Alasdair spent a night tormented by the comparisons between his own troubles and those of Thomas Rhymer. To be certain, it could be no coincidence that particular tale of his gran’s—out of ranks of thousands—had come to his lips last eve.
Had he condemned himself to seven years’ imprisonment in the land of Faerie with a single kiss? That it had been an embrace of rare power was beyond doubt, for the heat of Morgaine’s salute had fairly melted his bones.
And True Thomas, ’twas said, had believed himself gone only seven nights upon his return to Erceldoune, though truly seven years had passed. It had been but one day since Alasdair found himself in this fey world—at least to his mind.
Could an entire year have already passed in the land of mortals? Alasdair’s heart twisted that his gran should believe him dead.
Or worse, that he had abandoned his only son.
Alasdair sighed and glared at the sorceress’s window, hating how a moment of whimsy had so meddled with his life. There were those, he well knew, who did not even win a respite after seven years, but were trapped in Faerie for all eternity.
Surely this could not be his fate?
The enchantress erupted from her abode just when Alasdair was convinced matters could get no worse. Her sour expression bode naught good, to Alasdair’s mind. Garbed in green and gold she was this morning, as fresh as a new blade of grass, her hair bouncing in a dark cloud behind her shoulders.
Yet for all her poor temper, the woman was sufficiently beguiling to tempt a response from Alasdair’s treacherous flesh. Everything tightened within him as she cut a path directly toward him and he could think only of her lusty kiss.
He knew ’twas no more than a deception, for his gran’s tales were filled with the marvels of Faerie folk making their own shapes. ’Twas a dark magic Morgaine summoned to delve into Alasdair’s mind that she might design herself to fascinate him.
He felt no more clever than a fly, stumbling into an artfully baited web, while the crafty spider lingered in the shadows, awaiting her prey.
But such whimsy would win him naught! Alasdair pushed to his feet and shoved one hand through his hair, determined to face this conflict squarely.
“Justine insists that I invite you for breakfast,” Morgaine declared without sparing him a greeting. Her green eyes were shadowed with displeasure and her lips drawn to a tight line that belied their usual ripe fullness. “And so I am.”
Alasdair was so surprised that she granted the advisor’s counsel such weight—never mind that the advisors evidently still supported his own cause—that he held his tongue.
She grimaced. “Because if I don’t, she’ll do it anyway. That’s how Justine is.”
Alasdair absorbed this amazing piece of information. What would any ruler have to say of an advisor who did whatsoever he or she desired? ’Twas unthinkable!
Yet even more pressing to Alasdair’s mind was the fact that Morgaine’s opinion of him did not seem to have improved over the night. Had he won no esteem for recounting a tale that evidently intrigued her?
Morgaine wagged a warning finger at Alasdair, dashing any hope he might have had. “But don’t get any ideas that I like you or anything. And don’t think for a minute that I’ve forgotten the kind of man you are. You certainly aren’t going to get that crystal from me, so don’t even try.”
’Twas more than clear that Alasdair’s charm had won him naught in Morgaine’s eyes.
He cleared his throat and tried to show himself as respectful of her powers. “I mean no offense, my lady.”
Morgaine folded her arms across her chest, pushing the curves of her breasts to surprising prominence beneath her loose garb, and Alasdair’s slumbering desire roared to life.
Ye gods, but she made his blood boil!
The sorceress, though, wore a skeptical expression. “Justine thinks we should take you home after breakfast,” she said, an assessing glint in her eyes. “If that’s what you want.”
Alasdair gasped to have release so freely offered, especially after her earlier words.
There must be a trick.
All the same, he would not show ingratitude. He bowed deeply and tried to think of flowery words to impress her. “Aye, aye, I should dearly love to return home. My lady, you grant great favor to me in this matter and do not imagine that I do not appreciate…”
“It’s not my idea,” the sorceress interjected flatly. “In fact, I’d rather not do this at all, but—” she hesitated for a moment, then waved her hand dismissively. “Well, never mind. It’s complicated. Where do you live anyway?”
Alasdair fought not to scoff at the question and keep his humble tone. Clearly, she mocked him, for a Faerie queen would know all! “Callanish, on the isle of Lewis, my lady.”
“Oh!” Morgaine’s eyes opened wide and her hostility melted away. “Where the standing stones are?”
And the sight of her softness nearly undid what remained of Alasdair’s resolve. He supposed he should not have been surprised that Morgaine would be intrigued by a circle of stones reputed to be magical beyond all. Had his gran not declared Callanish to be the meeting place of the local Faerie folk?
