Morgan could not wait to be rid of him.
Alasdair fought against his instinctive dislike of that certainty. ’Twas clearly because he had never been unwelcome in a woman’s company before, especially one upon whom he had lavished his rough charm.
But ’twas something more than that irking him and in a secret corner of his mind, Alasdair acknowledged the truth.
He loved Morgan. Indeed, he had fallen irrevocably in love with his wee enchantress.
And he was not by any means ready to part her company.
Even for his son.
This might have been frightening enough—for Alasdair had never permitted anyone to have such an effect upon him—if the lady had not been so intent on sending him away from her side. What was more, the sooner that happened was clearly the better, to her way of thinking.
And that irked Alasdair. Was it just his pride that was wounded? Or was it a sense that there was something greater betwixt them, something that twisted his innards, yet something to which she was oblivious?
For a moment, he had hoped to spend an evening with Morgan, within the circle of stones, putting all the troubles aside. He would know the woman herself, without the guise of a sorceress. When Morgan took his hand, Alasdair’s heart had clamored with the rightness of his choice.
But it seemed the lady did not wish to put Alasdair’s troubles aside. ’Twas Alasdair himself she would send away, and that with all haste.
Alasdair trudged along beside her, disgruntled and not liking in the least that the Fates themselves seemed to be on the lady’s side. ’Twas a poor time to part, in his mind, but that seemed to be of little import. Not only had she the stone and the heather he had forgotten giving to her, but the cursed moon rose full on this very night.
And the stones were far too close for chance. They were the one thing exactly the same both in Alasdair’s memory and before his eyes. ’Twas not whimsy that made him conclude these stones could be the link between the centuries that he sought.
Alasdair had the sense that he was destined to leave this very night.
Yet he was not prepared to go.
The delicate marvel of Morgan marched beside him, a definite briskness in her step, and Alasdair knew he had made no error. The lady could not wait to see the back of him, whatever his feelings to the contrary.
Sorceress or nay, her thorough assessment and determination had Alasdair believing she could do this thing. And ’twas true enough what she said—he had done the feat once, and likely could again, were all circumstances right.
Would Morgan forget him once he was gone? The thought was startling, but Alasdair had to consider what had happened to the tale of Robert the Bruce. Would his departure leave Morgan with the sense that he had never been?
Alasdair was more troubled by that possibility than he thought he should have been. ’Twas clear enough the lady thought she lost naught by sending him on his way—and Alasdair wished he could somehow guarantee that she would at least recall him.
He knew full well that he would never forget her.
The standing stones of Callanish etched a great circle upon the land and though Alasdair knew they were not the only standing stones thereabouts, this gathering was the largest. A circle of thirteen massive stones stood on end, each one of them taller than he was. In the center of the circle stood an even taller stone, its crest angled in a distinctive manner.
Lines of stones extended in the four cardinal directions from the center, the northward avenue outlined by a double line of stone sentinels. The stones themselves were weathered and gray; the rising moon burnishing the rough surfaces with deep gold.
Alasdair and Morgan entered the avenue and approached the stones. A hush seemed to fall around them as they walked and Alasdair could near naught beyond the pounding of his heart.
It seemed they were sheltered even from the wind in this place. It had always been this way when Alasdair ventured close to the stones. The majesty of their height and the sense of ancient power contained here struck right to his very soul.
And he understood now that ’twas because his gran spoke aright. This place stood portal to domains beyond the eye. That those domains were more of this earth than Faerie was but a detail.
They halted beside the commanding center stone and Alasdair knew he did not imagine Morgan’s nervousness.
She would not look to his eyes.
“All right, you have the crystal and the heather, the moon is full and we’re here.” Her emerald gaze danced to him and away as she chattered. “Um, what else? You said you turned three times in place and oh! Wait! You said you were drunk! Maybe we should find some whisky or something.” She spun away as though anxious to find such a substance and send Alasdair from her side.
Alasdair gritted his teeth and stood his ground. “I will drink naught this night,” he said so forcefully that Morgan glanced back at him. When he noted her surprise, Alasdair arched one brow and let his voice drop. “You forget, my lady, that I granted my word to you.”
“But it might be part of your going home.”
“I shall go with my wits about me or not at all. I have told you oft enough, a man’s word must be worth something or he is as naught.”
