She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “Truth be told, my Captain has a weak spot for the tale, though he would deny it up, down, and sideways if you asked him. Sentimental nonsense he calls it, but he has no less than three of each plant carefully nurtured in his wee greenhouse. If one of them takes ill, the other need not endure alone.”
Adaira straightened and wipes a shimmer from her cheek. “It is the least we can do to maintain a man’s gesture of undying love.” She hoisted the pot she held and smiled brightly. “Coffee?”
Blake accepted, then Adaira trotted away. Justine looked back to the rose with the briar tangled around it, feeling as though it was trying to tell her something. It seemed to her that just behind the rose and briar, a little bit out of focus, she could see a tall, blond highlander with sadness in his eyes.
Blue eyed. Very blue eyes.
Everything came back in a rush, as though she had pried open that stubborn door in her memory and forced its contents into daylight. Justine remembered suddenly the way that very man had looked at Morgan, his insistence that he couldn’t be parted from her, the way he had made Morgan laugh once again.
She remembered Alasdair MacAulay filling the back seat of the Micra. Justine recalled how he sang for Morgan, how protective he was of her, how dismayed he had been when she rebuffed his advances, and her heart warmed.
She had watched Alasdair fall in love with her sister.
She turned to Morgan, and the expression on her sister’s face told Justine that the feeling was more than mutual. She covered Morgan’s hand with her own and gave those chilled fingers a squeeze. “Did you tell him? Did he know how you felt?”
Tears shone in Morgan’s eyes as she nodded.
Justine waited, because she knew there was more.
“We made love,” Morgan admitted finally with a flush and a glance at Blake. “And then – and then, he was gone.”
The confession told Justine all she needed to know. Alasdair MacAulay was not the kind of man who took advantage of women or who would have used her sister for his own satisfaction. Furthermore, he wasn’t the kind of rat who would run out on a woman he loved. Something had happened, something had forced him to leave, and Alasdair had had no choice but to go.
But he had wanted Morgan to know the truth. Justine was certain of it. She gave Morgan’s fingers a stronger squeeze. “He planted them for you, as a sign that he loves you.”
“Oh, Justine, I don’t know…”
In that moment, Justine hated Matt Reilly with every fiber of her being. He had destroyed Morgan’s faith in the simple fact that she was lovable, by stealing away a precious cornerstone of her confidence. Somehow Justine was going to repair the damage.
“I know he loves you,” she said firmly. “I knew he was the one for you all along.”
“You remember him, then?” Morgan asked, the hope in her voice almost tangible.
“Remember who?” Blake demanded, but both sisters ignored him.
“Yes.” Justine turned to look into her sister’s eyes and used her most reassuring smile. “You have to tell me what happened so we can figure out what to do.”
“Okay.” Morgan exhaled unevenly and smiled a little bit. Relief surged through Justine that her baby sister wanted to share the story. “I’d like that.”
“Who are we talking about?” Blake asked in obvious exasperation. He looked from one sister to the other and must have seen something in their expressions because he threw up his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. Chick stuff. I’m not listening.”
Then he propped his elbows on the table. “But could we at least think about heading back to the mainland today or tomorrow? We’re running out of vacation and there’s still a ton of things to see!”
Justine leaned across the table and cupped Blake’s face in her hands. “Maybe you could pack while we’re talking,” she suggested gently, then gave him a great big kiss.
That ought to give him enough to think about for a while. Or at least, long enough for Justine to ease the shadows from her baby sister’s eyes. All she had to do was convince Morgan of the simple truth – that Alasdair MacAulay loved her to distraction and that she should take a chance on love.
Whatever that meant.
One look at her sister’s troubled expression made Justine realize that convincing Morgan of the truth wasn’t going to be easy.
Fortunately, that kind of challenge had never stopped Justine before.
*
Chapter Seventeen
Alasdair felt himself tumbling away from Morgan and the stones. He panicked as he fell, but could do naught to stop himself.
Until he rolled into a tree and came to a jarring stop.
