Claire Delacroix (28 page)

Alasdair had kept the word of his chieftain and put his own plans aside, whatever they might have been. Despite herself, Morgan felt her sense that he was a man of honor grow.

Alasdair passed a hand over his brow. “Perhaps all might have been different if the expectations of the Macdonald had not weighed heavily upon my heart. Nay, that is not honest enough - ’Twas my own hope for children alone that drove my insistence.”

“And Fenella did not want children?”

Alasdair’s features darkened and he turned away. His single word was hoarsely uttered. “Nay.”

Morgan watched his hands clench behind his back, working and gripping each other as though he would fight the demons that haunted him with his fists. She waited and finally, he tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“I insisted,” he confessed in a low voice. “No doubt more than I should have. And Fenella conceived. My gran saw bad portent in the scattering of blood from the sow we slaughtered that fall, but I was jubilant. A child! I was to be a father!”

He pivoted then and Morgan glimpsed the flash of pain in his eyes. “But at what price?” he asked so low that he might have been asking himself.

“What happened? I thought you had a son?”

“Aye, a bonny boy, healthy from the first. He gave such a bellow when first he drew breath that the dead stirred in the cemetery three miles distant.”

A proud smile toyed with Alasdair’s firm lips as he recalled that day. Morgan’s breath caught as she imagined this man and the father he would be.

Alasdair suddenly sobered and stared down at his feet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice caught. “But Fenella died in the delivering of him.”

That was why he held himself responsible? Because he had wanted a child? Morgan was on her feet in an instant, compassion making her rush to reassure him. “But you can’t blame yourself! You couldn’t have known!”

Alasdair’s glare was fierce. “I
should
have known!”

“How could you have known? Was she a delicate woman?”

Alasdair glared at Morgan. “As hale as a horse was Fenella, nigh as tall as me and strong beyond all. But ’tis no small risk a woman takes in bearing a child. I
knew
this, but could not look beyond my own hopes!”

Before Morgan could argue, Alasdair cast his hands skyward and stalked across the room. “Fenella is
gone
because of my selfish desire, and I, I have only my guilt to warm me at night.” He caught his breath and Morgan’s heart ached in sympathy.

He still loved his wife, with the same passion he had loved her then. And Alasdair would spend the rest of his life blaming himself for what he had done.

What would Morgan give to have a man love her the way Alasdair loved Fenella?

“What about your son?” she managed to ask.

Alasdair exhaled raggedly. “I have not seen him these seven years.”

“What?”

“He was but a babe when I left, a babe with his mother’s eyes.”

A reminder of his lost beloved that would torment Alasdair every time he looked at the boy. Morgan’s heart twisted. No wonder he had left the island - he hadn’t been able to bear to look at his child.

“Is that why you left Lewis?” she asked softly.

Alasdair glanced over his shoulder. “I left Lewis to prove I am the man I know myself to be.”

Morgan frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“There are those, my lady, who share your low esteem of men in general, or of me in particular. After Fenella’s death, many cruel words were aired regarding the fate she had met in the embrace of the MacAulay clan. There were tales that I had treated her as this Matthew treated you. There was talk that I had failed to fulfill my clan’s obligation to the mighty Macdonalds, and they are quick to take offense.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “But I am not this manner of man, though indeed I erred in pressing her to bear a child. The burden of that I will bear for all my days.”

He shook one heavy finger at Morgan. “Never would I raise a hand towards a woman. And never would I break a vow granted to another. I followed Robert the Bruce, a man of valor, to prove that I am of his ilk. I took the cause of Fenella’s sire to prove to him that I am the man he believed me once to be. I risked my hide, I left my son, I abandoned my home to prove my clan’s loyalty to the Macdonald allegiance.”

His determination was a tangible force in the room. Morgan felt ashamed that she had ever doubted him.

Alasdair eyed Morgan for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “A man’s word is his bond, my lady. Already you have witnessed my resolve in this - I repeat my pledge to not drink whisky in your domain. Your protest against the spirit is one all too common and I respect your will in this.”

