Lewis was starkly different from Skye, primal and harsh. The hills were lower, the wind was colder, the vegetation sparse. The icy bite of the north wind mingled with the tang of the sea, the colors that greeted Alasdair’s eye were scrubbed to clean blues and greens.
Yet, the raw, powerful curves of the land were compelling.
Alasdair felt recognition of his home stir within his very bones from first glimpse of land. He clenched the rail of the ferry as the craft slid into port and felt his anticipation rise. Perhaps the veil of Faerie was thinner here; perhaps he but drew near a critical portal.
Whatever the case, Alasdair’s conviction grew with every passing moment that he was truly coming home. Not only had Blake Advisor kept his word, but Morgaine’s tale of traveling through the centuries was certainly wrong.
The town Blake called Tarbert might be jostling with unfamiliar structures, but still Alasdair knew this land. The faces of the locals waiting at the landing were lined, their clothes sturdy and plain, but there was a glint of merriment in more than one fiercely blue eye. Life was challenging here, a feat for the strong alone, and those who survived oft had a powerful sense of humor.
The Micra lunged from ferry to road as though it too was intent on seeing the highlander finally home. Alasdair leaned forward in the seat, and anxiously directed Blake across the island. The glossy black roads followed the lines of tracks he had walked with his sheep during days that seemed an eternity ago.
But every curve was yet familiar.
’Twas the towns that revealed Morgaine’s hand, for though they were sited where Alasdair recalled, they bore little resemblance to the places he knew. The land though, the land, had escaped her magical touch and was achingly familiar on all sides. Alasdair anticipated every mount, every valley and its view, his excitement rising with each passing moment.
He was nearly home. His heart began to pound with anticipation. How tall was his son? What tales had his gran to tell? How fared the cottage, the garden, the sheep? When Alasdair glimpsed the standing stones in the distance, his heart nearly stopped.
They alone were precisely as he recalled.
“There,” he breathed to Morgaine, hating the way his finger trembled when he indicated the stones ahead. “There, my lady, are your standing stones, as ever they have been.”
Morgaine looked to the enigmatic circle, then back to Alasdair, a gleam of anticipation lurking in her magnificent eyes. Her fingers closed over his own and squeezed, the gesture making Alasdair’s heart leap.
Nay, ’twas only that he was nearly home. Indeed, his humble crofter’s cottage lingered just over the far hill. Seven years fell away and Alasdair remembered pausing on this very rise to look back one last time.
He would not consider that it might truly have been his last time. Only now did Alasdair question the nobility of that impulse, only now did he wonder what he might have sacrificed by following Robert the Bruce.
Had he the chance to do it all again, Alasdair vowed silently, he would not stay away those seven years. Countless opportunities there had been to turn back and go home, but Alasdair had pressed on, determined to see the quest fulfilled, determined to prove his honor beyond doubt.
One of those expanses of black was spread before standing stones—as it did not in the world Alasdair knew—and half a dozen chariots parked there. Alasdair refused to accept the incongruity and directed Blake determinedly down a road just beyond.
They neared the portal between their worlds, he knew it as surely as he knew his own name. When he was safely home, Alasdair vowed silently, he would set his many wrongs to right.
The road turned to gravel within moments and narrowed with familiar ease. The surface became rougher and the Micra bounced along at much slower speed. A light drizzle of rain had begun and a mist obscured the road ahead, a road that Alasdair knew as well as the back of his own hand.
A heavy mist closed the space before them, a space where Alasdair knew the hills framed a view of the endless sea. And here, he now understood, was the place Morgaine’s world touched his own.
At least, it did in this moment. Alasdair recalled well enough from his gran’s tales that the portals to the world of Faerie were oft moved capriciously by immortal denizens.
But now, ’twas here.
One lone sheep glanced toward the Micra, the expression on her dark face almost knowing. Then she turned and skipped nervously along the road, ahead of the chariot. The mist swallowed her whole and she disappeared with nary a bleat.
Alasdair’s mouth went dry. She was gone, home to his world.
As he soon would follow.
