Alasdair felt himself tumbling away from Morgan and the stones. He panicked as he fell, but could do naught to stop himself.
Until he rolled into a tree and came to a jarring stop.
He felt the sun upon his shoulders and opened his eyes warily, for he knew ’twas still night.
Yet ’twas not night where he lay—’twas a broad sunny morning. He must have fallen asleep in Morgan’s embrace—and somehow tumbled down the grassy bank beside the standing stones. Alasdair was alone, the standing stones a goodly distance away.
He was on his feet to go awaken Morgan before he realized the Micra was gone.
Had she left him?
Alasdair spun, seeking some sign of the blue chariot, only to realize that no black ribbon of road wound its way across the countryside. There was no pool of black beside the standing stones, no houses, no wires strung along the roadway.
And there was a crusting of frost yet lingering in the shadows. The growth was deadened, compared to where he had been, and Alasdair smelled the snap of winter in the air.
But Callanish was exactly as Alasdair knew it to be.
Even if his memory was not. Only now he became aware of the passage of time, of the fact that he had long been without Morgan. Unfamiliar memories flooded his mind, of the barest moment lost in the keep of Edinburgh, of a string of victories beside Robert the Bruce, of an ache of loss burdening his heart. They were hollow recollections, as though they had been lived by another.
He had endured a spring and summer of knowing his lady was lost to him for all time. Alasdair’s mouth went dry.
Nay! It could not be! They had just been together, Morgan had only just lain in his arms.
A primitive panic swept through him and Alasdair’s heart turned cold. A part of him knew he deceived himself, a part of him recalled the long walk home. A part of Alasdair knew that he had slept here, beneath the stars, deliberately evoking the memory of his magical night with Morgan.
But Alasdair did not want to believe it. His days with Morgan were more real than anything else he had ever known.
And he was not prepared to let her go, much less to live his life without her smile. Alasdair ran wildly toward the stones, shouting Morgan’s name.
But to no avail.
He was alone, as that part of his heart had long known.
“Morgan!” Alasdair bellowed again in frustration and a pair of tow-headed boys peeked out from around the stones.
“Morgan?” the fair-haired one echoed.
“He summons Morgaine le Fee!” the other one declared, his eyes round with alarm.
“I call a woman, name of Morgan,” Alasdair corrected gently. The blonder boy took a step back, just as Alasdair recognized something in those young eyes.
They were of an unusual shade of dark gray, the same as Fenella’s had been. A lump rose in Alasdair’s throat and he recalled his last wish.
Some witchery had sent him home.
“Ha! A witchy woman indeed,” the dark haired boy taunted. “Angus knows all about Morgaine le Fee—his da was stolen away by her!” And he lunged at the fair boy in mock attack.
Alasdair liked well how quickly Angus defended himself. “My da is a hero, no less than that,” he retorted proudly. “My da helped Robert the Bruce, King of All Scots, and does not sit around with his nose in his ale all the day long.”
The other boy’s features contorted with rage and the mock fight turned quickly into a real one. Alasdair waded into the midst and hauled the boys apart, gripping one in each hand by the neck of the shirt.
“I will not be watching such fighting,” he declared solemnly. “’Tis not fitting of good men to beat each other senseless over naught.”
“He mocked my father!” the dark-haired boy claimed hotly.
“Not before you mocked mine!” Angus retorted. The two would have gone at it again, but Alasdair gave them a shake and held them an arm’s length apart.
“And who might your father be?” he asked the dark-haired lad.
“Duncan MacIver.” The boy’s expression was sullen, the distinctive turn of his lips clearly the mark of his sire, now that Alasdair knew to look.
Alasdair smiled wryly. “Aye, I know Duncan well enough. A good-hearted man he is and a strong warrior, though, indeed, he has a fondness for his ale.” He squeezed his son’s shoulders. “’Tis not the mark of a man to note another man’s weakness instead of his strength,” he said gently.
Angus hung his head. “I am sorry.”
MacIver’s son shook off Alasdair’s grip and darted away. “But your da was still snatched by the Faerie Queen!” he cried and scrambled over the rocks. “And he is never coming home to you!”
Alasdair looked to his son, not surprised to find the boy dejected. This was what he had wrought by needing to see his name clear of taint.
Alasdair squatted down beside the boy and Angus flicked a glance his way. ’Twas devoid of the dark lights that had haunted his mother’s gray eyes and Alasdair ached that such a taunt should hurt his son.
