Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (81 page)

The offer surprised Alasdair, though no less
than the enchantress’s resolve. “My lady, there is no need.”

“
Of course there is. You
can’t go alone.”

Alasdair frowned and lowered his voice to
reason with her as she came to stand beside him. “But should we
pass into the land of mortals, you could well share the fate I have
just survived. You could be lost from your home.”

She smiled sadly and tapped a fingertip in
his chest. “Surely Morgaine le Fee will only have to click the
heels of her ruby slippers together to come back?”

There was a skepticism in her tone, but
Alasdair refused to think again about her fantastical tale. She
spoke aright about the extent of her powers, as well he knew, and
truth be told, he welcomed the promise of her companionship.

For when the moment stood before him,
Alasdair was not so eager to be rid of Morgaine le Fee’s enchanting
company. He would miss the tiny sorceress, with her intriguing
blend of softness and strength, her determination and her
vulnerability. Aye, he would continue in her presence for but a few
moments longer before leaving her side for all time.

’
Twas a weakness, no doubt
of that, but one she seemed to share.

Alasdair nodded assent and folded Morgaine’s
hand within his own, marveling that she permitted him to touch her
thus. Morgaine nodded to Justine and Blake, and the Micra hummed
once more.

“
We’ll find a
bed-and-breakfast,” Blake called cheerfully. “Meet you back here in
an hour?”

An hour. Alasdair had one hour left with the
enchantress before their ways parted for all time. Clearly, they
believed ’twould be more than time enough for her to see him home.
Alasdair’s heart began to hammer in his chest.

But one hour and he would be before his very
own hearth. Never would he have believed that fate would hold such
allure. It seemed a distant dream to recall his impatience to shake
the dirt of Lewis from his boots. Morgaine waved and the Micra
backed down the road, spewing gravel in every direction.

Within a matter of moments, the silence
Alasdair so loved pressed against his ears. The gravel faded to
naught and Lewis’s low grass was springy beneath his boots. He took
a deep breath of the salt-laden air, caught the scent of sheep and
freshly turned earth beyond the swirling curtain of fog.

Home.

And Morgaine had insisted upon not only
returning him but on sharing the moment with him. Alasdair was
determined to show her the fullness of both his hospitality and his
gratitude. He squeezed her fingers and smiled down at the
uncertainty lingering in her wondrous eyes.

“
Come, Morgaine,” he
invited with all the grace of a courtier. “Come with me and meet my
son.”

And with a spring in his step, Alasdair
strode into the swirling mist, confident of what lay ahead.

*

They walked through the mist, the silence
surrounding them enough to make Morgan lose what little sense of
time she had. The fog was thick and white, and a faint shimmer of
tiny raindrops gradually gathered on her anorak. Morgan felt as
though she were walking in the clouds.

An occasional sheep appeared before them,
then fled in a panic once it glimpsed them. Their footsteps made
the only sound, until Morgan caught the steady rhythm of the sea
crashing on the coast far, far ahead.

Alasdair strode with confidence, the road
obviously familiar to him and the fog no obstacle to navigation at
all. Morgan watched him out of the corner of her eye and caught the
bright gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

If she hadn’t ben dreading what Alasdair
would find, she might have enjoyed the walk. It felt as though they
had left the world she knew and wandered in some magical realm.

Clearly Alasdair had come to the same
conclusion. There was a definite lightness to his step. She hoped
they had a long way to go before he was disappointed, then called
herself a chicken.

“
I shall tell you a story,
my lady,” he offered, and Morgan was glad of a way to keep from
thinking too much about what lay ahead.

“
That would be
wonderful.”

“
Aye, ’tis not a ditty,
this one, but a fair tale nonetheless. Once upon a time, there was
a smith of fair talent, who worked long and hard at his craft. He
had a son, a tall young lad, who had a good interest in the smithy,
and all was good within his world.

