The MacGregor (9 page)

He opened it and she was disappointed to see him fully dressed once more. And with his clothes he seemed to have found a new confidence. ‘Are you ready?'

For a moment she was confused. Ready for what? If he'd still been undressed she would have assumed his words to be an invitation to go to his bed. And then she remembered why she was there. ‘Yes, I'm ready,' she said. ‘What do you want to do first. Shoot or ride?'

He stepped through the door until he was just centimetres away. And then he put out a work-hardened hand and gently swept a finger down the long line of her neck. Instinctively she leaned in towards him, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes closed. But the moment stretched out like old bubble gum. And rudely burst.

‘I think we'll ride first,' he said loudly.

With a face as red as a beet she bit back the rude words that teetered on the tip of her tongue. ‘Whatever,' she said.

She followed him down and out of the house. Without a word they crossed the garden path and went into the horse yard. Much of her angst dissipated in anticipation of her first ride. She could barely wait. She trembled with excitement and ached with longing. Sean ducked into a small tack room and the delicious aroma of leather and oil rolled over her.

She waited beside the big black horse's stable. He came over to say hello and blew down his nose, making her hair muss up. Soon Sean arrived, saddle and bridle resting on one broad shoulder. But he walked past and she had no choice but to follow.

He disappeared into another stable and Megan stared at the horse in dismay.

‘I'm not riding that…midget,' she said. ‘I want to ride the black horse.'

Sean took precisely no notice, but continued to saddle up the very small, very fat pony. ‘This is Pudding. He's a lead pony. He's safe. Ideal for you to start on.'

Megan glared at him. ‘I want to ride the black horse.'

Sean lounged against the stable wall and observed her with unconcealed amusement. ‘You can ride Pudding or you can ride no one.'

Megan seethed. But said nothing. Maybe she'd shoot him later. Just a bit of a flesh wound. A foot would do.

It was clear to Sean that Megan MacGregor was most displeased with proceedings. He grinned happily to himself. She really was quite a handful. Determined. Independent. And unashamedly predatory. A fact that secretly delighted him. He could never recall being so utterly captivated by a woman before.

Mind you, he sensed that she would happily take him in hand. If he let her. And, frankly, there was no chance of that. It was his way or the highway. He looked forward to seeing her next move.

He led Pudding out of the yard and headed to the sand yard. It was hard to decide who looked more sulky, the pony or Megan. But in fairness, she couldn't possibly start on The Count. He was far too dangerous. No, old Pud really was the best horse for the job. And, he reflected smugly, she'd be only too ready to admit to that fact after she'd kissed the dirt a few times. Everyone thought that riding a horse was easy. At first.

With the gate shut, and Megan standing on the outside of the railings, he checked the girth. He turned to Megan and experienced a bite of irritation. She was lounging against the rail, staring up at the moon. ‘When you're ready?' he said caustically.

She rolled her eyes, sighed and turned to look at him. ‘You called,' she drawled.

Sean bit back a chuckle. Really, she was bloody impossible. So he chose to ignore her provocative behaviour, and duly went through the drill. Mounting. Dismounting. Stopping. Starting. Steering. And walk to trot. Which was mean. Pudding hadn't stirred out of a walk for a year with anyone other than himself, despite the energetic and slightly frantic efforts of the other jockeys.

He halted Pud in the centre of the ring. And slid the short way to the ground. ‘Ready?'

She shrugged, but bounced over the top rail and landed lightly at his feet. He handed over the reins. For a moment he thought she wasn't going to take them. But she did. He hovered close to the pony in case she got into trouble. Whilst the environment was as safe as it could be, accidents happened. But he need not have worried; she copied him faithfully and was soon settled in the saddle.

‘Right,' he said, but then stopped, momentarily distracted by the look upon her face. The sullen, sulky expression had melted away like sun-drenched dew. To be replaced with a look that was both wistful and determined. And then she began to sing. It was the song he'd learned the other day. But this time the words touched something deep inside him.

