Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (66 page)

Okay, first the con man scenario. For a
smooth talker, Alasdair hadn’t seemed to be particularly
goal-oriented or even very smooth. He had promised
not
to
try and get the crystal from her, which was supposedly the only
thing he wanted.

And he had saved her from those thugs.

And if Alasdair was after bigger spoils than
the crown jewel of Scotland, well, wouldn’t he have at least asked
what kind of asset base the three of them had?

Nope, the con man scenario had some definite
weaknesses.

Blake pulled out onto the highway and
silence descended in the car. The humming of the Micra was quite
soothing, as were Justine’s murmured directions. Alasdair seemed to
slowly relax beside Morgan and Morgan herself realized just how
tired she really was.

Now, if Alasdair was an actor, she reasoned
as that man stared out the window, he just could be really getting
into playing his role. But the castle said they didn’t hire actors
and he never missed a beat in not understanding modern stuff.

In fact, Alasdair seemed to find the
contemporary world awfully confusing. She would expect a medieval
guy to be just about as frustrated as Alasdair obviously was.

Morgan suddenly remembered how the
highlander’s manner had changed in the tower when he heard her
name. What had he called her?

Morgaine le Fee. And he still insisted on
calling her Morgaine. Well, Morgan had read enough fairy tales to
catch that reference.

Morgaine le Fee, the sister of King Arthur
who went over to the Dark Side. Morgan chewed her lip. Was that who
he thought she was? He did talk a lot about her kingdom and this
foul world.

Did he think he was trapped in some domain
of sorcery?

Morgan’s lips twitched unwillingly. She
didn’t want to laugh at him but it was funny to think of herself as
the powerful Evil Queen of all she surveyed.

“
Luke,”
a tiny voice
in her mind breathed raspily,
“Come over to the Dark
Side.”

It would have been funnier if it didn’t make
so much sense.

And it would make even
more
sense to
a fourteenth-century man. How else could he explain the modern
world? It was obviously a magical illusion that couldn’t be
trusted.

The capricious realm of Faerie.

Morgan’s mind ran in circles, trying to find
another explanation but without success. The only option that
accommodated everything that had happened was that Alasdair really
had come from the past.

After all, he thought Blake’s glasses were a
torture device.

Morgan fidgeted but couldn’t get comfortable
against the hard, vibrating wall of the car. She eyed Alasdair and
noticed that his head had dipped forward.

Her heart contracted in sympathy. If she was
right - and Morgan’s gut told her she was - he was probably one
confused highlander. Alasdair probably hadn’t slept too well on
that park bench either.

She couldn’t blame him for getting a bit
testy about the whole thing. Of course, he didn’t think that was
Scone - it would have changed an awful lot in almost seven hundred
years. Why, Blake had said that the palace dated from the sixteenth
century.

Morgan’s natural compassion came to the
fore. Somehow she had to help Alasdair - the only question was
how.

And that was a biggie. Morgan watched
Alasdair doze and felt her own energy run low. All this thinking
was making it easy to remember that she hadn’t slept much the night
before either.

And Alasdair’s shoulder looked like a much
better place to lean her head, especially since she now knew that
he wasn’t some dastardly criminal.

His gran was right, she thought with a
little smile, Alasdair was all bark and no bite. He made a lot of
noise but right now looked as easy-going as a big warm pussycat.
She couldn’t imagine a safer place to curl up and sleep than right
beside him.

Of course, Alasdair might have other
ideas.

Morgan straightened cautiously, but the
highlander didn’t stir. She glanced forward, but Justine and Blake
seemed oblivious to anything going on in the back seat.

Morgan sidled closer and leaned her arm
tentatively against Alasdair’s muscled strength.

He didn’t even move.

In fact, he seemed to breathe more
deeply.

Morgan took that as encouragement and
carefully leaned her head against his shoulder. She closed her
eyes, letting herself luxuriate in the masculine heat of his
skin.

It had been so very long.

She stared at his hand through her lashes,
liking how his strong fingers splayed across his knee. Morgan gave
herself permission to imagine just a little bit.

