She knew exactly what she wanted to do. Alasdair had taught her to trust again, taught her to let herself love, and Morgan knew that now only one celebratory act would do.
It was a perfect moonlit night, the stones surreal in their silence. The words Alasdair had uttered earlier had been so shamelessly romantic. The spell might not have worked this time, but Morgan knew it would eventually.
When Alasdair left, she was going to make sure that he had a compelling memory of her to take along.
So, Morgan kissed Alasdair back, a decade of denied desire having found its release. She twined her hands into the wonderful thickness of his hair. Alasdair moaned when she drove her tongue between his teeth and Morgan found herself rolled to her back.
The grass was lush beneath her, like a densely knotted exotic rug, and richly green. Alasdair nuzzled her ear and ran an intoxicating line of kisses down her throat. Morgan moaned and reached for him, but the highlander evaded her embrace.
“I have waited long for this moment,” he whispered with a wicked grin. Before Morgan could respond, he tucked his head beneath her sweater.
She gasped as his hands closed over her breasts, those skilled thumbs teasing her nipples to taut beads. He was so unbearably gentle that Morgan wanted more of him, everything within her melting at his sure touch. Alasdair’s breath fanned Morgan’s belly; he kissed her belly and rolled his tongue in her navel.
Then, he tugged her leggings away with his teeth.
His hands followed in leisurely pursuit, sliding beneath her buttocks to lift her hips high. With his teeth, he hauled the leggings down to her ankles, teaching her with tongue and breath and fingers.
Morgan had never been so aroused in her life. She might have been shy about doing this outside, but Alasdair’s confidence was more than reassuring. Alasdair was so unrestrained, so unconcerned about anything other than the magic that flared to life between them.
Morgan loved that about him, loved how he made her feel impetuous and free, however how he was who he was without apology or explanation. Each time they touched was explosive, yet still a bold adventure in sensation.
Morgan wanted to do this for the rest of her life.
Alasdair flashed her a mischievous glance as he cavalierly flung her tights and boots aside, his eyes darkening nearly to indigo. Then he eased between her thighs with a playful growl.
Morgan gasped as Alasdair slid his nose through her pubic hair and wanted to cry out when he pressed a slow kiss against her clitoris. She trembled at the heat of his breath, then moaned as his tongue slid across the nub of her desire.
She was already so wet with yearning. The strength of Alasdair’s hands closed around her waist, his tongue set to work, and Morgan was left with no options but to enjoy. She closed her eyes and surrendered to pleasure.
Alasdair did not disappoint. He cajoled Morgan’s response, taking her to the crest of release, then stopped to plant kisses on her navel until her need ebbed slightly. Each time, the crest was higher; each time Morgan’s moans grew louder when he moved away. The heat was gathered beneath her flesh and she was twisting in desperation when the heat of his mouth closed over her once more.
This time, Morgan knew there would be no respite. She peeled off her sweater so she could see the moonlight play upon his hair. Alasdair glanced up, his own gaze smoldering as he touched her with his fingertips, and Morgan rubbed herself shamelessly against his fingers.
He caressed her expertly then tasted her again. He tantalized her until she was sure she couldn’t bear any more, then suddenly, Morgan clutched at him as the quickening ripped through her. Alasdair held her tightly and drove his fingers into her, demanding more. Morgan cried out as she reached the summit again, then plunged trembling into the abyss beyond.
Her heart was still hammering when she opened her eyes and found Alasdair kneeling before her. Morgan rolled over and reached beneath his kilt. The erection that she knew she would find was larger and harder than anticipated. Alasdair shuddered when Morgan’s hands closed around him.
“I want all of you,” she whispered and his eyes flashed.
He was nude in a heartbeat, his skin gleaming in the moonlight. He was more beautiful than she’d imagined, a pagan god come to life. Alasdair gathered Morgan against his chest, lifting her into his embrace for a soul-shattering kiss. Morgan savored his tough, clung to his strength, then wrapped her legs around his waist.
Alasdair caught his breath at her proximity.
Nose to nose, they stared into each other’s eyes as Morgan slowly lowered herself onto him.
No sooner was he buried to the hilt than Morgan was on her back, Alasdair silhouetted against the starry sky above her. The grass was cool and thick beneath her, while Alasdair was warm and solid above.
He moved with deliberation within her, his thumb slipping between them to caress her again. Morgan writhed beneath him, feeling the heat gather again. Her desire was roused more quickly this time and she bucked against Alasdair, wanting every inch of him to be her own.
When she reached up and captured his face in her hands, then kissed him languorously, Morgan felt him shake with the effort of self-control. She ran her toes down his legs, rocked her hips and rubbed her breasts against him, kissing him fervently all the while.
Alasdair growled, but Morgan continued her assault. Her own blood heated at her power over him, a new confidence in her allure making her even more bold. They teased and tormented each other, each trying to give the other even more pleasure.
Until the heat reached a crescendo in Morgan again, making her tremble on the cusp of release. Alasdair buried himself within her, then tipped his head back and groaned in pleasure. The heat of him pushed Morgan over the edge. The stars cavorted dizzily overhead as she gripped Alasdair’s shoulders, knowing they were the only fixture in her universe.
