Claire Delacroix (20 page)

From her vantage point, sprawled on the parking lot, Morgan could see straight up those legs with their dusting of golden hair. She squinted, caught a glimpse of something swinging free, and giggled again.

It
was
true!

Alasdair harumphed, but Morgan held up one hand. She wiped away her tears while he glowered at her, clearly not inclined to share the joke.

“Scotsmen really don’t wear anything under their kilts, then,” she said when she caught her breath.

Alasdair raised a fair brow and crossed his arms over his chest, looking only a little less insulted. “And what would my lady suggest a man wear beneath his kilt?” he demanded coldly.

Morgan propped herself up on her elbows, her smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Ever heard of Calvin Kleins? Harvey Woods? Maybe something nice from Mr. Brief?”

If Morgan thought Alasdair had taken umbrage before, that was nothing compared to his outrage now.

“I would suffer no man mucking about beneath my tartan, of that you can be certain!” he roared. “No matter in what esteem you might hold this Calvin and Harvey, neither is welcome beneath my plaid.”

He thought she thought he was gay?

Alasdair stormed a few paces away before pivoting to jab a finger through the air at Morgan. “Of all the lies that have been told about me, my lady, that is far and away the most loathsome.”

Despite herself, Morgan started to chuckle again. She had never before been so absolutely positive that a man was straight. As the laughter spilled from her lips, Alasdair’s ears turned bright red.

Then he stalked farther away.

And this time, he didn’t look inclined to stop.

That stopped Morgan’s laughter cold.

“No, wait, that’s not what I meant. I wasn’t laughing at you.” Morgan stumbled to her feet. “Alasdair, don’t be angry. I can explain...”

Suddenly Alasdair seemed to notice his surroundings for the first time. He halted and looked about himself with such dismay that Morgan took a look too.

The Micra was parked on a point facing a romantic little lake complete with a photogenic ruined castle. Behind the car sprawled a perfectly pedestrian asphalt parking lot, a little inn on the opposite side with cars clustered near it. Apparently the inn had a pub, because a neon Guinness sign shone red in the window.

Morgan almost died when she saw the big tour bus parked less than twenty feet away from the car. Dozens of Japanese tourists studiously pretended not to have noticed her and Alasdair, snapping pictures in every other direction. Morgan looked back at the car and saw that the front and rear windows were fogged.

She couldn’t help but blush.

Alasdair spun abruptly to confront her, looking as though he found their surroundings morally offensive. “This is not my home!” he roared, and everything feminine within Morgan delighted in his masculine indignation.

Whether Alasdair was a time traveler or a nutcase, at this moment Morgan didn’t care. She wanted to grab him by the hair and pounce on him until he begged for mercy.

And maybe even a little longer than that. Alasdair’s kiss had more than demonstrated how thorough he would be about any amorous adventure, and part of Morgan regretted that she had declined his invitation that very first day.

It really might have been an interlude unlike any other.

And she was sure he could teach her a few things she didn’t know about lovemaking. Her experience was pretty limited, after all. Morgan had already picked up some kissing pointers from this highlander.

Alasdair clenched his fists when she didn’t respond. Morgan heard a murmur from the Japanese tourists, then the clicking of cameras turned on her and Alasdair.

Which reminded her that Alasdair didn’t photograph well.

He
had
to be from the past.

And she had to help him.

“Unleash me from your spell, Morgaine le Fee,” Alasdair demanded with obvious impatience. “Release me and send me home to my son.”

His son?

Morgan blinked, but he glared at her. Had she heard right? “You have a son?”

Alasdair’s expression turned ominous. “Already I have told you that there’s naught amiss beneath my plaid.” He shook a finger at her. “But do not be thinking that I will stand by and let you seize him for your own. I will fight you for my son with every last fiber of my being, make no mistake about that.”

His fierce protectiveness of his child warmed Morgan to her toes. But all the same, this shouting had to stop. She held up her hands in a peaceful gesture and slowly walked toward him, trying to remember every hostage movie she’d ever seen.

