Claire Delacroix (43 page)

Morgan smiled herself, knowing the sound of a healthy sleep herself. She touched Angus’s brow and found that the alien heat had left his skin.

When she looked up, she inadvertently met Gran’s flaming gaze.

“His mother?” the older woman snapped. “That woman has no right to my Alasdair’s heart, there is the truth of it!”

“You will not say aught against the dead in my home,” Alasdair retorted.

“I shall say what needs saying, especially as you are not inclined to tell the truth yourself!” Gran bounded to her feet and cast her knitting aside. She jabbed a finger through the air at Alasdair, her voice low and angry. “That Fenella was a peck of trouble and a greetin teenie, if ever there was! There was naught she liked better than to set all tapsal-teerie for no more than her own enjoyment!”

Alasdair straightened and his tone was wooden. “She gave to me a son, against her own will, and paid dearly for the doing.” Morgan ached to hear how Alasdair still blamed himself for this.

Gran spat on the floor. “She gave you naught but grief!”

Alasdair inhaled sharply, and strode across the room. “My son is not grief!” he declared, his voice low and hot.

Gran pointed at the sleeping boy. “Make no mistake, Alasdair, this boy is not your son.”

The color left Alasdair’s face in a rush, and Morgan caught her own breath at this unexpected blow, but Gran continued in a fury. “Aye, ’twas against her will to be round with a babe, that much is for certain, since the lads have no affection for a ripe woman and she was vainer than vain, that Fenella.”

Gran glared at Morgan. “Trouble she was, trouble from the first we saw her, and he knew it as well as I. Hers was a beauty not even skin-deep, for her heart was as black as soot.” Anger and pride combined in the older woman’s tone as she flicked her head toward Alasdair. “But duty-thirled is my Alasdair and naught would come in the way of any word he had granted.”

“When did you know?” Alasdair asked stiffly.

“I suspected from the first, but was not certain until you were gone away with the Bruce. And now,” she smiled down at the sleeping boy, “he is our own and there is little point in the telling.”

“But tell you did,” Alasdair observed.

Gran shrugged and her gaze sharpened. “Are you expecting me to stand by and watch you err again?” She sniffed and stared at her grandson, who still stood stiffly to one side. “Any man with his wits about him could see that this one is as different from Fenella as sea from shore. You said yourself that Morgaine le Fee held your own heart fast.” Her tone softened. “Do you not imagine the woman deserves to hear the truth from your own lips?”

With that, Gran scooped up her knitting with a vengeance and sat down heavily before the hearth. The sound of Angus’s even breathing was nearly driven out by the pounding of Morgan’s own heart. She stared at Alasdair, hoping his gran knew the truth.

Alasdair offered Morgan his hand. “Come, my lady,” he murmured, his low voice making her heart skip in anticipation. “Come. There is something I would show you.”

Morgan looked into the fathomless blue of his eyes and put her hand in the warmth of his.

* * *

The first stars were out, the view to the sea still streaked with orange and pink. Alasdair led Morgan behind the cottage with a surety of purpose. She caught her breath when she saw two freshly planted vines, one rife with thorns, the glossy green leaves of the other very familiar.

Alasdair had planted the briar and the rose.

But for whom?

Morgan glanced up to find Alasdair’s blue, blue gaze steady upon her, and her heart gave an unruly thump.

But he didn’t say anything, just guided her closer to the plants. He paused beside them, bending to tuck the dirt carefully around their roots, her fingers still firmly captured within his hand.

“These I planted but yesterday,” he confessed hoarsely. “And though there were those who doubtless thought it foolish, it suited me well to mark the loss of a love, a love that still burned bright in my heart.”

Morgan didn’t dare to breathe.

Was he talking about Fenella?

Alasdair’s thumb slid across the back of her hand, then set to tracing little circles around her knuckles.

“My lady, I am not a man who surrenders any matter readily, but I must confess that this was to be my last night at the circle of stones. This was to be my final tribute to the ache in my heart before I left this place for all time.”

He was going to leave here?

“’Twas when the healer came and gave her ill portent for Angus’s health that I know I could remain here no longer and dream of what might have been.” Alasdair impaled Morgan with a look. “She said he would die, and I vowed then that if he did, I would return to battle with the Bruce.”