He was barely aware of the two walking in steady circles around the sandy yard as he spiralled down into a deep recess in his mind. He was, he realised, in a cathedral whose vast interior was gloomy and dim, except for a golden ray of light that poured through a coloured window. And it was to this window that his mind's eye travelled. And he saw them then, brilliantly arrayed in the stained glass. They spoke. The language was old. For they were his descendants: druids, jesters, minstrels, gypsies and poets. He lifted his hands to speak back. But a great crack of thunder rang in his head and lightning struck. Glass and sunlight splintered in a blinding flash.

Sean gasped and staggered, his hand reaching for the rail to steady himself. Sweat rolled down his chest and he could feel his heart crashing against his ribs. A pulse pounded
in his temple, louder and louder until, for a moment, he actually considered the possibility of a cardiac arrest.

And then he sagged in relief as he realised that the sound was the regular drumming of horse's hooves.

His blue eyes opened wide with amazement as he followed Pud and Megan's progress around the small enclosure. Unless his eyes deceived him (not entirely impossible) Pud was cantering. Yes, actually cantering, his small feet pounding the sand, rhythmic snorts of air rushing in and out of the pink membranes of his nostrils.

Surprise turned to shock as he watched Megan check the pony's progress a fraction and then sail cleanly over the rail. She barely moved. Hot dog!

There were no words ever invented to express Megan's feelings. From the moment she sat astride the little white pony she felt her world expand. Or retreat. She wasn't quite sure which. It was a connection like no other that she had experienced. It was profound. It was as if she had been living half a life and now it was whole.

At first she had been utterly passive. She felt like a dry sponge being dipped into water. Slowly but surely the water had been drawn up until she was saturated. And then she had begun to understand. To feel.

It had taken a while to realise that it wasn't so much learning as a kind of…recall. And a great joy had sprung up like an acorn in the fertile soil of her brain. This, she finally grasped, was a gift, passed down from her mother. A mother she barely remembered. And, in an intuitive leap, Megan knew that her mother had learned from her mother before her, and so on, back down the hazy tunnel of time, since the Beginning. And Megan, for the first time, had a better sense of who she was.

Freed from the confines of the sand yard, Megan was able to give full rein to her desires as she travelled along the muddy road that led to the track. The pony, Pud, trotted along beneath her, and she could feel every fibre of his being reach out to her. And she slowed him back to a walk, aware that he was tired. His plump body was not hardened to work. With the subtlest of signals she turned him around and they plodded back again. His shod feet sucked and squelched in the mud.

As Sean's shadowy figure loomed in the distance, Megan's brain went into warp drive. This was going to take some explaining. After all, she'd asked him to teach her! The outcome, whilst deeply satisfying, was unexpected. Particularly, she thought, when viewed from his perspective.

When she halted the pony and vaulted neatly off his tired back, she caught Sean's eyes for a moment and was suddenly wary. For there was an odd light in his eyes.

‘Why didn't you tell me you rode so well?' he said.

She handed over the reins to give herself a moment. As he took them from her, his fingers grazed hers. Small pulses of pleasure tingled through her. She wanted to pick up his hand and kiss the tip of each digit. She wanted to feel their texture and warmth beneath her lips. To run a tongue lightly over the sun-kissed skin. But she didn't.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I used to ride, but it's been a long time.'

‘Who taught you?'

‘My mother.'

He cleared his throat and observed her quietly. ‘She must be quite the horsewoman.'

Megan's heart contracted painfully. ‘She was,' she agreed.

Sean frowned, his dark eyebrows lifting like a bird's wings. ‘Was?'

Megan nodded. ‘She's dead.'

Sean's eyes locked onto hers for a moment but he said no more on the subject, for which she was grateful. While she did not want to lie to him, further probing would prove difficult. How to explain to a mortal that her mother had been murdered by an ancient foe for a magic bridle that could call up the rare and mystical Kelpie? Not really an option. Indeed, if this relationship was to continue, she'd better get creative.

They walked back to the stable in silence. Pud's hooves clip-clopped loudly on the concrete. He stood with his head hanging to his knees but managed to find the strength to attack the wedge of hay Sean found for him.

