Legends

by Deborah Smith

  When she sank her fingers into his hair to inspect its coarse luxury further, a low, rich sound of pleasure rumbled from his throat. Elgiva jerked her hand away and watched him keenly. What appetites the man must have to sigh like that in his condition!

  “If you come to, Douglas, you’ll get popped with another round of sleepy-bye medicine.” Just in case, she reached into her trouser pocket and rested her fingertips on the capped syringe there. Dr. Graham, the village physician, had provided an ample supply.

  But after a moment it was obvious that Kincaid was still soundly drugged. A little dismayed by the fear he had provoked, she grabbed his head between her hands and glared down at him. “Where’d you get that starburst scar on your cheekbone, you mangy bull? I’ll bet one of your ladyfriends whacked you with her diamond ring.”

  The skin of his cheeks was beginning to show a faint hint of black shadow. “You’re just a furry savage,” she observed primly. “For all your high-muckety-muck clothes and jewels, your clansmen were naught but hellions.”

  She ran her fingers down the front of his beautiful white shirt, trying to ignore the warmth and hardness of the chest underneath. “What ridiculous finery!” Set among crisp little pleats on his shirt front were onyx buttons rimmed in gold. A large diamond glittered in the center of each one.

  Though she had studied him and his lifestyle, she was awed. Here was the embodiment of a fortune she could barely imagine, and while everything she cherished had taught her to reject such frippery, his use of it fascinated her. Combined with his brutally handsome face and body, the effect was potent. She molded her hand to his chest and slowly stroked the center, intrigued and a little breathless.

  “Ellie! What’re you doin’ with him, lass?”

  Her brother’s incredulous voice made her whirl around in the chair. Rob had come back from the cockpit, but she hadn’t even noticed. His eyes glittered with surprise and dismay.

  Elgiva hadn’t blushed in years; now she felt her face burning. Damn Douglas Kincaid! “I was just checking him over! Don’t be sneaking up on me like that!” She whipped around and jammed a hand into one of Kincaid’s trouser pockets. “I can’t sit and stare at the beast, you know. I have to make sure that he has no weapons.”

  “His only weapon is between the covers of his bankbook,” Rob replied grimly. “And inside that surpassin’ devious mind of his.”

  And in other places that only a woman would think about, Elgiva added silently. Busying herself, she withdrew a set of keys from Kincaid’s pockets. She muttered darkly, and Rob stepped closer to look over her shoulder. “Have you ever seen the like?” she asked. “Gold car keys with jewels set in them. And the names of the cars engraved. Porsche, Lamborghini, Jaguar, Rolls Royce, Lotus. How many automobiles can one man use? What’re these? I don’t recognize them.”

  “His classics. His 1936 Cord and 1938 Studebaker. Don’t you remember from the magazine articles? The man is naught but a gangster. He loves all those American criminal styles from the thirties.”

  She tossed the keys onto a nearby seat. “That’s his idea of history, I suppose. No wonder he didn’t bother to find out about his true heritage. He’ll be forced to, now.”

  “Aye.” Rob’s chestnut hair gleamed in the cabin lights as he bent forward to study the drugged billionaire. Her brother, his love for outlandish plaids subdued by caution, looked dashing in solid black trousers and a turtle-necked sweater.

  She put a hand on Rob’s broad shoulder. “You and Duncan should be putting on your ski masks, just in case Kincaid wakes for a moment. We should go to the cockpit and tell Andrew and Mrs. M to do the same.”

  Rob gave their sleeping prisoner one last frown. “You’re right, Ellie. Let’s not take any chances.”

  From the cabin came a sour-faced little man. Form-fitting black trousers and a turtle-neck red sweater were less kind to him than to Rob. “I’d like to make certain that the bastard doesn’t see us,” Duncan MacRoth sneered. He lumbered to Kincaid’s side and jerked the man’s head back roughly. “We ought to blindfold him so tight that his eyes burn for a week. A man like this won’t cooperate unless you hurt him.”

  Duncan’s ugly treatment of their prisoner infuriated Elgiva. Ordinarily the mayor of their village was merely pompous and overbearing. But he was afraid of Douglas Kincaid’s power, as was everyone in Druradeen, and his fear made him cruel.

