Claire Delacroix (41 page)

“I don’t know why I remembered things other people don’t,” Frances admitted and shrugged. “But I do. That’s just how it is. And it always has been that way. For all the women in my family, actually. It goes back for ages” – she winked – “and you can be sure that there are plenty of stories of witches in my family tree. My Harold used to say...”

Frances’s voice faded, then she waved off whatever she had been about to say. “But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I do remember your Alasdair. And even more important, that you remember him.”

Frances leaned over and tapped Morgan’s stomach as she looked into the younger woman’s eyes. “Because there’s someone who’s going to need to know all about him one of these days.”

Morgan straightened in surprise. “What?”

Frances smiled. “You’ve a wee bairn on the way.”

Morgan sputtered in astonishment. She was pregnant? But that was impossible. It had only been two days since she and Alasdair had been together. “You can’t know that!”

Frances smiled and sipped her tea. “Can’t I? Well, then I must be mistaken. Why don’t you let me know in about six weeks?”

There was a certainty in the older woman’s eyes that made Morgan wonder. Frances had said that she knew things she shouldn’t.

What if Morgan was pregnant with Alasdair’s child? A thrill raced through her at the prospect, and Morgan was filled with delight that she would have at least a vestige of him in her life.

Then her gaze fell to the book and its tragic contents. Morgan knew with sudden conviction that the child, if there was one, wasn’t for her alone.

No, she knew how much Alasdair’s son meant to him. She knew how much he valued the gift of fatherhood. If she and Alasdair had conceived, then Morgan owed it to Alasdair to seek him out, in the past.

It would mean taking a chance on her love for him. Morgan’s mouth went dry.

It would also mean losing all contact with Justine and Blake. It would mean never delivering on her book contract. It would mean stepped away from everything she knew – to find a legendary love.

If she could.

Morgan already knew that she felt more at home on this island than she had anywhere else in the world, even Auntie Gillian’s house. She liked the rhythm of the island and the way the people spoke. She loved the harsh lines of the land and the lyrical beauty of the tales they shared around the fire. It had changed so little since Alasdair’s time that even he had been fooled.

And she loved Alasdair.

What if he really did love her? Certainly he had said some things that were at least encouraging, and he had loved her with a tender deliberation that couldn’t have been accidental.

There was that red, red rose behind Adaira’s bed-and-breakfast.

What if her going back in the past could make a difference? What if she could do something to help Angus? What if she could give Alasdair another child?

What if her going back would ensure that Alasdair never went back to war, and never died lonely and broken-hearted?

If she was pregnant, didn’t their child deserve to know its father? At least, if Morgan could manage the trip through time in Alasdair’s wake?

But what about her book? Her sister? Her life?

Morgan was so lost in her thoughts that she jumped when Frances leaned over to give her hand a pat. “I also have a feeling you might need to know a little Gaelic,” Frances said softly. “Come and see me, dear, if you do. You never know how an old librarian might be able to help.”

In that moment, when Morgan looked into Frances’s knowing eyes, she made a decision. If she was pregnant, she would go to Alasdair.

Frances would help her.

In the time that it would take to get her pregnancy confirmed, Morgan would finish drawing Alasdair’s stories.

* * *

Justine had just finished losing her lunch on a sunny November Wednesday afternoon when the phone rang. As much as she hated to answer, it might be Mrs. Fitzgerald about Lorraine’s wedding invitations. They had to go out soon or not at all, but the Fitzgeralds could never decide about anything. Justine rubbed the perspiration from her brow and made her way to the phone.

But it wasn’t Mrs. Fitzgerald, or even Lorraine.

“Justine?”

“Morgan! How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“Great! Well, actually, I feel like hell, but that’s a good thing.” Justine laughed. “Morgan, you won’t believe this, but I’m finally pregnant!”

Justine could feel her sister’s interest sharpen. “Oh! That’s terrific.”

“Isn’t it? Blake’s thrilled to death. You should see him. He’s a classic mother hen. And I’ve had all the tests and everything’s okay. They wanted to tell me whether it’s a boy or a girl, but I want to wait. Do you think that’s nuts? I mean, we could plan everything if we knew...”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Morgan said warmly. “You know, a little spontaneity never hurt anyone.”

