The Legend Mackinnon

by Donna Kauffman

  He did know and he didn’t like it.

  “Of course, no one agrees exactly. To some you’re just another loony, as crazy as old Tommy, to others you’re this mystery man. Everyone has a story to tell, but no one can claim seeing you themselves.”

  “And what is your interest in all this?”

  His question startled the smile from her face. It was as if the clouds had suddenly covered the sun.

  “Who said I was interested?”

  “Ye dinna lie well, Cailean.” He wasn’t sure if it was his accusation or the use of her name that made her pupils suddenly dilate, nor was he sure why the reaction made his pulse rate speed up.

  “Who said I—”

  He stopped her with the barest touch of his fingertip to her lips. Och, but they were soft, like flower petals. He’d gone daft for sure, spouting thoughts like a poet. And yet he traced her lips before pulling his hand away.

  “You listened to their stories. You came back here. You’re interested.”

  “I came to talk to the dead, as you noted earlier.”

  “Ah yes, seeking comfort from a soul already departed. You strike me as a smarter lass than that. What has this man to offer you from the grave?”

  “Answers.”

  “Did you get them?”

  “No.” She looked away. “I only got more questions.”

  He thought about how he’d first seen her, standing transfixed, her eyes unseeing. A dark cloud of suspicion moved into his mind. Anger, centuries old, flickered to life within him.

  “Who is this Lachlan you come to ask questions of?”

  “You don’t know?”

  He shook his head, beginning to think maybe he should have paid closer attention to his surroundings after all.

  “I’m surprised. I mean, he’s the only one who has been buried here in a century. As the owner of this land, I assumed he’d bought the plot from you.”

  “I’ve only been here several years. Perhaps he arranged the purchase earlier. I don’t keep track of such things.”

  “It didn’t perk your interest when someone showed up and began digging a hole in your cemetery?”

  “I saw it being dug, but what care is it of mine if another MacKinnon needs burying? God knows it happens to them all at one point or another.”

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  She didn’t answer right away. She studied his face, his eyes most of all. His patience came to an abrupt end. He grabbed her arms. “Know what?” He felt the dread crawling around in his belly. Christ, why hadn’t he stayed in the damn hills with Thomas’ sheep?

  She pulled her arms from his grasp and stepped away from him. “The man they buried here is a Claren.”

  His face contorted in what could only be termed rage. He spun around to face the headstone, eyes blazing, hands clenched into white knuckled fists.

  Cailean backed away carefully. “What difference does it make to you if—”

  He whirled on her, making her stumble another couple of steps backward.

  “The only good Claren is a dead Claren, but even dead he cannot lay his bones to rest in MacKinnon ground!”

  His words, spoken with more emotion than she thought he contained, shook her hard. She struggled to keep her thoughts focused and her tone even. “The plot is his. I asked the solicitor. It’s all legal. Who did he buy it from, if not you?”

  It was clear he was struggling to maintain a toehold on his temper. Finally, she was getting somewhere. She just hoped her interpretation of her vision had been correct on the physical harm point.

  “I have no idea how he got his hands on this plot.”

  “Well, the most logical person would be from whoever owned this land before you came here.”

  He said nothing, merely stalked away from her. He stopped at the bench, his back still facing her.

  Understanding dawned. “You don’t actually own the land, do you? Not legally anyway.”

  He didn’t turn around. She could see his shoulders move as he took several forceful breaths, before blowing out one long sigh of disgust.

  “Lachlan’s solicitor wasn’t too keen on discussing his will with me. Do you have any idea who owns this land?”

  Still nothing.

  “Well, they must not care overly much about it since no one has bothered you since your arrival.”

  She silently cursed Lachlan again for not including all the information in his journals. Maybe he thought it irrelevant. Maybe he’d assumed his quest would die with him. He hadn’t updated his will in decades or searched out heirs and tried to impose his will on them directly. He hadn’t purposely dragged her into this, but here she was. And since this was the only lead she’d been able to dig up, she wasn’t letting it go. Nor was she letting go of one John “Rory” MacKinnon.

  The name played across her mind. It couldn’t be a coincidence. He might not be a ghost, but the whole thing was too amazing to be ignored. First Duncan, then Calum’s headstone and now her vision about the man named Rory.

  She walked toward him. “I know something of the history between the Clarens and the MacKinnons. So I understand why you aren’t too thrilled with having Lachlan’s remains here.”

  He turned slowly back to face her. His eyes were still lit with anger, the harsh slashes of his features were drawn so sharp they looked as if they could cut a person. She didn’t intend to get that close.

  “What do you know of it?” he said. “And what are you to Lachlan?”

  “He left behind a trunk full of journals containing notes about the lives and loves of the Clarens and the MacKinnons. His wife was a MacKinnon.”

  Rory looked past her at the fresh grave. He seemed to relax a fraction. “Sorry bastard should have known better. They never learn.” He looked back to her. “You have your answer. He was buried with his wife.”

  He didn’t look happy about it, but neither was he as furious as he’d been moments ago. She almost hated to continue.

  “His wife isn’t buried here. She’s buried in a family crypt in Dunvegan.”

