Legends (6 page)

She thought for a while longer, then decided upon her plan. She would tell him his family history but avoid explaining why Castle Talrigh, ancient clan seat of the Kincaids, had been destroyed.

She most definitely would not tell him by whom.

T. S. Audubon had been twenty-one years old in the summer of 1971, a summer that he’d spent trying to survive in the jungles of Vietnam. He had been one of the toughest, smartest, and most respected sergeants in his battalion, but he wouldn’t be alive now except for the bravery that summer of an eighteen-year-old corporal named Douglas Kincaid.

The hard-nosed Chicago kid had carried his wounded sergeant to safety through a hail of enemy fire. Blood had been streaming down Kincaid’s face from a shrapnel wound. The fact that Kincaid was belting out an off-key rendition of “God Bless America” at the time always lent the memory a special drama to Audubon.

Their wartime friendship had grown over the next two decades, as Douglas’s brilliance and ambition shot him to the top of the moneyed world that Audubon had inhabited since birth. They shared a love for the good things in life, a flair for the dramatic, and an innate idealism.

Within an hour after Douglas was discovered missing, Audubon set the awesome expertise of his fifty-member team to work on finding him.

They were now a little closer to doing that. As he shook hands with the ruddy-faced little man seated at the table in Druradeen’s pub, Audubon’s sixth sense told him that the village’s mayor would lie at the drop of a tam-o’-shanter. The man was too pleased to see him.

“State your business, Mr. Audubon,” Duncan MacRoth said, smiling. “The sheriff over in Terkleshire called to say you’d be by. Something about a local woman you’re looking to find.”

“Yes.” Audubon laid a sheet of paper on the table. “See this emblem? The griffin and the rams? I was told that it’s the crest of the MacRoth clan.”

“Aye, and a bonnie one it is.”

“The woman I’m looking for was wearing a piece of jewelry with this emblem on it at a party last week. In America. New York City, to be exact.”

“Folks here don’t travel too much. They’re lucky to get down to Edinburgh once a year, much less to America. What are you needing this woman for?”

“I’m a private investigator. She’s involved with a client of mine. She’s a tall woman, and very well built, if you understand my meaning. Early thirties. Very pretty. With blond hair—a wig, I suspect.”

“Faith! I’d remember if we had such a woman in
this
village! She doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Oh? I understand that Elgiva MacRoth, who runs a little sweater shop down the street here, fits my description. Except that she has dark reddish-brown hair. Her shop is closed. I was told she was on vacation. Could you tell me where?”

“Oh! Elgiva! Well, she’s away in … uhmmm, let’s see … Florida. Yes. Perhaps she did go to America. To Disney World. That’s right.” The mayor beamed and nodded. The hard glitter in his eyes told Audubon that he didn’t give a damn if anyone believed him. It was his story, and he was going to stick to it.

“An interesting choice.”

Mayor MacRoth shrugged gracefully. “She has unusual interests, that Elgiva. Niece of the laird, you see. And old Angus was an eccentric.”

“She’s wealthy, then? One of the laird’s heirs?”

“Oh, she’s not wealthy. Angus was a mean bastard. Treated her and her brother worse than beggars. But she and her husband put a wee bit of money away over the years. They had no children to spend it on, poor folks. He was a fisherman. Drowned in a storm—”

“She has a brother?” Audubon asked impatiently.

“Aye. He’s a fisherman too. And a writer, on the side. Not published yet, though. But a fine, fine, man—”

“Could you tell me where he is?”

“Disney World,” a feisty voice interjected.

Audubon looked up to find a grandmotherly little woman watching him from the pub’s door. “Disney World,” she repeated firmly, and snapped the jacket lapels of her sturdy dress suit for emphasis. “To see those mice. Mickey and Minnie. Yes. They’re kin of ours, you know.”

“Mickey and Minnie?” Audubon asked dryly.

“Elgiva and Rob, and don’t you be saucy to me, lad,” she retorted.

“I apologize.”

“This is Mr. Audubon, Mother,” the mayor said. “Would you happen to have heard when Elgiva and Rob might be coming back home?”

“Oh, not for weeks! They were going on to that other famous American place. Hmmm … Tara. Yes! They were going to see Tara.”

Audubon looked from the mayor to the mayor’s mother. Both smiled benignly. Now Audubon knew he was on the right track, but the track was getting crowded with more MacRoths than he’d ever expected.

