Authors: The Last Highlander
As for your question about the briar and the rose behind the hotel, well, frankly I cannot imagine why you need to hear that tale again. Goodness, Mrs. Macdonald, how often did I tell it to you?! But here it is again, as you requested.
There was once a man living in this very valley who loved his wife with all his heart and soul. One day, she bore him a son and it seemed to him that nothing could be more right in his world. To commemorate his lady’s struggle to bring the babe to light - for in those days, it was no easy task - he planted a rose and a briar behind their home. The plants twined together and grew ever stronger and taller, as the man proclaimed did his love for his lady fair.
They lived long and well together, happy all their days, and when they passed, that very son tended the briar and the rose, so that the legacy of his parents’ love might continue on in the garden as it did within his own heart. And so, through the years, each master of this house has tended the plants, ensuring that always there is a briar and a blood red rose growing together on the selfsame spot that the man chose to salute his beloved wife.
I hope this has answered your questions. Again, all the best from the Captain and me. We look forward to seeing you again whenever you are back this way.
Sincerely,
Adaira Macleod
Justine read the letter again and folded it carefully. Adaira was right - Morgan did have a rare gift and the body of her strongest work was bound and waiting in a cheerful yellow nursery upstairs. One day, Justine’s child would learn to read magical tales of Scotland, tales illustrated with the fairies that had tumbled out of Morgan’s pen.
A key turned in the lock and Justine started at the sound. “Anybody home?” Blake called from the foyer.
Justine glanced to the clock in surprise. “It’s only four! What are you doing here?”
Blake grinned and dropped his briefcase in the hall. He scooped up Justine and gave her a thorough kiss. “Had to come home and see the most beautiful woman in the world,” he declared.
Justine poked a finger in his chest, trying to hide how pleased she was by both his appearance and his compliment. One week past her due date had left her feeling as attractive as a hippo in a tutu. “What about work?”
“Screw work,” Blake said with a cavalier wink. “I’ve got a family that needs my time.”
A year ago, Justine would have been scandalized by this attitude, but pregnancy had changed the rhythm of the Macdonald home. It was amazing how much time Blake now took to just be with her. Justine once had been convinced he would burn water while trying to boil it, but Blake learned a few tricks while she had had that morning sickness and couldn’t even look at food.
Justine got no further in her thinking than that before the first contraction took her to her knees. Her water broke, the sight of it spreading across her sparkling floor nearly giving her a heart attack.
But it was Blake who remembered everything from pre-natal class. “Okay,” he said with easy assurance. He gripped her chin and winked at her again, his manner easing Justine’s panic. “Don’t freak out on me. Remember, this is what we’ve got to do next.”
And Justine was very, very glad she had married a practical man.
* * *
Too many hours later, Justine lay in the maternity ward of the hospital cuddling her very red, very new son. She still couldn’t get over how absolutely perfect he was, the tininess of his fingers and toes, eyelashes and fingernails.
“Hi. Ready for company?”
Justine smiled to find Blake loitering in the doorway. He’d been great, right beside her the whole way through. “You don’t fool me,” she teased. “You came to see your son.”
“Well...”
The baby squirmed and cried, and they exchanged a glance.
“He knows you’re here,” Justine accused.
Blake grinned unrepentantly. “It’s a guy thing.”
He came closer and eyed the baby, Justine’s wonder echoed in his expression. “It’s really amazing, isn’t it?” he whispered with awe as the baby settled against Justine again.
“Yeah, it is.” Their gazes met and held over the child’s bald little head and Justine felt her tears well.
They had a child, and it was because Morgan had made it possible. Morgan had given them an important lesson on making time for each other, a lesson that Justine was never going to forget.
She wished they had learned to appreciate the magic of what was between them a little sooner. Silently, she thanked her sister for giving them this gift before it was too late.
Blake’s next words made it clear that his thoughts must have turned in a similar direction. “Hey, I had this idea.” Something in his tone warned Justine that this was important.
