Charmed by His Love

by Janet Chapman

  “I … I’m not sure. But one of the interns told me Claude doesn’t have much use for kids. Or women,” she said with a smile, hoping to get that look out of his eyes. She reached out and touched his arm when she saw his jaw tighten. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Duncan. Jacob’s not going back to Inglenook while the scientists are there.”

  He started cutting steaks off the deer again, rather aggressively, she noticed. “You’re not afraid that keeping him away from Inglenook might only make it worse? Kids have a tendency to build things up in their minds if they’re left to fester, so shouldn’t Jacob face his scary man and see he’s nothing more than a bully?”

  “Do you have children?”

  He grinned tightly. “Not that I know of.”

  Peg sighed as she set the bag in the bin, wondering how Duncan was still a bachelor well into his thirties … unless he was married.

  He held out his hand. “I need the saw.”

  Nope, no ring. But then, Billy hadn’t worn a wedding band, either, because they were dangerous around machinery. “This will have to do,” she said, handing him the cleaver, “because it would take me at least an hour to find a hacksaw in the pile of tools in the garage.”

  She watched his face darken slightly as he started prying on a shoulder socket. “Mac told me your husband was killed in a construction accident three years ago,” he said quietly as he worked. “I recall hearing a few years back about an excavator rolling into a river some thirty miles from here.” He stopped to look at her. “Was that him?”

  She nodded. “Billy was trying to free up an ice jam that had wedged against a bridge and was causing the river to flood the town above it, when the ground gave way under his excavator. It … it took them two days to find his body.”

  He went to work on the deer again. “I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to send someone you love off to work in the morning and not have him ever come home again. What are ye planning to do with the sawlogs?”

  Peg blinked at the sudden change in subject, then held open another bag for the pieces of stew meat he was cutting off the bone. “Billy started building us a new house back over that knoll about two months after the twins were born,” she said, nodding behind her. “It was all framed up and weather-tight, and he’d just started on the interior when he died.” She smiled sadly when Duncan sat back on his heels. “It was his idea to cut the pine growing on the hillside and have it sawed into lumber, then planed into tongue-and-groove knotty pine for the interior walls.”

  “That’s why you want the logs? You plan to hire someone to finish the house?”

  “No, I intend to finish it.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “All by yourself?”

  She sat up a little straighter. “I’ll have you know that I’ve run all the electrical wiring and roughed in the plumbing over the last three years, and just last month I finished insulating the attic.” She smiled again, this time smugly. “And thanks to your buying my gravel, I’ll have the house ready for us to move into by this fall.”

  “All by yourself?” he repeated.

  Peg stopped smiling. “Of course not. I have a small army of gnomes who cut the boards and hand them to me, a bunch of fairies who run the wires up through the rafters because I’m afraid of heights, and an entire crew of elves that come in every night to clean up the mess we made that day.”

  He went back to work on the deer—again rather aggressively.

  “Construction’s not exactly rocket science,” she muttered, picking up the smaller knife and slicing steaks off the ribs once he pulled the front shoulder free. “And the kids help—even Peter and Jacob.” She stopped cutting to glare at him. “Or don’t you think women are capable of doing more than keeping house and raising babies?”

  He set down the cleaver and stood up. “I think,” he said ever so softly, “that I’d better go check out that hillside before I have to meet Mac to hike the mountain. I’ll bring over the agreement for you to sign tomorrow morning,” he finished, reaching down to grab his jacket before turning away.

  “Duncan.”

  He stopped and turned back to her.

  “Thank you for helping me,” she said, gesturing at the deer, “and for giving me a fair price for my gravel.”

  He merely nodded, then turned and headed down the knoll.

  Peg rested her fists on her knees, watching him stop at the edge of the water and wash his hands. He then rolled down his sleeves, slid on his jacket, and made his way around the flooded pit before finally disappearing into the trees on the hillside.

