The sorceress changed mood faster than an autumn sky. No sooner had Alasdair acknowledged the not-unpleasant feeling of having her nestled in his arms than she twisted and fought his grip like a wild thing.
“Put me down!” she demanded.
Only then did Alasdair realize his own foolhardiness. He had lost himself in Morgaine le Fee’s kiss! He was seven kinds of fool to be so careless with his own fate.
The enchantress did not need to repeat her request. Alasdair dumped her on her feet without ceremony and backed away. He wiped the taste of her kiss from his burning lips with the back of his hand and surveyed her warily.
What witchery had she cast over him?
Morgaine looked as distressed as Alasdair felt. Her cheeks were flushed in a most attractive way; her eyes were flashing; her hair was tangled.
And her lips were temptingly swollen. Anger rose hot within Alasdair that he had been so readily tricked.
“How dare you touch me?”
“I touch you?” Alasdair retorted. “You were the one as pressed yourself upon me!”
“You were the one who took more than was offered!” the lady fired back, shaking an indignant finger. “I was only going to give you a peck of appreciation…”
Alasdair folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her. He refused to think about the fire this one would start when she meant to kiss a man soundly. “That was no peck, my lady.”
“It certainly wasn’t!” She glared back at him, so full of vigor that Alasdair was tempted to repeat the exchange.
Even if his better judgment demanded he keep her at arm’s length. Alasdair fought against his desire and slowly got his pulse under control.
His gallant words were forced through gritted teeth. “Clearly, ’twas no more at work than the fright we both have had.”
Morgaine looked as though she would have argued that point, then she nodded vehement agreement.
Alasdair wondered only for a moment whether she had deliberately been testing her allure. Then, he shook such whimsy from his mind and offered Morgaine his elbow, his manner as coolly impersonal as he could make it. “My lady? I would accompany you to your abode.”
“You will not!” she snapped and danced backward. She tossed her hair like a flighty filly. “I can find my way there alone, thank you.”
Did the woman have so short a memory as that? Alasdair folded his arms across his chest and knew his skepticism showed. “Aye, you were doing a fine job of it when I last came along.”
The lady flushed crimson and Alasdair’s anger melted to naught.
“I gave my word to Blake,” he added gently when she seemed at a loss for words. “And I would see it kept.”
Morgaine stared at him for a long moment. “How do I know you don’t want to hurt me? You said you want the stone—you might mug me and leave me in a gutter somewhere.”
Alasdair snorted and glanced pointedly about himself. “I should think that even in this place, on such a busy avenue, someone might notice a foul deed and intervene on your behalf.” When she looked unconvinced, Alasdair felt himself scowl with impatience. “Why would I come to your aid just to attack you myself?”
Morgaine exhaled slowly, her bright gaze fixed upon him. “You might want me to trust you,” she mused.
Alasdair studied her, liking the light of intelligence in her witchy eyes. She was a clever one—he had not even thought of such a ploy.
“My lady,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, “I grant you my word that I mean you no harm.”
She lifted her chin proudly. “Then what do you want from me?”
Here was his chance. Alasdair sobered as he dared give voice to his only hope. “I only want to go home, my lady.”
Morgaine stared at him, as though confused by his simple request, then bit the lip he had so recently tasted. Alasdair’s desire roared to life.
“So do I,” she admitted, a most fetching and shy smile curving her lips. “Except I don’t know where it is.”
A lie, clearly, for no queen could forget the site of her own lair. Yet Alasdair guessed this was a test of his ingenuity. Were his gran’s tales not filled with Faeries requiring mortals to prove themselves worthy of any otherworldly gifts?
And to be released from the domain of Morgaine le Fee could only be considered a great gift. Alasdair had but to think of his son to have his determination renewed.
He gripped Morgaine’s elbow and marched her into a brightly lit establishment, where the portly patron glanced up from his ledger. “I have need of direction to the lady Morgaine’s abode,” Alasdair said firmly.
The man blinked as though he had not the wit to understand and looked to Morgaine.
“The Thistle Bed & Breakfast,” she supplied and understanding dawned on the man’s heavy features.