He felt the sun upon his shoulders and opened his eyes warily, for he knew ’twas still night.
Yet ’twas not night where he lay – ’twas a broad sunny morning. He must have fallen asleep in Morgan’s embrace - and somehow tumbled down the grassy bank beside the standing stones. Alasdair was alone, the standing stones a goodly distance away.
He was on his feet to go awaken Morgan before he realized the Micra was gone.
Had she left him?
Alasdair spun, seeking some sign of the blue chariot, only to realize that no black ribbon of road wound its way across the countryside. There was no pool of black beside the standing stones, no houses, no wires strung along the roadway.
And there was a crusting of frost yet lingering in the shadows. The growth was deadened, compared to where he had been, and Alasdair smelled the snap of winter in the air.
But Callanish was exactly as Alasdair knew it to be.
Even if his memory was not. Only now he became aware of the passage of time, of the fact that he had long been without Morgan. Unfamiliar memories flooded his mind, of the barest moment lost in the keep of Edinburgh, of a string of victories beside Robert the Bruce, of an ache of loss burdening his heart. They were hollow recollections, as though they had been lived by another.
He had endured a spring and summer of knowing his lady was lost to him for all time. Alasdair’s mouth went dry.
Nay! It could not be! They had just been together, Morgan had only just lain in his arms.
A primitive panic swept through him and Alasdair’s heart turned cold. A part of him knew he deceived himself, a part of him recalled the long walk home. A part of Alasdair knew that he had slept here, beneath the stars, deliberately evoking the memory of his magical night with Morgan.
But Alasdair did not want to believe it. His days with Morgan were more real than anything else he had ever known.
And he was not prepared to let her go, much less to live his life without her smile. Alasdair ran wildly toward the stones, shouting Morgan’s name.
But to no avail.
He was alone, as that part of his heart had long known.
“Morgan!” Alasdair bellowed again in frustration and a pair of tow-headed boys peeked out from around the stones.
“Morgan?” the fair-haired one echoed.
“He summons Morgaine le Fee!” the other one declared, his eyes round with alarm.
“I call a woman, name of Morgan,” Alasdair corrected gently. The blonder boy took a step back, just as Alasdair recognized something in those young eyes.
They were of an unusual shade of dark grey, the same as Fenella’s had been. A lump rose in Alasdair’s throat and he recalled his last wish.
Some witchery had sent him home.
“Ha! A witchy woman indeed,” the dark haired boy taunted. “Angus knows all about Morgaine le Fee - his da was stolen away by her!” And he lunged at the fair boy in mock attack.
Alasdair liked well how quickly Angus defended himself. “My da is a hero, no less than that,” he retorted proudly. “My da helped Robert the Bruce, King of All Scots, and does not sit around with his nose in his ale all the day long.”
The other boy’s features contorted with rage and the mock fight turned quickly into a real one. Alasdair waded into the midst and hauled the
boys apart, gripping one in each hand by the neck of the shirt.
“I will not be watching such fighting,” he declared solemnly. “’Tis not fitting of good men to beat each other senseless over naught.”
“He mocked my father!” the dark-haired boy claimed hotly.
“Not before you mocked mine!” Angus retorted. The two would have gone at it again, but Alasdair gave them a shake and held them an arm’s length apart.
“And who might your father be?” he asked the dark-haired lad.
“Duncan MacIver.” The boy’s expression was sullen, the distinctive turn of his lips clearly the mark of his sire, now that Alasdair knew to look.
Alasdair smiled wryly. “Aye, I know Duncan well enough. A good-hearted man he is and a strong warrior, though, indeed, he has a fondness for his ale.” He squeezed his son’s shoulders. “’Tis not the mark of a man to note another man’s weakness instead of his strength,” he said gently.
Angus hung his head. “I am sorry.”
MacIver’s son shook off Alasdair’s grip and darted away. “But your da was still snatched by the Faerie Queen!” he cried and scrambled over the rocks. “And he is never coming home to you!”
