Claire Delacroix (8 page)

Morgan smiled at his teasing, but Justine ached that the amusement didn’t reach her sister’s eyes.

How long had it been since she’d heard Morgan really laugh?

How long before Morgan forgot how? How long could a giving person survive without having someone to give their affection to – at least without drying up inside? Justine didn’t want to find out.

She knew her matchmaking instincts were right on the money with Alasdair. The guy looked like he had just walked off the cover of one of those historical romances Morgan loved to read. And he was so worried about keeping track of her!

Justine looped her arm through her sister’s and guided her toward the stairs. “We spent the afternoon with Alasdair,” she said conversationally. “You know, he’s very charming. But hurry up and change for dinner – we’ll tell you all about it then.”

“What’s the rush?” Morgan asked with a trace of suspicion.

Justine silently cursed herself for revealing her hand. “We have reservations, remember?”

Morgan flicked a look at her sister that Justine chose to ignore. “No, I don’t, actually.”

“Maybe I forgot to tell you. Remember the place Blake’s boss recommended? Beside the Lyceum Theatre? Well, we booked it for dinner tonight. It’s kind of fancy, so wear the dress you brought.” Justine gave her sister an unceremonious shove toward the stairs. “And hurry! We don’t want them to give away our table.”

“Yeah,” Blake concurred. “Peter said it’s the best place to eat in town, and he’s a real gourmand. Plus, I’m starving. Let’s go!”

To Justine’s relief, Morgan did as she was told. Justine pivoted, so that her retreating little sister couldn’t see her pleased expression, and winked boldly at Blake.

Damn, she loved it when he helped move things along. His boss wouldn’t know a four-star dinner if it was labeled with flashing neon signs.

“Liar,” she mouthed silently, knowing her delight showed.

Blake smiled slowly, and the air in the foyer heated right on cue. “Got a problem with that?” he murmured, his eyes darkening.

Justine strolled across the floor, knowing her husband was devouring every move. She leaned against him, making sure he could feel the curve of her breasts, and she stretched to roll her tongue in his ear.

Blake closed his eyes and shivered.

“With luck, we’ll be back nice and early,” Justine whispered, punctuating her words with a kiss. “Morgan will be in very capable hands.”

Blake grinned wolfishly. “And so will you.”

Justine could hardly wait.

* * *

All of Justine’s assurances that she would bring Morgaine seemed worthless to Alasdair as he waited restlessly at their assigned meeting spot. He paced in front of the glittering building, well aware of the curious glances of all who passed.

They could not arrive quickly enough to suit him.

This place dazzled him with its myriad lights, never mind that those lights were without visible flames. The glass that composed its wall was large and smooth beyond any glass Alasdair had ever seen before – clearly a product of magic – and he refused to look overlong upon it lest it bewitch him.

To be sure, he had enough troubles as it was.

A fierce tapping upon the magical glass brought Alasdair’s head up with a snap. A woman with very pale skin smiled at him from the other side. Her eyelids were shaded purple; her lips were the color of wine; her black dress clung to her virtually nonexistent curves. She waved her fingertips playfully, but Alasdair recognized dangerous temptation when he saw it.

She could only be the succubus that the priest warned men to beware! Oho, Alasdair had heard tales aplenty of these wraiths who came to men in the night, enslaving their desire and drawing them forever into the depths of Faerie.

Nay! She would not make his entrapment worse! Alasdair jumped back and she disappeared.

Unbeknownst to the highlander, it was the change in the angle of the light that transformed the curtain of glass into a massive mirror.

Alasdair saw only more magic at work.

He could scarcely marvel at this wizardry before his own reflection dismissed all such thought from his mind. That it was the clearest rendering of his own image that he had ever seen was little consolation, for his curiosity was dismissed by dismay.

Alasdair was filthy. There were no two ways about it.

To be sure, the fount he knew at Mercat Cross was replaced by a clogged replica that was a sorry excuse for a source of water. None of the strangely attired inhabitants of Morgaine’s world would point him to an alternative washing place.