Morgan stared at him, as though she was not certain whether or not to believe him. Alasdair could not tell whether his assertion pleased her or not, and irritation surged through him.
She might want to be rid of him as quickly as possible, but Alasdair had something to say first. He stepped forward and captured her chin with one hand, stared into her eyes and willed her to not look away.
Alasdair felt the lady swallow, but she did not flinch.
“My lady,” he said, his voice low yet filled with resolve. “Before we do this thing, I would have you know that I have never met a woman the like of you. Indeed, you might as well be an immortal sorceress, for your gentle beauty entwines with your strength of will to make a beguiling combination.” He smiled down at her. “And your kiss is no less bewitching than the reputed power of Morgaine le Fee’s embrace.”
“I’m just a…”
Alasdair slid his thumb across Morgan’s lips to silence her protest, not in the least interested in her modesty at this moment.
He would have his say, before he left her side forever.
“Do not dismiss my tribute, my lady. You are like the rose, which blooms in beauty all the season long, though few appreciate the challenges it overcomes to bring those blossoms to light. ’Tis a stalwart plant, a harbinger of fair weather, yet of sufficient strength to survive both poor soil and foul winters.”
The lady blushed. Alasdair felt his annoyance dissolve at the sight, and he could not have stopped himself from cupping her face in his hands. To his amazement, she did not pull away.
“Whereas I, my lady,” he continued with a rueful smile, “am but a lowly briar. Rife with doughty thorns, rough-hewn yet strong, of common persistence to the rose, but sadly without her beauty and grace. We are as unlike as two beings might be, my lady, but I would ask of you one thing ere I go.”
“What?” Morgan’s voice was soft and uncertain, and her eyes were wide.
“I ask only that you remember me,” Alasdair declared with low urgency. “As I shall remember you for all my days and nights.”
Before she could argue the matter—or decline—Alasdair bent and sealed her lips with his kiss.
As she had before, the lady trembled within his embrace, then tentatively placed her hands on his shoulders. Alasdair’s heart sang when she arched against him, and he dared to hope that he had fallen in love with a woman who held him in some esteem.
As the heat of her kiss unfurled in his loins, Alasdair faced the truth. He was smitten with a tiny woman whose life was fixed seven centuries ahead of his own. A part of him wanted to ask her to accompany him home to find his son, but a larger part of him was afraid to face her certain refusal.
After all, she had made it clear that she wanted him to go quickly. Alasdair would hold the possibility of her admiration in his heart rather than force himself to face her rejection.
’Twas not a characteristic choice, by any means, and Alasdair supposed that was a sign of how deeply she had affected him.
With that realization, Alasdair broke off the kiss and stepped away, refusing to acknowledge the shimmer that blurred his vision. Morgan wanted no more than to be rid of him. He had no need to hear the words.
Alasdair gripped heather and crystal, summoned the first Gaelic verse that came to mind, and began to chant. He turned in place, telling himself that he closed his eyes so he might not see Morgan’s relief when he left.
His heart ached with the awareness of her watchful silence.
Once. Alasdair chanted with vigor and heard his voice bounce off the stones. He forced himself to think of Angus, not of Morgan, to think of his home and his gran and his debt to Robert the Bruce.
Twice. He felt the dizziness flooding through him as it had that night in Edinburgh, and his heart skipped a beat. Alasdair took a deep breath and chanted louder, telling himself he would see his own time when his eyes opened again.
One more step. He lifted his foot, turned an increment and made to step.
Thrice.
“No!” Morgan cried.
Alasdair’s eyes flew open just as Morgan launched herself at him. He dropped the gemstone and managed to catch her, but the force of her assault sent them flying back against the great central stone.
To Alasdair’s astonishment, she was crying.
“I don’t want you to go!” she wailed.
But had he gone? Alasdair scanned the hills beyond the circle of stones, and his gut writhed at the gleam on the roof of the Micra parked not far away.
He was yet in Morgan’s time.
He frowned down at her, trying to make sense of her dismay. “What is this? Of course, you would be rid of me. You are intent only on having me gone.”
“No! I never wanted you gone!
Her obvious horror that he had thought otherwise warmed Alasdair to his toes. Heartfelt tears streamed down her cheeks and ’twas evident she could not stop their course. Humbled by her distress, Alasdair brushed the tears away with a gentle fingertip.
