Claire Delacroix (16 page)

Justine touched Blake’s arm, her voice low and soothing. “Don’t worry, you can do it. We’ll help. Right, Morgan?”

The sorceress fairly bounced on her seat and her eyes sparkled with some challenge Alasdair could hardly begin to guess. “You bet. Which one do we need?”

Justine consulted an intricately drawn manuscript, then squinted at the road ahead. “The fourth one.”

“Got it,” Morgaine said.

“Jesus Christ, here we go,” Blake muttered. “Second gear.”

“Right turn signal,” Justine murmured. She leaned forward in her seat, pulling off her dark eyeshields as she did so.

An astonishing stream of similar chariots sped across their path at breakneck speed. They looked like so many beetles and when Alasdair looked carefully, he could see people trapped within each one. They had the same dark shields over their eyes as his companions, making it look as though the insects had yet more insects in their bellies.

He thought of his gran’s tales of Faeries riding the backs of moths and beetles.

Blake inched their chariot forward, watching the stream avidly. Evidently they were going to enter this rush of shiny beetles.

Alasdair was not certain he wanted to watch.

“First gear,” Blake gritted out.

“After the red one,” Morgaine declared, her nose fairly pressed against the curved window.

Blake leaned forward, his knuckles white on the stick between himself and Justine. A red chariot not unlike their own flashed by.

“GO!” the women roared simultaneously.

The Micra squealed in protest, and Blake urged it forward. Alasdair’s eyes widened at the proximity of an extremely large vehicle that was closing in at great speed and he nearly squealed in sympathy.

Instead he crossed himself. It seemed rather a timely moment to find his long-misplaced religious beliefs.

“Three goddamn lanes!” Blake swore under his breath.

“Into the middle one,” Justine directed.

“Second gear,” Blake said to himself. “Turn signal.”

“One!” bellowed the sorceress as an alley flashed past on their left.

The great chariot wheezed behind them, the entire back view of the Micra filled with the great one’s massive silver teeth. Alasdair strove to keep his composure and simultaneously recall his rosary.

“Two!” cried the sorceress.

“Third gear, no signal.”

“Left lane, left lane,” Justine said.

“I can’t because of that truck!”

“Three!” crowed the sorceress.

“You have to,” Justine insisted calmly. “We can’t go around and around all day like we did in Jedburgh.”

“All right, all right. Left turn signal,” Blake concurred and checked over his shoulder. “Am I clear?”

As far as Alasdair could discern, there was naught to see but the complaining chariot behind.

It looked large enough to consume them whole.

“Go, go now,” Justine urged.

“Four!” Morgaine interjected. She leaned between the seats and pointed at a road ahead on the left. “That’s it, that’s the one!”

Alasdair eyed the road she indicated and could not discern how they would get from here to there without being mangled by other chariots in the process.

Despite his religious skepticism, Alasdair saw no harm in a few Ave Maria’s under such circumstance. He muttered them under his breath and tried to hide his fear from the sorceress.

’Twas no small thing to know oneself immortal at such a moment, which was the only thing that could explain her sparkling eyes.

“Second gear,” Blake declared, but this time when he moved the stick, the chariot made a high-pitched whine.

“If you can’t find ‘em, grind ‘em,” Morgaine whispered and giggled.

Blake fired a hostile glance over his shoulder. “I’d like to see you do this.” He looked back to the road, cranked the wheel hard and the chariot obediently lunged into the outside lane.

A heartbeat later - if indeed Alasdair’s heart had been beating - the little chariot darted along an open stretch of roadway.

“We did it!” Morgaine cried triumphantly, and Alasdair breathed a sigh of relief.

The humming Micra was filled with gleeful cheers and Blake earned not only a pat on the shoulder but a sound kiss from Justine.

The car swerved dangerously close to the ditch during this exchange of esteem. Morgaine cried out, Justine gasped, and two pairs of hands steadied their path.

Alasdair felt a cold trickle of sweat run down his back. The comparative solitude of his cottage was sounding better and better all the time.

“Christ save me,” he muttered gruffly. “You are all mad.”

