Claire Delacroix (39 page)

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 frequently 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.”

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.”