The Legend Mackinnon (8 page)

“I’ve lived in colder climes than this, lass, wi’ no fire to warm my hide, nor clothes to cover my back.”

It was a dismissal, if she’d ever heard one, and an evasive one at that, but Maggie was learning to read beneath his blustering statements and stony countenance.

“So,” she began, smiling freely when he stiffened in continued frustration, “when you pop out of here and take all this stuff with you, does it pop down wherever you do? I bet that gets real interesting.”

No response.

“Is this the furniture that was here originally? Or do you get to pick what you want? ’Cause I don’t see you as a lace curtain kinda guy. And can you conjure up anything? That would explain the empty cupboards. But you know, a satellite dish would be most appreciated.” She paused, gauging the tension mounting in his stance. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Still nothing. She stifled a short sigh. She didn’t really want him exploding in anger. She recalled what had happened the last time tempers had risen. Her temperature had risen right along with it. Along with several other things.

She’d managed to repress the memory of the kiss they’d come so close to sharing all afternoon and evening. Until now. Just the thought of it brought back the rush of sensations she’d felt, every touch, every—”

“What is wrong with ye, lass?”

Maggie abruptly stopped fanning her face. He’d turned
toward her, but rather than a smug expression, she found concern. And frustration. He didn’t want to care about her. But could it be that he did? She recalled the meal he’d prepared for her. Even if he’d just conjured it up, it was still proof he’d worried about her. The idea of him caring made her feel … well, good. That was bad. Wasn’t it?

God, shouldn’t there be some lesson learned in what Judd put her through? Shouldn’t she be a better judge of men now? The simple answer was no. Different man, different set of criteria. And no two men were alike.

She almost laughed. Most certainly there was no man on earth like Duncan MacKinnon. God only knew what lessons she was about to learn this time.

“I, uh, I think I’ll go on up to bed,” she said finally. Whatever she’d thought she’d seen in his eyes moments before was gone. The implacable mask was back in place. If only he’d keep it that way for another couple of weeks or so. Maybe they’d both escape this incarceration with their emotions unscathed.

She went to the small bathing area and drew the curtain, then poked her head back out. He was staring at the fire once again, but she knew he’d watched her leave. The ripple of pleasure that knowledge sent through her should have been warning enough.
Shut the curtain and wash up for bed, Maggie
. But she had to know. “Just how far do your powers of observation extend? When you’re on earth?”

He kept his back to her. “If yer worried about your privacy, I’ve no intention of invadin’ it.”

“But could you, if you wanted to? Without, you know, physically invading it?”

He turned to face her. “Is there something ye have so unique that I should be sneakin’ about tae see it?”

Maggie flushed. “Point made. I’ll just take my excruciatingly average self to bed then. Sorry, to have bothered you, my lord.” She yanked the curtains shut and started to turn on the water, but paused when she heard him speak.

“I am no lord, lass. No chieftain either. I am but the shamed second son.” This quiet statement was punctuated by the loud thump of another log joining the fire.

She opened the curtain, but when she came out, he wasn’t there. She found herself thinking about going outside to see if she could find him. Just to see where he goes, she told herself, not to do anything rash.

She could hear the wind whipping through the trees. It was dark, and the mountain was still unfamiliar territory. But that wasn’t what made her decide to stay. No matter what he said about his limited powers, she was certain Duncan MacKinnon was only seen when he chose to be seen.

Snuggled in bed—after changing under the covers—her thoughts shifted to the journal she’d been reading. She’d already rummaged to the bottom of the trunk, but Lachlan’s rambling didn’t seem to follow any sort of chronology. Information on Mairi and Duncan could be in any one of the lengthy volumes, if it was there at all. She wondered yet again what it was Lachlan had been searching for, but drifted off to sleep before she could match action to thought.

B
y the afternoon of her fifth day in hiding, Maggie was ready to tear out her hair, one strand at a time. Duncan had made himself all but invisible, the irony of which had ceased to be amusing days ago. They had little if any conversation and even her best attempts at goading him had fallen on seemingly deaf ears.

His offer to help her with her problems hadn’t come up again and her pride and his silence kept her from mentioning it.

Other than a daily foray or two into the woods which just happened to coincide with Duncan’s daily disappearances, she’d spent most of her time tucked away with
Lachlan’s journals. So far she hadn’t gone further back than the 1800s but she was still as fascinated by the people Lachlan wrote about as she was by Lachlan himself.

She wished she’d had the opportunity to meet Lachlan Claren. From his frank, no nonsense observations and dry wit in describing his own ancestors, he sounded like quite the character. She imagined he and her Aunt Mathilda would have made quite the duo.

Maggie stared out the front porch window and wondered where Duncan had gone off to this time. In all her attempts, she’d yet to find a trace of him in the woods. She scowled, remembering early this morning, when she was certain she heard the chopping sounds of wood being cut, yet each clearing she’d sneaked up on had turned out to be absent of man or chopped wood. All she got was the faint moaning of the wind and the occasional echo of bagpipes mocking her.

She slanted a look at the freshly stacked pile of wood by the fireplace that had been there when she’d returned. Damn the man’s ghostly hide!

She’d been here almost a week. A week with no newspapers, no CSPAN, no cell phone, no stock reports. She couldn’t recall ever being that cut off from the day-to-day workings of her world. Even one week out of the race and she wondered how she’d ever catch up. Or if she could.

