What was it with men and booze?
And why did Morgan invariably find men who couldn’t stay away from the stuff so attractive? She should have learned her lesson by now! Morgan stormed across the grassy bailey, as angry with herself as with the highlander, jumbled memories crowding into her mind.
Matt with his insincere promises.
Matt laughing at yet another party, the consummate charmer even when he drank far too much.
Matt snoring in the car as Morgan—stone cold sober and deeply unhappy—drove home.
Again.
And again and again and again.
Then the final straw.
But Morgan would not think about it. The subject was closed. Old business. Nothing to do with her life anymore. That chapter was done and best forgotten.
What she should be thinking about was her new book.
Or more to the point, why she hadn’t a clue how to start.
Well, she could hardly collect stories by racing through one town after another at breakneck speed. What she needed was a few hours alone with her sketchbook. Then everything would start to flow.
Morgan knew that she had to stop fretting about Blake’s schedules and Justine’s chances for conception and just treat herself to a little time to think about the work.
And Morgan would start by following the first creative impulse she’d had all week. She would go back and take that picture of Edinburgh through the arrow slit, the one she had planned to take before finding Alasdair.
Morgan knew she could work this camera and she would prove it.
The shot looked as good in the viewfinder—in fact, the angle of the sun was little better than it had been before—and Morgan carefully snapped the picture. The Polaroid whirred as it spit out the shot and she lingered in the tower room as it processed.
No point in leaving until she knew for sure she had done it right.
Morgan refused to admit that she might be deliberately avoiding any chance of being swept along with her sister’s plans. Irritation surged through her at just the thought of Justine’s unwelcome interference.
Honestly, fixing Morgan up with an actor pretending to be a historic figure in an old castle. Couldn’t he find any better roles to play?
Of course, the drinking could have ruined his chances of serious acting. What would he do next? Detergent commercials? Couldn’t Justine see that Alasdair was trouble with a capital T?
Although he did have awfully good legs.
And Morgan had a picture of him. Unable to deny her impulse, she rummaged in her bag for the Polaroid that she had inadvertently snapped of Alasdair.
The picture, though, only showed the room below.
Morgan frowned at it in disbelief. The last step was there and the wall opposite where she was certain Alasdair had been when the camera went off.
But he wasn’t there. The photo showed only barren stone.
And Morgan’s own toe. How could he have avoided being in the picture? Was the room below bigger than Morgan had thought?
Intrigued, Morgan trotted down the stairs. She held up the picture and compared it to the small room, squinted between the two, but was unable to avoid the truth.
The room was so small that Alasdair couldn’t have missed being in her shot somewhere. Even Morgan hadn’t been able to stay completely out of it, evidenced by the tip of her out-of-focus boot.
So, why wasn’t he there?
Morgan felt goosebumps rise on her flesh, but she told herself it was just the damp chill of the air. There had to be a logical explanation to this. She studied the picture for a clue.
There was a funny glimmer on the floor in the shot. Morgan checked the room again and saw something catch the light in the same place.
It was a stone.
Without a second thought, Morgan crossed the room and picked up the large quartz crystal, cradling its weight in her palm. She turned it over and over, fighting against a sense that she had seen it somewhere before.
But where? Morgan knew she hadn’t noticed it here earlier.
She’d been too busy noticing Alasdair’s legs.
Morgan climbed back to the sunlight thoughtfully. She watched the light play within the stone, unable to shake the feeling that it was somehow familiar.
Where had she seen this stone?
The memory came in a sudden flash. The regalia! She had seen it this morning on the castle tour.
But how could Morgan be holding part of the Scottish crown jewels in her hand? They were locked away in a display case in the castle.
Unless Alasdair had stolen the stone.
A sick feeling coiled in Morgan’s stomach. It was a perfect plan—take a job working inside the castle, get to know the staff, be amiable enough to be trusted and then steal a precious antiquity.
All the same, Morgan had a hard time believing that the man she had found could be a thief—at least on such grand scale.
But he was an actor, wasn’t he? And she had thought he intended to rip off her camera.
Well, there was only one way to find out the truth.
