Authors: The Last Highlander
Morgaine inhaled sharply, but Alasdair had to risk her annoyance for the moment.
After all, if a man did not deserve a healthy measure of whisky when he has been whisked unexpectedly to the land of Faerie, then when could events merit a drink?
“Aye, a wee dram would be welcome just now!” he agreed with enthusiasm.
“It was your whisky that landed you square in the trouble you’re in,” Morgaine said disapprovingly.
She was right, of course, for if Alasdair had not been celebrating the night before, he would never have taken the lads’ dare. All the same, he felt in need of something fortifying in this moment.
“Aye, that would be true enough, and I have the bump to show for it,” he conceded, giving her a sample of his most winning smile. It had earned the favor of a reluctant lass on more than one occasion, and Alasdair reasoned that it could not hurt to try his charm on the enchantress, too. “Just a wee sip to set matters straight, my lady Morgaine, then you can have your way with me.”
Her eyes flashed dangerously and Alasdair knew he had overstepped a mark. Before he could make matters right, she stepped away and tossed her hair like a flighty filly.
“Go on and have your whisky!” she snapped. “What does it matter to me if you waste your life?”
And with that, the sorceress turned and stalked away.
Alasdair started in pursuit, but the woman advisor laid a hand upon his arm. “It’s all right,” she purred with a reassuring smile. “Morgan is a bit sensitive about alcohol.”
The man appeared on Alasdair’s other side. “But that’s no reason not to have a ‘wee dram’ ourselves, is it?” He smiled cheerfully and Alasdair saw that he was being corralled by this pair. “Maybe a wee bit o’ haggis to keep it company?”
The familiar words echoed strangely in the man’s flat tones, as though they were not pronounced quite right. Alasdair had seen enough of battle to understand that these two were deliberately befriending him.
Though
why
he could not say.
“But you do not understand,” Alasdair protested, flicking a worried glance to the rapidly disappearing Morgaine. “I cannot let her out of my sight!”
The pair exchanged a quick glance that Alasdair did not miss. Indeed, if he had not been between them, he knew the woman would have given the man a nudge with her elbow. That intent glance - and the elbow nudge - was a signal he had endured many a time from Fenella.
Particularly at family gatherings, where much was left unsaid. Were these two a pair, then?
“I’m Blake Macdonald,” the man said cheerfully. A Macdonald of which persuasion? The clan had cleaved into those who avidly followed the Bruce and those who just as avidly did not.
This Blake had not been upset at the mention of Alasdair’s name, so he must be with the Macdonalds who followed the Bruce. And ’twas clear this Blake did not realize what Alasdair had done to Fenella, a member however distant of his clan.
Alasdair shook Blake’s hand and had a good look into the man’s eyes. Reassured, he looked after Morgaine.
She had disappeared back through the doorway where they had met only moments past. Alasdair suddenly had a niggling feeling that there was something he should remember. His head throbbed vigorously at the effort and that whisky - not to mention a bite to eat - sounded even better.
Aye, he had been fou as a puggie the night before, that much was certain, and now he had the aching head to show for it.
“And this is my wife, Justine,” Blake continued. “We’re just here on vacation, from Chicago, you know, and we’d just love to buy you lunch. We were going to eat in the restaurant here - do you know whether it’s any good?”
Because they seemed to be waiting for an answer, Alasdair shook his head. Vacation? Chicago? Restaurant? How could he understand anything about their world when he had only just arrived?
“Well, we’ll try it anyway. You know, there’s nothing like hearing the perspective of someone right from a country...”
“But, Morgaine!” Alasdair protested as they turned in the opposite direction.
“Will join us later, I’m sure,” Justine interjected, then slid her hand into Alasdair’s elbow with a smooth grace.
She reminded him of Elizabeth de Burgh - Robert the Bruce’s wife - always the perfect hostess and never at a loss for the right thing to say. Alasdair found such women slightly dumbfounding. They were so different from his gran who was feisty and spoke plainly.
As Morgaine did.