What if she had been born in the fourteenth
century? What if she had been, like Isobel of Buchan, a woman
smitten with a brave and bold man? In her mind’s eye, the pennants
snapped and the horses stomped around that heatherclad hill.

Fierce isosceles triangles bristled around
the perimeter, threatening the idyllic setting with protractors and
sharp compasses, each demanding that two of their angles be proven
equal without delay. They came closer, their points menacing, and
Morgan forgot everything she had ever pretended to know about
mathematical proofs.

She was at their mercy!

A single lusty roar sent the triangles
suddenly scattering to the four winds. Angels sang, Morgan heaved a
sigh of relief, and the world was safe from geometry again.

The hero responsible, garbed in
disreputable-looking plaid, stormed through the proud steeds. He
dispatched a few errant slide rules with a sweep of his broadsword,
then headed directly for Morgan with purpose in his step.

And when Morgan lifted the golden circlet of
Scotland’s crown in her hands, it was Alasdair who dropped to one
knee before her, flashing those magnificent legs as he did.

Then he tipped back his head and met
Morgan’s gaze. She stared into the fathomless blue of his eyes and
smiled ever so slowly.

And Alasdair smiled back, the twinkle in his
eye sending a flush of anticipation dancing over her skin. Morgan
felt herself bend toward him, cup his face in her hands, and lower
her lips to his.

It was a good thing for Morgan’s resistance
that she was too tired to tingle from head to toe. She managed to
savor the dream moment for about that long, then her eyes drifted
completely closed.

*

Alasdair was having a wonderful dream. ’Twas
such a rare marvel that he had no desire to awaken.

Because indeed there could be naught finer
than having a compliant Morgaine le Fee nestled in his arms.

His memory supplied the sweet rosy scent of
her, his hands recalled the softness of her fair skin as well as if
they yet held her close. Alasdair could even feel the tangle of her
dark hair winding around his fingers.

And in his dream, her allure held no hidden
serpent’s bite.

Through the filter of his lashes, Alasdair
could see Morgaine laying within his embrace, her own eyes closed,
her ebony lashes stark against her skin, her ruby lips parted in
soft invitation. She was nearly in his lap, the sweet weight of her
curves pressed so wondrously against him.

And Alasdair wanted her. The urge that had
tormented him since first he spied the sorceress seemed to have
trebled in his sleep. And here, he was safe to indulge his
desire.

Unable to deny temptation, Alasdair leaned
over the lady. She stirred and her witchy green eyes opened
lazily.

The welcoming smile that curved her lips was
lethal to any uncertainty lingering within Alasdair. Before he
risked awakening, he bent and captured her lips with his.

And to his astonished delight, the sorceress
rose to meet his embrace. Her hands slipped around his neck and she
pulled him closer, as though she hungered for his touch as
desperately as he desired hers.

Morgaine was sweeter than the first spring
honey and made him more dizzy than the strongest mead. Alasdair
gathered her close and slanted his lips possessively across hers,
swallowing her low moan of delight. His hand slid over her delicacy
and cupped her breast of its own accord.

When his thumb found her turgid nipple - a
sure sign of her arousal - it near undid him. Alasdair caressed the
taut bead, sliding his fingers over her, rolling the nipple betwixt
thumb and finger.

Morgaine gasped and arched against his hand,
her tongue tangling provocatively with his own. Her kiss turned
demanding, as though she would devour him whole, and Alasdair was
more than willing to return her ardor.

He feasted upon her, sampling her sweetness
deeply, enflamed by the way she clutched his hair in her tiny
hands. He gathered her up and her breasts pressed against his
chest, the tautness of her nipples making his heart thunder in his
ears. His exploring fingers found the ripe curve of her buttocks
just as she moaned and rolled her tongue within his ear. The heat
raged over his flesh and Alasdair made to roll her beneath him.

Only to bump shoulder, knee and head against
some confines that seemed vaguely familiar.

Alasdair’s eyes flew open and his heart sank
when he found himself battling the enclosures of the blue
Micra.