  Elgiva bit her tongue and watched anxiously. From the corner of her eye she saw Rob stiffening with anger. Kincaid’s dog shoved himself against Duncan’s legs and snarled.

  “Aye,” Duncan continued grimly, and jerked Kincaid’s head back a little farther. “We should bring him to Scotland wearing a few good bruises.” He curled one hand up and started to slap him.

  “No!” Elgiva and Rob said at the same time. Elgiva cupped her hands over Kincaid’s face. “He’s helpless, Duncan. He’s my charge. And I say you won’t hit him.”

  Kincaid’s dog was now growling with a deep, wild tone. From the door to the cockpit came a crackling little voice. “Son? Duncan? We canna whack the poor helpless American unless he’s awake. Now calm yourself.”

  Duncan stepped back, his eyes glazed with restrained anger. “I was just having a wee bit of fun with him, Mother.” Elgiva shot an amused, grateful look at the elderly sprite in a black woolen dress.

  Mirah MacRoth was Elgiva’s second cousin four times removed, or some such thing—the clan genealogy was very complicated. Elgiva was glad to be related to Mrs. M, but sorry to be related to Mrs. M’s son, Duncan, even if he was the best mayor the village had ever had.

  “I can’t wait to get this work done!” Duncan grumbled. “See that you don’t muck it up, Elgiva!”

  “Watch how you speak to my sister,” Rob warned.

  “Come, Duncan, and stop your naughtiness,” Mrs. M ordered. Duncan would always be ten years old to her. She had been Druradeen’s schoolmistress since 1949, and every adult in the village was still ten years old in spirit, as far as she was concerned.

  Duncan stomped into the cockpit to sit with her and Andrew. After he slammed the door, Elgiva tilted Kincaid’s head to a comfortable position and resisted an urge to smooth the hair Duncan had mussed. She stood quickly. “Best go and get your mask, Robbie. Duncan will pounce on the least excuse to complain.”

  Rob gripped Elgiva’s arm and gazed hard into her eyes. “It’s not too late for you to put on a mask too. We could change the plans.”

  She shook her head. “I suspect that Kincaid looked me over verrry well when I preened in front of his silly little one-way mirror. I don’t think he’s the kind of man who’d forget the details of his kidnapper’s face.” She hugged her brother and swallowed hard to keep the tears out of her voice. “It has to be this way, Robbie. If we get what we want, I won’t be sorry. Sssh, now, you big-hearted brute.”

  She stood back and shook him lightly by the shoulders, as if he were still smaller than she. His handsome, angular features tightened with sorrow, and Elgiva tried to distract him. “Robbie, I think Mr. Kincaid’s got you beat. He must be a good centimeter taller.”

  “Och! No!” Rob’s eyes glittered with dismay, as she’d expected. “The thieving bastard’s naught but a midget next to myself!”

  “We’ll bring him down a notch or two. Don’t fret.” Douglas Kincaid’s dog licked her hand anxiously.

  “Sssh, now, he’ll be fine,” she said soothingly, stroking the dog’s broad, golden head. “It’s me you should be worrying over, lad. I won’t get out of this as well off as you and your grand friend here.”

  Rob touched her arm. “Go up and sit with the others, Ellie. I’m going to change his clothes.”

  “No. I’ll help.” At Rob’s grim silence she glanced up. “Brother of mine, I was married for twelve years, you know. A man’s body is nothing new to me. And if I’m going to be alone with this one for a whole month, I’ll probably see more of him than I ever wanted.”

  He cursed softly. “I must have been crazy when we
decided this plan. A true man wouldn’t let his sister—”

  “A true man knows when his sister is the best choice for a job. Now stop worrying!”

  “If anything goes awry—”

  “I’ll have done what my heart and soul told me to do. Now come. Let’s get this great, vain beast into some practical clothes.”

  Together they began undressing Douglas Kincaid. By the time they finished Elgiva was quivering inside from touching him, and she knew for certain that living alone with him for the next month would be more dangerous than she’d ever imagined.

  Two

  Douglas opened his eyes to a whitewashed wooden ceiling crisscrossed with rough beams. A small war raged inside his head, while a train was passing through the battleground. He must be hallucinating from the pain of his headache, he thought, because he distinctly heard the rhythmic click-clack of its wheels.

