Time Travel Romances Boxed Set (91 page)

She was here!

Alasdair ran his hands over her curves,
recalling each and every one, hating that she had lost some weight,
yet loving the hint that she had missed him as much as he had
missed her.

Reluctantly, he lifted his lips from
Morgan’s, framed her delicate face in his great hands and smiled
down at her. The lady smiled back, a shimmer of tears still gracing
her cheeks. A lump rose in Alasdair’s throat, and he felt a faint
disbelief that the Fates had been so kind as to grant his fondest
desire.

Morgan was
here
.

“
You came,” Alasdair said
simply, still marveling.

Morgan nodded shyly, those witchy green eyes
luminous. “You’re glad?” That she could doubt something Alasdair
knew as well as his own name tore at his heart and he could think
of naught but reassuring her.

So, he kissed her again.

’
Twas long moments later
that they parted, each breathless from their embrace. “Why are you
here, at the stones?” Morgan asked.

“
Each night of the full
moon since my return I have kept a vigil here, in the faint hope
that you might follow.”

“
Oh!” Morgan looked across
the hills again, and Alasdair had the distinct sense that there was
something she wanted to ask him, something that she did not dare
give voice.

But what? He could not fathom what troubled
her. They were together again!

Though ’twas clear all was not aright in the
lady’s heart.

Did she not mean to stay? Was it not
possible for her to stay? Fear clenched Alasdair’s heart and he
captured her hand, almost as though his touch alone could keep her
by his side.

She stared down at their interlaced fingers
and swallowed awkwardly. Her words were flat. “Everything was
fixed, you know. Robert the Bruce is a hero again and the crystal
is back in the regalia.”

“
Aye.” Alasdair studied
Morgan, feeling as helpless as he did at his son’s sickbed. What
was amiss?

“
What year is
it?”

“’
Tis March of
1315.”

“
Oh.” Morgan looked at
Alasdair, and his innards clenched with the certainty that she knew
something he did not want to know. “How is your son?”

And Alasdair feared in that instant that the
healer had spoken aright.

His heart sank like a stone. “He is ill and
naught can aid him.” Alasdair swallowed. “Do you know what fate
lies before him?”

Morgan raised a hand to her lips, her tears
gathering anew. Alasdair understood that his son would die, despite
his return to this time.

The book yet said the same.

Tears glazed his own vision, and now
Alasdair turned away, hating that his boy would be stolen away so
soon after his return home.

“
What’s wrong with him?”
Morgan asked, the compassion that Alasdair so loved laced in her
tone.

Alasdair shook his head. “He is fevered and
knows not his own name. An entire day he has tossed and turned,
lost in his illness. I did not intend to come last eve, but my gran
fair tossed me out.” Alasdair forced a smile. “’Tis true my pacing
drives her mad.”

Morgan laid a hand on his arm. “Maybe I can
help,” she suggested softly, and Alasdair looked into her wondrous
eyes.

He hated the shadows that lurked there and
feared he was responsible for them. But perhaps she could aid
Angus.

And then, Alasdair would get to the root of
his lady’s sadness. “Come, Morgaine,” he invited, in conscious echo
of what he had said to her once before. “Come with me and meet my
son.”

*

The hills were achingly familiar, the sheep
scurrying out of the way exactly as they had when Morgan had first
accompanied Alasdair across the valley. Her heart was heavily,
though, and she was painfully aware of the tiny burden buried deep
inside her.

And she hated not knowing Alasdair’s
feelings for her. He had been glad to see her, that was certain,
but he had never said those three little words Morgan longed to
hear.

They rounded the bend and climbed the
verdant pasture. The Rose Cottage wasn’t here, but there was a
crofter’s cottage on the site where Alasdair had searched so
frantically. A wisp of smoke curled from its stone chimney; its
whitewashed walls rose high and thick; its thatch was freshly
repaired. Chickens pecked around the cottage, and a few early
flowers bloomed.

The wind was full of tales of the sea, new
grass was vividly green and the sky arched overhead like an azure
bowl. It was soothing here – or could have been if all had been
right between herself and Alasdair. Yet Morgan couldn’t ask him how
he felt, not now, not before she knew whether she could do anything
for Angus.

When they drew near, an elderly woman threw
open the door and stormed out to the front stoop. Her eyes snapped
with vitality and her presence was commanding. She braced her hands
on her hips, gave them both a stern glance, then eyed Morgan once
more.

“
And who might this be?”
she demanded. “What is in your mind, Alasdair MacAulay, to be
bringing a woman home when your own lad is lying ill on the
hearth?”

“
This is Morgan Lafayette,”
Alasdair said softly, and his gran’s eyes brightened with interest.
“She may well be able to aid Angus.”