Blake and Justine were gone, the sides of
the vehicle somehow open to the crisp bite of the wind. The chariot
sat on a point of land, a mirror of shimmering water stretched
before them.

Yet on the far shore stood a stone keep, its
walls crumbling but obviously of Alasdair’s own world. He could
smell the faint tinge of salt in the wind and knew the sea could
not be far away.

He truly was home in the land of
mortals!

But there was one particular immortal yet
sprawled in his lap.

A hard lump rose in Alasdair’s throat as he
realized he had indeed kissed the sorceress with rare abandon. His
dream had held some vestige of reality, indeed, but the lady’s
pleasure could not be the truth of it. Alasdair barely dared to
look down and see Morgaine’s wrath.

But look he did. And the flushed Morgaine he
found looking shyly up at him did not look wrathful at all.

In fact, the delicate blush gracing her
cheeks and the mischievous glint in her eyes moved the hard lump
somewhat lower than his throat.

“
Wow,” she breathed, then
smiled enchantingly. “What a way to wake up.”

And awakened Alasdair undoubtedly was. He
was home! Or close enough that he could return to Lewis alone.
These hills could be nowhere other than his own beloved Scotland
and he knew he could find someone to direct him on his way.

He had returned from the land of Faerie.

And the Lady Morgaine had made it so.

Alasdair’s delight was such that he wanted
to sing aloud, bellow some long and boisterous tune that would set
every toe to tapping.

But then, he thought of a much better way to
celebrate. Alasdair bent and kissed the sorceress again with the
thoroughness the situation deserved.

*

Morgan was drowning in sensation.

And the last thing she wanted was to be
saved. Alasdair’s kiss was the best thing she had tasted in a long,
long time. The strength of his hands moved over her in an endless
caress, the gentle sweep of his touch almost reverential.

Morgan had never felt so treasured. And yet,
the heat of his erection pressed against her hip, the size of it
leaving no doubt of his desire.

He wanted her. Morgan could barely wrap her
mind around the incredible concept, but she didn’t care.

She just didn’t want this moment to end.

And she didn’t want Alasdair to change his
mind. A decade of denied desire came to her rescue and Morgan
kissed the highlander as though she would never have another chance
to kiss a man again.

Because she might not.

The reassurance of her technique thrust
against her hip. Alasdair groaned and gathered her closer and
Morgan rubbed her breasts against the broad strength of his chest.
One hand cupped her nape, his other hand slipped beneath her
sweater.

Morgan caught her breath when his hand
closed with gentle possessiveness over her breast. The heat of his
palm was bare against her skin and Morgan praised the day she had
abandoned brassieres. She opened her eyes and stared into the
endless blue of Alasdair’s gaze, their noses almost touching.

He slid his hand across her tight nipple and
Morgan moaned softly. It was more than a little reassuring to hear
him catch his breath, as well.

“
What would you have of
me?” he whispered huskily and Morgan knew they both knew the answer
to that.

Before she could question her impulse, she
moved to straddle him. He inhaled sharply when she sat down, and
wriggled herself against his hardness. Her leggings and his kilt
seemed to be no barrier at all, and Morgan rocked before she could
stop herself.

“
Morgaine!” Alasdair leaned
forward, captured her lips with his and simultaneously drove
himself against Morgan in one lightning-quick move.

Morgan barely realized that she was pinned
against the back of Justine’s seat before the seat unexpectedly
flopped toward the dashboard. It wasn’t a very timely reminder of
how the front seats tipped to allow access to the back.

Morgan squeaked at the sudden release of the
catch, Alasdair growled, then he was sprawled clumsily on top of
her. They came to an inelegant halt when the seat back was almost
completely horizontal.

It wasn’t exactly a picture-perfect love
scene. Alasdair looked so astonished that Morgan almost laughed out
loud. She caught a glimpse of one very tight and muscular buttock
beyond a sea of plaid.

Then, she did laugh.

Alasdair looked at her as though she was
crazy, his astonishment changing slowly to male outrage when Morgan
couldn’t stop laughing.