  She dropped her gaze to the half-butchered deer and sighed, wondering what had possessed her to turn hostile. Why should she care if the man had looked incredulous and then suddenly angry when she’d told him she was finishing the house Billy had started for his family? She was proud of what she’d accomplished, dammit, and Duncan had no business assuming she couldn’t put a roof over her children’s heads all by herself.

  “Yeah, well,” she muttered, driving the knife into the meat, “you men aren’t all you think you’re cracked up to be, either. Everyone loves a hero except for the wife and kids he leaves behind when he gets himself killed trying to save a bunch of stupid buildings in some stupid town.”

  Which was another reason she was staying a widow—even if it meant sleeping in an empty bed for the rest of her life—because she’d be damned if she was going to let her children get their tender little hearts broken again.

  Chapter Five

  “Here’s an idea,” Duncan said as he stopped to wait for Mac to come up beside him. “Why don’t you ask Olivia’s father to keep an eye on Peg Thompson and her children while you’re gone? Sam seems like the sort of man who relishes a challenge.”

  Mac’s eyes lit with interest. “What did she do this time?”

  Duncan headed up the mountain again. “Do you know she owns a high-power rifle and apparently isn’t afraid to use it?”

  Mac pulled him to a stop. “Peg shot at you?”

  “No,” he growled as he started walking again. “She shot a deer.” He tapped his finger to his forehead. “Smack dead center between the eyes. The damn animal was dead before it even hit the ground.”

  “Why? Is hunting season not usually in the fall?”

  “I gathered from what Peg told the deer as she sobbed all over it that a bag of feed is a hell of a lot cheaper than a hundred pounds of beef.” Duncan deliberately slowed his pace when he realized he was getting angry all over again. “Apparently the woman’s so desperate that she’s willing to risk jacking deer out of season.” He frowned over his shoulder. “Did you know she’s been finishing off the house her husband started building before he died? All by herself?”

  Mac pulled them to a stop when they reached an open ledge and shot him a grin. “Are you that much of your father’s son, Duncan, that you believe the house is going to collapse because a woman is building it?”

  “She’s climbing ladders and messing with electricity and plumbing torches all by herself. She could fall and break her neck or set her clothes on fire, and her kids would be the ones to find her.”

  Mac gestured dismissively. “Since the beginning of time, widows have been doing whatever is necessary to provide for their children.”

  Duncan turned away, striding to the center of the ledge as he remembered Peg inserting prostitution for destitution. “Yeah, well, I don’t want her breaking her neck on my watch.” He shot Mac a glare. “Because the last thing I need is to find myself trying to explain what happened to a pissed-off theurgist at her funeral.”

  Mac arched a brow. “Is it Peg’s neck you are worried about or yours?”

  “That woman is reckless and stubborn and too damned proud; and from what I’ve seen so far, those are her good qualities.”

  “Then you, my friend, are either blind or dead. Peg’s beauty and courage and generous heart clearly outshine her more … spirited qualities.” Mac folded his arms on his chest, his silent r
egard causing the fine hairs on Duncan’s neck to stir in alarm. “You’re attracted to her,” the wizard said quietly.

  “I just met her.”

  “And that scares you.”

  “I am not afraid of Peg Thompson.”

  “No, you’re afraid of your attraction to her.”

  Knowing he wasn’t going to win this crazy argument, Duncan tried anyway. “I’m a thirty-five-year-old red-blooded male who’s been attracted to more women than I can count, so what makes you think Peg is different?”

  “You tell me.” Mac’s eyes filled with amusement. “You’re the one who’s angry at her for building a house all by herself.” He eyed him speculatively again. “Might it have something to do with the fact that you’re a first-generation Maine highlander who finds it difficult to have one foot in his father’s world and the other in this one?”

  “Both of my feet are firmly planted in this time—including my attitude toward women. I didn’t ask to be born a MacKeage, and I sure as hell don’t intend to perpetuate a bunch of antiquated traditions. There are enough magic-makers running around these woods already, so Laird Greylen is going to have to rebuild his clan without my help.”