He fell bonelessly to the grass beside her and pulled her into the warmth of his embrace. Morgan’s eyes drifted closed as she felt his heartbeat beneath her cheek, and she smiled when Alasdair pressed a kiss to her temple.
She’d gone to heaven and she didn’t want to come back.
*
Alasdair did not sleep.
He lay within the enchanted circle and held Morgan fast to his side, loving the way she slumbered against him. Aye, she was the woman he had always longed to find and more. Never had Alasdair believed that the love oft mentioned in his gran’s tales was for him.
But the evidence slept within his very arms.
Some twist of fate had sent him plunging forward in time, and Alasdair was enough of his gran’s grandson to know that it could be no coincidence that Morgan had been the one to find him first.
He had done the impossible, catapulted over seven hundred years, and as he lay there in the moonlight, Alasdair knew it had been so that he might find his one true love.
Morgan.
She was his and Alasdair was never going to let her go. Time would come when he recalled the right Gaelic verse, for he had a good ear and a good memory. The tune had reminded him of something, that much Alasdair recalled.
One day, he would find it.
Indeed, he had little choice. Indeed, if there had been no price in coming to Morgan, Alasdair would gladly have remained in her world with her alone.
But Alasdair was haunted by his certainty that his disappearance had changed matters for Robert the Bruce. The Scotland his son had inherited had been far from free, and the fault for that lay squarely at Alasdair’s door.
Further, Alasdair knew that had he been there, Angus would not have died to young. Alasdair could not change the fact that he had left the boy for so long, but he wished with all his heart and soul that he could at least have had the chance to make matters come aright for his son.
*
Contrary to all that Alasdair believed, it was not chanting the wrong Gaelic verse that had confounded his return home. Though it was true that the stone and the heather and the site contributed, there was one factor he had
forgotten.
A heartfelt wish was the key to the witch’s spell.
And in the very moment that Alasdair desired beyond all else to see his son, he was gone from Morgan’s side as though he had never been.
*
Morgan awakened with a luxurious feeling of completion. In a hazy corner of her mind, she knew that she had found a fulfillment that she had always sought but had never believed she would know.
Without opening her eyes, Morgan stretched out a hand to Alasdair. When her fingers found only empty space, she tried the other side.
Nothing. Her eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright.
Only to find that she was alone.
The sky was faintly tinged pink in the east, a fiery line indicating that the sun would soon drift over the horizon, but Morgan wasn’t interested in that. The stones brooded on all sides, night shadows still clinging to their bases. The stars had retreated, both northern lights and moon gone as thoroughly as if they had never been.
Just like Alasdair.
Morgan tugged on her clothes and stood up to look around. In every direction the countryside was perfectly still. A patina of dew glistened on the roof of the blue Micra, but there was nothing else of distinctive color.
Certainly not a kilt wrapped around a golden highlander.
How could he have left her?
Morgan spun and examined the site of their tryst with mounting indignation. How could Alasdair have done this to her, after the night they had shared? After what he had said to her? Tears blurred Morgan’s vision and she hated the sense that she had played the fool in love one more time.
It was only when Morgan retrieved her boots from behind a stone that she realized something critical.
The crystal from the regalia was gone. Morgan searched the ground in all directions, ran her fingers through the grass, but to no avail.
The gemstone was gone. Alasdair was gone. She looked, but already knew that the white heather was gone too.
Morgan sat down heavily as the sun peeked rosily at the world. Had Alasdair really managed to go back to the past?
There was only one way to find out for sure. He didn’t have any money, so he would have had to go back to the bed-and-breakfast to eat. Morgan dressed hastily and ran back to the Micra, praying that the car would start.
Evidently the car had forgiven her sins, because it did start.
*
Justine stretched like a cat in the sun, even though it was pouring rain. She smiled to herself and stirred the sweetener into her coffee. The one thing absent from Scottish breakfast tables were those little blue envelopes that she relied upon keep her hipline trim. At least, they had been missing, until Justine sat down at the breakfast table at Adaira Macleod’s Rose Cottage Bed-and-Breakfast.
And Adaira’s coffee was divine. Justine watched Blake devour his breakfast and smiled some more as she recalled how he had worked up such an appetite.
“My Mona Lisa,” Blake teased. “Are you smiling about the same thing I’m smiling about?”
Justine just smiled some more. She hadn’t had much sleep, but she felt very, very good this morning. She and Blake shared a hot glance of mutual adoration, then she looked reluctantly at her watch.
“I guess we should wake up Morgan,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a perfect day for lounging in bed. Or drawing.” Blake winked then leaned forward and tapped his fork on the tablecloth, his eyes gleaming. “We could wander back upstairs ourselves, tell Adaira that we’re packing…”
Adaira herself bustled into the room in a puff of frilly pink calico, clicking her tongue as she came. Justine had already noticed that their hostess had a fondness for pink, but this apron was pinker than cotton candy at a state fair.
It was a bit of a jolt first thing in the morning.