Gran clicked her teeth assessingly.
“Morgaine le Fee herself. Well. All your blethers had a seed of
truth, after all.”

She didn’t move out of the way when they
reached the stoop, forcing Morgan and Alasdair to pause there. “Do
you cook, then?” Gran demanded sharply.

There was no point in lying about it,
although Morgan knew the truth wouldn’t be well received. In a
community like this, a woman would be expected to have traditional
skills.

“
No,” she admitted
quietly.

“
Ha!” Gran declared with
obvious delight. She shook a warning finger, the very image of
Auntie Gillian making a point. “You keep your witching from my
pots, and there will be no clamjamphry mucking before the
fire.”

With that, she pivoted and stalked back into
the cottage.

Morgan smelled Alasdair’s skin as he leaned
closer, and she closed her eyes against the warm fan of his breath
against her ear. “She makes a fair to do about naught at all, but
you have naught to fear from my gran,” he counseled quietly.

Morgan smiled. “I know. My Auntie Gillian
was just like this.”

Alasdair grinned. “Ah, then you have the
wits to survive.”

“
I heard that, Alasdair
MacAulay!” Gran retorted from the shadows ahead. “I am no greetin
teenie, but those come to help can hardly do so without a keek at
the lad.”

She was right. Morgan stepped into the
cottage, her eyes adjusting quickly to the change from bright
sunlight. The walls were whitewashed inside, as well, the fire
casting a warm glow over the cozy contents.

But Morgan’s glance flew to the pale boy
sleeping before the fire. She touched his brow, under Gran’s
sternly protective eye, and didn’t like the feverish feel of his
skin.

“
The healer says he is to
die,” the older woman said flatly and Morgan saw her fierce love
burning in her gaze. She loved this child beyond all else and
probably loved Alasdair the same way.

Just as Auntie Gillian had loved Morgan and
Justine.

Morgan rummaged in her bag, hoping she had
the small bottle of aspirin that she forgot all too often.

She did.

“
This might help break his
fever.”

Gran’s eyes flashed and she took a step
back. “Witchery!”

Alasdair plucked the bottle from Morgan’s
hand and glared at his gran. “Medicine, from farther afield than
our healer has been.”

Gran’s suspicion cleared instantly and was
replaced with curiosity. “Aye?”

“
Aye.” Alasdair’s tone
brooked no argument. He slanted a glance at Morgan. “Tell us how it
should be granted.”

“
We’ll give him two now,
maybe more later.” Morgan hoped she was right. “With soup. Chicken
soup, if you have any.”

“
We will soon enough,” Gran
declared and lifted a hatchet from its hook on the wall.

Morgan didn’t watch.

She had, after all, agreed to stay out of
the kitchen.

*

The shadows had drawn long and Alasdair had
nearly paced a trough in the floor. The heat in Angus’s cheeks had
gone and it seemed to Morgan that he slept easier than he had when
she had arrived. Gran sat close to him, her knitting needles
clicking in the silence, her eagle gaze bright on her ward.

When Angus opened his eyes, Morgan nearly
fainted with relief. His gaze was clear, his eyes a distinctive
shade of dark gray, completely unlike Alasdair’s vivid blue.

Morgan’s mouth went dry. Fenella might as
well have drawn up her own chair at the hearth.

But Angus, unaware of her doubts, widened
those eyes when he saw Morgan. His gaze danced wonderingly over her
hair, her eyes, her clothing, then he looked to Gran in confusion.
Morgan was dimly aware that Alasdair’s pacing had fallen
silent.

“’
Tis Morgaine le Fee
herself come to aid you,” Gran declared matter-of-factly, her brisk
tone giving no hint of the concern that had creased her features
just moments past. “You had best give your thanks to such a fine
lady.”

“
Morgaine le Fee!” Angus
breathed wonderment, his gaze clinging to Morgan once again. “’Tis
true then! You do know my da!”

In both the biblical and the casual sense,
but Morgan didn’t think this was a good time to make that clear.
“Yes,” she admitted simply.

“
Cor!” The boy’s eyes were
nearly round. “Have you come to bring back his heart,
then?”

His heart?

A lump rose in Morgan’s throat and she
glanced at Alasdair. He lingered a few steps away, with
uncharacteristic uncertainty, his features hidden in the shadows.
He was stunningly, eerily silent, his manner far from
reassuring.

What had he told his son about her?

“
I think your mother holds
that honor,” Morgan said.

Gran’s snort reverberated through the
cottage, but Angus settled back and his eyes drifted closed. “I
think you should keep it,” he murmured so quietly that Morgan had
to lean closer to catch the words. “As long as you give him yours
in exchange.”

Morgan kept her gaze fixed on the dozing boy
and felt her cheeks heat. “He has it already,” she confessed
quietly.

And Angus smiled like an angel before his
breathing deepened.

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.”