Claire Delacroix (13 page)

Justine, unashamed of her curiosity, followed and closed the door behind them. She immediately noticed the open sketchbook on the desk but tried to look as if she hadn’t.

“Sure. If you pick what you’re wearing, I’ll pack the rest of your stuff. Then we can have breakfast together.” Justine gave her sister a pointed glance. “This is a vacation, after all.”

“Right. How could I forget?” Before Justine could interpret that, Morgan yawned luxuriously. “I guess I can nap in the car.” She peeled off her dress, plucked leggings and a sweater from her bag, then padded into the en suite bathroom.

Justine felt a teensy-weensy twinge of guilt as she unfolded her sister’s suitcase on the bed. Were they running at too quick a pace for Morgan?

But then, if she had her way, Morgan would never get very far at all. Justine frowned at the jumbled contents of the bag and set to work reorganizing everything. “When did you go to sleep?” she called out.

“I don’t know. I remember seeing the sun come up.”

An all-nighter. Justine was itching to see the product of her sister’s work, but she knew Morgan didn’t like people looking at sketches before they were done. And she couldn’t tell by Morgan’s manner whether she was pleased with the work or not. The shower began to run as Justine folded and packed with surgical precision.

Only when her sister had disappeared into the show stall did Justine dare to step over to the desk. Three pages were scattered there, each one covered with Morgan’s trademark whimsical drawings.

Justine glanced guiltily toward the bathroom. She could hear Morgan humming some tune in the shower.

So she bent closer to look.

And caught her breath at the myriad little fairy faces peeking out mischievously from behind leaves and nodding flowers. The first page was titled “Thomas Rhymer” – this lanky man who had a passing resemblance to Blake must be Thomas himself. In one corner was a woman of such ethereal beauty that she could only be a fairy queen. Her horse was dressed with ribbons and pacing impatiently, her own wings as gossamer fine and iridescent as those of a dragonfly.

Justine was so engrossed that she didn’t hear the shower stop.

“Oh! You found them.”

Justine pivoted, one of Morgan’s clean T-shirts clutched against her chest. “Morgan, they’re gorgeous!” she declared before her sister could say anything. “These are more beautiful than any of your work I’ve seen before.”

Morgan glanced down, typically modest of her abilities, and smiled. “They are, aren’t they?”

“They’re absolutely wonderful. So, who’s this Thomas Rhymer?”

Her sister, characteristically, flushed, and even the way she fussed with pulling on her sweater couldn’t hide it. “He was a poet who said he had been captured by the Queen of Elfland. He kissed her and was imprisoned by her for seven years in her kingdom.”

“Wow.” Justine turned back to the magical drawings with fascination. The longer she looked, the more details she seemed to notice. “Just the kind of story you wanted to find.”

Morgan’s flush deepened as she crossed the room. “Yes,” she admitted, then hastily gathered the drawings together. “Look, these aren’t done...”

“I know, I know, you’d prefer not to have me ogling them.” Justine stepped out of the way, watching her sister carefully slide the drawings into a portfolio. Morgan’s high color and the silence that descended told Justine there was something important she had missed.

And she immediately guessed what it was.

Justine leaned a hip against the desk with apparent idleness and fixed Morgan with a look designed to worm confessions out of war criminals. “So, who told you about Thomas Rhymer?”

Morgan flushed crimson.

Blake had been right!

Morgan’s attempt to shrug off the question didn’t fool Justine. “Alasdair told me.”

“Really?” Justine forced her tone to remain calm even though she was gleeful inside. “So you did stay at the restaurant, after all.” She ran a finger down the desk. “Did you have a nice dessert?”

“No, well, no, we didn’t actually stay.” Morgan shuffled her feet, the very image of a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Even better – they had adjourned to more romantic surroundings.

“Alasdair took you somewhere else?” Justine asked. “Where did you go? Some nice little coffee bar?”

“Well, um, no.”

Justine had a sudden feeling that things hadn’t gone perfectly according to plan. She impaled her sister with a look that commanded a full accounting.

Morgan, tellingly, examined her toes. “Actually, we argued and I, uh, left the restaurant alone.”

Alone?

“You took a cab?” Justine’s tone was icy.

