The Legend Mackinnon

by Donna Kauffman

  She blew her hair from her face and planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you grumbling? I’m the one breaking my back.” She looked at the trunk sitting at her feet. “I don’t suppose you could help me out here. Like blink this thing inside. All your poofing stuff in and out ought to be good for something.”

  Well clear, he repeated silently, disgruntled to find himself actually having to take a step back to his original spot. “I’ll no’ be draggin’ a Claren trunk into my home.”

  “It’s no’ your hoome,” she said in a poor imitation of him. “It’s our hoome, at least for now. And since you have a whole Claren human draggin’ hersel’ into yer hoome, what difference can a measly Claren trunk make?”

  “I didna say you couldna have the trunk inside, lassie. I merely said I wouldna be helpin’ ye wi’ it.”

  She let out a heavy breath. “I guess it’s long past time for me to stop relying on men anyway.” She bent to the task of grabbing a worn leather handle, dismissing him entirely. “You’d think I’d have learned that lesson well enough by now.”

  He gritted his teeth as she pulled on the strap, the strain showing in her shoulders and in her face. A grunt escaped her clenched jaw as, with a mighty effort, she moved it two entire centimeters. She turned and grabbed the strap with both hands and pulled in another breath. Another mighty tug … and she went flying back onto her rump when the strap gave way with a rending thwack. A smile twitched his lips, but he quickly tamed it.

  Without so much as a look in his direction, she stood and brushed herself off and walked to the back of her car. She bent inside and began digging about.

  He should be inside tending the fire. It was getting damnable cold outside. During his time in purgatory there was no physical sensation since he had no physical self. But for his one month annual term on earth he was essentially mortal, inasmuch as he regained usage of all the human sensations. Yet he could never seem to get warm enough and he spent the entire month chilled to the bone. Perhaps They thought to remind him of the dank cold of Stonelachen, the MacKinnon stronghold on the Isle of Skye. He rubbed his palms along his arms. In his mortal life, he didn’t recall ever feeling the cold quite like this. Perhaps a specter’s blood did not heat a man like lifeblood did.

  The slamming of the hatchback snapped his attention back to her. She stomped back over to the trunk, then walked around it once, then again, all the while ignoring him as if he didn’t exist.

  As the second son to Calum MacKinnon, he was used to being accorded the full, respectful attention of every man, woman, and child whose presence he encountered. Yet Maggie ignored him as easily as if he were a … a.… A ghost. Bah! To hell with the Clarens.

  Duncan scowled and began to turn away, then stilled, caught by the sudden change in her expression. Her eyes lit up and a smile spread her lips wide, making her features somehow glow, even on such a gloomy day. She looked little like her ancestor, but then, he couldn’t say what Mairi would have looked like had she ever smiled.

  Maggie wasn’t as delicately made as Mairi. She was broader of shoulder, a bit squarer of jaw. Her hair was a darker brown and her eyes a shade lighter blue. But it was her mouth that defined the true difference, and her beauty, if truth be told. Where Mairi’s mouth had been small and bow-shaped, Maggie’s was wide and even. Where Mairi’s usually had been cool, her lips pulled into a tight, disapproving line, Maggie’s was alive and inviting, always animated and usually moving, no matter her disposition. And in their brief acquaintance, he’d seen her in many forms.

  This look of joy, however, was a new one to him. He didn’t at all like it. It did odd things to the beat of his heart.

  She scrambled back to the car, yanking open the passenger door and diving into the glove box. She emerged triumphant, a small manila envelope clutched in her hand and, once again, turned her back to him as she knelt in front of the lock dangling from the front of the trunk.

  She fished in the envelope and came out with a key, her lips quirking. “Another skeleton key.” She tossed him a quick glance. “If I’d only suspected when I got the first one just how appropriate it would be.”

  He held her gaze without comment, merely recrossing his arms and settling his weight on his other foot. She didn’t seem to notice as she went to work on the lock. It took several tries, but eventually it sprung open. She was a determined lass, he’d give her that.

