The MacGregor (18 page)

She stood up on her toes and kissed the tip of his nose. ‘Yes. But I'll take you to the car, just to be on the safe side.'

He shook his head. ‘No need. Let's face it, if the Campbells wanted me dead I'd be long gone.' After what he'd just witnessed he had no doubt about that.

Sean thought she was going to argue, but she pressed her pale cheek briefly to his, turned and scooped up the sleepy cub and melted into the night.

As his eyes strained to keep her in his sights the cloud cover broke and moonlight filtered through the canopy. He looked up. The moon was fat but not full. Not yet. But then the cloud rolled back and the silver face dissolved. Strange. But hell, everything was strange.

As he retraced his footsteps he thought about Megan. She was awesome! After all, this was the lassie who had shot a Campbell with a silver bullet and lived to tell the tale. He couldn't wait to hear the rest of it. Damn, he was a lucky man.

Megan was bursting to get home. Despite the death of Douglas' friend, she couldn't subdue a tidal wave of joy. Sean still liked her even though he knew who (or more to the point, what) she was. She could do away with pretence. No more subterfuge. No more lies. It was a grand feeling.

But she did not relax her vigilance. While she had to agree with Sean's assessment of the Campbells regarding himself, she couldn't dismiss the possibility that she was in danger. Individually she was a match for any vampyre. But en masse they were a distinct threat. It was not something she wanted to test out. Not yet, anyway. And besides, the greatest fear in her heart was that she would inadvertently lead them home. To Grandad. Her soul trembled at the mere thought.

But thinking of her grandad reminded her of the many questions she still carried unanswered about Sean. About his bizarre ability to speak the ancient tongue. And then, no more than ten minutes ago, he'd stated his intent to find his way back to the car. Now, for Megan that was nothing out of the ordinary. But for a mortal — it was impossible. No human could possibly have found the way without at least a compass. There were no tracks. No signs. No light. She had been going to argue but there was something in his demeanour that silenced her tongue. Which was nothing short of miraculous itself.

And, as she bounded down the steep slope of a mountain, she tried to figure out why. Had it been his confidence? Perhaps. But it was more than that. It was almost as if his words had silenced her, even though the words had been spoken in gentle terms. But that was just daft. Wasn't it? She just didn't know.

When she finally reached the cliff top she peered down and her eyes fell on the croft slumbering in the bay, and she smiled. Grandad would know. Grandad knew everything.

She raced over the stony beach, pushed open the door, raced to the fireplace and dropped the cub onto Grandad's knee. ‘Grandad, I'm sorry I'm late —'

Grandad patted the vixen gently, his pipe puffing like a steam train. He nodded and looked at a point over her shoulder. She turned and stared in confusion. Sitting in Megan's chair (a touch irritating) was a stranger. Except, of course, he wasn't exactly a stranger. He was the horseman that she and Sean had seen earlier that night.

The room was silent as Megan checked him out and was checked out in return. His appraisal was far from subtle. His eyes ran over her from tip to toe. Megan glared at him. What a nerve!

She deliberately turned from him and looked at her grandfather. ‘And this would be?'

A hint of a smile touched her grandfather's lips. ‘Megan, this would be Rory Wallace. He is one of the Last Of The Free.'

Megan was impressed although she tried not to be. Her grandad had told her about the Last Of The Free. They were the descendants of the tribesman who had defied the Celtic church and taken to the road to preserve the Olde Ways. They were legend.

To cover her discomfort and to let her grandad know she was not amused, she sauntered over to the fireplace, picked up his best pipe, packed it with tobacco and lit it. She drew in the smoke with deep satisfaction and waited for the explosion. Grandad had strong and rigid views on her drinking and smoking habits.

But none came. A tad disappointed, she strolled back to the men and peered at them through the blue smog. The man, Rory, lifted a disapproving red eyebrow. Megan grinned to herself. Another Neanderthal.

She moved the pipe into the corner of her mouth and gripped it between her strong white teeth. ‘So,' she said, ‘what brings Rory Wallace to the Hebrides?'

‘He's come to ask for your hand,' said Grandad.'

