Authors: The Last Highlander
Morgan’s heart skipped a beat and she managed a shaky smile. “I’m afraid, Frances.”
The older woman sobered. “A good sensible reaction, I would think, to the prospect of traveling through time.” She eyed Morgan for a long moment, then cocked her head. “Do you want to change your mind?”
“No. I have to go.”
Frances nodded. “Then we have work to do.” She walked around the circle of stones as she began to sing softly in Gaelic. The wind stilled, to Morgan’s astonishment, although she still could see the grass beyond the circle of stones waving in the breeze.
When Frances paused before Morgan again, her eyes were uncharacteristically bright. “It’s time,” she whispered.
Morgan gripped the heather and closed her eyes. Was it going to work? She was stone-cold sober, she didn’t have the stone from the regalia, they didn’t have any idea what the Gaelic song was that Alasdair’s witch had sung.
But Morgan had a funny feeling she had found a genuine witch in Frances. The woman had taken the entire story in stride, and had been readily convinced to help Morgan when that woman couldn’t wrap her tongue around a Gaelic verse to save her life.
“Turn!” Frances whispered and Morgan did. The older woman’s voice rose in a chant that stirred Morgan’s blood. In her imagination, a thousand spirits gathered around the ancient place, their ageless eyes bright with curiosity.
Once
.
Morgan felt the dizziness rise within her, hardly news after the month of morning sickness she had had. But this was a thundering in her veins, like the pounding of the sea, that swelled up inside her and flooded her senses, making her lose track of every vestige of the world around her.
Twice
.
The rhythm of the chant infected Morgan and she had a sudden soaring certainty that this could be done, that it
would
be done, that she would be with Alasdair and that he would love her for everything she was. She started the third turn with a buoyant heart and a death grip on the heather.
And just before she made the last step, cold hands framed her face. Morgan’s eyes flew open to find herself nose to nose with Frances.
It was Frances and it was not Frances, her normally placid features overlaid with the shadow of a woman with wild eyes and hair. Her eyes widened, she leaned closer and she hissed. “
Wish!”
And Morgan wished with all her heart and soul to be with Alasdair MacAulay.
Thrice
.
Morgan fell then, stumbling away from Frances, but didn’t hit the ground for a long, long time. Morgan tumbled through a blackened void until she thought she could fall no more, then came to a stop with sudden thump that had her clutching at her belly.
She opened her eyes and gasped to find golden sunlight painting the standing stones of Callanish. Morgan jumped to her feet and spun around, her heart pounding erratically.
Frances was gone.
Adaira’s bicycle was gone.
There wasn’t a house within sight.
And on the grass, not a dozen paces away, a heartwrenchingly familiar man with golden hair slumbered in a wrinkled kilt.
* * *
“Alasdair!”
He was having the dream again, the one that tormented him every night, the one that never let him sleep when the moon was full. Alasdair fought against it, uncertain whether he would truly rather be without these dreams of Morgan.
Because then, he feared, he might completely forget her.
But the small hands that latched on his chemise and gave him a hearty shake were a new element of this recurring dream. Alasdair did not dare to hope as he cautiously opened one eye.
But he found his lady love crying all over him, the morning sun picking blue lights out of the joyous tangle of her hair.
Morgan!
Alasdair did not care for the details of how she had come here. He simply scooped her up, gathered her close and kissed her with abandon. Morgan curled against him perfectly, her hands slid into his hair, she sighed beneath his embrace in a way that made Alasdair’s heart race.
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.