Okay, first the con man scenario. For a smooth talker, Alasdair hadn’t seemed to be particularly goal-oriented or even very smooth. He had promised not to try and get the crystal from her, which was supposedly the only thing he wanted.
And he had saved her from those thugs.
And if Alasdair was after bigger spoils than the crown jewel of Scotland, well, wouldn’t he have at least asked what kind of asset base the three of them had?
Nope, the con man scenario had some definite weaknesses.
Blake pulled out onto the highway and silence descended in the car. The humming of the Micra was quite soothing, as were Justine’s murmured directions. Alasdair seemed to slowly relax beside Morgan and Morgan herself realized just how tired she really was.
Now, if Alasdair was an actor, she reasoned as that man stared out the window, he just could be really getting into playing his role. But the castle said they didn’t hire actors and he never missed a beat in not understanding modern stuff.
In fact, Alasdair seemed to find the contemporary world awfully confusing. She would expect a medieval guy to be just about as frustrated as Alasdair obviously was.
Morgan suddenly remembered how the highlander’s manner had changed in the tower when he heard her name. What had he called her?
Morgaine le Fee. And he still insisted on calling her Morgaine. Well, Morgan had read enough fairy tales to catch that reference.
Morgaine le Fee, the sister of King Arthur who went over to the Dark Side. Morgan chewed her lip. Was that who he thought she was? He did talk a lot about her kingdom and this foul world.
Did he think he was trapped in some domain of sorcery?
Morgan’s lips twitched unwillingly. She didn’t want to laugh at him but it was funny to think of herself as the powerful Evil Queen of all she surveyed.
“Luke,” a tiny voice in her mind breathed raspily, “Come over to the Dark Side.”
It would have been funnier if it didn’t make so much sense.
And it would make even more sense to a fourteenth-century man. How else could he explain the modern world? It was obviously a magical illusion that couldn’t be trusted.
The capricious realm of Faerie.
Morgan’s mind ran in circles, trying to find another explanation but without success. The only option that accommodated everything that had happened was that Alasdair really had come from the past.
After all, he thought Blake’s glasses were a torture device.
Morgan fidgeted but couldn’t get comfortable against the hard, vibrating wall of the car. She eyed Alasdair and noticed that his head had dipped forward.
Her heart contracted in sympathy. If she was right - and Morgan’s gut told her she was - he was probably one confused highlander. Alasdair probably hadn’t slept too well on that park bench either.
She couldn’t blame him for getting a bit testy about the whole thing. Of course, he didn’t think that was Scone - it would have changed an awful lot in almost seven hundred years. Why, Blake had said that the palace dated from the sixteenth century.
Morgan’s natural compassion came to the fore. Somehow she had to help Alasdair - the only question was how.
And that was a biggie. Morgan watched Alasdair doze and felt her own energy run low. All this thinking was making it easy to remember that she hadn’t slept much the night before either.
And Alasdair’s shoulder looked like a much better place to lean her head, especially since she now knew that he wasn’t some dastardly criminal.
His gran was right, she thought with a little smile, Alasdair was all bark and no bite. He made a lot of noise but right now looked as easy-going as a big warm pussycat. She couldn’t imagine a safer place to curl up and sleep than right beside him.
Of course, Alasdair might have other ideas.
Morgan straightened cautiously, but the highlander didn’t stir. She glanced forward, but Justine and Blake seemed oblivious to anything going on in the back seat.
Morgan sidled closer and leaned her arm tentatively against Alasdair’s muscled strength.
He didn’t even move.
In fact, he seemed to breathe more deeply.
Morgan took that as encouragement and carefully leaned her head against his shoulder. She closed her eyes, letting herself luxuriate in the masculine heat of his skin.
It had been so very long.
She stared at his hand through her lashes, liking how his strong fingers splayed across his knee. Morgan gave herself permission to imagine just a little bit.
