The MacGregor (4 page)

Impatient with himself, he turned, crossed the room and dumped the glass in the sink. If he were mad, he reasoned, he'd hardly know it, would he?

But his preoccupations were interrupted as something flitted behind the garden wall. He froze, ears on stalks. All was still. All was quiet. Perhaps it was the cat, or maybe a fox. He'd just about convinced himself that all was well when the distinctive snort of a horse carried on the breeze.

Instinctively he knew someone was in the yard, messing with his horses. He went to the corner cabinet in the formal sitting room. The ancient horsehair sofa and two easy chairs filled most of the space. The carpet was musty and a thick layer of dust lay over the timber table and bookcase. He opened the cabinet and pulled out an old rifle.

He was a lousy shot, but no one else knew that.

Megan stood in the centre of the yard and looked around curiously. It was a dump. But it was an interesting dump. She hadn't meant to go to the house. But she'd argued that it was late, he'd be asleep. They were always asleep. And, if he wasn't, she would be better off armed with the knowledge.

It had been a shock to find the lights on. And more than a shock to see him staring out the window at her. Up close she could see that his brilliant blue eyes were surrounded by lush black lashes, and his upper lip was full. Quite kissable. His bare chest was impressively broad, his stomach as tight as a greyhound's. Not bad — for a mere mortal.

Of course, she knew that he couldn't have seen her; she was far too fleet for that. His poor human eyes would have seen her as no more than a moon shadow. Poor thing.

And, although she was consumed with a desire to go back and take a longer look, she reminded herself why she was here. All the horses had come to have a look at her. They were as curious about her as she was about them. Her eyes ate them up. They were beautiful, each and every one of them. She breathed in deeply, held the chemical cocktail in her lungs, and waited till it hit her brain. Relief shot through her. It was all right. She didn't want to eat them! Honestly, Grandad was such a torment.

She moved to the first stable and reached out to pat the aristocratic white face. The mare snorted loudly, obviously a bit scared. Megan smiled and started to sing softly. It was a lullaby her mother must have sung to her, although she could not remember her. She grinned; she'd not learnt it at her grandfather's knee, that was for sure.

Megan did not really understand the words, for they were caste in the Olde tongue, but the melody was comforting. The mare snorted once more, but softly, and leaned over the half door. Megan felt a thrill of delight as the silky soft muzzle tickled her cheek.

She enjoyed the sensation and moved on to a rich-red-coloured horse with a small star on its forehead. Still singing softly she exchanged a brief hello. Soon she had greeted all the inhabitants of the yard except one. She'd purposefully left the black horse to last.

His stable was set apart from the long row that housed the others. As she crossed the uneven, cracked concrete he whickered to her. And she laughed softly. Even from a distance she had sensed his awareness of her. And she was eager to meet him.

As she came near he leaned out, ears pricked and skin aquiver. Oh, but he was magnificent! A foot away from him she paused to admire his sleek, shiny coat, the sculpted planes of his head, and the massive crest of neck. What would it be like to sit upon his back?

It was in that moment that she sensed she was no longer alone. She heard the soft snick of a door, the light tread of boots, and then the soft breathing of a man. She did not turn around. She knew who it was. She could smell him. Yummy.

A sly smile played at her lips. She stepped forward, shot the bolt at the top of the door and kicked the latch on the bottom, and went into the stable.

The horse was delighted, whickering and following her around like a puppy. Her hand stroked the glossy neck, and she sang softly, enjoying the novelty of being with the big horse. And, if she were honest, enjoying the thrill of teasing the man.

She knew he had stopped at the other end of the yard, and she could taste his fury like ozone on her tongue. She chuckled and scratched the gelding behind one crescent-shaped ear.

Footsteps clicked over the concrete but Megan was unfazed. What was he going to do? Kill her? Fat chance. For a moment she contemplated doing her vanishing act. It would be amusing to float up and over the door and wreath him in her cold moist mist. And leave him there, perplexed and worried.

But she didn't. Something stayed her. Curiosity? Boredom? Loneliness? Or (whispered a little voice) lust? The steps slowed and she could feel the heat from his body, even though the horse's bulk hid him from her eyes.

