Claire Delacroix (17 page)

And if he was as broke as Justine suspected, Morgan was sure she’d get the answers but quick.

* * *

Alasdair glared at the chapel perched on Moot Hill as the anger drained out of him.

And left him feeling like seven kinds of fool.

Of all the glaikit things he could have done! ’Twas no consolation to find his gran right about his temper at this particular point.

Alasdair kicked at a clump of heather and berated himself silently but thoroughly. Would he ever get home now? Or had he trapped himself in Morgaine’s world for all eternity?

He deserved no less for being such a fool.

Yet he was still seething. How dare the advisors promise to win Morgaine’s favor, pledge that they would see him home, then break their word? Was a vow worth naught in this twisted world? Such faithlessness nearly made him growl aloud.

A man’s honor was the only thing of value he could call his own. But calling Blake Advisor the liar he evidently was had undoubtedly not made Alasdair any friends. What an addle-pated fool he was to have thought he could not make matters worse!

What would he give to be home this very moment? There was a certain irony in wanting no less than to be back at the cottage that had not been able to hold him seven years past, but Alasdair was not particularly appreciative of that.

He chose to forget that he had not been able to shake the dust of Lewis off his boots – nor sweep the guilt from his mind – fast enough in those days.

Alasdair was dirty. He was tired. He was befuddled and frustrated beyond all by Faerie games. And he had an erection that simply would not say die.

Curse Morgaine le Fee!

Alasdair pivoted at the sound of a light step, only to find the sorceress herself closing the distance between them. A man with naught to lose – and one with a temper still simmering – Alasdair spoke his mind before he could stop himself.

“Come to smite me, have you?” he demanded boldly.

Morgaine’s chin snapped up and her green gaze fixed upon him. Her footsteps faltered a dozen steps away, but Alasdair was interested in little she might have to say.

“Smite me then and be done with it!” he cried and flung out his hands. “Surely there could be naught worse than this? Filthy and tired I am, surrounded by your adder-tongued advisors whose words cannot be trusted even while they are uttered.”

“Blake means no harm.”

Alasdair spat on the ground. “He can mean no other when he breaks his word as readily as he makes it.”

The enchantress visibly bristled. “He didn’t break his word. This is Scone and it’s on the way to Lewis.”

A bald-faced lie!

Had Blake acted under her dictate?

Ha! Alasdair should have expected no less.

Alasdair shoved a hand through his hair and glared at Morgaine. “’Tis naught but lies from start to finish. Why tell me this is Scone, when any thinking man can see ’tis not? Why call that keep of yours Edinburgh, with its clarty English flag waving above it? Why insist he would see me home, when ’tis clear he intends no such thing?”

Alasdair swore in exasperation and paced the hilltop with rapid steps. “And
why
does Blake Advisor wear that torture device over his eyes if he has the power within him to remove it?”

Morgaine made a choking sound at that, though when Alasdair turned to look, she tried to hide her laughter from him with her hand. Something within him softened at the sight.

Another part of him did precisely the opposite.

’Twas an unwelcome reminder of his predicament.

“Do not push me, my lady fair,” Alasdair growled, shaking a warning finger in her direction. “If you mean to twitch your buttocks and tempt me with maidenly flushes, you had best keep your distance.”

Morgaine blushed pink, which only made matters worse from Alasdair’s perspective. ‘I have never twitched my buttocks...”

“Oh, I would insist the contrary!”

She gasped and stared at him, as though uncertain what to say. ’Twas all a game to her, no doubt, a game she played most artfully. And how could she not, privy as she was to Alasdair’s hidden desires? ’Twas no small advantage she had in her power to read his very thoughts.

Aye, but Alasdair could make her moan aloud, he could, and in this moment, the prospect was tempting indeed. On all sides, the heather grew knee-high and waved in the sunlight, fairly inviting man and lass to make use of its soft concealment.

“Be warned, mistress Morgaine.” Alasdair growled as though in anger, though in truth a different heat had laid claim to his tone. “Venture too close and I’ll be buried to the hilt afore you can gasp a breath.”

Morgaine took a cautious step back, as though she should be afraid of him. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would, with nary a regret.” Alasdair knew the truth when he heard it. “A man can only be tempted so much long, my lady, and make no mistake, my threshold is near.”

