Legends (11 page)

A week after the shattering episode involving the microphone, Elgiva faced her brother and Duncan at their usual rendezvous point and boldly asserted that Douglas Kincaid was a fair man who might offer compromises if she released him.

Rob listened in grim silence as she described how pleasant and reflective Kincaid had become lately; how he’d shared his knowledge of jazz music, described his business deals, told her about his homes, and related anecdotes about famous people he knew—all without bragging!

He’d also talked about his charity work, particularly about the research foundation he’d created for hearing disorders, due to his sister’s deafness. Best of all, he was willing to listen when she talked about Druradeen being more than just a place to live. She’d explained that the MacRoth tenants were all related by blood or marriage; that their homes and farms and shops had been passed down from generation to generation.

Rob began shaking his handsome head in dismay, and Duncan nearly sputtered with indignation. “You’ll next be wanting to kiss his feet!” Duncan shouted. “Your kin will never forgive you if you let sentiment make you careless!”

“She won’t do that,” Rob interjected, but he continued to frown. He took Elgiva’s hands. “Sister, don’t you see what the man is doing? He’s a master at charming people. He’s simply changed his colors for the moment.”

Elgiva shook her head. “I know that some of it is calculated. Believe me, he’s a fair amazing actor, that one. But Rob, he’s not a bad man. Maybe we’ve misjudged him.”

“That’s the end of it,” Duncan snapped. “I’m taking you off the project. I’ll substitute myself. And I promise you, by the end of the week the bastard will wish the last of his kin had died at the battle of
Talrigh, so that he himself would not be here to squirm.”

Elgiva stepped close to the mayor and spoke right into his heavyset face. “You won’t be threatening Mr. Kincaid!”

“You’re infatuated with him! You’re a traitor to your own clan!”

Rob angled between them and lifted a commanding hand. “Ellie, do you forget that you’re speaking to the village mayor?” He glared at Duncan. “And you, you’re addressing the next heir of MacRoth. Don’t make ugly and foolish accusations.”

Elgiva laid a hand on Rob’s arm, half in apology, half to calm him down. Duncan snorted in disgust but said nothing, which was the closest he would ever come to admitting his own fault. Rob looked down at her with grave concern. “Don’t become dazzled by Kincaid, Ellie. He’s naught but a reiver.”

She stepped back, furious. “I’ll prove his change of heart to you. I’ll get him to accept and acknowledge his Scot heritage. I’ll have him wearing the tartan of Kincaid in two days’ time. I’ll have a statement signed by him, saying that he’ll give up his option to buy the district. Then can we let him go?”

“I’ll give you
one
day to accomplish this miracle,” Duncan told her. “When you radio Rob tomorrow at midnight, I’ll expect results, or your chance is ended. Kincaid stays penned up.”

Elgiva nodded to Duncan, then kissed her brother’s cheek. “He won’t disappoint us, Robbie,” she whispered, and she believed the words with her whole heart.

Douglas had just finished exercising when she returned from her meeting. Shom bounded up from the hearth rug and ran over to greet her, golden tail fanning the air. The sight of Douglas, half-dressed, smiling, and also happy to see her, made small agonies twist her insides. If she succeeded with his
change of heart, he’d go free very soon. He’d be happy—so happy that she doubted he’d prosecute her for the kidnapping.

He’d go back to his glittering world, and she’d only see him in photographs or being interviewed on television. One day she’d see him with his blond, blue-eyed, sapphire-bedecked, intelligent, business-brilliant wife.

If she didn’t succeed, he’d remain a prisoner, almost certainly growing bitter as the deadline for his real estate option passed. He’d hate her again and want revenge. Either way, she’d lose him. But the first option would be better for the MacRoth clan, she hoped.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, as she wearily hung her cape on the hearth peg. “You look upset.”

“Och. The weather is worse than an Englishman’s temper today. I walked too far in it, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you just fix sandwiches for supper?” He gave her an exaggerated leer. “And afterward come close to my parlor, fair Goldie, and I’ll rub your tired feet.”

