Claire Delacroix (9 page)

Some actor! Alasdair certainly hadn’t been able to hide the fact that he recognized the crystal Morgan had found.

Well, she was on to him now, and even Justine would see that she had been wrong about this man.

Morgan marched to the table the maître d’ indicated and sat down without looking back to the highlander. She cringed when her sister called out to Alasdair, but bent her attention on the menu.

The menu, however, was not sufficiently fascinating to keep Morgan from noting a very muscular leg sliding under the table beside her. The dusting of golden hair on Alasdair’s leg caught the light and Morgan had an impulsive urge to feel whether his muscles were really as firm as they looked.

She gripped the menu harder instead.

Moules marinara, avec un demi baguette de l’ail.

Morgan swallowed when Alasdair’s knee bumped against her own and she felt her cheeks heat with self-consciousness. She ignored her sister’s not-quite-concealed nudge of Blake. Those two huddled behind their menus, smugly satisfied co-conspirators.

Strong fingers landed on the table within Morgan’s peripheral vision. She hated how she noted their lean strength and deep tan. Morgan imagined those fingers sliding up her flesh and swallowed awkwardly.

“My lady Morgaine?” Even his voice was low and husky, a perfect pitch for intimacy. If she drew him, Morgan would put Alasdair against a fiercely blue sky, his hair blowing in the wind.

Wait a minute! She wasn’t going to
draw
some con man!

“My lady?” Alasdair murmured again and Morgan didn’t have it in her heart to ignore him.

Auntie Gillian had always said there was no excuse for rudeness. Morgan composed her features in an unencouraging expression. She glanced up and nearly drowned in fathomless blue eyes. Her heart stopped, then lurched forward again.

Why, oh why, did this scoundrel have to be so attractive?

Alasdair cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with what he had to say and flicked a glance to the menu. His ears reddened and Morgan remembered that he hadn’t been able to read the guidebook in the castle.

A tiny traitorous part of her heart melted in sympathy when he leaned closer. Alasdair’s voice dropped to a husky burr that eroded Morgan’s resistance even further. “My lady, I fear that I do not know how to proceed in such circumstance...”

Surely it couldn’t hurt to help the man order a meal?

“It’s in French,” she explained before she could question her compassionate impulse. “They have a lot of steak and seafood, it seems.”

He looked blank.

“Beef and fish.”

“Fish?” Alasdair grimaced comically. “Who would have fish when they could have good beef?” He slanted a suspicious glance her way. “Unless the beef here is tainted?”

Morgan decided not to get into the whole ‘mad cow’ business, especially as she didn’t understand the specifics very well.

Instead she stuck to the tried and true. “Studies show that it’s not healthy to eat red meat every day,” she informed the highlander.

Alasdair scoffed openly. “’Tis a far sight healthier red than any other shade.”

Morgan knew that this time
she
looked blank.

But Alasdair’s firm lips twisted and his fair brows drew together in a frown. “Aye, there’s many as think they can fool a man with stewing and spices, but when meat is gone, ’tis
gone,
and no kitchen wizardry will disguise the truth from a man’s belly.”

He seemed to be speaking from experience. Morgan supposed that if she had ever been served bad meat, she would be similarly opinionated.

She deliberately did not think of her own culinary efforts, many of which had not been fit for a dog.

Alasdair shook his head, then turned those beguiling blues upon her. Morgan was astonished to find a twinkle glimmering in their depths and could not look away. “When the pigs will not consume it,” he confided in a low rumble, “any cook must be compelled to face the truth.”

His words were such a close echo of her own thoughts that Morgan felt as though he seen right into her mind. She felt herself blush furiously.

Alasdair’s gaze danced over her face and the resolute line of his lips softened. If Morgan thought his tone had been low and confidential before, the way it rumbled now proved this man had considerable charm still to spare. “My lady Morgaine, would you do me the courtesy of choosing some viand to fill my belly?”

Morgan tried to act unaffected by his appeal and was pretty certain she failed. Fumbling with the menu and dropping it on the floor was a big clue.

Alasdair gallantly dove to retrieve it at the same moment as Morgan. They bumped heads en route. She sat up hastily when she saw his strong fingers close over the laminated sheet.