How could he not know the home of his queen?
The man led them back to the door and pointed in the direction they had been headed. “Down thisaway a good six eight blocks to Leeds Avenue, then right for a few blocks, then left on Thistle Down, then it should be along on your right beside the off-license.”
That might as well have been in Latin, for Alasdair understood little of it. The off-license? And Leeds was far to the south, in the Briton’s country.
“Thank you,” Morgaine said with a charming smile.
Alasdair squinted down the road. Right left right. He could remember that.
“Right, then,” the man said with a nod and ducked back to his books.
Morgaine and Alasdair exchanged a glance and he was reassured to see that she evidently understood no more than he did.
“We had best make a start of it,” he said crisply. “My lady, you had look for this Avenue of Leeds. I shall count these six eight blocks.” He cleared his throat as they stepped onto the pavement. “What, my lady, would be a ‘block’?”
Morgaine seemed to fight the urge to smile. “The distance between two cross-streets.” She pointed back to the last intersection, then to the next with a quick explanation and Alasdair understood.
It was no small advantage that each intersection was marked with curious illumination that changed from green to amber to red. Indeed, a man could scarcely miss such a signpost.
Alasdair began to stride down the walkway with Morgaine’s elbow firmly within his grasp, but the lady wriggled free and danced ahead of him.
“You can see me back to the bed and breakfast if you like”—she cast the words over her shoulder without looking back, but Alasdair heard that she was not as indifferent to his decision as she might have liked him to believe—“but don’t even think about touching me again.”
Oh, Alasdair would think about it, that much was for certain, especially with those hips twitching right afore his eyes. A man did not readily forget a kiss that left him simmering clear down to his toes.
The enchantress limped along as he watched, then stumbled over the shoe that yet sported a stilt. In a quick gesture, she ripped off the shoes, looked them over, then cast them aside, marching on without them. One pale toe peeked through her dark stockings and Alasdair feared for those tiny feet amidst the muck of the street.
He scooped up the shoes as he trailed behind her and easily broke the stilt off the other one. A perfect pair they were now.
If only she would accept them from him. Alasdair could not help but wonder whether the sorceress would grant him another token of her esteem when he showed concern for her tender toes. The very idea did hot and thick things to him that could only betray his desire to return home.
Aye, he was a fool and then some to lust after a Faerie queen.
Morgan stifled a howl of pain when she stubbed her toe hard on the pavement. She bit her lip, hoping Alasdair didn’t notice her clumsy move, and fought back her tears as she tried to continue on as though nothing had happened.
He was beside her in a moment, his lips tight with impatience. “Have you no care for your own welfare?” he demanded, then bent and lifted her injured foot in his great gentle paw. He ran a fingertip over the bruise, his touch making Morgan shiver, then slipped her own discarded shoe onto her foot.
In the blink of an eye, Morgan had matching shoes on her feet. They felt strange without the heels, the toes curling up like Aladdin’s slippers, but were a lot more comfortable than the pavement.
Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“Now, then,” he said briskly, eying the street before them. “We seek six eight blocks. I count this crossroads ahead as one.” He gripped her elbow and set off at a purposeful pace.
He probably couldn’t wait to be rid of her, Morgan concluded.
The idea bothered her so much that she didn’t have it in her to make conversation. With a heavy heart, she clumped along beside him, enjoying the way he cupped her elbow in his warm palm even though she knew she shouldn’t.
And then Alasdair began to hum.
The tune was infectious, and Morgan found herself matching her steps to it without intending to do so.
Alasdair must have noticed, because he cast an amused expression in her direction. “Lifts your spirits, does it not?” he murmured, and Morgan couldn’t help but smile.
“What it is?”
“Ah, an old ditty of my gran’s. ’Tis a tune to walk upon.”
“Are there words?”
“Aye, ’tis the song of True Thomas. Surely you know it?”
“No.” Morgan was fascinated. When Alasdair hesitated, she took his arm and gave him a little shake. “Tell me.”
Alasdair’s eyes narrowed. “It would please you?”