  Slowly he turned his head to one side. His vision cleared. He studied a wall made of thick planks with mortar between them. There were rough-hewn white shelves filled with books on the whitewashed wall. There was also a map of a coastline and ocean that looked very familiar, though he couldn’t think clearly enough to identify it at the moment.

  He moved tentatively and became aware of soft textures against his skin—comfortable, friendly textures. He smelled the sweet-spicy scent of a wood fire, and his ears picked up the crackle and pop of burning logs. The train continued to click-clack across his mental landscape, however, reminding him of the Chicago train stations where he had hawked household soaps as a boy. Any second now a cop would walk up and say, “You little jerk, get out of here! I’m not tellin’ ya again!”

  Douglas shut his eyes and frowned wearily. Why couldn’t the cop see that he needed the money? Why did he always have to give up his territory? Never again. Never again. He wished the sound of the train would stop.

  It did. But he heard the cop walking toward him. Hey, he wanted to shout, send some goon from public works to fix that floor. It creaks. And hey, flat-foot, you walk like a girl.

  “Just lay still and let the waking come slowly,” a soft female voice said. “You’re not hurt or anything; just a wee bit hung over from the drug. As soon as you can get up to reach it, I’ll bring you a cup of hot tea. If you’re a bit queasy, there’s a small room with your own private facilities in the corner. I’ve provided you with all the comforts of home, Douglas.”

  The speaker’s Scottish burr jolted his memory; so did the cool undertone in it. Worried and confused, he raised his hands to his face and rubbed vigorously. Then he turned his head toward the voice and opened his eyes.

  A beautiful redhead stood a few feet away, her arms crossed casually over her chest. She was dressed in a bulky white sweater and a flowing peasant skirt of a rich yellow-and-black plaid. Embroidered white socks disappeared under the skirt’s calf-length hem. On her feet were lace-up leather shoes, sturdy and worn looking.

  Her chestnut hair hung in a long braid that draped over one shoulder, ending at her breasts. She watched him with stern, amber-colored eyes. Behind her he saw the train. It was a spinning wheel.

  It was a tribute to her appeal that he noticed last of all that she was separated from him by the bars of a cell, his cell. Sam sat right outside it, whining with welcome and thumping his tail on the wooden floor.

  Douglas lurched upright and swayed dizzily. He planted his hands beside him and looked down. He was sitting on a comfortable bed, long enough to suit his height and wide enough for his shoulders. His legs were draped with a soft gray blanket. His pants had been traded for loose tan corduroys, and when he glanced at his arms he realized that he now wore a dark blue sweater of incredibly soft wool.

  “Who changed my clothes?” he muttered. “I feel like a Ken doll on Barbie’s Terrorist Adventure.”

  “Don’t be ungrateful, Mr. Kincaid. I’ve saved your finery for you. You’ll get it back eventually. Now how about that cup of tea?”

  He stared at her groggily. Then all of his frustration exploded in a weak roar. “Who the hell are you? What do you want with me? Where am I?”

  “You’re in jail in a pretty stone cottage tucked away in the loveliest mountains in the whole world, Douglas. You have your own facilities with running water and everything—all the modern conveniences—and a cozy bed. I’ll keep you well fed and safe; if you’re specially good, I’ll even give you a bottle of your favorite Scotch whisky to soothe your poor hurt feelings. No harm will come to you, I swear.”

  She tapped one hand on a little wooden table that was pushed up against the cell bars. On a level with its top was a horizontal opening in the bars, just large enough to accommodate the passage of small items or plates of food. “I’ll set your tea right here. You reach through and get it. That’s how we’ll deal with each other, Douglas. Don’t expect me to get close enough for you to cause mischief.

  “And you can’t escape. The walls around you are two-feet thick, and made of stone. The window has been filled in with stone and mortar.” She gestured toward the cell door. “It can’t be jimmied, and I won’t ever open it, not for any reason. Now, what do you take in your tea?”

  “Blood. Yours, preferably.”

  “Tsk, tsk. I know you’re not feeling well. You’ll calm down—”

  “The hell I will.” He staggered off the bed and nearly fell before he reached the bars. She stepped back as he threw himself against the metal grid and shook it with both hands. Nausea assailed him, and he leaned against the bars, panting.

