Time Travel Romances Boxed Set

by Claire Delacroix

  It hadn’t been here.

  “I do not understand,” Alasdair rumbled beside her shoulder. “What is this admission charge if not a toll?”

  “Well, it’s a museum, filled with things from the castle and people who lived here and you pay to see it.”

  “They show their belongings for a fee?” The highlander frowned. “Is this not a military keep? Loch Alsh is a strategic site.”

  “No.” Morgan shook her head. “It must be a folly.”

  He didn’t look any less confused.

  “That’s what they call things people built for fun,” Morgan explained. “Mostly around the turn of the century. There’s a house shaped like a pineapple somewhere in England and other places like that.” This didn’t seem to clarify anything for Alasdair, so Morgan indicated the paragraph in her book.

  “See? It says here that the original keep was destroyed hundreds of years ago and no one knew what it looked like. A laird in the early twentieth century had a dream of his forebears in the castle and when he woke up, he sketched plans of the keep of his dream.”

  Morgan scanned ahead in the text. “Then he had it built, at considerable expense, claiming it was a perfect reproduction of what had stood here.”

  Alasdair snorted. “Who would know?”

  “Exactly! But it says that his family actually lived here. Look.” Morgan tapped the glass of a display case. “There’s some of his wife’s calling cards and the silver case for them.”

  Alasdair peered at the display, looking no less mystified. “What are these calling cards?”

  “It was a Victorian thing. From the time of the reign of the English queen Victoria.” Morgan glared pointedly at Alasdair, daring him to acknowledge that he had never heard of the queen, but he steadfastly ignored her.

  Although Morgan knew he was listening. “When you visited someone and they weren’t home, you left a card with the staff so they knew who had come.” Morgan saw Alasdair’s doubt and wondered whether he was starting to give credence to her theory.

  “It went out of style in the 1920’s,” she added deliberately, watching his reaction carefully.

  Alasdair blinked, then his gaze locked with her own. His eyes were a potent sapphire, so Morgan knew she had his attention. “1920’s?”

  Morgan didn’t even blink. “The years between 1920 and 1930 AD.”

  Alasdair inhaled sharply and straightened.

  “That would be nineteen hundred and twenty years since the birth of Christ,” Morgan added deliberately.

  Alasdair looked about himself with a slight air of panic as his lips drew to a thin line. “I know naught of this 1920’s and, in truth, it matters little,” he said, his words tight. “I wish only to be home with all haste.”

  “I know,” Morgan said softly. “But I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.”

  But the highlander spun away, his frustration more than clear.

  *

  They rounded the curve at Kyle of Lochalsh, and it became clear that the hills in the distance were actually on the Isle of Skye rising in the west. They crossed the bridge to Skye as the sun was setting in orange splendor, then passed into the shadow of the island itself as the road curved along its eastern flank. The tops of the hills glowed with the sun’s last rays, while the mainland to the east was silhouetted against the first stars.

  The cows were coming home, welcoming golden light spilled from kitchen windows glimpsed along the way, white sails were furled in the ships bobbing at anchor far below. Road signs were posted in both Gaelic and English, and Morgan felt the difference in atmosphere as soon as the Micra’s tires touched the island.

  Skye was magical, a home for fairy tales if ever there had been one. They passed mountain bikers loaded with panniers and backpackers who waved cheerfully as they passed. Bed and breakfast signs rocked in the wind, great red hairy highland cows chewed methodically at the roadside. There were vast stretches of wild forest, and fabulously healthy roses entwined the fence posts.

  The awesome power of Skye’s twilight made all things possible. Morgan looked to Alasdair and found him watching her. Something had eased in his features and she knew he felt more at home than he had on the mainland.

  And Morgan understood, because she felt the same way.

  Just as she instinctively guessed that feeling would get stronger the further they traveled.