Morgaine looked so alarmed by this earthly reality that Alasdair turned his back upon her. What was she expecting of him, if she fashioned herself to appeal most strongly to his desires? He raked a hand through his hair again and paced across the mound Blake had so fecklessly called Moot Hill.

From first glance, she had set a fire within him, and that blaze showed no signs of dying down to embers soon. Alasdair took a deep breath and struggled to curb his raging desire.

He deliberately recalled the last time he had stood on the true Moot Hill. It had been a gloriously clear day, one not unlike this one, with a crisp wind on his face and a blue sky arched overhead. Robert the Bruce himself had lounged amidst them all, smiling in reminiscence as his squire shared the tale of his crowning on that very spot.

Well aware of the sorceress’s bright gaze resting on him, Alasdair turned. She had not moved, the dark tendrils of her hair lifting in the wind, her eyes wide, her manner uncertain.

“What is it you want with me?” he asked, a new gentleness in his words. She seemed to be encouraged by the question, for she drew nearer as he watched. “I thought you were not speaking with me.”

“I’m not,” she asserted, then evidently realized that her claim was nonsensical.

For she smiled. The winsome sight sent the frustration easing out of Alasdair as surely as if it had never been. The sunlight was golden between them, and Alasdair forgot everything his wary mind was telling him about this woman’s danger to his very hide.

Indeed, he felt an answering smile tug his own lips. “Aye, I can tell.”

The lady laughed, an enchanting sound if ever there was one.

Alasdair’s heart took a dizzying leap, and he suddenly felt the cur for railing at her so severely. “I would apologize, my lady. ’Tis true I have a fair temper when riled, but ’tis all bluster, as my gran is wont to say.”

Morgaine’s eyes danced. “I think I might like your gran. Wasn’t that one of her stories last night?”

“Aye, that ’twas.”

Morgaine took a tentative step closer. “I meant to thank you again for sharing it with me.”

Alasdair felt his brow arch in skepticism. “Even though you are not speaking with me?”

She chuckled and shook a finger at him. “Don’t let this go to your head.”

They stared at each other for a long, very warm moment, Alasdair recalling all too well how she had thanked him once before. When her lips quirked so playfully, ’twas hard to believe that this fragile creature held Alasdair’s fate in her tiny hands.

She tilted her head. “Why don’t you think this is Scone?”

“Because it cannot be.” Alasdair frowned at the palace, regal enough but unfamiliar, the strange chapel, the clusters of people garbed as oddly as she.

“Why not?” the enchantress whispered, and Alasdair was surprised to find her by his side. He looked into the splendor of her eyes and saw the myriad shades of the sea reflected there. A part of him acknowledged the danger of staring too long, but Alasdair did not even want to look away.

He was beguiled by the Queen of Faerie, and in this moment, he did not care.

Indeed, he wanted no more than to win her favor. Alasdair recalled suddenly her fascination with the tales of mortals.

“I shall tell you of the Scone I know and what befell there,” he vowed softly. “Though this is a tale of truth, not some fable told to keep bairns tight in their beds.”

Morgaine’s eyes glowed. “Tell me.”

Alasdair took her small hand within his own and led her to the far side of the hill, where the view was of woods and fields. Here the sound of the crowds and chariots was less and the heather waved freely in the breeze. He sat down, then tugged the length of plaid off his shoulder and gallantly spread it across the greenery, his back to the palace.

Morgaine seated herself regally beside him, her bright eyes fixed upon him. Seated on the end of his tartan, she was dangerously close, and every fiber of Alasdair’s being was aware of her soft warmth. He could smell the sweetness of her skin, and a part of him insisted there were better things to be done here than share tales.

But Alasdair stared determinedly into the trees as he braced his elbows on his knees. A promise made was a promise kept.

“Long ago, a part of Scotland was known as the kingdom of Dalriada, established by men who sailed bravely from Ireland to settle a new land. Those men claimed Kintyre and called the ancient hill of Dunadd the crowning place of their kings. ’Twas there on the rocks that each king pledged to his people and had a circlet of gold set upon his brow.

