By the time the humming Micra met its first major roundabout, Alasdair had only just managed to find a way to sit without doing any of his vulnerable parts serious injury.
“Shit!” Blake declared from the front seat. “This one has eight roads going into it!”
Alasdair glanced through the space between the front seats and had to close his eyes at the dizzying rate their little chariot chewed up the road.
This was definitely not in the world of mortals—though he would endure even this wild ride to see his home island again. Alasdair was beginning to have very affectionate feelings for his humble cottage.
He was even thinking fondly of his sharp-tongued gran.
Justine touched Blake’s arm, her voice low and soothing. “Don’t worry, you can do it. We’ll help. Right, Morgan?”
The sorceress fairly bounced on her seat and her eyes sparkled with some challenge Alasdair could hardly begin to guess. “You bet. Which one do we need?”
Justine consulted an intricately drawn manuscript, then squinted at the road ahead. “The fourth one.”
“Got it,” Morgaine said.
“Jesus Christ, here we go,” Blake muttered. “Second gear.”
“Right turn signal,” Justine murmured. She leaned forward in her seat, pulling off her dark eyeshields as she did so.
An astonishing stream of similar chariots sped across their path at breakneck speed. They looked like so many beetles and when Alasdair looked carefully, he could see people trapped within each one. They had the same dark shields over their eyes as his companions, making it look as though the insects had yet more insects in their bellies.
He thought of his gran’s tales of Faeries riding the backs of moths and beetles.
Blake inched their chariot forward, watching the stream avidly. Evidently they were going to enter this rush of shiny beetles.
Alasdair was not certain he wanted to watch.
“First gear,” Blake gritted out.
“After the red one,” Morgaine declared, her nose fairly pressed against the curved window.
Blake leaned forward, his knuckles white on the stick between himself and Justine. A red chariot not unlike their own flashed by.
“GO!” the women roared simultaneously.
The Micra squealed in protest, and Blake urged it forward. Alasdair’s eyes widened at the proximity of an extremely large vehicle that was closing in at great speed and he nearly squealed in sympathy.
Instead, he crossed himself. It seemed rather a timely moment to find his long-misplaced religious beliefs.
“Three goddamn lanes!” Blake swore under his breath.
“Into the middle one,” Justine directed.
“Second gear,” Blake said to himself. “Turn signal.”
“One!” bellowed the sorceress as an alley flashed past on their left.
The great chariot wheezed behind them, the entire back view of the Micra filled with the great one’s massive silver teeth. Alasdair strove to keep his composure and simultaneously recall his rosary.
“Two!” cried the sorceress.
“Third gear, no signal.”
“Left lane, left lane,” Justine said.
“I can’t because of that truck!”
“Three!” crowed the sorceress.
“You have to,” Justine insisted calmly. “We can’t go around and around all day like we did in Jedburgh.”
“All right, all right. Left turn signal,” Blake concurred and checked over his shoulder. “Am I clear?”
As far as Alasdair could discern, there was naught to see but the complaining chariot behind.
It looked large enough to consume them whole.
“Go, go now,” Justine urged.
“Four!” Morgaine interjected. She leaned between the seats and pointed at a road ahead on the left. “That’s it, that’s the one!”
Alasdair eyed the road she indicated and could not discern how they would get from here to there without being mangled by other chariots in the process.
Despite his religious skepticism, Alasdair saw no harm in a few Ave Maria’s under such circumstance. He muttered them under his breath and tried to hide his fear from the sorceress.
’Twas no small thing to know oneself immortal at such a moment, which was the only thing that could explain her sparkling eyes.
“Second gear,” Blake declared, but this time when he moved the stick, the chariot made a high-pitched whine.
“If you can’t find ’em, grind ’em,” Morgaine whispered and giggled.
Blake fired a hostile glance over his shoulder. “I’d like to see you do this.” He looked back to the road, cranked the wheel hard and the chariot obediently lunged into the outside lane.
A heartbeat later—if indeed Alasdair’s heart had been beating—the little chariot darted along an open stretch of roadway.