“You’ve been as silent as the mountains all evening, Douglas. What’s wrong?”

Elgiva watched him lounge in a big upholstered chair near his bed, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his strong-jawed face carved into mysterious patterns in the firelight. He could have lighted his lantern and read one of the books on his shelves. She’d given him two-dozen American novels, ones she assumed he’d like, with lots of sex and violence.

Or he could have worked crosswords in one of the many puzzle books she’d provided. She’d read that crossword puzzles were one of his favorite entertainments. When he couldn’t think of the correct words, he made up better ones. Resourceful and creative, that was Douglas Kincaid, though not particular about the rules.

But all he did was scrutinize her. Elgiva lifted tense hands from the sweater she was knitting. Shorn
raised his golden head from her feet and looked around sleepily. “What’s the matter, Douglas?” she asked again.

He chuckled, but it was more of a disgruntled growl than a sound of pleasure. “Nothing. I love being kidnapped.” He lifted one large foot, which was covered in a bright red wool sock and a sandal of wide leather straps. “I feel like a Celtic Moonie.”

“You’ve no need for real shoes. You won’t be going outdoors.”

He thumped his foot down and cursed softly. “I’ll enjoy proving you wrong.”

She sighed. Tonight was not the time to begin telling him about his Scotch heritage, it seemed. “In the wooden box under your bed you’ll find a cassette player, Douglas, and a few dozen of your favorite tapes. All those jazz people you like so much. I put in some tapes of the great classics of the bagpipe as well. Why don’t you listen to some ancient
ceol mor
to calm your nerves?”

“My nerves are still calm from dinner.”

“You’re welcome. I’m a grand cook.”

“I wasn’t saying thanks.” He muttered something she could barely hear, something about her husband probably looking like someone named Pee-Wee Herman before she began to feed him. “Your husband,” he repeated in a louder voice, speaking to her directly.

“Hmmm?” Elgiva forced her attention on her knitting needles and tried to appear nonchalant. “Did he die of overeating?”

Elgiva told him grimly, “It’s not gentlemanly to make fun of a widow’s loss.”

“It’s not ladylike to shoot an innocent stranger in the butt with a tranquilizer dart.”

“I liked you better when you weren’t talking, Douglas.”

“I liked you better when you were a blond sex machine.”

“How about having another big piece of Madeira cake?”

“Stop trying to brainwash me with food.”

“It’s not brainwashing. It’s hospitality.”

“Did you learn hospitality from a terrorist?”

“You could make this a pleasant month, if you’d try.”

“Give me that bottle of whisky you mentioned.”

“Not tonight. Drinking might put you in an uglier mood.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Be a good lad, Douglas, and
earn
the right to a nip of Scotland’s best.”

“Dammit!” He glared at her from the shadows of his corner like a predatory animal crouched in its cave, wanting to pounce on a victim. “You manipulative little—”

“Tsk, tsk, Douglas. I’m not a
little
anything. You said so yourself.”

He was silent, momentarily outmaneuvered. Then his slow, wicked smile appeared. “So tell me, Jumbo, would you like to be fondled again? With a little creative positioning we could do anything you want, even through the bars.” He held out his hands and wiggled the fingers lecherously. “Strip to your bare plaid, lassie, and come to your reward.”

She jabbed herself with a knitting needle. Through gritted teeth she told him, “I’d give you better than you deserve.”

“Prove it.”

“Dream away, Douglas. You’d be spoiled for the rest, after having the best.”

“I deserve the best. But in a smaller package, of course. And with blond hair—the real thing, not a cheap wig.”

“You poor, poor bachelor. If you don’t curb your temper you’ll never find a wife to warm your icy soul.”

“So tell me, Ann MacLanders, how long were you married?”

“Twelve years.”

“All in a row? To the same unlucky man?”

She rolled her eyes. “Aye, brute. I know you can’t understand loyalty such as that.”

“Tell me, did you meet him at reform school?”

“No. We were promised as children.”

After a stunned moment, Kincaid said, “Isn’t that like shopping for Christmas in July?”

“It’s a custom around here. The mothers plan the marriages for their bairns.”

“Oh, come on, Jumbo, you’re too modern for that.”