“But you’ll die!” Morgan burst out. She clutched at his hand. “You can’t go! I read it in the bo-”

Alasdair placed a resolute thumb over her lips to silence her and his lips quirked. “My lady, I have no intent to go,” he assured her softly, his eyes glowing. “All has changed this day.” He raised one hand and stroked her cheek, his smile broadening. “You have saved my son, and for this, you have my eternal gratitude.”

Gratitude was a far cry from what Morgan actually wanted. “But he’s not your son,” she felt obligated to point out.

Alasdair shrugged. “It matters little. The boy rests as securely in my heart as if he were my own blood, and in my mind he is. My gran’s tales change none of that. Angus is my son.”

Because Angus was Fenella’s son, at least, and Alasdair was still in love with Fenella, regardless of her faithlessness.

Disappointment flooded through Morgan. She had been a dope to come back here, an idiot to imagine that her pregnancy or even she herself made any difference to this strong and gentle man.

They were of different times, and Morgan knew now that she should have stayed in her own. She turned away, not even caring where she went. Maybe somehow she could find her way back to Justine, but Morgan wasn’t sure.

One thing was for certain – she had bet the farm and lost.

“My lady! What is this you do?”

Morgan looked back at Alasdair and tried to smile. “I’m leaving. Of course.”

“Of course?” Alasdair frowned as though he could make no sense of this. “But you have only just arrived.” He gestured to the entangled plants behind him in frustration. “Does this mean naught to you?”

Morgan shook her head sadly. “I’m sure Fenella is delighted, wherever she is.” She turned once more to leave. “I’m sure she’s thrilled that you’ll love her forever.”

“Fenella?” Alasdair’s voice sounded strained, but Morgan didn’t stop. “This has naught to do with Fenella!” he declared hotly.

No, Morgan admitted, it probably had more to do with Angus. Alasdair’s son. She thought about the tiny baby in her own belly and her tears rose. She forced herself to just keep walking.

Until the cry of a mad boar made her jump in fright. She pivoted to find Alasdair closing in on her.

Fast.

“My lady Morgaine, if you imagine for one clarty moment that I will stand by while you walk away, then you know naught of the measure of man I am!” he bellowed.

Morgan froze. Alasdair’s eyes flashed, and he flung his hands skyward as he stormed toward her. “Does it mean naught to you that I love you beyond all else? Does it matter naught to you that I have no reason to wake each day without you by my side? Did your pledge of love to me mean naught in the end?”

Morgan went all cold, then felt a flush rise over her cheeks. She gaped at the furious highlander as he came to a stop before her, his eyes blazing sapphires.

“You love me?” she asked incredulously.

“Aye, that I do!” Alasdair roared. “Have you listened to naught I have told you this night?”

“But you love Fenella.”

“Fenella?” Alasdair looked horrified by the concept. “Never did I give a care for that flighty besom! A sound whack on the bahookie was what she deserved, but so long left undone ’twas not so easy to fix.” His expression turned wry. “My gran speaks aright in this, at least.”

“But you married her.”

Alasdair arched a fair brow and folded his arms across his chest as he regarded Morgan. “’Twas my duty,” he said quietly. “I have told you this afore.” He stepped closer while Morgan absorbed this and took her chin in his hand, his tone turning gentle. “And did I not tell you when last we were together that you were as fine as a red, red rose, and I no better than a doughty thorn?”

Morgan nodded.

Alasdair smiled. “Then how can you doubt the meaning of the rose and briar, my lady? My heart is as securely in your keeping as ever a man’s could be.” He leaned down and brushed his nose across hers, his voice husky. “I love only you, Morgan. Do not leave me.”

The truth shone in his blue, blue eyes, as always it did.

“Oh, Alasdair! I don’t want to leave.” Not sooner had Morgan made that confession than Alasdair scooped her up into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. She reveled in his touch, secure in the knowledge that she had made the right choice.

And then she began to cry that she had ever doubted him.

“Tears, my lady,” he whispered, wiping them away with an indulgent thumb. “Is it so dire as that to pledge to me for all eternity?”

“We didn’t make a pledge.”

Alasdair snorted. “An omission to be righted, to be sure.”