What if she had been born in the fourteenth century? What if she had been, like Isobel of Buchan, a woman smitten with a brave and bold man? In her mind’s eye, the pennants snapped and the horses stomped around that heatherclad hill.
Fierce isosceles triangles bristled around the perimeter, threatening the idyllic setting with protractors and sharp compasses, each demanding that two of their angles be proven equal without delay. They came closer, their points menacing, and Morgan forgot everything she had ever pretended to know about mathematical proofs.
She was at their mercy!
A single lusty roar sent the triangles suddenly scattering to the four winds. Angels sang, Morgan heaved a sigh of relief, and the world was safe from geometry again.
The hero responsible, garbed in disreputable-looking plaid, stormed through the proud steeds. He dispatched a few errant slide rules with a sweep of his broadsword, then headed directly for Morgan with purpose in his step.
And when Morgan lifted the golden circlet of Scotland’s crown in her hands, it was Alasdair who dropped to one knee before her, flashing those magnificent legs as he did.
Then he tipped back his head and met Morgan’s gaze. She stared into the fathomless blue of his eyes and smiled ever so slowly.
And Alasdair smiled back, the twinkle in his eye sending a flush of anticipation dancing over her skin. Morgan felt herself bend toward him, cup his face in her hands, and lower her lips to his.
It was a good thing for Morgan’s resistance that she was too tired to tingle from head to toe. She managed to savor the dream moment for about that long, then her eyes drifted completely closed.
*
Alasdair was having a wonderful dream. ’Twas such a rare marvel that he had no desire to awaken.
Because indeed there could be naught finer than having a compliant Morgaine le Fee nestled in his arms.
His memory supplied the sweet rosy scent of her, his hands recalled the softness of her fair skin as well as if they yet held her close. Alasdair could even feel the tangle of her dark hair winding around his fingers.
And in his dream, her allure held no hidden serpent’s bite.
Through the filter of his lashes, Alasdair could see Morgaine laying within his embrace, her own eyes closed, her ebony lashes stark against her skin, her ruby lips parted in soft invitation. She was nearly in his lap, the sweet weight of her curves pressed so wondrously against him.
And Alasdair wanted her. The urge that had tormented him since first he spied the sorceress seemed to have trebled in his sleep. And here, he was safe to indulge his desire.
Unable to deny temptation, Alasdair leaned over the lady. She stirred and her witchy green eyes opened lazily.
The welcoming smile that curved her lips was lethal to any uncertainty lingering within Alasdair. Before he risked awakening, he bent and captured her lips with his.
And to his astonished delight, the sorceress rose to meet his embrace. Her hands slipped around his neck and she pulled him closer, as though she hungered for his touch as desperately as he desired hers.
Morgaine was sweeter than the first spring honey and made him more dizzy than the strongest mead. Alasdair gathered her close and slanted his lips possessively across hers, swallowing her low moan of delight. His hand slid over her delicacy and cupped her breast of its own accord.
When his thumb found her turgid nipple - a sure sign of her arousal - it near undid him. Alasdair caressed the taut bead, sliding
his fingers over her, rolling the nipple betwixt thumb and finger.
Morgaine gasped and arched against his hand, her tongue tangling provocatively with his own. Her kiss turned demanding, as though she would devour him whole, and Alasdair was more than willing to return her ardor.
He feasted upon her, sampling her sweetness deeply, enflamed by the way she clutched his hair in her tiny hands. He gathered her up and her breasts pressed against his chest, the tautness of her nipples making his heart thunder in his ears. His exploring fingers found the ripe curve of her buttocks just as she moaned and rolled her tongue within his ear. The heat raged over his flesh and Alasdair made to roll her beneath him.
Only to bump shoulder, knee and head against some confines that seemed vaguely familiar.
Alasdair’s eyes flew open and his heart sank when he found himself battling the enclosures of the blue Micra.
Blake and Justine were gone, the sides of the vehicle somehow open to the crisp bite of the wind. The chariot sat on a point of land, a mirror of shimmering water stretched before them.
