And Alasdair MacAulay pressed his fingertips to his brow.
“Now, wait just a moment.” Morgan strode to his side. Alasdair didn’t move or otherwise acknowledge her presence. “You couldn’t have known that whatever you did would send you forward in time. I mean, how many people zip across seven centuries? It doesn’t happen every day!”
To Morgan’s relief, Alasdair sent a curious glance her way before continuing his stoic scrutiny of his toes. “I do not even know what fate befell him,” he mumbled. “How many years did he live? Did he wed? Did he have sons of his own?” He swallowed. “Did he ever forgive me for what I had done?”
Morgan touched Alasdair’s arm. “I don’t think you did anything so bad as that. Maybe we could find out what happened to Angus.”
Now she had his attention. “You can do this?”
Morgan flushed at the admiration in his gaze. “Well, there have to be record books. It will probably take some digging to go back that far…”
“I cannot read,” Alasdair reminded her in a low voice.
“I know.” Morgan tugged on his arm until he looked at her once more. “But I can. We can do this together.”
Alasdair studied her for a long moment, then shook his head in disbelief. His tone was gentle. “Why do you aid me? You have brought me home and shown me with my own eyes that your tale is of the truth. Why aid me further?”
Morgan’s heart stopped cold, then raced. She stared back at Alasdair, then swallowed. “I guess because I can understand how you feel,” she said, then turned away before he could see the truth in her eyes.
Because Morgan had just lied to him.
Maybe she could understand what he felt. Maybe she felt sorry for him in this predicament. But the real reason she wanted to help him was much simpler.
Morgan was in love with Alasdair.
She wanted to see him happy more than anything else in the world. Unfortunately, the only way to do that was to send Alasdair home to his son, his gran, his home.
And the vivid memory of his dead wife, who still held his heart in thrall. That was a particularly bitter pill but Morgan swallowed it deliberately. Then she linked her arm through Alasdair’s.
“Come on,” she urged. “We can stay at this little place. It’s nice and close to your home. Let’s go and meet Blake and Justine, then come back here. Then we can start looking for those records.” She squeezed Alasdair’s hand. “That way you’ll know what happened to Angus.”
Alasdair heaved a ragged sigh. “’Twould ease my mind to know that he lived long, even in my absence.”
And Morgan hoped heartily that was the case.
*
Finding these records Morgaine claimed were available was not so easy as Alasdair had understood. ’Twas frustrating to be able to do so little himself, for not only could Alasdair not read, he could not fathom the workings of the world Morgaine occupied with such ease.
They spent the rest of the day crossing the island, fruitlessly to Alasdair’s mind, rushing from here to there with naught to show for it. Blake complained heartily about people not having phones – whatever that meant – but he went as Morgaine bade him.
They returned to the inn when the sky was dark, their bellies full of sausage that Justine proclaimed too greasy but Alasdair found comforting in its familiarity. Though he was bone-tired, there was not a chance that he would sleep anytime soon.
Alasdair sat on the broad steps before the inn’s door, propped his elbows on his knees, and stared into the darkening sky. The view was so familiar to him – with the road and the parked cars behind him, the valley was spread at his toes as always it had been. Indeed, if he ignored the porch, Alasdair would never have imagined that he was anywhere but home.
’Twas impossible to believe that everything he knew, everything he loved, had been swept away from him for all eternity, and that in the blink of an eye. If the evidence had not been surrounding him on all sides, Alasdair knew he would not have believed it.
But he had no choice. His home was gone as surely as if it had never been. He watched the silvery crescent of the moon launch across the sky, ached with the familiarity of the moonbeams dancing on the sea, and wished fervently to find these records.
Alasdair only wanted to know the truth.
’Twas then that he became aware that he was not alone.
He glanced back and Morgaine smiled tentatively from the shadows by the door. She was a marvel, even more so now that he knew she was as mortal as he. The compassion that so awed Alasdair shone in her eyes, and he knew that she understood how deeply this day’s events had pained him.
And she respected his disappointment enough that she did not force him to talk about it.
Morgaine sat down beside him when Alasdair moved aside in silent invitation. She mimicked his pose and heaved a sigh that was doubtless for his benefit alone.
“I can’t sleep,” she complained. “Could you tell me a story?”
“We should make an exchange, my lady.”
Morgaine looked up with curiosity.
“I shall tell you all the tales you desire to hear, if you grant me the chance to look upon your drawings again.”
She flushed in that enticing way. “They’re not done. I don’t usually show them to anyone before they’re finished.”
“Ah, but I have had one glance and ’twas my undoing,” Alasdair confided. When he looked into her eyes, he knew ’twas not the drawings that had captured his heart.
’Twas the lady herself.
Alasdair cleared his throat and tried to tease her. “There is wizardry in your fingers. I know it to be true.”
To his delight, Morgaine smiled. “I told you, I’m just an artist.”
“And I tell you, I must look upon your work again to satisfy myself that no witchery conjured them before my very eyes.” She bit her lip in hesitation, and Alasdair leaned closer, his voice turning sober. “My lady, I would have the chance to gaze upon them with leisure. If the thought offends you, I apologize for being so bold.”