Elgiva eyed him speculatively, considering which would be the best ways to persuade him. She also considered the erotic way in which he might massage her bare feet. “Aye, Kincaid, you’ve got a fair notion there. Sandwiches it is then. And how about a dram of whisky?”

“Aye, lassie, I’d love a snort.”

After the light supper, she pulled her big chair near his bars. He pulled his chair close on the other side. Shom lay down between them. He didn’t like to choose sides, she’d noticed. While sleet and fierce wind whipped the black night outside, Elgiva and Douglas toasted each other with glasses of whisky.

He downed his, set the glass aside, and slapped his thigh lustily. “Rest those bedraggled feet right here.”

Elgiva gazed at him wistfully. In the light of a nearby lantern he looked so handsome. He wore the
silver-gray sweater, and the width of his shoulders was emphasized against the shadowy background. The lantern light gleamed on his black hair. His face was a study in contrasts—strength and gentleness, eagerness and contentment. The scar high on his cheek was a sort of masculine beauty mark, she decided. It drew her attention to his thickly lashed eyes.

“You’re staring at me, Goldie,” he protested softly. “Your feet, remember?”

“Oh. Would you do me a small favor tonight, Douglas?”

He gestured around his cell. “My kingdom is yours.”

“Would you listen if I read aloud? It’s a grand night for stories, and I’d like to read some of the old Scottish legends.” She held up both hands in a cajoling attitude. “You’ve naught to fear of a lecture from me. But they’re marvelous old stories.”

His dark, intense eyes studied her without blinking. She held her breath. Finally he smiled a little and nodded. “Give me your feet, and I’ll give you my ears.”

When her bare feet lay in his lap and a book of ancient ballads lay in her lap, she had trouble concentrating on the ballads and not her toes. He wrapped his hands around them and stroked the tops with sly, provocative movements. It was amazing that toes could radiate such erotic sensations.

Elgiva sank lower into her chair, her muscles loose and her nerves tickling with pleasure. She opened the old book with the languorous distraction of a sleepwalker and stared blankly at a page.

“Read to me,” he urged in a low, coaxing tone, as if the request concerned a much more personal entertainment.

Elgiva cleared her throat and forced herself to begin. In a soft, melodic voice she recited “The Striking of Tyrdoune,” an epic poem. She read slowly, not only because Douglas’s caressing hands made her
feel groggy, but also because she had to translate the Gaelic into English.

She put as much drama into her tone as she could, knowing that his dramatic nature appreciated her efforts. She was right. As Elgiva whispered about the death of Sir Drury in battle and gravely intoned the wizardry of Halifax, she noticed that Douglas’s hands slowed. He clasped her feet around the insteps and only his thumbs made small circles on the tender skin inside the arches.

She glanced up and found him listening with his head tilted to one side and his body posed forward slightly, so that her feet were nestled against his hard stomach. “Go on,” he said immediately, after she wiggled her toes and lost her train of thought. “Reading,” he elaborated, then glanced down at her feet with a knowing smile. “Keep it up.”

Elgiva made a strangled sound of exasperation and returned to her stories. Her voice rose grandly for the wars and dipped seductively for the romances, became angry for the betrayals and light for the elfin mischief. She almost cried when she told how the Scottish clans were broken once and for all by the English at the battle of Culloden.

Elgiva was shivering by the time she reached the epic’s victorious conclusion, with Scotland proud despite all its hardships. The fireplace had gone dark, with only a few embers left glowing from the logs. A small clock on the mantel struck an hour well past midnight.

Elgiva shut the book and anxiously raised her eyes to Douglas’s face. His somber and thoughtful expression buoyed her hopes. “What are you thinking, Douglas? Is it not a grand history?”

He nodded, but arched one black brow. “What? No Kincaids? I expected you to sneak them in.”