“About what?”
“Naming the baby.” Blake’s gaze locked with Justine’s. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and his expression was somber. “Let’s call him Morgan.”
Justine’s tears rose unexpectedly, she was so surprised by the suggestion. Yet, at the same time, it was so apt that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before.
“Oh, Blake, that’s a great idea!” Justine reached up and gave Blake a sound kiss. “You’re a wonderful man, you know that?”
“So I’ve heard,” he said and tweaked her nose. “And that’s a good thing, too, or I’d never be able to hold onto a wonderful woman like you.”
They smiled into each other’s eyes for a long warm moment, then Morgan let out another cry of protest.
Blake winked. “See? Competition at every turn. I’m not the only one who wants you.”
Justine rocked the baby and cooed to him, feeling like she was less than instinctive mother material. Blake, though, seemed impressed. Morgan’s eyes opened blearily and they already seemed to be a little less blue than they had been just a few hours ago.
His eyes would be green, Justine knew with sudden certainty.
Morgan
.
“Hello, Morgan,” she murmured and tickled his chin. He gurgled and nuzzled against her breast, his mouth working hungrily. “One day, I’m going to tell you all about the auntie you’ve been named for,” she whispered.
And in that moment, Justine suddenly remembered her last promise to Morgan. She bent and gently kissed her son’s temple, wondering if Morgan was simultaneously pressing a similar kiss to Caillen’s brow, somewhere across the eons.
That was how she would think of it, she decided. She and Morgan were living their lives in parallel, day for day. Justine would mark Morgan’s babies’ birth years on the calendar - she could figure it out - and celebrate each one’s arrival as though it had just occurred.
And when her Morgan passed each threshold in his life - lost a tooth, took his first step, smiled his first smile - Justine would know that Morgan and Alasdair were watching Caillen do exactly the same.
Justine smiled and cuddled her baby close under Blake’s indulgent eye, knowing she had more than one precious treasure to hold within her heart.
And so, she knew, did Morgan.
Auntie Gillian would be proud.
* * *
Author’s Note
Edinburgh Castle
was
retrieved for Robert the Bruce in March 1314, but the assault was led by Bruce’s nephew, Thomas Randolph, not the fictional Alasdair MacAulay. Interestingly, the daring route was suggested by one William Francis, who had used it while stationed in the keep to make discreet jaunts into town for his romantic liaisons.
Robert the Bruce died - after uniting Scotland beneath his hand - in 1329 in Cardross above the Clyde at fifty-five years of age. Ironically, he died before word of a papal bull pronouncing the legitimacy of his kingship could reach him. That kingship, so arduously won, would not continue smoothly in his absence and ultimately, Scotland would surrender to England’s rule once more.
There are many wonderful stories surrounding Robert the Bruce - including that of the spider - though it is uncertain how many of them are true. One of my favorites is Robert the Bruce’s reputed final request - which was for his heart to be taken to Jerusalem and buried near the Holy Sepulchre.
Sir James Douglas took the heart as pledged, but got no further than Granada (in modern Spain), where he was killed in battle with the Moors. Bruce’s heart was purportedly returned to Scotland by another knight, still in its lead casket, and buried beneath Melrose Abbey. Recently, a lead casket matching the description has been discovered in the abbey and early tests indicate that it likely contains an embalmed heart.
All of Alasdair’s stories are truly Scottish folk tales or ballads. Many of these were collected by Francis James Child in his 19th century volume
The
English and Scottish Popular Ballads
.
The story of Thomas Rhymer is included here with some anglicization of its Scots dialect. The actual Thomas of Erceldoune (also known as True Thomas, or Thomas Learmont - c. 1220-97) was a poet who claimed to have been captured by the fairy queen and released with the gift of prophecy.