The enchantress took one look at him and laughed so that it seemed she could not stop.

“You should see your face!” she managed to gasp before convulsing in yet more gales of laughter. Her merriment made her look so young and fetching that Alasdair nearly forgot the extent of her foul powers.

All the same, he could not look away.

He was so lost in her eyes that he missed the glance that Justine and Blake exchanged before they turned their broad grins to the road once more.

* * *

On the northern outskirts of Perth, Blake pulled the Micra into the generous parking lot of Scone Palace. Morgan thought the palace looked disappointingly modern for a site of such historical significance.

“Well, here we are!” Blake declared. “Scone Palace, Moot Hill, and all that jazz.” He set the emergency brake, killed the ignition and accepted his highlighted travel guide from Justine. “Let’s make sure we know what we’re looking for here.”

Morgan noted from the corner of her eye that Alasdair seemed similarly unimpressed. In fact, his expression had turned quite grim. He slanted a very blue glance in her direction and folded his arms across his chest.

The move made his shoulders nearly fill the entire back seat of the car.

“This is not Scone,” he said with precision.

“Of course it is.” Justine folded her map and tucked it into the glove box.

Morgan was not nearly as unconcerned as her sister. Alasdair looked fit to kill, and she had an inkling that he could break the neck of any of them with his bare hands.

All that advice about not picking up hitchhikers came to mind a bit late for comfort.

“You have lied to me,” Alasdair declared through clenched teeth. He was positively seething.

“Get serious. This is Scone.” Blake was dismissive. “Listen.” He leafed through the pages and lifted one finger in his best imitation of a professor about to lecture learnedly.

“Scone Palace took its current form in the sixteenth century, although it contains fragments of earlier construction. It is located near Moot Hill, where the Stone of Scone, or Stone of Destiny, was the traditional crowning site of the Scottish kings.”

“Until the English stole the stone away,” Alasdair muttered. He looked so lethal that Morgan tried to edge away from him.

The Micra offered little chance of that.

Blake glanced over his shoulder, his finger running down the page. “No, it says here that the Scottish
gave
the Stone of Destiny to the British as a token of esteem when they welcomed foreign rule.”

Alasdair’s snort made his opinion of that clear.

The really scary thing was that Morgan agreed with him – and not with Blake’s tour book.

Blake read on, oblivious to raised hackles in the back seat.
“Originally, the kings of Dalriada – an ancient name for Scotland – were crowned at Dunadd, a hillside fort in Argyll. But in the ninth century, the Stone of Scone was purportedly carried to Scotland from the high seat of Tara in Ireland and located on Moot Hill.”

“That at least is not a lie,” Alasdair acknowledged tightly.

Blake fired a glance between the seats. “They brought it
here
. This is Scone.”

“That it is not.”

The two men locked gazes in some silent challenge of testosterone, and Morgan knew she wasn’t the only one holding her breath.

Blake was the first to look away. He abruptly cleared his throat and continued.
“Eventually, the seat of royal power moved southwards, first to Dunfermline Abbey, then to Edinburgh. Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh remains the official residence of the monarch in Scotland.”

“And which monarch would that be?” Alasdair demanded coldly. “Some poppet from south of the wall, that much is certain, and ’tis just as certain that no rightful monarch could come from such ranks.”

Blake twisted in his seat to face the highlander. “Look, I don’t know where you learned your history, but you’ve got it wrong. The Scottish
welcomed
British rule.”

“A filthy lie!” Alasdair retorted hotly. “The Scots would
never
welcome British rule!”

“Look.” Blake took off his glasses and jabbed them through the air toward Alasdair. “All this kilt business is very showy, but I really would have expected a real Scotsman to know his history...”

“
I am a truer Scotsman than you will ever see!
” Alasdair bellowed, the volume of his voice enough to rock the Micra. He looked like a cornered bear and his eyes flashed lightning. “’Tis clear enough which camp of Macdonalds you call your own, for there is naught but lies falling from your lips!”

“Lies?” Blake inhaled sharply and the color rose on his neck. “I haven’t told any lies!”