Now there was an unsettling thought! Oh, he had need of a bite in his belly. Alasdair stifled a desperate urge to turn tail and run from all of this.
An eerie scream carried below the mount, something setting the very ground to rumbling. Too late, Alasdair recalled that detail of Morgaine’s domain and jumped despite himself.
Aye, he was in a fine fankle, to be sure.
“Morgaine’s dragon!” Alasdair muttered.
Blake shook his head, frowning at a band strapped to his wrist. “No, no. 11:30.” He fanned through another book. “That would be the
Highland Chieftain
leaving Waverly Station for London. Right on time.” He glanced up to Alasdair. “
Morgaine’s Dragon
isn’t on my train schedule. Are you sure it leaves from here?”
“No,” Alasdair conceded, not having any clue what the advisor was talking about. Blake fumbled through his book, evidently looking for something, while Justine tapped her toe.
Perhaps it would be a wise course to curry the favor of these trusted advisors of Morgaine’s. They might be able to help him escape the clutch of her spell.
Alasdair could not outrun the land of Faerie, that much at least he knew as well as he knew his own name. ’Twas those who outsmarted the enchanted folk who returned to the world Alasdair knew to tell their tales.
“Look, Blake, just leave it for now,” Justine said smoothly. “We’ve invited Alasdair to join us for lunch, after all.” She smiled up at Alasdair. “So, you like Morgan. You know, I just have the strongest feeling about the two of you...”
“Oops, bad news,” Blake interrupted, glancing up from his ledgers. “Says here that they only have tea and snacks at this restaurant.” He frowned indecisively.
Alasdair did not know of this tea and snacks, but it sounded less than promising, given Blake’s response. “A man has need of a proper drink when matters go awry,” he said firmly.
Blake winked at Justine. “And we’re
real
men, aren’t we, Alasdair? No quiche and tea for us!” He fanned through his book before Alasdair could make sense of that, jabbing victoriously at the page. “Hey, here’s a pub in the Grassmarket.” He glanced up brightly.
Alasdair had to ask. “A pub?”
“Public house. We can get our wee dram there, or a beer.”
Ah, a tavern. Alasdair nodded understanding as Blake consulted his volume again. “It’s called the Hangman’s Drop. What do you think?”
Justine rolled her eyes, but Alasdair thought the name oddly appropriate. Those lost to the world of Faerie might as well be dead, after all.
“What about your one o’clock gun?” Justine asked enigmatically.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Blake said with dismissive wave. “Today, we’ll enjoy a bit of local color.” He grinned. “Hey, Alasdair, stand with Justine, will you? I’ve
got
to take your picture!”
Alasdair watched as Blake held a small black box to his eye and made it click. They were a strange lot in the world of Morgaine le Fee, that much was for certain.
Alasdair could not be trapped here for all eternity. Nay, he had to escape.
And Morgaine le Fee herself held the sole key to his release.
* * *
What was it with men and booze?
And why did Morgan invariably find men who couldn’t stay away from the stuff so attractive? She should have learned her lesson by now! Morgan stormed across the grassy bailey, as angry with herself as with the highlander, jumbled memories crowding into her mind.
Matt with his insincere promises.
Matt laughing at yet another party, the consummate charmer even when he drank far too much.
Matt snoring in the car as Morgan - stone cold sober and deeply unhappy - drove home.
Again.
And again and again and again.
Then the final straw.
But Morgan would not think about it. The subject was closed. Old business. Nothing to do with her life anymore. That chapter was done and best forgotten.
What she should be thinking about was her new book.
Or more to the point, why she hadn’t a clue how to start.
Well, she could hardly collect stories by racing through one town after another at breakneck speed. What she needed was a few hours alone with her sketchbook. Then everything would start to flow.
Morgan knew that she had to stop fretting about Blake’s schedules and Justine’s chances for conception and just treat herself to a little time to think about the work.
And Morgan would start by following the first creative impulse she’d had all week. She would go back and take that picture of Edinburgh through the arrowslit, the one she had planned to take before finding Alasdair.
Morgan knew she
could
work this camera and she would prove it.