Morgan smiled through her tears. ‘I suppose that would be the right thing to do,” she mused. “Since I’m pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” Alasdair’s eyes widened with joy and then alarm. “And what foolery is it that has you out in such chill air? And nary a morsel for your supper to warm the babe’s belly?” He growled as he carried her directly back to the cottage. “My lady, did I not know better, I should think you had need of a keeper.”

Morgan kicked her feet playfully. “Good idea. Know anyone who might be interested?”

Alasdair looked at her intently, and his grip tightened possessively. “There will be none taking that task. ’Tis mine and mine alone, and well do I intend to fulfill it.”

“Are you giving me your word?” Morgan teased.

Alasdair’s eyes gleamed as he stared down at her. Morgan felt as though the world stopped when he paused on the threshold of his cottage to gather her closer.

“Aye, my lady,” he murmured with a smile. “Aye, that I am.”

And he bent to kiss her with a thoroughness that made Morgan’s heart sing. She wrapped her arms around his neck, thinking of the rose and the briar tangling each about the other, the vines becoming as one.

Inseparable for all time.

And Morgan liked the sound of that just fine.

* * *

Epilogue

Justine’s fingers tightened on the envelope when she saw the postmark and she tore it open without another thought. She dropped onto the stool beside the phone in her sunny white kitchen and read hungrily.

May 23, 1999

Dear Mrs. Macdonald,

Thank you so very much for your lovely letter. The Captain and I were delighted to hear that you are expecting a child. Know that all of our warmest congratulations are with you.

Per your request, I did trot over to Frances Fergusson’s and have a look for the record of your forebears. You will be pleased no doubt that Frances does have a thorough record in her files and may wish to see it yourself whenever you are back this way.

It seems your ancestor Alasdair MacAulay did indeed marry twice, as you had suspected. His first wife was a Fenella Macdonald who gave to him a son, name of Angus. By the dates, Frances guesses Fenella died either in childbirth or shortly thereafter.

How blessed we are that such matters are less risky in our times! I trust that all will go well on your day and that you will be feeling quite yourself again shortly thereafter.

But to return to the tale, this Alasdair did wed again and remarkably, Frances knows quite a bit of his second wife. Her name was Morgaine, though there is no clan listed for her so we cannot tell from whence she came. Named for the great sorceress herself, if you can imagine the cheek of that! But all the same, she seems to have been uncommon lucky - the pair of them had four bairns, two boys and two girls, not two years between any of them. The man must have been smitten with her charms indeed!

Then it is that Alasdair had five children: first Angus in 1307 by that first wife, then a boy Caillen in 1316, then you’ll no doubt be surprised to learn that the first girl has your own name, though it was uncommon enough in those times. Justine was born in 1318, followed by what appear to be twins, Niall and Isobel in 1320. All the children lived to a doughty age, as did their parents, living as they did until...”

Justine firmly put her thumb over the dates. She didn’t want to think about Morgan being dead for several hundred years. She pulled out a calendar and tried to figure out the dates of the babies’ births instead.

Well, Morgan had been pregnant when they last talked and that baby had presumably been Caillen born in 1316. So, for Morgan, right now, it was sometime in 1316.

Justine patted her ripe belly and smiled. Morgan was probably just as pregnant as she was right now. Justine could just imagine how Alasdair would fuss around her.

He’d probably be even worse than Blake had been.

She bit her lip, told herself not to cry, then read on.

“But what is truly remarkable is that there are several letters preserved at the monastery between Morgaine and the abbot there. It seems that she had a gift for painting miniatures. The abbot’s letter makes it clear that although this is most unusual, a lack of talent within the monastery had him hiring Morgaine’s abilities to illuminate the Bibles and gospels that they copied there. Several sentences lead Frances to believe that Morgaine was not allowed within the perimeter of the monastery because of her gender, but that she had a rare and mutually profitable relationship with the monks of the abbey.

Isn’t that remarkable? I must confess that curiosity sent me myself down to the town library where the last of the monk’s illuminated books are preserved and the librarian let me have a wee look. Mrs. Macdonald, if ever you can come back this way, I would strongly suggest you treat yourself to a look at these marvelous books. She may only have been named for a great enchantress, but it is more than clear that your forebear could put magic on the page. Not surprisingly, her spouse Alasdair had somewhat of a reputation as a man of letters - some of those between himself and the abbot are also preserved.