And he had dared not wander farther astray, lest he not be able to find this place again. Morgaine’s kingdom was fair confusing. To be sure, it mattered little how Alasdair looked if he lost track of the only means of his return to the world he knew.

He could not lose Morgaine, not at any cost.

All the same, the truth was worse than he had feared. Alasdair fingered four days’ growth of beard on his chin and eyed the mark of another man’s blood on his chemise. His golden hair was wild, his kilt was askew, and his boots were muddy. A long scratch on his leg, earned during their scaling of the mount, had closed but still sported a dried dribble of his own blood.

He had no doubt that there was whisky lingering on his breath. Aye, the bits of meat that Justine had declared to be “lunch” had scarce been enough to sustain a man. His belly complained mightily of its emptiness at that moment.

Nay, Alasdair was in no shape to court a woman’s favor, particularly one who kept a fierce dragon as a pet.

But what was he to do? He must remain here and wait. Alasdair muttered a colorful curse and glowered at his reflection before turning to pace anew.

How the lads would laugh if they saw him, long reputed to be one who had a way with the ladies, turned tapsal-teerie by a wee scrap of a woman!

And still she did not come. A thousand worries crossed Alasdair’s mind, along with a thousand possibilities of his own dire misfortune. How could he return home if he had no chance to appeal to the queen of this domain herself?

How could Justine have lied to him, when so much was at stake? Could he have made some slip of the tongue this day that had offended Morgaine’s advisors? He had been careful to remain quiet, understanding so little of their chatter as he had.

But ’twould have been easy to err and never guess the truth. That did little to reassure the pacing highlander.

Alasdair growled in dissatisfaction, pivoted to pace the length of the glass wall again, and froze in his tracks. Justine and Blake were stepping out of one of the black horseless chariots that he had been seeing all day.

And Morgaine, radiant in a fitted and flared kirtle, dismounted behind them.

Alasdair’s heart thumped. She had come, garbed fetchingly in Faerie green.

Now all he had to do was figure out how to win her favor. A hard lump rose in his throat. Any vestige of charm he possessed disappeared like a morning mist burned away by the sun.

“Alasdair!” Justine exclaimed, as though surprised to see him here. “What a delight to see you again.”

“You remember Morgan?” Blake gestured to the tiny, perfect queen and winked slyly at Alasdair.

They had warned him that this meeting would have to look uncontrived. Endeavoring to appear pleased with a chance encounter, Alasdair summoned his best smile and turned to the lady in question.

Only to catch a flash of fear in her eyes.

This was not good. All of Alasdair’s comments in their first encounter tumbled into his mind, and he feared that he had given grave offense in assuming the lady to be a whore.

Oh, he was the most simple daftie ever to draw a breath!

“My lady Morgaine,” Alasdair said as smoothly as he could.

The lady took a step back.

Suddenly Alasdair recalled how the lairds greeted Robert the Bruce’s wife. The way to a woman’s approval, as any man knew, lay in sweet words.

Though any compliments he granted this sorceress would be far from insincere. Alasdair captured her hand with a quick gesture, then bent low and kissed its back. The scent of roses that emanated from her skin fed his highly inappropriate desire. “Might I say you look lovely on this evening.”

Justine sighed and Alasdair dared to be encouraged.

But Morgaine snatched her hand away. “Why you...” she began.

Before the enchantress could finish whatever she had intended to say, Justine intervened. “How wonderful to cross paths again! What a small world. Alasdair, you’ll just have to join us for dinner.”

“Why, look, we’re almost late for our reservation,” Blake declared with a glance at the black band on his wrist.

Justine laughed lightly. “Maybe they can find us a table for four. We’d better hurry inside.” She flashed a meaningful look at Blake, who began herding them all toward the restaurant like a brood of wayward chicks.

The entire transaction occurred so quickly that Alasdair’s head fairly spun. They were accomplished at seeing their objectives met, these two, and Alasdair felt a grudging respect for the manner in which Justine kept her pledge.

Morgaine was clever to have such advisors close to her.

“Justine!” Morgaine sputtered. “What are you doing?”