When they bounced out of a particularly deep rut, Blake stopped the Micra and glanced over his shoulder. “Are you sure this is the right way? It doesn’t look as though anyone has passed here for a while.”
“Other than the sheep,” Justine commented.
Alasdair would have expected naught else for a portal between the worlds. “’Tis the right way, but I would walk this last.”
As soon as the words left his lips, Alasdair knew he had made the right choice. He would return as he had left, upon his own two feet and not in some magical chariot.
He would simply walk through the mist and arrive home. Tales of those lost to Faerie returning home years after their disappearance flooded into his mind and for the first time, Alasdair feared what he would find at his own hearth.
Had a year passed for every day he had been in Morgaine’s domain? Would Angus have grown to manhood? Would his gran have passed away without knowing where he had gone?
Alasdair could linger no longer without knowing the whole of the truth. Justine let him out into the rain and Alasdair suddenly wished he had his great woolen cloak. It had served him well for many a winter and he regretted casting it aside in that exploration of Edinburgh’s great keep.
“I’ll come with you,” Morgaine declared with quiet determination.
The offer surprised Alasdair, though no less than the enchantress’s resolve. “My lady, there is no need.”
“Of course, there is. You can’t go alone.”
Alasdair frowned and lowered his voice to reason with her as she came to stand beside him. “But should we pass into the land of mortals, you could well share the fate I have just survived. You could be lost from your home.”
She smiled sadly and tapped a fingertip in his chest. “Surely Morgaine le Fee will only have to click the heels of her ruby slippers together to come back?”
There was a skepticism in her tone, but Alasdair refused to think again about her fantastical tale. She spoke aright about the extent of her powers, as well he knew, and truth be told, he welcomed the promise of her companionship.
For when the moment stood before him, Alasdair was not so eager to be rid of Morgaine le Fee’s enchanting company. He would miss the tiny sorceress, with her intriguing blend of softness and strength, her determination and her vulnerability. Aye, he would continue in her presence for but a few moments longer before leaving her side for all time.
’Twas a weakness, no doubt of that, but one she seemed to share.
Alasdair nodded assent and folded Morgaine’s hand within his own, marveling that she permitted him to touch her thus. Morgaine nodded to Justine and Blake, and the Micra hummed once more.
“We’ll find a bed-and-breakfast,” Blake called cheerfully. “Meet you back here in an hour?”
An hour. Alasdair had one hour left with the enchantress before their ways parted for all time. Clearly, they believed ’twould be more than time enough for her to see him home. Alasdair’s heart began to hammer in his chest.
But one hour and he would be before his very own hearth. Never would he have believed that fate would hold such allure. It seemed a distant dream to recall his impatience to shake the dirt of Lewis from his boots. Morgaine waved and the Micra backed down the road, spewing gravel in every direction.
Within a matter of moments, the silence Alasdair so loved pressed against his ears. The gravel faded to naught and Lewis’s low grass was springy beneath his boots. He took a deep breath of the salt-laden air, caught the scent of sheep and freshly turned earth beyond the swirling curtain of fog.
Home.
And Morgaine had insisted upon not only returning him but on sharing the moment with him. Alasdair was determined to show her the fullness of both his hospitality and his gratitude. He squeezed her fingers and smiled down at the uncertainty lingering in her wondrous eyes.
“Come, Morgaine,” he invited with all the grace of a courtier. “Come with me and meet my son.”
And with a spring in his step, Alasdair strode into the swirling mist, confident of what lay ahead.
They walked through the mist, the silence surrounding them enough to make Morgan lose what little sense of time she had. The fog was thick and white, and a faint shimmer of tiny raindrops gradually gathered on her anorak. Morgan felt as though she were walking in the clouds.
An occasional sheep appeared before them, then fled in a panic once it glimpsed them. Their footsteps made the only sound, until Morgan caught the steady rhythm of the sea crashing on the coast far, far ahead.
Alasdair strode with confidence, the road obviously familiar to him and the fog no obstacle to navigation at all. Morgan watched him out of the corner of her eye and caught the bright gleam of anticipation in his eyes.