“So, Robert the Bruce is a hero and King of All Scots?” he asked.
The boy flicked an incredulous glance Alasdair’s way. “All know it to be true,” he said without the other boy’s scorn. “He defeated the British soundly at Bannockburn and my own da helped him win the day. ’Tis the only reason he went away.”
Angus’s defiance melted Alasdair’s heart. “Aye? And who might your da be?” he asked, needing to hear the words.
“Alasdair MacAulay.”
Alasdair cocked his head towards the fleeing MacIver. “Is it true what he says, then?”
“My da is a hero,” Angus insisted stubbornly. “My da helped Robert the Bruce take Edinburgh keep, my gran says ’tis so.” He took a deep breath. “My gran says not to listen to the tales of his being in league with Morgaine le Fee and using her dark arts to win the keep. Lies, they are, jealous lies!”
“Dark arts?” Alasdair asked mildly.
“Aye, a tale there is that my da shimmered so bright that the others could not look upon him, and that afterward he differed from afore.”
Alasdair frowned, seeing the seed of truth in both the tale and his own memory.
But Angus continued heatedly. “My gran says there was never a man on this isle the like of my da and I should be proud to have him as my father.” His lips tightened and he glared at Alasdair. “And I am.”
“Good for you. A man should be proud of the blood he carries in his own veins.” Alasdair ruffled the boy’s hair and Angus looked up in surprise. “But ’twould be easier to be proud if the man were here, mmm?” Alasdair murmured.
Angus looked away. “He will come home,” he insisted, but there was little conviction in his words.
Alasdair frowned down at the ground. He knew full well that if he confessed his identity now, Angus would not believe him. What proof had he for the boy, after all, beyond his own word?
But there was one who knew the truth.
“I would like to meet this gran of yours,” Alasdair suggested. “Do you think I might?”
Angus eyed the newcomer warily. “She talks only to strangers who bring news from the mainland.”
“Does she now? Well, perhaps I have some news for her.”
A spark of curiosity lit Angus’s eye and his excitement was evident in his voice. “Do you know something of my da?”
“Aye,” Alasdair admitted softly. “Aye, that I do.” When Angus might have asked, he shook a finger. “But ’tis for your gran’s ears.”
And to Alasdair’s surprise, Angus seized his hand and ran towards the path Alasdair knew so very well, as though he would rush the journey that he might know sooner. To Alasdair’s amazement, the pathway was exactly as it had been on the day he had returned here with Morgan, and Alasdair braced himself for disappointment.
But when the pair rounded the last corner of the road, the valley ahead contained precisely the three cottages that Alasdair recalled. A lean, silver-haired woman worked the earth surrounding the uppermost one and now ’twas Alasdair who encouraged his companion to run.
They raced up the valley as if they were both young boys, Angus laughing at Alasdair’s enthusiasm. Alasdair’s gran glanced up at the sound of their footsteps and for once, that woman had naught to say. Her mouth fell open, the color drained from her face and her piercing gaze faltered. Then she flushed crimson and her eyes flashed with characteristic vigor.
“Alasdair MacAulay!” she shouted, her voice echoing down the valley as she braced her hands on her hips. “Where in the devil’s name have you been?”
Angus gasped, and Alasdair could not help but laugh at his gran’s response. “Aye, you have missed me, to be sure.” His gran snorted disdain even as he scooped her up and gave her a fierce hug.
She clutched him tight, whispered his name as though she could not believe he had come home, then insisted on being put back on her feet.
Gran poked Alasdair in the shoulder, her gaze assessing. “We heard tell you were snatched away by no less than Morgaine le Fee at Edinburgh Castle.”
Alasdair sobered. “Aye. ’Tis true enough.”
His gran’s eyes narrowed, but Angus was tugging at Alasdair’s hand. “You are my da?” he demanded excitedly. “Truly?”
Alasdair hunkered down beside the boy and grinned. “Aye, that I am, lad, and I have missed you sorely all these years. You’ve grown to be quite a man while I was gone.”
Angus’s eyes glowed. “And you truly were captured by Morgaine le Fee?”
“Aye, for a deadly moment.”
For indeed, all those days and nights with Morgan seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye.
“Wait until Malcolm MacIver hears tell of this!” Angus was clearly as delighted with this wondrous tale as with his father’s return. Alasdair vowed silently that he would change that, for truly, the boy knew naught of having a sire.
