Claire Delacroix (30 page)

“’Tis not an ignoble impulse.”

“No.” Blake smiled wryly. “But when we got home, the phone was ringing and it was Morgan. She was at a hotel, said she’d been there a week and a half, that she’d left Matt and wasn’t going back. Well, Justine flat out said she couldn’t stay at the hotel, that she had to come and live with us. Morgan argued, but we all knew she’d lose that one.

“So, we went and picked her up, and man, she was upset. She was pale and had lost some weight, one sad little lady. Never said anything more about the whole thing, though. I know Justine asked, but for the first time ever, Morgan completely stonewalled her. Justine couldn’t figure out why she’d waited so long to call, but Morgan wasn’t talking.”

“You have an idea.”

“I sure do.” Blake gritted his teeth and looked Alasdair in the eye. “I think Morgan was waiting for a bruise to fade.”

What Blake saw simmering in the other man’s eyes confirmed every suspicion about Matt’s behavior that he had ever had. He’d been right! And that made Blake feel damn good about what he had done for Morgan.

“Finally, she said that she wanted a divorce. Justine didn’t even have a chance to give me a look – I wanted to make sure everything went Morgan’s way. So, I called this buddy of mine from college, who just happens to be the meanest goddamn divorce lawyer you’ve ever seen.” Blake straightened and mimicked his friend’s formal manner. “Peter Ellis Thompson III.”

Blake rolled his glass between his hands and let himself smile slowly in recollection. He’d been right there on Pete’s shoulder throughout the whole thing, prodding him to go for blood. “You know, money may just be a way of keeping score, but it’s a damned good one. Pete carved that boy a new asshole so big you could drive a Mack truck through it.”

Alasdair looked slightly alarmed by this revelation, but Blake wasn’t ashamed of the toll that he’d ensured would be extracted from the other man’s hide. He pointed a finger at his companion. “The important thing was that Morgan had herself a nice little nest egg, which was well worth Pete’s bill. She never knew how much that was, because I paid Pete before he could even think about sending a bill to her.

“So, Morgan got herself a cute studio loft not far from our place and started over again. She and Justine had a little nesting frenzy decorating that place. And when Morgan wanted to start her own business, she had the money to fall back on while she built up her contacts. She’s done really well for herself.”

Alasdair cleared his throat. “And once this Matthew was buggered and penniless, what became of him?”

Blake knew he didn’t imagine the undercurrent of anger in the other man’s tone. Alasdair was protective of Morgan, and Blake silently conceded that this was the man for his sister-in-law.

Justine had been right.

As usual.

He shrugged now, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, it’s funny but things didn’t go so well at his agency after that. He and Morgan moved in the same circles, you know, and people like Morgan. There was a well-deserved feeling that he hadn’t treated her right, and when he lost a lot of business, they turfed him out. Eventually, he moved out west to start over again. We’ve never heard anything more.”

Alasdair nodded approval, his expression fierce. “An outlander. ’Tis a finer fate than such a deserves.”

“That’s for sure.”

“French fries!” cried the waitress, and Blake quickly drained his beer.

“Gotta go.” He got to his feet, then cocked a finger at Alasdair, his tone only half joking. “Hey, don’t make me send Pete after you.”

Alasdair smiled. “There is little chance of that. Morgaine believes I am cut from the same cloth as this foul man and fears to trust me.”

Blake leaned on the table. “You can’t really blame her for being cautious, can you? And you’re not like him, anyone can see that. It’s only a matter of time before Morgan sees it, too.”

Alasdair glanced up, a heat burning in his eyes. “Aye, you speak aright, Blake Advisor. Your counsel is good.”

He got to his feet and finished his water in one swallow, setting the glass back on the table with a thump of resolve. “I shall prove to Morgaine that I am different. I shall prove to her that I can be trusted. I shall prove to her that I am worthy of sliding between her thighs!”

Blake blinked at the bluntness of that statement, but Alasdair had turned away. He strode to the door, the very image of masculine confidence, and Blake couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t sound silly after such a pronouncement.

So, he went to get Justine’s french fries instead.

