Claire Delacroix (40 page)

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 and 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.

There had be something good about losing him.

When the sound of the car’s engine had faded from earshot and the silence of the hills pressed against her ears, Morgan felt as though she had decided much more than to stay on and work on her drawings here. It seemed so final, watching the last shred of the life she knew drive away.

At the same time, she was afraid to take a chance on the love she felt for Alasdair. After all, experience had shown that she could make mistakes in affairs of the heart.

Even if she could manage to follow Alasdair, what if she was wrong?

Morgan didn’t know what to do, but she did have a lot of work in front of her. She had so many of Alasdair’s stories still to illustrate with drawings, and in one way, she couldn’t wait to start. In another way, Morgan was afraid that once she made all the drawings, the memory of Alasdair’s resonant tones would fade from her mind as they had from nearly everyone else’s.

Morgan wanted to cling to every vestige of his memory that she could.

While Morgan lingered indecisively on the porch with her jumbled emotions, Adaira came bustling through the door. On this day, she was decked out in fuschia frills. “Miss Lafayette! I can’t begin to tell you again how delighted we are that you’ve decided to stay on to work. You simply must make yourself right at home here.”

Morgan smiled. “Thank you.”

Adaira fussed with the wicker chairs, moving them incrementally, even though Morgan couldn’t see anything wrong with where they were. “It’s a pity that your sister has taken the car, though I suppose they’ll need it to get back to Edinburgh.”

Adaira snapped her fingers before Morgan could say anything. “You know, the Captain is always saying that a bit of exercise does a body good, and there
is
a bicycle in the garage, whenever you want to use it. Of course, we’d be happy to drive you anywhere when we’re out and about, but the Captain does tend to just pop off for a pint at the oddest moments...”

“Thank you,” Morgan interjected, finding the idea of a bike ride enormously appealing. “The bike will be great. Maybe I’ll go for a ride now.”

Adaira smiled sympathetically. “A bit restless, are you? I always say as it’s hard to say good-bye, though the Captain insists that partings make the gatherings all the sweeter.”

Morgan couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Adaira’s indulgent glance revealed her thinking that Morgan was all choked up about Justine’s departure.

But it was another parting that was eating a hole in Morgan’s heart. Suddenly, she had to know that her pain had gained something for someone.

She had to know that Angus had lived longer.

She had to know that losing Alasdair had been worth something.

* * *

Frances Fergusson was only too glad to see Morgan, although her cats were fairly indifferent to the whole affair. The two women talked about paints and composition for a few moments, then at Morgan’s request, they dove back into the crowded room of records.

“Here’s the box you and that Scotsman had before,” Frances declared.

Morgan’s jaw just about hit the floor. “You remember him?”

Frances’s eyes twinkled. “Now, I may be an old widow woman, my hear, but I still have eyes in my head, and he was one fine young man. A MacAulay, wasn’t he?” She clicked her teeth and opened the box, popping her bifocals onto her nose. “That ledger should be right near the top. No one’s been past since you were here.”

Morgan sat down with a thump. “But no one remembers Alasdair except me.”

Frances peered over her half-glasses. Then she smiled and gave Morgan’s hand a pat. “Well, I saw the look in the man’s eye, my dear, and you may be sure that he is remembering you, wherever he is.” Her gaze brightened as she fingered the ledger. “In fact, I would suspect that only a very, very good reason would take him away from your side.”

With that, she handed over the book and smiled. “I think I’ll put on a pot of tea just now.”

And Morgan was alone with the book that recounted the first of the MacAulays. Just holding it in her hands made her think of the day they had all three packed in her, how anxious Alasdair had been, and the enormous quantity of shortbread he had consumed. Morgan took a deep breath, blinked away her tears and opened the book.

Olaf the Black.

Ismay of Mull and Ranald MacAulay.

Angus MacAulay and Fiona Campbell.

She looked at the ceiling, then moved her hand a little lower, knowing what she would see.

Alasdair MacAulay.

His name.

Morgan ran her fingertips over the spidery black writing and hid the date of his demise with her hand. She stared at the letters until her tears blurred them beyond recognition.

Alasdair MacAulay. Just the sight of his name summoned a vision of him that was almost tangible. Alasdair was in this book, as though he had been no more real than any of the others, but Morgan had held the heat of him inside her.

And now he was lost to her forever.

Did she really want to know what the book said? What if he had died young and alone? What if he hadn’t really made if back to his own time? A tremor of fear claimed Morgan’s heart and she almost couldn’t bear to look, couldn’t bear to know. She could think of a thousand possibilities, any of which would make her deeply unhappy.

Morgan called herself a chicken, took a deep breath, and moved her hand.

d. 1322 – in noble defense of Scotland’s borders, by the side of Robert the Bruce.

But Alasdair hadn’t wanted to fight anymore! How could that be? Morgan stared at the page, and her heart stopped when she read the line immediately below.

Angus – b. 1308, d 1315.

That line hadn’t changed.

A lump rose in Morgan’s throat. How could Angus not have lived longer? Alasdair had gone back to help his son!

Had he gone back only to watch his son die? Morgan could just imagine how that would have destroyed Alasdair. He was so determined to make up for lost time, and to compensate for the time he had spent apart from his son.

Yet Angus had died. Had Alasdair even managed to see the vestige of his beloved Fenella in his son one last time? What if he had gotten there too late?

Morgan looked to Alasdair’s epitaph again and her heart clenched. Alasdair’s return to his own time had made no difference to Angus’s life. Morgan could almost feel the anguish Alasdair must have felt, to be helpless against whatever had stolen away his only son.

She scanned the listing again and saw that Ismay of Mull had died in 1320. That must have been Alasdair’s gran, the one who told so many wondrous tales and who he so avidly admired.

Everyone in his life and died, and he had been left alone.

No wonder he had gone back to war. Had Alasdair ever forgiven himself for taking that witch’s dare? Or had he gone to his grave believing that he had failed everyone around him?

What a horrible fate for a man who was so intent on upholding duty and honor.

At just the thought, Morgan buried her face in her hands and started to cry. Had Alasdair been the one to plant the briar and the rose? Could Justine be right? Had Alasdair pined away – loving her? Justine was convinced, but Morgan wasn’t quite so sure.

All the same, she hated not knowing what had happened to him, and halfway wished she hadn’t come back here.

“Now, my dear, what can be so very wrong?” Frances came back with two steaming cups of tea, concern lining her brow. “Nothing could be so bad as that, could it? After all, everything there happened ages and ages ago! Your man and you are taking it all too personal like. Have a nice hot cup of tea, my dear, and everything will seem much better.”

But Morgan just looked up at her hostess. “Why do you remember Alasdair when no one else does?”

Frances smiled sadly. “You do.”

“I know, but that’s different...”

“Because you love him?” Frances suggested softly. When Morgan nodded, the older woman sat down on the box beside her and sternly handed her a cup of tea. She gave Morgan a sharp eye until Morgan obediently took a sip.