Alasdair looked to his son, not surprised to find the boy dejected. This was what he had wrought by needing to see his name clear of taint.
Alasdair squatted down beside the boy and Angus flicked a glance his way. ’Twas devoid of the dark lights that had haunted his mother’s gray eyes and Alasdair ached that such a taunt should hurt his son.
“So, Robert the Bruce is a hero and King of All Scots?” he asked.
The boy flicked an incredulous glance Alasdair’s way. “All know it to be true,” he said without the other boy’s scorn. “He defeated the British soundly at Bannockburn and my own da helped him win the day. ’Tis the only reason he went away.”
Angus’s defiance melted Alasdair’s heart. “Aye? And who might your da be?” he asked, needing to hear the words.
“Alasdair MacAulay.”
Alasdair cocked his head towards the fleeing MacIver. “Is it true what he says, then?”
“My da is a hero,” Angus insisted stubbornly. “My da helped Robert the Bruce take Edinburgh keep, my gran says ’tis so.” He took a deep breath. “My gran says not to listen to the tales of his being in league with Morgaine le Fee and using her dark arts to win the keep. Lies, they are, jealous lies!”
“Dark arts?” Alasdair asked mildly.
“Aye, a tale there is that my da shimmered so bright that the others could not look upon him, and that afterward he differed from afore.”
Alasdair frowned, seeing the seed of truth in both the tale and his own memory.
But Angus continued heatedly. “My gran says there was never a man on this isle the like of my da and I should be proud to have him as my father.” His lips tightened and he glared at Alasdair. “And I am.”
“Good for you. A man should be proud of the blood he carries in his own veins.” Alasdair ruffled the boy’s hair and Angus looked up in surprise. “But ’twould be easier to be proud if the man were here, mmm?” Alasdair murmured.
Angus looked away. “He will come home,” he insisted, but there was little conviction in his words.
Alasdair frowned down at the ground. He knew full well that if he confessed his identity now, Angus would not believe him. What proof had he for the boy, after all, beyond his own word?
But there was one who knew the truth.
“I would like to meet this gran of yours,” Alasdair suggested. “Do you think I might?”
Angus eyed the newcomer warily. “She talks only to strangers who bring news from the mainland.”
“Does she now? Well, perhaps I have some news for her.”
A spark of curiosity lit Angus’s eye and his excitement was evident in his voice. “Do you know something of my da?”
“Aye,” Alasdair admitted softly. “Aye, that I do.” When Angus might have asked, he shook a finger. “But ’tis for your gran’s ears.”
And to Alasdair’s surprise, Angus seized his hand and ran towards the path Alasdair knew so very well, as though he would rush the journey that he might know sooner. To Alasdair’s amazement, the pathway was exactly as it had been on the day he had returned here with Morgan, and Alasdair braced himself for disappointment.
But when the pair rounded the last corner of the road, the valley ahead contained precisely the three cottages that Alasdair recalled. A lean, silver-haired woman worked the earth surrounding the uppermost one and now ’twas Alasdair who encouraged his companion to run.
They raced up the valley as if they were both young boys, Angus laughing at Alasdair’s enthusiasm. Alasdair’s gran glanced up at the sound of their footsteps and for once, that woman had naught to say. Her mouth fell open, the color drained from her face and her piercing gaze faltered. Then she flushed crimson and her eyes flashed with characteristic vigor.
“Alasdair MacAulay!” she shouted, her voice echoing down the valley as she braced her hands on her hips. “Where in the devil’s name have you been?”
Angus gasped, and Alasdair could not help but laugh at his gran’s response. “Aye, you have missed me, to be sure.” His gran snorted disdain even as he scooped her up and gave her a fierce hug.
She clutched him tight, whispered his name as though she could not believe he had come home, then insisted on being put back on her feet.
Gran poked Alasdair in the shoulder, her gaze assessing. “We heard tell you were snatched away by no less than Morgaine le Fee at Edinburgh Castle.”
Alasdair sobered. “Aye. ’Tis true enough.”