To Morgan’s relief, the others had disappeared from view when she peeked out the tower door. She sprinted across the lawn to the entry of the special exhibit of the castle’s history. Morgan elbowed her way through the crowds filtering through the exhibit, pushing to the front of the crowd gathered around the display case in the last room.
The Scottish regalia were the vestments of royal authority gathered over the nation’s long history, now finally displayed for all to see. The crown of Scotland perched on a crimson pillow, the crown ringed with ermine and lavished with garnets and pearls. The massive sword lay the length of the display, its ornamented hilt and scabbard fit for a king.
But Morgan stared at the scepter as the tourists flowed around her. A golden shaft spiraled with inscriptions and said to have been a gift from the pope in the Dark Ages, its gold had been reworked numerous times. Now it culminated in a trio of porpoises, nosing a golden setting skyward.
An empty golden setting.
Morgan swallowed. The crystal in her pocket had been mounted in that gold filigree this morning when she first saw the regalia. She knew it. Morgan fingered the stone guiltily, unsure what to do. She didn’t know how Alasdair had done it, with so much security around, but the truth was right before her eyes.
Alasdair was a thief.
And she had the goods!
Even Justine wouldn’t believe her little sister could get into such trouble so effortlessly.
Morgan glanced over her shoulder, but the guards stood as implacably as they had when she had been here earlier. Wouldn’t they have closed the hall if there had been a theft? Wouldn’t the case be damaged? Or an alarm set off? This place looked to be Security Central.
Morgan recalled suddenly how everything about Bannockburn had turned around while she was in the tower. She dug in her bag for her guidebook.
“The Crown Jewels and the Scottish Regalia are part of a special exhibit at Edinburgh Castle and the culmination of a tour re-creating the fortress’s past. The regalia were given to Edward I of England in 1296 as a token of Scotland’s subservience to England. They were taken to Westminster Abbey, then returned to Edinburgh Caste in 1996 to commemorate the seven-hundredth anniversary of the joining of the two nations’ fates.”
That didn’t sound right to Morgan. She was sure there had been something this morning about Sir Walter Scott finding the regalia here in the castle. But Sir Walter Scott wasn’t even in the index anymore.
That was too weird.
What had happened to her book? Morgan closed it with a snap and eyed the untrustworthy volume with new suspicion. It looked exactly the same as it had this morning, complete with turned-down pages at places she wanted to visit.
But the text was all different. Morgan turned her scrutiny on the display cabinet, which seemed oddly undisturbed. The goose bumps returned, even though it was comfortably warm in this room.
If Alasdair has stolen the crystal, then how had he managed to change the text in her guidebook? And in Blake’s? And how had he gotten the stone out of the display case without anyone noticing?
None of this made any sense. She probably just didn’t have a devious enough mind to see how the con job worked. She never could figure out magicians’ tricks, that was for sure.
Okay, Morgan knew she had seen the stone firmly lodged in the regalia this very morning. But it wasn’t there anymore—it was in her pocket because she had found it on the floor in the tower room where Alasdair had been.
Obviously, he had dropped it.
Now, if Alasdair was a thief who had managed to conjure the stone out of the scepter, then maybe he had similarly substituted Morgan’s and Blake’s guidebooks. That would be nothing compared to getting a gemstone out of a protected display.
But why? Morgan frowned.
Of course! Alasdair must be intending to use Blake, Justine and herself to smuggle the stone out of here! Ha! He would follow them and steal the stone again, once they had done the dirty work for him.
Morgan hadn’t been given a four-star imagination for nothing, and it was working overtime now. Clearly, they had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, looking like hapless tourists.
And a hapless tourist was exactly what Alasdair must have needed. Morgan groaned inwardly that she had played along so well.
The whole scheme was far-fetched and weird, but she couldn’t think of any other possible explanation. The way those blue eyes sparkled with intelligence told her that Alasdair had it in him to concoct a brilliant plan.
But what should she do with the stone? She glanced toward the guards, standing with their stoic passivity, and knew they would never believe her story if she handed the crystal back.
After all, it sounded nuts. Did they think the stone had been lost for seven hundred years? The guard standing to one side had been here this morning. She had answered a question for Blake and just might remember Morgan.
She certainly would remember whether the crystal had been in the scepter.