Megan drew in an involuntary breath and choked. For a minute and a half she fought for breath. When she'd recovered sufficiently she went to the bureau and poured herself a healthy tot of whisky.

She turned to observe the two men. The light of battle shone in her eyes like meteorites.

She knocked the whisky back and shook her head. ‘I am most flattered, Rory Wallace, but I have to tell you that I am promised to another.'

Rory Wallace was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded his head slowly. ‘So your grandfather has explained.'

Megan looked at Grandad in surprise. Support from his quarter she had not expected.

But the Last Of The Free hadn't finished. ‘However, it seems to me that this promise is a one-sided affair. As I understand it, you are fast approaching a deadline.'

Megan's volcanic temper simmered. What a smug, self-satisfied son of a bitch. ‘Sean Duncan will come to seek my hand before the moon is full!' And she swore to herself that she would have her way, even if she had to resort to trickery. Or worse. The prospect of humiliation was just too awful to contemplate. ‘And even if he doesn't, I will marry whom I please.' She stopped then, satisfied she had wrapped things up nicely.

Rory Wallace stood up. Megan was grudgingly forced to acknowledge that he cut as fine a figure off his horse as he did on it. He smiled lazily at her and she scowled fiercely to disguise the horrible betrayal of her hormones. So what if he was hot? So was Ian Somerhalder but she wasn't planning to shag him either. She would have Sean. And that was that.

‘I'll see you out,' she suggested hopefully.

Grandad snorted and Megan looked at him suspiciously, but he was blowing his nose like a trumpet on a white handkerchief. Megan looked once more at her would-be suitor and waved towards the door.

Without a word Rory went to the table, picked up a walking stick decorated with a silver wolf's head and saluted her. ‘Just think about it, Megan MacGregor. Your blood and mine would mix to ensure the ancient blood passes on to the next generation. It would be a union of Royalty. Our issue would be superior in every conceivable way.'

Megan rolled her eyes. She had no time for crazy talk. She didn't care about bloodlines, royal or otherwise. Why, it was almost like listening to a Campbell. But that shook her and she felt a wave of guilt. That was a terrible thing to think. Rory was a descendant of a proud and ancient race and so was she. But still, it was hardly a romantic approach. It made her feel little better than a prospective brood mare.

She yawned and opened the door and looked at him expectantly. His bare feet made no sound as he crossed the flagstone floor. In the doorway he paused and looked down at her. He smiled, his tawny eyes like cold spheres of amber. And she realised then that he was a powerful man. A man used to getting his way. ‘Megan, the man that you sell yourself so cheaply to isn't being honest with you.' He flicked her chin with one strong finger in a dismissive gesture, turned his back and was gone.

Megan was furious. What an arrogant arsehole. She slammed the door and stalked over to Grandad. ‘If you think I'm going to be joined with that arrogant, oversexed, smug sod you're going to be sorely disappointed.'

Grandad chewed on the stem of his pipe thoughtfully. ‘That would be entirely up to you, Megan.'

His voice was so sad and so…tired, that all the fire went out of her. ‘Grandad, I'm sorry. What's the matter?'

‘Don't fret, bonnie lass. I'm just getting old.'

Megan felt a flutter of panic. That was silly. Grandad would never be old, why he must be…what? Seven hundred years, give or take. The panic turned into bedrock of fear. Seven hundred years was a long, long time.

She peered into his face anxiously, half expecting the grim reaper to look back out of his eyes. But, to her relief, he looked like the same crusty old cuss. ‘I'll make us some tea. I've got lots to tell you.'

He smiled and patted the cub. ‘So I see.'

She put the kettle on and tried to decide where to start. ‘Grandad, what would you say if I told you that tonight, I heard the ancient words spoken by a mortal man?'

He looked up sharply. ‘I would say, Megan MacGregor, that no mortal can speak them.'

Something in the timbre of his voice created a sense of urgency in her mind. The tea forgotten, she curled up at her grandad's feet and proceeded to tell him everything. Well, almost everything. A girl had her pride.

At five thirty Sean was shaved and showered and in the yard. It was awkward, to say the least. He found that he was either avoiding Ginny or spying on her in what he hoped was a subtle manner. And, he had to confess, that in the pearly light of dawn she looked so damn innocent. All big black eyes and bouncing ponytail. A vampyre?