And wondered whether that would prove him worthy of sliding between her thighs.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Room 7 was ominously quiet, but the door was unlocked. Alasdair nudged it open with his toe, wincing when the hinges creaked slightly.

But the sorceress slumbering on the bed did not stir.

Alasdair crept into her lair on silent feet, closing the door securely behind himself. The room was filled with the soft rhythm of her breathing. The last rays of sunlight slanted orange through the windows and gilded the edges of the papers spread on the table.

Curious, Alasdair went to look, then gaped in amazement.

Pages of intricate, fanciful drawings spilled across the surface. Script rolled between the images, evidently some verse written in an elegant hand.

’Twas like the great illuminated Bible that the monks consulted and had shown Alasdair once when he was but a boy. He reached out as though he would touch the script, but fearful of smudging it, ran his hand a finger’s breadth above the page.

And let himself feel the fullness of his old longing to read.

Alasdair swallowed and bent closer, examining the elfin faces peering from behind leaf and blossom. His heart leapt in recognition of a woman who could only be the lovely Jenny, her hair flowing long, her hand cupping the fullness of her womb as she waited at a crossroads beneath a starry sky.

And here! Here was Tam Lin himself, his bonnet cocked, his white steed prancing beneath him as he rode among the Faerie host, his gaze straining ahead as he sought some glimpse of his beloved Jenny. Alasdair sat down and bent over the page, smiling as he identified countless details of the tale he had told Morgaine.

’Twas clear the words were those he had sung to her. And on the right were the embracing lovers, Tam Lin brilliantly shown in contortions of change, Jenny stoically holding him fast, the Faerie Queen’s lovely face twisted with malice.

And there they rode together, the moon hanging low over the victorious lovers, their limbs entwined, their faces shining with happiness.

Alasdair stared long at the marvel of this work, then carefully laid it aside. Beneath were several pages recounting the tale of Thomas Rhymer, he recognized it immediately. And half completed to one side was a sketch that could only be the tale of Robert the Bruce, contemplating the spider, then standing before a radiant Isobel of Buchan as she set the crown upon his brow.

But Alasdair’s fingers continually strayed to the words he could not read. His gran’s voice echoed in his ears, admonishing him to recall his station, but even knowing his place was to sow and to fight could not dispel Alasdair’s desire. The monks had seen the urge in him, he realized now, which was why they had been so welcoming to him.

His gran had undoubtedly feared her wee lamb would go to the church, leaving her to fend for herself.

Alasdair’s lips twisted. Indeed, he had gone much farther, leaving his gran no less alone in his quest to aid Robert the Bruce. And with a squawling babe, as well.

Alasdair glanced guiltily to the sorceress, recalling well how her eyes had burned with her own desire for a child. She had wanted the child for its own sake - yet put her own wishes aside when she feared her home would not be adequate for that child’s happiness.

Alasdair was ashamed to realize that his own motivation had been markedly less noble. He had desired an heir, a child to carry his name, a son who would grow to become a warrior straight and true.

He had never considered whether Angus would be happy or not. The boy was his son, his responsibility, and the honor of Alasdair’s name - or lack thereof - a weight upon Angus’s shoulders. Alasdair wanted to ensure his son could walk tall, but in his zeal to correct an error, he saw that he had lost the child.

If indeed Alasdair made his way home successfully, Angus would not know him. Nor would he know Angus, unless the child strongly resembled Fenella or himself, though that would at best be a guess.

For the first time, he questioned the wisdom of the choice he had made seven years past. Indeed, Alasdair had never expected the conquest to take so long. And at the time, with rumors of his dishonor ringing in his ears, it seemed he had had no choice.

But now, Alasdair wondered. He had missed seven years of his son’s life. Morgaine’s fervor made him see the gold that had slipped through his fingers.

But what manner of sorceress yearned so for a child? Could Morgaine not have simply summoned one from her cauldron?

Alasdair stood back with a frown and looked between drawings and sorceress. Morgaine, he well recalled, denied that she was an enchantress and beneath the current assault of doubts, Alasdair dared to give credence to her words while she slept.

Her right hand lay unfurled before her on the bed and he took due note of the smudges upon her fingers and the heel of her hand. They were of the same grey as the drawings themselves. And she slept like one exhausted by their efforts.

