The MacGregor
Authors: Jenny Brigalow
The MacGregor
Jenny Brigalow
Jenny Brigalow
In
Children of the Mist,
we discovered the secret history of the Children. Now, in the wilds of Scotland, one of them has come of ageâ¦
Megan MacGregor has lived her life off the grid, in complete secrecy. Now she's all grown up, and needs what every female werewolf before her has needed: a mate.
Tracking one down in the lonely wilds of Argyll will be no easy task, but Megan is no ordinary woman. When she finds Sean Duncan, she'll do anything to keep him. But Sean has secrets and a past of his own, and Megan might get more than she bargained for in a mate.
Jenny Brigalow is a writer of rural romance, young adult fiction and, more recently, literary fiction. In 2010 her teen novel,
The Overlander
, won a place in a competition co-run by Allen & Unwin and Queensland Writers Centre. She has been writing for six years and her rural romance,
A Man For All Seasons
, is published by e-publisher Steam eReads.
Born in Britain, Jenny arrived in Australia as a young woman in 1985 for an impromptu holiday and never left. She fell in love with the Australian bush, its unique flora and fauna, and the colourful personalities who inhabit the country. At present she is settled on acreage north of Toowoomba.
For my sister Amy who has read every word that I have written.
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishingâ¦
Sean Duncan was waiting. He forced his eyes to stay on the string of horses that were galloping around the soft green turf. He missed nothing. Not the exuberant high jinks of the new grey mare or the bloody-minded reluctance of The Count, a talented but unpredictable black gelding. The sky was gunmetal grey but the breeze was soft, scented with apple blossom. He breathed deeply and inhaled his home.
A tap on his back made him look over his shoulder. Ginny, his head girl, nodded discreetly to his left, her black ponytail bobbing. âSean, she's back!' she whispered.
Sean couldn't help it. He turned and looked up to the top of the mountain, his blue eyes narrowing against the glare of the snow that still lingered in May. And he saw that Ginny was right. She was there. At last! A wave of satisfaction rolled over him.
That made four times this week. Who the hell was she? What did she want?
The distant figure on the peak was a woman. That much he sensed. And she had red hair. Really, really red. Last week the sun managed to shine and her head had burned like a beacon. But that was all he knew. It was intriguing.
âShe must be freakin' frozen!' said Ginny in a tone that clearly spoke of her lack of empathy for the stranger.
There was also a slight suggestion of territoriality in her demeanour that made Sean uncomfortable. Ginny was an excellent horsewoman, but she wasn't his type. She was attractive, with raven hair and luminous skin. But she was tooâ¦cold. There was just something about her that set his teeth on edge, despite her obvious attractions. And besides, it never paid to sleep with the staff. Always ended in acrimony.
Sean turned his attention back to business, but he burned to look back over his shoulder. He scanned the track and soon found the string. He let out a long groan of despair as he caught sight of The Count in the process of bucking off young Billy. The bastard.
He sighed as he contemplated what he would say to The Count's owner, Callum Campbell. Perhaps âThe Count's in fine fettle' would fit the bill. He couldn't afford to be too honest. Well, he couldn't afford to be honest at all. Owners were more fickle than politicians. They paid a pittance and expected the trainer to perform miracles. Any suggestion that their four-legged pride and joy wasn't the next hot contender for the Cox Cup would send them scurrying to the competition. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and frankly, Sean was happy to eat anyone who stood in his way. Failure was not an option.
He shook his head as Billy limped slowly towards him, The Count following like a little lamb, his black eyes glinting beneath the long luxuriant fall of his forelock. Sean grinned. The horse was a badass, but he had to concede he also had a certain style. Bit like the woman on the mountain.
As he headed over to Billy to check out the damage, his head swivelled of its own accord and he scanned the highland. But there was nothing to see except the glittering snowy peaks. If the redhead was there still, he couldn't see her. He felt strangely disappointed, which was daft. But, as he took the reins from Billy, he found himself wondering if she would be there the next morning. And, for some reason, he realised that he hoped so.