Morgan smiled as she walked toward the uniformed guard, her heart pounding, her fingers unable to stop toying with the quartz deep in her pocket. “Excuse me. I was here this morning. Maybe you remember me?”
“Oh, yes, miss.” The guard summoned a polite smile. “Are you having a pleasant visit?”
Morgan swallowed. “Yes, but I was wondering something. Wasn’t there a crystal in the scepter this morning?”
The guard looked astonished. “Oh, no, miss, there’s never been one as long as I’ve been here and it’s nigh onto five years.”
Her words were probably meant to be reassuring, but Morgan frowned. “I was sure I saw the stone this morning.”
The guard shrugged and kept her tone light. “With all respect, you canna have done so, miss. It’s been lost since the time of that scoundrel, Robert the Bruce.”
Robert the Bruce a scoundrel?
Morgan blinked in surprise, but the guard leaned closer and dropped her voice. “There are those to say he stole it and sold it to pay for his petty uprising against the good British.” She clicked her teeth in disapproval while Morgan gaped.
The good British?
The guard’s words were so irreconcilable with everything Morgan had heard since her arrival in Scotland that she thought the woman might be joking.
But she was perfectly serious.
Was the guard in on Alasdair’s scheme?
Morgan tried another tack. “Can you tell me anything about the actors in period costume within the castle? Where do you find them?”
The guard looked confused. “Actors, miss? We hire no actors here.”
“But there was a man in a kilt…”
The guard drew herself up proudly. “If you are thinking of the Sutherland Guard who conduct the tours of the castle, I must assure you, miss, that they are no actors, but loyal veterans of Her Majesty’s Highland Military.”
“No, no, not the tour guide.” Morgan hastily tried to make amends. “It was another man, in a different kilt.”
The guard’s glance was cold. “I assure you, miss, that there are no other kilted men in the employ of the castle. Perhaps you have confused another guest with our staff.” Her polite smile returned. “Perhaps you might be moving along now, miss, and make way for other visitors to see the regalia.”
No actors in the fortress.
And no crystal in the regalia.
Morgan eyed the other security guard, who nodded crisply in her direction. He hadn’t been here this morning, but surely not everyone could have been in on the scam, could they?
Morgan crossed the room, repeated her questions, and received exactly the same answers from this second guard. In fact, the man seemed amused by her curiosity, and Morgan didn’t miss the tolerant glance the guards exchanged. The male guard must have seen her note the look, for he smiled.
“With all respect, miss, we often have American tourists with fanciful ideas about Scottish history. There has been no stone in the regalia for at least seven hundred years, you have my word. In fact, of late there has been some question as to whether the stone was really a quartz crystal.” He rattled off a series of academic citations obviously intended to put an end to Morgan’s questions.
It worked.
She stalked out of the gallery, knowing that she wasn’t some fanciful American tourist. She had seen the stone this morning!
Somehow Alasdair had bamboozled the guards. Not only was the highlander a con man, he was a very, very good one.
But just because Morgan was the only one who had noticed his crime, that didn’t mean he was going to get away with it. She wasn’t going to return the stone herself—because that would be the quickest way to get herself in trouble—so, she would make sure that Alasdair did.
Which meant that she had to find him, and the sooner the better.
Well, her sister had spirited him off for a “wee dram” and a confidential lunch. She knew that look in Justine’s eye: Alasdair would at this very moment be embroiled in an interview for Eligible Bachelor of the Year.
Which couldn’t be further from the truth.
If that trio was anywhere between here and Holyrood Palace, Morgan was going to find them. She wanted some answers from Alasdair MacAulay, answers that probably wouldn’t show him in a very flattering light.
Morgan smiled despite herself and headed for the castle restaurant. She couldn’t help looking forward to proving her always-knows-best older sister wrong.
Just once.
By the time Morgan headed back to the bed-and-breakfast, it was getting dark and her feet were aching. When Blake and Justine weren’t to be found in the castle restaurant, she waited for the one o’clock gun, certain that they would return for that.
But they hadn’t.
Even though it had been on Blake’s itinerary.