“I don’t want your son,” she said in a low, even voice, making sure she maintained eye contact with Alasdair. “And I really do want to help you get home.”

Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. His eyes were still narrowed slightly with suspicion. “Aye?”

“Aye,” Morgan agreed and smiled. She stopped before him and tilted her head up to hold his gaze. “I promise you that.”

Alasdair sniffed. “Is your word worth so little as your advisor’s pledge?”

“No. I keep my word.”

His lips thinned as though he believed her but wished he didn’t. Alasdair folded his arms across his chest and his expression turned stubborn. “Swear it to me, then.”

“I swear to you, Alasdair MacAulay, that I will do everything I can to send you home,” Morgan vowed softly. “Wherever – and whenever – that is.”

Alasdair eyed her carefully and Morgan felt some of his resistance dissolve. Then he arched a fair brow. “Whenever?”

Morgan frowned as she tried to think of how to begin, then she looped her arm through his. “It’s kind of a long story,” she confessed, urging him to walk toward the inn.

To her relief, he fell into step beside her.

“And I have an idea that you might want one of those wee drams to make it all go down a little easier.”

Despite everything Morgan had against alcohol, this was one time when she couldn’t have blamed anyone for having a drink to dull the shock.

In fact, if she was right and Alasdair had skipped through the better part of seven centuries in the blink of an eye – never mind leaving a child far behind – she wouldn’t blame him for getting stinking drunk.

Morgan’s heart contracted with a compassion of frightening intensity.

Surely she was only worried about a little boy, left alone?

Surely. There couldn’t be any other reason. Morgan knew that she didn’t need – or want – any man in her life, especially one who was more lost than she had ever managed to be.

Obviously, she just felt sorry for Alasdair’s son.

It couldn’t be any more than that.

* * *

Alasdair fingered the dram of whisky that had been placed before him and studied the sorceress. ’Twas unsettling how somber she had become. What was amiss?

He did not drink the spirits, fairly certain that if matters were as dire as her expression suggested, he might need it more once she had had her say.

Was she going to tell him that he could never go home? Alasdair’s gut went very cold at the very thought. Was it because of some deficiency in her power? Or the terms of the witch’s spell that had sent him here? Had he failed a test?

Or was she simply unwilling to release him?

Morgaine pushed her glass of water across the table, making circles with the wet mark it left on the wood. Playing she was, as though she knew not where to begin.

And it was driving him mad.

Alasdair captured her glass with one resolute gesture. When his fingers closed over hers, Morgaine met his gaze with obvious reluctance.

“Tell me,” he urged in a low voice. “Tell me the worst of it.”

The lady licked her lips and looked from one side to the other before she began. “It’s not good,” she admitted, such a vision of maidenly softness that Alasdair actually longed to reassure her.

Her fingers trembled slightly beneath his grip, and Alasdair gave them a squeeze before he could stop himself. “’Tis true that tidings are always worse before the telling. Giving voice to the worst lessens its bite.”

“You’re probably right. And there’s no point beating around the bush.” She smiled sadly, then squared her shoulders. “Alasdair, where do you think you are?”

Alasdair sensed a trick, but her expression was guileless. “In your domain.”

“Which is where?”

Would he earn some loathsome fate by giving voice to such names? Alasdair’s mouth went dry, but he forced out the words.

He would balk before naught. “In the land of Faerie.”

“And that would make me who?”

“The sorceress Morgaine le Fee.”

She shook her head slowly, and Alasdair feared he had erred in naming her occupation so boldly.

But before he could apologize, Morgaine took his hand in the two of hers and looked deeply into his eyes. Alasdair knew ’twould be fair dreadful whatever she meant to say. He braced himself against the worst calamity.

But he could never have prepared himself for what she did say.

“Alasdair, you’re wrong. I’m not Morgaine le Fee and this isn’t the land of Faerie.”

She was deadly serious. A cold tremor of fear rolled over Alasdair’s flesh.

What was this?

“You’ve traveled almost seven hundred years into the future, I don’t know how.” The sorceress gave his fingers a squeeze, her expression now turning apologetic. For a fleeting instant, Alasdair was almost fooled by the sincerity in her steady green gaze.