Morgan tried to be nonchalant. “It’s not that easy, you know. You could be setting yourself up here. I mean, if you drink a lot, you can’t just stop like that.”

“Is this the excuse your Matthew granted you?” Alasdair’s lip curled and he dropped into the opposite chair once more. “Know this, my lady, I have granted my word and will keep it, regardless of the cost. Robert the Bruce has shown that a man has only to believe in a thing to make it so. Do you know the tale of the spider?”

Morgan shook her head, intrigued.

Alasdair sighed and tapped his finger on the table. “I have told you well enough of his vision for Scotland and his meeting with John Comyn. After that day, all looked dark for Robert the Bruce. His allies had turned against him, he had been driven from his own lands, the king put a high price upon his very head, the taint of sin clung to his hide. He took exile in the islands not far from my home and made an abode of a cave beside the ocean, convinced he was naught but a failure.

“And while he sat there, lost in his own despair, he noted a spider spinning a web. The spider meant to attach its web to a point on the wall far out of range, but it swung valiantly toward its goal. Once it swung and missed. Again, it mustered resource, swung, and missed. Undeterred, the tiny creature attempted a third time and failed.

“As Robert the Bruce watched, the spider attempted thrice more, failing each time but still going back to battle, despite its inadequacies.

“And on the seventh attempt, the spider was victorious. It had only to believe it could be done to make it so, and thus it did. And Robert the Bruce took this lesson to his very heart. He left the cave of his exile. He summoned what men he could. He came to Lewis, told this tale, and I joined his ranks. And since that day, he has pressed on toward victory. Naught can stand long in his path.

“A man has but to believe a thing to do it,” Alasdair repeated heavily. “And I believe in what I pledge to you, my lady. You fear all men are like this cur who treated you poorly – I say nay. Further I say, I shall prove it to you. I am a man of honor and a man of my word and before we part ways, you too shall know the truth of it.”

He stared into Morgan’s eyes and she couldn’t look away.

Because she believed him.

Then Alasdair’s lips twisted in frustration. “Robert the Bruce trusted me with his troops, men who now are without my leadership. ’Twas at his dictate that I led the attack on Edinburgh keep.”

He braced his hands on the small table and leaned toward Morgan. “My lady, you have snatched me away from the very moment of victory. The only thing I ask of you, in exchange for my keeping my pledge to you, is that you return me to my own domain that my son can hold his head high.”

And that was the crux of it. Morgan suddenly remembered one pesky detail about Alasdair that she didn’t know how to fix.

“But, Alasdair, I told you already. You’ve traveled through time. I don’t know how to send you back! I don’t know how you got here, even, and I’m really not Morgaine le Fee...”

“Lies!” Alasdair roared as he sprang to his feet. “I grant you a tale from my heart and you have naught for me but lies! Why? Why do you deny who you are? What would you have me to do to win your will in this?”

His blue eyes blazed. “If you will not do this for me, why will you not aid my son?” Anguish was etched on his features. “My gran is elderly, she will pass, and he will be left alone. How can you compel me to abandon my son?”

Morgan felt more helpless than she ever had in her life. “Alasdair, I can’t fix this...”

“I care naught for your lies!” he cried, then charged out of the room.

“Don’t go! Come back!” Morgan ran to the door.

Sharing the tale of Fenella had obviously opened old wounds, but she couldn’t let him just go. They had to figure out how to send him back to the past – and only he knew how he had gotten here in the first place.

Alasdair hesitated and looked back at Morgan with frustration. Slowly, the anger filtered out of his eyes and his voice deepened. “You know well enough that I cannot risk straying far from your side,” he confessed heavily. “I will be back, my lady.”

And Morgan knew it would be so.

“I will keep my pledge to you. I will yet try to win your favor.” Alasdair pushed one hand through his hair and sighed. “Indeed, I can do naught else.”

Before Morgan could respond, he was gone.

Morgan was very tempted to run after Alasdair, but she returned to the room they had shared instead. She had to respect his desire to be alone. She could understand the need, even if the room seemed much emptier without him there. Morgan closed the door and leaned back against it, thinking about everything he had told her.