“Oh, yes! Like Justine said, I’m here to find folktales from the countryside.”
“Well!” Alasdair straightened. “This is no fey tale, for True Thomas was a man in fact…”
“Will you sing it?”
He assessed her with a glance filtered through his fair lashes, his eyes intensely blue. That look alone was enough to set Morgan’s blood to simmering. “If it would please you.” His voice was so low that Morgan had a hard time fighting her urge to kiss him again.
“It would,” she managed to say.
Alasdair straightened his shoulders and hummed the ditty once more. Then he began to sing.
True Thomas lay o’er yon grassy bank,
And he beheld a lady gay.
A lady she was brisk and bold.
Come riding o’er the fernie brae.
Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,
Her mantle of the velvet fine,
And woven into her horse’s mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.
True Thomas he took off his hat
And bowed him low down till his knee.
“All hail, though mighty Queen of Heaven!
For your peer on earth I ne’er did see!”
People turned in the street to smile and nod in time to the tune. Alasdair’s voice was magnificent, melodic and deep, and Morgan was fascinated.
Then she laughed as Alasdair changed his pitch to a falsetto to indicate the voice of the fairy queen. He winked at her in a roguish way and her heart skipped a beat.
“Oh no, oh no, True Thomas,” she says,
“That name does not belong to me.”
I am but the Queen of fair Elfland,
And I’m come here for to visit thee.
“But you must go with me now, Thomas.
True Thomas, you must come with me.
For you must serve me seven years,
Through well or woe as chance to be.”
She turned about her milk-white steed,
And took True Thomas up behind.
And aye, whene’er her bridle rang,
The steed flew swifter than the wind.
For forty days and forty nights,
They wade through red blood to the knee,
And he saw neither sun nor moon
But heard the roaring of the sea.
Oh, they rode on, and further on,
’Til came they to a garden green.
“Light down, light down, my lady free.
Some of that fruit let me pull for thee.”
“Oh no, oh no, True Thomas,” she says.
“That fruit must not be touched by thee!
For all the plagues that are in hell
Light on the fruit of this country.
But I have a loaf here in my lap,
Likewise a bottle of claret wine.
And now ere we go farther on,
We’ll rest a while and you may dine.”
When Thomas had eaten and drunk his fill,
“Lay down your head upon my knee,”
The lady said. “’Ere we climb yon hill
And I will show you pathways three.”
They came to the intersection of Leeds Avenue, and Morgan indicated they should turn to the right. Alasdair paused, pointing to the left with a smile.
“Oh, do you see yon narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briars?
That is the path of righteousness,
Though after it but few enquires.”
Morgan grinned at his game, and Alasdair gestured to the road ahead.
“And do you see that broad, broad road,
That lies across yon lillie leven?
That is the path of wickedness,
Though some call it the road to heaven.”
Alasdair pointed to the right and turned their steps in that direction.
“And do you see that bonny road,
Which winds about the ferny slope?
This the road to fair Elfland,
Where you and I this night must go.”
His voice dropped low as they started down Leeds Avenue.
“But Thomas, you must hold your tongue,
Whatever you may hear or see.
For if a word you should chance to speak,
You will never return to your own country.”
Thomas has gotten a coat of the elven cloth,
And a pair of shoes of velvet green,
And ’til seven years were past and gone.
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
The shadows of the entwined branches over Leeds Avenue made Morgan feel as though they were following that road to Elfland. Even the streetlights seemed to dance, as the light was filtered through the rustling leaves. It was quieter here, an elegant neighborhood where a few townhouse dwellers wandered with their dogs.
“Isn’t there any more?” Morgan asked when Alasdair didn’t continue.
He shook his head. “Nay, that is the end of the rhyme.”
“But what happened to him?”
“True Thomas? Ah, my gran says he spent his seven years in Faerie, though indeed it seemed to him to be no more than seven days and nights. When he returned to Erceldoune, the Queen of Elfland granted him an apple that gave him the gift of prophecy and a tongue that could not lie. ’Twas then she explained why he was to be named True Thomas, though he was known by mortals as Thomas Rhymer. He made his way as a poet whose verses came to pass with uncanny ease.”