“But da,” Angus asked with no less enthusiasm. “However did you win your freedom? What price did the enchantress charge to send you back?”
Alasdair laced his fingers together and stared at the ground, the fullness of his loss sweeping over him like a great wave. To the boy, ’twas no more than a game Alasdair had played with the Faerie folk and one that Alasdair had won.
’Twas no more than another fanciful tale.
But Alasdair ached with the knowledge that his lady love was separated from him by a rift of centuries, a chasm far greater than any veil betwixt this world and the next.
He knew that he would miss her solely for all his days.
He was home, but alone as he had never been with Morgan by his side. ’Twas a dreadful price to pay, even to see his own son again. There was an ache within him that Alasdair knew would never heal.
Too late, he wished he had told his Faerie Queen of his love. Now Morgan would never know the truth of it, and that wounded Alasdair as much as the loss of her.
“’Twas a tall price I paid,” Alasdair finally managed to say hoarsely. “For the lady has kept my very heart for her own.”
“Cor!” Angus’s eyes went big and round. He grinned, then ran off, all legs and boundless enthusiasm, as his sire watched, no doubt to tell his friends of Alasdair’s return.
When Alasdair straightened, he met his gran’s bright, steady gaze. She studied him for a long moment, then turned away with some excuse of fetching him a meal, the light in her eyes leaving Alasdair to wonder how much she had guessed of the truth.
He stood alone and surveyed the valley he had long called his home, a view so nearly the same as the one he had shared with Morgan. And Alasdair wondered if he would ever look at the world without being reminded of her.
Morgan stood on the porch of the Rose Cottage Bed-and-Breakfast and waved at the retreating Nissan Micra. She caught a last glimpse of Justine’s hand waving madly and bit her lip as the little car disappeared over the crest of the hill.
It felt as though a part of her had slipped away. It was a much smaller part than the big chunk of her heart that had disappeared with Alasdair, but still Morgan suddenly felt very alone.
She and Justine had talked all through the night, and Justine’s insistence that Alasdair loved Morgan still rang in the younger sister’s ears. Trust Justine to take in stride the fact that Alasdair had traveled across seven centuries. Nothing could ruffle her sister, Morgan knew it.
Just the thought made her smile a little bit.
Justine was certain—as Justine was always certain—that Morgan should do whatever she had to do to be with Alasdair. But Morgan wasn’t so sure.
What if Justine was wrong?
Because the simple fact was that although Alasdair had said a lot of wonderful things, he had never said that he loved Morgan.
Plus she knew he loved Fenella.
To Morgan’s immense relief, even Blake had remembered Alasdair after they had checked the fate of the regalia in everyone’s tour books. But it had been a struggle for Justine and Blake to recall him, and Morgan ached to see Alasdair so easily forgotten.
In fact, no one else at the bed-and-breakfast had any memory at all of his presence. Robert the Bruce was a hero again, Bannockburn had been the site of a winning Scottish independence, there had been a recent referendum over establishing a Scottish National Assembly, and Sir Walter Scott was back in the books where he belonged. There was even a picture of the regalia in Morgan’s guidebook, complete with a quartz crystal mounted between the gold porpoises.
It was as though Alasdair had never appeared in their time. But Morgan’s aching heart knew the truth, and she hoped that Alasdair’s return had made a similar difference in the fate of his son.
There had to be something good about losing him.
When the sound of the car’s engine had faded from earshot and the silence of the hills pressed against her ears, Morgan felt as though she had decided much more than to stay on and work on her drawings here. It seemed so final, watching the last shred of the life she knew drive away.
At the same time, she was afraid to take a chance on the love she felt for Alasdair. After all, experience had shown that she could make mistakes in affairs of the heart.
Even if she could manage to follow Alasdair, what if she was wrong?
Morgan didn’t know what to do, but she did have a lot of work in front of her. She had so many of Alasdair’s stories still to illustrate with drawings, and in one way, she couldn’t wait to start. In another way, Morgan was afraid that once she made all the drawings, the memory of Alasdair’s resonant tones would fade from her mind as they had from nearly everyone else’s.
Morgan wanted to cling to every vestige of his memory that she could.
While Morgan lingered indecisively on the porch with her jumbled emotions, Adaira came bustling through the door. On this day, she was decked out in fuchsia frills. “Miss Lafayette! I can’t begin to tell you again how delighted we are that you’ve decided to stay on to work. You simply must make yourself right at home here.”
Morgan smiled. “Thank you.”