If she hadn’t ben dreading what Alasdair would find, she might have enjoyed the walk. It felt as though they had left the world she knew and wandered in some magical realm.
Clearly, Alasdair had come to the same conclusion. There was a definite lightness to his step. She hoped they had a long way to go before he was disappointed, then called herself a chicken.
“I shall tell you a story, my lady,” he offered, and Morgan was glad of a way to keep from thinking too much about what lay ahead.
“That would be wonderful.”
“Aye, ’tis not a ditty, this one, but a fair tale nonetheless. Once upon a time, there was a smith of fair talent, who worked long and hard at his craft. He had a son, a tall young lad, who had a good interest in the smithy, and all was good within his world.
“Until one day, his son took ill. At first, the smith thought little of it, for children oft catch a chill and recover with speed. But this sickness lingered on and on. The boy faded to a shadow of his former self, and the smith grew increasingly worried. He sought counsel from those in the town, without success, until the elder came and looked within his cottage with wise, wise eyes.
“The elder took the smith aside once he had had a good look at the lad and shook his head with dismay. ‘I fear to tell you the truth, but ’twill out in the end. ’Tis not your son lying in his own bed, but a Faerie changeling. The fair folk have stolen your boy for their own.’
“Now the smith was skeptical of this tale, for the lad looked exactly like his own blood, even though his flesh turned more yellow every day. So, the elder described a test to the smith that would prove the Faerie’s identity. Eager to dismiss this whimsy, the smith gathered the materials bidden.
“Within his cottage, the smith laid out the dozens of broken eggshells he had brought and greeted the one who appeared to be his son as though naught was amiss. Then, with great solemnity, he filled the eggshells from the water bucket, two at a time, and carried them as though they were fearsomely heavy to set before the fire. The boy watched with fascination.
“The smith continued thus, two shells by two, until the one he thought to be his son shouted with laughter. ‘Never in all my eight hundred years have I seen the like of that. Are you mad, father smith?’
“And a great fear seized the smith’s heart, for now he knew the elder had spoken aright. The next morn, he raced to the elder with the news and demanded to know what he must do to rid himself of the changeling and retrieve his own son.
“The elder thought long and hard, then he counseled the smith. ‘Go to your home and light a large fire immediately beside the lad’s bed. Make the fire burn bright and high, and when he asks you what the blaze is for, seize him and cast him into the flames. The changeling will flee screaming through the cottage roof, as surely as a wisp of smoke.’
“The smith went home and followed the elder’s dictate. He lit the fire, he made it burn bright and high. The changeling asked what the blaze was for and the smith immediately seized him and cast him into the flames. And with an eerie scream, the Faerie changed to its own dark self and fled the cottage through the roof.
“Now, although this was all well and good, the smith yet wanted his own son back. He returned to the elder to ask advice, and after some thought, the elder presented him with a plan. ‘On the night of the full moon,’ the elder said solemnly, ‘the Faerie folk do gather at that round green hill for their dancing. The barriers are thin between their world and ours at such times and ’tis then that you must seek your son.
‘Take a Bible with yourself, a dirk and a crowing cock, and do exactly as I bid you, lest you never be seen on this earth again. There will be much dancing and merriment, but do not be distracted from your course. Hold the Bible high to protect yourself and go to the opening in the side of the hill from which the light will spill. Before you enter, stick your dirk into the threshold that you will not be trapped inside.’
“The old man gripped the smith’s arm. ‘When first you enter, you will see your son. You will be asked why you are there: say simply that you will not leave without your son. Keep your wits about you, master smith, and you will be safely home at the dawn with your very own son.’
“Well, the smith took this counsel quite seriously and was determined not to fail. On the night of the next full moon, he gathered up his Bible, his dirk and a cock that crowed louder than most, and made his way to the hill.
“True to the elder’s words, there was a tremendous celebration there. A golden light spilled through a doorway in the side of the hill where the smith knew there usually was none. He could hear laughter within, as well as fey music, but he held his Bible high and approached the door. Before entering, he stuck his dirk in the threshold, then stepped over its hilt.
