The MacGregor (10 page)

She smiled sweetly. She was ready, all right.

It was turning into the weirdest and wackiest night Sean had ever experienced. Bad dreams. Mad dreams. Sex-crazed covens. Ginny. And now…shooting by starlight.

Not that he was complaining. He was captivated and had no desire to escape. And, despite the strangeness of it all, she seemed to fit into this mysterious new world that was evolving. They even shared the same languages. English and Gaelic. How the hell did he know Gaelic? From his mother?

He strained his brain for clues but came up with a big fat nothing. He'd heard of people being hypnotised and knowing all sorts of freaky stuff they'd never known before. Had those crazy ladies hypnotised him as well? It was too far-fetched even for him. Maybe it was the drug. That would be an explanation. Maybe he didn't speak Gaelic at all, but just thought he did. That made sense. Kind of. Perhaps it was best not to think too much.

He stopped in the garden and looked at her. ‘Where would you like to go?'

Her lips twitched but she pointed down into the small paddock that flanked the road. ‘That should be safe enough.'

He led the way down to the gate and opened it to let her through. As she slid through the gap she brushed up against his chest. He felt his senses sing but then she was gone.

In the centre of the field she stopped and held out her hand. He passed her the old rifle and a handful of pellets.

For a moment she examined the rifle minutely, opening and closing the breech, squeezing the trigger softly and peering down the sight. She was utterly absorbed. And again he was struck by her intensity. Then she loaded the gun and pointed.

‘See that sign on the tree by the road?'

Sean looked and realised she was pointing to the skeletal remains of an elm on which was hung a painted sign warning against trespassers. He nodded.

‘Watch,' she said.

She lifted the gun with fluid grace, and a shot rang out. The white sign exploded. Another shot and the sign was extinct. Sean smiled. She was damn good. He was obviously in capable hands.

‘Your turn,' she said. She emptied the cartridges and reloaded.

He took the gun. ‘What shall I try to hit?'

‘Just try for the tree.'

He nodded, but the tree looked a long way away. He lifted the gun, trying to emulate her ease of movement, stared down the barrel and fired. The gun kicked back and he stared at the tree hopefully. But it was too far to tell.

‘Very good!' she said.

Sean laughed. ‘How do you know?'

She laughed back at him, her eyes blazing like molten copper in the moonlight. ‘Come see for yourself.'

And before he could argue she took off across the meadow. He shouldered the gun and followed. She was fast and he couldn't catch her up. When he did, she was standing at the foot of the pale tree. ‘There!' she cried, pointing high.

Sean peered up at the tree trunk, his eyes searching for the bullet. He missed it the first time, only picking up the scar as his gaze descended. He stepped closer and ran a finger over the spot. He could just feel the end of the bullet buried in the rotten wood. He was impressed. Not bad for a beginner. He turned and looked at her.

‘How the hell did you know?'

Her remarkable eyes shifted from his for a moment and he knew before she spoke that she was going to lie.

‘I didn't, not really.'

He took a step closer. ‘Now, why don't I believe you?'

She shrugged. ‘No idea. You're probably just bloody-minded.'

Or stoned, he reminded himself. He didn't want to argue. Especially when he could feel the light touch of a warm hand upon his own. Especially when he could feel her body heat melt into him. Especially when he could inhale the scent of her hair as he leant down to meet a pair of lush, lustrous lips.

Especially when she kissed him for the very first time.

Ginny fumed. Only her name wasn't really Ginny. It was Cordelia. Cordelia Campbell. Campbells dislike being outsmarted. Especially by a mere mortal and a dirty little lycan.

Several miles down the road she stopped, switched off the moped's engine and pulled off her helmet. The night air smelled sweet now the stench of the MacGregor was out of her nostrils. For a moment she was still as she considered her options.

What she wanted to do was go back and destroy the little bitch. But to do so would be to risk exposing her real self to Sean. And she couldn't do that. Not yet. Her instructions from Callum had been quite clear. Infiltrate and then seduce. Pillow talk should do the rest.

Cordelia sighed. The plan had gone awry. It was obvious that Sean had the hots for the dirty little dog. Clearly it was going to be more difficult than they'd anticipated to get that invitation into his home. The lycan would have to be sorted out first.