Erceldoune is now called Earlston and is in the Eildon Hills southeast of Edinburgh, coincidentally quite close to Melrose Abbey. The Eildon Hills are also considered by many to be where King Arthur and his knights lie in an enchanted slumber, waiting to be awakened by the summons from a magical horn.
The Stone of Scone remained in Westminster Abbey from the time of Edward Plantagenet’s seizure in 1296, with the exception of a brief interval in the 1960’s when the stone was captured by Scottish nationalists. In 1996, it was returned to Scotland by the British government. Interestingly enough, although the stone is reputed to have been brought from Tara in Ireland by the Picts, some seven centuries before Edward’s plunder, geologists maintain that the stone is red sandstone, and quarried near Scone.
The Scottish regalia have a long and colorful history - including being ‘found’ by Sir Walter Scott in the nineteenth century - but are much as is described here. They are on permanent display in Edinburgh Castle - and the scepter still does have a crystal mounted in it!
Finally, the quest for Scottish independence was sought long before and continued long after Robert the Bruce. As I finished this book - in September 1997 - the Scottish people had just voted strongly in favor of establishing a Scottish National Legislature once more. It appears that Robert the Bruce’s dream of independence - and that of countless other Scots - will come to fruition before the turn of the millennia.
Perhaps this time, his legacy will endure.
* * *
Each month, Claire hosts a contest in appreciation of readers who post reviews. Please visit her blog and choose Reviewers’ Contest from the Category sidebar to learn more.
http://www.delacroix.net/blog
* * *
Ready for more time travel romance?
Read on for a taste of THE MOONSTONE,
now available in new digital and print editions.
* * *
An excerpt from THE MOONSTONE ©1999, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.
North Britain - September 1390
Sir Niall of Malloy was not in a good mood.
’Twas the kind of rainy winter morning that made his knee ache in memory of a battle wound he would prefer to forget. His belly growled in mighty protest of the fact that he had not had even the time the break his fast before he had been summoned. ’Twas only made worse by the reason why he had been summoned so early this morn.
Because Niall sorely disliked executing prisoners.
He particularly disliked executing women prisoners.
But that was precisely what he had to do this morn. At least, he had to go to down to that miserable pit of a dungeon and accompany some poor misbegotten soul to her demise. There were finer ways for a man to start his day, Niall was certain.
Indeed, ’twas in moments like these that he found the employ of the archbishop particularly onerous. Of late, there were just too many days beginning like this one. Niall had a difficult time believing that the hearts of so many men and women in this corner of the land were rotted with evil.
Indeed, he was heartily skeptical that witchcraft had any truth to it at all. As much as he hated to even consider such a traitorous thought, Niall believed his patron was dead wrong. Sorcery was the stuff of tall tales alone.
Yet ’twas the plain truth that a scarred old warrior like himself had few other options for earning his keep. Niall was not more than eight and twenty, though his soul felt shriveled beyond all since his injury.
How he missed being in command of his own fate!
Those days, however, were gone for good. The cold in the nether regions of the castle brought the ache in his knee to a bellow, which was fitting enough for his circumstance. Niall limped along the old stone corridor grumpily, hating that he was no less fettered than the many prisoners moaning within their damp cells.
’Twas no consolation that the old hag who was to die was likely more uncomfortable than he. Niall’s heart twisted in a most unsoldierly fashion at the task before him.
One bad fall and he had gotten soft.
Niall could not have said why he felt particularly troubled by the women condemned by the archbishop’s court to die, for he was quite certain that he had been completely spared his comrades’ weakness for the fair sex. Either that, or his trying sister had cured him of any such inclinations.
Women were, after all, a powerful amount of trouble.
Niall growled and crumpled the parchment beneath his tabard, a telling reminder of that truth if ever there was one. ’Twas a letter he had received this very morn from Majella and his mood soured yet more at the recollection of its contents.
One would think after seven children, Majella would have the wits to know how she had come by them. Or to at least consider the unholy cost of supporting them before she parted her thighs once more.