Megan smiled at Sean, eager to change the subject. ‘My turn,' she said.

He smiled back. ‘Do you shoot as well as you ride?'

She grinned. ‘Hard to say, really.'

‘Did your mother teach you to shoot, too?'

She shook her head. ‘No. My grandfather did.' He didn't answer but lugged the saddle and bridle back to the tack room. For a moment he disappeared into the gloom and then re-emerged.

‘I need a drink,' he said.

Megan perked up. ‘Whisky?'

‘Tea.'

Megan sighed. ‘Tea and whisky?'

He laughed and looked down at her, blue eyes bright and bold. ‘Why not, Megan MacGregor,' he said softly, ‘why not?' And then he reached out and took hold of her hand.

Megan barely dared to breathe. Lest he let go.

They did not speak but Megan could feel his eyes on her as they walked side by side. Soon they reached the hedge and she followed him into a small herb garden. It was only at the back door that he let her hand go. She followed him through the door, her mind already trying to fathom the quickest way to get him up the stairs.

‘Have a seat,' he said, and reached out for the kettle.

Megan sat and watched him gather mugs and milk and put them on the kitchen bench. She could have sat and watched him all night. He was graceful and moved with an economy of movement that surprised her. It was rare, usually to be found in the hunter.

She thought about his desire to learn to shoot. Maybe he was a hunter. But just didn't know it yet.

He sat down opposite her and smiled. ‘What are you thinking about, Megan MacGregor.'

‘I was thinking that I would like to go hunting with you.'

‘What do you hunt?'

She grinned. ‘Usually men.' It wasn't exactly the truth. But it would do.

He laughed, his head tilted back to show the vulnerable skin below his jaw. ‘Do you always catch your quarry?'

She licked her lips and stood up. ‘Always,' she whispered. Slowly she walked around the table. He watched her, his expression both hungry and wary. When she stopped, he was a finger's length away. Her nostrils quivered at his aroma. Testosterone mingled in the air with her own hormones. The room seemed to palpate around them. She dropped down onto her knees before him, her eyes never leaving his. One hand reached out to his chest until the tips of her fingers just touched the cotton of his shirt.

They both nearly shot through the ceiling as the kettle came to a boil, steaming and whistling like a manic steam engine.

Megan muffled some rude words as Sean shot out of his chair and got busy with the teabags. She sat back down again and sighed. But as she watched him grab a bottle of whisky and pour a good shot in each mug she cheered up.

Sean put one mug in front of her and sat down once more. ‘Megan,' he said, ‘what is that song you sing to the horses?'

Megan felt a small frisson of anxiety, and took a swig of tea to buy some time. It was boiling and burned like billy-o. How much should she say? It was an ancient song, perhaps as old as her people. Grandad said it was a song about a great battle but she had never really understood that. Really, it was just about a bunch of trees. But it was not a thing that they shared with outsiders. ‘What song?' she said.

He leaned forward over the table towards her. ‘You know, the one you sing when you're with the horses. It's in a foreign language.'

For a moment Megan forgot about her fears in her confusion. A foreign language? She didn't know any foreign languages. And then she twigged. Of course, it was an old song, so it was in the Olde language. And, while she did not speak the Olde language fluently like Grandad, she understood the gist of the words. But she couldn't tell that to Sean.

She took another sip of tea and felt a blister bubble on her palate. ‘It's Gaelic,' she lied.

Sean frowned. ‘Gaelic? Are you sure?'

Megan nodded. ‘I'm sure.'

He sat back, picked up his mug and took a sip. His eyes had a faraway look and she sensed he was preoccupied about something. Jealousy flared in her belly. It had better not be that Campbell slut. ‘Where's your gun?' she said loudly.

His blue eyes blinked and he put down the mug. ‘I'll go get it.'

Megan only had to wait a few moments until he returned, the old gun held in one hand. He sat down and took a big gulp of tea. They drank quietly and watched each other discreetly. The whisky warmed her insides and made her dreamy.

Finally she watched him tip the last mouthful of tea down his throat. He raised the gun. ‘Are you ready then?'