  “You’re a fighter,” she said with approval. “But then, you’re of the Kincaid clan. I expect no less.”

  What kind of nonsense was that? He had no clan. He wasn’t Scottish. He wasn’t even sure he was human at the moment. “You can do anything you want to me, but you’ll never get any money. And my people will hunt you down. You’ll wish to God that you’d never heard of Douglas Kincaid.”

  “I already wish that. I’m not interested in ransom. But we’ll talk about my interests later. You look a wee bit pale, Douglas. Best trot yourself to the facilities, because if you throw up out here, you’ll be cleaning the floor. Unless you want to live in your own stink. That’d suit me fine too.”

  “I’m not going to take this!”

  “Are you listening to me, Douglas? You don’t have a choice.”

  His head throbbed. Cold sweat trickled down his back. He had no doubt that she meant what she said—her expression was totally composed. He almost admired her courage. He must be going insane.

  He wrapped his hands tighter around the bars, raised a sock-clad foot, and kicked the table. It skidded across the floor and crashed into a large stone fireplace. His captor screeched, but it was a sound of anger, not fear. She grabbed a slender piece of kindling from the hearth, leapt forward with a speed that his dull reflexes couldn’t parry, and rapped his knuckles like a ferocious schoolmarm.

  Douglas jerked his smarting hands out of her range and stared at her in amazement. They both stood with legs braced, chests moving swiftly, eyes locked in challenge. She shook the stick at him. “Don’t make it a war, Douglas. You’ll lose.”

  “I never lose.”

  “Do you have any idea where you are?”

  “It’s either Scotland or a very bad nightmare.”

  “It’s both, for the likes of you.”

  He swung about and stared at the map on his wall. Then he uttered an oath more appropriate to a street kid than an elegant billionaire. Colored in red were several thousand acres along a remote section of the Scottish coast.

  “That’s the property I’m buying,” he noted, frowning.

  He didn’t have to look more closely to know that marked on the enormous section of land was the coastal village of Druradeen, with its quaint stone houses and postcard-perfect views, and that a few miles inland was stately MacRoth Hall, home of Angus MacRoth, the now-deceased Scottish laird.

  MacRoth had owned everything—the village, the farms around it, the whisky distillery north of town
—everything worth owning. The locals had paid annual dues to the old laird. They were all, in effect, tenants, or more precisely, modern-day peasants. Douglas planned to give them plenty of time to find new homes.

  “That’s the property you were buying,” his captor corrected. “The deal won’t go through without your signature. And there’s only a month left on your purchase deadline.”

  Douglas turned around, clutching his aching head with one hand and his queasy stomach with the other. Confused, he stared at her. “How do you know about all this? And what concern is it to you?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m to make certain that the purchase deadline passes and the land goes to Angus MacRoth’s next of kin.”

  “This is a travesty.”

  “No, this is a kidnapping, Douglas. Until your purchase deadline passes and the MacRoth lairdship goes to its rightful owners, you and I are going to live here together in peaceful seclusion.”

  “You’ve been sniffing the heather too much, doll. As soon as I get my bearings, we’ll negotiate for my release.”

  Her chilling, disdainful gaze swept over him. “For once in your life, Douglas Kincaid, you can’t negotiate, or buy, or charm your way into getting what you want.” She smiled sweetly. “Now have some tea, won’t you?”

  He shook his head, felt even more sick, then staggered to the door in the corner of his cell. As he stepped into the confines of his tiny bathroom he heard her chuckling.

  Elgiva sat by the fireplace in a large chair filled with colorful pillows, her head tilted back on the thick wood, her hands open and still on the armrests. She was exhausted, sad, and worried.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off of Douglas Kincaid, who lay sprawled on his bed asleep, one foot dangling as if he were perfectly relaxed. He had come out of the bathroom eventually, gone straight to the table she’d replaced at his cell bars, and shoved the cup of tea onto the floor.

  He had smiled victoriously when the delicate old cup cracked open. Tea had splashed across a faded tapestry rug, worn but still beautiful. He had nodded with pleasure. Then without a word he had stretched out on his bed and immediately gone to sleep, as if his situation were a petty annoyance not worth discussing.