Claire Delacroix (3 page)

Now, it seemed almost a joke to remember her conviction that a leisurely vacation would solve everything. She
had
talked Blake and Justine into taking a vacation they would never get around to booking themselves, but victory had ended early.

Morgan looked longingly towards the city below, wishing she could escape the Scottish Invasion, as she had come to call it, and wander through Edinburgh on her own.

As though he had heard her thoughts, Blake Macdonald wound his way back to her, Justine trailing behind. He leaned toward the sisters and spoke in a low voice, tapping his perfectly sharp pencil on his Day-Timer as he checked his watch.

“It’s eleven-oh-nine. This tour should be finished by half past the hour. We’ll have an early lunch here in the castle so we don’t have to pay admission again to hear the one o’clock gun.”

Justine walked her fingertips up her husband’s arm. “Then, we could go back to the bed-and-breakfast for a couple of hours to relax before dinner,” she suggested with a provocative smile.

Finally! At least something was going to plan! And Morgan could have some time to herself. Three was definitely a crowd when conception was on the agenda.

“Great idea,” Morgan concurred. The tour guide cleared his throat and eyed them sternly.

Blake frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous, Justine. There’s not enough daylight in this country to risk wasting any of it. Besides” - he consulted his notes while the women exchanged a glance of exasperation – “we can zip down High Street and make the last tour of Holyrood House before teatime.”

“Then, we’ll go back to the room and put our feet up?” Justine suggested more gently.

Blake shook his head. “We
have
to have high tea at this hotel on Princes Street, Justine. All the books say so. Then, we’ll wander down to the Grassmarket...”

Trust an accountant to make every moment count, Morgan thought mutinously. She had an idea that Blake’s understanding of “wandering through the Grassmarket” would differ enormously from her own.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, take a look down the rock wall of Edinburgh Castle,” their kilted guide instructed in his brisk brogue. The band of tourists looked as bidden and Blake craned his neck to see.

Morgan, though, tipped her head back and watched the Scottish flag - the white cross of St. Andrew on a pale blue field - flutter overhead against the azure sky.

She closed her eyes, dismissed the real world, and thought of medieval pennants and banners flying above fairy tale turrets. In her mind’s eye, Morgan saw knights in shining armor, riding proud-stepping horses with ribbons braided in their manes.

“It was here in March of 1314 that a small band scaled the rock, then entered a hidden passageway,” the guide declared. “That night, they easily routed the English and reclaimed the keep in the name of Robert the Bruce.”

The guide rolled the “r” of the Scottish hero’s name with gusto. “Not four months later, the English were soundly defeated at the Battle of Bannockburn. If you visit Stirling Castle, the battlefield and site of the reclamation of Scottish independence is not to be missed.”

The guide cleared his throat. “As many of you may have heard, there was a referendum this month in Scotland. The Scottish people voted overwhelmingly in favor of re-establishing a Scottish National Assembly. This will effectively make Scotland an independent nation by the turn of the millennium, bringing the legacy of Robert the Bruce full circle yet again.”

Morgan did not have to look to know that Blake was scribbling a notation in his Day-Timer. No doubt, they would soon be bundled into their teeny rental car and headed for Stirling.

Blake flipped to a map of Scotland, frowned, then whispered confidently to Justine. “Up at six, out by seven, we could be in Stirling and tour the castle before lunch tomorrow. We
have
to go to Bannockburn!”

He tapped his pencil decisively. “We’ll do Bannockburn in the afternoon - it probably has an interpretative center - hmmm...we could still make Perth for dinner.”

“Blake!” Justine murmured through her teeth with a pointed glance to her sister. She dropped her voice, but Morgan still heard her words. “How will Morgan meet anyone if you keep rushing us on?”

Blake blinked owlishly at Morgan, clearly not having considered this side of things. Morgan shrugged, assuming her sister was talking about the research for her book.

It was to be a children’s volume of Scottish fairy tales, one that Morgan would both compile and illustrate. The book was destined to be part of a new hardback series and, with luck, she could be entrusted with further volumes.

