The Legend Mackinnon (5 page)

Maggie squinted one eye open. He was gone.

Adrenaline, fear, and a second near death experience combined to make her temper rise. She yanked the door open so hard it flung back, banging the iron rod into the wall and rattling the rusty hinges. She stormed onto the porch and down into the yard. She turned a circle, found nothing out of the ordinary, then looked to the sky. “Goddamn you, Duncan MacKinnon!” she yelled. “Stop playing your disappearing games with me!”

“Would you rather I had run you through, lass?”

She whirled around. He was leaning against the open door frame, as calm as you please.

“I’d rather you kept your temper.”

“Like you, perhaps?”

Her chest was heaving, her hair was hanging in her face and she was probably wild-eyed. Well, who wouldn’t be under these circumstances? “I was doing just fine until you tried to skewer me with the poker. You’ll have to pardon me if that gets me a wee bit riled up.”

“You’ll have to pardon me if having my name and honor desecrated gets me
a wee bit riled up.
” He stepped off the porch and walked right up to her.

Maggie worked hard to quell her heart rate and get her pulse somewhere near normal, but the closer he got, the more ground she gave on that particular battle. But she didn’t step back. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

He stopped less than a foot away and stared at her for several seconds. “Why di’ ye turn around?” he asked, his burr making the question sound almost gentle.

“I couldn’t get the door open.”

“That’s no’ what I asked you.”

She suddenly found she couldn’t hold his gaze. The intensity she found there was too demanding, too knowing, too … much. He reached out a hand, but she jerked her chin away before he touched her. Somehow she knew she’d be lost if he touched her. And it had nothing to do with being spooked.

“Why did ye turn to face me, Maggie?”

Hearing her name, the way he said it, made her turn her gaze back to his.

“Because if you were going to kill me,” she said quietly, “I wanted to make you look me in the eyes when you did it.”

He reached out and, despite her attempt to duck away, caressed her cheek with a callused thumb. “Then perhaps you understand more about pride and honor than you thought, Maggie Claren. A shame ye were no’ around three hundred years ago.”

M
aggie held his gaze for several long seconds then stepped back. “I … I need to get something from the car.”

Duncan remained silent as he watched her walk to her car. His touch had bothered her. Far worse, however, was how much it had disturbed him.

Uncomfortable with those thoughts, he switched his attention to her car. He couldn’t say much for her choice in conveyance. He’d seen better, and not much worse.

He had found himself drawn to one or two technological advances over the years. Cars, airplanes, military armament. He’d learned that no matter the level of sophistication of weaponry achieved by man, the warring continued, with the outcomes differing little. Clan MacKinnon and Clan Claren could have feuded with ground-to-air missiles and exploding land mines and the outcome would have been the same. Weapons didn’t win wars. Men did.

Cunning, skill, strategic command, aye, they had their place. As did folly, cowardice, and betrayal. In the end, it was man who defeated himself as well. Three hundred years of observing the rise and decline of warring nations hadn’t
taught him that. His gaze narrowed as Maggie swore under the awkward weight of the trunk she was levering from the car. A woman had. One woman. Had he not learned his lesson?

There was a loud thud followed by a cloud of dirt and more swearing. Duncan folded his arms across his chest and continued to watch. Aye, he’d watch. And stand clear. Maggie Claren was not to be dealt with lightly. Or directly. He rubbed his fingertips along his sleeve, the fine linen not comparing well in softness to that of her skin. He curled his fingers and muttered a curse of his own.

She blew her hair from her face and planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you grumbling? I’m the one breaking my back.” She looked at the trunk sitting at her feet. “I don’t suppose you could help me out here. Like blink this thing inside. All your poofing stuff in and out ought to be good for something.”

Well clear, he repeated silently, disgruntled to find himself actually having to take a step back to his original spot. “I’ll no’ be draggin’ a Claren trunk into my home.”

“It’s no’ your
hoome
,” she said in a poor imitation of him. “It’s our hoome, at least for now. And since you have a whole Claren human draggin’ hersel’ into yer hoome, what difference can a measly Claren trunk make?”

“I didna say you couldna have the trunk inside, lassie. I merely said I wouldna be helpin’ ye wi’ it.”

She let out a heavy breath. “I guess it’s long past time for me to stop relying on men anyway.” She bent to the task of grabbing a worn leather handle, dismissing him entirely. “You’d think I’d have learned that lesson well enough by now.”

He gritted his teeth as she pulled on the strap, the strain showing in her shoulders and in her face. A grunt escaped her clenched jaw as, with a mighty effort, she moved it two entire centimeters. She turned and grabbed the strap with both hands and pulled in another breath. Another mighty
tug … and she went flying back onto her rump when the strap gave way with a rending thwack. A smile twitched his lips, but he quickly tamed it.

Without so much as a look in his direction, she stood and brushed herself off and walked to the back of her car. She bent inside and began digging about.

He should be inside tending the fire. It was getting damnable cold outside. During his time in purgatory there was no physical sensation since he had no physical self. But for his one month annual term on earth he was essentially mortal, inasmuch as he regained usage of all the human sensations. Yet he could never seem to get warm enough and he spent the entire month chilled to the bone. Perhaps They thought to remind him of the dank cold of Stonelachen, the MacKinnon stronghold on the Isle of Skye. He rubbed his palms along his arms. In his mortal life, he didn’t recall ever feeling the cold quite like this. Perhaps a specter’s blood did not heat a man like lifeblood did.

The slamming of the hatchback snapped his attention back to her. She stomped back over to the trunk, then walked around it once, then again, all the while ignoring him as if he didn’t exist.

As the second son to Calum MacKinnon, he was used to being accorded the full, respectful attention of every man, woman, and child whose presence he encountered. Yet Maggie ignored him as easily as if he were a … a.… A ghost. Bah! To hell with the Clarens.

