Page 31 of Highlander Unraveled
“Take it,” he said. Not a bit of consternation or threat in his tone. “The vintage is divine.”
I took the glass, trying to keep my hand steady. I swirled the wine in the cup, sniffed. It smelled good. Oaky and fruity undertones. Judging from the scent, it would be good. And I was struck then with such a sense of ridiculousness. I’d just been forced five hundred years in the future, leaving behind my husband, my newborn, all of my friends, and I was sniffing wine.
Mr. McAlister raised his glass in the air and said, “To new beginnings.”
But, I refused to cheer to that. I didn’t want a new beginning. I wanted my old life back. However, I couldn’t very well say that aloud, so instead, I raised my glass and thought:To finding Logan.Reuniting with Saor.
The wine swished over my tongue, as delicious as its fragrance. As divine as McAlister had said it was.
“Your stew smells mighty fine,” McAlister said to Mrs. MacDonald.
My stomach grumbled, evidently also believing it smelled good, though my mouth was dry. I took another sip of wine, surprised at how very good it really was, hoping that by wetting my tongue, I’d also whet my appetite. I needed to eat. To keep up my strength. It wouldn’t do to search for a way back if I had not the energy to stand.
“Oh, yes, let us eat.” Mrs. MacDonald set down her glass and rushed back to the stove.
She dished out three generous portions into bowls and I set out spoons, knives and forks on top of napkins at the very table Moira and Rory had been sitting at a couple weeks ago—if Mr. McAlister’s estimation of when Moira disappeared could be believed.
I flattened my hand on the surface, smoothing my palm over the wood, hoping to draw comfort from something a friend had touched.
My heart ached; a permanent lump resided in my throat. I swallowed around it, telling myself to remain strong through this meal; else, these two know the exact depth of my despair, leaving me at quite the disadvantage.
We ate mostly in silence, thank goodness. The stew was fragrant, but tasteless on my tongue. I was simply too numb to enjoy it. Even the wine had lost its luster.
When Mrs. MacDonald was clearing the table, the solicitor pulled out a picture and placed it on the surface, sliding it toward me.
“Recognize that?” he asked.
I gazed down at the snapshot, my friends’ faces smiling back at me. Shona with her fiery red locks and Moira with dark, unruly curls. They were dressed stylishly, and the background looked to be that of a flower storeroom. Probably their herbal shop. Puzzling though, was why he’d ask if I recognizedthat… “You mean, them, not that?”
“Nay.”
What the heck was he talking about? I stared at his wine glass, certain he must have had too much to drink.
“What do ye see around Moira’s neck?” he urged.
I stared at the same necklace I’d seen her wear at Gealach, the one we’d found out had been given to her by her true parents—the king and queen of Scotland, who’d lived almost two hundred years before 1544.
Did McAlister know what he was asking? What he was looking at?
“The necklace?” I managed to keep my voice from wavering.
“And ye recognize it do ye not?” He nodded, as if trying to prompt me to answer his way.
I met his gaze, seeing the intensity. I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I lied.
He leaned forward in his chair, flicking his eyes back to Mrs. MacDonald who’d turned on the sink and was humming as she soaped up the dinner dishes.
“Look, the two of us are going to have to work together,” he said.
“Or what?” Lord, what was happening? My head swam from exhaustion, fear, anxiety, wine.
“Finding Moira.”
I shook my head. “I’m looking for someone else.”
Oh, why had I admitted that? I guess I just wanted the man to leave me alone.
“Who?”