  His eyes darkened. “Why do ye care about this auld man’s remains? Or his scribblings.” He stepped closer to her. “What is auld Lachlan to you?”

  It was unnerving to be the source of his interest. Even more unnerving was the way she responded to it. She shifted her suddenly warm cheeks into the wind.

  “I’m an anthropologist. I came into possession of his journals through professional channels.”

  “And of what scientific significance would they be?”

  Cailean gave him a measured look. “Just how long have you been a sheep farmer, anyway?”

  “I explained about Thomas.”

  “Yes, your sheep mentor. And before that?”

  “I lived elsewhere.” She gave him a look and he added, “A lot of elsewhere’s.”

  “Doing?”

  “How did we end up talking about me?”

  “I find people’s pasts fascinating.”

  Something close to amusement flickered in his eyes. “I thought you’d be more interested in the ancient past, rather than the recent one.”

  “All history fascinates me.” Rory’s in particular was beginning to fascinate her a great deal.

  “What is your specialty?”

  “I’m a molecular forensic anthropologist. My specialty is DNA analysis of the remains of ancient civilizations.”

  “So yer here to dig auld Lachlan up and examine ’is gray matter are ye?” The accent was intentional, as was the steely look he sent her way. He meant to intimidate. She tried her best not to allow it.

  “Of course not.”

  He stepped toward her. “Then why are ye here Ms. Forensic Anthropologist?” He glanced at the stone. “He was old, but eighty hardly qualifies him as ancient.”

  “You never spoke to him?” she asked.

  “Never met the man.”

  “I find that strange. Lachlan devoted his whole life to finding out as much
as he could about the Clarens and the MacKinnons. After his wife’s death, he charted as much of their history as he could. I would have thought he’d have interviewed you as well.”

  “Who says I’ve had anything to do with any Clarens?”

  “Your reaction just a bit ago, when I mentioned he was one.” When he merely held her gaze in his frustratingly silent way, she tamped down on her own growing irritation. “You said he was a sorry bastard and that they never learned. You know of the curse, Rory.”

  Her use of his name caused a palpable reaction in him. His eyes came alive again, boring into hers. He stepped closer and she swore she could feel heat emanating from him.

  “Why are you so interested in him?” he asked quietly.

  Cailean wasn’t sure how long she could put off answering. If his reaction to finding out about Lachlan was any indication, finding out she was his great niece would not be pleasant. He was to be her guide. But only if she didn’t screw things up.

  “Lachlan found the origin of the curse. It’s known as the Legend MacKinnon. He was searching for the key to it all when he died. His time ran out before he could finish his quest.”

  Rory went rigid. When he spoke, his words were measured and delivered through a tight jaw. “And you think to finish it?”

  “I don’t think so, I know so. I am part of the key.”

  NINETEEN

  Rory knew in that moment that life would truly never end for him, or he would have been struck dead that instant.

  “The Key?” The words came out as a menacing whisper, when what he felt was a volcanic roar. He forced his fingers into tight fists so he wouldn’t snatch her and shake the life from her, so great was his anger, so deep was his pain. “Why have you come here?”

  Did she think to trick him as her ancestors had done before her? And what trickery was left to be played? Had he not suffered worse than any damnation he could have ever divined?

  “You know why,” she managed. He took little satisfaction in the tremble of her lips.

  “I know nothing of how a Claren Key thinks, nor do I ever want to.”

  “How did you—”

  He grabbed her then, shaking her once. “You said you were the Key. Did ye think I’d not know of it?”

  “But—”

  “But true to yer lying ways you didna come out and tell me. No, you spin tales of being a scientist and of diggin’ in the past as some academic endeavor.”

  With surprising strength, she tore herself from his grasp. “I didn’t lie. I am a scientist.”

  “Yer a Claren.” The word made his tongue twist.

  “Yes, I am a Claren. Lachlan was my great-uncle.” She leveled her shoulders and stared at him directly. There was no trembling in her now.

  He refused to admire her for it. “And yer just now helping him? I’d say you’ve come too late.”

  “I didn’t know about him until after he died. He left his journals to me. I didn’t come straight out and tell you for obvious reasons.”

  “I dinna care about yer reasons or about yer search. I want you off this land and away from me.”

  “You can’t order me off this land. You don’t own it.”

  He actually shook, so consuming were the emotions that assailed him. “In every way that land can belong to a man, this land belongs to me! I dinna care about papers and deeds or the whims of kings. The Clarens may have laid claim to it through trickery and deceit, but a MacKinnon made this land his own and MacKinnon land it will stay.”

  The fear in her expression disappeared. She was a scientist again. “Wait a minute. You’re saying this is the land the original clan owned? This land we’re standing on?” She spun around, scanning the rocky pinnacles that soared above them. “This is the land they fought over? Then this became Claren land. Maybe …” She turned back toward the Bay of Staffin below.

  Rory couldn’t say which enraged him more, the audacity of her dismissing him or her easy supposition that this was Claren land. As if it ever could be!

  She whirled back to him, her eyes shining. “Do you think Lachlan actually owned all this? It would explain a great deal.”