It seemed he had misjudged his lady’s heart.
“But you need to go. I understand that. Your son needs you.” Morgan clutched Alasdair’s shoulders as though she could not get close enough to him.
Alasdair’s pulse began to thunder in his ears at this marvelous change of events, and he could not think of a word to say.
Morgan had plenty to say. “I thought it would be easier if we got it over with,” she confessed unevenly, her wondrous eyes welling with fresh tears. “But Alasdair, please don’t believe that I want you to go.”
Alasdair felt a cur for ever having doubted her. He leaned back against the stone and gathered her against his side, letting his hand slide through the ebony hair at her nape. He caressed her gently, his fingers losing themselves in the silky softness of her hair, and dared to believe what she told him.
She did not want him to go.
Morgan did not want to be rid of him.
Alasdair felt himself begin to smile. The stars winked overhead as though they had known all along. The moon sailed high and her face turned to glowing silver. Alasdair could hear the waves of the sea crashing in the distance. He gave the woman nestled against him a minute hug and touched her chin.
“Look there,” he said, pointing to vivid display in the northern sky. “The Merry Dancers would have you smile again.”
Morgan looked up and wiped the last of her tears, her lips rounding in amazement at the sight. “The northern lights,” she whispered in awe. “I’ve never seen them before.”
Alasdair snorted gently. “Dancers they are, as any wee lad knows, not mere lights.”
She turned a smile on him so enchanting that it fairly melted Alasdair’s bones. And he knew, as he had only guessed before, that this woman had not only cast a net around his heart but would hold it securely for all time.
“Alasdair,” she whispered, her eyes luminous. “I love you.”
Alasdair stared at her in wonder. The rose scent that she favored wafted into his lungs; the soft warmth of her pressed against his ribs; the delicacy of her hand rested on his chest. It seemed that they two stopped breathing in the same moment, and there was naught but the glow of love in his lady’s eyes.
In the wake of such a confession and all else that had happened on this day, there was only one thing a red-blooded man might do. His heart swelling with his own love, Alasdair leaned closer and kissed his lady fair.
Morgan thought her heart would burst when Alasdair kissed her. As always, his embrace was tender, giving her the choice of how they might proceed.
She knew exactly what she wanted to do. Alasdair had taught her to trust again, taught her to let herself love, and Morgan knew that now only one celebratory act would do.
It was a perfect moonlit night, the stones surreal in their silence. The words Alasdair had uttered earlier had been so shamelessly romantic. The spell might not have worked this time, but Morgan knew it would eventually.
When Alasdair left, she was going to make sure that he had a compelling memory of her to take along.
So, Morgan kissed Alasdair back, a decade of denied desire having found its release. She twined her hands into the wonderful thickness of his hair. Alasdair moaned when she drove her tongue between his teeth and Morgan found herself rolled to her back.
The grass was lush beneath her, like a densely knotted exotic rug, and richly green. Alasdair nuzzled her ear and ran an intoxicating line of kisses down her throat. Morgan moaned and reached for him, but the highlander evaded her embrace.
“I have waited long for this moment,” he whispered with a wicked grin. Before Morgan could respond, he tucked his head beneath her sweater.
She gasped as his hands closed over her breasts, those skilled thumbs teasing her nipples to taut beads. He was so unbearably gentle that Morgan wanted more of him, everything within her melting at his sure touch. Alasdair’s breath fanned Morgan’s belly; he kissed her belly and rolled his tongue in her navel.
Then, he tugged her leggings away with his teeth.
His hands followed in leisurely pursuit, sliding beneath her buttocks to lift her hips high. With his teeth, he hauled the leggings down to her ankles, teaching her with tongue and breath and fingers.
Morgan had never been so aroused in her life. She might have been shy about doing this outside, but Alasdair’s confidence was more than reassuring. Alasdair was so unrestrained, so unconcerned about anything other than the magic that flared to life between them.
Morgan loved that about him, loved how he made her feel impetuous and free, loved how he was who he was without apology or explanation. Each time they touched was explosive, yet still a bold adventure in sensation.
Morgan wanted to do this for the rest of her life.