“We did it!” Morgaine cried triumphantly, and Alasdair breathed a sigh of relief.
The humming Micra was filled with gleeful cheers and Blake earned not only a pat on the shoulder but a sound kiss from Justine.
The car swerved dangerously close to the ditch during this exchange of esteem. Morgaine cried out, Justine gasped, and two pairs of hands steadied their path.
Alasdair felt a cold trickle of sweat run down his back. The comparative solitude of his cottage was sounding better and better all the time.
“Christ save me,” he muttered gruffly. “You are all mad.”
The enchantress took one look at him and laughed so that it seemed she could not stop.
“You should see your face!” she managed to gasp before convulsing in yet more gales of laughter. Her merriment made her look so young and fetching that Alasdair nearly forgot the extent of her foul powers.
All the same, he could not look away.
He was so lost in her eyes that he missed the glance that Justine and Blake exchanged before they turned their broad grins to the road once more.
On the northern outskirts of Perth, Blake pulled the Micra into the generous parking lot of Scone Palace. Morgan thought the palace looked disappointingly modern for a site of such historical significance.
“Well, here we are!” Blake declared. “Scone Palace, Moot Hill, and all that jazz.” He set the emergency brake, killed the ignition and accepted his highlighted travel guide from Justine. “Let’s make sure we know what we’re looking for here.”
Morgan noted from the corner of her eye that Alasdair seemed similarly unimpressed. In fact, his expression had turned quite grim. He slanted a very blue glance in her direction and folded his arms across his chest.
The move made his shoulders nearly fill the entire back seat of the car.
“This is not Scone,” he said with precision.
“Of course, it is.” Justine folded her map and tucked it into the glove box.
Morgan was not nearly as unconcerned as her sister. Alasdair looked fit to kill, and she had an inkling that he could break the neck of any of them with his bare hands.
All that advice about not picking up hitchhikers came to mind a bit late for comfort.
“You have lied to me,” Alasdair declared through clenched teeth. He was positively seething.
“Get serious. This is Scone.” Blake was dismissive. “Listen.” He leafed through the pages and lifted one finger in his best imitation of a professor about to lecture learnedly.
“Scone Palace took its current form in the sixteenth century, although it contains fragments of earlier construction. It is located near Moot Hill, where the Stone of Scone, or Stone of Destiny, was the traditional crowning site of the Scottish kings.”
“Until the English stole the stone away,” Alasdair muttered. He looked so lethal that Morgan tried to edge away from him.
The Micra offered little chance of that.
Blake glanced over his shoulder, his finger running down the page. “No, it says here that the Scottish gave the Stone of Destiny to the British as a token of esteem when they welcomed foreign rule.”
Alasdair’s snort made his opinion of that clear.
The really scary thing was that Morgan agreed with him—and not with Blake’s tour book.
Blake read on, oblivious to raised hackles in the back seat.
“Originally, the kings of Dalriada—an ancient name for Scotland—were crowned at Dunadd, a hillside fort in Argyll. But in the ninth century, the Stone of Scone was purportedly carried to Scotland from the high seat of Tara in Ireland and located on Moot Hill.”
“That at least is not a lie,” Alasdair acknowledged tightly.
Blake fired a glance between the seats. “They brought it here. This is Scone.”
“That it is not.”
The two men locked gazes in some silent challenge of testosterone, and Morgan knew she wasn’t the only one holding her breath.
Blake was the first to look away. He abruptly cleared his throat and continued.
“Eventually, the seat of royal power moved southwards, first to Dunfermline Abbey, then to Edinburgh. Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh remains the official residence of the monarch in Scotland.”
“And which monarch would that be?” Alasdair demanded coldly. “Some poppet from south of the wall, that much is certain, and ’tis just as certain that no rightful monarch could come from such ranks.”
Blake twisted in his seat to face the highlander. “Look, I don’t know where you learned your history, but you’ve got it wrong. The Scottish welcomed British rule.”
“A filthy lie!” Alasdair retorted hotly. “The Scots would never welcome British rule!”