His gran’s eyes narrowed, but Angus was tugging at Alasdair’s hand. “You are my da?” he demanded excitedly. “Truly?”
Alasdair hunkered down beside the boy and grinned. “Aye, that I am, lad, and I have missed you sorely all these years. You’ve grown to be quite a man while I was gone.”
Angus’s eyes glowed. “And you truly were captured by Morgaine le Fee?”
“Aye, for a deadly moment.”
For indeed, all those days and nights with Morgan seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye.
“Wait until Malcolm MacIver hears tell of this!” Angus was clearly as delighted with this wondrous tale as with his father’s return. Alasdair vowed silently that he would change that, for truly, the boy knew naught of having a sire.
“But da,” Angus asked with no less enthusiasm. “However did you win your freedom? What price did the enchantress charge to send you back?”
Alasdair laced his fingers together and stared at the ground, the fullness of his loss sweeping over him like a great wave. To the boy, ’Twas no more than a game Alasdair had played with the Faerie folk and one that Alasdair had won.
’Twas no more than another fanciful tale.
But Alasdair ached with the knowledge that his lady love was separated from him by a rift of centuries, a chasm far greater than any veil betwixt this world and the next.
He knew that he would miss her solely for all his days.
He was home, but alone as he had never been with Morgan by his side. ’Twas a dreadful price to pay, even to see his own son again. There was an ache within him that Alasdair knew would never heal.
Too late, he wished he had told his Faerie Queen of his love. Now Morgan would never know the truth of it, and that wounded Alasdair as much as the loss of her.
“’Twas a tall price I paid,” Alasdair finally managed to say hoarsely. “For the lady has kept my very heart for her own.”
“Cor!” Angus’s eyes went big and round. He grinned, then ran off, all legs and boundless enthusiasm, as his sire watched, no doubt to tell his friends of Alasdair’s return.
When Alasdair straightened, he met his gran’s bright, steady gaze. She studied him for a long moment, then turned away with some excuse of fetching him a meal, the light in her eyes leaving Alasdair to wonder how much she had guessed of the truth.
He stood alone a
nd surveyed the valley he had long called his home, a view so nearly the same as the one he had shared with Morgan. And Alasdair wondered if he would ever look at the world without being reminded of her.
*
Morgan stood on the porch of the Rose Cottage Bed-and-Breakfast and waved at the retreating Nissan Micra. She caught a last glimpse of Justine’s hand waving madly and bit her lip as the little car disappeared over the crest of the hill.
It felt as though a part of her had slipped away. It was a much smaller part than the big chunk of her heart that had disappeared with Alasdair, but still Morgan suddenly felt very alone.
She and Justine had talked all through the night, and Justine’s insistence that Alasdair loved Morgan still rang in the younger sister’s ears. Trust Justine to take in stride the fact that Alasdair had traveled across seven centuries. Nothing could ruffle her sister, Morgan knew it.
Just the thought made her smile a little bit.
Justine was certain – as Justine was always certain – that Morgan should do whatever she had to do to be with Alasdair. But Morgan wasn’t so sure.
What if Justine was wrong?
Because the simple fact was that although Alasdair had said a lot of wonderful things, he had never said that he loved Morgan.
Plus she knew he loved Fenella.
To Morgan’s immense relief, even Blake had remembered Alasdair after they had checked the fate of the regalia in everyone’s tour books. But it had been a struggle for Justine and Blake to recall him, and Morgan ached to see Alasdair so easily forgotten.
In fact, no one else at the bed-and-breakfast had any memory at all of his presence. Robert the Bruce was a hero again, Bannockburn had been the site of a winning Scottish independence, there had been a recent referendum over establishing a Scottish National Assembly, and Sir Walter Scott was back in the books where he belonged. There was even a picture of the regalia in Morgan’s guidebook, complete with a quartz crystal mounted between the gold porpoises.
It was as though Alasdair had never appeared in their time. But Morgan’s aching heart knew the truth, and she hoped that Alasdair’s return had made a similar difference in the fate of his son.
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