“No, I couldn’t get one.”

“Morgan, tell me that you didn’t walk alone!” Justine flung out her hands when her sister shrugged and stalked across the room, hating that Morgan could make her so very angry.

And that only when her baby sister showed no care for her own safety. Honestly, sometimes she felt as though Morgan needed a full-time keeper!

“How many times have I told you that you just can’t count on the world being a safe place? We’re not living in Disneyland, you know. Even though Scotland has Old World charm by the tone, this isn’t the old world anymore...”

“Justine, it was fine.”

Justine felt her eyes narrow with suspicion as she turned to Morgan again. There was more to this story than she was hearing, that was for sure. “
Nothing
happened?”

Morgan shuffled her feet. “Well, it might have if Alasdair hadn’t followed me.”

Anger coursed through Justine, relief quick on its heels. To hide her response, she turned to finish the packing, her gestures quick and efficient.

Had Alasdair appointed himself Morgan’s keeper?

The thought appealed to Justine. “I like him better and better all the time,” she restrained herself to saying.

That seemed to snap Morgan to attention.

“Justine! He stole the crystal from the regalia, and I have it. He wants it back. Obviously he wants me to trust him and will do anything to make me let down my guard.”

Morgan flung out her hands in exasperation, but it was hard for Justine to take her seriously when she was wearing no more than Calvin Klein briefs and a sweater. “Don’t you get it? He’s a con man! He probably set the whole thing up so he could pretend to rescue me!”

Justine treated her sister to her most skeptical glanced. “And this con job – that would be the one to get back a crystal that only you remember seeing anywhere other than in your purse – would it also explain why he’s waiting for you?”

“What?” Morgan’s eyes widened in alarm. “He’s waiting for me? Where?”

Justine nodded toward the window and Morgan peeked through the curtains. She jumped back as though the sight burned her. “He’s out there!”

“Of course, he’s out there.” Justine was calm again. “He
likes
you – despite the way you treat him.”

“Justine! What am I going to do?” Morgan paced wildly, more nervous than Justine had seen her in quite a while.

Which could only be a good sign. Justine folded with authority, her composure restored, and made short work of the rest of the packing.

“You’re going to go down there and invite him in for breakfast,” she said firmly.

Morgan paled. “I am not!”

“You are so.” Justine spun to confront her sister and let her voice drop to a threat. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

“You can’t. Don’t you get it? He’s a con artist!”

Justine rolled her eyes. “Oh, Morgan, stop it. Not every guy on the face of the earth is like Matt.” She shook her head, closing the suitcase with a decisive snap, and swung it off the bed. “Thank God for small mercies.”

Morgan got her Stubborn Look, but Justine would not be swayed.

She propped her hands on her hips. “Morgan, let’s look at the facts. Your suspicions to the contrary, Alasdair has been nothing but a perfect gentleman. He even made sure you got back here all right. Now, go on down there and invite him in – it can’t hurt to find out what he wants.”

Morgan sighed and frowned as she shoved one hand through the thickness of her hair. “He said he just wants to go home.”

Justine heard the wistfulness in her sister’s tone and knew that Morgan wasn’t as immune to the highlander’s charm as she’d like everyone to believe.

Which was the most promising sign of healing that Justine had seen in years. She liked that Alasdair was protective of her baby sister and also that he wasn’t afraid to wear his own heart on his sleeve.

The man definitely had promise.

“Well, maybe we’ll just have to take him there,” Justine declared in her most decisive tone. “It doesn’t look like he has a lot of cash on his hands. Ask him for breakfast and we’ll find out where his home is.”

“But Blake has an itinerary...”

“Blake will get over it. It’s about time his planning had a rest.”

“But Justine...”

“But
nothing
.” Justine let herself smile as she tried another tack. “You know, if we got off Blake’s itinerary, we just might end up in some wonderfully romantic little hamlet, maybe in a castle turned into a hotel. Wouldn’t it be lovely?”

Justine waited a heartbeat, then sighed with mock disappointment. “No, you’re right, of course. We should follow Blake’s plans. After all, he might get all amorous if we ended up in a place like that, and you’d be left to fend for yourself. That would be a horrible shame, especially since we’re all on vacation together.”

