The Legend Mackinnon

by Donna Kauffman

  “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.”

  TWO

  Maggie 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.”

  “Hardly 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.

  “I am not responsible for her folly nor will I be responsible for freeing her from it. I’ll stay in this void for eternity before I help one of the clan that destroyed mine. You have naught to offer me beyond it. No solace great enough for me to endure the getting of it. Only hell.” He looked to the dark shadows of the mountains beyond the window. Mountains that weren’t his own, land that would never be Scotland. “Aye, and isn’t this hell enough?”

  He climbed down the ladder, using his mortal muscle and sinew, needing to expel the strange energy plaguing him and knowing naught how to do it except through the physical use of the body that housed his soul. His damned soul.

  He poked at the fire, restless in ways he cared not to analyze. This was not the first time he had been tested. Yet in this, his three hundredth month of exile, They had, for the first time, crossed his path with a woman. And not just any woman, but an ancestor of the clan against which he’d sworn vengeance. She was Claren. She could not be his absolution.

  For there would be no Higher Place for him. There was no way to correct the wrongs he had committed in the name of his clan. Wrongs he’d wrought because of the treachery of a Claren.

  If he failed again this month, would he finally descend into hell? And what hell could possibly be worse than knowing his clansman had died without his help? What hell could be worse than having an eternal view of all history except that which took place on Scottish soil? They allowed him to see what he wanted of the world, except that which mattered to him most. Hell could not be worse than what he had suffered these last three centuries.

  Thirty days to endure, then perhaps he would find out.

  Perhaps he’d take a Claren to hell with him. “Enjoy yer soft bed whilst ye can, lassie.”

  Maggie opened her eyes to a misty gray morning. She’d slept dreamlessly for the first time in weeks. She was tempted to stay nestled in the depths of the covers.

  Coward. She wrestled a foot out. Cool, but not chilly. The sweet smoke-scent of wood in the fireplace below proved that a fire still burned in the hearth. She closed her eyes and listened, but heard nothing else stirring. No one else, to be more exact.

  Was she ready to face whatever waited for her below?

  She didn’t chance a shower, but was heartened that the antique toilet flushed properly. She splashed her face and brushed her teeth at the kitchen sink after figuring out how the pump handle faucet worked. Feeling refreshed, she stoked the fire, then climbed the ladder and made the bed, gaining confidence with each normal chore she performed.

  She would spend the morning checking cupboards and making a grocery list. After a quick trip to town, she would get Lachlan’s chest inside and spend the afternoon going through whatever was in it. She might even buy a paper and see how Wall Street was doing in her absence.

  She could almost let herself believe everything was under control. Until she hauled her bag onto the bed and began sorting through her recently purchased, very scaled down wardrobe.

  Just because there had been no sign of MacKinnon this morning, didn’t mean he would
n’t return. And even if he was a figment of her imagination, he was still a bit too real. Enough so that getting naked made her uncomfortable. The idea of climbing under the covers to change was too adolescent to consider. She gripped the edges of her T-shirt and started to pull it off, then stopped midway and hooked her bra around her and slid it up under the shirt first, fumbling on the straps. After a quick peek over the loft railing, she yanked off the T-shirt, put on a sweatshirt, then sat on the bed and changed into new panties and sweatpants, all in under sixty seconds with her rump barely leaving the mattress.

  Judd is trying to kill me and I’m worried that some hallucination is getting his bagpipes off watching me dress? Disgusted, she climbed down the ladder. Tonight she would strip fearlessly. She might even sleep in the nude. So there.

  “Do ye always sleep the day away?”

  Maggie almost fell from the last rung. “It’s you.”

  “You were expectin’ someone else perhaps?”

  Maggie made herself straighten and took a steadying breath. He was more … massive than she’d remembered, which was hard to believe. Today he wore a loose-fitting white linen shirt, with strings dangling untied at the neck. His kilt was the same, with more plaid and a bag of some kind tied around his waist. His calves were covered with heavy socks and leather boots. His long black hair was pulled back and gathered at the neck. He was nothing short of magnificent. Mel Gibson, eat your heart out.

  “I was, uh, expecting to be alone,” she managed.

  He stared hard at her. “This won’t be the first time I’ll be disappointin’ ye.”

  She took a bold step forward, heartened when he didn’t move away from the fire. “As I told you last night, this is my cabin. I own it, all legal and proper.”

  “And what if I said I don’t give a bluidy damn for your laws?” He leaned casually against the mantle. “What will you do then, lass?”

  His brogue wasn’t near as thick now as it had been yesterday when he’d been angry and shouting. Yet his relaxed pose and quieter speech rattled her more—he didn’t seem remotely loony today.

  “Then I’ll be forced to go into town and deal with the local law enforcement on this matter.”

  He tipped back his head and laughed. It was a robust sound that filled the cabin. “You do that, lassie,” he said, still chuckling. “You do that.”

  Maybe this wasn’t going to work after all.

  It wasn’t difficult for Maggie to foresee the end of that scenario. She’d drag Deputy Branson up the mountain and the cabin would be empty and dusty with only her footprints as signs of recent occupancy. It also wasn’t hard to foresee her future if she left the mountain. It would be very brief.

  She needed this cabin, dammit. And as much as she hated to admit it, having Duncan around might not be such a bad idea if Judd were to suddenly show up. Having furniture and a fire wasn’t a bad bargain either.

  “Well, much as we’d each like the other to go, I have a right to be here. We’ll have to work out a compromise.”

  He frowned. She smiled. “This probably won’t be the only time I’ll disappoint you either.”

  He grumbled something about lassies too bold for their own good and turned toward the fire once again.

  Maggie studied him while she reviewed her options.

  “You going tae gawk at me for what’s left of the morning, or do you have something else that might be needin’ your attention?”