Which just added to the oddities of the day. Thinking she had missed them somehow and they had gone on to Holyrood Palace, Morgan had walked the length of the Royal Mile and back. She hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of Justine and Blake, or even of the con man Alasdair.
After a while, she became distracted from his mission by her surroundings. Morgan couldn’t help but enjoy the opportunity to dart down one mysterious “close” after another. The crooked little streets leading to tiny squares were all named after trades—Advocate’s Close, Fleshmarket Close—and Morgan loved their engraved mottoes, wrought-iron signs and tiny windows.
She wandered as she searched and felt a guilty pleasure at finally having the time she’d wanted. This was the Edinburgh Morgan had hoped to see. She got lost at least half a dozen times, but without Justine to roll her eyes at the inconvenience, Morgan enjoyed her unscheduled detours.
She was incredibly proud of herself not only for finding the hotel on Princes Street where they had intended to go for tea but also getting there before four-thirty.
Half an hour late was nothing for Morgan.
But Justine and Blake hadn’t been there. Hungry and determined to celebrate her own success, Morgan had high tea anyway.
And it was wonderful. She convinced herself in the midst of her second scone with Devon cream that Blake and Justine had gone back to the bed-and-breakfast for a little afternoon interlude.
Following her itinerary for a change.
And Alasdair, having charmed Blake into buying him one drink, had flunked his interview for Hot Date of the Day. Justine was pretty perceptive, after all. The con man actor must have gone on his way, leaving Morgan with his prize.
She wouldn’t think about what would happen when he realized his loss. With luck, they would be merrily on the road to wherever. For once, Morgan was grateful for Blake’s killer schedule.
And then she could ship the stone back to the castle anonymously, and all would be put right in the end. It sounded so easy that she treated herself to another cup of very hot Earl Gray tea.
By the time she found the bed-and-breakfast—after only four wrong turns—Morgan was sure everything was back to normal.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
Justine checked her watch for the fifth time, then demanded that Blake give her the time again. “Seven!” she repeated with rare irritation. “We’re going to be late, and all because of Morgan! When will she ever start paying attention to the time?”
Justine could manage anyone else’s stress with one hand tied behind her back, but when it came to her baby sister’s prospects for male companionship, she was more jumpy than a cat on a hot tin roof.
She had introduced Morgan to that rat, Matt, after all.
And she really, really, really hated being wrong. Morgan might not have known that her accidental meeting with Matt had been contrived by her sister, but the truth ate away at Justine.
Auntie Gillian hadn’t just guessed the truth—she had charged Justine with fixing her mistake. Their aunt needed only to give Justine a stern glance—the two women thought sufficiently alike that Justine had understood her mission.
She had to find Morgan a real man to take care of her.
Because Morgan was the kind of person who really needed a guardian angel, if not a whole team of them. Auntie Gillian was definitely pulling whatever strings she could reach from upstairs, but Justine was the on-the-ground correspondent.
This time, she wasn’t going to screw it up. Justine was going to fix this if it was the last thing she did.
“You already bought her a watch,” Blake commented with a shrug. “But it’s not much good if she forgets to look at it.”
Justine paced the lobby of their bed-and-breakfast, her mind going a mile a minute. “But what if Alasdair gives up on us? You know he’s just perfect for Morgan, don’t you? And he likes her!”
Justine ground her teeth when Blake—cleverly—kept silent. “And she—if she would just give him a chance—would like him, too. I just know it! There’s something between them, I can feel it.”
“How can you be sure? He’s not much of a talker,” Blake dared to say. “I don’t think he said two things today, just sipped his whisky, listened to us and ate all the sausage rolls.”
“Don’t you see?” Justine demanded with exasperation. “He’s not the type to talk about nothing!”
“Ah.” Blake shoved his hands into his pockets. “Why don’t you just give it a rest? Morgan can find a guy on her own.”
“But, Blake, she won’t. Not after Matt—and that was all my fault. Can’t you see that I have to…” Justine flung out her hands in frustration just as a jingling bell announced the opening of the front door.
In the blink of an eye, Justine summoned a warm, completely unfrazzled smile. Not for the first time, she acknowledged that catering weddings was great practice for real life.
“Morgan!” she exclaimed with delight. “We were wondering where you were.”
