The MacGregor (15 page)

‘Megan!' he called.

Footsteps tapped overhead and then down the stairs. Seconds later she reappeared, the fox at her heels. ‘What did she want?'

‘Her job,' said Sean.

Megan's face tightened. ‘And, so, what did you say?'

‘I said she could carry on. She's a good head girl. Great with the horses.'

Megan licked her lips. ‘Better than me?'

He went to her then and looked down into her amber eyes. ‘No, my little fox, not better than you.' She stepped into his embrace and he felt his senses spin. She was as intoxicating as a single malt. ‘So,' he said, ‘why didn't you want me to let Ginny in?'

She pressed up against him. He could see a pulse racing against her collarbone. Without thinking he bent down and kissed the spot.

‘Never let Ginny Campbell into the house, Sean Duncan. Because, if you do, you will be sorry.'

A small tingle of fear trickled down his spine. Her words were soft but there was no doubt that she meant them. He lifted his lips from her skin. ‘But why?'

She stood up on her tiptoes and brushed his cheek softly with her own. ‘Because I'm a jealous kind of woman. I won't share you. Not ever.'

Sean felt a thrill of satisfaction. Jealous! To be jealous she had to have cause. The only cause he could construe readily was that she was as crazy about him as he was about her.

‘What would you do?'

She kissed his chin. And then his jaw. And then his neck. And soon he forgot the question.

Reluctantly Megan released her man. She glanced at the clock. ‘I have to go.' If she stayed out all night again Grandad would give her a hard time. She didn't fancy spending the next week scraping barnacles off the hull of the boat. Grandad always told her it wasn't a punishment but Megan was yet to be convinced.

Sean grabbed her hand. ‘Let me take you home. Please.'

Megan was torn. She welcomed the idea of extending their time together. But she was scared. She was concerned that Ginny Campbell might be lingering. What if she followed them? What if the vampyre discovered where she lived? It was a horrifying prospect.

Finally, she decided to go outside and suss it out. ‘I'd better let the cub have a wander in the garden.'

Sean nodded and followed her.

Outside, the fox cub was still for a moment, ears pricked and nose twitching. Finally she relaxed and snuffled around in the herbs. Megan took this as a good sign. The fox's nose was almost as good as her own. But she wandered down to the gate and stared into the dark landscape. The sky was heavy with cloud and she could smell rain coming. A small engine buzzed, the sound dimming slowly. Finally she decided that all was well.

‘I'd love a lift home,' she said. She decided, just to be on the safe side, that they'd go as far as the loch together, and no further. If she had to nick a skiff to make a good show, then she would.

Sean smiled. ‘I'll grab my coat and keys.'

Megan rounded up the cub. Really, she must give her a name. She was waiting at the gate when Sean reappeared. Together they walked down to an old garage. Inside was an aged Morris Traveller.

‘Sarah's,' said Sean.

Megan settled down onto the cracked leather seat. ‘Who's Sarah?'

‘She was the woman who owned this place before me. When she died she left it all to me.'

Megan glanced at him, but he was busy inserting the key and fiddling with the knobs on the dashboard. ‘Was she a relative…or a friend?'

The engine turned over, grumbled and died. Sean tried again and this time it caught. He glanced over. ‘A friend.'

Megan was perturbed. Just what kind of friend left a man her house and stable yard?

Perhaps something of her angst communicated because Sean grinned. ‘An eighty-six year old friend.'

She smiled back. A touch ashamed. ‘I'm sorry, you must miss her.'

A shadow passed over his face. ‘Like crazy.'

With a horrible grinding and crunching sound, Sean backed the car out of the shed. Megan covered her ears. Thankfully, he made it out with the car unscathed and then proceeded to lurch and bunny-hop down the driveway.

Not much unnerved Megan, but she had to admit the next few miles were hair-raising. Sean drove the car like a lunatic. They skidded around corners, screeched down the
hills and — on one occasion — narrowly missed driving straight through a T intersection. She hung onto the cub.

When they reached the freeway Sean turned to her. ‘Where to?'

‘Oban, Loch Goil.' she said. ‘Look out!'