“
Until one day, his son
took ill. At first the smith thought little of it, for children oft
catch a chill and recover with speed. But this sickness lingered on
and on. The boy faded to a shadow of his former self, and the smith
grew increasingly worried. He sought counsel from those in the
town, without success, until the elder came and looked within his
cottage with wise, wise eyes.

“
The elder took the smith
aside once he had had a good look at the lad and shook his head
with dismay. ‘I fear to tell you the truth, but ’twill out in the
end. ’Tis not your son lying in his own bed, but a Faerie
changeling. The fair folk have stolen your boy for their
own.’

“
Now the smith was
skeptical of this tale, for the lad looked exactly like his own
blood, even though his flesh turned more yellow every day. So, the
elder described a test to the smith that would prove the Faerie’s
identity. Eager to dismiss this whimsy, the smith gathered the
materials bidden.

“
Within his cottage, the
smith laid out the dozens of broken eggshells he had brought and
greeted the one who appeared to be his son as though naught was
amiss. Then, with great solemnity, he filled the eggshells from the
water bucket, two at a time, and carried them as though they were
fearsomely heavy to set before the fire. The boy watched with
fascination.

“
The smith continued thus,
two shells by two, until the one he thought to be his son shouted
with laughter. ‘Never in all my eight hundred years have I seen the
like of that. Are you mad, father smith?’

“
And a great fear seized
the smith’s heart, for now he knew the elder had spoken aright. The
next morn, he raced to the elder with the news and demanded to know
what he must do to rid himself of the changeling and retrieve his
own son.

“
The elder thought long and
hard, then he counseled the smith. ‘Go to your home and light a
large fire immediately beside the lad’s bed. Make the fire burn
bright and high, and when he asks you what the blaze is for, seize
him and cast him into the flames. The changeling will flee
screaming through the cottage roof, as surely as a wisp of
smoke.’

“
The smith went home and
followed the elder’s dictate. He lit the fire, he made it burn
bright and high. The changeling asked what the blaze was for and
the smith immediately seized him and cast him into the flames. And
with an eerie scream, the Faerie changed to its own dark self and
fled the cottage through the roof.

“
Now, although this was all
well and good, the smith yet wanted his own son back. He returned
to the elder to ask advice, and after some thought, the elder
presented him with a plan. ‘On the night of the full moon,’ the
elder said solemnly, ‘the Faerie folk do gather at that round green
hill for their dancing. The barriers are thin between their world
and ours at such times and ’tis then that you must seek your
son.

“‘
Take a Bible with
yourself, a dirk and a crowing cock, and do exactly as I bid you,
lest you never be seen on this earth again. There will be much
dancing and merriment, but do not be distracted from your course.
Hold the Bible high to protect yourself and go to the opening in
the side of the hill from which the light will spill. Before you
enter, stick your dirk into the threshold that you will not be
trapped inside.’

“
The old man gripped the
smith’s arm. ‘When first you enter, you will see your son. You will
be asked why you are there: say simply that you will not leave
without your son. Keep your wits about you, master smith, and you
will be safely home at the dawn with your very own son.’

“
Well, the smith took this
counsel quite seriously and was determined not to fail. On the
night of the next full moon, he gathered up his Bible, his dirk and
a cock that crowed louder than most, and made his way to the
hill.

“
True to the elder’s words,
there was a tremendous celebration there. A golden light spilled
through a doorway in the side of the hill where the smith knew
there usually was none. He could hear laughter within, as well as
fey music, but he held his Bible high and approached the door.
Before entering, he stuck his dirk in the threshold, then stepped
over its hilt.

“
He had only a glimpse of
the Faeries’ wild dance before he saw his own son, working at a
golden forge. The smith caught his breath in the same moment that
the Faerie folk spied him. The festivities halted suddenly and all
manner of eyes turned upon him. ‘What do you want here, master
smith?’ they called mockingly. ‘I want my son,’ the smith replied.
‘And I will not go without him.’