“You weren’t in the restaurant,” Morgan said without accusation. “I looked. And I looked at Holyrood Palace and the hotel where you were going for high tea.”
Blake blinked. “You found them all? All by yourself?”
Morgan smiled. “Yes, I did. And almost on time.”
“Almost? Phew!” Blake wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “For a moment there, you had me worried.”
Morgan smiled at his teasing, but Justine ached that the amusement didn’t reach her sister’s eyes.
How long had it been since she’d heard Morgan really laugh?
How long before Morgan forgot how? How long could a giving person survive without having someone to give their affection to—at least without drying up inside? Justine didn’t want to find out.
She knew her matchmaking instincts were right on the money with Alasdair. The guy looked like he had just walked off the cover of one of those historical romances Morgan loved to read. And he was so worried about keeping track of her!
Justine looped her arm through her sister’s and guided her toward the stairs. “We spent the afternoon with Alasdair,” she said conversationally. “You know, he’s very charming. But hurry up and change for dinner—we’ll tell you all about it then.”
“What’s the rush?” Morgan asked with a trace of suspicion.
Justine silently cursed herself for revealing her hand. “We have reservations, remember?”
Morgan flicked a look at her sister that Justine chose to ignore. “No, I don’t, actually.”
“Maybe I forgot to tell you. Remember the place Blake’s boss recommended? Beside the Lyceum Theatre? Well, we booked it for dinner tonight. It’s kind of fancy, so wear the dress you brought.” Justine gave her sister an unceremonious shove toward the stairs. “And hurry! We don’t want them to give away our table.”
“Yeah,” Blake concurred. “Peter said it’s the best place to eat in town, and he’s a real gourmand. Plus, I’m starving. Let’s go!”
To Justine’s relief, Morgan did as she was told. Justine pivoted, so that her retreating little sister couldn’t see her pleased expression, and winked boldly at Blake.
Damn, she loved it when he helped move things along. His boss wouldn’t know a four-star dinner if it was labeled with flashing neon signs.
“Liar,” she mouthed silently, knowing her delight showed.
Blake smiled slowly, and the air in the foyer heated right on cue. “Got a problem with that?” he murmured, his eyes darkening.
Justine strolled across the floor, knowing her husband was devouring every move. She leaned against him, making sure he could feel the curve of her breasts, and she stretched to roll her tongue in his ear.
Blake closed his eyes and shivered.
“With luck, we’ll be back nice and early,” Justine whispered, punctuating her words with a kiss. “Morgan will be in very capable hands.”
Blake grinned wolfishly. “And so will you.”
Justine could hardly wait.
All of Justine’s assurances that she would bring Morgaine seemed worthless to Alasdair as he waited restlessly at their assigned meeting spot. He paced in front of the glittering building, well aware of the curious glances of all who passed.
They could not arrive quickly enough to suit him.
This place dazzled him with its myriad lights, never mind that those lights were without visible flames. The glass that composed its wall was large and smooth beyond any glass Alasdair had ever seen before—clearly a product of magic—and he refused to look overlong upon it lest it bewitch him.
To be sure, he had enough troubles as it was.
A fierce tapping upon the magical glass brought Alasdair’s head up with a snap. A woman with very pale skin smiled at him from the other side. Her eyelids were shaded purple; her lips were the color of wine; her black dress clung to her virtually nonexistent curves. She waved her fingertips playfully, but Alasdair recognized dangerous temptation when he saw it.
She could only be the succubus that the priest warned men to beware! Oho, Alasdair had heard tales aplenty of these wraiths who came to men in the night, enslaving their desire and drawing them forever into the depths of Faerie.
Nay! She would not make his entrapment worse! Alasdair jumped back and she disappeared.
Unbeknownst to the highlander, it was the change in the angle of the light that transformed the curtain of glass into a massive mirror.
Alasdair saw only more magic at work.
He could scarcely marvel at this wizardry before his own reflection dismissed all such thought from his mind. That it was the clearest rendering of his own image that he had ever seen was little consolation, for his curiosity was dismissed by dismay.
Alasdair was filthy. There were no two ways about it.
