The Legend Mackinnon

by Donna Kauffman

  He didn’t want to know, but he heard himself ask anyway. “What is it yer runnin’ from, lass?”

  Maggie smiled mildly. “I had the nerve to end a relationship. My fiancé didn’t take that too well.”

  Duncan lowered himself to the bench opposite her. “He was good tae ye, provided for you and made you happy?”

  She eyed him warily. “Initially.”

  “Yet ye run from him?” He smacked the table, making her jump. “Just like a Claren! Have you no’ learned anythin’ of honor in three hundred years? You can so easily shame your family and forsake a man and his family to suit your whim?”

  Fire lit her eyes again. “I didn’t shame anyone but myself for staying as long as I did. I have no family left, thank God. Aunt Mathilda would have kicked my butt for not leaving sooner. Trust me, Judd Templar is no prince.” She rubbed at her temples. “Why am I even trying to explain?”

  Aye, Duncan thought. And why did he want her to? It was an emotion he cared not to feel. In an abrupt change of subject, he demanded, “What is all this?” He gestured to the pile of bags strewn on the table.

  “Food. Supplies. Stuff.” She swung her legs over the bench and stood, her back to him. “There’s more in the car. I guess I’d better get this put away.”

  He didn’t want to feel concern. Not for a bluidy Claren. She’d gotten herself into this mess by running. A Claren trait that hundreds of years had not bred out of them. He’d have no part in helping her. “Yer stayin’ then?”

  She met his gaze. “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Because of this Judd?”

  “Because of this Judd.”

  Certainly not because of you. The words were clear in her expression. Good, he told himself. If they must be exiled together, keeping her as distant as possible was most preferable. He cared not one whit how she would resolve her circumstance, nor did he care if she drove herself into the far reaches of exhaustion whilst doing it. In fact, he had every intention of speeding up that drive. Perhaps she would decide to leave all the more quickly.

  She didn’t wait around for a response but shuffled toward the door. She was halfway out, then turned back. “Do you eat?”

  He did not at all like the tinge of guilt that colored his conscience. He had no conscience. Else he would not be plotting to expedite her defeat. If she chose to be considerate to him, ’twould be her own folly. Though most likely it was a Claren trap. She was probably planning on poisoning him. A slow, hard smile curved his lips. She couldn’t kill a dead man. Her ancestor had beat her to that triumph. “I need nothing from you.”

  She stiffened. “Fine. I’ll stay out of your way.” Her eyes narrowed and her voice dropped. “And you best stay out of mine.” He heard her stomp down the porch stairs.

  Didn’t need him did she? Duncan was tempted to leave and take the fire and furnishings with him. But he’d already expended more energy than was wise popping in and out as he had been doing. Instead he sat heavily on the bench and brooded.

  Maggie Claren might prove to be a more formidable foe than he’d imagined. She had mettle. She was not going to be any easier to deal with than her ancestor, Mairi, who’d run them both into death’s arms rather than marry him.

  He scowled and slid off the bench to prowl the confines of the cabin. Apparently his fate was to be hounded by Claren women for all eternity. He couldn’t keep Mairi Claren, and couldn’t get rid of Maggie. At the very least, discovering he was a ghost should have led to terrified screams, perhaps some staunch protestations. Instead she’d laughed. Laughed! Not at all what he’d expected.

  Duncan paced to the fireplace, then abruptly turned and slammed a fist against the aging beam of oak that was the mantlepiece. “Saints be damned!” he roared, though he knew railing against fate would only gain him a sore throat and naught else. “Trapped, I am.”

  Grabbing the iron poker, he shoved it into the dying embers of a stout pine log, creating a shower of ash and final spears of flame. He stared at the sap, crackling and popping as it oozed from the last remnants of wood. Clear and sweet, it dripped slowly into the ash, turning black as it hardened. “Like a Claren heart,” he muttered, poking savagely at the small bits, burying them deeper in the soot.

  Maggie made it all the way to the rear of her car under her own power, then collapsed on the rear fender. The metal groaned under her weight. She didn’t care if the whole thing tore off and dumped her to the ground.