“There came a day when Saint Columba’s own kinsman was to take the kingship and Columba came himself to set the crown upon that man Aidan’s brow. ’Twas said that then the Stone of Scone made its first appearance, and there are rumors that Columba himself brought it out of the mists of Ireland. ’Twas said to have been a gift from the High King of Tara to his distant kinsmen in Kintyre.

“From thence, the stone became known as the Stone of Destiny, for the future of his countrymen was secure in the hands of any king crowned upon it.

“’Twas no long after that the first Norsemen came to make war, to claim slaves, to capture bonny lasses as their women, to steal plate and jewels. In time, they saw the beauty of Scotland and came to stay, invading islands and planting their seeds and seed. The land was hotly contested in those times, for there was precious little of it fertile, and the men of Dalriada lost more than their share of battles.

“For fear of capture, the Stone of Destiny was moved northward, along with the king, to Dunstaffnage. A tale there is that the stone itself was mortared into to wall of the fort to ensure that none might steal it away.

‘‘’Twas there that Kenneth the Hardy, son of Alpin, became the first King of Alba. A fair king he was and one with a dream for Scotland unified. Crowned upon it, he later moved the Stone of Destiny to Moot Hill, where it would be safe from raiding Norsemen. Even in those ancient days, Moot Hill was a council place of great authority, and the king wisely blended old and new beneath his hand. Kenneth made Moot Hill the site of his court and so it was for many a year.”

Alasdair laced his fingers together, and stared into the trees. He was well aware that the sorceress attended his every word.

“The years rolled by, the kings birthed and died, feasted and killed, yet despite their battles, Scotland endured. The Norsemen settled on the islands and far north, the Norman knights were granted lands, and all grew to prosperity. Alexander III was the last of the great kings, a man who witnessed the death of his kin, of his wife and three babes, yet was known to be religious, holy, wise and kind.

“Aye, those were fine days for Scotland, days of prosperity and peace beneath a just king’s hand.”

Alasdair paused and the sorceress leaned closer. “What happened to him?”

“Late in his days, he took a wee wife to his side, a French lass name of Yolande de Dreux, and ’twas his love for her that drove all sense from his mind.” Alasdair shook his head. “But I stray from the tale in telling of this too soon.”

He frowned at the woods. “There were portents of doom in the last year of Alexander’s kingship, for foul weather welcomed the new year. ’Twas on the lips of many that the Day of Judgment was at hand, though the king believed naught of it. ’Twas the eighteenth day of March, the date foretold by many to be that Judgment Day, when Alexander – perhaps in defiance of popular belief – called his council to Edinburgh.

“They conferred long hours, then the good king entertained his favored ones with a fine meal that stretched long into the night. A storm began to rage as they dined, making more than one man shiver in dread. The king laughed, though, and lifted his chalice high, urging all to fill their bellies.

“Perhaps ’twas the influence of good Gascony wine, but when all made to retire, Alexander wanted only to be with his beloved new bride. Yolande slumbered at his abode of Kinghorn, not too far distant but across the Firth itself.

“He called for his ostler and he called for the ferryman, and he rode to the port, though the storm was ripping through the trees. All begged that he wait for the dawn, but Alexander would not be swayed.

“’Twas the blackest hour of the night that they sailed across the Firth, fighting the waves all the way to Inverkeithing. The innkeeper there begged the king to tarry, but he would have none of it. Naught would suffice for him that night but his sweet bride’s own bed, and he began the long ride along to coast to Kinghorn. The heat of his desire sent Alexander ahead of his party and wind stole away their warning cries.”

Alasdair looked to his boots. “They found him in the morn, a victim of his own recklessness,” he said quietly. “In his haste, he had ridden carelessly. His steed had fallen from the road, the necks of both broken on the rocks below. And so it was that Scotland had no king.”

“Didn’t he have an heir?”

Alasdair shrugged. “A wee lass, who died shortly thereafter.” His frown deepened. “And Edward of England saw his long-sought chance to make Scotland his own.”

He plucked a stem of heather and twirled it in his fingers, remembering all too well the tumult of those times. And later, the distant uproar in Alasdair’s homeland had been echoed before his own hearth.