By the time she was sitting straight again with the menu securely in her grip, Morgan’s face was so hot that she was sure it was as red as a beet.

One glance at Justine’s smug smile was enough to revive her. This guy was a crook! And she was going to prove her sister wrong on this matchmaking venture!

Morgan took refuge in the details of the menu. “How hungry are you?” she asked, proud of her businesslike tone.

“Very.”

Morgan refused to let Alasdair’s low chuckle affect her attitude.

A waiter carried a tray of hors d’oeuvres, including escargots, past their table. Alasdair sniffed appreciatively at the waft of garlic butter, then looked alarmed as the food was deposited on the next table. He was obviously shocked when the diners tucked into their appetizers.

“They eat
snails
? Like some vermin in the fields?” he demanded in an incredulous whisper. The woman in question apparently heard Alasdair, because she shot a hostile glance toward their table.

Morgan swallowed her smile. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“Indeed, I would expect so!” Alasdair inhaled sharply and looked towards the other diners with unconcealed horror. “I beg of you, my lady, find me some decent fare.”

Decent would be big, red and dead, in a man like Alasdair’s vocabulary, Morgan was sure. She scanned the menu. “There’s a Delmonico steak in a pepper sauce.”

A glint of interest in Alasdair’s eye told Morgan she had made a good choice. “Aye? ’Tis good fresh meat?”

“Oh, I’d think so. They serve Steak Tartar, after all.”

He frowned. “What is this Tartar’s steak?”

“It’s raw, with onions and an egg and some spices,” Morgan explained. “But the meat has to be very, very fresh.”

Alasdair nodded firmly. “I will try this.”

“But it’s just an appetizer.” At his blank look, she continued. “A small serving to start the meal.”

“And the other?”

How could he even wonder about a Delmonico steak? The only time Morgan had ordered one – the “house special” – she’d taken so much of it home that she’d had it for dinner for the next three nights. “That would be a main course.”

Alasdair nodded approval, his glance straying to Morgan’s black clutch. He leaned toward her, capturing one of her hands in his great warm one. His voice was low with intent, and Morgan felt that tingle awaken in the depths of her belly. “My lady Morgaine, you must understand that I
need
that stone...”

That’s what she got for trying to help!

“I’m sure you do,” Morgan snapped and easily pulled her hand out of his gentle grip. She snatched up her purse and slapped it on the table at the furthest point from Alasdair. Just for good measure, she moved her chair a foot closer to Blake.

Alasdair stiffened. “What do you think I mean to do?” he demanded, as though insulted. “Steal the token from you?”

Morgan arched a brow. “It would hardly be news, would it?”

Alasdair snorted and Morgan took refuge in her menu, pretending she hadn’t already decided to order the filet mignon.

“Morgan!” Justine chided. “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? Alasdair is our guest tonight, after all.”

Morgan deliberately set her menu aside. “That’s only because you don’t know that he’s a thief.”

Justine and Blake gaped at Morgan most satisfactorily.

“My lady, I told you that I could explain...” Alasdair murmured, but Morgan wasn’t going to listen to anything a con man had to say for himself.

“A thief?” Blake echoed, adjusting his glasses with a frown. “Why on earth would you say that?”

Morgan snatched up her purse and rummaged in it, dropping the crystal from the regalia on the white linen tablecloth with a triumphant flourish. “Because he stole this from the regalia!”

The response was less than she might have hoped for.

Justine and Blake stared at the stone as though they didn’t know what it was. Alasdair’s hand moved on the table, but Morgan stilled any acquisitive move he might have contemplated with one cold look.

“From where?” Blake asked.

“What is it?” Justine asked simultaneously.

“It’s the crowning stone from the Scottish regalia,” Morgan explained impatiently. “Don’t you remember that it was mounted on the top of the scepter in the display this morning?”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Morgan, you really have to start listening. What’s the point of taking these tours if you don’t pay attention? The guide specifically said that the stone had been missing for seven centuries or something.” With a dismissive wave, he picked up his menu again. “That Robert the Bruce dirtball is supposed to have sold it.”

Alasdair inhaled sharply, and Morgan glanced up to find his eyes blazing. “Robert the Bruce would never have committed such a foul deed!”