Alasdair frowned. A powerful enchantress like Morgaine le Fee need do no such labor to summon images.

He wondered whether Morgaine had told him the truth. She had said she was an artist, that she illustrated books, that she was not the Queen of Faerie.

Alasdair rubbed his chin. A sorceress had no need to labor with her own hands. A sorceress had no need of a protective Auntie Gillian - nor even a sister or brother-in-law. A sorceress had no need of a spouse - especially one like this Matthew James Reilly. A sorceress need not long for anything, for all was within her power to concoct.

And a sorceress would not need an advocate to extoll the pound of flesh due for indignities rendered to her. Indeed, could any man smite a sorceress and live to tell the tale, even as an outlander?

Nay, Morgaine’s tale sounded all too mortal for her to be a great sorceress. Her impulses were all too human - her sympathy for the plight of others, her compassion, her concern. The vulnerability that oft shone in her eyes belied Alasdair’s original conclusion.

Though indeed, were she a mortal woman, Morgaine was a woman beyond compare.

Alasdair frowned. What if she
had
told him the truth? He paced the room silently, glaring out the window at intervals while he puzzled the matter through. Could the witch in Edinburgh have sent him forward in time, as Morgaine suggested?

’Twas a numbing proposition, but Alasdair could find naught to refute it, beyond the basic lunacy of the idea. The world certainly could have changed markedly in seven hundred years, perhaps even as markedly as this. His heart clenched as he recalled one assertion Morgaine had made.

Alasdair’s travelling in time had vastly changed the course for Robert the Bruce. ’Twas true enough that Blake certainly had no esteem for the man Alasdair knew to be a hero.

But what could have happened? Alasdair fought to recall every detail of that night in Edinburgh - he must have disappeared when he fell down the stairs. And what then?

Could it be that the men had not held the keep without his leadership? Alasdair suddenly felt cold and he paced with renewed vigor. His only dream had been to see Angus grow to manhood with a name he was proud to call his own, in a Scotland free from England’s heavy yoke.

Had Alasdair unwittingly jeopardized that dream by taking a wee witch’s dare?

’Twas madness! ’Twas impossible for a man to travel across seven centuries in the blink of an eye!

But Alasdair had a strange conviction dawning within his heart that that was precisely what had happened.

Though ’twas not a conclusion he could accept readily. Still his gran’s tales echoed within his mind and though Alasdair had never been a fanciful man, they made more sense to him than this wild tale of Morgaine’s.

Alasdair wondered whether he simply took refuge in the familiar and grimaced. How would he ever know the truth for certain?

Then the certainty dawned in his heart. Blake and Justine had pledged to take him home, back to Callanish. And in Callanish, Alasdair would know the truth.

Naught could lie to him there. In Callanish, he would know. His gran would be there, his son, his home, his livestock.

Or they would not.

Alasdair swallowed with difficulty at the possibility.

What if he could
not
return home? What if he had sacrificed not only seven years with Angus, but all eternity? Too late, he saw the value of what he had left behind and desperately wanted to set matters aright.

If only he could have the chance.

Morgaine stirred and Alasdair spun to face the bed. His heart softened as he watched her sleep, for if she spoke aright, she was no Faerie Queen. Alasdair frowned as he considered his behavior of the past day and could not blame Morgaine for defending herself from his amorous plans.

But ’twas a different matter, to seduce a woman of good heart and abandon her, than to win the way to a sorceress’s bed and earn her indulgence. The chance that Morgaine spoke aright demanded that Alasdair abandon his plan to seduce her, though indeed, he had no alternate plan.

At least not until he saw the isle of Lewis with his own eyes.

Alasdair rubbed his brow tiredly. He eyed the wide expanse of bed beside Morgaine and could not bring himself to retreat to his cot. The light had faded in the room as the sun slipped behind the hills and Alasdair let exhaustion slip through his body.

Never had he felt so alone in all his days as he did in this moment. Cast across the centuries, beyond the reach of any he knew and uncertain how to repair matters, Alasdair was in dire need of the warmth of another beside him.