“It is one lie after another as I hear it,” Alasdair shot back. “With nary but a broken promise betwixt and between!
This is not Scone!
”

Justine laid a restraining hand on Blake’s arm and used the same tone that had successfully talked down countless hysterical brides. “Maybe it’s all changed. When were you last here, Alasdair? Have they added some new signs or something?”

The tone – which should have been patented for its unfailing success – had no effect on the highlander.

“Nay!” Alasdair looked fit to explode. “There is not a bit of it that resembles the Scone I know!” He gestured angrily. “That very building was not here, nor this foul expanse of blackness spread upon the ground! The land was not cluttered with your fearsome chariots, nor crowded with folk in odd garb.”

Alasdair flung out a hand. “And I know naught of this sixteenth century you tout. Sixteenth century since
what
? Always have I known right-thinking men to count their years from the birth of Christ!”

Morgan blinked, for the reference
was
to the sixteenth century since Christ.

Blake frowned, and picked his issue. “Well, it is Scone. No doubt about it.”

“I have my doubts, ’tis clear enough.” Alasdair leaned between the seats and Morgan watched Blake draw back ever so slightly. The highlander’s voice dropped with a threat so tangible that Morgan shivered.

“You have
lied
to me, Blake Advisor. You do not take me to Scone this day, nor do you ever intend to take me home. Be man enough to admit the truth.”

“Of course, we’ll take you home,” Justine assured him. “This is just on the way.”

“Another lie in the company of many!” Alasdair roared. He pushed at the confining wall of the little car and growled when nothing moved. Morgan was torn between a desire to put as much space between him and herself as possible and an unexpected urge to reassure him.

Alasdair tipped back his head and shouted. “For the love of God, let me out of this foul prison!”

Before Morgan could sort out her feelings – or Alasdair could explode – Justine opened her door and leapt out onto the pavement. Alasdair pushed the front seat forward with enviable grace and couldn’t seem to get out of the car fast enough.

He shook back his hair when he was on his feet and glared down at them with his hands on his hips. Morgan couldn’t help but stare. Alasdair was magnificent in his anger, larger than life, snapping with vitality.

He belonged outside, in the wind and the sun, and before she could stop herself, Morgan updated her mental image of how she would paint him.

“Make no mistake, this is not Scone.” Alasdair savagely bit out the words. “Second, the Stone of Scone was stolen. And third, Robert the Bruce is no treacherous dog, but a hero through and through. And that, Blake Advisor, is the ungarnished truth.”

With that, he pivoted and marched away.

Morgan could almost feel the aching of his heart. It was disconcerting to find her own memories perfectly reconciled with his view of history.

The only question was
why
.

“Alasdair, come back!” Justine cried, but Alasdair didn’t even look back. His long strides took him across the parking lot in record time. Instead of going to the palace, he stalked right into the woods, his tartan quickly disappearing into the shadows.

Justine turned back to Blake, and Morgan almost laughed at her sister’s dismay. “Blake, stop him!”

Blake took his time putting his glasses back on. He leafed through his tour book. “Let him go,” he said grumpily. “If he won’t even pick up a book and read the truth, there’s not much I can do about it.”

“He can’t read,” Morgan retorted, surprised to find herself defending Alasdair. She climbed out of the car impatiently. “And until yesterday, you were the only going on and on about Robert the Bruce.”

Justine and Blake both looked blank.

That was enough. Some of Alasdair’s impatience must have transferred to Morgan, because she was suddenly fed up with Alasdair’s mysteries. She was going to find out the truth, and she was going to find out now.

Justine caught her breath. “Are you going after him?”

“You promised him a ride home,” Morgan reminded her sister. “I guess I’ll have to make sure you keep your promise.”

At least that was the excuse she would use. She turned to follow Alasdair, deliberately ignoring her sister’s quick smile of satisfaction. While she walked, she took the crystal out of her purse and buried it carefully in the back of her money belt, then retucked T-shirt and sweater to hide the money belt’s new bulge.

The stone dug into her ribs, but Morgan ignored it.

It was time to get to the bottom of things. Alasdair MacAulay was going to have to be straight with her about who he was and what he was up to if he really wanted that ride to faraway Callanish.