“Have you been to see them?” Morgaine demanded with a curiosity she could not disguise.
Was this another opportunity to win her favor? Alasdair had never felt so buffeted by conflicting emotions. He seriously longed for the previous simplicity of his life.
For the first time in years, his crofter’s cottage held allure. Aye, ’twould be good to be home again, with naught on his mind but keeping the sheep from the garden and bouncing his son on his knee.
“Aye, I know them well,” he admitted carefully. “They are said to be most powerful and are close to my own abode.”
“Oh.” Morgaine’s lips twisted. “I bet they’re wonderful.” She sighed and glanced over her shoulder to the portal of her abode, before summoning a thin smile for Alasdair. Only now he noted her exhaustion, where previously he had thought her merely annoyed with him.
Her candle had burned all through the night. Was it possible that she had been as sleepless as he?
For the same reason? Alasdair’s heart skipped an unruly beat.
“You know, I really wanted to go to Callanish on this trip,” she confided, “but Blake thought it was too far.”
Too far? She manipulated him again!
Alasdair’s anger stirred that she would already change her mind about her offer. And what was distance to a Faerie queen who could be anywhere she desired with a snap of her fingers?
His manners had been impeccable, yet still she toyed with him! Alasdair’s tolerance of these Faerie games was wearing dangerously thin.
“So you would stir a man’s hopes, then snatch them away?” he demanded impatiently. “I should have expected no less! Do you mean to destroy my will that you might bend me to your own ends?”
“That’s not fair!” the tiny sorceress declared. “You’re the one with something to gain, not me! You only want the crystal back!”
Alasdair took a fortifying breath, knowing a test when he saw one. He had to remain calm. And charming.
Even if his frustration was rapidly coming to a boil.
Evidently Morgaine spoke of the magical stone.
Alasdair mustered his most sincere glance, and his voice fell low. “If I grant you my pledge to not try to retrieve the stone, will you see me home?”
The words seemed to surprise Morgaine. She stared into his eyes for a long moment. “You’d promise me that?”
“Aye.” Alasdair’s tone was unequivocal.
After all, how could he guess whether or not he could make the witch’s charm work in reverse, even if he did retrieve the stone? And he had little to gain from a mere crystal, if Morgaine herself would simply send him home in exchange for a vow.
Morgaine stared at him, her lips parting ever so slightly. Alasdair’s gut tightened, and he knew he looked into the bewitching green of her eyes overlong. Once again he could think of naught but kissing her until she moaned against his lips.
’Twas too readily she had granted his request, he feared suddenly. Clearly, there was another test Alasdair had to pass in order to win his way home.
Ye gods, was there no end to this nonsense?
Morgaine drew herself up taller so suddenly that Alasdair feared she had read his thoughts. ’Twas almost a joke to see her assume a haughty manner, for she had to be one of the softest-looking women Alasdair had ever met.
But who knew what darkness lurked in the shadows of her heart?
“All right. But don’t be getting any ideas about me changing my mind about you,” she said frostily. She pointed a finger at him. “You keep your distance.”
Then she spun around and stalked back to her abode, the proud tilt of her chin so intriguing that Alasdair almost forgot that he was lost in the grip of a powerful sorceress.
Morgaine spun and wagged a finger at him. “And remember, I’m not talking to you.”
When she continued to walk away, her hips twitched with such feminine allure that Alasdair’s distrust melted like butter in the sun. Aye, had she been a mere lass, he would have followed her to the ends of the earth.
But Morgaine was no lass and Alasdair was already beyond the ends of the earth.
He gritted his teeth and crossed the park in the enchantress’s wake. No doubt a meal would restore his even temper, though he had best ensure that his manners were impeccable. Everything he desired was so close, nearly within his grasp.
Alasdair did not dare risk an error now.
Morgan didn’t miss her sister’s quickly smothered smile as she entered the little room of their bed-and-breakfast that was designated for the morning meal.
Tables no bigger than card tables were packed into what had evidently been a parlor in the converted Victorian townhome. There was barely enough space to sit at each place, let alone to pull out a chair or cross the room. Plastic tablecloths punched in imitation of cutwork linen hung perfectly square on each tiny table; a printed place mat marked each place.
The room was packed with tourists, obviously in a hurry to get to the business of sightseeing on a day that promised sunshine. Morgan noted, to her dismay, that Blake and Morgan had claimed a corner table that would take considerable navigation to reach.
