The Legend Mackinnon (12 page)

“If ye want to lay blame, it belongs as much on yer soul as it does mine,” she said. “But it also lies wi’ each of our clansmen. They knew they were warring themselves out of existence, yet their foolish pride wouldna let them seek any other solution than a marriage bond.”

Duncan spun around and gripped her by the arms. His rage was so complete he envisioned himself simply snapping her in two. And yet her calm acceptance of his violence proved the stronger weapon. Her knowing visage was like a mirror thrown up to him. He was barbarian first, acting with strength of hand instead of strength of mind, just as she had accused.

He released her, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Swallowing centuries of hate and anger was like acid on his throat, making his voice rough. “Why di’ ye no’ come to me before this?”

“Would ye have heard my words?”

He didn’t bother to answer.

“Ye had to come to me,” she said.

“I did no’ come to ye.”

“Did ye no’?”

He didn’t answer that either.

“It has taken me a long time, though not as long as you, to understand and accept my faults and the sins committed because of them. I have done so. My sentence on earth is finished.”

He looked at her then. She smiled and he almost cringed at what he saw in her eyes. He saw understanding. He saw supreme knowledge.

He saw forgiveness.

“I am no’ here for me, Duncan. I am here now because ye needed me tae be here.” Concern colored her eyes. “Be warned. I willna be here for ye again. If ye hae any last questions of me, ask them now.”

So many thoughts and revelations vied for attention, and with such fury, none could surface. One thing he could not deny. Now that he had seen her again, spoken with her, he would forever think of her differently.

She smiled and reached up to place a soft kiss on his cheek. “Good-bye Duncan MacKinnon,” she said softly. “May your soul find its final resting place.”

As she stepped back, he understood more than he wanted to. “God rest yer soul, Mairi Claren.”

“Fear not. I willna be burnin’ in hell, Duncan. There is forgiveness for you as well if ye but seek it.”

Her image shimmered and he stepped forward and gripped her arm with unnecessary strength. He tempered his hold on her even as desperation crawled through his heart. His eyes burned into hers, the sting behind them unexpected but accepted. “I do have one final request,” he said gruffly.

“Aye?”

“Alexander and Rory. What happened to them?”

“Tha’ I canno’ tell you.”

“Find them, then. Tell them … I’m sorry.”

Her smile surfaced once again, serene and knowing. “Ye’ll be tellin’ them yersel’ soon enough, I think.”

“Promise me!” He struggled yet again to temper his desperation. “In case I dinna make it there.” Pride was an awesome burden to fit down one’s throat. “Ye dinna owe it tae me,” he said roughly. “But ye asked … and I’m …” His voice broke deep. He squared his shoulders, chin jutting forward. “I’m beggin’ ye.”

She seemed more stunned than pleased by his humbling. It made it no easier.

She moved out of his grasp easily like the wraith she was. “Trust me, Duncan. All will be as you wish it. But you must wish.” She stepped back and her image shimmered once again, then was gone before he could speak again.

He stood there for several long moments, feeling oddly empty.

“Good-bye, Mairi Claren,” he said finally.

He bent down and plucked a late bloom, then knelt beside her grave. He placed the slender-stemmed flower on the soft ground in front of the stone.

“May ye rest in eternal peace,” he said quietly. After a moment, he added, “May we all one day.”

It was a long time before he rose and began the walk back to the cabin.

M
aggie watched from the front porch as Cailean headed back into town, where she had reluctantly booked a room at the only motel, which was owned by Deputy Branson’s sister. They had argued about it almost the entire drive back from Griffith, but Maggie had held firm, saying she would take full responsibility for whatever happened to her while alone with Duncan. “The MacKinnon” as her cousin called him.

On the way to Griffith, Maggie had told Cailean about what she’d read in Lachlan’s journals so far about the Legend MacKinnon. Cailean agreed that she needed to read the journals. Her sense of dread and foreboding had increased, not diminished, since their confrontation with Duncan. Maggie’s mention of the legend only seemed to cement this.

She’d tried to get Cailean to talk more about what she’d seen in her vision but she was as adamant about not discussing it until she’d read the journal entries, as she was about Maggie not staying in the cabin. That was when the arguing began. It ended abruptly when Maggie blurted out that Duncan did indeed believe his brother died three hundred
years ago. It was true. He had died with them. He was a ghost. Cailean had gone dead silent and just as pale. When Maggie refused to return with her to town, Cailean had taken the trunk and the journals and left, angry and upset.

While in Griffith, Maggie had other, more important worries at the moment. She had called directory assistance in Manhattan and asked for the number of any detective agencies close to Judd’s office address. The first one was less than a block away, but very posh and way out of her ballpark. The man she’d spoken to had been nice enough to refer her to another smaller agency. Relieved, she’d been about to hang up when he’d asked her to repeat her name, there had been a pause, then he’d politely put her on hold. A sick ball of dread had formed in her stomach. She’d been about to hang up when another man came on the phone, all smooth voice and placating talk. He’d apologized for his partner and said he’d be more than willing to help her for a reduced fee, gave her some song and dance about his sister getting knocked around once and how he’d made it a personal pledge to help women like her.

Problem was, she’d never gotten far enough with his partner to explain she’d been abused. She’d made some garbled response and slammed the phone down. Had Judd hired someone to track her down? Very possible. Just as possible he’d pick the priciest agency closest to where he spent most of his time. His office. Abused sister my ass. She could only hope he’d be unable to trace that call.

Maggie stared sightlessly at the road leading down the mountain, the dust long since settled after Cailean’s departure. For half a second, she wanted to run to her car and follow Cailean to town. A useless move as her new-found cousin was all caught up in the past and visions of murdering Scots. Maggie had a real violent man to deal with. Her clan ancestors would have to wait in line.