Blake shrugged. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters now. The guy was a loser, no matter how you slice it.” He ran a finger down the array of offerings and wrinkled his nose. “Do you think the lobster would be any good?”

Justine clicked her tongue and winked at Alasdair. Morgan was irritated to hear her sister’s soothing hostess-with-the-mostest tone. “Alasdair, I sincerely hope that you’re not insulted. Morgan has the most active imagination.”

“I’m not making this up!”

Justine laughed lightly. “Oh, Morgan. You always said that when we were kids, too. Honestly, monkeys outside the window and pet dragons in the closet.” Her lips twisted as though she couldn’t help laughing, then she plucked the stone from the table.

The tension emanating from Alasdair was tangible. Morgan noticed that his fists were clenched on either side of his chair.

It he grabbed for the stone, she wasn’t going to let him get away with it.

“Don’t you see?” Morgan said urgently. “He used us to get the stone out of the castle, and now he’s going to steal it back from us.” She gave Alasdair a scathing glance. “Probably sell it for a fortune.”

“That?” Blake’s expression was skeptical. “Might get five bucks for it, on a good day.”

“It’s kind of pretty.” Justine turned the stone to catch the light, then tossed it to Morgan as though it were no more than a bauble. Morgan fumbled but managed to hold on to it. “Did you find it in one of those New Age shops? They’re just nuts for crystals, aren’t they?”

Morgan felt herself tremble as her fingers closed over the stone. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Then why don’t either of us remember the stone being in the scepter?” Blake asked. “Face it, Morgan. Your imagination has gotten away from you. Again.”

Obviously they didn’t believe her. Morgan didn’t know how Alasdair had managed to fool everyone, but she was somehow going to prove that she was right. She shoved the stone back into her evening purse, glancing up when she felt the weight of someone’s gaze upon her.

And one look into those blue, blue eyes told Morgan that there was one person who already knew that she was right.

* * *

The steak of Tartars was good fare, but hardly ample enough to satisfy. Alasdair was greatly relieved when the servant slid a great wallop of beef beneath his nose. The smell alone made his innards growl in anticipation.

Anxious not to give offense in this strange court, he had already noted and adapted to the use of the small, tined spear that had been awaiting him at the table. He surreptitiously watched the lady Morgaine herself as she carved a piece of her own much more meager serving of meat, then mimicked her actions.

And closed his eyes when the succulent flavor flooded his mouth. He was too hungered to care whether ’twas bewitched. The red wine was finer than any he had ever known, wine being a rarity in his life and one oft so musty by the time it ventured this far north that Alasdair preferred his ale.

All in all, he could not object to the quantity or quality of the food in Morgaine’s domain.

As long as one avoided the snails.

“I must thank you, my lady,” he murmured. “For the fare is most fine.”

Morgaine looked unimpressed by his gratitude, although she nodded curtly. Conversation flared briefly as each commended the meal to the attentive servant, then silence reigned again. Alasdair took another morsel of meat and tried to think of a way he could win the crystal from Morgaine’s clutches.

Let alone curry the queen’s favor.

“You know, Alasdair, you just might be able to help us,” Justine commented brightly.

“Indeed?”

“Yes.” The advisor smiled. “You know, Morgan has a fascination with folktales and old stories. I was wondering if you might know some, you know, stories you heard as a child that you could share with us.”

Alasdair glanced sideways at his adversary, only to find her expression murderous. Evidently she did not like this advisor sharing tales of her tastes. Why would she be interested in the tales of mortals, except to turn them to her own dark gain?

But all the same, this might work to his advantage. Alasdair summoned a winning smile. “Aye, that I do. My gran is a great teller of tales, and I have heard the lot of them from the cradle.”

“Really?” Justine was obviously impressed by this news. “You see, Morgan, I just knew Alasdair would be able to help.”

Before Morgaine could comment upon this, a servant hovered at the periphery of the table and coughed discreetly. Blake looked up and beckoned to him.

“Excuse me, sir.” The servant’s manner was as deferential as if he addressed Morgaine herself. Alasdair wondered whether the common folk here were not permitted to speak to the great lady without intercession. “We did manage to obtain tickets for this evening’s performance for you” – Justine cooed with delight – “ although there is a small problem.”