Morgan hoped to collect some unusual stories on site, but she didn’t think Edinburgh was the place to do that. “I don’t need to meet anyone here,” she said. “In fact, the smaller towns will be better for finding folktales.”

Blake grinned once more. “See? No problem. Stirling in the morning, then.” He snapped his notebook closed and nodded with the conviction of a man who has just successfully settled a dispute.

Justine exhaled in a way that told Morgan there
was
a problem and that Blake’s thinking on the issue would shortly be straightened out.

The guide cleared his throat portentously. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we shall return to the keep proper and descend into the vaults.” The older man, in full dress of the Sutherland Highlanders, turned a corner smartly and summoned his brood of sightseers with a flick of his wrist.

“These vaults date from the sixteen century and are best remembered for their use as prisons for foreign prisoners of war in the late seventeen century. If you look carefully, you will see initials carved by the prisoners, mostly Frenchmen, in the very walls during their incarceration...”

Blake clicked his teeth. “Nothing like a little gory detail,” he whispered in his terrible imitation of a Scottish accent. He winked and trotted behind the group, alert and attentive. Justine raised a slender eyebrow and singled out a man from the group with a glance.

“
He
keeps looking at you,” she whispered. “He’s alone and he’s cute. Why don’t you hang behind and see what happens?” Justine winked conspiratorially and sailed after Blake.

Morgan didn’t even look at the man in question.

Nor did she follow the tour.

Now she understood who Justine expected her to meet! But Justine
knew
! Morgan fumed silently, then pivoted and stalked to the outer wall of the keep. She wanted no part of anyone’s matchmaking schemes and Justine, of all people, should know why!

Oh, now Morgan saw the signs she had ignored. How often had Justine “accidentally” invited one of Blake’s coworkers - always a
male
coworker - over while Morgan was there? How often had the sisters “bumped into” an old friend who just happened to be a single man while they shopped together? An old friend who just happened to be a single man.

Morgan gritted her teeth. Trust Justine to have a scheme of her own! Trust Justine to think she knew best!

There were moments when being the younger sister was a distinct disadvantage. Morgan glared out over the city, certain she could happily live out her life without having her older sister - or that woman’s husband - try to improve it.

Morgan was never going to be dumb enough to get involved with a man again and that was that.

A crisp wind made her jacket snap and tousled her hair, as she looked down on the city of Edinburgh arrayed in the dappled sunlight. The sounds of the city that rose to her ears were so muted that they might have been passing through a layer of cotton batting.

She was alone, as she hadn’t been since coming to Scotland, and slowly her usual even temper returned. It was easy to forget Justine’s meddling and Blake’s organizing with a view like this. Morgan took a deep breath and studied the maze of streets below as the tension eased from her shoulders.

This was the Scotland she had come to see.

Edinburgh was unspeakably old and deliciously romantic. Mist still clung to the distant valleys, which Morgan could see but not name. Down below was a labyrinth of countless nooks and alleys, little passageways that led to secret courtyards and hidden doorways. Wrought-iron signs creaked in the wind and lace curtains fluttered from opened casement windows. Morgan eyed the way the fortress walls rose steeply from the rock face and deliberately let her imagination take flight.

What secrets did these heavy old stone walls keep locked within themselves? What great plays of power had they witnessed? Had lovers once trysted in that alley below? There must be a dozen ghosts rattling through these old stone corridors.

She stared down the rocky outcropping and remembered the guide’s words. What kind of men had scaled this rock face? The artist within Morgan painted a starry night in her mind’s eye and a luminous moon riding high above the determined silhouettes of the climbing men.

Rough men, and strong, in kilts that showed their legs to advantage. Their faces would be somber with determination. Maybe one would carry the blue-and-white flag they intended to plant atop the high tower, another would glance down in apprehension. Dangerously gleaming dirks would be clenched in their teeth for the battle that awaited them at the summit.

