The bump on Alasdair’s head throbbed as he watched the delicate marvel of Morgaine le Fee dance up the stairs. Aye, she was all he had heard of her and more, an enchantress of the highest order. What manner of woman would flaunt such shapely legs before the eye of a red-blooded man?
Incredible as it seemed, Alasdair had indeed been sent to confront a powerful sorceress within her own den. He thought furiously, but there was no other explanation. It did not help at all that the whisky, the fall and Morgaine herself had left his thinking all tapsal-teerie.
His first idea, that she was a whore hired by the lads to muddle his wits in good fun, had been a reasonable one given her garb. But then the other details had not added up.
If the bite of her tongue—another attribute held to be Morgaine’s, he reminded himself—had not made the truth clear, then that flashing box had made her identity obvious. That Morgaine had hidden it away after he had caught a glimpse of it only hinted further at the power of its sorcery.
And every laddie knew that Faeries had eyes the shade of new grass.
Alasdair liked to think that there was a more sensible explanation for his plight, but he had a terrible feeling it was not to be.
For what mortal woman could have been so fetchingly beautiful as she? Just the sight of her made a heat unfurl in Alasdair’s loins—the unnatural power of it should have told him sooner who stood before him. Like a blood-red rose Morgaine was, delicate and alluring, yet the barb of her viper’s tongue was as brutal as the rose’s hidden thorns.
Aye, he should have guessed the truth sooner.
’Twas fortunate for Alasdair that she’d had her dark tresses bound back. Had her hair been loose, who could have guessed what havoc she might wreak! He remembered well enough the tales of what might happen when a sorceress unbraided her hair.
Aye, Alasdair would do well to recall the manner of foe he had engaged. She was a wily one, one who caught men in the net of her allure and never set them free. Already she had sealed off the passageway that led to his compatriots and so seamless was the barricade that Alasdair knew it must have sorcery at its root.
’Twas clear enough that he had already riled Morgaine with his accusation that she might be a whore. He was a fool and then some! Alasdair could think of a thousand options of how she might torment him, each lovingly detailed in his gran’s tales, and he liked not a one of them.
He was in a mess of trouble, there was no mistake. Alasdair took a deep breath and shoved a hand through his unruly hair, wincing as his fingers brushed the bump on his skull. The only way out was the same way the enchantress had gone.
But what cruel fate awaited him at the top of the stairs?
“Morgan! There you are!” A woman’s voice rose above, drawing Alasdair’s gaze reluctantly upward once more. “Are you ready for lunch?”
’Twas clear enough that the only way he would ever see the mortal world again would be to convince Morgaine to send him there. Perhaps he had only to ask her of Scotland’s fate. Alasdair had no idea, but one thing was evident.
He could not afford to let Morgaine le Fee out of his sight.
Alasdair took a deep breath, swallowed his trepidation, then climbed the stairs two at a time. After the shadows below, the brightness of the sunlight made him blink.
How long had he slept?
A castle was spread before him, its towers and turrets of fantastical design. Alasdair immediately spied the sorceress, her shapely legs snaring his gaze with beguiling ease. He deliberately looked to those Morgaine met, and found a pair of men attired in garb strange to him, yet similar to her own.
Well, he had never been one to avoid a deed, however unpleasant it might threaten to be. Alasdair stalked in pursuit, determined to see this matter settled as soon as possible.
He had obligations to fulfill, after all.
To Alasdair’s surprise, the threesome was engaged in a dispute by the time he reached them.
To his further astonishment, one of the “men” proved on closer inspection to be a woman, flaunting that same shocking garb as the enchantress herself. She looked enough like Morgaine to have been her sister, but there was a polish about her that the enchantress did not share.
’Twas as though this pair copied the garb of their queen to win her favor. The man tapped a curiously slender quill on a pad of uncommonly fine vellum. A clerk, Alasdair concluded, though his implements could only have been wrought so fine by dark sorcery.
These must be Morgaine’s advisors. All leaders gathered a cadre of like-minded men about them, in Alasdair’s experience. Perhaps including the woman, whose function Alasdair could not discern, was a concession to Morgaine’s own gender.
It seemed his eye was already bewitched by her, for his gaze kept dancing back to linger on those boldly displayed legs. Alasdair could not seem to stop it. She had fine legs, that was true enough, but still his attraction for her was unsettling.
Could Morgaine have already cast a spell over him?
“But I thought we were going to Stirling tomorrow,” Morgaine was saying as Alasdair drew near. She looked confused and he paused to eavesdrop on this unexpected development.