“He had only a glimpse of the Faeries’ wild dance before he saw his own son, working at a golden forge. The smith caught his breath in the same moment that the Faerie folk spied him. The festivities halted suddenly and all manner of eyes turned upon him. ‘What do you want here, master smith?’ they called mockingly. ‘I want my son,’ the smith replied. ‘And I will not go without him.’
“The Faeries laughed merrily at this bold assertion, for they knew well enough that both smith and son were on the Faeries’ own soil. ’Twas they who would decide who might stay and who might leave.
“But their laughter awakened the slumbering cock, who mistook the bright Faerie lights for the sun. The cock leaped to the smith’s shoulder, flapped his wings, and set to crowing. The sound was overloud beneath the hill, but naught would silence the cock. The Faeries grew agitated, but the cock crowed on and on.
“Finally, and with much gnashing of teeth, the angry Faeries cast the smith and his son and their cock out of the hill. They flung his dirk after him—the iron of the blade being as poison to them—and the doorway in the hill closed as if it had never been.
“And when father and son crossed the threshold of their own humble cottage, the dawn was just breaking over the horizon. They lived long and happily together, the son having learned much in the Faerie smithy that he shared with his sire, and they prospered in their trade as few others do.”
The mist lifted ever so slightly once Alasdair finished his tale, and Morgan could see the silhouettes of hills on either side of them. Alasdair began to walk more quickly, his excitement obvious.
She knew it hadn’t been an accident that his story had been about man and son reunited, and she ached at what she knew he would find ahead. The sound of the sea became louder as they rounded a corner, and the wind off the ocean dispersed the fog.
A verdant valley spread before them, spilling from the hills high to the right and flowing into the sea to Morgan’s left. It was touched by dew, and a sparkling brook cut through the pasture on its merry dance to the sea. The fields were vivid green and spotted with hundreds of wandering sheep. It was a scene of pastoral perfection.
Much to Morgan’s surprise after their walk, a glossy paved road snaked over the crest of the hills high above and wound its way to a carefully maintained gabled house. A hedge of roses grew all around the dwelling and a sign creaked in the wind before it.
Adaira Macleod’s Rose Cottage Bed-and-Breakfast.
The house had a porch all across the front and wrapped around the sides, a deep porch with plenty of room to sit even when it rained. The view of the ocean would be spectacular, Morgan guessed, even as her gaze danced over the lace-adorned windows.
It was only after admiring the house that Morgan noticed the ruined walls of a single crofter’s cottage beyond it to the left. She has seen these small cottages throughout Scotland, their heavy walls made of mortared stone, their thatched roofs slightly curved, smoke coiling from the chimney. But this one had almost crumbled into the earth.
It was clearly abandoned.
Before Morgan could say anything, Alasdair was running across the pasture. She suddenly knew who had abandoned this cottage.
“Alasdair! Wait!”
But he wasn’t waiting for anything. To Morgan’s astonishment, he continued to climb higher, ignoring the ruined cottage. He fell to his knees behind the bed-and-breakfast, where the sparkling stream burst out of the hills to meander across the valley. As Morgan watched, he pushed aside the vegetation with increasing anxiety.
He was looking for some vestige of his home. Of course, it would have eroded to nothing in seven hundred years. Even though Morgan had known all along that he wouldn’t find his cottage, watching Alasdair claw in the dirt tore her heart out.
The ruins of the other cottage were grayed and broken, all but the last foot of the outer walls gone. The remaining stones were rounded and worn by the weather, choked with moss, nearly swallowed by long waving grass.
A single purple foxglove bloomed in one corner, sheltered from the wind and in colorful contrast to the ruins around it. The house would have been dark inside, Morgan guessed, with few windows. But the walls would have been painted white and the peat fire would have made it cozy and warm. Now, the sunlight played on what would have been the floor, and where that flower grew, a stool or chest might have sat.
But it was all reverting to dust.
As Alasdair’s home already had.
Morgan slowly followed the highlander, knowing that this would not be an easy truth for him to accept. As she watched, Alasdair spun wildly where he stood. He scanned the hills, the valley, the view of the sea.
The color drained from his face, and Morgan knew that this was precisely where his home had stood.