“I told you before, they were struck from history.” She flipped through the book hurriedly. “But I’ll find a mention of them in an old song—”

“Stop while you’re ahead, Goldie.” His voice was
clipped, but his hands apologized by stroking her ankles. Elgiva looked at him hopefully, but he shook his head. “There was never a clan of Kincaid. That’s why there’s nothing in your book about them. But thank you for the rest. It was wonderful.”

She straightened and pulled her feet from Douglas’s lap before his surprised hands could stop her. “Didn’t my history lesson give you anything new to consider?”

He watched her closely, sensing her change in mood. In a careful, troubled voice he asked, “What would you think if I built a museum and cultural center in the village?”

Elgiva’s hopes crashed. “That wasn’t the intent of the lecture.”

“Ah. It
was
propaganda then. Goldie, you don’t have to sell me on preserving Scottish history. You won’t believe me, but I’m not going to ruin things here. I’m just going to expose all their charms to the world.”

“ ‘Exposing our charms’ doesn’t sound dignified.” Elgiva knotted her fists in her lap. “Won’t you consider some compromises, Douglas? Such as leaving everyone as they are?”

The astonishment on his rugged face slowly hardened to anger. “You want me to give up and go home and call it a compromise? I tell you what. I’ll buy the estate but I’ll guarantee the tenants five years to find new homes, and I’ll give each one a generous resettlement allowance. And, you can stay permanently. Rent free.”

Elgiva leapt up. “You’ve been fooling me this past week! I thought you were becoming reasonable!”

“To agree to what you want, doll, I’d have to become senile!”

“You haven’t softened a bit!”

“I
could
soften, if you’d open this damned cell door. I could forget the part you played in this stupid attempt at coercion.”

“I’ve asked no mercy from you. I want nothing
from you but what your cruel Kincaid pride won’t give.”

He got to his feet also, looking frustrated. “I’ve always appreciated people who risk everything for their personal code of honor. I like to think that I’m that way, myself. But unless you let me go soon, you won’t get out of this mess unhurt.”

The cold threat in his voice sent chills down her spine. “Spoken like a mad dog, Kincaid,” Elgiva retorted. “You deserve to wear the colors of your kin.”

She ran to a chest in one corner and shoved the heavy, curved lid open. From inside Elgiva withdrew a magnificent tartan drape. The plaid was dark blue, gray, and white—the colors she’d given him to wear in his sweaters.

Elgiva strode to the cell and shoved the drape at him. He caught it and stared at her in fierce bewilderment. “That’s what you should be proud of, Douglas! That’s the tartan of the Kincaids. I made it for you myself—a great honor, considering how I feel about your clan! They wore that plaid through all the centuries that they protected their homeland. It could be said of us Scots that no matter how much we fought among ourselves, we always banded together to protect each other from outsiders.”

Struggling not to cry with rage, she yelled, “Wear that plaid when you destroy what generations of Kincaids wouldn’t dare to hurt!” She pivoted and went to the hearth. Shom followed, his tail drooping. She snatched her cape from the hearth peg.

“When you can’t admit defeat, you run away,” Douglas protested. “You’d rather walk the moors than stay here and fight.”

She whirled around at the door to the front room. “I’m running from my sadness,” she told him, her voice strained. “Because I wanted to think the best about you.”

He looked at the window near the fireplace. The wind whipped a mixture of sleet and rain against
the panes. “If you’re determined to freeze to death, don’t take Sam with you.”

Elgiva tried to ignore the sting of those callous words. She would no longer expect cooperation, sympathy, or honor from Douglas Kincaid. She whipped the cape around herself. “Shom, stay.” The big dog whimpered but sat down.

Kincaid slung the tartan onto his bed. “
Elgiva
, stay! Come back here and fight, you coward.”

She stared at him in shock. “How do you know my first name?”

“Sam stole your mittens for me! He also brought me your diary. You must have suspected that I’d read it, but you didn’t say anything. You’re glad that I found out how you feel about me! Admit it. You want to be with me, and to hell with what happens to the rest of the MacRoths!”