“Stirling?” The man frowned and shook his head with disdain. “There’s no reason to go there, nothing to see at all.”
That was true enough to Alasdair’s thinking—Stirling was the last of the royal burghs still held by the English, after all. Why would a right-thinking man want to go there, unless it was to attack? Alasdair warmed to the lanky man, despite the unnatural contraption fixed over his eyes.
The device was wrought of two wire circles, hooked securely to the man’s ears and linked over his nose. Some torture tool of Morgaine’s devising, Alasdair concluded, feeling sympathy for the man when he pushed it further up his nose.
It must be fiercely uncomfortable.
“Nothing to see?” Morgaine echoed. “But you just said you wanted to visit Bannockburn!”
“Visit the site where Scottish independence was lost forever?” The man rolled his eyes. “Morgan, there’s no way I would go there!”
Now, there was the sound thinking of a Scotsman! Alasdair himself could not have been convinced to visit such a place, wherever it might be.
But Scottish independence was hardly lost forever. Alasdair conceded that ’twas not unreasonable for an advisor of Morgaine—who clearly supported the English—should appear pessimistic about Scotland’s success in the current bloody fight.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Morgaine argued. “Bannockburn was the site of a Scottish victory! The guide was just telling us so.”
“Morgan!” The man looked down his nose at the enchantress. “What are you thinking? The guide just told us that the Scottish were soundly defeated at Bannockburn.”
The advisor’s manner was quite bold, to Alasdair’s thinking.
The other woman shook her head. “Honestly, Morgan. Didn’t you pay any attention?” she chided. “Remember—we’re going to the Palace of Scone tomorrow.”
“Where the Kings of Scotland were once crowned,” the male advisor added with gusto.
Aye, that was true enough. Robert the Bruce himself had been crowned there but a few years past.
Still, the manner of these advisors was still inexplicably forthright. Alasdair could only conclude that this pair must be close to the enchantress to challenge her so openly, especially when she looked distressed. Were they not terrified of her reprisal?
“You’ve got this backwards, Blake,” Morgaine insisted. She fanned through a book with an ease that belied the volume’s obvious value, then began to read aloud.
“After the effort to reclaim Edinburgh Castle from the English in 1314 failed…”
Morgaine’s voice faded and her dark brows pulled together in consternation. “But that’s not what he just told us!” She looked to her companions. “And it’s not what I read in this same book this morning!”
The woman rolled her eyes. “For the last time, Morgan, you’ve got to keep real life separate from your imagination.”
“But it said…”
“Morgan, you have to pay attention,” the woman interrupted crisply.
Morgaine closed her mouth firmly, but Alasdair knew she was not pleased.
The man pushed the device up his nose and glanced around himself, his face lighting up when he spotted Alasdair. “Ha! We’ll ask a real Scotsman for Scottish history,” he declared and beckoned to Alasdair. “Excuse me, sir, could you answer a question about your homeland for us?”
A real Scotsman. That was Alasdair. Alasdair stepped forward with pride at the advisor’s astute appraisal.
Morgaine turned slightly, her vivid emerald gaze lighting on Alasdair. Her eyes widened slightly, as though she were alarmed to find him so close at hand, and Alasdair’s gut clenched.
The force of his attraction to her was no less the second time—it could only be magically invoked. Alasdair was suddenly achingly aware of how delicately wrought the sorceress was.
Had she guessed his weakness for petite women and somehow taken this form to deliberately tempt him? Oh, he could toss her over his shoulder and find a quiet corner to show her a thing or two, that much Alasdair knew!
But Alasdair needed to court Morgaine’s favor if he meant to escape her kingdom and ’twas clear that a liaison was not the way to do so.
Alasdair summoned his best memory of fine manners and bowed slightly to her. “My lady Morgaine,” he murmured.
“Morgan!” the other woman whispered with undisguised delight. “Who is this?” She gave Alasdair a perusal that was openly assessing, and he felt awkward at the obviousness of her approval.
Then she looked to Morgaine and arched a questioning dark brow. To Alasdair’s amazement, the sorceress blushed like a young girl and that heat returned to his loins right on cue.
There was nothing softer or sweeter, to Alasdair’s mind, than a woman’s unwitting blush. Had she guessed his vulnerabilities so completely as that?
“We, um, we just met, in the tower there,” Morgaine said, with markedly less than her earlier assurance. Her cheeks turned steadily more crimson when she dropped her book, though the woman advisor seemed quite pleased by this news.