  She had an analytical scientist’s brain, and he’d seen her as something unusual, out of the ordinary. That was what had called to him. Or so he had thought. It had obviously been Claren trickery, more of their faery magic.

  He’d seen through that now, so she’d metamorphosed into something else designed to draw him in. Her shining eyes, the hopeful cant of her mouth, the avid need to know everything painted so clearly in her expression. All designed to make him aware of her as a woman. It was trickery for certain … because it was working.

  And for the first time in three hundred years, he was afraid.

  “According to the laws of kings, this land has changed hands many times since the battles between the MacKinnons and the Clarens,” he said. “There were many clans who laid claim to it over the years, though none has lived on it. If auld Lachlan owned it, it was a purchase he made, not an inheritance handed from Claren to Claren.”

  As he’d hoped, her smile faded, but the light remained in her eyes. “I don’t care how he acquired it,” she said, “but that must be why he picked this place to be laid to rest. He tried to find the exact location of that last battle, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. There is no castle left standing, so—”

  Rory stilled. “What of the castle?” There was no masking the intensity in his voice.

  She looked at him curiously. “Stonelachen. Lachlan searched for the ruins but assumed they had disappeared since there was no record of them. He must have found this cemetery and decided that any evidence of MacKinnon ownership was enough, or as close as he was likely to get.”

  Stonelachen. The auld bastard had gone hunting for the MacKinnon stronghold, had he? “Why the interest in the castle?”

  “He’d traced the curse back to the last battles between the two clans. He was convinced it began with the three sons of Calum MacKinnon.”

  Rory wanted to move away from her, far away from her. He had taken on many challenges, defying death again and again until he wearied of the monotony of survival. He’d lived in a state of near numbness for some time now, no longer wanting or desiring stimulus of any type. Why bother? It led to naught but frustration. He became a recluse, oblivious to old Lachlan’s machinations, and he’d found a small measure of peace.

  Until now. Until her.

  His last run in with a Claren Key had lasted him an eternity. He could have lived throughout eternity without ever encountering another.

  Then it struck him. Perhaps only a Claren Key could shatter the solitude he’d created.

  “That’s it.”

  “What’s it?”

  “The curse.” If one Key had cast him into this hellhole of a curse, could another cast him out of it? Perhaps he should have spent this never-ending lifetime searching out a Key, instead of avoiding one.

  Could he risk it? Could he not? What fate could be worse than the endless one he was already living?

  “Then you do believe in it.”

  He ignored her. His mind was racing ahead to the future, to his salvation. “When you first came here, you had a vision, didn’t you?”

  “What does that—”

  “What did you see, Cailean?”

  “You.” Her eyes were wide and wary now, her voice was a whisper. “I saw you.”

  He hadn’t known what to expect, but it hadn’t been that. Her steady regard unsettled him further. “And what of me?” He stepped closer. He hadn’t missed the flashes of awareness he’d seen in her eyes. He didn’t miss it now. She might be skilled in the ways of scientific research but he’d bet she wasn’t nearly as skilled in the ways of seduction. Too many years spent with the dead, he supposed.

  He raised his hand, touched her hair, then her cheek. “What of us, Cailean?”

  “You’re …” She had to pause to clear her throat.

  He resisted the urge to smile. She was far from stupi
d, even if she did appear to be somewhat naive.

  “You’re to be my guide,” she said.

  He continued to stroke her face, holding her gaze with his own, challenging her to look away, step away. She did not. That he felt his own body begin to stir bothered him some, but he didn’t intend to allow it to interfere with his plan. She had the power, but he planned to harness it and use it. Control would be his, one way or another.

  “And what am I to guide you to?” He traced a fingertip around her ear, then along her jaw.

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “Does my touch disconcert you, Cailean?”

  “No.” She’d answered quickly. Much too quickly.

  He raised a brow and traced a finger over her lip. It quivered under his touch. “No?” He lifted his other hand and framed her jaw with his thumbs, enjoying the leap of pulse he spied at her temple. “It’s been a long time since I touched a woman. It’s been even longer since I tasted one.”

  He bent closer, until he could feel her breath against his lips. “Do you want to taste me, Cailean? Are you wondering, right this moment, what my kiss will be like? Will he take me gently? Will he be a brute?” He shifted so that his eyes were level with hers. “Which do you want, Cailean? Shall I demand a kiss? Or coax one from you?” At her small gasp, he leaned in. “Do you want to be seduced?” His hands slid to the back of her neck and tilted her face upward. “Or do you wish to be taken?”

  His own mind began to cloud. It had been a long time since he’d found even a shred of fascination in a woman. He’d exhausted the endless varieties centuries ago. Perhaps he hadn’t come across the right partner. But there could be nothing “right” about a Claren Key.

  But dear God, if this was to be his new hell, then he would be damned if he would not savor the darkest of the pleasures it had to offer.

  “Answer me,” he demanded hoarsely.

  Cailean had never fully understood the term enthralled.

  She did now.

  Her body was taut with the need he’d so easily and recklessly roused in her. The ache, and the soothing of it, was suddenly so central to her existence she thought she might shatter if he didn’t kiss her. “What are you?” she managed.