The Legend Mackinnon (2 page)

She turned back to her car. The motel it would be after all. She’d confront her houseguest again in the morning, with the police in tow.

She grabbed the door handle, then stilled. It was quiet. Suddenly, completely silent. No swearing, no stomping. And she could have sworn she heard the faint echo of bagpipes echoing through the trees. She shook her head, then warily turned around.

She half expected to hear a bloodcurdling war cry as Braveheart launched himself from the door or the roof. Maybe he was getting a rifle or flaming arrow launcher. She could easily picture him wielding a battle-ax.

But she didn’t hear anything. After all the racket, the total lack of it was odd. More than odd, it was curious.
From where she stood, she peered at the two windows fronting the cabin but they were too dingy to see beyond. Still, there were no curtains and it wasn’t dark enough yet for a man to stand on the other side without being seen.
Find the motel and come back tomorrow with that nice deputy sheriff
, she told herself.

She opened the door of her car, then froze. No curtains in the windows? There had been curtains. Lacy ones. She closed her eyes and pictured the inside of the cabin as she’d seen it the instant before he’d filled the room. The furniture had been basic. But she definitely remembered lace curtains. Her neck prickled and she spun around. No curtains. Had she imagined them?

She crossed the clearing. “Hello,” she called out. “It’s the owner here.” She half-ducked on the off chance she’d provoked him to blow her head off. Still nothing. She climbed the steps, almost certain that she was alone.

She stepped inside and was immediately proven right. The cabin was one open room comprising both living and dining area. A large stone fireplace and hearth framed one end, old oak cabinets were mounted above a scarred countertop that ran along the back wall of the cabin. There was a window over the sink and an old fashioned refrigerator in the corner.

There were no interior walls, only a curtain that could be drawn across a corner at the opposite end where a claw foot tub and an antique toilet crowded each other in the limited space. A small loft ran across the narrow end above the bathroom area, but that was completely visible from below … and completely empty.

A quick glance showed there was no back door and the one rear window obviously had not been touched in decades.

But it wasn’t the mystery of where her kilt-clad madman had disappeared to that had the room tilting and her peripheral vision growing narrow. It was the fact that not
only had he disappeared, he’d somehow managed to make an entire cabin full of furniture and belongings disappear right along with him. What did remain was covered in a thick layer of dust. Including the rustic floorboards.

Floorboards that showed only one set of footprints.

Hers.

Maggie capped off her day of surprises by adding another personal first. She fainted.

M
aggie snuggled in his embrace, feeling safe for the first time since escaping from her Manhattan condo, and unwilling to wake from her peaceful nap.

She shifted her head, then sneezed violently as dust tickled her nose. Her chin connected solidly with the hard wood floor. Groaning, Maggie opened her eyes to pitch blackness. She was alone. And yet, the sensation of being held had felt so real.

She rolled slowly to her knees, carefully taking inventory of all movable body parts. Hitting the floor in a dead faint had to have left her bumped and bruised. But other than feeling the stiffness of lying on a cold, hard floor, she felt relatively fine. She stood carefully, then brushed at the dust on her jeans and shirt.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she turned and groped for the door handle, yanking hard to pull the warped door open enough to step outside. She tried to ignore the fact that she
knew
she hadn’t closed the door behind her, because if she thought about it too much, she was liable to do what most sane women would have done hours ago—run screaming down the mountain.

She picked her way carefully toward her car, rubbing at her arms as the cold night air crept through her sweater. She walked a little faster, making a determined effort not to look over her shoulder. She climbed behind the wheel, locked all the doors, then let out a sigh of relief—
as if
loonies and goblins and things that go bump in the night couldn’t breach the inside of her car
.

It wasn’t until she forced herself to slowly replay the incidents of the afternoon that she finally felt some semblance of control. Unfortunately, she also felt terror. Hadn’t she had more than her share of that already? Apparently not.

“Only I could go from running from a lunatic ex-fiancé, straight to running from a … a” She couldn’t say it. Not because she wouldn’t believe in it—given enough proof—she just wasn’t exactly sure what “it” was. Or wasn’t.

She knew what she’d seen … then not seen. She simply needed a rational explanation.

Being a rational woman, waiting until daylight to determine what this explanation was seemed like an entirely, well, rational, thing to do. She turned the key in the ignition. But instead of the rumbling sound of an old clunker badly in need of a tune-up, all she heard was a series of clicking noises. An old clunker badly needing a tune-up and a new battery, she amended. Wonderful. Simply wonderful.

She swore and rested her head on the steering wheel.
Now what?
Hiking down the rutted mountain road even in broad daylight would be an arduous undertaking. Doing so in the middle of the night would be downright foolhardy. But was staying in her car all night any less so?

At that moment, the cabin came to life. Warm yellow light glowed from the windows. Smoke was coming from the stone chimney. Someone had started a fire in the fireplace.

A fireplace that had been swept clean, save for the dust of disuse. And there hadn’t been so much as a stick of kindling stacked nearby.

The cabin looked cozy and inviting now, nestled in the small clearing, backed by centuries old hemlock and birch.
The fire inside was seductively welcoming on a cold night. Lace curtains fluttered against the windowpanes.

Lace curtains.

Oddly it was the lace curtains that sent her out of her car. She might get hurt on the twisting road, but at least she was trying to save herself.

She hadn’t gone a hundred feet when a large shadow eclipsed what little light she had.

“I’m already doing eternity for the death of one foolish lass,” a booming voice intoned. “I’ll not be payin’ for another.”

Oh God. She looked up. Way up. She hadn’t heard a sound until he’d stepped in front of her in all his kilt-clad glory. In
front
of her? She looked over her shoulder. The cabin was still glowing.