‘Shit!' Sean muttered and drove the car back onto the road. ‘I must remember to go get my licence.'

Megan glared at him. ‘You don't have a licence?'

He shook his head. ‘No, never learned to drive.'

Megan was torn between outrage and amusement. Finally amusement won out. She giggled. ‘So, this is the first time?'

The gears screamed in protest as he forgot to use the clutch. After a second he got it right and glanced at her. ‘Yes.'

‘What if we get pulled over by the police?'

He laughed. ‘You're kidding. It's night. They're all asleep.'

A succulent scent stole into the car. Megan turned and peered into the forest. Red deer. She wished she could stop and hunt. A wave of frustration swept through her. How she wished she could take Sean out with her! It wasn't fair.

She reached out and rested her hand on the hard, muscular ridge of his thigh. Her heart fluttered like bats' wings. She was afraid of losing him. Afraid of the truth.

Sean sighed with relief as he turned the engine off. They got out of the car and walked to the gritty shore of Loch Goil. His eyes swept the cold waters and the vast forest that cradled it in leafy arms. Puzzled, he turned to Megan. ‘So, where do you live — exactly?

‘In a tiny bay off the coast. There's no road. So we use the boat.' She pointed to a number of skiffs that bobbed about by the shore.

Megan opened her mouth to speak but drew in a sharp intake of breath. Alarmed, Sean turned, instinctively sensing that the source of her fright was behind him. And what he saw punched him like a prize-fighter.

Caravans. Some big, some small. Some pulled by shiny 4WD's, others by horse. The mobile homes ranged from brightly painted wagons to long silver trailers. The long train passed by slowly. Uncannily quiet. The engines purred as softly as kittens. The shod hooves of the horses were muffled to a gentle tap.

A familiar mix of emotions stirred in Sean. He couldn't help it. He couldn't encounter travellers, whether they be beggars on the street or a circus, without thinking about his mother. And now, as ever, he gazed wistfully at the procession as it went by. He could never resist the temptation: to imagine that he could be gazing at his mother's family. His family. An uncle. An aunt. A distant cousin.

Not that there were many to see. In the dark, the few visible individuals were not much more than blurry figures. But there were a few exceptions. An old gypsy wagon passed by. Lit up by the yellow flame of a lantern, Sean could clearly see the driver's face. She was quite young. Her hair was hidden beneath a deep purple scarf, but her face was pale. Two startling green eyes grazed his, just for a second. And she moved on.

Further on Sean spotted a boy standing on the roof of a truck. He was as skinny as streaky bacon, with a mop of red hair and the same eyes as the woman. He watched Sean watching him. And then he grinned. Sean couldn't help it; he smiled back. The youth looked like an imp.

Then Sean felt Megan stir beside him. A small hiss of air whistled through her teeth. And then he too gasped involuntarily as the last silver wagon rolled on by. In its wake came a herd of horses, the look of which made Sean salivate. These weren't the docile, gypsy cobs that pulled the wagons. No. These were blood horses. Black, bay and silver white. Fine of head and flawless in structure, they were magnificent.

They seemed unfettered. No hobbles and no tether. And then Sean spotted him. The rider. A man, not much older than himself, sat astride a black horse. The man was strongly built, with a mass of red curls that tumbled down to his shoulders. He wore a loose white shirt and tatty black jeans cut off at the knee.

In his hand he held a rope that looped down the horse's proud neck and affixed to a head collar. He rode bareback, his seat barely shifting as the animal shied and pigrooted in good-natured high spirits.

As he rode past, Sean was transfixed. The man's face was strong, rather than handsome. Amber eyes burned beneath a heavy brow. The large, hooked nose hinted at arrogance. And when he caught Sean's eye, the lips parted to show excellent teeth, in what could have been either a smile or a snarl.

The man turned the horse and halted a few metres from Sean and Megan. To Sean's intense irritation the horseman eyed Megan with obvious pleasure and then turned his attention once more to Sean. He leaned forward from the waist a fraction.

‘Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, the beggars are coming to town,' he said softly.

And without thinking Sean replied. ‘Some in rags and some in tags and one in a velvet gown.'