Alasdair flashed her a mischievous glance as he cavalierly flung her tights and boots aside, his eyes darkening nearly to indigo. Then he eased between her thighs with a playful growl.
Morgan gasped as Alasdair slid his nose through her pubic hair and wanted to cry out when he pressed a slow kiss against her clitoris. She trembled at the heat of his breath, then moaned as his tongue slid across the nub of her desire.
She was already so wet with yearning. The strength of Alasdair’s hands closed around her waist, his tongue set to work, and Morgan was left with no options but to enjoy. She closed her eyes and surrendered to pleasure.
Alasdair did not disappoint. He cajoled Morgan’s response, taking her to the crest of release, then stopped to plant kisses on her navel until her need ebbed slightly. Each time, the crest was higher; each time Morgan’s moans grew louder when he moved away. The heat was gathered beneath her flesh and she was twisting in desperation when the heat of his mouth closed over her once more.
This time, Morgan knew there would be no respite. She peeled off her sweater so she could see the moonlight play upon his hair. Alasdair glanced up, his own gaze smoldering as he touched her with his fingertips, and Morgan rubbed herself shamelessly against his fingers.
He caressed her expertly then tasted her again. He tantalized her until she was sure she couldn’t bear any more, then suddenly, Morgan clutched at him as the quickening ripped through her. Alasdair held her tightly and drove his fingers into her, demanding more. Morgan cried out as she reached the summit again, then plunged trembling into the abyss beyond.
Her heart was still hammering when she opened her eyes and found Alasdair kneeling before her. Morgan rolled over and reached beneath his kilt. The erection that she knew she would find was larger and harder than anticipated. Alasdair shuddered when Morgan’s hands closed around him.
“I want all of you,” she whispered and his eyes flashed.
He was nude in a heartbeat, his skin gleaming in the moonlight. He was more beautiful than she’d imagined, a pagan god come to life. Alasdair gathered Morgan against his chest, lifting her into his embrace for a soul-shattering kiss. Morgan savored his touch, clung to his strength, then wrapped her legs around his waist.
Alasdair caught his breath at her proximity.
Nose to nose, they stared into each other’s eyes as Morgan slowly lowered herself onto him.
No sooner was he buried to the hilt than Morgan was on her back, Alasdair silhouetted against the starry sky above her. The grass was cool and thick beneath her, while Alasdair was warm and solid above.
He moved with deliberation within her, his thumb slipping between them to caress her again. Morgan writhed beneath him, feeling the heat gather again. Her desire was roused more quickly this time and she bucked against Alasdair, wanting every inch of him to be her own.
When she reached up and captured his face in her hands, then kissed him languorously, Morgan felt him shake with the effort of self-control. She ran her toes down his legs, rocked her hips and rubbed her breasts against him, kissing him fervently all the while.
Alasdair growled, but Morgan continued her assault. Her own blood heated at her power over him, a new confidence in her allure making her even more bold. They teased and tormented each other, each trying to give the other even more pleasure.
Until the heat reached a crescendo in Morgan again, making her tremble on the cusp of release. Alasdair buried himself within her, then tipped his head back and groaned in pleasure. The heat of him pushed Morgan over the edge. The stars cavorted dizzily overhead as she gripped Alasdair’s shoulders, knowing they were the only fixture in her universe.
He fell bonelessly to the grass beside her and pulled her into the warmth of his embrace. Morgan’s eyes drifted closed as she felt his heartbeat beneath her cheek, and she smiled when Alasdair pressed a kiss to her temple.
She’d gone to heaven and she didn’t want to come back.
Alasdair did not sleep.
He lay within the enchanted circle and held Morgan fast to his side, loving the way she slumbered against him. Aye, she was the woman he had always longed to find and more. Never had Alasdair believed that the love oft mentioned in his gran’s tales was for him.
But the evidence slept within his very arms.
Some twist of fate had sent him plunging forward in time, and Alasdair was enough of his gran’s grandson to know that it could be no coincidence that Morgan had been the one to find him first.
He had done the impossible, catapulted over seven hundred years, and as he lay there in the moonlight, Alasdair knew it had been so that he might find his one true love.
Morgan.
She was his and Alasdair was never going to let her go. Time would come when he recalled the right Gaelic verse, for he had a good ear and a good memory. The tune had reminded him of something, that much Alasdair recalled.