Duncan scowled and began to turn away, then stilled, caught by the sudden change in her expression. Her eyes lit up and a smile spread her lips wide, making her features somehow glow, even on such a gloomy day. She looked little like her ancestor, but then, he couldn’t say what Mairi would have looked like had she ever smiled.

Maggie wasn’t as delicately made as Mairi. She was broader of shoulder, a bit squarer of jaw. Her hair was a darker brown and her eyes a shade lighter blue. But it was
her mouth that defined the true difference, and her beauty, if truth be told. Where Mairi’s mouth had been small and bow-shaped, Maggie’s was wide and even. Where Mairi’s usually had been cool, her lips pulled into a tight, disapproving line, Maggie’s was alive and inviting, always animated and usually moving, no matter her disposition. And in their brief acquaintance, he’d seen her in many forms.

This look of joy, however, was a new one to him. He didn’t at all like it. It did odd things to the beat of his heart.

She scrambled back to the car, yanking open the passenger door and diving into the glove box. She emerged triumphant, a small manila envelope clutched in her hand and, once again, turned her back to him as she knelt in front of the lock dangling from the front of the trunk.

She fished in the envelope and came out with a key, her lips quirking. “Another skeleton key.” She tossed him a quick glance. “If I’d only suspected when I got the first one just how appropriate it would be.”

He held her gaze without comment, merely recrossing his arms and settling his weight on his other foot. She didn’t seem to notice as she went to work on the lock. It took several tries, but eventually it sprung open. She was a determined lass, he’d give her that.

Her sudden intake of breath caught his full attention.

“Would you look at this?” Her face fairly glowed with wonder.

He took a step closer despite himself, all thoughts of returning to warm himself by the fire vanished. He didn’t feel any chill at the moment.

Maggie covered her mouth with her hand as she stared at the contents of Lachlan’s trunk. It was filled with plain leather bound books that looked like journals of some kind. The idea that there might be something of her heritage recorded inside those pages filled her with excitement. For the first time it felt odd that through her entire life she’d
never questioned her family history. Staring at the journals it seemed impossible to fathom. Her interest in what lay between the burgundy and deep blue leather covers close to consumed her.

She felt Duncan come up behind her. There wasn’t enough sun for a shadow, but then, she wasn’t sure he’d cast one anyway. Not that he needed to—ghost or mortal, Duncan MacKinnon had presence in spades. She recalled his touch. For a dead man, there had been an incredible amount of energy generated by that simple brush of his fingers on her skin. She’d been well aware that the disturbance hadn’t been totally one sided. What had he been like in real life? His life.

“A stack of musty old books.” Duncan all but sniffed in indifference.

Maggie ducked her chin and smiled. She was beginning to understand Duncan MacKinnon. Perhaps better than he could imagine. That he’d troubled himself to wander over to look inside the trunk at all belied his lack of interest. That he’d bothered to make a comment all but proved he was as consumed with curiosity about their contents as she was.

“Yep. There go my dreams of buried treasure. No gold coins or lavish silks.” She sighed in feigned disappointment. “Just musty old books.”

Duncan’s eyebrows drew together as he considered her in silence. He was no fool either, she decided. Something she would be wise to remember.

She considered him for a moment too, then couldn’t help herself. “Probably should have left the old thing in the car and taken it to an antique store to have it appraised.”

“You would sell yer heritage?”

She had no intention of selling anything, still she was surprised at the vehemence of his reaction. “You say that like it’s blasphemy or something.”

“ ’Tis worse than that, lass.”

“It’s just an old, moldy trunk. Not the crown jewels.”

“What of the volumes?” he demanded. “You would sell them off as well?”

“Oh no, they wouldn’t be worth anything to anyone else. We can use them for fuel I suppose, when the logs run out.”

She’d only said it to get a rise out of him, but he looked so sincerely aghast at the suggestion she felt a moment of shame.

“Just like a Claren! Ye have no need of a thing, toss it awa’ like so much excess baggage.” He raised his arms in the air and she almost shrank back at the imposing figure he made. “Burn it, sell it, give it awa’. Wha’ do ye care? ’Tis only yer history yer sellin’ and destroyin’.” He stared at her with a mixture of disgust and resignation, then made a swiping gesture and spun on his heel. “Och, to hell with ye and yer blasted trunk. Do what ye please as Clarens ’ave been doing since the dawn of time. More the fool I am fer carin’.”

Maggie scrambled to a stand. “Wait.”

He continued to stalk toward the cabin.

“You’re not a fool. I know how important history is to you and I shouldn’t have teased you. I’m sorry.”

He stilled, then slowly turned to face her. “Wha’ did ye say?”

“I said that I know family heirlooms aren’t something to be taken—”

“No’ that. The other, the last part.” He took several steps closer to her. “Repeat that last part to me again.”

Maggie tried not to scowl. The blackguard. Couldn’t he just take a sincere apology for what it was worth without rubbing her face in it? She almost wished she hadn’t said anything and let him storm off believing the worst of her. Perhaps then she could have had some peace and quiet, some time alone without him looking over her shoulder to
look in Lachlan’s books. But his horrified expression when she’d suggested selling her inheritance was etched in her mind.

She squared her shoulders and leveled her chin. “I said I was sorry for teasing you.”

He walked closer, stopping a foot or two away from her. Feet braced apart, he crossed his arms as he regarded her. “Ye were lyin’ then, about sellin’ the trunk and burning the journals.”

“Not lying,” she said, maintaining her own proud stance in the face of his questioning glare.

“Then why did you tell me what you did?”

“Because you stand around looking so distant and sounding so pompous slandering my family all over the place and I was tired of it. I just wanted to get a reaction out of you, that’s all.”