For that alone she’d never forgive Judd. She’d been good at her job and she’d enjoyed the sweat and grit it had taken to climb the ladder. So, maybe she’d daydreamed once or twice while twirling her engagement ring around that Judd’s demands that she give up her career to become the perfect corporate wife didn’t rankle as badly as they should have. That he’d made them rankled, but …

But now she’d have to start over from scratch. After escaping from the condo, she’d gone straight to the police station. They’d told her they could arrest him for violating the restraining order, but that if she had anywhere else to
go, preferably a place Judd didn’t know about, it would be best if she went there. Immediately.

She read stories like this in the papers all the time. They didn’t have to spell it out for her, that with Judd’s money and connections, it was likely he’d be back on the street in no time … and there was nothing they could do about it. What they didn’t have to tell her was how much angrier he’d be after getting bail posted.

She had no family to run to, no friends she would put in the middle of a dangerous situation. She clearly recalled the sickeningly irrational look in Judd’s eyes. There was no vacation long enough to make him forget his determination to have her or destroy her.

So she’d emptied her accounts, bought the junk heap and called her boss about an extended vacation while she sorted out some personal problems. She was a climber, a go-getter, he’d said, but he’d noticed her work had been suffering of late. He had to be able to depend on her and if he couldn’t, there were others in her department that he could.

And so ended her illustrious career on Wall Street.

Which was why she needed to get her butt in gear and figure out what in the hell she was going to do. She couldn’t stay here forever. She shivered despite the roaring fire. Judd had connections all over the country, hell, all over the world. And Judd always got what he wanted. He’d find her. She didn’t know how, but she couldn’t believe he’d just let things go.

And she’d been sitting here for a week with her head in the sand, pretending things would just fix themselves. Maybe she’d head back over to the neighboring town of Griffith again and look into hiring a private detective. If she had someone following Judd, at least she’d know if he was tracking her down. And maybe, just maybe, she’d get some indication that he’d given up and was moving on to possess and control someone else.

Shuddering, she knew she didn’t believe that. Judd would never give up, even if he had ten women on his arm. Duncan was right. It was about pride and honor, as twisted as Judd’s was.

It hit her hard that she truly might never go home again. And just where in the hell
was
home for her anymore? Madden County, North Carolina?

Well, hiring the detective would at least give her some peace of mind while she figured out where she’d go to start over. It was a plan. She felt immediately better.

She hurried up the ladder and pulled on a thick sweater. She dragged her purse out from under a pile of laundry, then swore when she realized she’d better take that to town with her. She laughed humorlessly. Another life adjustment for the woman who had been a slave to her dry cleaner.

Her gaze fell on the journal lying open on the bed. She might as well take it with her, something to read during the spin cycles. Though she was still disappointed that she hadn’t seen any mention of Duncan or Mairi, the MacKinnons made frequent appearances in Lachlan’s roaming stories. Lachlan had time and again referred to something he termed the “Legend MacKinnon,” but he tended to ramble and go off on tangents.

She scooped up the book and reread the last paragraph.

My digging has brought me yet another tragic story from The Legend MacKinnon. I see my theory might have some weight to it. I am none too happy to be proven right. Too much tragedy between our clans. So much so the tales surrounding them have spawned a legend. And I must wonder how long these tales have endured? How many generations does this legend touch? And what was the spark that began it? These are the questions I must answer if I am to find my peace
.

The mystery of this “legend” had definitely sparked her curiosity. She would corner Duncan this evening, one way
or another, and question him on what he might know about it.

Not that she was looking for excuses to talk to the man or anything.

She was halfway down the ladder when she heard the unmistakable sound of a car engine. She dropped her things and moved quickly to the front window, careful to stand to one side as a dusty black four-wheel-drive Jeep pulled up behind her car. There was no Sheriff’s Office decal on the side, or any other official looking markings.

It couldn’t be deputy Branson, and she doubted it was Judge Nash.

Dear God. Had Judd found her? Maggie’s heart rose to her throat even as it pounded so loudly she couldn’t hear herself breathe. She turned and looked around for a weapon, any weapon. The poker! She dashed for it, bending as low as she could, to avoid being seen through the windows.

Oh God, why hadn’t she left earlier? What in heaven’s name had she been thinking? With shaking hands she grabbed the poker, slippery in her sweaty palms. Stay cool, think cool. She crawled over to the door, and stood behind it, poker raised over her head. Where in the hell was Duncan now, when she really needed him?

“Maggie? Maggie Claren?”

It took Maggie a moment to realize it was a woman’s voice calling out her name. Could Judd have hired someone to find her? And if so, what was this person supposed to do? Kidnap her and drag her back to Manhattan so Judd could kill her? Or maybe Judd had decided he wanted her dead but didn’t want blood on his vice presidential hands. A female hitwoman? She hitched the poker higher and braced her legs. It was the nineties. It could happen.

She inched over to the side of the window and peeked out. A tall woman with long blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid, wearing worn khakis, a mountaineer-style
jacket and hiking boots, was looking inside her car. The woman straightened and turned toward the house. “Hello. Is anyone home?”

Maggie snorted.
Did Judd assume I would think she was a neighbor stopping by to borrow sugar and just invite her in?
“You’re going to have to work a little bit harder than that if you want to kill me, sweetheart.”

M
aggie heard steps on the creaking porch. She tensed, then froze when a knock sounded on the door. Every muscle locked in terror, perspiration trickled down her temples and beaded on her upper lip. Could she really strike a total stranger with deadly intent? She’d have to. If the woman out there moved first, it would likely be the one and only move made.

“Maggie Claren?” A short rapping followed. “Judge Nash told me where I could find you.”

Judge Nash? Maggie didn’t budge. If Judd had tracked her down, he’d have already found out about Judge Nash and Maggie’s inheritance.