She held her breath and waited. What would he do?

Sean looked at the stable and smiled. Even in the dim night light that hair was a dead giveaway. Like polished copper. She was taller than he'd thought, and slender. But not skinny. As she'd slipped into the stable his eyes had taken in the narrowness of her waist and the curve of her hips and the flare of her thighs. Perhaps she was older than he'd thought.

He stopped several metres away, weighing up what to do next. He grinned; maybe he should just leave it to The Count.

But after a minute he felt let down. There was no indication that the gelding was doing his duty at all. Bloody typical! The animal was usually carnivorous when it came to the staff. He shouldered the gun and moved slowly forward, expecting her to make a break for it at any moment. But it occurred to him that she might not realise he was there.

It was then that he heard her voice. She was singing softly, in a sweet soprano. But he couldn't hear the words. Without realising he was even doing it, he carefully closed the gap between them and hovered just outside the door.

Now the words were clear. And as the haunting melody rose and fell a sadness settled on him. For a while he could not say why, and then it came to him — he knew the song. In fact, the words were falling into his mind. It was a song about the trees. About a war where the trees fought a long and bitter battle. The mighty oak, the sacred ash, the enchanted willow, the wise rowan and the holly with her crown. All going to their doom. And it was only when her voice stopped abruptly that he realised he knew several more verses.

He made a decision. ‘I know you're in there,' he said, his voice echoing off the buildings. ‘So you may as well just come out. I won't hurt you.'

He was rewarded with a volley of laughter. His vanity took a punch. Whoever she was, she seemed to find him wildly amusing. It was not the response he had come to expect from the fairer sex. Especially one caught red-handed trespassing on his property. He tried to get mad, but failed miserably. His curiosity was piqued. Who the hell was she?

He gathered himself together, lifted the rifle and shot the bolt with a loud click. That should up the ante. She couldn't have failed to hear the sound, and understand that he was armed. Even if he wasn't actually dangerous. He'd never shoot with the thing. But she needn't know that.

‘Shit!' he yelled as her head popped up on the other side of the half door. Talk about in your face. His heart was racing like a stampeding herd of horses. A stroke wasn't entirely out of the question.

He glared at her. Now he was mad. ‘What the hell are you playing at?'

She grinned and crossed her eyes by way of reply.

Sean struggled to maintain his ire. But he found his lips twitching and couldn't stop them spreading into a smile. She was crazy. He looked at her again. It was an arresting face with strong Slavic cheekbones, and a beaky nose. But the lips were full and raspberry pink and her eyes were a vibrant clear amber framed with dark red lashes. Foxy. Lust awoke. Sean wasn't really into redheads, but for a moment he found himself wondering if her bush was that same rich russet.

And then he did something that he hadn't done for years. He blushed. For he read in her expressive face a knowledge that belied the youthfulness of her clear complexion and the tautness of her frame. It was as if she could probe right into his brain and read his thoughts and knew everything that he was feeling. It was like she could undress him with her eyes. Holy crap!

Megan was amused. Deeply amused. And not a little flattered. The scent of lust that rolled off him mixed with the pleasantly familiar smell of whisky and the new but very pleasing aroma of horse. My, but he was handsome. She wondered if he knew it, and decided he probably did. He probably had girls throwing themselves at him. For a moment she thought about the girl who was always with him when she watched them on the track. She was pretty. Maybe they were an item. Dammit.

But then the big horse blew down her neck and she broke out of her reverie. What the hell was she thinking? Grandad would have a fit. Not that he hated the mortals, just believed that they should be avoided at all cost. ‘Like should stick to like' was one of his favourite sayings. And Megan was streetwise enough to know that mixed relationships often ended unpleasantly. She should leave and never come back.

Trouble was, her senses were not in agreement. Her eyes washed over him, from the tip of his black hair to the toes of his dusty boots. Heat flared in her loins. It was still a novel sensation that took her pleasantly by surprise. She was in heat. A woman. Oh yes! And he was hot.

She looked at the ancient gun resting on one shoulder. ‘Are you going to shoot me then?'

