CHAPTER FOUR
The driver leaped out of the waiting Mercedes to open the rear door for Ivy and usher her into the foreign world of white leather seats and luxury motor-car experiences. It took the driver but a moment to gently stow her one bit of luggage in the trunk before heading into morning traffic.
The ride seemed endless, and she couldn't quite shake the out-of-place feeling that overtook her. She, Ivy MacLeod, was being driven by a silent, uniformed chauffer to a private LearJet that was waiting just for her. It was exciting, but at the same time she felt like an imposter. She hadn't sorted out those feelings by the time the driver announced their arrival at the airport.
Ivy's fingers tightened on the armrest in rising anxiety as the Mercedes bypassed the main terminal and turned onto a side road skirting it. Driving through the private aircraft gate and onto the tarmac, the car delivered her to the airport official waiting by the plane.
She was urged out of the car with the same silent service with which she had been stuffed into it. Her passport was then examined by the airport official before being returned to her with a quiet, "Have a safe journey, Ms. MacLeod."
The official all but saluted before driving off in his little cart and leaving Ivy alone on the tarmac. The wind blew at her, making her feel all the more alone and out of place. Turning, she stared up at the LearJet whose waiting stairway led up into the unknown in more ways than one.
The little jet was small and sleek, gleaming white and elegant, and obviously expensive. Ivy jumped as a man emerged from the open cabin door and bounded down the stairs. Tall and rugged with a great smile, the man at least looked halfway friendly as he rattled off something in a Scots accent that Ivy assumed was a greeting. She managed to catch, "'m Alastair, yer pilot."
"I'm Ivy," she murmured.
She thought she heard, "Take yer bag," and do...something..."wi' it," a moment before he snagged her satchel. Those words were fast followed by, "get y'self aboard," but her comprehension was intuitional rather than actual.
What was I thinking just the other day about Scottish burrs? She gave the pilot a nervous smile and nodded before climbing the stairs into the cabin and hesitating just inside the door.
Four broad, comfortable-looking, black leather captain's chairs waited within. Two small tables had been placed between each set of chairs, which meant a couple could fly facing each other and there was room to share a small meal if they so chose. The carpeting was thick and lush, the paneling made of gleaming ash.
Ivy's sneakers and jeans suddenly felt terribly inappropriate. Not daring to explore beyond the main cabin, she all but tiptoed to the seat closest to the door and up against the bulkhead. Shoving her purse beneath the seat, she slid her sketchpad in between the wall and the seat.
Alastair arrived seconds later to retract the stairs, secure the door, and say something else unintelligible. Ivy's blank expression must have identified the problem because he repeated himself. This time, he pointed to her seatbelt, which was dangling at the side of the chair.
"Oh, right. Thanks." She clicked the belt into place as he disappeared inside the cockpit and closed the door behind him.
Taking a deep breath, she made a conscious effort to let go the arms of the chair as the Lear's engines started. Moments later, she was being carried toward the runway and whatever adventures Halden Greenwood had planned for her.
When you've already jumped down the rabbit hole, it's best not to consider second thoughts, she decided, wishing her palms would stop sweating. We'll see what we get when we get there.
Within minutes, the Lear lifted into the sky, and Ivy was soon lulled to sleep by the vibration of its engines.
# #
Ivy awoke some time later when the undercarriage touched down and the plane engines roared in reverse thrust. Glancing out the window, she saw a bleak, overcast world featuring tall fir trees and great drifts of snow.
Are we in Scotland already? she wondered as they taxied to a long metal shed seemingly set in the middle of nowhere. A glance at her watch told her they'd been in the air only a few hours. Where are we?
Alastair emerged from his cockpit to open the cabin door and let in a rush of freezing air. Shivering, Ivy reached for her ski jacket and followed him down the narrow steps. The wind was bitterly cold, and her jacket didn't offer much protection.
"Don't be long, lassie," Alastair advised. "We'll be leavin' soon as I refuel and make a pickup."
My ears are either getting better, or he's speaking more clearly for my sake. I hope he doesn't take off and leave me here. Taking the pilot's warning to heart, Ivy bowed her head against the wind and hurried toward the wind-rattled, isolated terminal at the edge of the icy runway.
Approaching the heavy steel door leading into the building, Ivy's nose was nearly taken off when someone shoved through from the other side. Leaping backward, she barely evaded the sharp end of the long stick the man had in his hand. Wrapped up in a heavy fur parka and carrying a duffle bag, he ploughed past Ivy only to stop and turn back to her as she caught the door before it blew closed.
"Sorry," said a muffled voice, all but lost against the wind.
"That's all right."
He went on his way while she went in search of hot chocolate and a bathroom.
# #
Pushing back his hood, Legolas approached the pilot as the fuel truck pulled up. "Alastair McCormack?"
"Aye, m'laird." The man shook the Elf's hand before handing the airport refueler his company credit card. "Apologies for keepin' you waitin', we were delayed a bit."