“Look.” Blake took off his glasses and jabbed them through the air toward Alasdair. “All this kilt business is very showy, but I really would have expected a real Scotsman to know his history…”
“I am a truer Scotsman than you will ever see!” Alasdair bellowed, the volume of his voice enough to rock the Micra. He looked like a cornered bear and his eyes flashed lightning. “’Tis clear enough which camp of Macdonalds you call your own, for there is naught but lies falling from your lips!”
“Lies?” Blake inhaled sharply and the color rose on his neck. “I haven’t told any lies!”
“It is one lie after another as I hear it,” Alasdair shot back. “With nary but a broken promise betwixt and between! This is not Scone!”
Justine laid a restraining hand on Blake’s arm and used the same tone that had successfully talked down countless hysterical brides. “Maybe it’s all changed. When were you last here, Alasdair? Have they added some new signs or something?”
The tone—which should have been patented for its unfailing success—had no effect on the highlander.
“Nay!” Alasdair looked fit to explode. “There is not a bit of it that resembles the Scone I know!” He gestured angrily. “That very building was not here, nor this foul expanse of blackness spread upon the ground! The land was not cluttered with your fearsome chariots, nor crowded with folk in odd garb.”
Alasdair flung out a hand. “And I know naught of this sixteenth century you tout. Sixteenth century since what? Always have I known right-thinking men to count their years from the birth of Christ!”
Morgan blinked, for the reference was to the sixteenth century since Christ.
Blake frowned, and picked his issue. “Well, it is Scone. No doubt about it.”
“I have my doubts, ’tis clear enough.” Alasdair leaned between the seats and Morgan watched Blake draw back ever so slightly. The highlander’s voice dropped with a threat so tangible that Morgan shivered.
“You have lied to me, Blake Advisor. You do not take me to Scone this day, nor do you ever intend to take me home. Be man enough to admit the truth.”
“Of course, we’ll take you home,” Justine assured him. “This is just on the way.”
“Another lie in the company of many!” Alasdair roared. He pushed at the confining wall of the little car and growled when nothing moved. Morgan was torn between a desire to put as much space between him and herself as possible and an unexpected urge to reassure him.
Alasdair tipped back his head and shouted. “For the love of God, let me out of this foul prison!”
Before Morgan could sort out her feelings—or Alasdair could explode—Justine opened her door and leaped out onto the pavement. Alasdair pushed the front seat forward with enviable grace and couldn’t seem to get out of the car fast enough.
He shook back his hair when he was on his feet and glared down at them with his hands on his hips. Morgan couldn’t help but stare. Alasdair was magnificent in his anger, larger than life, snapping with vitality.
He belonged outside, in the wind and the sun, and before she could stop herself, Morgan updated her mental image of how she would paint him.
“Make no mistake, this is not Scone.” Alasdair savagely bit out the words. “Second, the Stone of Scone was stolen. And third, Robert the Bruce is no treacherous dog, but a hero through and through. And that, Blake Advisor, is the ungarnished truth.”
With that, he pivoted and marched away.
Morgan could almost feel the aching of his heart. It was disconcerting to find her own memories perfectly reconciled with his view of history.
The only question was why.
“Alasdair, come back!” Justine cried, but Alasdair didn’t even look back. His long strides took him across the parking lot in record time. Instead of going to the palace, he stalked right into the woods, his tartan quickly disappearing into the shadows.
Justine turned back to Blake, and Morgan almost laughed at her sister’s dismay. “Blake, stop him!”
Blake took his time putting his glasses back on. He leafed through his tour book. “Let him go,” he said grumpily. “If he won’t even pick up a book and read the truth, there’s not much I can do about it.”
“He can’t read,” Morgan retorted, surprised to find herself defending Alasdair. She climbed out of the car impatiently. “And until yesterday, you were the one going on and on about Robert the Bruce.”
Justine and Blake both looked blank.
That was enough. Some of Alasdair’s impatience must have transferred to Morgan, because she was suddenly fed up with Alasdair’s mysteries. She was going to find out the truth, and she was going to find out now.
Justine caught her breath. “Are you going after him?”
“You promised him a ride home,” Morgan reminded her sister. “I guess I’ll have to make sure you keep your promise.”