  “Ah, I see. It’s not the antiquated traditions you are opposed to so much as the magic. Tell me, Duncan, what’s your particular gift?”

  “I was hiding behind the door when Providence was handing out gifts.” He turned away to look down at the new Bottomless Sea. “Which is fine by me; I really don’t need to start fires without matches, or talk to animals, or travel through time.”

  “Have you even tried?” Mac asked quietly.

  Duncan snorted. “I quit trying when I was eight.” He gestured at the mountain they’d just hiked up and shot a grin over his shoulder. “I’m one hell of an earth mover, though. I figure the road should at least be passable by the time you get back from California, although it’s going to take all summer to finish the five larger bridges if you keep insisting they be made of stone.” He turned to face him. “But I still say you should let me build them out of rough-hewn timber if you really want to give your resort guests a true Maine experience.”

  Duncan widened his grin when Mac’s eyes narrowed at his changing the subject. But he’d be damned if he understood how the wizard had decided he was attracted to Peg, much less that he didn’t much care for the magic—even as he wondered which topic was more frightening.

  Mac took off his jacket. “Here’s an idea,” he said with an equally frightening smile. “I’ll fight you for the bridges.”

  Duncan went still but for the fine hairs on his neck rising again. “Excuse me?”

  “We’ll use swords.” The wizard arched a brow. “You are the reigning champion of the highland summer games down on the coast, are you not?”

  “How in hell do you know that?”

  “And since I’m about to spend the next two months driving a lumbering house across the country and back with only my wife and children for company, I believe I’m up for a rousing battle before I leave. In fact, it might be nice if we met up here a couple more times this week to break a sweat together, as I haven’t faced a worthy opponent since I left Midnight Bay.”

  Yeah, right; like he was going to match swords with a wizard.

  “No magic,” Mac assured him. “Only mortal brain and brawn … and skill.”

  “Sorry,” Duncan drawled, “but considering I came here to build a road, I didn’t think to bring my sword.”

  Mac gestured to his left. “No problem; I brought one for you.”

  Duncan stiffened again when he saw the two swords leaning against a stunted old pine tree growing out of the ledge.

  “I believe you’ll find the grip will fit your hand,” Mac said, walking over and picking up one of the swords. He slid it out of its sheath, then turned and held it out to Duncan. “Just as it did your father’s.”

  Duncan slowly reached for the ancient-looking weapon, only to feel a powerful surge of energy sweep through him when he closed his left fist around the hilt. He snapped his head up. “My father’s sword was nearly nine hundred years old when he and the others came to this time over forty years ago, and was sold for a small fortune.”

  Mac nodded. “Yes, I believe it was purchased by an anonymous bidder at an auction house in Edinburgh.”

  “And old Uncle Ian’s sword?” Duncan asked, staring down at the one in his hand. “It was decided at the time that Greylen and Morgan should keep their weapons as they were the youngest of the four warriors, but Greylen needed the money from the sale of Ian’s and Dad’s to buy TarStone Mountain.”

  “Old Ian found his beloved weapon hanging in his hut when Robbie MacBain took him back to his original time several years ago.”

  Duncan lifted his father’s sword so that the sunlight reflected off the tarnished and pitted steel, pulling in a deep breath at how perfectly balanced and how … right it felt in his hand. “All the time I was growing up, Dad complained that his left palm constantly itched to wield a true and proper weapon again. When he comes to visit me at the work site, can he see this? Will you let him hold it again?”

  “That privilege is yours, Duncan, as is the sword. It’s my gift to you.”

  He snapped his gaze to Mac again. “Why?”

  The wizard tossed his jacket down beside the tree, then began unbuttoning his shirt. “Because it belongs in a MacKeage’s hand, not hanging on some collector’s wall gathering dust.”

  “But it’s worth a small fortune.”