Without another word the horseman pressed powerful legs to the horse's sides and the two took off, rejoining the mob.

Sean watched until the caravan was less than a whisper on the breeze. He sighed softly. Filled with sadness and regret. But also strangely exhilarated, and so he turned to Megan, eager to share the experience.

But the words on his tongue shrivelled up like autumn leaves at the expression on her face.

‘Megan,' he said. ‘What's the matter?'

Megan was shaken. The arrival of the travellers had thrilled her. She did not know, but suspected (or hoped) that they were somehow linked to her forthcoming celebrations. She knew, with absolute certainty, that they were her own kind. Werewolves! She had a sixth sense for them. Not a scent. More a kind of…vibration that zinged into her subconscious like some magnetic undercurrent. It lingered still in the air. She only ever experienced it with her own. And — she acknowledged grudgingly — in the presence of the vampyre. Damn the Campbells.

Yes, she was in no doubt about what she had just witnessed. Her grandad had told her the old stories, of how, in the darkest hours of the Dark Ages, the first rift had appeared in the clans of the Children Of The Mist. And in that dark time, many had rejected the One God and slipped away onto the road in a quest to preserve the Olde ways.

And they were still there. Fewer each and every century, it was true. But no less real. Gypsies, jesters, travellers and troubadours throughout the ages. And today Megan had seen them with her own eyes. And she had been so delighted. So uplifted.

Until the man on the black horse had spoken. And Sean had answered. She shuddered as the memory washed over her afresh.

She stared at Sean, at a loss for words. How could she tell him what disturbed her? To speak of it was unthinkable. A mortal speaking the ancient tongue of her people? It was not possible.

And yet she had heard it with her own sharp ears. And so had the rider.

And that gave her fresh food for thought. The rider, that big red-headed man, had spoken to Sean as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Which was rubbish. There was nothing natural about it. Was there?

And as she watched the happy expression on Sean's face fade, she knew she must say something. She managed to muster a smile. ‘Nothing's the matter. I guess I'm just tired.'

He seemed to accept this and nodded, stepping closer. ‘Of course you are. It's late.'

She found her courage then. ‘Sean, how do you speak with the traveller?'

His blue eyes slid away from her own. Megan knew he was going to lie before he opened his mouth.

‘Must have learned a smattering of Gaelic from my mum. When I was little. It's just a nursery rhyme.'

But it wasn't just a nursery rhyme. Megan felt a ripple of unease. She needed to talk to someone. Her first instinct was Grandad. But — well — it was Sean, and Grandad might find reason to change his mind and try to stop her from seeing him. And then she thought of Douglas. Relief trickled through. Yes, Douglas would listen. She'd have to go see him.

Aware that the silence stretched between them like a rubber band Megan reached out and took Sean's hand. And dropped it.

He took a small step back, the hurt clear in his eyes.

But Megan didn't have time to worry about the niceties. ‘Sean,' she whispered. ‘We have a visitor.'

As the slender figure of Ginny Campbell emerged like a wraith in the darkness, Megan realised why the vibration still lingered in the air. Her heart raced and her senses stirred. How long had the Campbell bitch been there? And what had she seen?

Inside her shirt the small cub stirred. And Megan growled ever so softly. She tasted the air and cleared her mind. If the Campbell bitch touched a hair on the head of her loved one, then the bitch would die. It didn't pay to mess with Megan MacGregor.

Sean was more than aware of the hostility that hung in the air like a living, breathing thing. The two young women faced each other like a pair of gladiators. And, for a tiny instant, he could have sworn that Megan had…well…growled. But that was just silly. It was probably the cub. Or maybe his senses still suffered the effects of the potion.

Or perhaps it was a kind of mental vertigo. Things seemed to be getting wackier and wackier by the hour. Megan seemed upset although she denied it. Things had seemed fine. Great even. Until the travellers. Were they the problem? It would be an easy explanation, but he wasn't convinced. Sean had the feeling that the real cause lay with him.

And now Ginny Campbell had materialised out of thin air. He really didn't want her there. But he swallowed his irritation down. ‘Hello, Ginny. What are you doing here?'