped his hands. “I didn’t know they hired actors to bring history alive here. What a wonderful idea!” He turned to the female advisor, who nodded agreement.
“Very convincing,” she added with a gracious smile. “And your costume is so authentic!”
Alasdair frowned Morgaine, uncertain what to make of this. The smile she was fighting to hide won the battle and curved her lips as she met his eyes. She touched the man on the sleeve, her gaze unwavering from Alasdair.
“Go easy on him,” Morgaine said quietly. “He fell down the stairs and hit his head.”
Her soft tone undermined Alasdair’s resistance to her charms. He forced himself to watch the advisors. What the enchantress said was true enough, but the pair made more of this revelation than Alasdair expected. They nudged each other knowingly, exchanged
a wink, then offered him bright smiles.
The man pushed the torture device up his nose once more. “But all the same, you must know your Scottish history. Can you settle this dispute for us, for once and for all? What happened at Bannockburn?”
“Bannockburn?” Alasdair racked his brain but could not remember anything of a place with such a name. It did not help his memory to have the enchantress’s emerald gaze locked upon him. With eerie certainty, Alasdair knew she watched him without even looking her way.
Yet, despite her obvious interest in his response, Alasdair could not lie. “I do not even know of such a place as Bannockburn,” he admitted.
“Aha! You see - they don’t even teach their children about such a humiliating loss!” the man crowed. He pulled a shiny and colorful volume from his pocket, then handled what must be a very precious manuscript with abandon. Fanning the pages, he bent the book open and tapped the vellum with a knowing fingertip.
“Says all about it, right there.”
Alasdair leaned forward, as he was evidently expected to do, but could make no sense of the myriad black lines.
He supposed this would not be an opportune moment to admit that he had never seen much point in learning to read. That was the business of monks and clerics, not men who had battles to fight and a living to wrest from hostile soil.
Or so he had long maintained.
’Twas Morgaine, to Alasdair’s astonishment, who seemed to guess the truth.
She sidled up beside him, some enticingly feminine scent rising from her skin to tease Alasdair’s nostrils. He thought immediately of a pallet piled high with coverlets and pulled close to a fire, the sorceress Morgaine securely in his lap.
Alasdair clenched his fists as a fantasy that could only be magically induced possessed his mind.
But he could not stop the image of himself peeling away those garments that revealed Morgaine’s form so temptingly, kissing those luscious lips all the while. He guessed that she would have skin as creamy as fresh milk, softer than soft and smooth from her head to her toe. He saw his hand sliding over the curve of her shoulder, slipping downward to cup her breast…
“After the failure to regain Edinburgh Castle,” she read crisply, her finger tracing the path of the script. “Robert the Bruce rapidly lost ground in his attempts to claim control of Scotland from the English. In the wake of his failures, Bruce died forgotten…”
The words slowly penetrated and Alasdair straightened with a snap. This fiendish creature had laid claim to his very mind!
“That is a lie!” Alasdair interrupted, outraged that even Morgaine would insist on such travesty. “That is a clarty lie! Robert the Bruce is a hero, yet full of vim and vigor! And Edinburgh Castle was taken from the English just this last night!”
The trio blinked, clearly unconvinced.
“Last night?” Morgaine breathed. She stood right beside him, her breast nearly touching his arm, but Alasdair steeled himself against her charms.
“Aye, last night it was,” he said firmly, his certainty in the timing faltering slightly before such skepticism. “Or perhaps the night before, I am not certain how long I slept.”
The three were still openly dubious.
“I led the attack myself!” Alasdair insisted. He turned to Morgaine, certain he could persuade her of the truth. “You have but to take me there! Take me to Edinburgh keep and I will show you the truth!”
Her eyes were filled with sympathy. “We are there,” she said quietly and offered him an apologetic smile.
Nay! It could not be true! Alasdair looked about himself with alarm. “This is not the keep of Edinburgh! It cannot be!”
It certainly was not the Edinburgh Alasdair had seen just the night before. The town spilled below the mount where the keep was built stretched in every direction, spreading from the foot of the mount and belching mire into the air. The keep itself was larger and more ornate, rife with towers and walls where none had been before.
This place was irreconcilable with Edinburgh!
But then Alasdair saw the similarities in the sweep of the land itself. The mound of Arthur’s Seat rose behind the tower of the fortress before him, the smooth water of the Firth of Forth sparkled in the distance. He examined the hills and could not deny the similarity with those he knew surrounded the city.
The hillock where they had camped still rose as a curve against the land, although now it was piled with buildings of some manner or another. Alasdair frowned. If he ignored the buildings, ’twas not that different from the land he had so recently looked upon.