He took her arm in a none too gentle grasp. “Come on wi’ ye.” He dragged her several steps toward the cabin.

She tugged hard at his hold and dug her heels in. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being thwarted. Whatever the case, she managed to free herself and immediately took off.

She heard him swear loudly. Though she understood little of the words, the intent was clear enough to make her run even faster.

Only me
, she canted silently, her breath forming white puffs in the night air,
only me
. She’d escaped from one monster and run directly into another one.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, she slammed into something solid enough to send her flying backward, landing painfully on her backside. Anger and fear made her glower up at him. “How do you do that? Or do you have lookalike brothers?”

He braced his hands on his hips. “Brothers I had, aye. I am but one man now. One you should heed unless ye’ve a mind to freeze to death.” He extended an oversized, callused hand to her. “Take it, lassie. Or you can ride over me shoulder. I care not which.”

Maggie got to her feet unaided. “First you order me out of here, now you’re commanding me to stay?”

Then she recalled what he’d said.
I’m already doing eternity for the death of one foolish lass
 …

So that meant he was what, an escaped convict? A murderer? A murderer whose face she had clearly seen? Oh, lovely, just lovely.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

If it was possible, he stood even taller. “Duncan MacKinnon.” Even in the weak moonlight, his eyes took on a fierce light. He said his name as if it alone should strike fear and awe in her.

She stuck her hand out. “Maggie Claren. Listen Duncan, I think if you—”

“Yer a Claren?” His roar was so loud she was surprised the trees didn’t shake.

He turned and stomped away from her. “I shouldna even tried,” she heard him rant. “Shoulda known they would do something like this.” He shook his fist at the sky. “I’ll no’ be a part of this, ye hear me? She can freeze her bloody arse off, ye ken? It’s no more than a bloody Claren deserves.”

Maggie took a step backward, then another.

She turned to run, but froze before moving an inch, her gaze riveted to the spot where he strode from her sight. Literally. One second he’d been storming toward the cabin, the next instant, he vanished, as if walking into a fog. Only it was a crystal clear night. He’d been yards from the cabin or the cover of any trees. He’d simply … vanished.

“Who are you really Duncan MacKinnon?” she whispered, awestruck and half-disappointed that she felt no sign of another faint coming on. “Rather,
what
are you?”

She felt the key weighing like a lodestone in her pocket.

It was her cabin, dammit. Her one place to be safe.

She started across the clearing toward the cabin, stopping
at her car to grab her duffel bag and tuck the pepper spray in her back pocket.

Feeling like a cross between Alice in Wonderland and every stupid horror movie heroine, she hitched the bag up higher on her shoulder and headed for the front porch. “Ready or not, here I come.”

M
aggie half expected the cabin to go dark when she opened the door. She was only partly relieved when it didn’t. “Hello,” she called out as she shoved at the wooden door. “I’ve decided not to freeze me bloody arse after all.”

He was poking at the fire with a long iron pole. She tried not to view it as a weapon. The flames danced shadows across his skin, enhancing his menacing appearance.

“Yer smarter than most of yer kind then.” His gaze stayed on the fire. “Take the loft. I’ll no’ be usin’ it. Clarens,” he snorted under his breath. He grumbled something about not taking to being tested like this and why in hell couldn’t they leave him to what little peace he had.

Maggie knew leaving here was not an option. Duncan, whatever he was, seemed the lesser danger. For the moment, anyway.

“Well, goodnight then.” She turned to the ladder.

“G’night lass.”

She glanced over her shoulder, surprised he’d answered. He was no longer by the hearth. He wasn’t anywhere inside the cabin.

Don’t think about it, she schooled herself firmly. Be thankful he left the fire. Heaving her bag over her shoulder she climbed quickly, as much to find a place to sleep as to escape the shadowy questions crowding her brain. She gasped in delight: A large bed piled with the thickest comforter she’d ever seen filled most of the loft area. An antique washstand topped by a small mirror was tucked under the slanted eaves. An oak nightstand stood next to the iron headboard.

She ached with fatigue. It was all too much. She pulled off her shoes and her sweater, sliding her bra off from underneath her T-shirt. Too tired to do more, she undid the top button of her jeans and crawled into bed. Her body felt like it sank forever into a cloud of softness.

“Goose down,” she sighed. She pushed the jumble of thoughts to the far reaches of her mind. They’d all be there tomorrow. For now, she’d found sanctuary. She snuggled deeply into the pillows. No more living in her rusted junk heap. “Thank you for the bed, MacKinnon,” she murmured as sleep claimed her. “Yer a saint.”

“H
ardly that,” Duncan spoke into the quiet night. Murderer. Betrayer. Coward. Those were words used to describe the second son of Calum, Laird MacKinnon.

He stared down at her sleeping form. A Claren. In as fair a package as her ancestors before her. He frowned. And, like her ancestors, she brought with her naught but trouble. Trouble she would make his, as had that wretched Claren lass centuries ago.

Three hundred years had passed but the rage inside him had not diminished. Nay, three millennia could pass and he would still feel the same.

“A test you are,” he said, certain
They
had contrived to bring her to this place, this place of his annual, month-long incarceration. “And it is a test I will fail,” he said, his
hushed tone doing nothing to soften his words. “You can parade a hundred, a thousand Claren lasses before me and I will fail you a hundred, a thousand times.”

Aye, he’d caught her when she’d fainted. It meant nothing. Fool woman would have likely split her skull and made matters worse. There was no denying that fatigue lined her face, even in sleep. There were shadows too, some visible to any mortal, some visible only to him.