  *

  The next morning, they caught the first ferry from Uig on the northwest tip of Skye. Alasdair’s anxiety had touched them all and they had barely taken the time to look around Skye, despite its beauty.

  Alasdair was grim and silent again. Although they had shared a room again the night before, he had not so much as spoken to Morgan. When she fell asleep, Alasdair had been sitting at the window, staring at the myriad lights of the idyllic town of Portree.

  Alasdair was in exactly the same position in the morning. He was obviously coming to terms with what had happened to him and Morgan was content to leave him alone to do that.

  Even if she didn’t like how somber he had become.

  His stoic expression didn’t change as the ferry came chugging around the point of the island. Steam poured from its red stack, and the blast of its horn echoed in the quiet bay. It was a car ferry, a boat of considerable size – obviously something Alasdair would never have seen before.

  She noticed only the way his lips tightened.

  As the ferry eased into its slip, dozens of car engines could be heard starting up. Ropes were tossed and metal ramps clanged into position. Foot passengers streamed ashore, bikers pedaled away, and a steady stream of cars drove into the distance.

  Just a few minutes after the ferry’s arrival, a short man with a heavily lined face took up his position in the middle of the loading ramp. Morgan had seen him pacing the length of the queue while the ferry disgorged its incoming passengers.

  He pointed to the first car in the line and beckoned.

  And the loading began. Blake drove forward when the Micra was summoned, and Morgan saw that the passenger decks wrapped around the car bay in a big U. The vehicles were nestled in the center, just below the waterline, and the little man was obviously calculating and balancing the load as he proceeded.

  In fact, they all had to get out of the car so that Blake could tuck it tightly enough into the corner for the man’s satisfaction.

  “Heavy morning,” he offered gruffly by way of explanation then strode off to wave a tractor trailer into position.

  “They don’t waste an inch,” Justine said, her approval of such organization clear.

  Alasdair scanned the ferry with narrowed eyes, his gaze lingering on pulleys and gears. He said nothing at all, and Morgan wished she could think of something that would reassure him.

  But he was so silent that she couldn’t think of a way to start a conversation.

  They all went up to the deck to get out of the way and continued to watch the loading from that birds’-eye view. Morgan was astonished as three tractor trailers were parked across the width of the ferry with only inches between them. One was labeled a greengrocer’s truck, one was loaded with roof trusses and the third was a tanker of oil.

  “They must have to bring everything in,” Justine murmured.

  “We’re supposed to leave in six minutes,” Blake added. They looked simultaneously at the long line snaking along the dock and road. Morgan eyed the waiting vehicles and couldn’t believe the man in charge would manage to get them all in, let alone on schedule.

  Justine’s thoughts obviously took the same direction. “There’s not another ferry until this afternoon. Those people aren’t going to be very happy when they don’t get on.”

  “Good thing we made a reservation last night and came early,” Blake said.

  The loading expert indicated a car pulling a camping trailer and guided the driver to park it under the wings of the passenger deck at an angle. Another one was parked on the opposite side. Two rows of individual cars were waved in rapidly to f
ill the space in between. Passengers scurried to get out of their cars while they could still escape.

  Vans went behind the cars, then a bakery truck, and a good twenty bikers were dispatched to lock their mountain bikes around the perimeter. Only two Volkswagen vans remained on the dock.

  “There’s only room for one,” Blake declared.

  But the man wasn’t going to give up that easily. The first van had to move back and forth seven times before he was satisfied with its position. When he pointed to the second one, Blake shook his head.

  “No way.”

  But the man had obviously been doing this job for a long time. The last van ended up parked horizontally across the dock, with appeared to be room to spare.

  The loading dock rose with a creak and clanged into its vertically locked position. The loading expert nodded satisfaction and Morgan almost wanted to give him a round of applause. The ferry’s engines rumbled underfoot, the ship vibrated, ropes were cast off, and they eased away from the dock.

  Blake glanced at his watch and nodded his approval. “Right on time.”