“More coffee?” Adaira asked cheerfully, and both Macdonalds held out their cups.
“Your coffee is very good,” Blake said with approval. “The best we’ve had in Scotland.”
“Oh, Mr. Macdonald, all the handsome young men from abroad say just the same.” Adaira filled Blake’s cup with a flourish. “The Captain is always warning me not to go and get vain about my coffee. Adaira, he says, there’s more to making a success of life than grinding your own coffee beans.”
Adaira winked at Justine while filling her cup to the brim with steaming coffee. “But I say there’s more to life than worrying about grand events that have nothing to do with our own wee lives. I would rather be having a nice cup of coffee on a rainy morning and looking upon my lovely roses than worrying myself to death about nonsense brewed up down London way.”
Justine turned and looked out at the roses in question. Adaira had a lovely hedge of pink eglantine roses hugging the perimeter of her well-manicured lawn. They were in their last flush of blooming before the winter, and Justine had admired them already.
But today there was another bush in the middle of the lawn. Justine frowned. She knew it hadn’t been there before. She’s walked around the yard the previous day, after all.
There was no way she could have missed this one. Blood-red blooms the size of her fist adorned the gnarled and obviously ancient bush. Around its base twined a thorny mass that had a different kind of leaves.
Before Justine could ask about it, Morgan burst into the breakfast room. She was wearing the same sweater she had worn the night before when she’d taken the car.
“Justine! He’s gone!”
Justine blinked. Hadn’t Morgan come home?
And who was gone?
Justine had a funny feeling that she’d forgotten something she really should remember, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. He. Hadn’t there been somebody with them?
Just thinking about it made Justine’s head hurt. She felt as though she was prying at a door that didn’t want to be opened. She looked at Blake, but he looked more confused than she felt.
“He?” Justine asked carefully.
“Alasdair!” Morgan was clearly all worked up. “Alasdair MacAulay.”
Justine blinked, the name ringing a distant bell.
Morgan clutched Justine’s hands in obvious consternation. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember. You have to remember. The highlander. The man in the kilt. He’s tall and blond and we found him at Edinburgh Castle and you thought he’d be perfect for me. Justine! He’s why we came to Lewis!”
Blake cleared his throat. “We came here because you had to see those standing stones.” He rolled his eyes. “Big old stones. I was thinking we really should head back south.” He reached down and tugged his tour book out of his jacket pocket. “I don’t know how you convinced me to drive right past Bannockburn, but we have to go back.”
Morgan glanced wildly at Blake. “Why do you have to go to Bannockburn?” she demanded hoarsely.
Blake impatiently tapped his finger on the table. “Morgan, do you ever listen to anything? How many times do I have to tell you that Bannockburn was the site where Robert the Bruce vanquished the English and won Scotland’s freedom? It’s a tremendous precedent for the referendum they just had here.”
Morgan dropped into a third chair at the table, her face pale. “Justine,” she said softly. “Is that what you remember?”
Justine frowned and couldn’t help looking at the red, red rose growing in the middle of the lawn. What Blake had said sounded right, but she couldn’t completely shake an odd sense that there had been another man traveling with them.
She remembered Blake’s flat refusal to come all the way to Callanish. Yet they were here. She knew that there had been something – or someone – that changed his mind. Justine remembered how adamant Blake was about going to Bannockburn, yet at the same time vaguely recalled his hostility about going there when they left Edinburgh.
And she had been in complete agreement with him both times.
As she was now with his insistence that they return.
How odd. Neither of them were people who frequent
ly changed their minds. It was really frustrating not to be able to remember something, especially since she usually had a mind like a steel trap. She forgot nothing, yet now she couldn’t summon a clear picture of this highlander Morgan was talking about. She drummed her fingers on the table, ignoring Morgan’s hopeful gaze, and couldn’t help looking out the window once more.
Justine had an insistent feeling about that rose.
“Adaira,” she called on impulse when the innkeeper bounced back into the room. “Could you tell me about this red rose?”
Morgan glanced out the window and her eyes widened in surprise. “It wasn’t there yesterday!”
“Of course it was!” Adaira was clearly delighted to tell the tale. “Oh, it’s a lovely old story, that much is for certain. That rose has been there for centuries. You see, there once was a man who loved a certain woman as dearly as ever a man can do. But theirs was a star-crossed match and they were doomed to part.
“When his lady love was stolen away from his side, the man pined frightfully in his loss. Finally, one day, he planted a briar and a rose together, as symbols of himself and her sweet beauty. He told all that as long as his love burned bright, the briar and the rose would twine together, each a part of the other for all time.”
Adaira shrugged. “Well, the man passed away eventually, without his lady love ever being returned to him, and it is said that he was painfully lonely right to the end. Others say his eyes lit with pleasure as he passed on, and they are the ones who say he saw his lady love again in heaven’s grace.
“But either way, none who has ever lived here would bear to let either plant wither away. The briar and the rose you see here are not the originals, of course, but they are the latest of countless generations of briars and roses spawned from those plants.”
Time Travel Romances Boxed Set Page 64