"I hear it's expected these days."
"Aye." Alastair glanced at the refueler who was well out of earshot. "My father knew you when he was a boy, m'laird. It's many a story I've heard, and a long time I've waited to meet you. It's an honor to be workin' for you, can I stow your gear and your bow?"
Legolas slung the weapon over his shoulder. "I'll secure the bow inside the cabin."
"Of course, m'laird. And your duffle?"
"A moment." Settling the long bag on the ground, Legolas pulled out his knives and quiver full of arrows before letting the pilot claim it. "Thank you."
"My pleasure, m'laird. Now why not get up out of the cold and make yourself comfortable upstairs? We'll take off as soon as the little one returns."
Little one? Legolas wondered. He must have brought his child with him on the flight. Irritation flashed briefly. I hope he doesn't expect me to entertain his offspring. I have work to do.
Legolas studied the plane. "Will you check the wings for ice?"
"Aye, m'laird, but 'tis a precaution only. All during the flight here and before our next lift-off, the wings'll be heatin' themselves with bleed air from the engines."
"So we have an anti-ice system rather than a less reliable de-icing?" Legolas ventured.
Alastair nodded. "All Lears fly above the commercial jets at 40,000 feet where ice is common. But our lady flies so fast, her wings heat up from friction. So no worries."
"That is well."
Taking up his quiver, Legolas climbed the stairs and ducked inside the cabin. Shrugging out of his parka, the Elf tossed it across the chair closest to the door, set his bow against the other chair, and laid his quiver atop the parka. Moving about the cabin, he opened every compartment to inspect what was inside and locate the emergency equipment in case it was needed later.
Slamming one door a little too fiercely, the Elf smoothed the hapless wood in silent apology. He knew it was wrong to take his ill temper out on the cabinetry. Already, his irritation had resulted in his nearly running over someone as he had exited the terminal. Nothing can change the fact that I do not want to be returning to Scotland, but that does not mean I must throw a tantrum worthy of the Evenstar herself.
The only access in and out of Meyer's Chuck, Alaska - where Legolas had spent the last half-century - was by float plane. Those living there, including the Elf, had liked it that way. He had arrived fifty-three years before with nothing but the clothes he wore and the skills he'd learned in Middle-earth. He left sullen and resentful at the necessity calling him home, with only a few more clothes and his weapons in hand.
Having my knives with me is always an improvement. He glanced at the cabinets again. Best I store them out of reach of the child, who will hopefully share the cockpit with its father and leave me a little more time without the constant irritation of Mortal company.
Legolas knew he had been too long away, and he would have been longer away, except that Haldir had contacted him via e-mail a few days before. Trouble was brewing on the company board – trouble from a certain board member who hadn't been there when Legolas had been in charge. Trouble from someone Haldir wasn't certain he could handle by himself.
I can handle the board, Legolas thought. What I am fast losing patience with is my inability to handle my own emotions. I spent over fifty years alone, yet I return feeling no better than the day I left.
He had been furious that day in Paris when he had walked away from Isabel Hamilton and left her to whatever fate had planned for her without him. No matter how much he had tried to show his love, she had made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with him: she wanted neither his protection or his love.
Legolas had tolerated her abuse long enough, had walked away in a fury and cut himself off from his own kind in an effort to heal. While in Alaska, he had also resolved to never let down his emotional walls and make the same mistake again.
I wanted what I cannot have – to belong with someone and to someone, he acknowledged, pacing the jet's small cabin like a caged tiger. That's obviously impossible this side of Valinor. I have known that for millennia, so what foolishness made me delude myself into pursuing it with anyone, let alone Her?
Haunted by the past, Legolas was also held prisoner by it – and not only Middle-earth's past with its War of the Ring and Aragorn's death and most of the Eldar's departure. He had only to drop into memory, and it was as if Isabel still lived, still taunted him for his imperfections and failure to please her. She still rejected him for his vulnerabilities as well as his needs, neither of which had been shared by her.
Damn you to whatever hell exists for fallen daughters of time, Legolas thought, snatching open the next cabinet. And damn my waking sleep that will not let you go.
# #
The inside of Ivy's nose was freezing and so were her lungs as the cold air carried a burn all its own. Bounding up the jet's stairway, she re-entered the small cabin only to stop dead at the sight of a second passenger.
Oops. Is that the pickup? I thought the pilot meant a package, not a person. The cabin of the Lear suddenly seemed much, much smaller as she stared at the new occupant. Who is that, and why do I have to travel with him?
The new passenger was broad-shouldered and had an elegant back, all outlined beneath a tight black wool sweater. Hard muscles moved easily beneath it, and his waist-length blonde hair flowed with him as he reached into a cabinet. Slamming the door, he muttered in something that wasn't English.