  Her sudden intake of breath caught his full attention.

  “Would you look at this?” Her face fairly glowed with wonder.

  He took a step closer despite himself, all thoughts of returning to warm himself by the fire vanished. He didn’t feel any chill at the moment.

  Maggie covered her mouth with her hand as she stared at the contents of Lachlan’s trunk. It was filled with plain leather bound books that looked like journals of some kind. The idea that there might be something of her heritage recorded inside those pages filled her with excitement. For the first time it felt odd that through her entire life she’d never questioned her family history. Staring at the journals it seemed impossible to fathom. Her interest in what lay between the burgundy and deep blue leather covers close to consumed her.

  She felt Duncan come up behind her. There wasn’t enough sun for a shadow, but then, she wasn’t sure he’d cast one anyway. Not that he needed to—ghost or mortal, Duncan MacKinnon had presence in spades. She recalled his touch. For a dead man, there had been an incredible amount of energy generated by that simple brush of his fingers on her skin. She’d been well aware that the disturbance hadn’t been totally one sided. What had he been like in real life? His life.

  “A stack of musty old books.” Duncan all but sniffed in indifference.

  Maggie ducked her chin and smiled. She was beginning to understand Duncan MacKinnon. Perhaps better than he could imagine. That he’d troubled himself to wander over to look inside the trunk at all belied his lack of interest. That he’d bothered to make a comment all but proved he was as consumed with curiosity about their contents as she was.

  “Yep. There go my dreams of buried treasure. No gold coins or lavish silks.” She sighed in feigned disappointment. “Just musty old books.”

  Duncan’s eyebrows drew together as he considered her in silence. He was no fool either, she decided. Something she would be wise to remember.

  She considered him for a moment too, then couldn’t help herself. “Probably should have left the old thing in the car and taken it to an antique store to have it appraised.”

  “You would sell yer heritage?”

  She had no intention of selling anything, still she was surprised at the vehemence of his reaction. “You say that like it’s blasphemy or something.”

  “ ’Tis worse than that, lass.”

  “It’s just an old, moldy trunk. Not the crown jewels.”

  “What of the volumes?” he demanded. “You would sell them off as well?”

  “Oh no, they wouldn’t be worth anything to anyone else. We can use them for fuel I suppose, when the logs run out.”

  She’d only said it to get a rise out of him, but he looked so sincerely aghast at the suggestion she felt a moment of shame.

  “Just like a Claren! Ye have no need of a thing, toss it awa’ like so much excess baggage.” He raised his arms in the air and she almost shrank back at the imposing figure he made. “Burn it, sell it, give it awa’. Wha’ do ye care? ’Tis only yer history yer sellin’ and destroyin’.” He stared at her with a mixture of disgust and resignation, then made a swiping gesture and spun on his heel. “Och, to hell with ye and yer blasted trunk. Do what ye please as Clarens ’ave been doing since the dawn of time. More the fool I am fer carin’.”

  Maggie scrambled to a stand. “Wait.”

  He continued to stalk toward the cabin.

  “You’re not a fool. I know how important history is to you and I shouldn’t have teased you. I’m sorry.”

  He stilled, then slowly turned to face her. “Wha’ did ye say?”

 
“I said that I know family heirlooms aren’t something to be taken—”

  “No’ that. The other, the last part.” He took several steps closer to her. “Repeat that last part to me again.”

  Maggie tried not to scowl. The blackguard. Couldn’t he just take a sincere apology for what it was worth without rubbing her face in it? She almost wished she hadn’t said anything and let him storm off believing the worst of her. Perhaps then she could have had some peace and quiet, some time alone without him looking over her shoulder to look in Lachlan’s books. But his horrified expression when she’d suggested selling her inheritance was etched in her mind.

  She squared her shoulders and leveled her chin. “I said I was sorry for teasing you.”