“Gone,” he murmured when Morgan reached his side, as though he couldn’t comprehend the fact. Then Alasdair turned his tormented gaze upon her, and his usual bold tone faltered.
“Morgaine, I have lost my son.”
And the tears Morgan had glimpsed earlier spilled down his cheeks. He sank to the ground and stared across the valley, oblivious to his own tears, consumed by the magnitude of his loss.
Morgan didn’t know what to do. Alasdair’s grief was tangible, and nothing she could say would ease the sting of the truth.
She couldn’t do a single thing to fix this.
Or could she?
“I left him when I should never have done so,” Alasdair admitted, the words obviously not coming easily to his lips. “In my zeal to protect our honor, in my quest to set to rest the lies told of me, I failed my only son.”
He looked at Morgan and her chest tightened at his despair. “I lost him as surely as if I had denied that he was blood of my blood.”
Morgan wasn’t ready to let Alasdair be so hard on himself. It couldn’t have been easy for him to see his lost love every time he looked at his child, and she couldn’t really blame him for leaving. Morgan hunkered down beside him and touched his arm.
“You did what you thought was right,” she said gently, but when Alasdair turned to her, his eyes were blazing.
“Right? To leave my son alone for seven years was right? To leave my gran to raise another bairn at her age was right? To take the dare of a wee witch was right?”
He shook his head savagely and bounded to his feet, gesturing wildly in the air. His voice rose to such a volume that the sheep skittered away.
“Nay! I acted on impulse and impulse alone, even knowing that impulse is a poor master!
His temper spent, Alasdair hung his head and his words rumbled low. “I believed Angus in good care and thought no more upon it. Now, both he and I must pay the price of my folly.”
Alasdair dropped his hands to rest on his hips, and his eyes narrowed as he eyed the valley. “Indeed, if you speak aright, Angus has already paid whatever price was due from him.” His anger faded, leaving him looking more defeated than Morgan had ever seen him.
“My son,” he said softly, “has long been dead. He must have passed from this world believing that I cared naught for him. And that is the worst travesty of all.”
Alasdair’s eyes clouded once more, and he turned his back on Morgan. When he spoke, his words were strained. “’Twas some legacy I saw fit to leave him.”
And Alasdair MacAulay pressed his fingertips to his brow.
“Now, wait just a moment.” Morgan strode to his side. Alasdair didn’t move or otherwise acknowledge her presence. “You couldn’t have known that whatever you did would send you forward in time. I mean, how many people zip across seven centuries? It doesn’t happen every day!”
To Morgan’s relief, Alasdair sent a curious glance her way before continuing his stoic scrutiny of his toes. “I do not even know what fate befell him,” he mumbled. “How many years did he live? Did he wed? Did he have sons of his own?” He swallowed. “Did he ever forgive me for what I had done?”
Morgan touched Alasdair’s arm. “I don’t think you did anything so bad as that. Maybe we could find out what happened to Angus.”
Now she had his attention. “You can do this?”
Morgan flushed at the admiration in his gaze. “Well, there have to be record books. It will probably take some digging to go back that far…”
“I cannot read,” Alasdair reminded her in a low voice.
“I know.” Morgan tugged on his arm until he looked at her once more. “But I can. We can do this together.”
Alasdair studied her for a long moment, then shook his head in disbelief. His tone was gentle. “Why do you aid me? You have brought me home and shown me with my own eyes that your tale is of the truth. Why aid me further?”
Morgan’s heart stopped cold, then raced. She stared back at Alasdair, then swallowed. “I guess because I can understand how you feel,” she said, then turned away before he could see the truth in her eyes.
Because Morgan had just lied to him.
Maybe she could understand what he felt. Maybe she felt sorry for him in this predicament. But the real reason she wanted to help him was much simpler.
Morgan was in love with Alasdair.
She wanted to see him happy more than anything else in the world. Unfortunately, the only way to do that was to send Alasdair home to his son, his gran, his home.
And the vivid memory of his dead wife, who still held his heart in thrall. That was a particularly bitter pill but Morgan swallowed it deliberately. Then she linked her arm through Alasdair’s.