  She scowled at his back then stalked to the kitchen where she began flinging open cupboard doors. No food. No dishes. Nothing.

  “It’s going to be more of a list than I thought.” She turned to go up to the loft for her purse … and found a pen and pad of paper lying on the kitchen table. She darted a suspicious look at him, but MacKinnon’s back was to her as he poked in the fire. At least he was still visible.

  Okay. She took a deep breath. I’m fine. So then how did the paper and pen get there?

  She started writing. Lunchmeat. Bread. Cereal. Milk. Water.

  “The well water here is a bit of an acquired taste. A lot of minerals in these hills. Buy several gallons.”

  She slapped her hand over her list and looked up. He was still across the room. There was no way he could read what she was writing.

  She tore the top sheet off and folded it in her hand. Why make a list? What didn’t she need? She studiously ignored him as she climbed the ladder, retrieved her purse and climbed back down again. She was going down the porch stairs when she heard him in the doorway behind her.

  “Take yer time,” he said, sounding almost friendly.

  She was immediately suspicious. “I’m sure you’d like it if I went down the mountain and never came back.” She stopped at her car door and looked back. Her throat closed over. Arms crossed, feet braced, he filled the doorway, looking like a wild warrior hero. Simply speaking, he took her breath away.

  Yeah, well, he wasn’t taking her cabin, too. It would take more than his bizarre presence to scare her off.

  It wasn’t until she was turning the key in the ignition that she remembered her dead battery. Just what I need, a dose of Highlander humiliation. Even as she prepared to meet his smug smile, the engine roared to life with nary a sputter. She darted a quick glance to the doorway of the cabin. It was empty.

  “I’ll be back, MacKinnon,” she grumbled. “Bet on it.”

  THREE

  She did come back, but it took Maggie longer than expected. She’d been so aggravated when she’d left she hadn’t remembered her disguise. It was only a baseball hat and a pair of dark sunglasses, but along with the baggy sweats, it would have been enough to keep anyone with a photo from recognizing her. Thinking of her newly-acquired “look” she cringed. She missed her tailored Donna Karan suits and her Magli pumps. Judd would pay for that, too.

  Maggie remembered with chilling clarity the exact moment she thought she was going to die. She’d come home from work to find Judd waiting for her in her apartment. Apparently the restraining order she’d sworn against him wasn’t going to work. He’d had a gun to her head when he’d been paged to an urgent meeting with the division president. There was only one thing Judd valued more than keeping his possessions, of which she’d unwittingly become one, and that was keeping his prestigious rung on the corporate ladder. He’d tied her up and locked her in her own closet, making it clear he’d finish when he returned.

  Maggie was proud of her Houdini-worthy escape, which hadn’t been easy considering the silk hose he’d had tied around her wrists at the time. Judd would know she’d run and she’d need money to do it, which was why she’d emptied her savings account. All he’d be able to find out was which branch and the time of withdrawal, nothing of use to him.

  What Judd didn’t know was that she’d become an heiress. The investigator Nash had hired to find the next living kin had tracked down her birth certificate while researching her deceased father, Lachlan’s original heir. From there he’d been able to track down her social security number and eventually her address. Thanks to modern technology, Nash’s investigator hadn’t talked to anyone.

  No one would look for her in Madden County, North Carolina. She hoped.

  She shoved the car door open, and got out. The entire hatchback was crammed full of bags, all stuffed around Lachlan’s trunk. She doubted MacKinnon was going to offer her any assistance. Maggie wrestled out several bags and headed for the door. She used her hip to bang her way inside. “I could use a hand here.” She heaved the bags onto the trestle table, then turned to the crackling fire. He wasn’t there.

  She checked the loft. Nobody was home but her. Good. Now she had all the comforts of home and no irritable ghost hovering about.

  She slapped a hand over her mouth, as if she’d spoken the word. But she’d thought it, and that was just as bad. And, worse than that, she realized she wasn’t all that relieved to be alone either.

  She sunk down on the wooden bench and dropped her forehead to the trestle table. “I have lost it for sure.�
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  “Not surprising, lass,” a deep voice said. “You could lose a highland cow in that heap you dragged in here.”

  Her head jerked up. “Will you stop doing that!”

  “Asking questions?”

  “Popping up and scaring me half to death. Make some noise. Stomp on the floor when you walk. Knock on the door, clear your throat or … or something.”

  “I’ll no’ be knocking on the door to me own cabin.”

  “It’s my cabin!”

  He stalked to the table, planted two very large fists on the oak planks, and leaned over. “If ye don’ like the company yer keepin’, lassie, then leave. I’ll do as I please. Just as I have every November for the last three hundred years.”

  “Oh God,” she whispered. “You couldn’t just disappear and leave me alone, could you?” She buried her head on her arms. “If you’d just go away, back to wherever it is you come from, I’d eventually come up with some rational explanation that I could live with.”

  Silence.

  She raised her head. He hadn’t moved an inch. Her shoulders slumped forward. “You’re not going to do that, are you?”

  He shook his head.

  Maggie began to laugh. It increased until it took on a decidedly hysterical edge. “This isn’t happening.”

  Duncan frowned, but more out of concern than anger. What was wrong with the chit? Aye, he’d wanted to drive her off, but she’d seemed to be made of sterner stuff than this. The last thing he needed was her going daft on him. “If yer goin’ tae fall apart, don’t do it here, lassie,” he ordered.

  She just wiped the tears from her eyes, and laughed harder. “Sure, no problem,” she said between choked gulps of air. “I meet ghosts everyday. No reason to get hysterical.”

  “Just what is it yer doing here? Why dinna ye leave this place?”

  She finally looked at him, her expression a bit hollow. “I can’t leave. I have nowhere left to run.”