To be sure, the fount he knew at Mercat Cross was replaced by a clogged replica that was a sorry excuse for a source of water. None of the strangely attired inhabitants of Morgaine’s world would point him to an alternative washing place.
And he had dared not wander farther astray, lest he not be able to find this place again. Morgaine’s kingdom was fair confusing. To be sure, it mattered little how Alasdair looked if he lost track of the only means of his return to the world he knew.
He could not lose Morgaine, not at any cost.
All the same, the truth was worse than he had feared. Alasdair fingered four days’ growth of beard on his chin and eyed the mark of another man’s blood on his chemise. His golden hair was wild, his kilt was askew, and his boots were muddy. A long scratch on his leg, earned during their scaling of the mount, had closed but still sported a dried dribble of his own blood.
He had no doubt that there was whisky lingering on his breath. Aye, the bits of meat that Justine had declared to be “lunch” had scarce been enough to sustain a man. His belly complained mightily of its emptiness at that moment.
Nay, Alasdair was in no shape to court a woman’s favor, particularly one who kept a fierce dragon as a pet.
But what was he to do? He must remain here and wait. Alasdair muttered a colorful curse and glowered at his reflection before turning to pace anew.
How the lads would laugh if they saw him, long reputed to be one who had a way with the ladies, turned tapsal-teerie by a wee scrap of a woman!
And still she did not come. A thousand worries crossed Alasdair’s mind, along with a thousand possibilities of his own dire misfortune. How could he return home if he had no chance to appeal to the queen of this domain herself?
How could Justine have lied to him, when so much was at stake? Could he have made some slip of the tongue this day that had offended Morgaine’s advisors? He had been careful to remain quiet, understanding so little of their chatter as he had.
But ’twould have been easy to err and never guess the truth. That did little to reassure the pacing highlander.
Alasdair growled in dissatisfaction, pivoted to pace the length of the glass wall again, and froze in his tracks. Justine and Blake were stepping out of one of the black horseless chariots that he had been seeing all day.
And Morgaine, radiant in a fitted and flared kirtle, dismounted behind them.
Alasdair’s heart thumped. She had come, garbed fetchingly in Faerie green.
Now all he had to do was figure out how to win her favor. A hard lump rose in his throat. Any vestige of charm he possessed disappeared like a morning mist burned away by the sun.
“Alasdair!” Justine exclaimed, as though surprised to see him here. “What a delight to see you again.”
“You remember Morgan?” Blake gestured to the tiny, perfect queen and winked slyly at Alasdair.
They had warned him that this meeting would have to look uncontrived. Endeavoring to appear pleased with a chance encounter, Alasdair summoned his best smile and turned to the lady in question.
Only to catch a flash of fear in her eyes.
This was not good. All of Alasdair’s comments in their first encounter tumbled into his mind, and he feared that he had given grave offense in assuming the lady to be a whore.
Oh, he was the most simple daftie ever to draw a breath!
“My lady Morgaine,” Alasdair said as smoothly as he could.
The lady took a step back.
Suddenly Alasdair recalled how the lairds greeted Robert the Bruce’s wife. The way to a woman’s approval, as any man knew, lay in sweet words.
Though any compliments he granted this sorceress would be far from insincere. Alasdair captured her hand with a quick gesture, then bent low and kissed its back. The scent of roses that emanated from her skin fed his highly inappropriate desire. “Might I say you look lovely on this evening.”
Justine sighed and Alasdair dared to be encouraged.
But Morgaine snatched her hand away. “Why you…” she began.
Before the enchantress could finish whatever she had intended to say, Justine intervened. “How wonderful to cross paths again! What a small world. Alasdair, you’ll just have to join us for dinner.”
“Why, look, we’re almost late for our reservation,” Blake declared with a glance at the black band on his wrist.
Justine laughed lightly. “Maybe they can find us a table for four. We’d better hurry inside.” She flashed a meaningful look at Blake, who began herding them all toward the restaurant like a brood of wayward chicks.
The entire transaction occurred so quickly that Alasdair’s head fairly spun. They were accomplished at seeing their objectives met, these two, and Alasdair felt a grudging respect for the manner in which Justine kept her pledge.
Morgaine was clever to have such advisors close to her.