Morgan’s imagination was captured by the spell of Alasdair’s song, a thousand images gathering in her mind, restless to be set down on paper. She could easily visualize Thomas being surprised by the Queen of Elfland while he lay on a hill and the way his eyes would go round when she showed him the marvels of her world.
“Well, why did the Queen of Elfland pick him?”
“Ah!” Alasdair nodded sagely. “’Twas said he had seen her once and lost his heart to her beauty. With her otherworldly arts, she heard his heart’s song and came to him, binding him to her side with a single kiss.”
“Oh, that’s lovely!” Morgan sighed with romantic delight, her image of Thomas becoming stronger with every detail Alasdair added. “She must have loved him, too, to have given him such a gift.”
“Aye.” They navigated the next curve, the street busier but with fewer trees. “’Twas said that even the barrier betwixt the worlds could not keep them apart,” Alasdair mused. “She sent for him years later, as my gran tells it, and Thomas passed happily to the land of Faerie, never to be seen again.”
Morgan saw the liquor store that the locals called an “off-license.” The bed-and-breakfast was right beside it, and the blue Nissan Micra rental car was parked out front.
“There it is,” she said and pointed. Evidently Alasdair had noted the thistle on the sign, because he headed straight for it.
They paused as one at the base of the steps, Morgan toying with her key. She hadn’t dated in so long that she’d forgotten how awkward this moment could be.
But then, this wasn’t a date.
Morgan tipped her head back to find Alasdair’s expression unreadable. “Thank you for walking me home,” she said quietly, then smiled. “And thank you for keeping those kids from taking my purse. I really appreciate it.” She cleared her throat, unable to look away from Alasdair’s steady gaze.
It didn’t help that he didn’t say anything.
“And thank you for singing,” Morgan added. “I liked the story very much.”
Alasdair smiled suddenly, the sight stealing Morgan’s breath away. “Anything to please you, my lady,” he murmured, then bent low over her hand.
Morgan’s skin tingled where his lips brushed across it. The memory of their kiss unfurled in her mind, and she didn’t trust herself not to repeat her mistake.
She turned and quickly trotted up the stairs, hating how breathless her voice sounded. “Well, good-bye. I hope you do find your way home.”
Alasdair frowned at that, and the sadness that claimed his eyes tore at Morgan’s heart.
But before she could say anything she would probably regret, he turned back to the street. “Sleep well, my lady,” he said gruffly and walked away.
Morgan hesitated for a moment, fingering her key. If Edinburgh wasn’t Alasdair’s home, then where would he sleep? Did he even have any money? Her characteristic sympathy rolled to the fore, and she almost called after him before she caught herself.
He must be trying to manipulate her! Obviously, he wanted the crystal back. Morgan had to remember that Alasdair was an accomplished con artist—and the consummate actor.
But all the same, his song had filled her mind with wonderful images. She let herself into the silent B&B and climbed the three flights of stairs to her room, thinking busily all the while.
Instead of going to bed, Morgan turned on the light over the desk and pulled out her sketchbook. She stared at the blank paper for just a moment before she began to fill it with drawings for the tale of Thomas the Rhymer.
The work came with an ease that Morgan had almost forgotten. A border of curling ivy concealed half a dozen pointed and curious faces. Then, Thomas’s grassy bank of Erceldoune grew across the page, filled with wildflowers and tiny hands and faces.
Morgan’s pencil seemed to have a mind of its own. She felt as though she were simply setting the little sketched elves and fairies free of their pencil prison.
She smiled and bent over the work, thinking about Alasdair’s wonderfully deep and expressive voice. There was something magical in the way he had made each character come to life. The old folk verses painted such vivid pictures in her mind that she could swear she had been to Elfland with Thomas.
But then, a lot of actors could sing. And she had always had a weakness for a good baritone.
All the same, Morgan couldn’t completely free herself of the spell of his voice. She stopped trying and let the illustration flow under its own momentum. Alasdair’s song echoed in Morgan’s ears as the Queen of Elfland’s radiant outspread wings came to shimmering life on the page.
