The Legend Mackinnon

by Donna Kauffman

  The destinies of two ancient clans are entwined for all of eternity.…

  MAGGIE CLAREN—A week ago, she thought she had the perfect life. Then she uncovers a shocking secret that sends her running for her life … straight into the arms of a gorgeous, kilt-clad ghost.

  DUNCAN MACKINNON—For three hundred years, he’d sworn vengeance against the family who’d destroyed his own. Now the ruthless warrior may have betrayed his clan, all because of a woman who could be his redemption … or his destroyer.

  CAILEAN CLAREN—Haunted by visions she cannot explain, she flies halfway around the world to save the life of a cousin she has never met. And finds herself drawn to a man from another time and place—a man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

  RORY MACKINNON—He was fierce, proud, and merciless, but his skills with the sword weren’t enough to save him from a Claren witch. Now John Roderick MacKinnon has another chance to break the ancient curse when a modern sorceress unlocks his heart.

  DELANEY CLAREN—All her life she’d yearned for adventure. Now in the ruins of a magnificent castle, she will cross paths with the eldest of the brothers MacKinnon, a man who is every bit her match.

  ALEXANDER MACKINNON—For years he has hidden in his castle lair, searching for a way to change history and turn the tables on his enemy. But the battlegrounds have shifted, and one spirited woman just may save his heart and everlasting soul.…

  THE LEGEND MACKINNON

  A Bantam Book / April 1999

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Donna Kauffman.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80772-4

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Part One: Duncan Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Two: Rory Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Part Three: Alexander Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Part Four: The Key Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  DUNCAN

  “True love is like ghosts, which everybody talks about and few have seen.”

  —FRÁNÇOIS, DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD

  ONE

  He’d never find her here.

  It was twilight when Maggie Claren finally wound her way to the end of the gravel and dirt road and parked in front of the old cabin. Madden County, North Carolina. It was impossible to believe that anyone lived in such a remote area. On purpose.

  From the looks of the place, no one had been living here for quite some time. The cabin was part stone, part log over log, put together the way she imagined Abe Lincoln’s folks had probably built theirs. If she’d been standing in Kentucky instead of the Smokey Mountains, she could easily be convinced they’d built this one personally.

  Maggie forced her fingers to release their death grip on the steering wheel. She rolled her shoulders, wincing at the pinches of pain. She didn’t care what the place looked like. It was hers. She could be safe here. She had to be.

  The deed had been rerecorded over the years, but at least part of the cabin and all of the land was the original Claren property as it was first claimed almost three centuries ago. She could not fathom it.

  A shivery sensation raced over her skin. How many of her ancestors had stood on this spot, walked this land, stepped up on that porch?

  Until recently Maggie had never given much thought to her family tree. Aunt Mathilda hadn’t spoken of it, most likely because she didn’t care. They’d both been too busy living the present to dwell on the past. As Mathilda had been right up until her death at age eighty, Maggie was happy, well-adjusted and excited about the vast opportunities life presented to her. That had always been more than enough.

  Had been. One of those opportunities had, unfortunately, been Judd. Suddenly the opportunity to delve into the past was a tantalizing proposition.

  She looked upward. “Thank you Great-Uncle Lachlan, whoever you are. Were. You saved my life.”

  She eyed her timely inheritance again. Old Judge Nash had not been a fount of information, but now she understood why he’d spared the extra minute to explain where she could find a room for the night. She hadn’t thought to ask about basic matters like electricity and running water.

  She looked down at the key in her hand. Who was she fooling? There was a good reason Judd would never think to look for her here. Ellie Mae Clampett she was not.

  She seriously debated tracking down that motel room and tackling this tomorrow. Then she thought of Judd, who was probably taking her condo apart right this minute, looking for any clue to her whereabouts. Well, he wouldn’t find any. Judge Nash’s letter telling her of her recent windfall could not have arrived at a more perfect moment. Judd knew nothing about it and since the letter was in her purse, he never would.

  He’d certainly never picture her living in a run-down shack and driving a rusted out hull of a car. She smiled a bit smugly at her vehicle. Little had she known just how well the junker would suit her new life.

  She slid out of the car, groaned as she stretched, then marched up the steps of the creaking front porch. She slid the key Judge Nash had given her into the lock, then shoved at the warped door until it opened enough for her to squeeze inside. She had no idea what she expected.

  It definitely was not a six-foot-plus Scotsman wearing a kilt. And nothing else.

  Her mouth dropped open. Too stunned to do more than blink, she simply stared. The man was a giant. His long legs resembled roughly hewn oak trees, looking oddly all the more masculine for the skirt he was wearing. Her gaze moved upward when he crossed formidable arms over an even more formidable chest and glared at her. His face was full of magnificent angles, accentuated by dark slashes of eyebrows and sculpted lips that, for all their beauty, looked as cold and hard as the rest of him. His hair was long, black, and as wild as the light in his fierce gray eyes.

  He took a menacing step forward. “I dinna ken who ye be lassie, but I’ll thank you to get the hell off my land.”

  He was entirely overwhelming
and more than a little terrifying. None of which explained why a bubble of semi-hysterical laughter emerged through her lips. She held up her hand. “I have a key,” she said, as if that would explain everything. “Lachlan Claren left the cabin to me.”

  The man’s face twisted in rage and he stormed across the room toward her, dust rising from the floorboards with each thundering footstep. “This is MacKinnon land,” he roared. “And MacKinnon land it will stay! Auld Lachlan dinna own this place, nor lass, do you. Now be gone!”

  By all rights she should be running screaming down the mountain. Perhaps it was because less than a week ago she’d had a loaded gun held to her head and had spent several terrifying minutes believing she was going to die. Maybe you only really believed you were going to die once.

  She stepped back and said, “I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but this is my cabin now. I have the deed to prove it. If you have a problem with that then I suggest you take it up with Judge Nash. In the meantime, it’s late and I’m tired. When I come back, I expect you to be gone.”

  She turned and walked out to her car where she grabbed her duffel bag and the can of pepper spray she’d tucked into the glove compartment. She glanced at the rest of her inheritance, which occupied almost the entire back of the car. Later, she decided. She’d unload Lachlan’s trunk tomorrow, though she had no idea how she was going to get the thing inside. She cast a look toward the cabin, then shook her head. She doubted Braveheart in there would be willing to play bellboy.

  She could hear him swearing and stomping about as she walked back to the porch. Her moment of bravado wore off and she paused at the foot of the stairs. She read newspapers, she watched CNN. She’d heard of wild loonies living in the woods doing horrible things to unsuspecting campers. She looked back at her car, then down at the can of pepper spray in her hands. This was stupid. Going back into that house armed with only a can of chemical spray was asking for trouble. God knows, she’d had enough of that.

  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.

  Maggie 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.