“Come on,” she urged. “We can stay at this little place. It’s nice and close to your home. Let’s go and meet Blake and Justine, then come back here. Then we can start looking for those records.” She squeezed Alasdair’s hand. “That way you’ll know what happened to Angus.”
Alasdair heaved a ragged sigh. “’Twould ease my mind to know that he lived long, even in my absence.”
And Morgan hoped heartily that was the case.
Finding these records Morgaine claimed were available was not so easy as Alasdair had understood. ’Twas frustrating to be able to do so little himself, for not only could Alasdair not read, he could not fathom the workings of the world Morgaine occupied with such ease.
They spent the rest of the day crossing the island, fruitlessly to Alasdair’s mind, rushing from here to there with naught to show for it. Blake complained heartily about people not having phones—whatever that meant—but he went as Morgaine bade him.
They returned to the inn when the sky was dark, their bellies full of sausage that Justine proclaimed too greasy but Alasdair found comforting in its familiarity. Though he was bone-tired, there was not a chance that he would sleep anytime soon.
Alasdair sat on the broad steps before the inn’s door, propped his elbows on his knees, and stared into the darkening sky. The view was so familiar to him—with the road and the parked cars behind him, the valley was spread at his toes as always it had been. Indeed, if he ignored the porch, Alasdair would never have imagined that he was anywhere but home.
’Twas impossible to believe that everything he knew, everything he loved, had been swept away from him for all eternity, and that in the blink of an eye. If the evidence had not been surrounding him on all sides, Alasdair knew he would not have believed it.
But he had no choice. His home was gone as surely as if it had never been. He watched the silvery crescent of the moon launch across the sky, ached with the familiarity of the moonbeams dancing on the sea, and wished fervently to find these records.
Alasdair only wanted to know the truth.
’Twas then that he became aware that he was not alone.
He glanced back and Morgaine smiled tentatively from the shadows by the door. She was a marvel, even more so now that he knew she was as mortal as he. The compassion that so awed Alasdair shone in her eyes, and he knew that she understood how deeply this day’s events had pained him.
And she respected his disappointment enough that she did not force him to talk about it.
Morgaine sat down beside him when Alasdair moved aside in silent invitation. She mimicked his pose and heaved a sigh that was doubtless for his benefit alone.
“I can’t sleep,” she complained. “Could you tell me a story?”
“We should make an exchange, my lady.”
Morgaine looked up with curiosity.
“I shall tell you all the tales you desire to hear, if you grant me the chance to look upon your drawings again.”
She flushed in that enticing way. “They’re not done. I don’t usually show them to anyone before they’re finished.”
“Ah, but I have had one glance and ’twas my undoing,” Alasdair confided. When he looked into her eyes, he knew ’twas not the drawings that had captured his heart.
’Twas the lady herself.
Alasdair cleared his throat and tried to tease her. “There is wizardry in your fingers. I know it to be true.”
To his delight, Morgaine smiled. “I told you, I’m just an artist.”
“And I tell you, I must look upon your work again to satisfy myself that no witchery conjured them before my very eyes.” She bit her lip in hesitation, and Alasdair leaned closer, his voice turning sober. “My lady, I would have the chance to gaze upon them with leisure. If the thought offends you, I apologize for being so bold.”
Morgaine stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head, that beguiling flush tinting her cheeks again. “No,” she said huskily. “I’m flattered that you like them.” Her gaze flicked away, then back to Alasdair. She offered her small hand with a shy smile. “A story for a look doesn’t seem like a very fair deal.”
Alasdair captured the delicacy of her fingers within his hand and smiled down at her. “My lady, ’tis clearly to your disadvantage, but you have already accepted the terms.”
Morgaine laughed and did not pull her hand away. Alasdair looked down at their entwined fingers. Their hands were so different, yet they fit together as if halves of a single mold.
Was there more than a witch’s whimsy behind Alasdair’s journey to this woman’s side?
He could not think upon it, not with her perfume flooding his senses and her shoulder lightly touching his arm. So, Alasdair turned to the stars, the lady’s fingers secure within his grip, and began to tell her a tale.