At least that was the excuse she would use. She turned to follow Alasdair, deliberately ignoring her sister’s quick smile of satisfaction. While she walked, she took the crystal out of her purse and buried it carefully in the back of her money belt, then retucked T-shirt and sweater to hide the money belt’s new bulge.
The stone dug into her ribs, but Morgan ignored it.
It was time to get to the bottom of things. Alasdair MacAulay was going to have to be straight with her about who he was and what he was up to if he really wanted that ride to faraway Callanish.
And if he was as broke as Justine suspected, Morgan was sure she’d get the answers but quick.
Alasdair glared at the chapel perched on Moot Hill as the anger drained out of him.
And left him feeling like seven kinds of fool.
Of all the glaikit things he could have done! ’Twas no consolation to find his gran right about his temper at this particular point.
Alasdair kicked at a clump of heather and berated himself silently but thoroughly. Would he ever get home now? Or had he trapped himself in Morgaine’s world for all eternity?
He deserved no less for being such a fool.
Yet he was still seething. How dare the advisors promise to win Morgaine’s favor, pledge that they would see him home, then break their word? Was a vow worth naught in this twisted world? Such faithlessness nearly made him growl aloud.
A man’s honor was the only thing of value he could call his own. But calling Blake Advisor the liar he evidently was had undoubtedly not made Alasdair any friends. What an addle-pated fool he was to have thought he could not make matters worse!
What would he give to be home this very moment? There was a certain irony in wanting no less than to be back at the cottage that had not been able to hold him seven years past, but Alasdair was not particularly appreciative of that.
He chose to forget that he had not been able to shake the dust of Lewis off his boots—nor sweep the guilt from his mind—fast enough in those days.
Alasdair was dirty. He was tired. He was befuddled and frustrated beyond all by Faerie games. And he had an erection that simply would not say die.
Curse Morgaine le Fee!
Alasdair pivoted at the sound of a light step, only to find the sorceress herself closing the distance between them. A man with naught to lose—and one with a temper still simmering—Alasdair spoke his mind before he could stop himself.
“Come to smite me, have you?” he demanded boldly.
Morgaine’s chin snapped up and her green gaze fixed upon him. Her footsteps faltered a dozen steps away, but Alasdair was interested in little she might have to say.
“Smite me then and be done with it!” he cried and flung out his hands. “Surely there could be naught worse than this? Filthy and tired I am, surrounded by your adder-tongued advisors whose words cannot be trusted even while they are uttered.”
“Blake means no harm.”
Alasdair spat on the ground. “He can mean no other when he breaks his word as readily as he makes it.”
The enchantress visibly bristled. “He didn’t break his word. This is Scone and it’s on the way to Lewis.”
A bald-faced lie!
Had Blake acted under her dictate?
Ha! Alasdair should have expected no less.
Alasdair shoved a hand through his hair and glared at Morgaine. “’Tis naught but lies from start to finish. Why tell me this is Scone, when any thinking man can see ’tis not? Why call that keep of yours Edinburgh, with its clarty English flag waving above it? Why insist he would see me home, when ’tis clear he intends no such thing?”
Alasdair swore in exasperation and paced the hilltop with rapid steps. “And why does Blake Advisor wear that torture device over his eyes if he has the power within him to remove it?”
Morgaine made a choking sound at that, though when Alasdair turned to look, she tried to hide her laughter from him with her hand. Something within him softened at the sight.
Another part of him did precisely the opposite.
’Twas an unwelcome reminder of his predicament.
“Do not push me, my lady fair,” Alasdair growled, shaking a warning finger in her direction. “If you mean to twitch your buttocks and tempt me with maidenly flushes, you had best keep your distance.”
Morgaine blushed pink, which only made matters worse from Alasdair’s perspective. “I have never twitched my buttocks…”
“Oh, I would insist the contrary!”
She gasped and stared at him, as though uncertain what to say. ’Twas all a game to her, no doubt, a game she played most artfully. And how could she not, privy as she was to Alasdair’s hidden desires? ’Twas no small advantage she had in her power to read his very thoughts.