His face went blank, and she realised he'd forgotten the weapon. Such as it was. Practically a museum piece.

‘Probably not,' he said.

‘Isn't it loaded?'

‘Yes. But I'm a really bad shot.'

She laughed. And then she had a brilliant idea. ‘I tell you what, if you teach me to ride, I'll teach you to shoot straight.'

‘Is that what this is all about? You want to learn to ride?'

‘Yes,' she lied. Well, it wasn't really a lie, just not the whole truth.

He was silent for a long moment. ‘Who are you?'

‘Megan MacGregor. Who are you?'

‘Sean. Sean Duncan.' He stepped forward and slowly undid the bolt and latch of the door. ‘Come on out.'

She turned and patted the horse and stepped out into the yard. Her head came almost to his shoulder. ‘What's his name?' she said and gestured to the animal.

‘The Count.'

‘Is he yours?'

‘No.'

Megan felt a pang of regret. She wanted the horse to be his. ‘Oh,' she said.

He settled the gun's nose onto the ground and leant on the stock. Megan hoped it wouldn't go off. Despite its antiquity it could do a deal of damage. And the thought of all his masculine splendour being horribly disfigured was abhorrent. ‘Don't do that, it might go off.'

‘Shit!' he said, then carefully leant the gun up against the stable wall. He looked at her again.

My, but he was scrumptious. She could eat him with a spoon. But she wouldn't. Other options had begun to simmer in her brain. And suddenly she found herself blushing
hotly. How she hated to colour up like that. It was most unattractive with her red hair. Why couldn't she have been born with black hair like that bitch, Celeste Campbell?

‘Where do you live?' he said.

The question was a tricky one. The croft house that she called home had been held by her family for generations. Literally thousands of years. And its whereabouts kept secret. No member of her family had paid taxes, collected welfare or visited a doctor. They didn't exist. Which was the reason they had survived. And why they continued to survive.

For a moment her anxieties returned. What was she doing? She must leave at once. She was flouting every rule and putting others at risk. If anything happened to Grandad, she'd never forgive herself. ‘I must go,' she said and walked swiftly away.

‘You'll come back though?'

She stopped, her heart pitter-pattering like hail on a tin roof. She turned and looked back at the perfect symmetry of his features, the periwinkle blue of his eyes and the beautiful proportions of his body.

He smiled.

And a terror gripped her, for she knew that she was lost. ‘Tomorrow night,' she said.

When she got home Grandad was getting ready to check the crab pots. Megan quickly changed into her jeans and an oiled Guernsey sweater and raced down the beach to join in. With the ease of practise they soon had the old timber boat under sail. Wind scudded in from the south-east and they skimmed across the rough sea at great speed.

They did not speak and on this occasion Megan was grateful for her grandfather's natural reticence. Her head felt like a cupboard overfull with clothes. She feared that if she opened her mouth everything would tumble out.

But as the coastline sped past she relaxed. Her little escapade felt unreal. The man, Sean Duncan, suddenly seemed like a dream, or a movie star, desirable but distant. Unobtainable.

The clouds broke up and the stars came out to play. The moon was half grown and silver. Megan looked at her and smiled. The moon was like her grandfather, a symbol of love and sanctity. But she wondered, for the umpteenth time, why she could transform into wolf at any time, instead of only at full moon. She'd asked Grandad, who knew practically everything. And his abrupt reply was that she was a ‘bit of freak, really'. Which was true, but not very reassuring. She didn't want to be different.

The slowing of the craft turned her attention back to business. The anchor dropped and they both leaned over to find the float attached to the crab pot below. Her stomach growled and she realised she wanted something to eat. Now.

‘I'll go,' she said.

Grandad nodded. Megan shrugged off her jeans and jumper, went to the edge of the deck, picked up a dart and dived into the water. The cold zinged through her like a surgical knife. With strong, sure strokes she pulled herself down, her eyes casting around for telltale signs. And she was in luck. The vast cold sea was filled with life. Turtles, seals, otters, countless fish. And then she spotted something that made her smile. Salmon.