Claire Delacroix (35 page)

“Oh yes, he only runs for my benefit.” Frances dumped her paint box on the kitchen floor. “I have no doubt at all that he sat on the porch sunning himself until he saw me coming.”

The cat meowed loudly, as though he would protest this assault on his character and Frances shot him a warning glance. “Be nice to me, Balthasar. I haven’t dished up dinner yet.”

When she retreated to the kitchen, the cat’s ears pricked up, then he ran after her like a shot. By the time Morgan entered the kitchen, he was twining himself around Frances’s ankles and purring to beat the band.

Moments later, they were settled into Frances’s eclectically furnished parlor. The room was a testament to a bygone age, the walls covered with a dark and busy William Morris wallpaper and hung almost solidly with framed oil paintings of everything from Lewis landscapes to still lifes and portraits.

The furniture was simple oak, Arts and Crafts style, upholstered in burgundy leather and studded with brass tacks. A vase brimming with the purple foxgloves held court on the coffee table. One ginger cat – undoubtedly Balthasar – prowled the perimeter while the other slept in the sunbeam that streamed through the window.

Morgan immediately saw that the paintings were from the same talented hand and guessed that this was Frances’s work. Alasdair fumbled with the bone china teacup and lost the battle against looking painfully out of place.

“Looking for your ancestors, are you? Well, you’ve come to the right place, that much is certain.” Frances passed a plate of shortbread, then dropped into a morris chair, her eyes sparkling. “Although you’re probably thinking how terribly difficult it has been getting ahold of me, I have to tell you that if it weren’t for me, there wouldn’t be any records to check.”

She waved one hand. “These country folk, you know, their hearts are in the right place, but they just don’t understand. I spent twenty years working at the library of the university – Harold was a doctor, you know – and I know how these files have to be taken care of.” She wagged a finger at them both. “Things were just rotting away. I finally had to march right into that musty old monastery and commandeer everything before it mildewed beyond recognition.”

Frances topped up everyone’s tea and pressed the plate of shortbread on Alasdair again. He took two.

“I just knew that I had to do
something
. My Harold was always saying how imperative it is to give something back to the community, so I appointed myself archivist. It seemed like a good way to get to know some people and keep my hand in, you know.”

Frances laughed lightly. “But, of course, I only meet tourists because everyone who lives here knows exactly what happened to their forebears. They’ve been listening to the stories in front of the fire all their blessed lives.”

Suddenly she got to her feet and drained her teacup. “But then, you didn’t come here to listen to an old woman ramble on about nothing. Come along. I’ll show you where everything is. Hopefully we’ll be able to narrow in on the right box quickly enough that you don’t waste years in there.” She darted to the door, then waved at the table. “Bring your tea, if you’d like.”

Morgan did.

Alasdair brought the plate of shortbread.

* * *

The women set to work with a vengeance as soon as they entered the room piled high with cartons. Alasdair poked at one or two, painfully aware that there was naught he could do to aid them. He sat glumly in the corner and ate biscuits.

He fetched tea for the women, like some child bidden to serve their wants, and waited hopefully for some news of Angus.

It took far longer than Alasdair had hoped and granted him some heartily unwelcome time to ponder his circumstance. He had had more than enough of that during the past week and had come to few conclusions about anything.

’Twas apparent that he had traveled through time, despite the odds and now found himself separated from his son and gran by some seven centuries

As though that were not trouble enough, Alasdair had left matters half done, and he had no inkling how to go back.

But even as he itched to know his son and to repair the long years he had spent away from home, there was a part of Alasdair that did not truly want to return. He told himself that ’twas merely a case of adjusting to something he knew he could not change, but Alasdair was far from certain that was what lay at the root of the matter.

Alasdair eyed the back of Morgaine’s neck as she bent over a box. She had tied her hair back in a bundle, though a few ebony tendrils had escaped to curl against her neck.

Alasdair had a sudden urge to brush them aside with his lips. What was it about Morgaine that brought out such tenderness from deep within him? What was it about her that nigh drove him to distraction, yet made him want to ensure that all came aright in her world?