The shot looked as good in the viewfinder - in fact, the angle of the sun was little better than it had been before - and Morgan carefully snapped the picture. The Polaroid whirred as it spit out the shot and she lingered in the tower room as it processed.
No point in leaving until she knew for sure she had done it right.
Morgan refused to admit that she might be deliberately avoiding any chance of being swept along with her sister’s plans. Irritation surged through her at just the thought of Justine’s unwelcome interference.
Honestly, fixing Morgan up with an actor pretending to be an historic figure in an old castle. Couldn’t he find any better roles to play?
Of course, the drinking could have ruined his chances of serious acting. What would he do next? Detergent commercials? Couldn’t Justine see that Alasdair was trouble with a capital
T
?
Although he did have awfully good legs.
And Morgan had a picture of him. Unable to deny her impulse, she rummaged in her bag for the Polaroid that she had inadvertently snapped of Alasdair.
The picture, though, only showed the room below.
Morgan frowned at it in disbelief. The last step was there and the wall opposite where she was certain Alasdair had been when the camera went off.
But he
wasn’t
there. The photo showed only barren stone.
And Morgan’s own toe. How could he have avoided being in the picture? Was the room below bigger than Morgan had thought?
Intrigued, Morgan trotted down the stairs. She held up the picture and compared it to the small room, squinted between the two, but was unable to avoid the truth.
The room was so small that Alasdair couldn’t have missed being in her shot somewhere. Even Morgan hadn’t been able to stay completely out of it, evidenced by the tip of her out-of-focus boot.
So, why wasn’t he there?
Morgan felt goosebumps rise on her flesh, but she told herself it was just the damp chill of the air. There had to be a logical explanation to this. She studied the picture for a clue.
There was a funny glimmer on the floor in the shot. Morgan checked the room again and saw something catch the light in the same place.
It was a stone.
Without a second thought, Morgan crossed the room and picked up the large quartz crystal, cradling its weight in her palm. She turned it over and over, fighting against a sense that she had seen it somewhere before.
But where? Morgan knew she hadn’t noticed it here earlier.
She’d been too busy noticing Alasdair’s legs.
Morgan climbed back to the sunlight thoughtfully. She watched the light play within the stone, unable to shake the feeling that it was somehow familiar.
Where had she seen this stone?
The memory came in a sudden flash. The regalia! She had seen it this morning on the castle tour.
But how could Morgan be holding part of the Scottish crown jewels in her hand? They were locked away in a display case in the castle.
Unless Alasdair stolen the stone.
A sick feeling coiled in Morgan’s stomach. It was a perfect plan - take a job working inside the castle, get to know the staff, be amiable enough to be trusted and then steal a precious antiquity.
All the same, Morgan had a hard time believing that the man she had found could be a thief - at least on such grand scale.
But he was an actor, wasn’t he? And she
had
thought he intended to rip off her camera.
Well, there was only one way to find out the truth.
To Morgan’s relief, the others had disappeared from view when she peeked out the tower door. She sprinted across the lawn to the entry of the special exhibit of the castle’s history. Morgan elbowed her way through the crowds filtering through the exhibit, pushing to the front of the crowd gathered around the display case in the last room.
The Scottish regalia were the vestments of royal authority gathered over the nation’s long history, now finally displayed for all to see. The crown of Scotland perched on a crimson pillow, the crown ringed with ermine and lavished with garnets and pearls. The massive sword lay the length of the display, its ornamented hilt and scabbard fit for a king.
But Morgan stared at the scepter as the tourists flowed around her. A golden shaft spiraled with inscriptions and said to have been a gift from the pope in the Dark Ages, its gold had been reworked numerous times. Now it culminated in a trio of porpoises, nosing a golden setting skyward.
An
empty
golden setting.
Morgan swallowed. The crystal in her pocket had been mounted in that gold filigree this morning when she first saw the regalia. She knew it. Morgan fingered the stone guiltily, unsure what to do. She didn’t know how Alasdair had done it, with so much security around, but the truth was right before her eyes.