Morgaine stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head, that beguiling flush tinting her cheeks again. “No,” she said huskily. “I’m flattered that you like them.” Her gaze flicked away, then back to Alasdair. She offered her small hand with a shy smile. “A story for a look doesn’t seem like a very fair deal.”
Alasdair captured the delicacy of her fingers within his hand and smiled down at her. “My lady, ’tis clearly to your disadvantage, but you have already accepted the terms.”
Morgaine laughed and did not pull her hand away. Alasdair looked down at their entwined fingers. Their hands were so different, yet they fit together as if halves of a single mold.
Was there more than a witch’s whimsy behind Alasdair’s journey to this woman’s side?
He could not think upon it, not with her perfume flooding his senses and her shoulder lightly touching his arm. So, Alasdair turned to the stars, the lady’s fingers secure within his grip, and began to tell her a tale.
*
Chapter Fifteen
The local population was small, so the less critical ‘official’ capacities of local government jobbed out to private citizens all over the island. It was much harder than Morgan had expected to find the information they sought. With every day that passed, Alasdair seemed a little less of himself. He clearly believed that he had failed his son and not knowing what had happened to Angus was eating away at him.
But Morgan had to respect him for keeping his word to her. Alasdair declined every well-intentioned offer of a drink, giving her a significant glance when he intoned that he had made a pledge. They shared a room at the bed-and-breakfast but the situation was far from intimate. Alasdair seemed to be lost in contemplation of what he had lost, though whenever Morgan spoke to him, he roused himself to respond.
And when he looked at the drawings his stories had inspired, he smiled with a wistfulness that tore at Morgan’s heart.
The sight of him so saddened by
his loss redoubled Morgan’s determination to see him home and happy. And so, Morgan latched on to the record quest like a dog on a bone.
It took a week to determine that the old archival records were packed into the spare bedroom of one Frances Fergusson. Frances was among those without telephone service and the third time that they visited to find her not at home, Morgan had had enough.
“We’ll just wait,” she informed Blake.
He looked dubious. “You don’t even know if she’s around.”
“Of course we do,” Justine interjected crisply. “The curtains have moved since yesterday.”
“And the cats are in instead of out,” Morgan added. A pair of ginger cats eyed them from one window, then set to cleaning themselves as though people waited on the porch all the time.
Alasdair sat down on the bottom step with a thump, the sunlight burnishing his hair like spun gold. “Aye, Morgaine speaks aright. We shall wait.”
Blake hesitated. “How are you going to let us know when you want to come home? She hasn’t got a phone.”
Justine slid her arm through his. “We’ll come back at dinnertime,” she said with a smile. “Now, let’s do some exploring of our own.” Her glance was smoldering and on any other day, Morgan would have smiled at the way Blake jumped to head back to the car.
She slanted a longing glance at Alasdair and admitted that she had a rare talent for falling in love with Mr. Wrong.
At least Alasdair could have been Mr. Right - as opposed to Matt - if he hadn’t been seven hundred years older than Morgan and desperately in love with a dead woman. Morgan sat down beside him dejectedly and couldn’t think of a thing to say. She didn’t even have the heart to ask Alasdair for a story.
Fortunately they didn’t have to wait long.
A woman came sailing over the fields where peat had been cut away in squares. She carried what looked like boards under one arm and a toolbox in the other. A floral skirt swirled above her green wellington boots, a waxed canvas hat was jammed down on her head. She moved with surprising speed and agility, a bouquet of purple foxgloves bobbing in her grip.
Morgan noticed that the cats stood up, their gazes fixed on the woman marching closer, and flicked their tails. This must be Frances Fergusson.
When she came closer, it was clear that the boards were really canvasses. Frances was a painter. When Frances smiled, waved and tripped over the end of her driveway, Morgan felt as though she’d found a kindred spirit.
“Well, hello!” she called from the end of the path. “You must be those people looking for the records. My neighbors said you’d been here.”
Morgan and Alasdair stood up simultaneously, but Frances barely seemed to notice.
“I’m sorry, but I just had to be out when the sun was exactly right. We don’t get enough of it that I can afford to be picky.” She laughed, dumped the canvasses in Alasdair’s direction - he caught them - and peeled off her hat. Her hair was same gingery shade as the cats’ but faded with age. Her smile made Morgan smile back.
Frances stuck out her hand. “I’m Frances Fergusson.”
“Morgan Lafayette and Alasdair MacAulay,” Morgan contributed, shaking Frances’s hand while Alasdair got a better grip on the canvasses.
“’Tis indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Alasdair said nobly. Morgan wasn’t surprised that he had summoned his best manners.
Frances’s lips quirked as she glanced between the two of them. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for records of Alasdair’s family, from the early fourteenth century.”
Frances whistled. “That goes a ways back.” She fired a glance to Alasdair. “You are certain that the MacAulay’s were here then?”
“Aye.”
“Well, then, let’s have a cup of tea - I know I could use one - and we’ll set to work. No doubt you know exactly what you’re looking for and will know it as soon as you see it, but I can help you get your bearings in there.”
