Charmed by His Love (8 page)

“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.

“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 regard 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.