Claire Delacroix (31 page)

And there was one in particular whom he longed to hold close. If Morgaine was naught but a wee lass who had been buffeted by what life had offered her, then he had naught to fear from her.

Carefully, so as not to disturb her, Alasdair cast his kilt aside and doffed his boots. He climbed into the bed beside Morgaine and caught his breath when she rolled over and bumped into his side.

But she merely curled up beside his heat with a sigh.

Alasdair eased back against the pillows and slipped his arm beneath Morgaine’s shoulder to hold her close against him. The sweet clean scent of her filled his nostrils and battered down his flimsy defenses.

Though he willed himself to breathe deeply, ’twas long into the night that Alasdair MacAulay stared at the ceiling overheard and wondered.

What if she spoke aright?

* * *

Morgan awakened with the odd sense that she had lost something but couldn’t remember what it was. She opened her eyes to find a suspicious warmth lingering beneath the sheets, though Alasdair’s whistle carried from the bathroom.

Morgan stretched, knowing she had slept like a rock for the first time in a long time.

And felt very good as a result. Her sketching had gone really well the day before, although she’d been so exhausted she’d just fallen into bed. She looked down and realized in horror that she had slept in her clothes.

And she was starving. Morgan couldn’t exactly recall - she acknowledged few intrusions from real life when absorbed in her work - but she was pretty sure she had forgotten to get any dinner.

Which was one incentive to getting up. Morgan rolled across the bed as she stretched luxuriously and thought she caught a whisper of Alasdair’s scent on the linens. Her heart skipped a beat, but another sniff was inconclusive.

Had he slept with her? If Alasdair had crawled into the bed, he certainly hadn’t made a pass at her.

Which was a pretty strange change of attitude, given his amorous assault of the morning before. Morgan propped herself up on her elbows and surveyed the room, noting immediately that Alasdair’s bed was rumpled.

She frowned at the wave of disappointment that coursed through her. Obviously the highlander had gotten over his burning attraction to her.

That thought totally destroyed her good mood.

Morgan rolled out of bed with a grimace. She had a vague sense that her drawings had been examined, then returned to where she left them, but couldn’t be sure. Well aware of the merry whistling in the other room, Morgan quickly gathered up the sketches and put them away.

“Are you awake, my lady?” Morgan spun guiltily and shoved one hand through the nest of her hair just as Alasdair erupted from the bathroom. He nodded to her, fastening the end of his kilt with expert ease, then dropped into a chair to lace up his boots.

His tone was perfectly businesslike. “If you so desire, I shall seek a morsel to break our fast and discover Blake Advisor’s intentions for this morning.”

Alasdair was obviously in a rush to leave. Couldn’t wait to get away from her. Morgan forced a smile past her disappointment. “Great. I’ll be down in twenty minutes or so.”

He nodded with satisfaction, then strode to the door without looking back. “’Twill be a good thing to have an early start this day.” Before Morgan could blink he was gone.

Well, not only was Alasdair not interested in her, he wanted to go home
tout de suite
. Could anyone blame him?

That’s what she got for not only turning down the best offer she’d had in a long time, but for reminding Alasdair of the love he’d left behind.

Morgan thought about beautiful Fenella and kicked her suitcase hard. It hurt more than she’d thought it would and she yelped in pain. She hopped on one foot, cradling her wounded toe, then tripped over her discarded sweater and fell on her rump.

Morgan contemplated a crack in the ceiling from where she lay sprawled on the floor. Could she blame Alasdair for not being interested in her? Not really - especially when his heart was held by a dead beauty. Whether Fenella had been dead seven minutes or seven centuries was immaterial - Alasdair clearly was going to love her forever.

Morgan closed her eyes and wished that one day she would find a guy who could do the same.

A guy just like Alasdair MacAulay.

* * *

Alasdair remained distant the entire day. He sat with his arms folded across his chest as they drove, clearly focused on where he wanted to be. They all seemed to pick up on his desire to get to Lewis ASAP. It was overcast and bone-chillingly damp, but every time Blake put on the heater, the little car’s windows fogged up.