And Frances bustled past them into the house. The door was unlocked, but Morgan had little chance to think about that before one ginger cat made a run for freedom.
“Stop him!” Frances cried. With his spare hand, Alasdair just managed to scoop the feline up in time.
The cat hissed at the highlander in appreciation as he was dropped back inside of the house. Frances closed the screen door firmly and left the cat pacing in the foyer.
She rolled her eyes. “He got out yesterday, you know, and I had to chase him all over the island once I got home.”
“But he was on the porch when we came.”
“Oh yes, he only runs for my benefit.” Frances dumped her paint box on the kitchen floor. “I have no doubt at all that he sat on the porch sunning himself until he saw me coming.”
The cat meowed loudly, as though he would protest this assault on his character and Frances shot him a warning glance. “Be nice to me, Balthasar. I haven’t dished up dinner yet.”
When she retreated to the kitchen, the cat’s ears pricked up, then he ran after her like a shot. By the time Morgan entered the kitchen, he was twining himself around Frances’s ankles and purring to beat the band.
Moments later, they were settled into Frances’s eclectically furnished parlor. The room was a testament to a bygone age, the walls covered with a dark and busy William Morris wallpaper and hung almost solidly with framed oil paintings of everything from Lewis landscapes to still lifes and portraits.
The furniture was simple oak, Arts and Crafts style, upholstered in burgundy leather and studded with brass tacks. A vase brimming with the purple foxgloves held court on the coffee table. One ginger cat – undoubtedly Balthasar – prowled the perimeter while the other slept in the sunbeam that streamed through the window.
Morgan immediately saw that the paintings were from the same talented hand and guessed that this was Frances’s work. Alasdair fumbled with the bone china teacup and lost the battle against looking painfully out of place.
“Looking for your ancestors, are you? Well, you’ve come to the right place, that much is certain.” Frances passed a plate of shortbread, then dropped into a morris chair, her eyes sparkling. “Although you’re probably thinking how terribly difficult it has been getting ahold of me, I have to tell you that if it weren’t for me, there wouldn’t be any records to check.”
She waved one hand. “These country folk, you know, their hearts are in the right place, but they just don’t understand. I spent twenty years working at the library of the university – Harold was a doctor, you know – and I know how these files have to be taken care of.” She wagged a finger at them both. “Things were just rotting away. I finally had to march right into that musty old monastery and commandeer everything before it mildewed beyond recognition.”
Frances topped up everyone’s tea and pressed the plate of shortbread on Alasdair again. He took two.
“I just knew that I had to do something. My Harold was always saying how imperative it is to give something back to the community, so I appointed myself archivist. It seemed like a good way to get to know some people and keep my hand in, you know.”
Frances laughed lightly. “But, of course, I only meet tourists because everyone who lives here knows exactly what happened to their forebears. They’ve been listening to the stories in front of the fire all their blessed lives.”
Suddenly she got to her feet and drained her teacup. “But then, you didn’t come here to listen to an old woman ramble on about nothing. Come along. I’ll show you where everything is. Hopefully we’ll be able to narrow in on the right box quickly enough that you don’t waste years in there.” She darted to the door, then waved at the table. “Bring your tea, if you’d like.”
Morgan did.
Alasdair brought the plate of shortbread.
*
The women set to work with a vengeance as soon as they entered the room piled high with cartons. Alasdair poked at one or two, painfully aware that there was naught he could do to a
id them. He sat glumly in the corner and ate biscuits.
He fetched tea for the women, like some child bidden to serve their wants, and waited hopefully for some news of Angus.
It took far longer than Alasdair had hoped and granted him some heartily unwelcome time to ponder his circumstance. He had had more than enough of that during the past week and had come to few conclusions about anything.
’Twas apparent that he had traveled through time, despite the odds and now found himself separated from his son and gran by some seven centuries
As though that were not trouble enough, Alasdair had left matters half done, and he had no inkling how to go back.
But even as he itched to know his son and to repair the long years he had spent away from home, there was a part of Alasdair that did not truly want to return. He told himself that ’twas merely a case of adjusting to something he knew he could not change, but Alasdair was far from certain that was what lay at the root of the matter.
Alasdair eyed the back of Morgaine’s neck as she bent over a box. She had tied her hair back in a bundle, though a few ebony tendrils had escaped to curl against her neck.
Alasdair had a sudden urge to brush them aside with his lips. What was it about Morgaine that brought out such tenderness from deep within him? What was it about her that nigh drove him to distraction, yet made him want to ensure that all came aright in her world?
What was it about her that made him want to stay and ensure that she was happy for all of her days? For truly, Alasdair was loath to leave her. If Morgaine was not a sorceress, then her allure could not be due to some unearthly spell.
And that had kept Alasdair thinking all the week long.
Was there a reason he had been fairly dumped into her lap? Morgaine was unlike any woman Alasdair had encountered, with her blend of softness and strength, her passion, her laughter, her compassion and determination to do right.
Time Travel Romances Boxed Set Page 61