Her MacKinnon #3
Why couldn’t the bastard have accepted his lot, of being the second son and destined for religious life? But nay, Angus had to covet what had been Alex’s by right of birth.
Through blurring tears, Alex studied the signet ring he’d worn then – and now again wore. His uncle Collin had taken it from Alex’s hand before burial against Angus’s furious protests.
“’Tis now rightfully the lad’s,” his uncle had snarled. He’d then secured the ring around his own neck, saying that when Ian came of age, he would wear it. The next day his uncle had clasped Alex’s infant to his chest and escaped with him to the protection of Mull.
When his son came of age his uncle kept his pledge. Ian, seeped in the legend, put on the ring and then went to war but to no avail. The king and political expediency were against him. And still he fought on.
Upon Ian’s death, the ring and the tale passed to his son. And so it went for centuries.
With his essence tied to the ring, Alex often experienced the emotions of the wearer – some better men than others, but all of them his bloodline. Time passed. Kings came and went, as did heirs and fortunes. And then it passed to A.J.
It saddened him that his glimpses into A.J.’s life more often involved the ring than they did the beautiful Maggie.
“Hmmm.” Aye, that made perfect sense. He’d become flesh and blood again because A.J. had died without an heir.
Just the thought of Maggie’s bonny green eyes, pert breasts and curls did send his blood racing. But he’d not be bedding her any time soon. Leastwise not in her current frame of mind.
“Humph! So, now that I’ve solved the mystery, what can I do about it?”
Watching the courting oystercatchers and lapwings whirl over the surf, he laughed, recalling a heady exhilaration as A.J. courted and won fair Maggie. But the man had never taken to hearth and home, the deplorable condition of the croft being certain proof.
Mayhap …
He stood and, grinning, headed home.
Two
A horn blasted. Maggie jerked awake and, blinking, looked out the bus window. Oh good, she was almost home.
Elsa, more than willing to trade shifts with her, had taken a week to arrange after-school care for her wee ones, leaving Maggie with no choice but to work her shift and part of Elsa’s.
She did appreciate the extra pay but hadn’t seen the sun all week.
Thank God the long shifts were over and she’d been able to leave the restaurant on time today.
She yawned, wondering what, if anything, A.J. was doing. Nothing, most likely.
The bus came to a stop and she stumbled out.
Lifting her face to the glorious sun, she closed her eyes and, smiling, waited for the bus to pull away and the oncoming lorries to pass.
When they did, she opened her eyes and stared at the charming house before her.
Unlike her home, this croft gleamed with a new coat of whitewash, its shutters were straight and glossy black and the window boxes, sporting bright yellow flowers, were painted red.
“Damn it!” She’d got off at the wrong place.
Praying the bus driver would look in his rearview mirror, she started waving and shouting, running after the bus, only to watch it disappeared around the bend.
“Great. Just great.”
On the verge of tears, feet aching, she looked about, trying to orient herself – praying she hadn’t in her exhaustion taken the wrong bus altogether.
“Uhmm …” There’s the bridge and, beyond it, she could see what she was sure was the Boar Head’s slate roof. She looked over her shoulder at the rocky shoreline. This was the right place. She looked at the croft. What wasn’t right was the sight before her.
Was she dreaming?
Halfway up the front path she came to a halt as the front door opened and Daisy MacDonald came out.
“Oh! Hello, Maggie. I was just leaving.”
Maggie studied the pretty young woman, wondering what on earth she was doing in her home … if this was, in fact, her home. “Good day.”
“I hope you don’t mind but while I was at it I put a loaf in the oven. Should be ready in about a half hour.” Coming abreast of Maggie, she whispered, “I don’t know what you’ve been feeding him, love, but whatever it is, I want some for my man.”
Maggie, slack-jawed, nodded. What in bloody hell is going on?
Determined to find out, she waited until Daisy left then stomped up the path only to come to a stop upon seeing that the yellow flowers adorning the window boxes were dandelions. “Why would anyone …?”
She opened the front door and her knees buckled. The furniture, under an inch of dust and clutter when she left this morning, now gleamed. As did the floor. The laundry she’d dumped on the sofa to be folded tonight had vanished as well. And just as shocking … the telly was off.
“A.J.? Where are you?”
She walked into the kitchen and gaped, finding every surface spotless and a pot of peeled potatoes sitting on the stove ready to be cooked. Sniffing, smelling meatloaf and lemon disinfectant, she muttered, “I’m definitely dreaming.”