  Her legs were shaking. A man just calmly, or not so calmly actually, announced he was three hundred years old. She squeezed her eyes shut. Had she demanded proof? No. Had she even tried to deny it was anything but the truth? No. She opened her eyes. Why? Because I already knew it, I already knew exactly what he was. She rubbed at the goose-bumps that rippled over her skin.

  In fact, she should be commended for having such savoir faire in the face of such an incomprehensible reality. Yeah, that’s right, she hadn’t run screaming, she hadn’t tried to deny the obvious. No, not her, she’d stood there and dealt with him. So why did she feel stupid?

  “You asked him what he wanted to eat for Christ’s sake.”

  She stood and brushed her palms on her sweats. “And by now the mint chocolate chip is probably all melted. Great. Just great.”

  Duncan brooded by the fire, not sparing her so much as a glance as she shouldered in the rest of the bags. Maggie tried not be unnerved as she stuffed everything into the cabinets. She sighed in relief when the ancient refrigerator proved functional. She’d noticed the huge propane tank outside and made a mental note to find out who to call to fill it when it got low.

  Soggy ice cream all stored away, she closed the freezer door, then wasted several more minutes folding the paper bags and storing them in the cabinet under the sink. Well, that was ten whole minutes she hadn’t had to deal with the fact that she was living with a ghost. Now what?

  She could haul Lachlan’s trunk inside … or spend the afternoon staring at Duncan’s backside. It disconcerted her to find her gaze straying toward that particular kilt-clad part of his anatomy. Instead of his tartan-covered backside however, she encountered a pair of ruddy masculine knees.

  Caught, she figured she might as well be hung for a thief and took her time raising her gaze. He wore the same unlaced white linen shirt, no tartan sash. She supposed she should be grateful that he didn’t have a sword. Though he probably had a dagger on him somewhere. Didn’t they tuck daggers in their socks? She wished she’d spent more time watching Liam Neeson’s clothes in Rob Roy and less time watching his face and his legs and his, well … kilts really were amazingly masculine garments, weren’t they?

  She raised her gaze boldly to his, not about to let him know how badly he unnerved her. “I … I appreciate the use of the furniture, and the bed. And the fire.” The small living quarters demanded that they come to at least the bare minimum of accord. She was doing her part.

  “I do you no kindness, lassie.”

  “So you furnish this place for yourself? Why? I mean, do ghosts need creature comforts too?”

  “If ye mean do I like looking at bare walls and dusty floors, the answer is no.”

  “Is that how Lachlan left it, then? Empty? Judge Nash said he rented the place to hunters.”

  “Auld Lachlan hasn’t set foot here or rented the place in ages. Och, what peaceful months those were.” He sent a pointed look her way.

  She ignored it. “I understand he never lived here himself.” She wanted to keep him talking—she almost liked him when he wasn’t shouting at her and blinking in and out.

  “No, he never did. He lived out his last years in Scotland.” His gaze drifted to the dying fire. “The bastard.”

  His expression had gone from wary to bleak. He looked almost … lost. He was a ghost, wasn’t he? Obviously he had unresolved stuff he was dealing with or he wouldn’t be haunting this place. Maggie felt a tug at her heart and quickly squashed it. She had other things to worry about. Like how to get her life back and keep J
udd from killing her.

  “Only one Claren has ever made this a home.”

  Maggie’s attention went back to Duncan. No way could she ignore that tantalizing bit of information. He was still staring at the fire. She doubted he was even aware he’d spoken out loud. Still bleak, his expression held anger now, too. It tightened the skin around his eyes, drew his mouth into a flat, uncompromising line.

  “I take it you weren’t too fond of that particular Claren,” she said.

  He turned and looked at her then. It wasn’t something as benign as anger coloring his expression. There was rage in those gray eyes of his. And it ran deep. Three hundred years deep?

  “Mairi.” He paused and she watched him visibly grapple for control. His jaw was locked tight when he said, “She was my betrothed.”

  The idea of him marrying anyone took her aback. She swallowed. “Then you loved her.”

  “Love had nothing to do with it.” He hadn’t yelled or even raised his voice. Somehow, the statement seemed even more lethal—and sad—for the complete lack of emotion vested in it. “Something you know of, I ken.”