“
The Faeries laughed
merrily at this bold assertion, for they knew well enough that both
smith and son were on the Faeries’ own soil. ’Twas they who would
decide who might stay and who might leave.

“
But their laughter
awakened the slumbering cock, who mistook the bright Faerie lights
for the sun. The cock leapt to the smith’s shoulder, flapped his
wings, and set to crowing. The sound was overloud beneath the hill,
but naught would silence the cock. The Faeries grew agitated, but
the cock crowed on and on.

“
Finally, and with much
gnashing of teeth, the angry Faeries cast the smith and his son and
their cock out of the hill. They flung his dirk after him – the
iron of the blade being as poison to them – and the doorway in the
hill closed as if it had never been.

“
And when father and son
crossed the threshold of their own humble cottage, the dawn was
just breaking over the horizon. They lived long and happily
together, the son having learned much in the Faerie smithy that he
shared with his sire, and they prospered in their trade as few
others do.”

*

The mist lifted ever so slightly once
Alasdair finished his tale, and Morgan could see the silhouettes of
hills on either side of them. Alasdair began to walk more quickly,
his excitement obvious.

She knew it hadn’t been an accident that his
story had been about man and son reunited, and she ached at what
she knew he would find ahead. The sound of the sea became louder as
they rounded a corner, and the wind off the ocean dispersed the
fog.

A verdant valley spread before them,
spilling from the hills high to the right and flowing into the sea
to Morgan’s left. It was touched by dew, and a sparkling brook cut
through the pasture on its merry dance to the sea. The fields were
vivid green and spotted with hundreds of wandering sheep. It was a
scene of pastoral perfection.

Much to Morgan’s surprise after their walk,
a glossy paved road snaked over the crest of the hills high above
and wound its way to a carefully maintained gabled house. A hedge
of roses grew all around the dwelling and a sign creaked in the
wind before it.

Adaira Macleod’s Rose Cottage
Bed-and-Breakfast.

The house had a porch all across the front
and wrapped around the sides, a deep porch with plenty of room to
sit even when it rained. The view of the ocean would be
spectacular, Morgan guessed, even as her gaze danced over the
lace-adorned windows.

It was only after admiring the house that
Morgan noticed the ruined walls of a single crofter’s cottage
beyond it to the left. She has seen these small cottages throughout
Scotland, their heavy walls made of mortared stone, their thatched
roofs slightly curved, smoke coiling from the chimney. But this one
had almost crumbled into the earth.

It was clearly abandoned.

Before Morgan could say anything, Alasdair
was running across the pasture. She suddenly knew who had abandoned
this cottage.

“
Alasdair!
Wait!”

But he wasn’t waiting for anything. To
Morgan’s astonishment, he continued to climb higher, ignoring the
ruined cottage. He fell to his knees behind the bed-and-breakfast,
where the sparkling stream burst out of the hills to meander across
the valley. As Morgan watched, he pushed aside the vegetation with
increasing anxiety.

He was looking for some vestige of his home.
Of course, it would have eroded to nothing in seven hundred years.
Even though Morgan had known all along that he wouldn’t find his
cottage, watching Alasdair claw in the dirt tore her heart out.

The ruins of the other cottage were grayed
and broken, all but the last foot of the outer walls gone. The
remaining stones were rounded and worn by the weather, choked with
moss, nearly swallowed by long waving grass.

A single purple foxglove bloomed in one
corner, sheltered from the wind and in colorful contrast to the
ruins around it. The house would have been dark inside, Morgan
guessed, with few windows. But the walls would have been painted
white and the peat fire would have made it cozy and warm. Now, the
sunlight played on what would have been the floor, and where that
flower grew, a stool or chest might have sat.

But it was all reverting to dust.

As Alasdair’s home already had.

Morgan slowly followed the highlander,
knowing that this would not be an easy truth for him to accept. As
she watched, Alasdair spun wildly where he stood. He scanned the
hills, the valley, the view of the sea.