“Aye, that we did,” Alasdair contributed, certain his urge to help the faltering Morgaine was purely due to his need to earn her good will. He stooped and scooped up the volume, presenting it to her with a slight bow.
Their fingertips brushed in the transaction and an unholy tingle danced along Alasdair’s flesh. He made the mistake of glancing into those beguiling green eyes and found himself marveling at the thickness of her dark lashes.
But wait! Alasdair could not be feeling gallant toward an enchantress who held his fate within her cruel grasp. He forced himself to tear his gaze away, though the deed was more difficult than expected.
Morgaine fumbled with her book and Alasdair knew her discomfiture was due to the failure of her attempt to charm him. Faith, but she had a rare power! He would have to doubly brace himself against her allure.
“You’re a real Scotsman,” the man commented.
“Aye and proudly so,” Alasdair confirmed and squared his shoulders with pride. It was a relief to turn his attention to the advisor, though the weight of Morgaine’s gaze was heavy upon him. “I am Alasdair MacAulay, pledged to the chief of Siol Tormod, and sworn to the hand of Robert the Bruce, King of Scots.”
To his amazement, the advisors stared at him for an instant, then laughed aloud. Alasdair glanced to the sorceress to find even her lips twitching.
There was naught amusing about his name!
“Bravo!” The man clapped his hands. “I didn’t know they hired actors to bring history alive here. What a wonderful idea!” He turned to the female advisor, who nodded agreement.
“Very convincing,” she added with a gracious smile. “And your costume is so authentic!”
Alasdair frowned Morgaine, uncertain what to make of this. The smile she was fighting to hide won the battle and curved her lips as she met his eyes. She touched the man on the sleeve, her gaze unwavering from Alasdair.
“Go easy on him,” Morgaine said quietly. “He fell down the stairs and hit his head.”
Her soft tone undermined Alasdair’s resistance to her charms. He forced himself to watch the advisors. What the enchantress said was true enough, but the pair made more of this revelation than Alasdair expected. They nudged each other knowingly, exchanged a wink, then offered him bright smiles.
The man pushed the torture device up his nose once more. “But all the same, you must know your Scottish history. Can you settle this dispute for us, for once and for all? What happened at Bannockburn?”
“Bannockburn?” Alasdair racked his brain but could not remember anything of a place with such a name. It did not help his memory to have the enchantress’s emerald gaze locked upon him. With eerie certainty, Alasdair knew she watched him without even looking her way.
Yet, despite her obvious interest in his response, Alasdair could not lie. “I do not even know of such a place as Bannockburn,” he admitted.
“Aha! You see—they don’t even teach their children about such a humiliating loss!” the man crowed. He pulled a shiny and colorful volume from his pocket, then handled what must be a very precious manuscript with abandon. Fanning the pages, he bent the book open and tapped the vellum with a knowing fingertip.
“Says all about it, right there.”
Alasdair leaned forward, as he was evidently expected to do, but could make no sense of the myriad black lines.
He supposed this would not be an opportune moment to admit that he had never seen much point in learning to read. That was the business of monks and clerics, not men who had battles to fight and a living to wrest from hostile soil.
Or so he had long maintained.
’Twas Morgaine, to Alasdair’s astonishment, who seemed to guess the truth.
She sidled up beside him, some enticingly feminine scent rising from her skin to tease Alasdair’s nostrils. He thought immediately of a pallet piled high with coverlets and pulled close to a fire, the sorceress Morgaine securely in his lap.
Alasdair clenched his fists as a fantasy that could only be magically induced possessed his mind.
But he could not stop the image of himself peeling away those garments that revealed Morgaine’s form so temptingly, kissing those luscious lips all the while. He guessed that she would have skin as creamy as fresh milk, softer than soft and smooth from her head to her toe. He saw his hand sliding over the curve of her shoulder, slipping downward to cup her breast…
“After the failure to regain Edinburgh Castle,” she read crisply, her finger tracing the path of the script. “Robert the Bruce rapidly lost ground in his attempts to claim control of Scotland from the English. In the wake of his failures, Bruce died forgotten…”
The words slowly penetrated and Alasdair straightened with a snap. This fiendish creature had laid claim to his very mind!
“That is a lie!” Alasdair interrupted, outraged that even Morgaine would insist on such travesty. “That is a clarty lie! Robert the Bruce is a hero, yet full of vim and vigor! And Edinburgh Castle was taken from the English just this last night!”
The trio blinked, clearly unconvinced.