One day, he would find it.
Indeed, he had little choice. Indeed, if there had been no price in coming to Morgan, Alasdair would gladly have remained in her world with her alone.
But Alasdair was haunted by his certainty that his disappearance had changed matters for Robert the Bruce. The Scotland his son had inherited had been far from free, and the fault for that lay squarely at Alasdair’s door.
Further, Alasdair knew that had he been there, Angus would not have died so young. Alasdair could not change the fact that he had left the boy for so long, but he wished with all his heart and soul that he could at least have had the chance to make matters come aright for his son.
Contrary to all that Alasdair believed, it was not chanting the wrong Gaelic verse that had confounded his return home. Though it was true that the stone and the heather and the site contributed, there was one factor he had forgotten.
A heartfelt wish was the key to the witch’s spell.
And in the very moment that Alasdair desired beyond all else to see his son, he was gone from Morgan’s side as though he had never been.
Morgan awakened with a luxurious feeling of completion. In a hazy corner of her mind, she knew that she had found a fulfillment that she had always sought but had never believed she would know.
Without opening her eyes, Morgan stretched out a hand to Alasdair. When her fingers found only empty space, she tried the other side.
Nothing. Her eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright.
Only to find that she was alone.
The sky was faintly tinged pink in the east, a fiery line indicating that the sun would soon drift over the horizon, but Morgan wasn’t interested in that. The stones brooded on all sides, night shadows still clinging to their bases. The stars had retreated, both northern lights and moon gone as thoroughly as if they had never been.
Just like Alasdair.
Morgan tugged on her clothes and stood up to look around. In every direction the countryside was perfectly still. A patina of dew glistened on the roof of the blue Micra, but there was nothing else of distinctive color.
Certainly not a kilt wrapped around a golden highlander.
How could he have left her?
Morgan spun and examined the site of their tryst with mounting indignation. How could Alasdair have done this to her, after the night they had shared? After what he had said to her? Tears blurred Morgan’s vision and she hated the sense that she had played the fool in love one more time.
It was only when Morgan retrieved her boots from behind a stone that she realized something critical.
The crystal from the regalia was gone. Morgan searched the ground in all directions, ran her fingers through the grass, but to no avail.
The gemstone was gone. Alasdair was gone. She looked, but already knew that the white heather was gone too.
Morgan sat down heavily as the sun peeked rosily at the world. Had Alasdair really managed to go back to the past?
There was only one way to find out for sure. He didn’t have any money, so he would have had to go back to the bed-and-breakfast to eat. Morgan dressed hastily and ran back to the Micra, praying that the car would start.
Evidently the car had forgiven her sins, because it did start.
Justine stretched like a cat in the sun, even though it was pouring rain. She smiled to herself and stirred the sweetener into her coffee. The one thing absent from Scottish breakfast tables were those little blue envelopes that she relied upon to keep her hipline trim. At least, they had been missing, until Justine sat down at the breakfast table at Adaira Macleod’s Rose Cottage Bed-and-Breakfast.
And Adaira’s coffee was divine. Justine watched Blake devour his breakfast and smiled some more as she recalled how he had worked up such an appetite.
“My Mona Lisa,” Blake teased. “Are you smiling about the same thing I’m smiling about?”
Justine just smiled some more. She hadn’t had much sleep, but she felt very, very good this morning. She and Blake shared a hot glance of mutual adoration, then she looked reluctantly at her watch.
“I guess we should wake up Morgan,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a perfect day for lounging in bed. Or drawing.” Blake winked then leaned forward and tapped his fork on the tablecloth, his eyes gleaming. “We could wander back upstairs ourselves, tell Adaira that we’re packing…”
Adaira herself bustled into the room in a puff of frilly pink calico, clicking her tongue as she came. Justine had already noticed that their hostess had a fondness for pink, but this apron was pinker than cotton candy at a state fair.
It was a bit of a jolt first thing in the morning.
“More coffee?” Adaira asked cheerfully, and both Macdonalds held out their cups.
“Your coffee is very good,” Blake said with approval. “The best we’ve had in Scotland.”