Aye, but Alasdair could make her moan aloud, he could, and in this moment, the prospect was tempting indeed. On all sides, the heather grew knee-high and waved in the sunlight, fairly inviting man and lass to make use of its soft concealment.
“Be warned, mistress Morgaine,” Alasdair growled as though in anger, though in truth a different heat had laid claim to his tone. “Venture too close and I’ll be buried to the hilt afore you can gasp a breath.”
Morgaine took a cautious step back, as though she should be afraid of him. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would, with nary a regret.” Alasdair asserted and knew the truth when he heard it. “A man can only be tempted so much long, my lady, and make no mistake, my threshold is near.”
Morgaine looked so alarmed by this earthly reality that Alasdair turned his back upon her. What was she expecting of him, if she fashioned herself to appeal most strongly to his desires? He raked a hand through his hair again and paced across the mound Blake had so fecklessly called Moot Hill.
From first glance, she had set a fire within him, and that blaze showed no signs of dying down to embers soon. Alasdair took a deep breath and struggled to curb his raging desire.
He deliberately recalled the last time he had stood on the true Moot Hill. It had been a gloriously clear day, one not unlike this one, with a crisp wind on his face and a blue sky arched overhead. Robert the Bruce himself had lounged amidst them all, smiling in reminiscence as his squire shared the tale of his crowning on that very spot.
Well aware of the sorceress’s bright gaze resting on him, Alasdair turned. She had not moved, the dark tendrils of her hair lifting in the wind, her eyes wide, her manner uncertain.
“What is it you want with me?” he asked, a new gentleness in his words. She seemed to be encouraged by the question, for she drew nearer as he watched. “I thought you were not speaking with me.”
“I’m not,” she asserted, then evidently realized that her claim was nonsensical.
For she smiled. The winsome sight sent the frustration easing out of Alasdair as surely as if it had never been. The sunlight was golden between them, and Alasdair forgot everything his wary mind was telling him about this woman’s danger to his very hide.
Indeed, he felt an answering smile tug his own lips. “Aye, I can tell.”
The lady laughed, an enchanting sound if ever there was one.
Alasdair’s heart took a dizzying leap, and he suddenly felt the cur for railing at her so severely. “I would apologize, my lady. ’Tis true I have a fair temper when riled, but ’tis all bluster, as my gran is wont to say.”
Morgaine’s eyes danced. “I think I might like your gran. Wasn’t that one of her stories last night?”
“Aye, that ’twas.”
Morgaine took a tentative step closer. “I meant to thank you again for sharing it with me.”
Alasdair felt his brow arch in skepticism. “Even though you are not speaking with me?”
She chuckled and shook a finger at him. “Don’t let this go to your head.”
They stared at each other for a long, very warm moment, Alasdair recalling all too well how she had thanked him once before. When her lips quirked so playfully, ’twas hard to believe that this fragile creature held Alasdair’s fate in her tiny hands.
She tilted her head. “Why don’t you think this is Scone?”
“Because it cannot be.” Alasdair frowned at the palace, regal enough but unfamiliar, the strange chapel, the clusters of people garbed as oddly as she.
“Why not?” the enchantress whispered, and Alasdair was surprised to find her by his side. He looked into the splendor of her eyes and saw the myriad shades of the sea reflected there. A part of him acknowledged the danger of staring too long, but Alasdair did not even want to look away.
He was beguiled by the Queen of Faerie, and in this moment, he did not care.
Indeed, he wanted no more than to win her favor. Alasdair recalled suddenly her fascination with the tales of mortals.
“I shall tell you of the Scone I know and what befell there,” he vowed softly. “Though this is a tale of truth, not some fable told to keep bairns tight in their beds.”
Morgaine’s eyes glowed. “Tell me.”
Alasdair took her small hand within his own and led her to the far side of the hill, where the view was of woods and fields. Here the sound of the crowds and chariots was less and the heather waved freely in the breeze. He sat down, then tugged the length of plaid off his shoulder and gallantly spread it across the greenery, his back to the palace.