Blake had packed his long legs into the back place and was wedged against two walls. It didn’t look as though he could manage to break free anytime soon. Justine perched beside him with the same grace she would have exhibited if breakfasting at Buckingham Palace, although her elbows were tight against her sides as she poured her coffee.
Their hostess, Maggie, was depositing racks of toast, cups and saucers, and individual pots of both coffee and cream amid the clutter of condiments permanently set on the table. The plump matron expertly fitted everything around the pair’s half-emptied cereal bowls and juice glasses.
As Morgan watched, Blake, trying to find a way to reach his knife without starting an avalanche, moved his pot of coffee to the other side of the table to make space.
Maggie swooped down on the offending pot, plucked it up, and moved it back into Blake’s quadrant. “Mr. Macdonald! Must I remind you that this place is reserved for another guest?”
“I’m sorry, I just needed a little space here…”
“Mr. Macdonald.” Maggie sighed deeply in disapproval. “I can only ask you to be courteous and keep your breakfast to yourself.”
Suitably chastened, Blake tried to edge his knife free without either hitting one elbow on the wall or jabbing the other into Justine’s ribs. Morgan felt a momentary twinge of envy when he succeeded.
She would have sent the entire table tumbling to the floor. As it was, she still had to wind her way around four tables to reach the place opposite Blake. When she got there, Morgan resolved, she would certainly let Blake put his pot of coffee on her side of the imaginary lines dividing the table into quarters.
Maggie came to a full stop on her bustle back to the kitchen and pointedly eyed Morgan, who still lingered on the threshold. The hostess then looked up at the prominently displayed wall clock and back to her guest, her brow furrowing.
“Breakfast is at eight-fifteen,” Maggie admonished in her rollicking brogue. Her lips were so tight that Morgan wondered how the words broke free. “Not eight o’clock and not eight-thirty, Miss Lafayette, but eight-fifteen.”
Every guest turned to see who had broken the cardinal rule, and Morgan felt her color rise.
This was a vacation?
But there was obviously only one thing to say.
“I’m sorry.”
“Well! We are having our share of troubles from our American friends this morning!” Maggie sniffed at this inadequate apology and undoubtedly would have said more, but her gaze fixed on a space behind and slightly above Morgan.
The matron’s entire face brightened.
Morgan didn’t have to turn to know who had just arrived. She groaned inwardly as everyone in the room stopped talking and stared. Morgan was sure she heard a knife clatter on a plate.
Justine, of course, simply stirred her coffee, looking like the cat who had swallowed the canary.
“My most sincere apologies, my goodwoman,” Alasdair said in his charming rumble. “My dalliance has delayed the lady in coming to the board.”
“Oh!” Maggie’s features melted into a smile that was obviously an unfamiliar expression. “Well, for such a braw man, I canna blame her for dawdling.” Then she winked at Morgan and made for the kitchen with a definite swing to her hips.
Someone chuckled, and Morgan didn’t need her imagination to know what everyone was thinking. Her face went hot right on cue, and the whispering began.
When Alasdair’s hand landed on the back of her waist, her heart skipped a beat, and Morgan knew she had to move. She darted forward, thinking of nothing but reaching the relative safety of her seat.
Of course, she snagged her toe on the corner of a table en route.
And everything went from bad to worse in a hurry.
The table jumped six inches, and the blond woman there squealed as her tea spilled into the saucer. Her portly husband muttered in noisy disapproval, the china clattered, the vase holding one fake carnation wobbled.
The simultaneously erupted into a scold of German.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Morgan stepped backward and collided with another table. The salt and pepper shakers from that one tumbled to the floor and rolled underfoot. The woman seated there said something uncomplimentary, just as the vase on the German tourists’ table decided to fall after all.
It landed right in the woman’s sunny-side-up eggs, sending a little splash of bright yellow yolk across the place mat.
Exclamations in several languages burst from all sides. The woman with the silk carnation in her eggs expressed her feelings about the matter in rapid-fire German.
Morgan didn’t need a translator.
She stepped forward to help clean up, but the German woman took one look and cried out. “Nein! Not the little one again!”
As she protested, she spilled her tea, sending a dark flood across the plastic tablecloth. Her husband’s mouth rounded in a little O, and he jumped to his feet, a dark, steaming stain on his trousers revealing just what the problem was.
He wasn’t a small man and his quick move made his chair bump against Justine’s table, immediately behind. Blake swore, china clattered, people stood up to get a better view, and Morgan felt Alasdair right behind her.