Morgan shivered with delight. The past was always more romantic than the present. She tried to put her brother-in-law in the ranks of the rebels and laughed aloud. They might have had accountants in the fourteenth century, but Blake would have been lost without his Day-Timer.

Morgan strolled toward a small tower, letting her fingers skip across the old gray stone. A sunbeam danced amid the shadows inside the tower room, the narrow band of light creeping through an arrow slit.

The narrow vertical opening would frame a perfect picture of the city. Far, far below, thousands of daffodils were blooming in the park alongside Princes Street, the memorial to Sir Walter Scott rising in dark Gothic splendor from the midst of the flowers. On the other side of the street, the bright awnings above the shop windows fluttered in the morning breeze.

Perfect. There were even red double-decker buses cruising along the street at intervals. If she timed it just right...

Morgan studied the Polaroid camera that Blake had declared “idiot-proof - a label Morgan had already challenged twice - making sure she wasn’t going to waste another shot.

Just as Morgan raised the viewfinder to her eye and a bus slid into the perfect place, somebody moaned.

Morgan froze. Was her vivid imagination playing tricks with her?

The moan came again, echoing from below.

Ghosts?

Once more she heard it, this time a very human sound of pain. Morgan’s eyes grew used to the shadows and she saw the stairs within the slender tower.

“Hello?” Morgan peeked down the stairs, but could not see their end.

“Oh, my bleeding head,” a man muttered, as though he hadn’t heard her.

Blood? He must have fallen and hurt himself!

Maybe she could help. The stairs were tightly curled and narrow - it was easy enough to see how someone could have lost his footing.

“Are you all right?” Morgan called out, starting down the stairs.

The only answer was another very miserable moan.

Morgan looked back over her shoulder, but there was no one in sight. She couldn’t leave him if he was bleeding! Morgan gripped the rail and descended purposefully.

She found a man sprawled on the floor, cradling his head, but there was absolutely no sign of blood.

He looked as though he had stepped right out of her imagination. Morgan froze and gaped.

His hair was a dark gold, his hands were strong and deeply tanned. He was wearing a kilt and Morgan understood for the first time how masculine a garment it was. His legs were superbly muscled, tanned and dusted with golden hair.

Second glance showed, however, that he was less fastidiously attired than most of the men in kilts Morgan had seen since her arrival. In fact, even calling his a kilt was a loose usage of the term. It was plaid, woven in earthy hues of green and deep red, shot with the occasional line of white, but wasn’t pleated with anything close to perfection.

It looked like he had just wound it around his waist and tossed the end over his shoulder. It was far from pressed and more than a bit dirty. His lace-up boots were encrusted with mud and he had shoved his linen shirtsleeves up to the elbow, revealing tanned, muscular forearms.

All the same, he was the most assertively masculine man Morgan had seen in a long time. The little tingle within her that had been in exile came awake with a vengeance.

He glanced up and impaled Morgan with a bright blue glance, a slow smile stealing over his firm lips.

The tingle became a roar.

“Well, well, well,” he mused in voice as languid as honey in the sun. “I have not seen you about before.”

The intensity of that look stole anything Morgan might have said right from her mouth. He could not have been called a handsome man, but he had a rugged appeal, even with several days’ growth of beard.

Perhaps because of it.

Certainly there was the air of the rogue about him. And Morgan knew plenty about rogues. She took a cautious step back.

His jaw was solidly square, his nose had a kink in it that told Morgan he had lost one fight in his life, and a long-healed scar graced his cheek. Morgan found herself wondering just what kind of troublemaker he was.

But his eyes blazed blue with breathtaking intensity. His slow smile made Morgan feel feminine and incredibly desirable.

Even Matt had never looked at her like this.

Morgan had a weird certainty that this man wouldn’t do anything by half-measures and her skin tingled at the prospect. She realized with sudden clarity exactly how long it had been since a man had touched her.

To the minute.

His gaze danced openly over her dark green tights and hiking boots, lingered with some puzzlement on her purple Polartec fleece and green Gore-Tex jacket, then lighted on her face with what could only have been astonishment.