She checked the bathroom, found it immaculate and then, half-dreading she’d discover A.J. in a rumpled bed, peered into their bedroom and was stunned to find everything within set to rights as well. “I just don’t believe this.”
A god-awful crash sounded at the rear. Not knowing what to expect next, she raced through the house and out the back door, only to have her breath catch at the sight of her husband standing in her garden, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts riding low on his hips, his body and face a ruddy, glistening bronze.
Oh my.
“Ah, there ye be, Maggie.” He tossed a boulder as if it were a pebble into their rusty wheel barrel and waved towards her garden. “What think ye?”
“Uhmm …” With effort she tore her gaze from the bronze god to look around the yard.
Two of the garden’s stone walls had been repaired and the third, the worst by far, had been knocked down and was in the process of being rebuilt.
The weeds that once choked the plot were now piled in a shoulder high mound in the centre of the garden ready for a match. “You did all this?”
“Aye, but I cannot take credit for whatever went on inside. That’s all Daisy’s doing … and a mean negotiator, she is, too.”
“You paid her?” With what?
He scowled as if she were daft. “Of course not. I noticed a ewe escaping from her pasture and I feared more would follow and be killed on yon carriageway, so I scooped up the beastie and knocked on her door. Learning her husband was abed with a lame back, and thinking this could prove fortuitous, I asked if she’d be willing to work a trade; in return for me mending her fence would she be willing to do a bit of cleaning?
She said she would … if I’d also take down the weeds about her place. Well, what choice did I have?”
“None?” He’d lost his mind.
Grinning, A.J. nodded. “So after I had her flock contained, I knocked on her door again and asked where I might find her scythe. I knew we had naught for I’d already checked,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, “yon shed.”
“Oh my God, you whitewashed that as well.”
He shrugged. “I was already coated in the nasty stuff so thought why not. Anyway, ye will not believe what the woman handed me. Not a scythe but a contraption on wheels with revolving blades. Ye just shove and whaaaack … off goes the grass neat as ye please. Truly amazing.”
Oh. Dear. God. “Sweetie …”
“Aye?”
Maggie forced a smile. “Why don’t we go inside now? I think you’ve had quite enough sun for one day.” And as soon as he turned on the telly to watch Taggart – he never missed the crime show – she’d be running to the Boar’s Head and calling the doctor.
He examined his arms and his chest for sunburn, both of which looked, to Maggie, far more muscled than she could ever recall them being in the five years she’d known him.
“Hmm, I am a wee bit singed. Alright then. The rest can wait for the morrow.” As he came abreast of her, he bent and kissed her nose. “I’m starving. What’s for supper?”
Shaken, she mumbled, “Food.”
Inside, she lit the burner under the potatoes then pushed him towards the bathroom. “Go take a shower.”
He cocked an arm and sniffed. “Augh, I am a bit ripe.”
“That you are. Now away with you and don’t use all the shampoo.”
The moment he disappeared into the bathroom, Maggie collapsed on to the nearest chair. Although she much preferred this new and greatly improved A.J. over the old one, she couldn’t ignore the fact that something was drastically wrong with him.
People who sustained head injuries often suffered amnesia, which might explain A.J.
’s confusion about lawnmowers, but certainly didn’t explain all the frenetic labour.
And it certainly didn’t explain his stilted English.
But then again, hadn’t she recently read about a woman in London who, after a week-long coma, began speaking with a Russian accent?
And not one of the London specialists she’d seen could explain it.
“Mag-gie!”
Oh Lord, now what? “I’m coming!”
Oh. My. Word.
A.J. stood naked before the bathroom mirror, his ass as white and firm as dual moons, the rest of his bronzed body flexing. “’Tis stuck,” he said.
Feeling a bit breathless, she reluctantly slid her gaze from his glorious backside to his reflection. “Huh?”
“The brush, lass. ’Tis stuck as fast as burr on a dog’s arse.”
She blinked, saw he was grinning at her in the mirror and finally looked to where he pointed – to find the handle of her hairbrush sticking out from beneath the tangled mess of his wet hair. “How on earth …?”
She pointed to the edge of the tub. “Sit. I can’t untangle it with you standing.”
He dutifully turned towards the tub and her mouth went dry. He was well on his way to being fully engorged – something she hadn’t seen in well over a year. Her heart did the old thubbidy-thub.
“Uhmm … face the wall.” She opened the window, hoping some cold air would knock some sense into her heart.
“Did you find the present, lass?”
“Huh?” Lord, he smelled good.
“The present, lass. Did you find one?”