Charmed by His Love (27 page)

Duncan bolted upright. The pup. If it had been living here since the earthquake almost a month ago, it must know the
mountain pretty well by now. All he had to do was follow it around until it led him … someplace. And it was obviously hungry, so befriending it shouldn’t be any harder than feeding it. But feed it what? The snack he’d brought was in his backpack, which was in the boat in the middle of the fiord being guarded by the mother of all whales.

Duncan stood up with a smile and pulled his knife out of its sheath again. He had a mountain, didn’t he, which would be home to all manner of furred and finned and feathered food? And roasting partridge or trout could be smelled for miles if the nose doing the smelling happened to be canine.

He unscrewed the cap on the hilt of his knife and turned it upside down to shake the contents into his hand: a small coil of fishing line with a hook, a magnesium flint, a really small medical kit, a sandwich bag, and a length of fine wire. He’d taken out the salt tablets and replaced them with aspirin the day he’d bought the knife, since sweating vital minerals wasn’t a worry in Maine because, hell, he just had to lick a pothole. He’d also tossed the compass cap and replaced it with something solid enough to pound with, and wrapped the hilt with rough black tape for a better grip. So he was basically good to go for his hike around the goddamned fiord—or indefinitely, actually—assuming he didn’t mind being cold and miserable until he built a fire and dried out.

Duncan stuffed the fishing line in his jacket pocket, carefully worked everything else back into the knife, and screwed on the cap. He blew out a sigh and headed up the mountain at a diagonal in the direction the pup had run, figuring he’d eventually come across a stream. Damn, he’d like to have the huge trout Jacob had caught and insisted they throw back when its watery eye had stared up at the kid, its mouth gaping open as it gasped for breath. That particular twin, he decided, was going to make some lucky woman a really good husband—whereas Pete was probably going to see the inside of an emergency room and juvenile detention hall a couple of times before he pulled his act together.

Duncan heard the gushing stream long before the moonlight revealed its glistening water cascading down over a long series of weatherworn boulders, ending in a pool spanning a
hundred yards across. It wasn’t a vertical waterfall like the one in Spellbound, but it was still a rather impressive sight.

He shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves as he knelt beside the pool and dipped his hands to splash some water on his face, only to jerk back in surprise. He stuck his hand in the water again and swirled it around, and yup, it was the temperature of bathwater. He sat back on his heels and gazed up at the stream rolling down over the boulders, wondering why it was warm. He cupped his hand in the water and lifted it to his nose and sniffed, then dipped his tongue into it. It smelled and tasted fine; it was just warm.

He pulled his fishing line out of his pocket and tied the end of it to a small rock, then got up and walked over to a bed of moss and knelt down again. Using his knife, he cut a patch out of the moss and folded it back, then dug through the dirt until he found a fat grub. He returned and baited the hook and threw it out into the pool, setting the rock on the edge of the bank despite having little hope he’d find trout in water that warm.

He had just started to get up when the rock suddenly slid a good six inches, and he grabbed it just in time to feel the line tighten again with a rather impressive tug. He tugged back, then stood up and pulled in the line, stepping away when an equally impressive trout flopped out of the water to land beside his feet.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, pouncing on the flopping fish that had to weigh at least three pounds. “Okay then. I take back every dark thought I had about ye,” he said out loud to the sleeping mountain.

He returned to the moss and tossed down the fish and found another grub, baited the hook again and tossed it in the water, but held on to the line this time. The hook couldn’t even have reached bottom before he felt the line go taught, and he yanked out another fish half again bigger than the first one. He caught two more before he took his catch down to where the pool spilled into the forest below and quickly cleaned them, then set about gathering fallen branches and had a fire going in less than ten minutes. While it built up a bed of coals, he cut several forked branches and whittled off the bark before carefully
skewering the fish. He propped the sticks across two rocks so the fish hung over the coals he’d raked between them, and finally unlaced his boots with a sigh. He may not be making any headway finding the
instrument
of his power, but he was going to have a full belly when he walked home empty-handed.

And if the pup had half a brain, it would get its belly filled tonight, too.