  Maggie didn’t even stop to wonder at the wisdom of pursuing this path. If Lachlan was indeed her blood relative, then so was this Mairi Claren. She swallowed hard. Which meant she had ties beyond mere unfortunate circumstance to this ghost of a Scot. “Why marry her then?”

  “This was no feeble matter of the heart,” he stated with clear disgust. He leaned forward. “It was a matter of honor.”

  Maggie shrank back slightly at the fury in his eyes. A slight tick twitched the skin beneath his right eye. His jaw jutted out a bit further and from the corner of her eye, she saw he clutched the iron fire poker like a sword. When he spoke again, the deadly calm of his voice turned her skin to gooseflesh and made her scalp prickle in warning. Duncan MacKinnon had been a warrior, had likely died a warrior, and was a warrior still.

  “Our union would have ended too many years of feuding between Clan Claren and Clan MacKinnon. Mairi did not stand in honor to her clan. She chose to run, leaving my clansmen to die on Claren swords.”

  Maggie swallowed hard, understanding his earlier rage. She’d run too. She prayed Mairi had had different reasons than she had. “Didn’t she want your clans united?”

  “It was not up to her to make that decision. She was betrothed by her father, the clan chief.”

  “So her opinion meant nothing. It didn’t matter if she didn’t want to ally her clan to yours.”

  “She didna want to ally herself to me!”

  Maggie smiled. “Ah, so now we get to the truth. It wasn’t politics. It was love. Or rather the lack of it.”

  “Love has nothing to do with these unions. Can you no’ hear me woman? ’Tis about honor.”

  “It’s about pride, you mean. And stupid male ego. Could she have refused you and not run away? Could someone else have taken her place? I know that arranged marriages were common back in your time, but certainly it’s understandable even to you that a woman might choose to marry for love. What difference did it make which Claren woman you married? Certainly there had to be at least one who—” She paused. His expression turned murderous. “Oh, is that it? No one would have you?”

  “She was the chosen one!” He clenched the poker next to his thigh, when she knew he’d wanted to swing it. “She should have done what she was born to do. Her da was Laird. Her duty was to him, and to her clan.” He stepped closer. “And as my betrothed, to me.”

  Maggie crossed the room. “She didn’t love you. She didn’t want you. Committing herself to a lifetime with you would have been a lie and she knew it. What good is that? You would build your truce on a lie? On a false union between two people who hated each other? How could you build a harmonious future for your people on a platform of anger and hatred and lies? Just because you two marry doesn’t mean your people will stop hating her people. You’re a hypocrite if you think otherwise and so was her da.”

  Maggie tossed up her hands and turned away from him, not sure why she was so angry on behalf of an ancient ancestor, but it felt good to vent over someone’s injustice. Especially good since she couldn’t rail over her own. She whirled and poked a finger in the air. “You know what I think? I think she was courageous to do what she did. It took guts to walk away from a bunch of strutting men who could find no better way to solve an argument than to bind some innocent woman into unholy matrimony with the enemy. That’s what I think.”

  Only when Maggie was done with her tirade did she question the intelligence of giving into it in the first place. Duncan looked as if he was going to pop several main arteries, some of them hers. His face was a very unhealthy dark red, and his chest was heaving as if there suddenly wasn’t enough oxygen in the room to fill the massive thing.

  She wondered where she’d put her pepper spray and if it worked on ghosts. She took a step backward, trying to appear humble and harmless. “But then, what’s my opinion worth anyway?” she said, smiling weakly. “I’m one of those headstrong nineties women and you know what a pain in the ass we can be.” Her attempt at a chuckle sounded more like a death wheeze.

  Duncan stared at her a moment longer, then suddenly swung the poker high over his head. He might be dead, but that poker was terrifyingly real. Maggie skirted the table and ran for the door. A war cry filled the air and rattled the walls. Her heart pounded its way up into her throat and her stomach wrenched violently. The floor began to shake with his thundering footsteps and the damn door wouldn’t unstick!