Adaira fussed with the wicker chairs, moving them incrementally, even though Morgan couldn’t see anything wrong with where they were. “It’s a pity that your sister has taken the car, though I suppose they’ll need it to get back to Edinburgh.”
Adaira snapped her fingers before Morgan could say anything. “You know, the Captain is always saying that a bit of exercise does a body good, and there is a bicycle in the garage, whenever you want to use it. Of course, we’d be happy to drive you anywhere when we’re out and about, but the Captain does tend to just pop off for a pint at the oddest moments…”
“Thank you,” Morgan interjected, finding the idea of a bike ride enormously appealing. “The bike will be great. Maybe I’ll go for a ride now.”
Adaira smiled sympathetically. “A bit restless, are you? I always say as it’s hard to say good-bye, though the Captain insists that partings make the gatherings all the sweeter.”
Morgan couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Adaira’s indulgent glance revealed her thinking that Morgan was all choked up about Justine’s departure.
But it was another parting that was eating a hole in Morgan’s heart. Suddenly, she had to know that her pain had gained something for someone.
She had to know that Angus had lived longer.
She had to know that losing Alasdair had been worth something.
Frances Fergusson was only too glad to see Morgan, although her cats were fairly indifferent to the whole affair. The two women talked about paints and composition for a few moments, then at Morgan’s request, they dove back into the crowded room of records.
“Here’s the box you and that Scotsman had before,” Frances declared.
Morgan’s jaw just about hit the floor. “You remember him?”
Frances’s eyes twinkled. “Now, I may be an old widow woman, my dear, but I still have eyes in my head, and he was one fine young man. A MacAulay, wasn’t he?” She clicked her teeth and opened the box, popping her bifocals onto her nose. “That ledger should be right near the top. No one’s been past since you were here.”
Morgan sat down with a thump. “But no one remembers Alasdair except me.”
Frances peered over her half-glasses. Then she smiled and gave Morgan’s hand a pat. “Well, I saw the look in the man’s eye, my dear, and you may be sure that he is remembering you, wherever he is.” Her gaze brightened as she fingered the ledger. “In fact, I would suspect that only a very, very good reason would take him away from your side.”
With that, she handed over the book and smiled. “I think I’ll put on a pot of tea just now.”
And Morgan was alone with the book that recounted the first of the MacAulays. Just holding it in her hands made her think of the day they had all three packed in here, how anxious Alasdair had been, and the enormous quantity of shortbread he had consumed. Morgan took a deep breath, blinked away her tears and opened the book.
Olaf the Black.
Ismay of Mull and Ranald MacAulay.
Angus MacAulay and Fiona Campbell.
She looked at the ceiling, then moved her hand a little lower, knowing what she would see.
Alasdair MacAulay.
His name.
Morgan ran her fingertips over the spidery black writing and hid the date of his demise with her hand. She stared at the letters until her tears blurred them beyond recognition.
Alasdair MacAulay. Just the sight of his name summoned a vision of him that was almost tangible. Alasdair was in this book, as though he had been no more real than any of the others, but Morgan had held the heat of him inside her.
And now he was lost to her forever.
Did she really want to know what the book said? What if he had died young and alone? What if he hadn’t really made if back to his own time? A tremor of fear claimed Morgan’s heart and she almost couldn’t bear to look, couldn’t bear to know. She could think of a thousand possibilities, any of which would make her deeply unhappy.
Morgan called herself a chicken, took a deep breath, and moved her hand.
d. 1322—in noble defense of Scotland’s borders, by the side of Robert the Bruce.
But Alasdair hadn’t wanted to fight anymore! How could that be? Morgan stared at the page, and her heart stopped when she read the line immediately below.
Angus—b. 1308, d. 1315.
That line hadn’t changed.
A lump rose in Morgan’s throat. How could Angus not have lived longer? Alasdair had gone back to help his son!
Had he gone back only to watch his son die? Morgan could just imagine how that would have destroyed Alasdair. He was so determined to make up for lost time, and to compensate for the time he had spent apart from his son.
Yet Angus had died. Had Alasdair even managed to see the vestige of his beloved Fenella in his son one last time? What if he had gotten there too late?
Morgan looked to Alasdair’s epitaph again and her heart clenched. Alasdair’s return to his own time had made no difference to Angus’s life. Morgan could almost feel the anguish Alasdair must have felt, to be helpless against whatever had stolen away his only son.