Yet on the far shore stood a stone keep, its walls crumbling but obviously of Alasdair’s own world. He could smell the faint tinge of salt in the wind and knew the sea could not be far away.
He truly was home in the land of mortals!
But there was one particular immortal yet sprawled in his lap.
A hard lump rose in Alasdair’s throat as he realized he had indeed kissed the sorceress with rare abandon. His dream had held some vestige of reality, indeed, but the lady’s pleasure could not be the truth of it. Alasdair barely dared to look down and see Morgaine’s wrath.
But look he did. And the flushed Morgaine he found looking shyly up at him did not look wrathful at all.
In fact, the delicate blush gracing her cheeks and the mischievous glint in her eyes moved the hard lump somewhat lower than his throat.
“Wow,” she breathed, then smiled enchantingly. “What a way to wake up.”
And awakened Alasdair undoubtedly was. He was home! Or close enough that he could return to Lewis alone. These hills could be nowhere other than his own beloved Scotland and he knew he could find someone to direct him on his way.
He had returned from the land of Faerie.
And the Lady Morgaine had made it so.
Alasdair’s delight was such that he wanted to sing aloud, bellow some long and boisterous tune that would set every toe to tapping.
But then, he thought of a much better way to celebrate. Alasdair bent and kissed the sorceress again with the thoroughness the situation deserved.
*
Morgan was drowning in sensation.
And the last thing she wanted was to be saved. Alasdair’s kiss was the best thing she had tasted in a long, long time. The strength of his hands moved over her in an endless caress, the gentle sweep of his touch almost reverential.
Morgan had never felt so treasured. And yet, the heat of his erection pressed against her hip, the size of it leaving no doubt of his desire.
He wanted her. Morgan could barely wrap her mind around the incredible concept, but she didn’t care.
She just didn’t want this moment to end.
And she didn’t want Alasdair to change his mind. A decade of denied desire came to her rescue and Morgan kissed the highlander as though she would never have another chance to kiss a man again.
Because she might not.
The reassurance of her technique thrust against her hip. Alasdair groaned and gathered her closer and Morgan rubbed her breasts against the broad strength of his chest. One hand cupped her nape, his other hand slipped beneath her sweater.
Morgan caught her breath when his hand closed with gentle possessiveness over her breast. The heat of his palm was bare against her skin and Morgan praised the day she had abandoned brassieres. She opened her eyes and stared into the endless blue of Alasdair’s gaze, their noses almost touching.
He slid his hand across her tight nipple and Morgan moaned softly. It was more than a little reassuring to hear him catch his breath, as well.
“What would you have of me?” he whispered huskily and Morgan knew they both knew the answer to that.
Before she could question her impulse, she moved to straddle him. He inhaled sharply when she sat down, and wriggled herself against his hardness. Her leggings and his kilt seemed to be no barrier at all, and Morgan rocked before she could stop herself.
“Morgaine!” Alasdair leaned forward, captured her lips with his and simultaneously drove himself against Morgan in one lightning-quick move.
Morgan barely realized that she was pinned against the back of Justine’s seat before the seat unexpectedly flopped toward the dashboard. It wasn’t a very timely reminder of how the front seats tipped to allow access to the back.
Morgan squeaked at the sudden release of the catch, Alasdair growled, then he was sprawled clumsily on top of her. They came to an inelegant halt when the seat back was almost completely horizontal.
It wasn’t exactly a picture-perfect love scene. Alasdair looked so astonished that Morgan almost laughed out loud. She caught a glimpse of one very tight and muscular buttock beyond a sea of plaid.
Then, she did laugh.
Alasdair looked at her as though she was crazy, his astonishment changing slowly to male outrage when Morgan couldn’t stop laughing.
“I see naught amusing about our embrace,” he began to huff, but Morgan pointed to his bare butt.
“It’s true,” she managed to choke out. “It’s really true.”