It he was not in Faerie, then where could he be?

“I can’t explain it, Alasdair, but the year is 1998, and I’m guessing that you think it’s a good bit earlier than that.” She stared deeply into his eyes as he slowly absorbed what she had said.

1998?

But that could not be. The sorceress held his gaze, as though she would will him to believe her.

’Twas impossible! Alasdair blinked. Indeed, ’twas such a daft load of bunk that his lips twitched. ’Twas a jest, no more than that. Or a test of his gullibility.

And one he had nearly failed.

Nearly fooled him, Morgaine had. Traveling through time – stuff and nonsense! ’Twas beyond belief. As though the world could have turned to such a hellhole, even in seven hundred years.

Alasdair grinned.

Morgaine did not smile. Instead her expression became concerned. “You have to believe me,” she insisted. Aye, she was a clever one, to stick so firmly to her lie.

But the way he had fallen prey to her allusions of doom was so perfect that Alasdair chuckled. What a daftie he was.

Aye, he had fallen like a witless rock for her jest. He, Alasdair MacAulay, who was broadly considered to be a man of good sense, had nearly swallowed Morgaine’s feckless tale whole! How the lads would mock him for this.

Beneath the sorceress’s astonished gaze, Alasdair began to laugh and could not stop.

* * *

Chapter Nine

Oh, she had led him on beautifully, teasing him with imports of doom, when she meant to make a joke! The more Alasdair thought about it, the harder he laughed.

And ’twas so good to feel laughter rippling through him again that he did not want to stop. An errant tear trickled from the corner of his eye.

But the sorceress stared at him. “Alasdair, you don’t understand.” Her words were emphatic. “My name is Morgan Lafayette. I’m a book illustrator. I’m not a dark queen, or even an enchantress.”

The intensity of her manner captured Alasdair’s attention more securely than anything else could have done. His eyes narrowed in consideration and his laughter came to an abrupt halt.

Why did she deny her own identity?

Why would a sorceress want him to believe she was not her powerful self? There could be no import of good in this.

Had Morgaine decided not to aid him in returning home? A cold weight settled in Alasdair’s belly. Had her advisors decided his cause was not worth the trouble?

Morgaine shook her head, her green eyes filled with concern. “And that’s not the worst of it, Alasdair. Your coming forward in time has somehow changed the past.” She toyed with the glass again and his gut clenched at the sight of her distress, despite his certainty she toyed with him, as well.

She grimaced. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Those words recalled him to the truth.

’Twas a lie! Morgaine le Fee could repair any matter, that much Alasdair knew without doubt. Her dark powers were boundless and far-reaching, as any laddie learned at his gran’s knee.

Morgaine could only have chosen not to aid him, but had not the audacity to tell him flatly as much. Alasdair could not guess what he had done to earn her disfavor.

Indeed, he had made efforts to accommodate himself to the vagaries of her world! And he had been gracious beyond all! Alasdair’s annoyance rose a notch - not unlike many another mortal who strayed into the world of the unseen, his cause had been poorly served. Certainly, he had not had any fair hearing in Morgaine’s court.

But his anger would serve him poorly in this matter. Alasdair fought to control his response, very aware of the sorceress’s gaze locked upon him. Could she read his rebellious thoughts? Were those thoughts what had wrought his doom?

He did not know.

And worse, he did not know what to say.

Alasdair clenched the wee pewter cup of whisky, feeling in dire need of its consolation. Suddenly, he wondered whether there was significance in Morgaine’s choice of water.

Was this another game?

Was there aught awry with the whisky?

Alasdair cleared his throat, as he considered flinging the dram against the wall. Would it leave a trail of flames there?

But when he spoke, his words were icily polite. “You do not join me?”

“I don’t drink,” Morgaine declared with a toss of her hair.

It was loose since their adventure in the car, a great tangle of ebony witchery behind her shoulders, and Alasdair suddenly feared what she might do to him. There was no telling what a wee witch with her locks trailing loose might conjure, and Morgaine had powers far beyond such mortals who commanded only a fraction of her abilities.