  Well, if she was really meant to die, she was not going with a poker in her back. If the bastard was going to kill her, he was going to have to look her in the eyes and do it. She whirled and plastered herself to the door, eyes wide in terror as he bore down on her, iron rod raised above his head like a lance.

  Duncan clearly hadn’t expected the turnabout and could not pull up his charge in time. At the last second Maggie squeezed her eyes shut. So, maybe she was a teensy bit of a coward. But at least she hadn’t run. There had to be some honor in that.

  There was a bone-shaking crash as the poker buried itself into the old oak door a foot above her head. She only had a second to savor the sweet relief that it wasn’t buried in her as she braced herself for the slamming weight of his body. There was a rush of cold air; then nothing.

  Maggie squinted one eye open. He was gone.

  Adrenaline, fear, and a second near death experience combined to make her temper rise. She yanked the door open so hard it flung back, banging the iron rod into the wall and rattling the rusty hinges. She stormed onto the porch and down into the yard. She turned a circle, found nothing out of the ordinary, then looked to the sky. “Goddamn you, Duncan MacKinnon!” she yelled. “Stop playing your disappearing games with me!”

  “Would you rather I had run you through, lass?”

  She whirled around. He was leaning against the open door frame, as calm as you please.

  “I’d rather you kept your temper.”

  “Like you, perhaps?”

  Her chest was heaving, her hair was hanging in her face and she was probably wild-eyed. Well, who wouldn’t be under these circumstances? “I was doing just fine until you tried to skewer me with the poker. You’ll have to pardon me if that gets me a wee bit riled up.”

  “You’ll have to pardon me if having my name and honor desecrated gets me a wee bit riled up.” He stepped off the porch and walked right up to her.

  Maggie worked hard to quell her heart rate and get her pulse somewhere near normal, but the closer he got, the more ground she gave on that particular battle. But she didn’t step back. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  He stopped less than a foot away and stared at her for several seconds. “Why di’ ye turn around?” he asked, his burr making the question sound almost gentle.

  “I couldn’t get the door open.”

  “That’s no’ what I asked you.”

  She suddenly found she couldn’t hold his gaze. The intensity sh
e found there was too demanding, too knowing, too … much. He reached out a hand, but she jerked her chin away before he touched her. Somehow she knew she’d be lost if he touched her. And it had nothing to do with being spooked.

  “Why did ye turn to face me, Maggie?”

  Hearing her name, the way he said it, made her turn her gaze back to his.

  “Because if you were going to kill me,” she said quietly, “I wanted to make you look me in the eyes when you did it.”

  He reached out and, despite her attempt to duck away, caressed her cheek with a callused thumb. “Then perhaps you understand more about pride and honor than you thought, Maggie Claren. A shame ye were no’ around three hundred years ago.”

  FOUR

  Maggie held his gaze for several long seconds then stepped back. “I … I need to get something from the car.”

  Duncan remained silent as he watched her walk to her car. His touch had bothered her. Far worse, however, was how much it had disturbed him.

  Uncomfortable with those thoughts, he switched his attention to her car. He couldn’t say much for her choice in conveyance. He’d seen better, and not much worse.

  He had found himself drawn to one or two technological advances over the years. Cars, airplanes, military armament. He’d learned that no matter the level of sophistication of weaponry achieved by man, the warring continued, with the outcomes differing little. Clan MacKinnon and Clan Claren could have feuded with ground-to-air missiles and exploding land mines and the outcome would have been the same. Weapons didn’t win wars. Men did.

  Cunning, skill, strategic command, aye, they had their place. As did folly, cowardice, and betrayal. In the end, it was man who defeated himself as well. Three hundred years of observing the rise and decline of warring nations hadn’t taught him that. His gaze narrowed as Maggie swore under the awkward weight of the trunk she was levering from the car. A woman had. One woman. Had he not learned his lesson?

  There was a loud thud followed by a cloud of dirt and more swearing. Duncan folded his arms across his chest and continued to watch. Aye, he’d watch. And stand clear. Maggie Claren was not to be dealt with lightly. Or directly. He rubbed his fingertips along his sleeve, the fine linen not comparing well in softness to that of her skin. He curled his fingers and muttered a curse of his own.