This was exactly what she had needed to begin on her book. Morgan refused to think about the man responsible for her inspiration—let alone whether it was more than his song that had inspired her.
Little did Morgan know that in the tiny park opposite the bed-and-breakfast, a disreputable-looking highlander folded himself up on a public bench, his gaze fixed on the golden light spilling from her window, and settled in for the night.
Justine knocked on Morgan’s door and then, when there was no response, knocked even harder. Honestly, it was eight o’clock! Blake was itching to get on the road again and head off to Scone Palace in Perth. And Morgan was late.
Again.
Justine was going to have to get her sister a watch with alarm bells or something. But then, Morgan would probably find a way to ignore that, too.
Justine knocked again. Blake left their room across the hall, pushed up his glasses, and gave Justine an exaggerated wink. She smiled, knowing what had put the twinkle in her husband’s eye.
She had no doubt that there was an answering sparkle in her own.
“We could just go back to bed,” he murmured. He strolled across the foyer and planted a kiss on the nape of Justine’s neck that made her shiver. “Check out late. What do you think?”
“You’d never do it.” Justine turned to Morgan’s door. “Do you think anything’s wrong?”
Blake grinned. “Maybe something’s very right.”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t look out the window this morning, did you?”
Justine shook her head, mystified, and Blake pushed the door to their room open with a fingertip. “Go look,” he invited.
“You’re going to ambush me and we’ll never get out of here,” she accused, unable to keep herself from smiling at the thought.
“Scout’s honor.” Blake crossed his heart solemnly.
“Rats,” Justine teased, then went to look.
Alasdair was sitting on a park bench, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles crossed. His arms were folded across his chest and his expression was grim.
He was staring at a point that would exactly correspond to Morgan’s window.
“Oh!” Justine spun around to face Blake with delight. “What do you think happened?”
He shrugged, unable to hide his own smile. “It’s not like Morgan to sleep once the sun is up.”
“You’re right. She’s always been a morning person.” Justine fought to keep her hopes from rising too high. She darted back out into the hall and rapped impatiently on Morgan’s door.
“Morgan?” Justine leaned close and called quietly against the door. “Breakfast is on. Are you coming?”
She thought she heard sounds of life from within the room, so she knocked again. Louder.
Morgan opened the door a crack, her hair spilling around her face in a disorganized tangle. She was still wearing her dress from the night before, but it was wrinkled almost beyond recognition.
Something—or someone—had kept Morgan up all night.
Justine dared to hope.
Then she saw the pencil smudges on her sister’s fingers, and her heart sank. Alasdair might be smitten, but Morgan had just been working.
Drat.
“Good morning.” Justine forced a bright tone. “Sleep well?”
Morgan ran one hand over her brow, then frowned toward the little desk in one corner of her room. “It wasn’t long enough to tell. What time is it?”
“Eight.”
“And I was supposed to meet you at seven-thirty.” Morgan groaned. “I’m sorry.” She wandered away from the door and surveyed the room, as if unfamiliar with its contents. “Do I have time for a shower?”
Justine, unashamed of her curiosity, followed and closed the door behind them. She immediately noticed the open sketchbook on the desk but tried to look as if she hadn’t.
“Sure. If you pick what you’re wearing, I’ll pack the rest of your stuff. Then we can have breakfast together.” Justine gave her sister a pointed glance. “This is a vacation, after all.”
“Right. How could I forget?” Before Justine could interpret that, Morgan yawned luxuriously. “I guess I can nap in the car.” She peeled off her dress, plucked leggings and a sweater from her bag, then padded into the en suite bathroom.
Justine felt a teensy-weensy twinge of guilt as she unfolded her sister’s suitcase on the bed. Were they running at too quick a pace for Morgan?
But then, if she had her way, Morgan would never get very far at all. Justine frowned at the jumbled contents of the bag and set to work reorganizing everything. “When did you go to sleep?” she called out.
“I don’t know. I remember seeing the sun come up.”