Just when it seemed things could get no worse, Maggie appeared in the doorway, clucking like a disapproving hen. “Miss Lafayette! What are you about? What have you done?”
Morgan looked back quickly to explain and might have lost her balance if Alasdair hadn’t snatched her elbows and lifted her clean out of harm’s way.
“That would be enough of that,” he said, his tone so dangerously low that Morgan froze.
The entire room breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Morgan could feel the solid thud of Alasdair’s heart against her back, and the heat of his skin pressed against her own was enough to make her blush again. Her toes were dangling several disconcerting inches above the floor.
Morgan saw the sly smiles slide around the room and didn’t know whether she was grateful for the highlander’s intervention or not.
She wished the floor would yawn open and swallow her whole.
“Do not even move, my lady,” Alasdair growled.
Morgan was smart enough to take his advice. She nodded and he set her back on her feet. One strong hand remained on the back of her waist, as though Alasdair didn’t trust her to do as she was told.
“There’s no harm done there,” he told the one woman, as he gallantly retrieved her salt and pepper shakers. “’Tis powerful good fortune to spill a wee bit for the pixies. Toss a pinch over your shoulder for good measure.” He winked and that woman sat back with a smile.
“The left one,” called someone, the room settling with a chuckle as she did exactly that.
Alasdair plucked the vase out of the German woman’s eggs, and treated her to a killing smile. “’Tis no harm to an egg already broken,” he assured her. “Nary a bit of water in the vase to spoil the meal.”
He turned back to the matron, and Morgan seethed at the way Maggie relaxed before his easy wink. “Maggie, lass, would it be too much trouble for you to bring another pot of brew? And a wee cloth to repair any damage done?”
Maggie, far from a lass, giggled—much to Morgan’s astonishment—and darted away to do Alasdair’s bidding. Everyone returned contentedly to the meal, and the low hum of conversation filled the room again.
“Now, step there and there,” Alasdair murmured, the flurry of his breath on her ear making Morgan shiver. She did as she was told and slid gratefully into her seat, knowing her cheeks were hot.
Alasdair took his seat with unexpected grace for one so out of scale with his surroundings. Morgan immediately realized there was absolutely no way to avoid having his arm brush against hers. His leg was planted firmly alongside her own and she swore she could feel the tickle of his hair through her leggings.
She could certainly feel the warmth emanating from his skin.
“Well, good morning!” Justine said smoothly, as though nothing had transpired. Morgan studied the bad drawings of the local attractions printed on her place mat, as though they were fascinating, and pretended not to notice the warm scent of the man almost pressing her against the wall.
That damn tingle was humming in her belly again—and it had a companion tingle quite a bit lower. Morgan tried to ignore them both and failed.
Alasdair took a deep breath, and to Morgan’s surprise, when he spoke, his tone was hearty and cheerful. “And a fine morning ’tis indeed,” he agreed.
He glanced to bowls of cold cereal before Justine and Blake, and Morgan caught a glimpse of his dismay. Morgan smothered a smile and studied the drawings some more.
“Is the fare good in this hall?” he asked, his voice sounding strained.
“Well, you can’t eat eggs and sausages every morning,” Justine declared.
“You cannot?”
Blake grimaced and indicated his wife. “I could if she let me.” He winked at Alasdair. “A man needs a hot breakfast, right?”
“It’s not good for you to eat so much saturated fat,” Justine stated with her usual assurance about matters of nutrition.
Blake leaned forward with gleaming eyes. “What about kippers, Alasdair?” He pushed up his glasses. “Don’t real Scotsmen eat kippers?”
“Aye, that they do! A plate of kippers with eggs and sausages, bread and ale would be most welcome indeed.”
Morgan peeked through her lashes to find Alasdair looking much more enthusiastic. Maggie was hailed and was easily persuaded to provide two kipper breakfasts for the men, but she wouldn’t go for the ale. Morgan supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised that Alasdair got what he wanted—mostly.
Morgan had bran flakes.
At least, she tried to have bran flakes. The little boxes of cereal that Maggie provided were sealed far more securely than Morgan remembered. She cut along the perforated lines but couldn’t get the box all the way open. Oblivious to the fact that her three companions were watching her warily, Morgan put aside her knife and wrestled with the little box.
Now she remembered why she’d hated camp.
Morgan gave the cardboard a determined tug and it tore unexpectedly. She saw that the wax paper lining was ripped just as bran flakes flew all over the table. They cascaded everywhere, oblivious of coffee, cream or anything else.
