Claire Delacroix (12 page)

For forty days and forty nights,

They wade through red blood to the knee,

And he saw neither sun nor moon

But heard the roaring of the sea.

Oh, they rode on, and further on,

’Til came they to a garden green.

“Light down, light down, my lady free.

Some of that fruit let me pull for thee.”

“Oh no, oh no, True Thomas,” she says.

“That fruit must not be touched by thee!

For all the plagues that are in hell

Light on the fruit of this country.

But I have a loaf here in my lap,

Likewise a bottle of claret wine.

And now ere we go farther on,

We’ll rest a while and you may dine.”

When Thomas had eaten and drunk his fill,

“Lay down your head upon my knee,”

The lady said. “‘Ere we climb yon hill

And I will show you pathways three.”

They came to the intersection of Leeds Avenue, and Morgan indicated they should turn to the right. Alasdair paused, pointing to the left with a smile.

“Oh, do you see yon narrow road,

So thick beset with thorns and briars?

That is the path of righteousness,

Though after it but few enquires.”

Morgan grinned at his game, and Alasdair gestured to the road ahead.

“And do you see that broad, broad road,

That lies across yon lillie leven?

That is the path of wickedness,

Though some call it the road to heaven.”

Alasdair pointed to the right and turned their steps in that direction.

“And do you see that bonny road,

Which winds about the ferny slope?

This the road to fair Elfland,

Where you and I this night must go.”

His voice dropped low as they started down Leeds Avenue.

“But Thomas, you must hold your tongue,

Whatever you may hear or see.

For it a word you should chance to speak,

You will never return to your own country.”

Thomas has gotten a coat of the even cloth,

And a pair of shoes of velvet green,

And ’til seven years were past and gone.

True Thomas on earth was never seen.

The shadows of the entwined branches over Leeds Avenue made Morgan feel as though they were following that road to Elfland. Even the streetlights seemed to dance, as the light was filtered through the rustling leaves. It was quieter here, an elegant neighborhood where a few townhouse dwellers wandered with their dogs.

“Isn’t there any more?” Morgan asked when Alasdair didn’t continue.

He shook his head. “Nay, that is the end of the rhyme.”

“But what happened to him?”

“True Thomas? Ah, my gran says he spent his seven years in Faerie, though indeed it seemed to him to be no more than seven days and nights. When he returned to Erceldoune, the Queen of Elfland granted him an apple that gave him the gift of prophecy and a tongue that could not lie. ’Twas then she explained why he was to be named True Thomas, though he was known by mortals as Thomas Rhymer. He made his way as a poet whose verses came to pass with uncanny ease.”

Morgan’s imagination was captured by the spell of Alasdair’s song, a thousand images gathering in her mind, restless to be set down on paper. She could easily visualize Thomas being surprised by the Queen of Elfland while he lay on a hill and the way his eyes would go round when she showed him the marvels of her world.

“Well, why did the Queen of Elfland pick him?”

“Ah!” Alasdair nodded sagely. “’Twas said he had seen her once and lost his heart to her beauty. With her otherworldly arts, she heard his heart’s song and came to him, binding him to her side with a single kiss.”

“Oh, that’s lovely!” Morgan sighed with romantic delight, her image of Thomas becoming stronger with every detail Alasdair added. “She must have loved him, too, to have given him such a gift.”

“Aye.” They navigated the next curve, the street busier but with fewer trees. “’Twas said that even the barrier betwixt the worlds could not keep them apart,” Alasdair mused. “She sent for him years later, as my gran tells it, and Thomas passed happily to the land of Faerie, never to be seen again.”

Morgan saw the liquor store that the locals called an “off-license.” The bed-and-breakfast was right beside it, and the blue Nissan Micra rental car was parked out front.

“There it is,” she said and pointed. Evidently Alasdair had noted the thistle on the sign, because he headed straight for it.

They paused as one at the base of the steps, Morgan toying with her key. She hadn’t dated in so long that she’d forgotten how awkward this moment could be.

But then, this wasn’t a date.

Morgan tipped her head back to find Alasdair’s expression unreadable. “Thank you for walking me home,” she said quietly, then smiled. “And thank you for keeping those kids from taking my purse. I really appreciate it.” She cleared her throat, unable to look away from Alasdair’s steady gaze.

It didn’t help that he didn’t say anything.

“And thank you for singing,” Morgan added. “I liked the story very much.”

Alasdair smiled suddenly, the sight stealing Morgan’s breath away. “Anything to please you, my lady,” he murmured, then bent low over her hand.

Morgan’s skin tingled where his lips brushed across it. The memory of their kiss unfurled in her mind, and she didn’t trust herself not to repeat her mistake.

She turned and quickly trotted up the stairs, hating how breathless her voice sounded. “Well, good-bye. I hope you do find your way home.”