“Oh, Mr. Macdonald, all the handsome young men from abroad say just the same.” Adaira filled Blake’s cup with a flourish. “The Captain is always warning me not to go and get vain about my coffee. Adaira, he says, there’s more to making a success of life than grinding your own coffee beans.”
Adaira winked at Justine while filling her cup to the brim with steaming coffee. “But I say there’s more to life than worrying about grand events that have nothing to do with our own wee lives. I would rather be having a nice cup of coffee on a rainy morning and looking upon my lovely roses than worrying myself to death about nonsense brewed up down London way.”
Justine turned and looked out at the roses in question. Adaira had a lovely hedge of pink eglantine roses hugging the perimeter of her well-manicured lawn. They were in their last flush of blooming before the winter, and Justine had admired them already.
But today there was another bush in the middle of the lawn. Justine frowned. She knew it hadn’t been there before. She’d walked around the yard the previous day, after all.
There was no way she could have missed this one. Blood-red blooms the size of her fist adorned the gnarled and obviously ancient bush. Around its base twined a thorny mass that had a different kind of leaves.
Before Justine could ask about it, Morgan burst into the breakfast room. She was wearing the same sweater she had worn the night before when she’d taken the car.
“Justine! He’s gone!”
Justine blinked. Hadn’t Morgan come home?
And who was gone?
Justine had a funny feeling that she’d forgotten something she really should remember, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. He. Hadn’t there been somebody with them?
Just thinking about it made Justine’s head hurt. She felt as though she was prying at a door that didn’t want to be opened. She looked at Blake, but he looked more confused than she felt.
“He?” Justine asked carefully.
“Alasdair!” Morgan was clearly all worked up. “Alasdair MacAulay.”
Justine blinked, the name ringing a distant bell.
Morgan clutched Justine’s hands in obvious consternation. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember. You have to remember. The highlander. The man in the kilt. He’s tall and blond and we found him at Edinburgh Castle and you thought he’d be perfect for me. Justine! He’s why we came to Lewis!”
Blake cleared his throat. “We came here because you had to see those standing stones.” He rolled his eyes. “Big old stones. I was thinking we really should head back south.” He reached down and tugged his tour book out of his jacket pocket. “I don’t know how you convinced me to drive right past Bannockburn, but we have to go back.”
Morgan glanced wildly at Blake. “Why do you have to go to Bannockburn?” she demanded hoarsely.
Blake impatiently tapped his finger on the table. “Morgan, do you ever listen to anything? How many times do I have to tell you that Bannockburn was the site where Robert the Bruce vanquished the English and won Scotland’s freedom? It’s a tremendous precedent for the referendum they just had here.”
Morgan dropped into a third chair at the table, her face pale. “Justine,” she said softly. “Is that what you remember?”
Justine frowned and couldn’t help looking at the red, red rose growing in the middle of the lawn. What Blake had said sounded right, but she couldn’t completely shake an odd sense that there had been another man traveling with them.
She remembered Blake’s flat refusal to come all the way to Callanish. Yet they were here. She knew that there had been something—or someone—that changed his mind. Justine remembered how adamant Blake was about going to Bannockburn, yet at the same time vaguely recalled his hostility about going there when they left Edinburgh.
And she had been in complete agreement with him both times.
As she was now with his insistence that they return.
How odd. Neither of them were people who frequently changed their minds. It was really frustrating not to be able to remember something, especially since she usually had a mind like a steel trap. She forgot nothing, yet now she couldn’t summon a clear picture of this highlander Morgan was talking about. She drummed her fingers on the table, ignoring Morgan’s hopeful gaze, and couldn’t help looking out the window once more.
Justine had an insistent feeling about that rose.
“Adaira,” she called on impulse when the innkeeper bounced back into the room. “Could you tell me about this red rose?”
Morgan glanced out the window and her eyes widened in surprise. “It wasn’t there yesterday!”
“Of course, it was!” Adaira was clearly delighted to tell the tale. “Oh, it’s a lovely old story, that much is for certain. That rose has been there for centuries. You see, there once was a man who loved a certain woman as dearly as ever a man can do. But theirs was a star-crossed match and they were doomed to part.
“When his lady love was stolen away from his side, the man pined frightfully in his loss. Finally, one day, he planted a briar and a rose together, as symbols of himself and her sweet beauty. He told all that as long as his love burned bright, the briar and the rose would twine together, each a part of the other for all time.”