“Last night?” Morgaine breathed. She stood right beside him, her breast nearly touching his arm, but Alasdair steeled himself against her charms.
“Aye, last night it was,” he said firmly, his certainty in the timing faltering slightly before such skepticism. “Or perhaps the night before, I am not certain how long I slept.”
The three were still openly dubious.
“I led the attack myself!” Alasdair insisted. He turned to Morgaine, certain he could persuade her of the truth. “You have but to take me there! Take me to Edinburgh keep and I will show you the truth!”
Her eyes were filled with sympathy. “We are there,” she said quietly and offered him an apologetic smile.
Nay! It could not be true! Alasdair looked about himself with alarm. “This is not the keep of Edinburgh! It cannot be!”
It certainly was not the Edinburgh Alasdair had seen just the night before. The town spilled below the mount where the keep was built stretched in every direction, spreading from the foot of the mount and belching mire into the air. The keep itself was larger and more ornate, rife with towers and walls where none had been before.
This place was irreconcilable with Edinburgh!
But then Alasdair saw the similarities in the sweep of the land itself. The mound of Arthur’s Seat rose behind the tower of the fortress before him, the smooth water of the Firth of Forth sparkled in the distance. He examined the hills and could not deny the similarity with those he knew surrounded the city.
The hillock where they had camped still rose as a curve against the land, although now it was piled with buildings of some manner or another. Alasdair frowned. If he ignored the buildings, ’twas not that different from the land he had so recently looked upon.
This could truly be the site of Edinburgh, but with a dark and twisted town of Morgaine’s imagination imposed upon the land he recognized. Too late, Alasdair recalled that in his gran’s tales of the land of Faerie all was familiar but contorted from the world of mortals.
And that the worlds overlaid each other, intersecting only at certain points where portals were guarded vigilantly. He spun, seeking the tower he had climbed and could not distinguish it from its companions.
Evidently that portal had already been veiled.
Any lingering doubt Alasdair might have still had, any conviction that good sense could explain away all he had seen this day, died a quick death.
He was truly trapped in the domain of Morgaine le Fee.
And he did not know quite how to proceed.
The male advisor who Alasdair had already thought showed good sense, now exhibited a measure more. “You look like you could use a drink,” he suggested with a friendly smile. “How about joining us for lunch?”
Morgaine inhaled sharply, but Alasdair had to risk her annoyance for the moment.
After all, if a man did not deserve a healthy measure of whisky when he has been whisked unexpectedly to the land of Faerie, then when could events merit a drink?
“Aye, a wee dram would be welcome just now!” he agreed with enthusiasm.
“It was your whisky that landed you square in the trouble you’re in,” Morgaine said disapprovingly.
She was right, of course, for if Alasdair had not been celebrating the night before, he would never have taken the lads’ dare. All the same, he felt in need of something fortifying in this moment.
“Aye, that would be true enough, and I have the bump to show for it,” he conceded, giving her a sample of his most winning smile. It had earned the favor of a reluctant lass on more than one occasion, and Alasdair reasoned that it could not hurt to try his charm on the enchantress, too. “Just a wee sip to set matters straight, my lady Morgaine, then you can have your way with me.”
Her eyes flashed dangerously and Alasdair knew he had overstepped a mark. Before he could make matters right, she stepped away and tossed her hair like a flighty filly.
“Go on and have your whisky!” she snapped. “What does it matter to me if you waste your life?”
And with that, the sorceress turned and stalked away.
Alasdair started in pursuit, but the woman advisor laid a hand upon his arm. “It’s all right,” she purred with a reassuring smile. “Morgan is a bit sensitive about alcohol.”
The man appeared on Alasdair’s other side. “But that’s no reason not to have a ‘wee dram’ ourselves, is it?” He smiled cheerfully and Alasdair saw that he was being corralled by this pair. “Maybe a wee bit o’ haggis to keep it company?”
The familiar words echoed strangely in the man’s flat tones, as though they were not pronounced quite right. Alasdair had seen enough of battle to understand that these two were deliberately befriending him.
Though why he could not say.
“But you do not understand,” Alasdair protested, flicking a worried glance to the rapidly disappearing Morgaine. “I cannot let her out of my sight!”
The pair exchanged a quick glance that Alasdair did not miss. Indeed, if he had not been between them, he knew the woman would have given the man a nudge with her elbow. That intent glance—and the elbow nudge—was a signal he had endured many a time from Fenella.
Particularly at family gatherings, where much was left unsaid. Were these two a pair, then?