  “A weapon’s worth is in the man who wields it.” Mac tossed down his shirt and unsheathed the other sword, then turned to Duncan with a frown. “Are you not going to strip off?” He grinned. “Or are you feeling the need to keep a little cloth between my blade and your flesh?”

  “You expect me to be a worthy opponent against your thousands of years of experience?”

  Mac stood the tip of his sword on the ledge between his feet and rested his hands on the hilt. “I was under the impression MacKeage fathers raised warriors.”

  “Really? I prefer to think they raised us not to be fools,” Duncan muttered even as he leaned his sword against the tree—because dammit to hell, it appeared he was going to have to battle the bastard. He shed his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off, then picked up the sword and turned to Mac with a heavy sigh. “So, about those bridges; are you saying that if I draw first blood, we build them my way?”

  Mac palmed his sword and touched it to his forehead with a slight bow, then planted his feet as he gripped his lethal and far older weapon in both hands. His grin turned feral again with his nod. “If you manage to spill any of my blood, then you may build your timber bridges. But if I draw first blood, you will make damned sure Peg Thompson doesn’t break her beautiful neck on your watch.”

  Since he figured he was damned either way, Duncan swung his weapon in a swift arc as he lunged into Mac’s defensive strike, his MacKeage war cry rising above the loud, echoing peal of their clashing swords.

  “Is there a reason I left a nice warm bed at two a.m.—which happened to be occupied by an even warmer woman, I might point out—to spend three hours running a gauntlet of road-stupid moose to get here before the sun comes up, only to find you still in bed … Boss?”

  “Ye nudge me again, and you’re going to wish you’d hit one of those moose instead of my fist,” Duncan growled without opening his eyes—partly because one of them was swollen shut, but mostly because he didn’t want his nephew’s face to be the first thing he saw this morning.

  “I figure we have about an hour before it gets above freezing and the road postings go back into effect,” Alec said, his voice wisely moving away. “Or is it your intention to be on a first-name basis with the local deputy sheriff before we’ve even hauled our first load?”

  Duncan opened the one eye he could and immediately closed it again when Inglenook’s otherwise empty dorm suddenly flooded with light. He then tried to push back the blanket only to discover his ar
ms didn’t want to move—along with every other muscle in his body except his mouth. “What time is it?”

  “Half an hour before sunrise,” Alec said, his voice moving closer. “What in hell happened to you? Christ, ye look like you tangled with a bear.”

  Duncan snorted, then immediately groaned in pain, but he did manage to open both eyes. “I tangled with our new resident theurgist.”

  “Why?” Alec asked, looking around as if he expected Mac to materialize. “What in hell did ye do to piss him off?”

  “He wasn’t pissed off; he merely wanted some sport.” Duncan snorted again, this time using the pain to lever himself into a sitting position, then immediately hung his head in his hands with a curse. “Only problem is, Mac’s idea of sport involves swords. And not the dull ones we use at the summer games, either, but real weapons designed to draw blood. Some of it mine,” he muttered, straightening enough to run a hand over his torso. “Christ, I think one of my ribs is cracked.” He waved at the bed beside him. “Look under my pants.”

  Alec lifted the pants but dropped them on the floor in surprise, then reached down and slid the sword halfway out of its sheath. “This isn’t your sword. It looks authentic, like … like Dad’s.”

  “It’s my father’s,” Duncan whispered. “Mac gave it to me.”

  “But I thought Callum and old Uncle Ian’s swords were sold at auction forty years ago, along with several daggers.”

  “They were bought by an anonymous bidder named Maximilian Oceanus.”

  Alec squinted down at it. “That’s definitely fresh blood.” He straightened, arching a brow as he slid it back into its sheath and set it on the bed. “Mac’s?”

  Duncan swung his legs off the side of the bed, then hung his throbbing head in his hands again. “I might have lost the battle, but I did manage to spill a few drops of imperial blood, and the bastard’s also going to be a little slow getting out of bed this morning.” He lifted his head and grinned. “So I guess we’re building timber bridges, since that was our wager.”