The Legend Mackinnon (37 page)

Two hours later, she was exhausted and trying not to feel discouraged. The streams that she’d tracked each disappeared into a gouge in the rocks at some point. She flashed her light around in front of her, debating the best place to make a bed for the night, when she saw it.

She trained her beam on the jutting edge of something wooden. A crate? She moved closer and realized that the boulder in front of her actually curved inward, leaving a gap big enough for a person to move through. She walked around that curve and gasped. It was a crate all right. One of several dozen. Some were wooden, the rest metal. All modern. She played her beam over the writing on the side of the one closest to her. It was in Arabic.

“Wonderful.” She had a sick feeling she knew exactly what was in these crates. She raised her eyebrows at the international kaleidoscope of languages she discovered. Whoever was amassing these didn’t play favorites when making his—or her—purchases.

“Bingo,” she said softly as she spied the American flag. She’d understood most of the labeling she’d read so far, but none of it had been conclusive until now. “U.S. Army,” she read. Followed by a code number she knew well.

“An international black-market arms dealer, holed up in
a castle in Scotland?” It made no sense. Or maybe it made perfect sense. Scotland wasn’t on any of the United Nations hot zone lists, nor did it show up on any Interpol lists in terms of terrorist harbors. But this locale definitely had some geographic plusses. Its close proximity to Northern Ireland for one.

“Figures,” she sighed in disgust. She’d come into this marvelous, intriguing inheritance and had hacked time out of her schedule to come and see it … and her job followed her anyway.

She was honor-bound, for several reasons, to check into this more extensively. Not the least of which was that this was her property! It also occurred to her that if the government, or worse, the media, somehow discovered that an American antiterrorist specialist was found to be stockpiling black market arms on land she owned in Britain, well, this would not be a good thing. She had to handle this with utmost caution.

“Lovely,” she said sarcastically. “Simply lovely.” She cleared out of the gun nest and moved back around the pool and made camp behind an outcropping of rock. She was fairly certain she was alone, but there was no point in being obvious in case Mr. Arms Dealer decided to show up while she slept.

T
he sound of heavy panting roused her. The wet tongue scraping her cheek startled her eyes open. But it was the sound of a gun being cocked that brought her to full alert status. She would have scrambled back and sat up, but the muzzle pressing against her temple encouraged her to remain still. The two-ton dog pressing her flat on her back, baring his teeth in her face was another good reason to remain put.

“Who are you?” came the rough demand. The speaker was just out of range of her peripheral vision. And the
lighting, which indicated it was past dawn, was still weak enough to keep the immediate area in shadows.

“Your dog has lousy breath,” she said carefully.

“He likes you,” came the flat reply. “Can’t y’ tell?”

The accent was light, but distinctly Scottish.

“I like him, too. But I make it a rule not to French kiss on the first date.”

The dog cocked his head at her voice, his tongue eventually lolling out of the side of his mouth. Drool splattered on her face.

“Balgaire, down,” he commanded easily, but nudged the gun harder against her temple. “Move, and we’ll end this date without a goodnight kiss.”

The dog lumbered off her body, bruising at least half of her internal organs while doing so. “That’s no dog,” she said, grimacing as the last paw pressed against her lower abdomen, “that’s a small horse.”

“He’s sensitive, thinks of himself as a lapdog, so watch what you say.”

Delaney’s heart was finally crawling back down from her throat. She was beginning to think clearly, so she shouldn’t have been amused by his dry banter.

“Who are you?” he said sharply, nudging her again.

“A lost soul.” She strained to see him, but he was a shadow. “Who are you?”

“Someone who doesn’t take kindly to trespassers.”

“Well, see, this is where we might have a problem.”

“Not we, lass, you.” He shifted further to the rear, sliding the muzzle of the gun to just behind her ear. “Put your hands on top of your head and sit up. Slowly.”

He knew something about taking prisoners, she noted. She carefully did as he asked. Sitting provided her a broader range of opportunities. She went to curl her legs under but he nudged her again.

“Legs straight out in front of you. Heels on floor, toes to the ceiling.”

Okay, so he knew more than just a little about taking prisoners.

He leaned in closer. She could feel his breath on her hair.

“Your name.”

“Is not something I offer up freely. Of course, in the spirit of sharing, I might be moved to be a bit more generous. You are …?”

“This place you trespass on belongs to me.”

“Oh? When did you purchase it? From whom? Because I happen to know the owner. And it isn’t you.”

There was a pause. Good, she had him thinking.

“How did you enter the cavern?”

“Is there more than one entrance?”

“Enough word games!” He jerked her to her feet and pushed her, face first against the boulder. He pressed his mouth to her ear; the gun was pressed slightly lower. “Tell me who you are, who this supposed owner is, and how you entered the cavern.” He held her hands above her head in one giant fist; one of her cheeks was pressed hard against the damp stone. His body—much taller and broader than hers—covered her almost completely.

“Or I will simply put a bullet through your head and toss you into the sea.” He slid the muzzle of the gun down the side of her neck and propped it under her chin. “Your choice,” he said, his voice dangerously silky.

“Delaney,” she managed.

“Good decision.”

She grudgingly admitted he was good, damn good.

She’d simply have to be better.

“Who is the owner you spoke of?”

“At the moment, I am.”

That got her the break she needed.

He rolled her to her back, her hands still gripped in his, his body still trapping her against the stone. But her knees were free now. And she used one. Swiftly.

He had quick reflexes and her blow caught him in the
thigh, but his shift allowed her to duck and turn. Using his grip on her hands for leverage, she was able to use the force of her movement and his body to flip him. Unfortunately, he didn’t let go of her hands and she went down on top of him.