Morgaine seated herself regally beside him, her bright eyes fixed upon him. Seated on the end of his tartan, she was dangerously close, and every fiber of Alasdair’s being was aware of her soft warmth. He could smell the sweetness of her skin, and a part of him insisted there were better things to be done here than share tales.
But Alasdair stared determinedly into the trees as he braced his elbows on his knees. A promise made was a promise kept.
“Long ago, a part of Scotland was known as the kingdom of Dalriada, established by men who sailed bravely from Ireland to settle a new land. Those men claimed Kintyre and called the ancient hill of Dunadd the crowning place of their kings. ’Twas there on the rocks that each king pledged to his people and had a circlet of gold set upon his brow.
“There came a day when Saint Columba’s own kinsman was to take the kingship and Columba came himself to set the crown upon that man Aidan’s brow. ’Twas said that then the Stone of Scone made its first appearance, and there are rumors that Columba himself brought it out of the mists of Ireland. ’Twas said to have been a gift from the High King of Tara to his distant kinsmen in Kintyre.
“From thence, the stone became known as the Stone of Destiny, for the future of his countrymen was secure in the hands of any king crowned upon it.
“’Twas no long after that the first Norsemen came to make war, to claim slaves, to capture bonny lasses as their women, to steal plate and jewels. In time, they saw the beauty of Scotland and came to stay, invading islands and planting their seeds and seed. The land was hotly contested in those times, for there was precious little of it fertile, and the men of Dalriada lost more than their share of battles.
“For fear of capture, the Stone of Destiny was moved northward, along with the king, to Dunstaffnage. A tale there is that the stone itself was mortared into to wall of the fort to ensure that none might steal it away.
“’Twas there that Kenneth the Hardy, son of Alpin, became the first King of Alba. A fair king he was and one with a dream for Scotland unified. Crowned upon it, he later moved the Stone of Destiny to Moot Hill, where it would be safe from raiding Norsemen. Even in those ancient days, Moot Hill was a council place of great authority, and the king wisely blended old and new beneath his hand. Kenneth made Moot Hill the site of his court and so it was for many a year.”
Alasdair laced his fingers together, and stared into the trees. He was well aware that the sorceress attended his every word.
“The years rolled by, the kings birthed and died, feasted and killed, yet despite their battles, Scotland endured. The Norsemen settled on the islands and far north, the Norman knights were granted lands, and all grew to prosperity. Alexander III was the last of the great kings, a man who witnessed the death of his kin, of his wife and three babes, yet was known to be religious, holy, wise and kind.
“Aye, those were fine days for Scotland, days of prosperity and peace beneath a just king’s hand.”
Alasdair paused and the sorceress leaned closer. “What happened to him?”
“Late in his days, he took a wee wife to his side, a French lass name of Yolande de Dreux, and ’twas his love for her that drove all sense from his mind.” Alasdair shook his head. “But I stray from the tale in telling of this too soon.”
He frowned at the woods. “There were portents of doom in the last year of Alexander’s kingship, for foul weather welcomed the new year. ’Twas on the lips of many that the Day of Judgment was at hand, though the king believed naught of it. ’Twas the eighteenth day of March, the date foretold by many to be that Judgment Day, when Alexander—perhaps in defiance of popular belief—called his council to Edinburgh.
“They conferred long hours, then the good king entertained his favored ones with a fine meal that stretched long into the night. A storm began to rage as they dined, making more than one man shiver in dread. The king laughed, though, and lifted his chalice high, urging all to fill their bellies.
“Perhaps ’twas the influence of good Gascony wine, but when all made to retire, Alexander wanted only to be with his beloved new bride. Yolande slumbered at his abode of Kinghorn, not too far distant but across the Firth itself.
“He called for his ostler and he called for the ferryman, and he rode to the port, though the storm was ripping through the trees. All begged that he wait for the dawn, but Alexander would not be swayed.
“’Twas the blackest hour of the night that they sailed across the Firth, fighting the waves all the way to Inverkeithing. The innkeeper there begged the king to tarry, but he would have none of it. Naught would suffice for him that night but his sweet bride’s own bed, and he began the long ride along to coast to Kinghorn. The heat of his desire sent Alexander ahead of his party and the wind stole away their warning cries.”