So, they bundled up in anoraks, shoved their hands in their pockets and put up with it. Morgan wished they had a thermos of something warm.

That morning, there wasn’t a lot of conversation in the Micra. They passed Dunstaffnage Castle, where Alasdair had said the Stone of Scone had been sealed into the walls, but Blake zoomed right by. Morgan pressed her nose against the window glass and tried to catch a glimpse, but no luck.

They made Fort William by lunch and grabbed a sandwich there. Alasdair looked to the hills and brooding skies, apparently unaware of what he ate. He stared at gas stations and traffic lights, restaurants and apartment buildings, his brows furrowed, but he never said a word.

His lips drew to a thin line as the road narrowed to two lanes once more and the hills rose high on either side. Morgan, in contrast, was awestruck by her surroundings. The scenery was spectacular in the Great Glen and would have been more so in sunlight.

Silvery water stretched beside the road on one side and green clad hills rising sharply on the other. Eagles circled high overhead and signs marked hiking trails. Morgan was amazed to find such an expanse of wilderness in a land occupied for at least two millennia.

But Blake drove up the glen at purposeful speed.

It was teatime when the reached the coast and Justine was trying to negotiate a stretch-and-pee break. Morgan took one look at Eilean Donan castle and knew they had to stop. It was picture-postcard perfect and when she chimed in, Blake reluctantly conceded.

Eilean Donan Castle occupied a small island in a narrow bay stretching eastward from the sea. The loch was as still as a dark mirror, the green-dappled highlands rose majestically around and behind the restored castle. The skies had cleared as they drove west and now only a scattering of fat clouds drifted across the azure sky, the ends of them tingled with the gold of the descending sun.

The hills stretching off into the distance, one behind the other, made it look as though Scotland went on forever. The seaweed washed against the retaining walls, though, was evidence that the Atlantic Ocean was just beyond the next curve.

The tide was in when they arrived, the water high on the narrow causeway that curves out to the castle gates. The castle nearly filled the island, its walls high old stone. Blake parked the Micra and the sisters practically dragged the men to tour the castle.

Morgan was sure Alasdair would remember this place - he must have passed it centuries ago. Maybe here she could convince him of the truth.

Or at least get him to talk again.

“Do you know this place?” she asked the stoic highlander. “Have you been here before?”

Alasdair shook his head.

“But we’re quite close to Skye now. You must have come this way when you followed Robert the Bruce.”

“We crossed to Skye and thence to the mainland near Loch Alsh,” he supplied tightly.

“That
is
Loch Alsh,” Morgan told him, indicating the lake to their right. Alasdair frowned and studied the hills.

He said no more, but his scowl deepened as they strode toward the castle. Blake paid their admissions, much to Alasdair’s evident confusion.

“This is a toll?”

“No, just an admission charge.”

Morgan wasn’t surprised that Blake’s explanation seemed to make no sense to the highlander. She fanned through a guidebook and quickly discovered why Alasdair didn’t know this place.

It hadn’t been here.

“I do not understand,” Alasdair rumbled beside her shoulder. “What is this admission charge if not a toll?”

“Well, it’s a museum, filled with things from the castle and people who lived here and you pay to see it.”

“They show their belongings for a fee?” The highlander frowned. “Is this not a military keep? Loch Alsh is a strategic site.”

“No.” Morgan shook her head. “It must be a folly.”

He didn’t look any less confused.

“That’s what they call things people built for fun,” Morgan explained. “Mostly around the turn of the century. There’s a house shaped like a pineapple somewhere in England and other places like that.” This didn’t seem to clarify anything for Alasdair, so Morgan indicated the paragraph in her book.

“See? It says here that the original keep was destroyed hundreds of years ago and no one knew what it looked like. A laird in the early twentieth century had a dream of his forebears in the castle and when he woke up, he sketched plans of the keep of his dream.”

Morgan scanned ahead in the text. “Then he had it built, at considerable expense, claiming it was a perfect reproduction of what had stood here.”

Alasdair snorted. “Who would know?”