He reached for the long-bow propped against the chair with a movement so fluid and graceful, Ivy thought she might never breathe again. Her heart skipped when a pointed ear peeked delicately through his hair and he half-turned toward her. Shadows dusted the skin beneath his high cheekbones, and all of him glowed in the cabin's dim lighting. Long, slender fingers secured the bow behind Ivy's chair, which led Ivy's gaze to the worn quiver waiting to be stowed.
She stared in disbelief at the faded blue peacock etched in the leather casing and holding court with a pair of long knives. Their metal glowed almost white in the cabin lighting. Long... white... knives....
"Oh, my God," Ivy whispered.
He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of her voice, and Ivy fell into eyes the color of the sea.
"Mae govannen," she breathed.
"Suilaid."
His voice was low and beautiful. He turned toward her, and his aura vibrated with contained power and a strange beauty Ivy realized no book could ever convey. This, then, was an Elven warrior, and Ivy no longer doubted their existence.
She wouldn't have to reach Scotland to find out if Halden Greenwood was a crackpot wannabe. Before her was an Elf. Definitely an Elf. The first she had ever seen.
Nodding to Ivy in what felt like dismissal, the Elf reached to secure his quiver.
He has to be Legolas, Ivy's thoughts raced. I'm stuck in a LearJet with the most dangerous of Elves, that's what I get for not believing they exist. Haldir of Lothlórien really did buy me pizza the other night, and I owe Mom a huge apology.
Oh, look at him, he's like the finest of stallions - all fire and strength and pride. I'd give anything to sketch him.
"You should sit down," he said in what she now recognized as Sindarin. "We'll be leaving soon."
"Pardon me, lassie." A harsher voice intruded before Ivy could reply. A pair of heavy hands landed on her hips. "I need to get by."
Startled, she sprang forward.
"Haldir said to give this to you." Alastair handed a cell phone to Legolas.
"Tapadh leat." The Elf turned on the phone. "My old one died in Meyers Chuck."
"Aye, Haldir said that, too. He's the first number on speed dial.
Legolas glared at the small thing in his hand. "Where is speed dial?"
"That button and then that one will get you to Haldir. That's all you'll be needing for now." The pilot turned from the Elf studying the cell phone to retract the plane's steps and secure the door. "Buckle yourselves in. Our next stop is New York City."
Alastair retreated back into his cockpit.
"Please." Legolas gestured to the seat nearest him. 'Sit' was the inherent order.
He wants to sit closest to the door, Ivy realized. In case of what? A UFO attack?
Taking a deep breath, she frantically sought the right Sindarin verb tense and hoped she got it right. "I was sitting where you are now. Let me move my things."
Rather than step aside, Legolas reached down and searched the chair. Retrieving Ivy's purse and sketch pad, he all but shoved them at her. Ivy tucked away her things before sitting down in the chair farthest from him and was careful to never take her eyes off of him.
Long fingers snagged the seatbelt dangling at her side and thrust it at her. "Put this on. Now."
"Thank you," she whispered, again in Sindarin, and did as he ordered.
"Where did you learn the language you speak?" the Elf demanded in English.
"College," she whispered.
"Forget everything you think you learned."
She winced. "That bad?"
His smiled was tight, with the ghost of a dimple. "Yes."
"It's forgotten."
I wonder what I said? came the frantic thought. Did I address him in the wrong tense or as a child or something? Did I say something offensive?
Oooh, I forgot he hates my family. Mom warned me to avoid him, and she was right, but how can I possibly avoid him in here?
The engines came alive, and the plane rolled toward the runway. Ivy scarcely noticed.
"You stare at me as if you've never seen an Elf before."
"I haven't. Until two days ago, I didn't know you existed outside of books and a few New Zealand films."
That won his silence for a few seconds. His gaze on her was unnerving, though. "Who are you?"
It wasn't a request for information, it wasn't even a demand. It was a command she dared not defy.
"My name is Ivy MacLeod." It took two tries for her to get it out, and even then her voice was little more than a whisper.
The blue eyes narrowed, and Ivy could sense the Elf tensing as if preparing for a fight. "You are Marian's daughter."
"And she-bitch Isabel's grand-daughter."
The Elf made a noise somewhere between startled and disgusted. Turning away, he settled back and gazed out the window. His fingers curled tight around the arm of the seat until his knuckles showed white, and every line of his slender body was rigid.
There endeth the conversation, thought Ivy. Yup, I think maybe Mom was right about Elves, because this one does feel dangerous and very, very angry. If he were a stallion, I'd be waiting for his teeth to come at me.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye for a long time, wondering if he'd turn her way again, but he never moved or spoke. An hour turtled by. Ivy wished she had the courage to reach for her pad and sketch to whittle away the time, but instinct told her not to attract the eye of the predator.
Reason said her instincts were being ridiculous: he was an Elf, not an assassin. Haldir had said Legolas would never hurt her, and Ivy hoped Haldir was right. It wasn't as though she could fight or run away, so Ivy settled for trying to breathe through the adrenaline rush and the butterflies in her stomach. She tried being as small and quiet as possible, so as not to draw his obvious wrath down on her.