Clearly, Alasdair loved Fenella to distraction. And he was fiercely determined to do what was right for his son. Morgan could only admire the kind of man she was beginning to see Alasdair to be.

He was as different from Matt as oil was from water.

Morgan had been wrong.

She wandered back across the room, absently smoothing the bed. Alasdair would be back, once his temper cooled, Morgan knew it. His word was his bond.

She kind of liked that – but Morgan refused to think any further along those lines. She couldn’t figure out how to send him back in time without knowing how he’d gotten here in the first place, which meant she’d just have to wait for him to return.

Morgan opened her sketchbook on the cleared table and studied the drawings she had made. The sunlight flickered across the top page, making Thomas Rhymer seem to come to life. She remembered the tale of Tam Lin and her smile turned bittersweet.

It was awful, really. Alasdair thought he was trapped like Tam Lin in the realm of Faerie, except Alasdair’s one true love couldn’t help him return home. Morgan sharpened a pencil, turned to a fresh page and began to draw the anguish of the lovers’ separation that she had glimpsed in the highlander’s eyes.

* * *

As much as Blake didn’t want to leave the cozy haven of Room 11, his stomach was starting to argue the point. He didn’t even know what time it was, but the sunlight had come and gone, and the room was getting darker. Justine poked him with one toe after their umpteenth round, just as Blake was thinking his blood sugar might be nonexistent.

“I want french fries,” she said, her tone making it all too clear who was going to bring them to the room.

“What do you take me for?” Blake retorted in mock indignation. “Some kind of lackey?”

Justine grinned. “A boy toy.” She looked him over, the way a starving dog eyes a bone, then slowly licked her lips.

“Too much saturated fat,” Blake managed to say, mostly because he didn’t want to leave just as things were getting interesting.

Again.

Justine’s lips curved. “What can I say? You’ve stripped away every last one of my inhibitions.”

Blake frowned, pretending to be stern. “But they’re really fattening.” He patted his flat stomach. “I have to keep lean and mean.”

Justine smiled the slow sensuous smile that drove him crazy. She dropped her voice to a purr and walked her fingers up his chest. “Then we’ll just have to think of a way to burn off all those extra calories.”

Blake was suddenly quite sure he could go one more round before they ate. Justine must have read his mind, because she laughed, then dove beneath the covers.

She tickled his ribs, experience guiding her to the most sensitive spot. Blake hooted; he squirmed; he threw off his glasses and resorted to finding his wife by touch.

A good fifteen minutes later, they ended up in a tangle of sheets on the floor, breathless with laughter. Justine plopped Blake’s glasses back on his nose and he grinned at how uncharacteristically disheveled she looked.

“I’m starving,” she complained, a twinkle dancing in her eyes.

“Sheesh! Women and their one track minds.”

Justine laughed. “Oh, yeah, you’ve been a real mine of options this afternoon.”

“I thought I’d done quite well.”

Their gazes locked and held, the temperature in the room nudging up a few degrees. Justine crawled toward Blake on all fours, a knowing smile curving her lips.

“You do know that this kind of service will have to be considered in your tip,” she murmured provocatively.

They both looked at Blake’s lap simultaneously. “Not on you life!” He cupped his hands protectively over himself and they both burst into laughter.

“That’s not what I meant,” Justine protested, but Blake made a show of jumping to his feet and covering himself from prying eyes. He finished dressing while his wife returned to bed and lounged there, then bent to kiss her nose.

“Try to get out of bed for dinner,” he coaxed.

She feigned a pout. “I’ll have to, if you won’t get back in.”

Blake grimaced theatrically. “You’ll get salt on the sheets.”

“You said you’d never throw me out of bed for eating crackers.”

“But you want french fries. Changes everything.” Blake winked then headed for the door.

“Don’t forget the brown vinegar!”

“You’re kidding? That malt stuff?”

“I’m starting to like it,” Justine insisted, then raised a brow and did a very bad Mae West impression. “Don’t you want to please me, honey?”

Blake rolled his eyes. “You do need food. I’ll be back in a jiff.” He bounded out the door, the quintessential man on a mission.