Alasdair frowned at that, and the sadness that claimed his eyes tore at Morgan’s heart.

But before she could say anything she would probably regret, he turned back to the street. “Sleep well, my lady,” he said gruffly and walked away.

Morgan hesitated for a moment, fingering her key. If Edinburgh wasn’t Alasdair’s home, then where would he sleep? Did he even have any money? Her characteristic sympathy rolled to the fore, and she almost called after him before she caught herself.

He must be trying to manipulate her! Obviously, he wanted the crystal back. Morgan had to remember that Alasdair was an accomplished con artist – and the consummate actor.

But all the same, his song had filled her mind with wonderful images. She let herself into the silent B&B and climbed the three flights of stairs to her room, thinking busily all the while.

Instead of going to bed, Morgan turned on the light over the desk and pulled out her sketchbook. She stared at the blank paper for just a moment before she began to fill it with drawings for the tale of Thomas the Rhymer.

The work came with an ease that Morgan had almost forgotten. A border of curling ivy concealed half a dozen pointed and curious faces. Then, Thomas’s grassy bank of Erceldoune grew across the page, filled with wildflowers and tiny hands and faces.

Morgan’s pencil seemed to have a mind of its own. She felt as though she were simply setting the little sketched elves and fairies free of their pencil prison.

She smiled and bent over the work, thinking about Alasdair’s wonderfully deep and expressive voice. There was something magical in the way he had made each character come to life. The old folk verses painted such vivid pictures in her mind that she could swear she had been to Elfland with Thomas.

But then, a lot of actors could sing. And she had always had a weakness for a good baritone.

All the same, Morgan couldn’t completely free herself of the spell of his voice. She stopped trying and let the illustration flow under its own momentum. Alasdair’s song echoed in Morgan’s ears as the Queen of Elfland’s radiant outspread wings came to shimmering life on the page.

This was exactly what she had needed to begin on her book. Morgan refused to think about the man responsible for her inspiration – let alone whether it was more than his song that had had inspired her.

* * *

Little did Morgan know that in the tiny park opposite the bed-and-breakfast, a disreputable-looking highlander folded himself up on a public bench, his gaze fixed on the golden light spilling from her window, and settled in for the night.

* * *

Justine knocked on Morgan’s door and then, when there was no response, knocked even harder. Honestly, it was eight o’clock! Blake was itching to get on the road again and head off to Scone Palace in Perth. And Morgan was late.

Again.

Justine was going to have to get her sister a watch with alarm bells or something. But then, Morgan would probably find a way to ignore that, too.

Justine knocked again. Blake had left their room across the hall, pushed up his glasses, and gave Justine an exaggerated wink. She smiled, knowing what had put the twinkle in her husband’s eye.

She had no doubt that there was an answering sparkle in her own.

“We could just go back to bed,” he murmured. He strolled across the foyer and planted a kiss on the nape of Justine’s neck that made her shiver. “Check out late. What do you think?”

“You’d never do it.” Justine turned to Morgan’s door. “Do you think anything’s wrong?”

Blake grinned. “Maybe something’s very right.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t look out the window this morning, did you?”

Justine shook her head, mystified, and Blake pushed the door to their room open with a fingertip. “Go look,” he invited.

“You’re going to ambush me and we’ll never get out of here,” she accused, unable to keep herself from smiling at the thought.

“Scout’s honor.” Blake crossed his heart solemnly.

“Rats,” Justine teased, then went to look.

Alasdair was sitting on a park bench, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles crossed. His arms were folded across his chest and his expression was grim.

He was staring at a point that would exactly correspond to Morgan’s window.

“Oh!” Justine spun around to face Blake with delight. “What do you think happened?”

He shrugged, unable to hide his own smile. “It’s not like Morgan to sleep once the sun is up.”

“You’re right. She’s always been a morning person.” Justine fought to keep her hopes from rising too high. She darted back out into the hall and rapped impatiently on Morgan’s door.

“Morgan?” Justine leaned close and called quietly against the door. “Breakfast is on. Are you coming?”

She thought she heard sounds of life from within the room, so she knocked again. Louder.

Morgan opened the door a crack, her hair spilling around her face in a disorganized tangle. She was still wearing her dress from the night before, but it was wrinkled almost beyond recognition.

Something – or someone – had kept Morgan up all night.

Justine dared to hope.

Then she saw the pencil smudges on her sister’s fingers, and her heart sank. Alasdair might be smitten, but Morgan had just been working.

Drat.

“Good morning.” Justine forced a bright tone. “Sleep well?”

Morgan ran one hand over her brow, then frowned toward the little desk in one corner of her room. “It wasn’t long enough to tell. What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“And I was supposed to meet you at seven-thirty.” Morgan groaned. “I’m sorry.” She wandered away from the door and surveyed the room, as if unfamiliar with its contents. “Do I have time for a shower?”