  He walked closer, stopping a foot or two away from her. Feet braced apart, he crossed his arms as he regarded her. “Ye were lyin’ then, about sellin’ the trunk and burning the journals.”

  “Not lying,” she said, maintaining her own proud stance in the face of his questioning glare.

  “Then why did you tell me what you did?”

  “Because you stand around looking so distant and sounding so pompous slandering my family all over the place and I was tired of it. I just wanted to get a reaction out of you, that’s all.”

  He seemed to ponder this for a moment. “You say I slander the Clarens’ yet you make no attempt to defend them.”

  “I defended Mairi and it almost got me skewered with a poker. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t like debating with you.”

  He waved away her concern. “I wouldn’t have run you through, lass.”

  Now it was Maggie’s turn to snort and cross her arms. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe that. From where I was standing, I thought my time was up. I already saw my life flash before me once. I don’t like repeats.”

  Duncan stepped closer. Maggie struggled to maintain her stance as he invaded her personal space for the second time that afternoon.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “You said I was distant. I’m trying to improve on my shortcomings.”

  Maggie swallowed hard. “You took me too literally.” She looked up into his eyes. “You can be physically close to me, but you still come across as distant.”

  “Dinna forget pompous.” There wasn’t a trace of a smile on his face, but she thought she detected the hint of it in his eyes.

  “I call them like I see them.”

  “Am I really so bad as all that, Maggie?”

  “You come from a different time, Duncan. You’re used to commanding people—I’m simply not used to being commanded.”

  The sudden flare in his eyes caught her unawares. It made her temperature spike along with her heart rate. He moved closer, inclining his head toward hers.

  In a voice more gentle than she’d ever heard from him, he said, “Yer no’ so different from yer ancestors as you think, Maggie Claren.”

  She dipped her chin under the intensity of his gaze. “You asked me why I don’t defend my clan. I don’t know anything of my family’s past. I know nothing of who they were, what deeds they did, dastardly or otherwise. I suppose that damns me in your eyes as much as my supposed similarity to them.” She straightened a bit, holding his steady regard, watching him just as closely.

  “Do ye care so much what I think of ye, Maggie Claren?”

  The answer stunned her. “Yes, apparently, I do.”

  “A pompous, distant man like me?” The twinkle returned. Along with it came a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that was the closest he’d come to a true smile since she’d met him. It did amazing things to her heart rate.

  He’s not real, she reminded herself. But Lord he sure looked real. “You—” She broke off to clear her throat. “You, um, don’t seem so distant. At the moment.”

  “Aye. And I’m no’ feeling so pompous.” His lips twitched again, then smoothed, the look in his eyes deepening to something serious and sincere. “While yer a lot like yer ancestors, Maggie, I’m beginning to see that in many ways, yer nothing like them at all.”

  “Because I swallowed my pride and apologized?”

  He tapped a finger on her chest above her breast, then let it rest there with a small caress. “Because ye have a heart. Somethin’ I’ve been accused of no’ being able tae claim.”

  “You have to have one, to recognize one.” Maggie tentatively raised her hand to cover his. He was warm. She felt a pulse thrum beneath her fingertips. Alive. She looked down to where they touched, then back up to him. “What are you Duncan MacKinnon, man or ghost?”

  FIVE

  “Right now, I’m a man, wi’ blood running through my veins.” He lifted his fingers so that they wove between hers. “And my blood is runnin’ hot and heavy wi’ the touch of you under my fingertips.” He pressed her own fingertips against her chest. “Aye and yer heart is beating strong and fine as well.” He dipped his chin and angled his head, holding her gaze as he moved his face closer to hers.

  Maggie couldn’t have so much as blinked in that moment. Her breath was stalled in her throat, her mind was drunk on the sensations rocketing through her, an intoxicating thrall created by his touch, his words, his heat, his overwhelming nearness. She waited for him to close the distance, to take her mouth in a devastating kiss like any good rogue Scots hero would. Her eyes drifted shut, her lips parted …

  “Open yer eyes.”