  “Amazing.” Morgan turned to Alasdair, only to find that he was gone. With the noise of the engines, she hadn’t even heard him leave.

  She excused herself and darted up the stairs, guessing that he wouldn’t have gone into either the restaurant or the lounge. Morgan made her way to the front of the ferry, where the wind was already whipping at the few stalwart souls standing there. She was rewarded by a glimpse of plaid.

  She ducked around the corner and was buffeted by the wind coming off the sea. Alasdair stood with his hands braced on the rail, his feet planted firmly on the deck. His hair blew back from his face, his expression was uncompromising, and he stared into the fathomless silver blue arrayed before them.

  He looked superbly alone, isolated from everything and everyone around him. The sight of him there, gold and red, every vibrant line of him such a contrast to the cold white metal of the ferry and the relentless gray of the sea, was the epitome of loneliness.

  Alasdair was alone, more alone than Morgan could ever imagine, a man lost from his own time, a man separated by centuries from everything he held dead.

  Maybe she should paint him like this, Morgan thought. The idea made a hard lump rise in her throat and she almost turned away. She told herself that she didn’t want to intrude, but she knew that the strength of her compassion for the highlander’s plight had startled her.

  Alasdair turned in that moment, as though he known all along that she stood there. The roar of the wind in her ears was so loud that Morgan knew he couldn’t have heard her.

  “’Tis a powerful witchery you summon here,” he finally said, though his voice was strained. Morgan heard the doubt in his tone. “There was no need for such a show of wizardry.”

  “It’s not magic, Alasdair.” Morgan shook her head. “It seems like magic to me sometimes, but it’s not. Just the marvels of modern engineering.”

  Alasdair looked to the sea again and his brows drew tightly together. “I fear, my lady” – he admitted so softly that Morgan had to move closer to hear the words – “I fear that I have made a grievous error.”

  Morgan chewed her lip and didn’t know what to do other than listen.

  Alasdair took a shuddering breath. “I fear I erred in leaving my son, seven years past.” He swallowed but said no more.

  The confidence he had exuded since they first met had ebbed. Morgan couldn’t stand to see this proud man defeated, and she wanted only to make things right. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, trying to sound convinced of that. “Things that are muddled up can always be sorted out somehow or other.”

  Alasdair looked dubious but Morgan nodded with authority. “Trust me. I know.”

  A fleeting smile touched his lips, and the heat of his hand closed over her own. His thumb slid across Morgan’s knuckles. “You do have a talent for finding a muddle and making it your own, my lady,” he murmured. Morgan’s breath caught at the affectionate undercurrent in his tone.

  It made her heart beat faster. “You couldn’t have known, you know,” she said, in a rush to reassure him. “It’s not as though this kind of thing happens to people all the time. I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  Alasdair flicked a fierce glance her way. “And still ’tis naught but a fear. I will know when I stand upon my own soil and see what has been wrought.” His words echoed with resolve. “I will know the truth when I am home.”

  Morgan ached at how hard the truth would be for him. Her grip tightened on his arm in sympathy, but Alasdair glared down at her.

  She thought she saw a shimmer of tears in his eyes. “Do you think me a feckless fool to believe only what I see with my own eyes?” he demanded.

  She shook her head and smiled that he could even imagine such a thing. “No.”

  Far from it. Morgan thought Alasdair was just plain wonderful.

  The simple truth flooded Morgan’s heart as she held his steady gaze. Alasdair was the kind of man she’d always longed to find, the kind of man who took her weaknesses in stride and savored her strengths. There were times when he seemed to find Morgan as fascinating as she found him.

  Even more important, he was the kind of man a woman could count on.

  But he was a man whose heart was already claimed. Alasdair would never be happy so long as his obligations were seven centuries away.

  That made Morgan suddenly want to cry, even if she didn’t want to think about exactly why.