“It’s not a bad custom. My mother chose well. I could have broken the bonds, if I’d wanted. And he could have as well. But we decided that we could build a good home together.”

“So you loved each other.”

“We respected each other. That’s more important.”

He considered that information in silence, frowning. When he spoke again his voice was probing. “Then you had a happy marriage.”

“It was a fine marriage.”

“A
happy
marriage?”

She clenched her fists and demanded in exasperation. “What’s it matter to you, Douglas?”

“You had an unhappy marriage,” he concluded smugly. “I’m not surprised. You’d be too much trouble for most men.”

“We had a good, decent marriage! Now stop your snooping!”

“Aren’t there any baby Jumbos?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“We couldn’t have any!”

“Who couldn’t? You or him?”

“Mind your own business.”

“I was doing that until a few days ago. Now I’m being forced to play gossip monger just to keep myself entertained. So, was Mr. Jumbo shooting blanks? Or was he just afraid you’d hurt him in bed? I know—he didn’t want to provoke any flashbacks from your days as a bar bouncer.”

She vaulted to her feet, letting the knitting fall
unheeded to the hearth. “Stop it! Stop your cruel little picking!” Her voice broke. “You g—great, ugly, arrogant d—devil!”

He got to his feet also, frowning harder. “I was just giving a little of the same medicine—”

“Shut up!” Elgiva choked on the last word, and knew to her shame that she was about to cry in front of the heartless Douglas Kincaid, who’d undoubtedly get a laugh from it. She grabbed her cape from its peg. Shom scrambled to his feet, woofing softly.

“You can’t be serious about going out,” Kincaid protested, sounding perturbed. “It’s freezing out there, and pitch-dark.”

“It’s more pleasant than in here.”

Kincaid gestured to his dog. “Sam, follow!”

Elgiva headed for the front room. “I don’t need—” she struggled with her voice—“I don’t need—”

“You need,” Douglas Kincaid interjected flatly, and he might have been talking about a lot more than Shom’s protection. “Sam, go.”

The big golden retriever stayed at Elgiva’s heels as she hurried outside, slamming the cottage door. She took a deep breath of cold, reviving air, but couldn’t stop the tears from sliding down her face.

She understood why Douglas Kincaid enjoyed tormenting her. Any proud fighter would look for vulnerable spots in his kidnapper’s armor. She didn’t understand, however, why she had let him find them so easily.

She had been gone for two hours, and the wind howled louder with every new minute. Douglas timed her with his diamond-studded wristwatch and chided himself for worrying about her well-being.

It occurred to him that she could easily have taken his watch when he was drugged. She must have realized that it was very valuable. But the watch, like the money that had been in his wallet, the photographs
of his sister, brother, and parents, and his jeweled car keys had not been stolen. He’d found them in a small paper bag tucked among the clothes she’d given him.

She’s no thief
.

In his cell’s tiny bathroom she’d put his favorite soap, shaving cream, and deodorant—even his favorite toothpaste. When she’d said that she wanted him to have all the comforts of home, she’d meant it.

His damned shower gave only cold water, but then, so did hers. He’d heard her shower running in the front room this morning, and when she’d returned to the main room dressed in trousers and a sweater he had seen the blue cast to her fair complexion. She was suffering too.

Without complaining
.

Douglas ran a hand down the front of his chest, then dropped his troubled gaze to the neat ribs of a soft gray sweater he wore with the gray trousers she’d provided. He assumed that she’d made this sweater herself.

For you, yes. And it’s perfect
.

Of course, her motivations were selfish. She wanted to win his friendship. She’d need it, after he got out of her trap.

Douglas checked his watch again. What in the hell was she doing out on those empty moors? Why did he care? Audubon would find him before long. But in the meantime, where was she? He racked his brain for information on the highlands. Weren’t there wolves up here?

It wouldn’t hurt to be nice to her from now on
.

Douglas went to the bars and shook them fiercely. “Come back,” he shouted. “If anything’s going to eat you alive, it’s going to be me.”

A few minutes later he heard her return. A draft of winter wind filtered through the main room to his cell, bringing with it the scents of the night and the land. Sam trotted into the room, his tail wagging,
and came to the cell bars. Douglas stroked his cold fur and gazed hard at the open door to the front room, where he heard her moving about. Getting undressed? She ran water for a few minutes, not in the shower, he decided, but in a sink. He heard her splashing vigorously.