Fortunately, her family was used to this kind of thing. And the last container with which Morgan had lost a battle had been an econo-size jar of mustard.
Now, that had been a real mess.
Blake philosophically picked a few bran flakes out of his coffee, and Justine swept up little piles on the tablecloth. Morgan tried to get some of the cereal actually into her bowl before Maggie could chide her. Even retrieving the bran flakes from every relatively clean surface left Morgan with only half a bowlful.
She would have to open another one. Morgan gritted her teeth and reached for another box. She caught Alasdair’s eye in time to see his dumbfounded expression.
“You would go to such trouble for wood shavings?” he demanded.
“It’s cereal,” Morgan retorted. She waved the box at him. “And besides, I’m not talking to you.”
“Aye?” Alasdair picked up a flake from his table quadrant, put it in his mouth and chewed for only an instant before he made a face. “’Tis wood shavings and naught else.” He took the wet flake out of his mouth and fastidiously set it on the side of a saucer.
Morgan ran a finger under the type and read aloud: “Bran flakes. Eight essential vitamins. Part of a balanced breakfast.”
Alasdair looked unimpressed.
Determined to do a better job of opening this one, Morgan turned her knife on the box. But before she could really do any damage, Alasdair scooped package and knife out of her grasp with a low sound of exasperation.
“I can do it.”
He flicked a wry glance her way. “Aye, I have seen how well you do.” Morgan flushed as he made short work of the box, his gestures economical and easy.
He added the cereal to the remnants of the previous box in her bowl, then looked her square in the eye. “If indeed you must insist upon eating wood shavings, at least do not compel the rest of us to wear them.”
There was nothing Morgan could say to that. She tried to look indifferent to him as she poured milk on her cereal, but Justine’s smug smile told her she hadn’t succeeded.
But she knew one thing that would wipe the smile off her sister’s face.
“I told Alasdair we’d take him home,” she informed them brightly. Justine and Blake looked delighted, but before they could say anything, Morgan continued. “He lives on Lewis in the Hebrides. Near Callanish.”
Both faces fell with comic speed.
“But that’s all the way across the country!” Blake protested.
Justine dug her elbow hard into her spouse’s ribs. “Well, we’ll be delighted to have such a tour, won’t we, dear?”
Blake blinked, looked from one sister to the other, then shook his head. “All right. All right. We’ll take Alasdair home.” He dove for his guidebook. “Lewis!” he muttered to himself and started to scan his maps.
It served them right, Morgan thought. If they didn’t know by now that Alasdair was Mr. Wrong, they would by the time they reached his home.
“We can still go to Scone,” Justine said, her tone conciliatory.
Blake didn’t even look up.
“Where Robert the Bruce was crowned King of Scots,” Alasdair added.
Blake looked up at that. “As though that matters. Crowning that troublemaker would have tainted the place forever if the English hadn’t already taken away the Stone of Scone.”
Morgan put down her spoon. Why didn’t anyone remember that Robert the Bruce was a hero?
Alasdair’s hands landed heavily on the table, and his voice was low with outrage. “Robert the Bruce is no troublemaker!”
Blake set down his map. “Look, my own forebear Angus Og was fooled by him, so I can’t blame you for thinking this Robert the Bruce guy was all right. But he caused a lot of trouble and cost my family a lot of land, so I’d rather we just didn’t talk about him anymore.”
Alasdair sat back with a dissatisfied thump. Morgan saw that his hands had tightened into fists in his lap.
And why not? He was right.
Always ready to leap in and set a wrong to rights, Morgan tapped the edge of her bowl with her spoon. “But you said on the way here that Angus Og won a lot of land for supporting Bruce. When Bruce was victorious at Bannockburn…”
“Morgan!” Justine interjected. “The Scots lost at Bannockburn.”
But they didn’t and Morgan knew it.
Maggie brought breakfast at that point, laying it before the men with a proud flourish. Alasdair recovered himself enough to thank her politely for the meal, but Morgan heard his growled words as he tucked in.
“Robert the Bruce is a hero and the King of Scots. Naught that anyone tells me will persuade me to forget the truth.”
Why was it that only Alasdair remembered the same details about Scottish history as Morgan did?
And how could Alasdair have changed Blake and Justine’s memories?
Morgan thought about the Polaroid of Alasdair with no one in it.