“Justine!” Morgaine sputtered. “What are you doing?”
The advisor, to Alasdair’s surprise, slanted a coy look at her monarch. “Just being friendly,” she responded enigmatically.
Morgaine flushed scarlet, and Alasdair’s heart melted at the sight. Had he ever had the good fortune to meet a more entrancing woman? That her charms were wrought by magical means did not seem to be pertinent—at least, not to one part of his anatomy.
Blake ushered them into the restaurant, where they lingered in the doorway, obviously awaiting some attendant. By accident or design, Morgaine was directly beside Alasdair. He could smell that bewitching blend of roses rising from her very flesh.
This was his moment.
Alasdair gritted his teeth and cleared his throat. “My lady Morgaine,” he murmured with a slight bow of his head. “I must say what a great pleasure it is to enjoy your company again.”
The lady fired a hostile glance in his direction. “Don’t even pretend this is an accidental meeting. I know Justine too well for that.”
Alasdair felt the back of his neck grow hot, a sign of guilt if ever there was one.
But no one was going to aid him here.
Justine deliberately ignored her monarch’s comment. Alasdair wondered how anyone could be so cavalier with her own hide.
A man garbed in black, with a length of linen inexplicably over his arm, chatted with Justine, nodded, then led the way across the glittering hall.
Justine sailed across the floor in his wake, Blake right behind her, and Alasdair seized the opportunity to speak to the queen without her advisors listening.
He looked into Morgaine’s green eyes and felt the pull of her enchantment. “I must admit,” he said quietly, “that I greatly desired to see you once more.”
The lady’s lips thinned. “Look, I know what you’ve done. And contrary to some people’s expectations, I’m not that desperate for a man.”
Alasdair was quite certain that she had enough immortals at her beck and call to satisfy whatever desires she had. “My lady, I must apologize for my earlier assumptions. As you might understand, I was confused by what had occurred and fear I did not present myself well. On this night, I wished only to speak to you that I might present my plea…”
Morgaine’s eyes flashed and she waved a finger indignantly under his nose. Alasdair fought the instinct to retreat. “I don’t need to hear any pleas from you! Whatever you might have told Justine, I know all I need to know about the kind of man you are. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”
Alasdair caught his breath, then anger surged through him. How dare she judge him without a hearing? “You know naught of the manner of man I am,” he retorted.
“Is that right?” The enchantress dug in her small black satchel and hauled out a faceted crystal that was breathtakingly familiar.
Alasdair gaped.
The crowning stone from the regalia! ’Twas the stone the witch had bade him hold when she sent him to Morgaine’s kingdom.
’Twas the stone he would need to return home.
Without a second thought, Alasdair snatched at the gem, but Morgaine danced out of his range. Understanding burned bright in her green eyes, and she shook her head in displeasure.
“What kind of man would stoop to stealing from the regalia?” she demanded and Alasdair’s hand fell limply to his side.
He could well understand her revulsion. Indeed, Alasdair would have shared a low opinion of anyone who resorted to thievery of Scotland’s crown jewels.
But the witch had given the token to him.
“I can explain,” he protested, but the sorceress shook her head.
“Save your lies,” she said coldly. “You may have fooled everyone else, but I know what you’re done and I’m going to make sure it gets fixed.”
With that, she strode after her advisors.
But her words made no sense. Alasdair could not quite understand how Morgaine, who stole men away to her world without remorse, could judge him harshly for stealing from the regalia.
A crime of which he was not even guilty.
Did she nurse a secret affection for the Scottish dream of independence—despite the fact that she flew the English standard above her abode?
Was that why it required the regalia stone to come to her domain?
Alasdair did not know. Annoying the powerful enchantress had certainly not been on his agenda for this night. How should he proceed?
Justine solved the issue.
“Alasdair!” She summoned him with a smile, indicating a vacant seat beside Morgaine. “Come along, we’re waiting.”
Alasdair gazed across the glittering restaurant and felt as kenspeckle as a fart at a funeral. But there was naught for it. Somehow he had to win the Lady Morgaine’s favor. And this might be his only chance.
Surely, given his current run of luck, he could not manage to make matters worse.