“Exactly! But it says that his family actually lived here. Look.” Morgan tapped the glass of a display case. “There’s some of his wife’s calling cards and the silver case for them.”

Alasdair peered at the display, looking no less mystified. “What are these calling cards?”

“It was a Victorian thing. From the time of the reign of the English queen Victoria.” Morgan glared pointedly at Alasdair, daring him to acknowledge that he had never heard of the queen, but he steadfastly ignored her.

Although Morgan knew he was listening. “When you visited someone and they weren’t home, you left a card with the staff so they knew who had come.” Morgan saw Alasdair’s doubt and wondered whether he was starting to give credence to her theory.

“It went out of style in the 1920’s,” she added deliberately, watching his reaction carefully.

Alasdair blinked, then his gaze locked with her own. His eyes were a potent sapphire, so Morgan knew she had his attention. “1920’s?”

Morgan didn’t even blink. “The years between 1920 and 1930 AD.”

Alasdair inhaled sharply and straightened.

“That would be nineteen hundred and twenty years since the birth of Christ,” Morgan added deliberately.

Alasdair looked about himself with a slight air of panic as his lips drew to a thin line. “I know naught of this 1920’s and, in truth, it matters little,” he said, his words tight. “I wish only to be home with all haste.”

“I know,” Morgan said softly. “But I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.”

But the highlander spun away, his frustration more than clear.

* * *

They rounded the curve at Kyle of Lochalsh, and it became clear that the hills in the distance were actually on the Isle of Skye rising in the west. They crossed the bridge to Skye as the sun was setting in orange splendor, then passed into the shadow of the island itself as the road curved along its eastern flank. The tops of the hills glowed with the sun’s last rays, while the mainland to the east was silhouetted against the first stars.

The cows were coming home, welcoming golden light spilled from kitchen windows glimpsed along the way, white sails were furled in the ships bobbing at anchor far below. Road signs were posted in both Gaelic and English, and Morgan felt the difference in atmosphere as soon as the Micra’s tires touched the island.

Skye was magical, a home for fairy tales if ever there had been one. They passed mountain bikers loaded with panniers and backpackers who waved cheerfully as they passed. Bed and breakfast signs rocked in the wind, great red hairy highland cows chewed methodically at the roadside. There were vast stretches of wild forest, and fabulously healthy roses entwined the fence posts.

The awesome power of Skye’s twilight made all things possible. Morgan looked to Alasdair and found him watching her. Something had eased in his features and she knew he felt more at home than he had on the mainland.

And Morgan understood, because she felt the same way.

Just as she instinctively guessed that feeling would get stronger the further they traveled.

* * *

The next morning, they caught the first ferry from Uig on the northwest tip of Skye. Alasdair’s anxiety had touched them all and they had barely taken the time to look around Skye, despite its beauty.

Alasdair was grim and silent again. Although they had shared a room again the night before, he had not so much as spoken to Morgan. When she fell asleep, Alasdair had been sitting at the window, staring at the myriad lights of the idyllic town of Portree.

Alasdair was in exactly the same position in the morning. He was obviously coming to terms with what had happened to him and Morgan was content to leave him alone to do that.

Even if she didn’t like how somber he had become.

His stoic expression didn’t change as the ferry came chugging around the point of the island. Steam poured from its red stack, and the blast of its horn echoed in the quiet bay. It was a car ferry, a boat of considerable size – obviously something Alasdair would never have seen before.

She noticed only the way his lips tightened.

As the ferry eased into its slip, dozens of car engines could be heard starting up. Ropes were tossed and metal ramps clanged into position. Foot passengers streamed ashore, bikers pedaled away, and a steady stream of cars drove into the distance.

Just a few minutes after the ferry’s arrival, a short man with a heavily lined face took up his position in the middle of the loading ramp. Morgan had seen him pacing the length of the queue while the ferry disgorged its incoming passengers.

He pointed to the first car in the line and beckoned.

And the loading began. Blake drove forward when the Micra was summoned, and Morgan saw that the passenger decks wrapped around the car bay in a big U. The vehicles were nestled in the center, just below the waterline, and the little man was obviously calculating and balancing the load as he proceeded.