What was it about her that made him want to stay and ensure that she was happy for all of her days? For truly, Alasdair was loath to leave her. If Morgaine was not a sorceress, then her allure could not be due to some unearthly spell.

And that had kept Alasdair thinking all the week long.

Was there a reason he had been fairly dumped into her lap? Morgaine was unlike any woman Alasdair had encountered, with her blend of softness and strength, her passion, her laughter, her compassion and determination to do right.

’Twas true enough that Morgaine touched Alasdair as no other woman ever had. He recalled too well his gran’s conviction that there was but a single true love to each man and woman on this earth, and he could not help but wonder.

Was Morgaine the woman he was destined to love? Could it be that theirs was a match fated to be, and one that not even time could stand against?

’Twas a heady thought. Alasdair tried to hide his response to the appealing idea – not that either woman was paying attention – by indulging in another biscuit. He felt his ears heat and his gaze dropped to Morgaine’s legs.

Was it truly so bad to be lost in this time? Angus must have grown to manhood, married, and had bairns of his own. Gran must have finally passed away, after many years of health and happiness. Would it be so foul to know that they had lived the fullness of their lives, even as he had a rare opportunity to win a woman’s heart?

There was naught else to draw Alasdair home, beyond concern for his loved ones and his own sense that he had erred in leaving Angus alone. Could news from these records set his mind at ease?

Could Morgaine’s compassion soothe his doubts?

For Alasdair knew that if he stayed in this time, he would bend his every effort to win the love of his Morgaine. He would make her forget this Matthew James Reilly who had treated her so poorly. He would pledge himself to her and prove himself worthy of her affections.

Alasdair would make Morgaine happy if ’twas the last thing he did.

He crunched another biscuit with resolve. Aye, Blake would not have to send his buggering advocate after Alasdair.

* * *

The light was fading when Morgaine gave a crow of delight. She emerged from deep stacks of record boxes with an ancient bound book and a smudge of dust across the bridge of her nose. “I think this is it!”

“Oh, that’s one of those books the monks created, when they transcribed all of the old records that were crumbling away,” Frances said. She glanced at Alasdair. “The monks of Newcombe Abbey.”

“Aye, I know them well.” These were the monks who had shown Alasdair their fine books and first tempted him to learn to write.

But Frances blinked. “Know them?” She wrinkled her nose. “The abbey closed during the Reformation. It’s been gone for centuries.”

“He means he knows of them,” Morgaine interjected quickly. She flushed slightly at her lie, even without looking at Alasdair and he wondered whether Frances truly believed her.

The woman could not lie to save her very soul, he thought with mingled affection and amusement.

Frances shook her head, adjusted her glasses, and leaned over Morgaine’s shoulder to examine the book. “Well, what does it say?”

Morgaine ran a finger along the text. “It talks about Olaf the Black, King of Man and the Isles.”

“Aye. My forebear.” Alasdair nodded approval.

“And of them coming to settle on the west of Lewis. Then there’s a list of names.”

“My goodness, where to start?” Frances murmured.

“Look for Ismay of Mull,” Alasdair instructed. “She wed Ranald MacAulay and bore him a son, Angus Morgan.” Frances looked up in surprise, but Alasdair continued undeterred. “That man then wed Fiona Campbell, who bore him a son...”

“Named Alasdair.” Morgaine’s gaze sought Alasdair’s and held his for a long moment. He saw that she knew full well who this Alasdair was.

Finally, she moistened her lips and looked back to the text. “He married Fenella Macdonald in 1307, and she bore him a son in 1308 named Angus.”

Alasdair could not make a sound, there was such a lump in his throat.

Morgaine swallowed visibly. “Fenella died in 1308, Alasdair in the storming of Edinburgh castle in 1314 while he was following Robert the Bruce.”

So, they thought him dead.

“And what of that son, Angus?” Frances demanded cheerfully, evidently unaware of the tension in the room. “He must have had children that led to your strain of the family.”

Morgaine ran her fingertip across the page as though she would change what the script said. When she looked up at Alasdair, her expression heavy with sympathy, he had a sudden sense that he did not want to know the truth.

