Legends (3 page)

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.

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.

You’ll drink my tea
, she vowed silently, gritting her teeth.
And before I’m done with you, you’ll learn to be civil and listen
.

Still, he reminded her of Jonathan, and that brought the worries. Jonathan would have been unconquerable in a situation such as this. Of course, her husband’s strength had been of a quieter brand, a shy kind where women had been concerned. And he had been gentle and good humored, a big, sweet ox of a man, not a quick-tempered wolf like Kincaid.

She rose wearily and went to the cottage’s front room, where she set a pot of beef stew to simmer on a small gas stove. Stuck here in the highlands with only the electricity from a gas-run generator—and
that only to work the well pump—Elgiva longed for the bare comforts of her little apartment over her clothing shop in Druradeen. Without the stove, the gas heater in the other room, and the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling beams, life here would have been a bit too rustic.

Of course, she and Rob had grown up in worse, living in a crofter’s cottage as outcasts from Angus MacRoth’s hearth. He had treated them as if they were strangers, not his kin, his brother’s orphans. He didn’t care if the other MacRoths despised him for turning his back on his nearest blood; Angus had never asked for the love of his kinspeople or his tenants, even when many of them were one and the same.

Douglas Kincaid’s dog padded into the room and nuzzled her hand. The unexpected comfort weakened her defenses, and tears stung her eyes. After she set Kincaid free, she’d have to go into hiding. It might be years before he stopped searching for her. He was the kind of man who would crave revenge. No matter. She’d run, if she had to, and leave the MacRoth holdings in Rob’s control.

Rob would make a good laird. He wanted to write his historical novel, not manage an estate, but as the other rightful heir, it was his duty. Elgiva had been the best candidate to lead the kidnapping. Douglas Kincaid had an eye for the ladies. A woman might win his cooperation.

The evening wind whipped around the shingled eaves outside. Elgiva gazed wistfully through a small window set deep in the stone wall. A vista of craggy, heathered moor spread into the distance, with thick forests and clear, deep streams skirting its hollows.

They were shadowy and wild, these moors, and it was no wonder that the old ones still believed that they were populated by beautiful fairies and shaggy brownies, mischievous elves and merry fauns. The Good People, such as they were called, could be very helpful. She loved their legends and the heritage
that had birthed them; she loved her country, and she loved the land that had belonged to her clan for seven centuries.

Elgiva craned her head anxiously when she heard movement from Kincaid’s cell. She hurried back into the big room. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring angrily at the floor. His dog trotted to the cell and sat down as close as he could, pushing against the bars.

The big, sweet dog considers Kincaid a saint
, Elgiva noted. But it didn’t mean that he was one.

She went to her own bed, a large oak antique with angels carved into the headboard, set in the corner across from the fireplace. She sank slowly onto bright quilts covering a plump feather mattress. Then she clasped her hands in her lap and simply waited to see what would happen next.

Douglas Kincaid swung his head toward her. He scanned her from head to foot with narrowed, mocking eyes. “Do you have a name?” he asked sharply. “Or should I just call you whatever comes to mind? I can think of several unpleasant choices, at the moment.”

“I’m sure you can. For my part, I’ll call you what suits you best. Braggart. Show-off. Thief.”

“Don’t forget ‘Innocent.’ I haven’t done anything illegal or immoral.”

“It’s not immoral to take what isn’t yours?”

“I wanted a home in Scotland! Angus MacRoth offered to sell me a home. I don’t understand why his heirs would protest. As soon as I sign the agreement, they’ll get one million pounds. That’s a lot of MacMoney.”

“The money won’t go to them. Angus willed it to the Bank of Scotland.”

“Why would he do a pointless thing like that?”

“Because he was a hateful old man who liked to hurt people. Angus’s heirs don’t want the money, anyhow. They want their homes and their lives left in peace. You’re planning to kick everyone out.”