This could truly be the site of Edinburgh, but with a dark and twisted town of Morgaine’s imagination imposed upon the land he recognized. Too late, Alasdair recalled that in his gran’s tales of the land of Faerie all was familiar but contorted from the world of mortals.
And that the worlds overlaid each other, intersecting only at certain points where portals were guarded vigilantly. He spun, seeking the tower he had climbed and could not distinguish it from its companions.
Evidently that portal had already been veiled.
Any lingering doubt Alasdair might have still had, any conviction that good sense could explain away all he had seen this day, died a quick death.
He was truly trapped in the domain of Morgaine le Fee.
And he did not know quite how to proceed.
The male advisor who Alasdair had already thought showed good sense, now exhibited a measure more. “You look like you could use a drink,” he suggested with a friendly smile. “How about joining us for lunch?”
Morgaine inhaled sharply, but Alasdair had to risk her annoyance for the moment.
After all, if a man did not deserve a healthy measure of whisky when he has been whisked unexpectedly to the land of Faerie, then when could events merit a drink?
“Aye, a wee dram would be welcome just now!” he agreed with enthusiasm.
“It was your whisky that landed you square in the trouble you’re in,” Morgaine said disapprovingly.
She was right, of course, for if Alasdair had not been celebrating the night before, he would never have taken the lads’ dare. All the same, he felt in need of something fortifying in this moment.
“Aye, that would be true enough, and I have the bump to show for it,” he conceded, giving her a sample of his most winning smile. It had earned the favor of a reluctant lass on more than one occasion, and Alasdair reasoned that it could not hurt to try his charm on the enchantress, too. “Just a wee sip to set matters straight, my lady Morgaine, then you can have your way with me.”
Her eyes flashed dangerously and Alasdair knew he had overstepped a mark. Before he could make matters right, she stepped away and tossed her hair like a flighty filly.
“Go on and have your whisky!” she snapped. “What does it matter to me if you waste your life?”
And with that, the sorceress turned and stalked away.
Alasdair started in pursuit, but the woman advisor laid a hand upon his arm. “It’s all right,” she purred with a reassuring smile. “Morgan is a bit sensitive about alcohol.”
The man appeared on Alasdair’s other side. “But that’s no reason not to have a ‘wee dram’ ourselves, is it?” He smiled cheerfully and Alasdair saw that he was being corralled by this pair. “Maybe a wee bit o’ haggis to keep it company?”
The familiar words echoed strangely in the man’s flat tones, as though they were not pronounced quite right. Alasdair had seen enough of battle to understand that these two were deliberately befriending him.
Though why he could not say.
“But you do not understand,” Alasdair protested, flicking a worried glance to the rapidly disappearing Morgaine. “I cannot let her out of my sight!”
The pair exchanged a quick glance that Alasdair did not miss. Indeed, if he had not been between them, he knew the woman would have given the man a nudge with her elbow. That intent glance - and the elbow nudge - was a signal he had endured many a time from Fenella.
“I’m Blake Macdonald,” the man said cheerfully. A Macdonald of which persuasion? The clan had cleaved into those who avidly followed the Bruce and those who just as avidly did not.
This Blake had not been upset at the mention of Alasdair’s name, so he must be with the Macdonalds who followed the Bruce. And ’twas clear this Blake did not realize what Alasdair had done to Fenella, a member however distant of his clan.
Alasdair shook Blake’s hand and had a good look into the man’s eyes. Reassured, he looked after Morgaine.
She had disappeared back through the doorway where they had met only moments past. Alasdair suddenly had a niggling feeling that there was something he should remember. His head throbbed vigorously at the effort and that whisky - not to mention a bite to eat - sounded even better.
Aye, he had been fou as a puggie the night before, that much was certain, and now he had the aching head to show for it.
“And this is my wife, Justine,” Blake continued. “We’re just here on vacation, from Chicago, you know, and we’d just love to buy you lunch. We were going to eat in the restaurant here - do you know whether it’s any good?”
Because they seemed to be waiting for an answer, Alasdair shook his head. Vacation? Chicago? Restaurant? How could he understand anything about their world when he had only just arrived?
“Well, we’ll try it anyway. You know, there’s nothing like hearing the perspective of someone right from a country…”
“But, Morgaine!” Alasdair protested as they turned in the opposite direction.
“Will join us later, I’m sure,” Justine interjected, then slid her hand into Alasdair’s elbow with a smooth grace.
She reminded him of Elizabeth de Burgh - Robert the Bruce’s wife - always the perfect hostess and never at a loss for the right thing to say. Alasdair found such women slightly dumbfounding. They were so different from his gran who was feisty and spoke plainly.
Time Travel Romances Boxed Set Page 38