Duncan slipped off his pants, laid them out on a tree branch near the fire along with his socks, and then propped his boots as close to the flames as he dared. He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, then spread the jacket on the ground and sat down, only to realize the tails of his shirt were also wet. So he took it off and tossed it up on an overhead branch, sidled closer to the fire and added some wood, then tapped a few buttons on his phone to see if it was ruined.

To his surprise the screen lit up, and to his consternation he saw he didn’t have any reception. He started to mutter a curse, but stopped. “Sorry. I forgot you’re
trying
to be benevolent. But is being able to call Alec to come pick me up in the morning really too much to ask?”

He was answered only by the gushing stream. He shoved the cell phone in its pouch, then carefully turned over the fish before settling onto his side and propping his head on his hand. He couldn’t wait to bring the Thompson tribe here, he decided as he gazed across the fire at the pool and watched its ripples sparkle in the moonlight. Isabel would go nuts when she pulled out one of those beautiful trout, Jacob would cry for her to throw it back, Pete would jump in after it, and Charlotte would get a crooked smile on her beautiful face and merely shrug her delicate shoulders.

Peg was doing one hell of a job raising those four kids all by herself. But damn, didn’t she get lonely for male companionship? All that beauty and grace and fierce determination, that sexy, sassy mouth perfectly shaped for kissing, that athletic body built to cradle a man; how in hell did a woman simply turn off desire? How had she gone from sharing a bed with a husband for … what, at least six years, only to crawl into an empty bed every night with no hope of feeling a warm body beside her ever again? Because if Peg truly did believe William
Thompson had died from her family’s curse, she wouldn’t dare risk killing off another man.

And what about Charlotte and Isabel? They were female descendents of the first black widow; what did Peg plan to tell them when they fell in love and wanted to marry? Had Peg’s mother warned
her
what could happen before she’d married?

He might not have children of his own, but if he did Duncan figured he’d do everything in his power to make sure they got to live life on
their
terms, not pay for the sins of some long-dead ancestor. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the summit of his moon-bathed mountain peeking through the trees, a bit surprised at how angry the idea of Peg and Charlotte and Isabel living under such an obscene curse made him. But even more alarming was how much he cared, not only for the women, but for Pete and Jacob.

When in hell had that happened? He’d met Peg and her tribe only a little over a week ago—by being attacked by them, no less—yet he’d felt almost naked the two days he’d gone back to Pine Creek. He gave a derisive snort, realizing he was literally naked right now and missing the hell out of them again. As for Peg, he—

Duncan turned to stone at the realization he was being watched.

Making sure not to make eye contact with the blond body of fur creeping along the perimeter of the clearing, he slowly sat up and reached for the skewered trout, smiling when he saw the pup freeze in place. He laid all four fish on a flat rock and used his knife to peel back the sizzling skin on one of them, then flicked the blade to send the skin flying into the woods in the general direction of his visitor. Using the knife and his fingers, Duncan began eating the succulent trout, making soft slurping noises as he watched the pup slowly creeping through the shadows as quiet as a church mouse.

He continued eating, again making slurping sounds interspersed with hums of pleasure. The pup crept out of the shadows on its belly, then reached out a dog-sized paw, snagged the skin and pulled it back, snatched it in its mouth, and darted back into the shadows. Duncan used his knife to peel another trout and flicked the skin a little farther out into the clearing. “I don’t mind sharing my dinner with a fellow traveler,” he
said conversationally, keeping his tone light, “and my campfire. I believe it’s going to turn chilly tonight by the looks of that moon.”

The pup came creeping back, taking two steps into the clearing then hesitating before taking another cautious step, which allowed Duncan to finally get a good look at what appeared to be a male dog. “Delicious, isn’t it?” he said when the pup scoffed up the skin and swallowed it in one gulp. Only this time, instead of slinking back into the trees, the brave and obviously hungry mutt turned to face Duncan, its head canted expectantly as it wagged its tail ever so slightly. “Would ye care for a little flesh along with the skin this time?” He slipped his knife deeper into the next fish to leave a good deal of the meat attached, and tossed it between him and the pup.