Justine grinned. “I don’t know. Blake might have an allergy we know nothing about.”

“Blake?” Morgan chocked back what might have been a chuckle. “What about
you
?”

Justine laughed merrily. “So, we’re a little organized. The newest Macdonald will probably change all of that when he or she comes along.”

“When are you due?”

“June third.”

“I’ll think of you.” There was a somber note in Morgan’s voice that caught Justine’s attention.

Had Morgan decided what to do?

“Morgan, where are you?”

“Um, I’m still on Lewis.”

There was a cautiousness in those words that didn’t answer Justine’s unspoken question. “Oh. How are your drawings coming along?”

“Good. Good. They’re done.”

Justine twined the phone cord around her fingers. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Are you pleased?”

“Yes.” Morgan hesitated and Justine smiled affectionately. Her sister was so shy about her talents. “I think you’re right that they’re my best.”

“I guess you were inspired.”

Justine had made the comment lightly, but when Morgan gulped, she realized she’d said the wrong thing. “Oh, I didn’t mean Alasdair. I meant the scenery and everything...”

“It’s okay, Justine. I’m okay. Really.”

But Morgan sounded far from okay. Justine straightened, fighting against a sense of foreboding. “Good,” she said in her caterer voice. “When are you coming home?”

“Well.” Justine could just see Morgan shifting her weight from foot to foot, and she didn’t like the sound of uncertainty in her sister’s voice. “Well, that’s just it.”

Silence fell over the connection, but Justine held her breath and waited.

“I’m not coming home,” Morgan confessed in a very small voice.

Justine closed her eyes against a tide of mixed emotions. She had a very good idea where Morgan was going to go instead, and just the thought made her stomach feel queasy again, even though it was emptier than empty.

But the misery that had filled Morgan’s voice since Alasdair had disappeared tore at Justine’s heart.

“I’m pregnant, Justine,” Morgan confessed softly. “I have to go.”

Justine gripped the phone more tightly. She couldn’t think about medieval midwifery. Not for one minute. Alasdair would be the biggest and most fiercely protective guardian angel her baby sister could hope to have.

If Morgan could get to him.

“Do you think you can do it?” Justine’s voice sounded too strained to be her own.

Morgan sighed and doubt filled her words. “I don’t know. The stone is gone. I’ve learned a little Gaelic, but probably not enough.” Her words faltered a little, and Justine ached for what her sister was enduring. “But I have to try, Justine. Tonight is the full moon and I just have to try.”

Justine bit her lip. “I understand.”

Morgan’s voice dropped. “I just...I miss him.” She paused and Justine waited for the confession she knew would come. “I love him.”

Justine felt the warmth of her tears tumble down her cheeks. The highlander had made a miracle happen. He had gently pried open Morgan’s protective armor and fitted himself right inside her tender heart. Morgan would never be happy without him at her side – especially now that she carried his child – and Justine couldn’t blame her for that.

She remembered how delighted she had been when Morgan had laughed for the first time in years. There had been something between them, right from the start. Something magical and powerful. Something that had drawn Alasdair across seven centuries to find Morgan.

It just wasn’t right that they should be apart.

Justine thought of the briar and the rose, eternally entwined as a testament of one man’s love for one woman, and her tears fell in a torrent. She was so very glad that Morgan had decided to take a chance on love – even though she was going to miss her sister terribly.

“I know,” Justine admitted unevenly. “Oh, Morgan, I know. And I’m sure that he’s missing you just the way you’re missing him.”

Morgan exhaled shakily. “I hope so, Justine. I really do.”

“Go,” Justine urged. “Go and find out.”

Morgan’s next words were so low that Justine had to strain to hear them. “I love you, Justine.”

“Yes.” Justine’s voice was uneven. “I love you, too, Morgan. I love you so very much.” Justine knew they were both very aware that they had never made such a declaration to each other before.

And she wondered why they had waited so long.

“Justine, don’t forget me.”

A lump rose in Justine’s throat with a vengeance, and her whispered declaration was nearly inaudible. “Never.”