“He died,” she said softly, and Alasdair prayed his son had lived long. The sorrow in Morgaine’s eyes made him fear otherwise. “In 1315.”

Alasdair blinked, but Morgaine’s expression did not change. Angus had died, at seven years of age? Impossible!

But Morgaine’s eyes did not lie.

Nor did the book she held.

A hot tide rushed through Alasdair. His son had not even grown to manhood! He shoved one hand through his hair, hating that such a fate should have befallen his only child.

Aye, he had failed the boy sorely.

“Well, then, that must be the wrong family line,” Frances interjected crisply, turning back to the books. “Why, you can’t be descended from people who didn’t have family, now, could you? Let’s look a little further...”

Angus had died too young.

The fault for it lay squarely in Alasdair’s own camp for he had abandoned the boy. Somehow, in some way, he had to make it right. He did not know where he was going or what he was going to do when he got there, but he was seized by the imperative to move.

To
do
something immediately. His gut churned with the knowing. ’twas his responsibility to make all come right for his child, and ’twas a duty Alasdair had left undone too long.

And clearly, whatever needed doing could not be accomplished in Frances Fergusson’s cluttered abode. Alasdair could not bear to remain in its cozy comfort while wrestling with the stark reality of his failure.

He had to fix the oversight now.

Alasdair put down the plate of biscuits with less than his usual grace. The women looked up, and he tried to excuse himself in a civilized manner. When the words would not come, he simply bolted out of Frances’s home, his pulse thundering in his ears.

He barely heard Morgaine running after him.

* * *

Morgan couldn’t keep up with Alasdair, let alone catch him. “Alasdair!” she cried when she stumbled on Frances’s gravel path, not expecting him even to acknowledge her shout.

He looked back, and Morgan’s heart twisted at his anguished expression.

But he did not stop.

And Morgan would never be able to close the yawning gap between them. She halted and watched Alasdair make quick progress across the peat, his figure growing rapidly smaller.

Alasdair must have known that Angus would be dead – it had been seven hundred years, after all – but she couldn’t blame him for being shocked that the boy had died so very young. Angus had died so soon after Alasdair leapt through time that Morgan couldn’t help wondering whether there was a connection.

And she guessed that Alasdair was wondering the same thing.

Alasdair’s only son, his only touchstone to remind him of his beloved Fenella, had died young, perhaps because Alasdair had been away. Alasdair probably believed he had failed the memory of his gorgeous wife.

Or maybe it just troubled him that her presence had been wiped away so quickly. Morgan wished heartily that the record had included some notation of how Angus had died.

It might have set Alasdair’s mind at ease.

“Well, I must say I’ve never seen such a strong reaction to finding a record,” Frances commented behind Morgan.

Morgan deliberately turned away from the highlander’s fleeing figure and forced a smile. “It was a bit of a surprise for him.”

“Hmm.” The older woman’s expression was skeptical, as though she sensed that there was more to this story than she was hearing. “I suppose his family must descend from another line,” she confined herself to saying. “No doubt he’ll discover some other helpful details from those at home and be back.”

Morgan guessed where Alasdair might have gone. He could have gone home, where at least in his mind, he could be with Fenella and their son. It was the closest he could come to fixing what he thought he had done wrong.

But Morgan could do one better. The ideal solution for Alasdair would be for him to go back in time. Maybe then he could help his son. Maybe then he could set history to rights again.

She had the crystal that had somehow tumbled out of the Scottish regalia when Alasdair had appeared. She didn’t know how everything was connected, but the fact remained that Alasdair had traveled through time once. That could only mean that he could do it again. Morgan resolved in that moment that she would figure out how.

The blue Micra came puttering around the corner with perfect timing, and Frances glanced at her watch. “My goodness, we were occupied for quite some time.”

“Yes, well, thanks for your help.” Morgan retrieved her bag from the foyer, exchanged a few more pleasantries, then hopped into the waiting car. Blake had come alone, and Morgan barely noticed that his shirt was uncharacteristically untucked.