Cordelia made up her mind. She'd better go find Callum. Reluctantly she got back on the moped. It was the most loathsome vehicle, but suited to the wages of a stable girl. Best hang on to it for now. She was soon on her way, moving at a snail's pace along the long winding road. As she travelled her thoughts drifted. It occurred to her that the lycan was unusually confident. Arrogant. Almost cocky. Which was not her experience to date. They were paranoid and secretive. Scared and cunning.

Suddenly she was bursting to talk. The stupid scooter became an intolerable impediment. When she spotted a dilapidated barn beside the road she stopped, listened, taxied over a cattle grid into the field and up to the building. The doors hung half open and she slipped in and secreted the bike behind a pile of mouldy hay.

With a moan of relief she slipped off the hated helmet and shook her hair free. She strode out the door and looked around. The scent of sheep and their succulent young rushed to her brain. For a moment she was tempted. But then she thought of Callum. She tried not to, most of the time. Think of Callum, that is. But every now and again he seemed to conjure himself in her mind. And she could not erase him no matter how she tried. How she loved him. Longed for him. Ached for him. There was nothing she would not do for him.

Her feet developed a will of their own and she was running. Across the meadow and down the hill. Wild flowers waved in the current that she created and a pheasant screeched in alarm. But she was airborne now. Faster and higher she flew, drawn along by her need to see him. To smell him. To hear him. To bathe in the aura of his power. And to nurture her hopes and dreams, that one day she would be good enough for him.

Soon she reached the forest, and her eyes searched the vast dark swathe of trees for the hunting lodge. Of course, he may not be there, but it was the most likely place. It was the weekend and unless he was watching his horses run, this was his favourite place.

Her heart fluttered like a moth in a jar when she spotted a tiny twinkle of light. He was home! She landed softly in the pine forest. A stream tinkled and chattered down the mountain beside her and the wind whispered in the pines. A pulse throbbed in the crotch of her pants. Perhaps he was alone. Callum was a loner. Unusual for her kind. But it was one of the things that drew her to him. A desire to break through that reserve. To untap and swim in those still waters.

A cry filled the air and she stiffened like a frightened fox, every synapse waving a red flag. But then she relaxed and smiled to herself as the voice rose and then sobbed away once more. Clever, clever Callum. He had been a busy boy.

She slipped as silently as a wraith through the trees and headed to the old timber house. It hunkered in a small clearing. There was no road or path. It was a secret place.

Cordelia raced over the bracken fern and brambles and knocked on the door. She held her breath.

‘Come in.'

Atremble with excitement, Cordelia pushed open the door.

Megan only surfaced when she was forced to breathe or pass out. She was happy. It was an uncomplicated emotion. Pure as the first fall of snow. All was right with her world.

She smiled up into his face. And he smiled back. ‘I have to go,' she said.

The smile melted. ‘Why?'

‘I must help Grandad with the crab pots.'

He nodded and picked up her hand. ‘I'll take you home.'

She shook her head. ‘No, I can make my own way. It's not far.'

‘Where do you live?'

She didn't answer, not wanting to lie. Instead, she stood up on tiptoe, ran her cheek over the dark stubble on his chin and touched her lips to his. Strong hands enveloped her and she sank back down into the Elysian Fields once more.

This time he broke first. ‘How did you get here?'

‘A friend dropped me off. He's waiting for me just down the way.' She pointed to the road. It was nearly true.

‘I'll walk you down.'

Megan felt a wave of panic. What should she do? Sean mustn't know where she lived. It'd put him in danger. Her kind were not tolerant of strangers. It was a matter of survival. But she could hardly explain that to him. ‘I don't —' But she stopped and stared at him in concern. ‘Sean, what's the matter?'

He shook his head but reached out and leant on her for support. ‘A bit dizzy,' he muttered. ‘Bloody women.'

Megan would have dearly liked to interrogate him as to which women he referred, but it was clear it was not the moment. She helped him stagger back across the damp meadow and up to the house. They made it as far as the living room where he sank down into an easy chair.