An all-nighter. Justine was itching to see the product of her sister’s work, but she knew Morgan didn’t like people looking at sketches before they were done. And she couldn’t tell by Morgan’s manner whether she was pleased with the work or not. The shower began to run as Justine folded and packed with surgical precision.
Only when her sister had disappeared into the shower stall did Justine dare to step over to the desk. Three pages were scattered there, each one covered with Morgan’s trademark whimsical drawings.
Justine glanced guiltily toward the bathroom. She could hear Morgan humming some tune in the shower.
So she bent closer to look.
And caught her breath at the myriad little fairy faces peeking out mischievously from behind leaves and nodding flowers. The first page was titled “Thomas Rhymer”—this lanky man who had a passing resemblance to Blake must be Thomas himself. In one corner was a woman of such ethereal beauty that she could only be a fairy queen. Her horse was dressed with ribbons and pacing impatiently, her own wings as gossamer fine and iridescent as those of a dragonfly.
Justine was so engrossed that she didn’t hear the shower stop.
“Oh! You found them.”
Justine pivoted, one of Morgan’s clean T-shirts clutched against her chest. “Morgan, they’re gorgeous!” she declared before her sister could say anything. “These are more beautiful than any of your work I’ve seen before.”
Morgan glanced down, typically modest of her abilities, and smiled. “They are, aren’t they?”
“They’re absolutely wonderful. So, who’s this Thomas Rhymer?”
Her sister, characteristically, flushed, and even the way she fussed with pulling on her sweater couldn’t hide it. “He was a poet who said he had been captured by the Queen of Elfland. He kissed her and was imprisoned by her for seven years in her kingdom.”
“Wow.” Justine turned back to the magical drawings with fascination. The longer she looked, the more details she seemed to notice. “Just the kind of story you wanted to find.”
Morgan’s flush deepened as she crossed the room. “Yes,” she admitted, then hastily gathered the drawings together. “Look, these aren’t done…”
“I know, I know, you’d prefer not to have me ogling them.” Justine stepped out of the way, watching her sister carefully slide the drawings into a portfolio. Morgan’s high color and the silence that descended told Justine there was something important she had missed.
And she immediately guessed what it was.
Justine leaned a hip against the desk with apparent idleness and fixed Morgan with a look designed to worm confessions out of war criminals. “So, who told you about Thomas Rhymer?”
Morgan flushed crimson.
Blake had been right!
Morgan’s attempt to shrug off the question didn’t fool Justine. “Alasdair told me.”
“Really?” Justine forced her tone to remain calm even though she was gleeful inside. “So you did stay at the restaurant, after all.” She ran a finger down the desk. “Did you have a nice dessert?”
“No, well, no, we didn’t actually stay.” Morgan shuffled her feet, the very image of a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
Even better—they had adjourned to more romantic surroundings.
“Alasdair took you somewhere else?” Justine asked. “Where did you go? Some nice little coffee bar?”
“Well, um, no.”
Justine had a sudden feeling that things hadn’t gone perfectly according to plan. She impaled her sister with a look that commanded a full accounting.
Morgan, tellingly, examined her toes. “Actually, we argued and I, uh, left the restaurant alone.”
Alone?
“You took a cab?” Justine’s tone was icy.
“No, I couldn’t get one.”
“Morgan, tell me that you didn’t walk alone!” Justine flung out her hands when her sister shrugged and stalked across the room, hating that Morgan could make her so very angry.
And that only when her baby sister showed no care for her own safety. Honestly, sometimes she felt as though Morgan needed a full-time keeper!
“How many times have I told you that you just can’t count on the world being a safe place? We’re not living in Disneyland, you know. Even though Scotland has Old World charm by the ton, this isn’t the old world anymore…”
“Justine, it was fine.”
Justine felt her eyes narrow with suspicion as she turned to Morgan again. There was more to this story than she was hearing, that was for sure. “Nothing happened?”
Morgan shuffled her feet. “Well, it might have if Alasdair hadn’t followed me.”
Anger coursed through Justine, relief quick on its heels. To hide her response, she turned to finish the packing, her gestures quick and efficient.
Had Alasdair appointed himself Morgan’s keeper?