“You find my buttocks a source of amusement?” Alasdair demanded.
“Not at all,” Morgan said. “They’re magnificent.”
Alasdair inhaled sharply. “Then you mock my embrace!” He shoved open the car door, no doubt intending to sweep regally out of the Micra.
Instead, opening the door proved that they had been braced against it. They tumbled together to the asphalt outside and landed with an ingracious thump.
Morgan was delighted to note that, even though he was miffed, Alasdair ensured that he took the brunt of the fall. She heard a click as her favorite hair clip took a hit and a clattering as more than one piece of it fell to the ground.
It had only been a matter of time before she broke it. Morgan confronted the sad truth that she was such a klutz she couldn’t even make out in a car with the most handsome hunk she’d ever met.
Before she could think too much about that, Alasdair bounded to his feet. He snapped his kilt back into place with a self-righteous flick of his wrist and glared at her.
From her vantage point, sprawled on the parking lot, Morgan could see straight up those legs with their dusting of golden hair. She squinted, caught a glimpse of something swinging free, and giggled again.
It was true!
Alasdair harumphed, but Morgan held up one hand. She wiped away her tears while he glowered at her, clearly not inclined to share the joke.
“Scotsmen really don’t wear anything under their kilts, then,” she said when she caught her breath.
Alasdair raised a fair brow and crossed his arms over his chest, looking only a little less insulted. “And what would my lady suggest a man wear beneath his kilt?” he demanded coldly.
Morgan propped herself up on her elbows, her smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Ever heard of Calvin Kleins? Harvey Woods? Maybe something nice from Mr. Brief?”
If Morgan thought Alasdair had taken umbrage before, that was nothing compared to his outrage now.
“I would suffer no man mucking about beneath my tartan, of that you can be certain!” he roared. “No matter in what esteem you might hold this Calvin and Harvey, neither is welcome beneath my plaid.”
He thought she thought he was gay?
Alasdair stormed a few paces away before pivoting to jab a finger through the air at Morgan. “Of all the lies that have been told about me, my lady, that is far and away the most loathsome.”
Despite herself, Morgan started
to chuckle again. She had never before been so absolutely positive that a man was straight. As the laughter spilled from her lips, Alasdair’s ears turned bright red.
Then he stalked farther away.
And this time, he didn’t look inclined to stop.
That stopped Morgan’s laughter cold.
“No, wait, that’s not what I meant. I wasn’t laughing at you.” Morgan stumbled to her feet. “Alasdair, don’t be angry. I can explain…”
Suddenly Alasdair seemed to notice his surroundings for the first time. He halted and looked about himself with such dismay that Morgan took a look too.
The Micra was parked on a point facing a romantic little lake complete with a photogenic ruined castle. Behind the car sprawled a perfectly pedestrian asphalt parking lot, a little inn on the opposite side with cars clustered near it. Apparently the inn had a pub, because a neon Guinness sign shone red in the window.
Morgan almost died when she saw the big tour bus parked less than twenty feet away from the car. Dozens of Japanese tourists studiously pretended not to have noticed her and Alasdair, snapping pictures in every other direction. Morgan looked back at the car and saw that the front and rear windows were fogged.
She couldn’t help but blush.
Alasdair spun abruptly to confront her, looking as though he found their surroundings morally offensive. “This is not my home!” he roared, and everything feminine within Morgan delighted in his masculine indignation.
Whether Alasdair was a time traveler or a nutcase, at this moment Morgan didn’t care. She wanted to grab him by the hair and pounce on him until he begged for mercy.
And maybe even a little longer than that. Alasdair’s kiss had more than demonstrated how thorough he would be about any amorous adventure, and part of Morgan regretted that she had declined his invitation that very first day.
It really might have been an interlude unlike any other.
And she was sure he could teach her a few things she didn’t know about lovemaking. Her experience was pretty limited, after all. Morgan had already picked up some kissing pointers from this highlander.
Time Travel Romances Boxed Set Page 49