She scanned the listing again and saw that Ismay of Mull had died in 1320. That must have been Alasdair’s gran, the one who told so many wondrous tales and who he so avidly admired.
Everyone in his life had died, and he had been left alone.
No wonder he had gone back to war. Had Alasdair ever forgiven himself for taking that witch’s dare? Or had he gone to his grave believing that he had failed everyone around him?
What a horrible fate for a man who was so intent on upholding duty and honor.
At just the thought, Morgan buried her face in her hands and started to cry. Had Alasdair been the one to plant the briar and the rose? Could Justine be right? Had Alasdair pined away—loving her? Justine was convinced, but Morgan wasn’t quite so sure.
All the same, she hated not knowing what had happened to him, and halfway wished she hadn’t come back here.
“Now, my dear, what can be so very wrong?” Frances came back with two steaming cups of tea, concern lining her brow. “Nothing could be so bad as that, could it? After all, everything there happened ages and ages ago! Your man and you are taking it all too personal like. Have a nice hot cup of tea, my dear, and everything will seem much better.”
But Morgan just looked up at her hostess. “Why do you remember Alasdair when no one else does?”
Frances smiled sadly. “You do.”
“I know, but that’s different…”
“Because you love him?” Frances suggested softly. When Morgan nodded, the older woman sat down on the box beside her and sternly handed her a cup of tea. She gave Morgan a sharp eye until Morgan obediently took a sip.
“I don’t know why I remember things other people don’t,” Frances admitted and shrugged. “But I do. That’s just how it is. And it always has been that way. For all the women in my family, actually. It goes back for ages”—she winked—“and you can be sure that there are plenty of stories of witches in my family tree. My Harold used to say…”
Frances’s voice faded, then she waved off whatever she had been about to say. “But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I do remember your Alasdair. And even more important, that you remember him.”
Frances leaned over and tapped Morgan’s stomach as she looked into the younger woman’s eyes. “Because there’s someone who’s going to need to know all about him one of these days.”
Morgan straightened in surprise. “What?”
Frances smiled. “You’ve a wee bairn on the way.”
Morgan sputtered in astonishment. She was pregnant? But that was impossible. It had only been two days since she and Alasdair had been together. “You can’t know that!”
Frances smiled and sipped her tea. “Can’t I? Well, then I must be mistaken. Why don’t you let me know in about six weeks?”
There was a certainty in the older woman’s eyes that made Morgan wonder. Frances had said that she knew things she shouldn’t.
What if Morgan was pregnant with Alasdair’s child? A thrill raced through her at the prospect, and Morgan was filled with delight that she would have at least a vestige of him in her life.
Then her gaze fell to the book and its tragic contents. Morgan knew with sudden conviction that the child, if there was one, wasn’t for her alone.
No, she knew how much Alasdair’s son meant to him. She knew how much he valued the gift of fatherhood. If she and Alasdair had conceived, then Morgan owed it to Alasdair to seek him out, in the past.
It would mean taking a chance on her love for him. Morgan’s mouth went dry.
It would also mean losing all contact with Justine and Blake. It would mean never delivering on her book contract. It would mean stepping away from everything she knew—to find a legendary love.
If she could.
Morgan already knew that she felt more at home on this island than she had anywhere else in the world, even Auntie Gillian’s house. She liked the rhythm of the island and the way the people spoke. She loved the harsh lines of the land and the lyrical beauty of the tales they shared around the fire. It had changed so little since Alasdair’s time that even he had been fooled.
And she loved Alasdair.
What if he really did love her? Certainly, he had said some things that were at least encouraging, and he had loved her with a tender deliberation that couldn’t have been accidental.
There was that red, red rose behind Adaira’s bed-and-breakfast.
What if her going back in the past could make a difference? What if she could do something to help Angus? What if she could give Alasdair another child?
What if her going back would ensure that Alasdair never went back to war, and never died lonely and broken-hearted?
If she was pregnant, didn’t their child deserve to know its father? At least, if Morgan could manage the trip through time in Alasdair’s wake?
But what about her book? Her sister? Her life?
Morgan was so lost in her thoughts that she jumped when Frances leaned over to give her hand a pat. “I also have a feeling you might need to know a little Gaelic,” Frances said softly. “Come and see me, dear, if you do. You never know how an old librarian might be able to help.”
In that moment, when Morgan looked into Frances’s knowing eyes, she made a decision. If she was pregnant, she would go to Alasdair.