The dog pounced on the prize without hesitation, and once again swallowed it in one gulp. It stepped closer, its gaze darting from Duncan to the fish to the knife in Duncan’s hand, then back to him. Then another step, its thick yellow tail wagging a bit more robustly as its pink tongue made a swipe around its mouth and over its nose.

“It looks like I’m going to have to throw a line in the water again,” Duncan said with a chuckle. He used his fingers to pull off a large piece of meat, then held his hand toward the pup. “Come on, fella. Come eat your fill.”

The pup sat down and ducked its head with a soft whine, its tail thumping the moss like a drumming partridge as it trembled with indecision.

“Be a brave lad and come to me,” Duncan crooned. “Come on, now.”

The young dog slowly slinked closer, crouching submissively with its tail tucked between its legs, until its nose was only inches from Duncan’s hand. Duncan stretched the rest of the way and turned his hand palm up so it could get the food.

Again the fish was gone in one gulp, and the pup started licking Duncan’s fingers with such delicate care that he chuckled again. “That’s a good boy. Come on and have some more,” he said, reaching for another fish. “So, do ye live around here or are ye just passing through?” he asked as he ran his knife along the backbone and peeled away the entire side of
the trout. “Because I was wondering if ye happened to know of any special areas.” He handed the dog the large filet, which required three gulps to get down this time. “Like a cave maybe, or a grotto, or an unusually large tree. Anyplace ye might have felt an unusual amount of energy.”

The pup’s tail thumped as it canted its head to listen, even as its large brown eyes remained trained on the fish on the rock.

“All right,” Duncan said with a chuckle. “I know it’s hard to focus when your belly’s rumbling and there’s food around.” He started cleaning all the meat off the bones only to watch it disappear down the pup’s throat as fast as he could hand it over. “I have the same problem when a pan of apple crisp is in the vicinity. Sorry, pal, but that’s the last of it,” he said, holding his empty hands out—which the pup immediately started licking. Once it had licked off all but Duncan’s fingerprints, the young dog stepped back to eye him. It then ducked its head and slinked up onto the edge of the jacket, flopped down against his side, and rested its chin on Duncan’s thigh with a doggy sigh. And just like that, with only a brace of trout and a warm body to lean on, Duncan realized he and the pup had just formed a bond that God himself wouldn’t be able to break.

And when he found himself wondering what he’d done to deserve this, this time he decided it must have been one hell of a good deed.

Duncan felt his foothold giving way and made a desperate lunge for the other side of the gaping hole he was trying to cross, but only managed to slam into the ledge with enough force to bounce him into nothing but heated air rising up from only God knew how far below. His muttered curse ended in a grunt of surprise when he landed a hell of a lot sooner than he’d expected, the sharp pain jerking him awake with another shouted curse.

The pup pushed off his side with a startled yelp, making Duncan protectively grab his ribs as he opened his eyes and immediately closed them against the bright sunshine pouring into the clearing. Shaking and sweating and breathing heavily,
he replayed the terror of his dream—which felt so real that every muscle in his body started screaming at just the thought of moving.

Christ, he hurt. He slowly cracked open his eyes again and looked around until he saw the pup standing a few feet away, staring at him in concern. He slowly reached out a hand only to turn it back toward himself when he realized it was covered with bloody scrapes. And then he noticed it also happened to be sticking out of his shirtsleeve; the only problem was he couldn’t remember getting dressed last night.

The pup came slinking over with its tail wagging hard enough to move its entire rear end and flopped down to rest its head on his belly—only to jump away again when Duncan bolted upright at the realization the sun was at least two hours high in the sky.

“Damn, I’m late,” he groaned more than growled, wrapping his arms around his protesting ribs. “I have an entire crew in place to start hauling gravel today,” he told the pup, forcing his voice to soften. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s okay, though, Dalton knows what—” He stopped in midrub and ran his fingers over the length of stubble covering his jaw. “Son of a bitch!” he snarled, dropping his hands away to look down at himself. His pants and shirt were filthy and definitely looked like he’d been living in them for at least four or five days, and his new boots looked like he’d nearly worn off the treads, the uppers scuffed and cut in places and stained with mud.