She immediately somersaulted over his head and tried to leverage her way free once again. He would either have to drop the gun, or drop her hands. He let go of her hands. She continued her roll and as he swung the gun toward her, she executed a perfectly aimed kick and connected hard with his wrist. He grunted as the gun flew up and clattered into the rock tumble above their heads.

Both were quickly on their feet, circling the other as each looked for a weakness to exploit. She had a glaring one, her size. But she’d long ago learned to use it effectively. However, she didn’t underestimate him. He was a big man, but he moved with a lithe grace that belied his size. She’d have to be quick. And accurate.

“Who sent you here?” he growled.

“I don’t think you are in a position to demand anything at the moment.”

“Think again,” he said. “Balgaire, strike!”

Damn! She’d forgotten about the stupid dog.

She twisted in time to see the beast’s massive body leap from the rocks overhead. She ducked his flying pounce, but wasn’t able to regroup fast enough to evade her other opponent. He took her down with a bone-jarring, skin scraping tackle. Stars twinkled in her peripheral vision as he rolled her to her back and pinned her, hands on either side of her head. The dog stood over her, grinning and drooling on her, completing her humiliation.

“Retrieve,” her captor commanded and the dog leapt effortlessly up the boulder pile. He was back seconds later with his master’s gun. “Good lad.”

“Yeah, a real wonder dog,” she muttered.

Her unfortunate position did yield one benefit. She
could finally see his face. Well, sort of. He had dark hair that had been secured in a ponytail, but the front had come loose and hung in his face, preventing her from seeing him clearly.

She did see his grin. A quiver of recognition jolted her, but he spoke and the sensation fled.

“Don’t let him hear y’. He’ll gloat for weeks.”

If she hadn’t been so ticked off, she might have actually smiled back. It was hard to hate a guy who fought that well
and
respected his dog. But this was no time for professional admiration.

“If it hadn’t been for the dog, I’d have taken you.”

Surprisingly, he nodded. “I believe you might have. Someone trained you well.”

He gave her little time to enjoy the compliment, as he transferred her hands into one of his and slipped his belt from his pants. He efficiently bound her hands and placed her back against a rock. He’d cleaned the drool-covered gun and trained it steadily on her as he sat back on his haunches. His hair still hung irritatingly forward, making her want to push it out of his face.

“Delaney. First name, or last?”

She stared at him for several long moments. “First.”

“What are y’ doin’ down here? Who sent you?”

“Are there many people who know of this place? I was under the impression that Stonelachen guarded her secrets very closely.”

That got his undivided attention. So, he hadn’t just stumbled into this cave, unaware of the castle above it.

“What do you know of Stonelachen?” If she’d thought his voice cold before, it was downright frigid now.

“I own this place. I inherited it.”

“No one can inherit Stonelachen.” He straightened his shoulders, looking every bit as imperious as he sounded.

It all fell into place. Each hair on her body stood directly
on end. “Let me see your face.” She was unable to keep the words from wavering.

“Why?” But he was clearly unnerved.

“Show me your face.”

Holding himself stiffly, he did as she asked.

“Holy mother of God.” His face was sculpted differently, his mouth fuller, his forehead broader. But those eyes … “It’s you. Alexander MacKinnon.”

A
lexander froze. How could she know his name? He’d not told his true name to anyone in this time. But she knew Stonelachen, claimed to own it! And she knew him.

“What are you? Witch?” He had never been one to lend credence to the
sithiche
, until Edwyna had made a believer of him. He gave this one a wide berth.

As he moved back an inch or two, she also shifted and a beam of light caught her face, making him swallow hard.

“Faery eyes,” he murmured. “Who sent you here?” This time the question was prompted from a different source. He no longer worried that one of the many men he’d dealt with over the last seven years had somehow traced him back to his lair. He had been supremely careful to build his arsenal as anonymously as he could. No one would ever surmise his true reasons for hoarding the weapons of the twentieth century.

But perhaps he’d been protecting himself against the wrong foe. There was only one person who knew where he was.

“Did Edwyna send you to me?”

He studied the sprite in front of him. She was faery. She had the gamine face, the lithe body … and those eyes that could not be of the natural world. She also fought like an underworld warrior.

In his seven years spent amassing weapons of destruction, he’d also studied everything he could find on the faery world. Edwyna had credited the faeries in helping her create the portal she’d tricked him into passing through. He’d hoped to divine the secret to open the portal back to his own time. He’d yet to find it.

But perhaps, it had found him. Perhaps this run he’d just completed was to be his last. Edwyna had claimed she’d tricked him for his own good, to save his life, his soul. Perhaps she’d realized her mistake and had sent this sprite to bring him back.

He would return gladly, but he would return triumphantly. He had planned for this every minute of the past seven years. Edwyna’s clan would bear the brunt of the mistake she made in trying to spare him from the future she had seen.

“Edwyna is long dead,” the faery proclaimed.

“She is perhaps long dead in this century, sprite, but she is very much alive in another time. You will show me the portal to it.”

“I am no sprite,” the faery said, heat coming into her eyes. Powerful, mesmerizing eyes. He pulled his gaze away, realizing that there may be powers there he would not be able to withstand. He certainly felt his control slip when he looked into them for any length of time.

“Explain yourself to me then. But you will show me to the portal. I have wasted too much time searching.”

She studied him in silence. He began to grow uncomfortable as the quiet stretched around them. Was she weaving a spell? How else to explain the unsettled way her gaze made him feel? He’d stared down warriors, both in this time and in his own. They were men who would kill, and
did, as easily as they breathed. Yet this one sprite challenged him, making him fight the temptation of a hasty retreat.