The advisor, to Alasdair’s surprise, slanted a coy look at her monarch. “Just being friendly,” she responded enigmatically.

Morgaine flushed scarlet, and Alasdair’s heart melted at the sight. Had he ever had the good fortune to meet a more entrancing woman? That her charms were wrought by magical means did not seem to be pertinent – at least, not to one part of his anatomy.

Blake ushered them into the restaurant, where they lingered in the doorway, obviously awaiting some attendant. By accident or design, Morgaine was directly beside Alasdair. He could smell that bewitching blend of roses rising from her very flesh.

This was his moment.

Alasdair gritted his teeth and cleared his throat. “My lady Morgaine,” he murmured with a slight bow of his head. “I must say what a great pleasure it is to enjoy your company again.”

The lady fired a hostile glance in his direction. “Don’t even pretend this is an accidental meeting. I know Justine too well for that.”

Alasdair felt the back of his neck grow hot, a sign of guilt if ever there was one.

But no one was going to aid him here.

Justine deliberately ignored her monarch’s comment. Alasdair wondered how anyone could be so cavalier with her own hide.

A man garbed in black, with a length of linen inexplicably over his arm, chatted with Justine, nodded, then led the way across the glittering hall.

Justine sailed across the floor in his wake, Blake right behind her, and Alasdair seized the opportunity to speak to the queen without her advisors listening.

He looked into Morgaine’s green eyes and felt the pull of her enchantment. “I must admit,” he said quietly, “that I greatly desired to see you once more.”

The lady’s lips thinned. “Look, I know what you’ve done. And contrary to some people’s expectations, I’m not
that
desperate for a man.”

Alasdair was quite certain that she had enough immortals at her beck and call to satisfy whatever desires she had. “My lady, I must apologize for my earlier assumptions. As you might understand, I was confused by what had occurred and fear I did not present myself well. On this night, I wished only to speak to you that I might present my plea...”

Morgaine’s eyes flashed and she waved a finger indignantly under his nose. Alasdair fought the instinct to retreat. “I don’t need to hear any pleas from you! Whatever you might have told Justine, I know all I need to know about the kind of man you are. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

Alasdair caught his breath, then anger surged through him. How dare she judge him without a hearing? “You know naught of the manner of man I am,” he retorted.

“Is that right?” The enchantress dug in her small black satchel and hauled out a faceted crystal that was breathtakingly familiar.

Alasdair gaped.

The crowning stone from the regalia! ’Twas the stone the witch had bade him hold when she sent him to Morgaine’s kingdom.

’Twas the stone he would need to return home.

Without a second thought, Alasdair snatched at the gem, but Morgaine danced out of his range. Understanding burned bright in her green eyes, and she shook her head in displeasure.

“What kind of man would stoop to stealing from the regalia?” she demanded and Alasdair’s hand fell limply to his side.

He could well understand her revulsion. Indeed, Alasdair would have shared a low opinion of anyone who resorted to thievery of Scotland’s crown jewels.

But the witch had
given
the token to him.

“I can explain,” he protested, but the sorceress shook her head.

“Save your lies,” she said coldly. “You may have fooled everyone else, but I know what you’re done and I’m going to make sure it gets fixed.”

With that, she strode after her advisors.

But her words made no sense. Alasdair could not quite understand how Morgaine, who stole men away to her world without remorse, could judge him harshly for stealing from the regalia.

A crime of which he was not even guilty.

Did she nurse a secret affection for the Scottish dream of independence – despite the fact that she flew the English standard above her abode?

Was that why it required the regalia stone to come to her domain?

Alasdair did not know. Annoying the powerful enchantress had certainly not been on his agenda for this night. How should he proceed?

Justine solved the issue.

“Alasdair!” She summoned him with a smile, indicating a vacant seat beside Morgaine. “Come along, we’re waiting.”

Alasdair gazed across the glittering restaurant and felt as kenspeckle as a fart at a funeral. But there was naught for it. Somehow he had to win the Lady Morgaine’s favor. And this might be his only chance.

Surely, given his current run of luck, he could not manage to make matters worse.

* * *

Chapter Four