Adaira shrugged. “Well, the man passed away eventually, without his lady love ever being returned to him, and it is said that he was painfully lonely right to the end. Others say his eyes lit with pleasure as he passed on, and they are the ones who say he saw his lady love again in heaven’s grace.
“But either way, none who has ever lived here would bear to let either plant wither away. The briar and the rose you see here are not the originals, of course, but they are the latest of countless generations of briars and roses spawned from those plants.”
She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “Truth be told, my Captain has a weak spot for the tale, though he would deny it up, down, and sideways if you asked him. Sentimental nonsense he calls it, but he has no less than three of each plant carefully nurtured in his wee greenhouse. If one of them takes ill, the other need not endure alone.”
Adaira straightened and wipes a shimmer from her cheek. “It is the least we can do to maintain a man’s gesture of undying love.” She hoisted the pot she held and smiled brightly. “Coffee?”
Blake accepted, then Adaira trotted away. Justine looked back to the rose with the briar tangled around it, feeling as though it was trying to tell her something. It seemed to her that just behind the rose and briar, a little bit out of focus, she could see a tall, blond highlander with sadness in his eyes.
Blue eyes. Very blue eyes.
Everything came back in a rush, as though she had pried open that stubborn door in her memory and forced its contents into daylight. Justine remembered suddenly the way that very man had looked at Morgan, his insistence that he couldn’t be parted from her, the way he had made Morgan laugh once again.
She remembered Alasdair MacAulay filling the back seat of the Micra. Justine recalled how he sang for Morgan, how protective he was of her, how dismayed he had been when she rebuffed his advances, and her heart warmed.
She had watched Alasdair fall in love with her sister.
She turned to Morgan, and the expression on her sister’s face told Justine that the feeling was more than mutual. She covered Morgan’s hand with her own and gave those chilled fingers a squeeze. “Did you tell him? Did he know how you felt?”
Tears shone in Morgan’s eyes as she nodded.
Justine waited, because she knew there was more.
“We made love,” Morgan admitted finally with a flush and a glance at Blake. “And then—and then, he was gone.”
The confession told Justine all she needed to know. Alasdair MacAulay was not the kind of man who took advantage of women or who would have used her sister for his own satisfaction. Furthermore, he wasn’t the kind of rat who would run out on a woman he loved. Something had happened, something had forced him to leave, and Alasdair had had no choice but to go.
But he had wanted Morgan to know the truth. Justine was certain of it. She gave Morgan’s fingers a stronger squeeze. “He planted them for you, as a sign that he loves you.”
“Oh, Justine, I don’t know…”
In that moment, Justine hated Matt Reilly with every fiber of her being. He had destroyed Morgan’s faith in the simple fact that she was lovable, by stealing away a precious cornerstone of her confidence. Somehow Justine was going to repair the damage.
“I know he loves you,” she said firmly. “I knew he was the one for you all along.”
“You remember him, then?” Morgan asked, the hope in her voice almost tangible.
“Remember who?” Blake demanded, but both sisters ignored him.
“Yes.” Justine turned to look into her sister’s eyes and used her most reassuring smile. “You have to tell me what happened so we can figure out what to do.”
“Okay.” Morgan exhaled unevenly and smiled a little bit. Relief surged through Justine that her baby sister wanted to share the story. “I’d like that.”
“Who are we talking about?” Blake asked in obvious exasperation. He looked from one sister to the other and must have seen something in their expressions because he threw up his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. Chick stuff. I’m not listening.”
Then he propped his elbows on the table. “But could we at least think about heading back to the mainland today or tomorrow? We’re running out of vacation and there’s still a ton of things to see!”
Justine leaned across the table and cupped Blake’s face in her hands. “Maybe you could pack while we’re talking,” she suggested gently, then gave him a great big kiss.
That ought to give him enough to think about for a while. Or at least, long enough for Justine to ease the shadows from her baby sister’s eyes. All she had to do was convince Morgan of the simple truth—that Alasdair MacAulay loved her to distraction and that she should take a chance on love.
Whatever that meant.
One look at her sister’s troubled expression made Justine realize that convincing Morgan of the truth wasn’t going to be easy.
Fortunately, that kind of challenge had never stopped Justine before.