She must have sensed his gaze (did vampyres have a kind of ESP?) and she looked at him and smiled.

Even though he knew it was idiotic he felt his eyes lock on her mouth, or more specifically, her teeth. And, while they were even and white they were not what you'd call pointy. For a moment reality wavered. Was he going around the bend?

He smiled back automatically and rushed off to the tack room for some solitude. His hand slipped into his back pocket and his fingers gently touched the hard, smooth surface of the acorn. It was real. A reassuring reminder that his life had changed. And there was no ignoring the fact that he was knackered. He let go of the acorn. Megan was a werewolf. He had been up all night with Megan and they had found the dead body of a man called Dino. And a Campbell was responsible.

Once again he heartily wished he'd sacked Ginny when he'd had the chance. Still, they say one should keep friends close and enemies closer still. He grinned, wondering what Megan would say to that little gem. Without a doubt she'd have plenty to say if he let Ginny get too close.

But he was antsy. It was impossible to ignore the possibility that the vampyre's interest in him was not necessarily linked to Megan's presence. He sensed it was something to do with Sarah, too.

Sarah, who was a witch. Apparently. A witch who had known he was magic and had left him her farm, a quilt with dead trees on it that weren't dead trees, and two witchy friends that seemed determined to organise his life. It could not be coincidence that brought the Campbell Clan to his doorstep. They obviously had an agenda. And suddenly he had a burning desire to know what it was.

With this in mind he grabbed a head collar and marched out the door. He literally bumped into Ginny coming in. When their bodies collided he laughed and apologised. But Ginny did not laugh; instead, she walked into him, forcing him to take a step backwards. Her enthusiasm was undiminished. He looked hopefully over her shoulder, hoping for reinforcements, but the lads were all tacking up the second string. Only their voices drifted over the yard's concrete space. Shit.

Ginny's hand pressed against his chest, softly at first, but then with increasing strength. He could feel her nails through his sweatshirt. Unsure how to respond he fell back, brushing the rows of saddles until he ended up in the corner. With no other choice he stopped and eyed Ginny warily.

She, on the other hand, stared up at him with black dilated eyes. The message in them was crystal clear. He opened his mouth to ask her to stop but his words were strangled by her assault. As her tongue tried to insinuate itself down his throat his mind went blank. What the hell should he do?

Meanwhile her hands had managed to burrow under his shirt and were sliding up his back like tentacles. His stomach rolled over in disgust as he forced down an urgent desire to push her off. But good sense overrode his distaste as he reckoned up the potential fallout if he pissed her off. He didn't fancy taking on a woman scorned. Especially a vampyre woman scorned. It may literally be his last act on earth. He hesitated as he wondered if he could take advantage of the situation. Meanwhile Ginny's tongue had meandered down his throat and was tickling his tonsils. He could feel her body heat through his jeans. She was not being subtle. Bloody hell.

Then, to his relief, he heard the quick clatter of fast approaching feet. With considerable determination he managed to break the suction and jerked his head towards the door. ‘Ginny, someone's coming.'

Her head snapped around as she drew back. Her eyes glazed for a second and then cleared. The lad that sauntered in would have been surprised (if not a little disturbed) if he had witnessed the malevolent look that Ginny's black, furious eyes flashed his way. But then she seemed to pull herself together.

She smiled a tiny smile. ‘I'll catch you later, Sean.'

Sean watched her go and let out a long sigh of relief. That had been close. Too close for comfort. Man — he felt violated! Trouble was, he sensed it was far from over.

As the hours ticked by it became clear to Sean that Ginny was definitely stalking him. Usually he'd be chuffed by the attentions of a beautiful and available woman. Today was the exception. He felt like a monkey on a greasy pole every time he got within a twenty-metre radius of Ginny. He could neither run nor hide. But he tried.

He only relaxed after the midday hay was done and everyone traipsed off for the afternoon. Sean hot-footed it home and put the kettle on. While he waited for it to boil he perused his emails to make sure everything was on track (no pun intended) for Saturday. He was pleased to find everything in order and he felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of The Count's maiden run.