Frances would help her.
In the time that it would take to get her pregnancy confirmed, Morgan would finish drawing Alasdair’s stories.
Justine had just finished losing her lunch on a sunny November Wednesday afternoon when the phone rang. As much as she hated to answer, it might be Mrs. Fitzgerald about Lorraine’s wedding invitations. They had to go out soon or not at all, but the Fitzgeralds could never decide about anything. Justine rubbed the perspiration from her brow and made her way to the phone.
But it wasn’t Mrs. Fitzgerald, or even Lorraine.
“Justine?”
“Morgan! How are you?”
“Good. You?”
“Great! Well, actually, I feel like hell, but that’s a good thing.” Justine laughed. “Morgan, you won’t believe this, but I’m finally pregnant!”
Justine could feel her sister’s interest sharpen. “Oh! That’s terrific.”
“Isn’t it? Blake’s thrilled to death. You should see him. He’s a classic mother hen. And I’ve had all the tests and everything’s okay. They wanted to tell me whether it’s a boy or a girl, but I want to wait. Do you think that’s nuts? I mean, we could plan everything if we knew…”
“I think it’s wonderful,” Morgan said warmly. “You know, a little spontaneity never hurt anyone.”
Justine grinned. “I don’t know. Blake might have an allergy we know nothing about.”
“Blake?” Morgan choked back what might have been a chuckle. “What about you?”
Justine laughed merrily. “So, we’re a little organized. The newest Macdonald will probably change all of that when he or she comes along.”
“When are you due?”
“June third.”
“I’ll think of you.” There was a somber note in Morgan’s voice that caught Justine’s attention.
Had Morgan decided what to do?
“Morgan, where are you?”
“Um, I’m still on Lewis.”
There was a cautiousness in those words that didn’t answer Justine’s unspoken question. “Oh. How are your drawings coming along?”
“Good. Good. They’re done.”
Justine twined the phone cord around her fingers. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Are you pleased?”
“Yes.” Morgan hesitated and Justine smiled affectionately. Her sister was so shy about her talents. “I think you’re right that they’re my best.”
“I guess you were inspired.”
Justine had made the comment lightly, but when Morgan gulped, she realized she’d said the wrong thing. “Oh, I didn’t mean Alasdair. I meant the scenery and everything…”
“It’s okay, Justine. I’m okay. Really.”
But Morgan sounded far from okay. Justine straightened, fighting against a sense of foreboding. “Good,” she said in her caterer voice. “When are you coming home?”
“Well.” Justine could just see Morgan shifting her weight from foot to foot, and she didn’t like the sound of uncertainty in her sister’s voice. “Well, that’s just it.”
Silence fell over the connection, but Justine held her breath and waited.
“I’m not coming home,” Morgan confessed in a very small voice.
Justine closed her eyes against a tide of mixed emotions. She had a very good idea where Morgan was going to go instead, and just the thought made her stomach feel queasy again, even though it was emptier than empty.
But the misery that had filled Morgan’s voice since Alasdair had disappeared tore at Justine’s heart.
“I’m pregnant, Justine,” Morgan confessed softly. “I have to go.”
Justine gripped the phone more tightly. She couldn’t think about medieval midwifery. Not for one minute. Alasdair would be the biggest and most fiercely protective guardian angel her baby sister could hope to have.
If Morgan could get to him.
“Do you think you can do it?” Justine’s voice sounded too strained to be her own.
Morgan sighed and doubt filled her words. “I don’t know. The stone is gone. I’ve learned a little Gaelic, but probably not enough.” Her words faltered a little, and Justine ached for what her sister was enduring. “But I have to try, Justine. Tonight is the full moon and I just have to try.”
Justine bit her lip. “I understand.”
Morgan’s voice dropped. “I just…I miss him.” She paused and Justine waited for the confession she knew would come. “I love him.”
Justine felt the warmth of her tears tumble down her cheeks. The highlander had made a miracle happen. He had gently pried open Morgan’s protective armor and fitted himself right inside her tender heart. Morgan would never be happy without him at her side—especially now that she carried his child—and Justine couldn’t blame her for that.
She remembered how delighted she had been when Morgan had laughed for the first time in years. There had been something between them, right from the start. Something magical and powerful. Something that had drawn Alasdair across seven centuries to find Morgan.
It just wasn’t right that they should be apart.