  Alasdair stared into her eyes as if he couldn’t look away, and Morgan wondered how much he saw. His grip tightened on her hand, as though he would reassure her, and her tears welled up. She stared back at him wordlessly for a long moment, then Alasdair pulled her closer, a silent plea in his eyes.

  He was alone, but he didn’t want to be. Morgan couldn’t have denied him the comfort of a human touch. And there was nowhere else she’d rather be than here with him.

  Alasdair tucked Morgan between himself and the ferry’s rail, the scent of his skin rising to embrace her. Her back was against his broad chest, and Morgan trembled slightly with the power of this man’s effect upon her.

  “You will be cold,” Alasdair murmured in her ear and wrapped his arms around her waist, folding her against his warmth. Morgan leaned back against him as they silently watched the sea together.

  She could only hope that Alasdair was unaware of the two warm tears that meandered down her cold cheeks.

  *

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lewis was starkly different from Skye, primal and harsh. The hills were lower, the wind was colder, the vegetation sparse. The icy bite of the north wind mingled with the tang of the sea, the colors that greeted Alasdair’s eye were scrubbed to clean blues and greens.

  Yet, the raw, powerful curves of the land were compelling.

  Alasdair felt recognition of his home stir within his very bones from first glimpse of land. He clenched the rail of the ferry as the craft slid into port and felt his anticipation rise. Perhaps the veil of Faerie was thinner here; perhaps he but drew near a critical portal.

  Whatever the case, Alasdair’s conviction grew with every passing moment that he was truly coming home. Not only had Blake Advisor kept his word, but Morgaine’s tale of traveling through the centuries was certainly wrong.

  The town Blake called Tarbert might be jostling with unfamiliar structures, but still Alasdair knew this land. The faces of the locals waiting at the landing were lined, their clothes sturdy and plain, but there was a glint of merriment in more than one fiercely blue eye. Life was challenging here, a feat for the strong alone, and those who survived oft had a powerful sense of humor.

  The Micra lunged from ferry to road as though it too was intent on seeing the highlander finally home. Alasdair leaned forward in the seat, and anxiously directed Blake across the island. The glossy black roads followed the lines of tracks he had walked with his sheep during days that seemed an eternity ago.

  But every c
urve was yet familiar.

  ’Twas the towns that revealed Morgaine’s hand, for though they were sited as Alasdair recalled, they bore little resemblance to the places he knew. The land though, the land, had escaped her magical touch and was achingly familiar on all sides. Alasdair anticipated every mount, every valley and its view, his excitement rising with each passing moment.

  He was nearly home. His heart began to pound with anticipation. How tall was his son? What tales had his gran to tell? How fared the cottage, the garden, the sheep? When Alasdair glimpsed the standing stones in the distance, his heart nearly stopped.

  They alone were precisely as he recalled.

  “There,” he breathed to Morgaine, hating the way his finger trembled when he indicated the stones ahead. “There, my lady, are your standing stones, as ever they have been.”

  Morgaine looked to the enigmatic circle, then back to Alasdair, a gleam of anticipation lurking in her magnificent eyes. Her fingers closed over his own and squeezed, the gesture making Alasdair’s heart leap.

  Nay, ’twas only that he was nearly home. Indeed, his humble crofter’s cottage lingered just over the far hill. Seven years fell away and Alasdair remembered pausing on this very rise to look back one last time.

  He would not consider that it might truly have been his last time. Only now did Alasdair question the nobility of that impulse, only now did he wonder what he might have sacrificed by following Robert the Bruce.

  Had he the chance to do it all again, Alasdair vowed silently, he would not stay away those seven years. Countless opportunities there had been to turn back and go home, but Alasdair had pressed on, determined to see the quest fulfilled, determined to prove his honor beyond doubt.

  One of those expanses of black was spread before standing stones - as it did not in the world Alasdair knew - and half a dozen chariots parked there. Alasdair refused to accept the incongruity and directed Blake determinedly down a road just beyond.