“If you don’t hear from me by...”

“Don’t say it!” Justine took a deep breath, and the line crackled between them. “Don’t even say it. I’ll find out. Trust me.”

Morgan then began to speak very quickly. Justine realized she was probably in a post office or some other public place and subject to a lot of interested glances. “Look, um, say good-bye to Blake for me and take care of yourself, okay? Make sure you drink your milk and go to the doctor and all of that, all right?”

Justine smiled through her tears. Imagine Morgan being protective of her! “I will. Don’t worry. Blake has a chart on the fridge of everything I have to eat every day.”

Morgan snorted. “He would.”

“Oh yeah, I’m his new project.”

Morgan laughed shakily. “Well, listen to him. I’m sure he’s done his research and knows more about having children than old Mother Hubbard.”

“No doubt.” Justine’s smile broadened, and a golden moment stretched between the two sisters. “You take care of yourself, too – and tell Alasdair that Blake thinks Robert the Bruce is a hero. He’s ordered some damn statue or something for his office.”

Morgan chuckled, then sniffled suspiciously. “I will.”

A silence stretched between them, and Justine knew that neither of them wanted to actually say good-bye.

For the last time.

“It’s okay, Morgan,” she finally whispered. “Go and be happy.”

“I will, oh, I will.” Morgan vowed. “And Justine, kiss that baby for me, will you?”

Justine barely had time to nod before the line clicked.

She stared at the silent receiver for a long moment, feeling as though setting it back in the cradle would separate her from Morgan for all time.

But that had already happened. Justine’s tears welled again and she sobbed inelegantly. She bit her knuckles and cried like a child, sitting with the handset still clenched in her fist. She felt torn in half, wanting nothing other than for Morgan to be happy but at the same time hurting because Morgan was gone.

Justine’s stomach rolled ominously, and it occurred to her that the baby in her belly was going to give her this feeling again, and probably more than once.

Loving was about knowing when to shelter and when to set free. And Justine knew in her heart that Morgan was going to be very happy. Alasdair MacAulay would make sure of that.

She had personally picked him, hadn’t she?

And Auntie Gillian would have liked him just fine.

* * *

Morgan stood in the post office, well aware that every eye was surreptitiously on her. She sniffled, blew her nose heartily, then wiped her eyes. Even talking to Justine hadn’t changed her mind. Morgan knew what she had to do.

She knew what she wanted to do.

But first things first.

She picked up the bound copy of her drawings, each one now lovingly rendered in ink and carefully colored. The bookbinder she had found in town had done a stupendous job, turning her work into an heirloom volume that humbled her with its beauty. The leather cover gleamed with subtle gold embossing, and the endpapers were marbled paper from Florence.

It was exactly what she had wanted. Morgan smiled as she recalled the countless hours she had spent on this volume, her smile broadening when she thought of what Justine’s reaction would be when it arrived.

If all went well, there would be only one copy of Morgan’s book,
Scottish Faerie Tales
. She opened the book carefully and wrote quickly on the cover page.

For Justine, Blake, and (mostly!) Baby Macdonald –

With all my love,

For all time,

Morgan.

Morgan blew on the ink until it dried, closed the book, and took it to the postal wicket. “Do you have a padded enveloped that would fit this? It’s going to the States and it has to arrive in perfect condition.”

The elderly postmaster peered through his glasses at the book with a harumph. “A gift?”

“For a new baby. A first baby.”

“Hmm.” He nodded approval. “Powerful good luck that is.” Then he muttered to himself and disappeared behind the counter as he sought the appropriate packaging. Morgan ran her hand over the beautifully bound book and knew she was doing the right thing.

In more ways than one.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

The moon was full, a few errant clouds scurrying across the indigo sky. The November winds were brisk and Morgan’s skirt swirled around her ankles. She paused when she entered the circle of stones, startled once again by the sense of warmth emanating here.

Frances nodded matter-of-factly. “It’s always this way, dear. A strong force gathers here, especially on a night such as this.” She handed Morgan a twig of white-blossomed heather and smiled. “I found this on my walk yesterday. It seemed a portent of good fortune.”