Alasdair looked to his boots. “They found him in the morn, a victim of his own recklessness,” he said quietly. “In his haste, he had ridden carelessly. His steed had fallen from the road, the necks of both broken on the rocks below. And so it was that Scotland had no king.”
“Didn’t he have an heir?”
Alasdair shrugged. “A wee lass, who died shortly thereafter.” His frown deepened. “And Edward of England saw his long-sought chance to make Scotland his own.”
He plucked a stem of heather and twirled it in his fingers, remembering all too well the tumult of those times. And later, the distant uproar in Alasdair’s homeland had been echoed before his own hearth.
For a Fenella displeased was a Fenella impossible. And there had been much in the early days of their match—indeed, throughout the match—that Fenella had found displeasing.
Alasdair shifted awkwardly at the unwelcome recollection. Morgaine waited silently, and he suddenly realized that the heather he held was white of bloom.
Alasdair granted it to Morgaine with a wry smile. “’Tis said to be uncommon fortune,” he said, before realizing that an enchantress had no need of such tokens.
But she accepted it all the same, giving him a smile that twisted his heart. “By your gran?”
“Aye.”
“It sounds as if she has a lot of folk wisdom to share.”
Alasdair grimaced. “Aye, oft too much.” He smiled ruefully. “Would that I had listened.” Then the smile vanished, the visage of Fenella invading his thoughts for the first time in years.
And the ardor that raged in his loins for Morgaine felt the equivalent of a winter’s daunting chill.
Morgaine leaned against him, the press of her breast against his arm banishing the unwelcome Fenella from Alasdair’s mind. And beneath his kilt, there was a definite promise of summer’s heat. “Was there a war?”
Alasdair nodded and fought against his earthly urges. “Aye, there was, and nasty ’twas indeed. Edward had women and children put to death for no reason at all; he razed entire towns and terrified the people. He taxed and murdered and slaughtered until all bent to kiss his hand. He would have all grovel before him, whatever the cost.”
Alasdair fixed the sorceress with a stern look. “If any had a doubt about the English and their intent for Scotland, years of bloody savagery put it to rest. It might have been a short war indeed, for so many bellies had gone soft in those good years, were it not for one William Wallace of Elderslie.”
“Oh, I know all about Wallace,” Morgaine declared. “I saw Braveheart, you know.”
Alasdair could make no sense of that comment, but he continued nonetheless. “Aye. Well, Edward captured Wallace after years of war and years of hunting. He put the valiant man to a gruesome public death.”
Morgaine grimaced. “I know. I couldn’t watch the end.”
Alasdair frowned at this easy reference to her powers. “But though Wallace died cruelly, he did not die for naught. Edward showed the cruelty of his nature in his pursuit of Wallace. He stole away both the ancient regalia and the Stone of Scone when he considered himself victorious, showing one and all that he did not intend Scotland to have another king of her own. A broken promise it was, for he had promised Scotland’s crown to one loyal to his side, name of Robert the Bruce.”
“I thought Robert the Bruce was a rebel?”
“Aye, in the end he was, though there was a time when he bent his knee to England. Such is the burden of those who hold property and must think of their responsibilities as well as their own hearts’ demand.
“There was more than one Robert the Bruce, for the first son of each generation of Bruces had the name of Robert. The one I follow is the grandson of the one to whom Edward broke his word. One of two powerful families in Scotland, the Bruce clan knew ’twould be they or the Comyns who retrieved the Scottish crown, if any had the valor to do the deed. ’Tis said the Comyns did not want the crown but agreed to aid the Bruces in exchange for land and wealth.
“At any rate, ’twas no coincidence that Robert the Bruce took council with John Comyn the Red in Dumfries, nor that a church was chosen for their parlay. Many’s the account of what happened that day, for they two were fiercely competitive and ambitious both, and neither afraid to use his blade. In the end, there is but one fact clear—they argued and John Comyn left the chapel in a shroud, while Robert the Bruce rode away.”