He smiled at Billy's woebegone face. âYou all right, Billy?'
Billy nodded. âFit as a flea. Just twisted the ankle a bit.'
Sean sensed it was more than that, but kept his counsel. These were tough kids. On the outside anyway. He nodded. âGood. Better go down to the house and put some ice on that ankle. Ginny'll run you down in the Landrover. I'll bring the horse.'
Billy nodded and followed a huffy Ginny down to the car. She was obviously annoyed at being dismissed. Sean squashed down his irritation. He wished she was less bloody sensitive. It wasn't a put-down. Just a practicality. Billy needed a lift and Ginny had to take him. Simple. But, in that way that he had, Sean knew that Ginny was going to make his life difficult. And soon.
He sighed and led the stallion back up towards the rest of the string who were galloping back down on the home run.
They made a pretty picture, grey, bay and chestnut, all in a row. Jockeys poised like thistledown on their backs. As they thundered by, their shod hooves kicked up clods of turf which showered through the air. The new grey mare was a high blower and he could hear the rhythmical sound of her breath as she flew by. He liked that. The high blowers usually had a big lung capacity. It was a promising start.
Eventually they turned away uphill once more and began to slow. They pulled up to a walk and headed back for the gate and home. The lads grinned as they walked past, their horses' hides steaming and shiny with sweat. Once they had filed through the gate Sean followed with The Count, who was a right royal pain in the arse, throwing his head around and barging like a deranged hippo.
They were nearly back at the ramshackle yard when The Count stopped dead on the muddy track. Sean tugged on the bridle and clicked him on. But the black horse seemed oblivious, his eyes and ears trained on something in the distance. Sean looked around. Some sixth sense sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. The Count's silky coat twitched and he whickered gently. Sean froze as his sharp ears picked up the softest of sounds.
A movement caught his eye and The Count pawed the ground restlessly. It was only as he dragged the reluctant horse onward that Sean glimpsed her. Well, a glint of red hair and a flash of pale face as she ran helter-skelter across his track, bounded up over the stone wall and melted into the landscape like a fox.
He hoped she'd be back. His little fox was turning into a bit of an obsession.
Megan MacGregor ducked down behind the old stone wall and contemplated her next move. For a few moments she waited and then peeked cautiously through a small chink. She grinned to see him still there, the black horse fussing beside him. The man's blue eyes, as bright as a periwinkle, scanned the mountainside. He had nice eyes. Nice everything, really.
But she thrust the thought away. Wouldn't do. Wouldn't do at all. Life was complicated enough. But she couldn't resist just one last look. And she watched until he finally turned and led the great horse back towards his house.
Her amber eyes watched the black horse hungrily. She didn't know what it was about the horses but she couldn't stay away. Something drew her back, time after time. And she knew she'd have to finish what she'd started.
Her stomach growled and she glanced up at the sky. Behind the cloud she could feel the moon watching over her. Close and pregnant with promise. Megan felt her senses stir. Half moon tonight. The moon was waxing. In a few months it would be Solstice. Grandad had promised to let her join the ritual for the first time. But the thought of her grandparent sent a ripple of anxiety through her. It was time to go home.
She raced up the mountain, her feet as sure as a cat's on the short-cropped turf and the granite stones. At the top she sped across the snow, her feet leaving no mark of her passage. Down the other side she went, through fragrant fir forest and cool pockets of deciduous trees. Each tree imprinted upon her subconscious. She recited to herself: alder, beech, birch and crab-apple. They were as familiar as her friends and family, and she greeted each with a soft stroke of her hand as she slipped past.
Finally she reached a paddock. The sheep watched her warily, and the ewes bleated to their leggy lambs. But Megan took no notice. She was hungry, but not hungry enough to hunt in the light of day. And besides, there was plenty to eat at home. Slaughtering livestock stirred up trouble and drew attention. Megan never drew attention to herself. It was the golden rule of survival. And she had learned it well.