The thought appealed to Justine. “I like him better and better all the time,” she restrained herself to saying.
That seemed to snap Morgan to attention.
“Justine! He stole the crystal from the regalia, and I have it. He wants it back. Obviously, he wants me to trust him and will do anything to make me let down my guard.”
Morgan flung out her hands in exasperation, but it was hard for Justine to take her seriously when she was wearing no more than Calvin Klein briefs and a sweater. “Don’t you get it? He’s a con man! He probably set the whole thing up so he could pretend to rescue me!”
Justine treated her sister to her most skeptical glance. “And this con job—that would be the one to get back a crystal that only you remember seeing anywhere other than in your purse—would it also explain why he’s waiting for you?”
“What?” Morgan’s eyes widened in alarm. “He’s waiting for me? Where?”
Justine nodded toward the window and Morgan peeked through the curtains. She jumped back as though the sight burned her. “He’s out there!”
“Of course, he’s out there.” Justine was calm again. “He likes you—despite the way you treat him.”
“Justine! What am I going to do?” Morgan paced wildly, more nervous than Justine had seen her in quite a while.
Which could only be a good sign. Justine folded with authority, her composure restored, and made short work of the rest of the packing.
“You’re going to go down there and invite him in for breakfast,” she said firmly.
Morgan paled. “I am not!”
“You are so.” Justine spun to confront her sister and let her voice drop to a threat. “Because if you don’t, I will.”
“You can’t. Don’t you get it? He’s a con artist!”
Justine rolled her eyes. “Oh, Morgan, stop it. Not every guy on the face of the earth is like Matt.” She shook her head, closing the suitcase with a decisive snap, and swung it off the bed. “Thank God for small mercies.”
Morgan got her Stubborn Look, but Justine would not be swayed.
She propped her hands on her hips. “Morgan, let’s look at the facts. Your suspicions to the contrary, Alasdair has been nothing but a perfect gentleman. He even made sure you got back here all right. Now, go on down there and invite him in—it can’t hurt to find out what he wants.”
Morgan sighed and frowned as she shoved one hand through the thickness of her hair. “He said he just wants to go home.”
Justine heard the wistfulness in her sister’s tone and knew that Morgan wasn’t as immune to the highlander’s charm as she’d like everyone to believe.
Which was the most promising sign of healing that Justine had seen in years. She liked that Alasdair was protective of her baby sister and also that he wasn’t afraid to wear his own heart on his sleeve.
The man definitely had promise.
“Well, maybe we’ll just have to take him there,” Justine declared in her most decisive tone. “It doesn’t look like he has a lot of cash on his hands. Ask him for breakfast and we’ll find out where his home is.”
“But Blake has an itinerary…”
“Blake will get over it. It’s about time his planning had a rest.”
“But Justine…”
“But nothing.” Justine let herself smile as she tried another tack. “You know, if we got off Blake’s itinerary, we just might end up in some wonderfully romantic little hamlet, maybe in a castle turned into a hotel. Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
Justine waited a heartbeat, then sighed with mock disappointment. “No, you’re right, of course. We should follow Blake’s plans. After all, he might get all amorous if we ended up in a place like that, and you’d be left to fend for yourself. That would be a horrible shame, especially since we’re all on vacation together.”
She shrugged, commandeered the suitcase, and headed for the door. “Forget I said anything. Let’s have breakfast. Where did Blake say we were going today? Scone Palace, I think.”
Morgan muttered something unrepeatable under her breath. “All right. All right! I’ll ask him,” she declared with obvious irritation. “But don’t blame me if you’re wrong.”
Justine was never wrong.
Well, except for that one time.
She grinned as Morgan dressed hastily, then slammed the door to the room behind herself. She liked seeing her sister this bothered about including the highlander in their plans.
It could only bode well for Justine’s scheme.
Blake, just now lugging their own bag out of their room, arched a brow and glanced between spouse and sister. “Problem?”
Justine’s smile widened. “Not at all. Everything is going to be just fine.”
Blake grinned. “Always is when you’re in charge.”
And he was right. Justine had, after all, made a science of knowing best.