“I’m Blake Macdonald,” the man said cheerfully. A Macdonald of which persuasion? The clan had cleaved into those who avidly followed the Bruce and those who just as avidly did not.
This Blake had not been upset at the mention of Alasdair’s name, so he must be with the Macdonalds who followed the Bruce. And ’twas clear this Blake did not realize what Alasdair had done to Fenella, a member however distant of his clan.
Alasdair shook Blake’s hand and had a good look into the man’s eyes. Reassured, he looked after Morgaine.
She had disappeared back through the doorway where they had met only moments past. Alasdair suddenly had a niggling feeling that there was something he should remember. His head throbbed vigorously at the effort and that whisky—not to mention a bite to eat—sounded even better.
Aye, he had been fou as a puggie the night before, that much was certain, and now he had the aching head to show for it.
“And this is my wife, Justine,” Blake continued. “We’re just here on vacation, from Chicago, you know, and we’d just love to buy you lunch. We were going to eat in the restaurant here—do you know whether it’s any good?”
Because they seemed to be waiting for an answer, Alasdair shook his head. Vacation? Chicago? Restaurant? How could he understand anything about their world when he had only just arrived?
“Well, we’ll try it anyway. You know, there’s nothing like hearing the perspective of someone right from a country…”
“But, Morgaine!” Alasdair protested as they turned in the opposite direction.
“Will join us later, I’m sure,” Justine interjected, then slid her hand into Alasdair’s elbow with a smooth grace.
She reminded him of Elizabeth de Burgh—Robert the Bruce’s wife—always the perfect hostess and never at a loss for the right thing to say. Alasdair found such women slightly dumbfounding. They were so different from his gran who was feisty and spoke plainly.
As Morgaine did.
Now there was an unsettling thought! Oh, he had need of a bite in his belly. Alasdair stifled a desperate urge to turn tail and run from all of this.
An eerie scream carried below the mount, something setting the very ground to rumbling. Too late, Alasdair recalled that detail of Morgaine’s domain and jumped despite himself.
Aye, he was in a fine fankle, to be sure.
“Morgaine’s dragon!” Alasdair muttered.
Blake shook his head, frowning at a band strapped to his wrist. “No, no. 11:30.” He fanned through another book. “That would be the Highland Chieftain leaving Waverly Station for London. Right on time.” He glanced up to Alasdair. “Morgaine’s Dragon isn’t on my train schedule. Are you sure it leaves from here?”
“No,” Alasdair conceded, not having any clue what the advisor was talking about. Blake fumbled through his book, evidently looking for something, while Justine tapped her toe.
Perhaps it would be a wise course to curry the favor of these trusted advisors of Morgaine’s. They might be able to help him escape the clutch of her spell.
Alasdair could not outrun the land of Faerie, that much at least he knew as well as he knew his own name. ’Twas those who outsmarted the enchanted folk who returned to the world Alasdair knew to tell their tales.
“Look, Blake, just leave it for now,” Justine said smoothly. “We’ve invited Alasdair to join us for lunch, after all.” She smiled up at Alasdair. “So, you like Morgan. You know, I just have the strongest feeling about the two of you…”
“Oops, bad news,” Blake interrupted, glancing up from his ledgers. “Says here that they only have tea and snacks at this restaurant.” He frowned indecisively.
Alasdair did not know of this tea and snacks, but it sounded less than promising, given Blake’s response. “A man has need of a proper drink when matters go awry,” he said firmly.
Blake winked at Justine. “And we’re real men, aren’t we, Alasdair? No quiche and tea for us!” He fanned through his book before Alasdair could make sense of that, jabbing victoriously at the page. “Hey, here’s a pub in the Grassmarket.” He glanced up brightly.
Alasdair had to ask. “A pub?”
“Public house. We can get our wee dram there, or a beer.”
Ah, a tavern. Alasdair nodded understanding as Blake consulted his volume again. “It’s called the Hangman’s Drop. What do you think?”
Justine rolled her eyes, but Alasdair thought the name oddly appropriate. Those lost to the world of Faerie might as well be dead, after all.
“What about your one o’clock gun?” Justine asked enigmatically.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Blake said with a dismissive wave. “Today, we’ll enjoy a bit of local color.” He grinned. “Hey, Alasdair, stand with Justine, will you? I’ve got to take your picture!”
Alasdair watched as Blake held a small black box to his eye and made it click. They were a strange lot in the world of Morgaine le Fee, that much was for certain.
Alasdair could not be trapped here for all eternity. Nay, he had to escape.
And Morgaine le Fee herself held the sole key to his release.