It was getting dark and the air was decidedly cold. Maggie
let herself into the cabin. It was as dark as it had been when she and Cailean had come in to get the trunk. The Jeep ride had been drafty and she’d looked forward to one of Duncan’s roaring fires. But there wasn’t a roaring fire. Nor was there any Duncan. Would he come back now that Cailean was gone? He’d given his word.

The furniture was still there. The wood he’d chopped earlier was still stacked on the hearth. The poker he’d angrily driven into the burning log what seemed like a lifetime ago, was now laying flat on the hearth, the pointed end laying useless amidst the ashes.

She shivered and rubbed at her arms. She needed to talk this out with someone. She wanted that someone to be Duncan.

First things first, however. She’d used up the stash of matches she’d found earlier in the week repeatedly lighting the finicky pilot light on the old propane stove. She’d meant to get more in town, but she’d completely forgotten. A quick search didn’t turn up any more of them. “There’s never a good ghost around when you need one.”

Swearing loudly, disparaging Duncan’s entire lineage in the course of it, half-hoping it would make an effective ghost-call, she climbed the ladder to the loft and pulled on another sweater and grabbed the duvet off the bed. She heaved it over the railing, then descended to the kitchen, still grumbling. She grabbed a package of cinnamon crackers, looked longingly at the tea kettle, and made a nest on the small couch.

Munching her way through one cracker after another, heedless of the crumbs or the encroaching shadows, her thoughts turned back to her phone call. Even if the detective managed to trace her call, all he’d find out was that she’d been in the Sip N’ Suds in Griffith, North Carolina. He wouldn’t be able to track her from there. Would he? Just having Judd narrow her down to the state she was in, much less the county, was much too close for comfort.
“Think, Maggie, think,” she said, wiping cinnamon crumbs from her hands.

She couldn’t go to the police. Hiring a detective agency wasn’t against the law and she wasn’t sure what good it would do if it did violate some restriction. Judd had grown to omnipotent proportions in her mind, but the reality wasn’t so farfetched from that vision.

Whom could she trust? She thought of deputy Branson in town, but shook her head. Branson was a nice guy, in a Gomer Pyle sort of way. Well meaning and loyal, but not exactly hardened to the ways of the big bad world. Judd would make a light snack of him. Where did that leave her?

Dead. That’s where it left her.

Just then Duncan pushed the front door open and let himself quietly into the cabin. It was the quiet that caught her immediate attention. She was used to screeching door hinges, warped wood dragging across the floor and the thundering footsteps that usually announced his arrival.

He walked right past her toward the hearth. It was darker than she’d realized and she’d turned on no lamps, but she didn’t think he’d miss noticing her sitting there.

He didn’t bend down to lay fresh wood on the ashes. Instead he stood and stared into the cold hearth in silent contemplation, as if the flames still danced and beckoned his attention.

“Duncan?”

Maggie watched him for a moment. He didn’t move so much as a muscle. She was tempted to ignore him as well, Lord knew she had enough to deal with at the moment, but something about the way he stood there, so still, so contained, held her attention until she finally gave into it. She shifted the comforter off her lap and stood, shivering almost immediately as the chill night air hit her skin.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get the fire going,” she said. “It was out when I got back and there were no matches.”

Still nothing.

She stepped to the end of the couch. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She took a step closer. “Are you okay?”

When another eternal minute passed she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Well, I can’t keep up with your scintillating conversation, so I’ll turn in.” She walked toward the ladder. “If you could get a fire going, I’d appreciate it.”

She clutched the ladder with one hand, the duvet gathered in an awkward bundle in her other hand. She was halfway up when he finally spoke.

“I didna mean tae upset you.”

She started at his voice and gripped the ladder hard, then balanced herself and the duvet before looking back at him. “Well, you’re doing a good job of it.”

There was a pause, then, “Good night, Maggie.”

His tone was more vacant than dismissive, like something else was so dominating his attention he could barely focus enough to form words.

Go on up to bed, she told herself. He’s got problems, so what. You’ve got problems of your own. And he’s already dead. You’re not. Yet.

Still, she couldn’t help staring at him. “Do you want to talk about it?” The words just came out. Maybe if she could get him to talk, she could get him to listen to her as well. It still surprised her how badly she wanted to talk to him about her situation.

He didn’t answer. He was lost once again in his inner world. She only hoped he surfaced enough to make a fire before she froze to death.

“Well, good night then.”

She climbed the rest of the way to the loft then took off her boots, pulled on another pair of wool socks and crawled into bed fully dressed. She tried to get her mind back to her problems, but found her thoughts drifting relentlessly back to the man standing downstairs in the dark. What
had happened while she was gone? Why had he let his fire go out?

Sleep claimed her as she wrestled with worry. As she drifted off, she saw a glow spring to life down below and smiled as the heat slowly invaded her limbs.

She woke up in the middle of the night, sweating profusely. More asleep than not, she kicked grumpily at the heavy covers and sat up, already tugging at her sweater and shirts. The jeans took a bit longer, but she dumped them on the floor in a heap along with the rest, and sighed in relief, her eyes already shut as she curled blissfully naked back beneath the covers.

W
hen she woke for the second time, she was sweating again, but this time it was cold and clammy. Her heart was racing and her head ached from the nightmare. She blinked hard and rubbed her eyes as she sat up, working hard to focus on reality and escape the last vestiges of the dream. She frowned as she woke the rest of the way up … and was forced to accept that the nightmare was real.

“Judd will kill me,” she whispered. Saying it out loud only made it more real. “No matter where I go Judd will find me.” She wondered if the torture she’d suffered would hurt as badly in real life as it had in the dream. Could the subconscious really know?