Justine thought of the briar and the rose, eternally entwined as a testament of one man’s love for one woman, and her tears fell in a torrent. She was so very glad that Morgan had decided to take a chance on love—even though she was going to miss her sister terribly.
“I know,” Justine admitted unevenly. “Oh, Morgan, I know. And I’m sure that he’s missing you just the way you’re missing him.”
Morgan exhaled shakily. “I hope so, Justine. I really do.”
“Go,” Justine urged. “Go and find out.”
Morgan’s next words were so low that Justine had to strain to hear them. “I love you, Justine.”
“Yes.” Justine’s voice was uneven. “I love you, too, Morgan. I love you so very much.” Justine knew they were both very aware that they had never made such a declaration to each other before.
And she wondered why they had waited so long.
“Justine, don’t forget me.”
A lump rose in Justine’s throat with a vengeance, and her whispered declaration was nearly inaudible. “Never.”
“If you don’t hear from me by…”
“Don’t say it!” Justine took a deep breath, and the line crackled between them. “Don’t even say it. I’ll find out. Trust me.”
Morgan then began to speak very quickly. Justine realized she was probably in a post office or some other public place and subject to a lot of interested glances. “Look, um, say good-bye to Blake for me and take care of yourself, okay? Make sure you drink your milk and go to the doctor and all of that, all right?”
Justine smiled through her tears. Imagine Morgan being protective of her! “I will. Don’t worry. Blake has a chart on the fridge of everything I have to eat every day.”
Morgan snorted. “He would.”
“Oh yeah, I’m his new project.”
Morgan laughed shakily. “Well, listen to him. I’m sure he’s done his research and knows more about having children than old Mother Hubbard.”
“No doubt.” Justine’s smile broadened, and a golden moment stretched between the two sisters. “You take care of yourself, too—and tell Alasdair that Blake thinks Robert the Bruce is a hero. He’s ordered some damn statue or something for his office.”
Morgan chuckled, then sniffled suspiciously. “I will.”
A silence stretched between them, and Justine knew that neither of them wanted to actually say good-bye.
For the last time.
“It’s okay, Morgan,” she finally whispered. “Go and be happy.”
“I will, oh, I will,” Morgan vowed. “And Justine, kiss that baby for me, will you?”
Justine barely had time to nod before the line clicked.
She stared at the silent receiver for a long moment, feeling as though setting it back in the cradle would separate her from Morgan for all time.
But that had already happened. Justine’s tears welled again and she sobbed inelegantly. She bit her knuckles and cried like a child, sitting with the handset still clenched in her fist. She felt torn in half, wanting nothing other than for Morgan to be happy but at the same time hurting because Morgan was gone.
Justine’s stomach rolled ominously, and it occurred to her that the baby in her belly was going to give her this feeling again, and probably more than once.
Loving was about knowing when to shelter and when to set free. And Justine knew in her heart that Morgan was going to be very happy. Alasdair MacAulay would make sure of that.
She had personally picked him, hadn’t she?
And Auntie Gillian would have liked him just fine.
Morgan stood in the post office, well aware that every eye was surreptitiously on her. She sniffled, blew her nose heartily, then wiped her eyes. Even talking to Justine hadn’t changed her mind. Morgan knew what she had to do.
She knew what she wanted to do.
But first things first.
She picked up the bound copy of her drawings, each one now lovingly rendered in ink and carefully colored. The bookbinder she had found in town had done a stupendous job, turning her work into an heirloom volume that humbled her with its beauty. The leather cover gleamed with subtle gold embossing, and the endpapers were marbled paper from Florence.
It was exactly what she had wanted. Morgan smiled as she recalled the countless hours she had spent on this volume, her smile broadening when she thought of what Justine’s reaction would be when it arrived.
If all went well, there would be only one copy of Morgan’s book, Scottish Faerie Tales. She opened the book carefully and wrote quickly on the cover page.
For Justine, Blake, and (mostly!) Baby Macdonald—
With all my love,
For all time,
Morgan.
Morgan blew on the ink until it dried, closed the book, and took it to the postal wicket. “Do you have a padded envelope that would fit this? It’s going to the States and it has to arrive in perfect condition.”
The elderly postmaster peered through his glasses at the book with a harrumph. “A gift?”
“For a new baby. A first baby.”
“Hmm.” He nodded approval. “Powerful good luck that is.” Then he muttered to himself and disappeared behind the counter as he sought the appropriate packaging. Morgan ran her hand over the beautifully bound book and knew she was doing the right thing.
In more ways than one.