  She did and found him staring intently at her. “Ye want to be ravished, is that it?”

  Maggie felt embarrassment heat her skin clear down to her neck. She tried to pull away, but he locked his arm around her back and pulled her against him. The feel of him hard and strong against her threatened to buckle her knees. She had to get away before he let her fall into a heap at his feet while he had a good laugh over her silly female sensibilities. She should have heeded her own advice and steered well clear of her supernatural roommate and put her mind to more important things, real things, like determining how to escape the last man she’d gotten weak-kneed over.

  Although Judd had never once made her feel a sliver of the awareness pulsing through her at this moment.

  He hugged her tighter still, jerking her full attention to his face, which was now a mere breath away from hers. Duncan was disturbingly real.

  “Aye, I could ravage ye lass and we’d both be the happier for it I’m certain.”

  She tried to struggle from his grasp, then went totally still and held him in as cool a regard as she could muster. “I no longer wish to ravish or be ravished,” she lied, “and I’ll thank you to unhand me immediately.”

  With a deep, honest laugh that moved her when it shouldn’t have, he hugged her to his chest, then set her back a space, still holding her captive with both hands. “Och, but you have the Claren spirit in abundance.” His laughter subsided, but his smile did not.

  It transformed him so completely, she stood there, mouth open, basking in the amazing glow of it.

  He bent his head close and spoke in a whisper against her ear. “I’ll have that kiss, Maggie, but I’ll no’ be takin’ it from you. I’ve had my fill of taking without receiving. We’ll share it when it’s done. And it will be done. Many times if I’m to be the judge of it.”

  Shared, he’d said. Demanded. Macho, yes, egotistical, yes, but she wanted his kiss. Perhaps many of his kisses. And he was right about one other thing, damn him. She didn’t want to be taken.

  “Where is yer smart mouth when it would do ye the most good, bonnie Maggie?” Duncan asked softly.

  “I think my smart mouth was doing too well for its own good,” she said faintly.

  Aye, that it was, Duncan thought, coming abruptly to his senses. He should be backing away. She drew him in, made him feel a warmth the likes of which he had not felt in three hundred years. Nay, perhaps ever. And yet it was precisely that she so easily drew him in that alarmed him the most. With more control than he’d expected to be able to drum up, he let her go, stepping away from
her as further insurance.

  “If yer as smart as that mouth of yours, Maggie, you will be well warned to stay away from me.”

  He took the loss of her smile as if it were a physical injury to him. That the look of hurt and confusion was quickly masked only made him feel worse. She had pride, that one did. And he was hard-pressed, despite their twined history, to do anything but admire her for it. “Yer pride will stand you in good stead, where I canno’.” He braced his feet and crossed his arms as if needing a shield. “Take yourself off with Lachlan’s journals and learn something of your ancestors. Perhaps there you will learn why I warn ye awa’.”

  He waited for her rebuttal. When she did not deliver one he realized just how badly he’d wanted to be challenged to change his mind. After a long quiet look, she turned and walked back to the trunk, retrieving a batch of Lachlan’s leather volumes.

  “Maggie.”

  She paused, then finally looked at him, her brow raised in a silent question.

  “Where do ye want the trunk?”

  “I can handle—”

  “Where do ye want it?” he demanded, somewhat more forcefully than he’d intended. Och, but she tried him in ways he didna ken and perhaps would be wise not to.

  “The loft,” she answered evenly. “But don’t think you can blink it away and make amends for your rude behavior.”

  “I’ve been pompous and distant, now rude, have I? Those are the least of the names ye’d have called me if I’d continued.”

  “You’re taking an awful lot for granted where I’m concerned, Duncan MacKinnon. I can make up my own mind on what I want and don’t want.”

  “As can I, Maggie, as can I. Like as no’ it will be another sin I’ll be paying for, but less of one against you.”