And the guard who swore she’d never seen the crystal before. A little shiver danced down Morgan’s spine that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
Morgan suddenly wondered whether this really was a con job—because it would have to be an awfully good one—or there was something Truly Weird going on.
Either way, the only one who knew the answer to that was Alasdair. Who was he? Where had he come from? And what was he up to? Morgan watched him out of the corner of her eye and wondered how she could find out the truth.
“I am begging your pardon for zis interruption of your meal.” The German man at the next table leaned toward them with a broad smile. He turned his attention to Alasdair and fingered a fancy camera, his r’s rolling almost as much as Alasdair’s. “But would you be minding if I take your picture? My vife, she zinks you are a real highlander.”
Having conquered not only the unfamiliarity of driving on the left side of the road and shifting gears with the left hand, a North American tourist might consider himself an accomplished UK driver.
At least until he encountered the humbling experience of the roundabout.
Supposedly, this alternative to traffic lights is intended to make driving from point A to point B less of an ordeal—but to the uninitiated, the reality is a nail-biting contradiction.
The roundabout—as might be expected from its name—is a circular intersection, the converging roads radiating from the center like spokes of a wheel. A given car enters at one spoke, merges with the traffic already on the roundabout, travels clockwise around the circle, then exits at the destined spoke to continue on its way.
The equation is complicated by the structure of the roundabout itself. There are usually at least two lanes: the outer one for traffic exiting at the next outgoing road, the inner one for vehicles traveling further around. Incoming cars must take advantage of any break in the traffic and lunge into the appropriate lane.
Just to add to the sport of it all, the round format reduces visibility, as do the frequently adverse climatic conditions. Add to the mix that drivers familiar with the intersection tend to travel through the roundabout at high speed and you have one intimidating obstacle for the novice.
With far too many opportunities for practice, to many tourists’ minds. Morgan found it easy to believe that there must be some drivers circling the same busy roundabout for years, desperately trying to escape at their desired exit.
Blake was determined to conquer not only the basics of negotiating the roundabout itself but also the fine points of merging and signaling protocol. A perfectionist in every phase of his life, he could be no less behind the wheel of a Nissan Micra with right-hand drive.
Sadly, Blake was not as familiar with a manual transmission as might have simplified matters. After all, he had graduated from his Honda Civic to a sleek silver Mercedes—with an automatic transmission—a long, long time before.
And shifting with his left hand was a new art.
Alasdair, however, understood little of these modern technicalities. He knew only that they were going to Scone, where Robert the Bruce had been crowned King of Scots and from whence the British had stolen the Stone of Scone. It was a destination that suited him well, as Alasdair knew that in the mortal world, Scone was on the way from Edinburgh to Lewis.
It seemed that Morgaine intended to keep her word. The only question was when they would pass through the veil between the worlds.
Such lofty expectations were tempered when it became clear that they were to ride within a strange blue chariot. Alasdair was astonished by the vivid blue of what they called the Micra.
And he was even further amazed by the advisors’ expectation that he would clamber into the tiny rear seat.
Beside Morgaine.
But Alasdair could not risk their irritation now. He managed to pack himself into the small space, though he was far from comfortable.
Clearly, the Micra was yet another implement of torment designed by the malicious Morgaine. That she endured its cramped conditions herself, apparently willingly, was a puzzle Alasdair could not resolve.
The threesome shielded their eyes with obsidian that shone in the sunlight, leaving Alasdair wondering what damage this chariot would do to his own eyes for he had no such armor.
’Twas all so very strange.
Once they were all inside the chariot, Blake made a mysterious gesture. He muttered an incantation under his breath, repeated the gesture, and the Micro began a disconcerting humming. Alasdair surreptitiously looked for the flock of angry bees, but to no avail.
When the Micra slid away from the walk and moved along the road with no sign of a horse, Alasdair inhaled so sharply that his nostrils pinched shut.
Any discomfort was forgotten with his mistrust of this conveyance. The Micra vibrated like a country cart but moved markedly faster.
What powerful sorcery Morgaine granted to her minions!
The Micra darted down the curved streets with disconcerting speed, and Alasdair wondered fleetingly whether Morgaine intended to return him home in a shroud.
He glanced at his companions and was startled to find that they all clearly took this wizardry in stride. Alasdair strove to appear nonchalant but was certain that he failed. He stared out the window and watched the streets hasten past.
No doubt this was some part of the magic necessary to move between Morgaine’s domain and the mortal world. He gathered that they intended to be in Scone before midday. Indeed, he might be home sooner than he’d thought.
In one way or another.