She shrugged, commandeered the suitcase, and headed for the door. “Forget I said anything. Let’s have breakfast. Where did Blake say we were going today? Scone Palace, I think.”

Morgan muttered something unrepeatable under her breath. “All right. All right! I’ll ask him,” she declared with obvious irritation. “But don’t blame me if you’re wrong.”

Justine was never wrong.

Well, except for that one time.

She grinned as Morgan dressed hastily, then slammed the door to the room behind herself. She liked seeing her sister this bothered about including the highlander in their plans.

It could only bode well for Justine’s scheme.

Blake, just now lugging their own bag out of their room, arched a brow and glanced between spouse and sister. “Problem?”

Justine’s smile widened. “Not at all. Everything is going to be just fine.”

Blake grinned. “Always is when you’re in charge.”

And he was right. Justine had, after all, made a science of knowing best.

* * *

Chapter Six

Alasdair spent a night tormented by the comparisons between his own troubles and those of Thomas Rhymer. To be certain, it could be no coincidence that particular tale of his gran’s - out of ranks of thousands – had come to his lips last eve.

Had he condemned himself to seven years’ imprisonment in the land of Faerie with a single kiss? That it had been an embrace of rare power was beyond doubt, for the heat of Morgaine’s salute had fairly melted his bones.

And True Thomas, ’twas said, had believed himself gone only seven nights upon his return to Erceldoune, though truly seven years had passed. It had been but one day since Alasdair found himself in this fey world - at least to his mind.

Could an entire year have already passed in the land of mortals? Alasdair’s heart twisted that his gran should believe him dead.

Or worse, that he had abandoned his only son.

Alasdair sighed and glared at the sorceress’s window, hating how a moment of whimsy had so meddled with his life. There were those, he well knew, who did not even win a respite after seven years, but were trapped in Faerie for all eternity.

Surely this could not be his fate?

The enchantress erupted from her abode just when Alasdair was convinced matters could get no worse. Her sour expression bode naught good, to Alasdair’s mind. Garbed in green and gold she was this morning, as fresh as a new blade of grass, her hair bouncing in a dark cloud behind her shoulders.

Yet for all her poor temper, the woman was sufficiently beguiling to tempt a response from Alasdair’s treacherous flesh. Everything tightened within him as she cut a path directly toward him and he could think only of her lusty kiss.

He knew ’twas no more than a deception, for his gran’s tales were filled with the marvels of Faerie folk making their own shapes. ’Twas a dark magic Morgaine summoned to delve into Alasdair’s mind that she might design herself to fascinate him.

He felt no more clever than a fly, stumbling into an artfully baited web, while the crafty spider lingered in the shadows, awaiting her prey.

But such whimsy would win him naught! Alasdair pushed to his feet and shoved one hand through his hair, determined to face this conflict squarely.

“Justine insists that I invite you for breakfast,” Morgaine declared without sparing him a greeting. Her green eyes were shadowed with displeasure and her lips drawn to a tight line that belied their usual ripe fullness. “And so I am.”

Alasdair was so surprised that she granted the advisor’s counsel such weight - never mind that the advisors evidently still supported his own cause - that he held his tongue.

She grimaced. “Because if I don’t, she’ll do it anyway. That’s how Justine is.”

Alasdair absorbed this amazing piece of information. What would any ruler have to say of an advisor who did whatsoever he or she desired? ’Twas unthinkable!

Yet even more pressing to Alasdair’s mind was the fact that Morgaine’s opinion of him did not seem to have improved over the night. Had he won no esteem for recounting a tale that evidently intrigued her?

Morgaine wagged a warning finger at Alasdair, dashing any hope he might have had. “But don’t get any ideas that I like you or anything. And don’t think for a minute that I’ve forgotten the kind of man you are. You certainly aren’t going to get that crystal from me, so don’t even try.”

’Twas more than clear that Alasdair’s charm had won him naught in Morgaine’s eyes.

He cleared his throat and tried to show himself as respectful of her powers. “I mean no offense, my lady.”

Morgaine folded her arms across her chest, pushing the curves of her breasts to surprising prominence beneath her loose garb, and Alasdair’s slumbering desire roared to life.