‘Can I get you anything?' she asked, hovering anxiously at his knee. But there was no reply. He was fast asleep. For several moments she just watched him, afraid he was ill. But his breathing was regular and even and his skin cool to touch. She could taste no sickness on her tongue. And she relaxed once more.

She traced a finger softly down his neck and finally left. Outside she paused only long enough to scan the landscape. After a minute of intense concentration Megan felt confident to leave. There was no one else out there. She'd know for sure. Grandad said he could smell a Campbell six feet under in a lead coffin and Megan believed him.

Overhead the moon was sinking behind the mountain. Better get a move on.

She ran and thought about a motorbike. About Douglas. About The Jackal and Hide. But mostly about Sean. Deep down she knew she should stay away. Especially now she was back on the Campbell radar. She also knew that she couldn't. He drew her to him like the moon pulled the tide. She was as helpless as a wave riding high to the shore.

When she reached the river she followed it, peeled off at the estuary and hotfooted over the range. It was a rugged stretch of bald rock and sheep-cropped turf, but to Megan it was home. At the tor she paused and peeked over the cliff. The croft was peaceful, smoke puffing out of the chimney.

But then she stared. Why, the Douglas boat was still there. How strange. Grandad's boat merrily bobbed beside it. It was all wrong. Both should be hard at work. Had something happened? Perhaps her recent brush with a Campbell had caused the frisson of fear that brushed over her skin like an owl's wing. She wiggled over the edge of the precipice, found a foothold, and skimmed down like a lizard. She dropped the last two metres, landed like a cat, and raced across the stony beach.

At the door she paused, looking and listening. All was quiet. But it was an uncomfortable silence. Broody and sullen.

‘Grandad!' she called and pushed open the door. The heat enveloped her and she peered through a smog of blue smoke.

Sitting around the table was Douglas, his father and Grandad.

Grandad tapped his pipe into an ashtray. His green eyes skewered right through her like a harpoon. ‘And where have you been, Megan MacGregor?'

Megan looked at Douglas who looked as though he were about to cry. She dared a peek at Grandad. And glanced longingly back at the door.

‘Don't even think about it,' said Grandad.

Megan sighed. Things were about to get ugly.

Megan MacGregor wasn't scared of anything, but she did have a healthy respect for her mother's father. The tips of his pointed, hairy ears were red. An interesting shade of vermillion. Unfortunately, aesthetics aside, this was not a good thing. It took a lot to piss Grandad off, but Megan realised she'd succeeded brilliantly.

She twitched as the old clay pipe held in his leathery, gnarled hand rapped on the table. ‘Are your ears stuck on, Megan MacGregor?' he asked softly.

Megan was not taken in by the silky tones. The quieter Grandad got the madder he was. ‘I've been out,' she said. It sounded lame even to herself.

His green eyes shafted through her like twin laser beams. ‘You don't say?'

‘I've been hunting.' That was much better.

Grandad snorted loudly, making the hairs in his nostrils quiver which gave Megan a fit of nervous giggles. He lifted one tufty white eyebrow and leaned over the table towards her. ‘And what, may I ask, have you been hunting?'

Megan was silent as she tried to decide just how much they'd squeezed out of poor Douglas. She glanced his way and he shook his head a fraction. Without a doubt the cat was not just out of the bag, but halfway to China. Oh dear. ‘I wasn't hunting. I was visiting a friend.'

She caught an irritatingly smug look passing between the two old men just as Douglas rolled his eyes in his head and let out a loud sigh. Megan recognised exasperation in her friend's hiss of breath. Her spirits plummeted into the abyss. Like a fool she'd totally misread the situation. Douglas had kept stum. Dammit.

With the light of battle in his eyes her grandfather put his dead pipe into his mouth and sucked. The pipe whistled obligingly. ‘So, which is it then? Hunting or visiting a friend?'

Megan glared at him but kept silent. After all, what could they do?

As if he could read her mind (and he probably could) Grandad beamed a tiny smile at her. ‘Well, then, if we can't be having the truth, we'll just have to put the ceremony off for another year or so. Or until you've found the use of your tongue. Whichever comes first.'