handing out gifts.” He turned away to look down at the new
Bottomless Sea. “Which is fine by me; I real y don’t need to
start fires without matches, or talk to animals, or travel
through time.”
“Have you even tried?” Mac asked quietly.
Duncan snorted. “I quit trying when I was eight.” He
gestured at the mountain they’d just hiked up and shot a
grin over his shoulder. “I’m one hel of an earth mover,
though. I figure the road should at least be passable by the
time you get back from California, although it’s going to
take al summer to finish the five larger bridges if you keep
insisting they be made of stone.” He turned to face him.
“But I stil say you should let me build them out of rough-
hewn timber if you real y want to give your resort guests a
true Maine experience.”
Duncan widened his grin when Mac’s eyes narrowed at
his changing the subject. But he’d be damned if he
understood how the wizard had decided he was attracted
to Peg, much less that he didn’t much care for the magic—
even as he wondered which topic was more frightening.
Mac took off his jacket. “Here’s an idea,” he said with an
equal y frightening smile. “I’l fight you for the bridges.”
Duncan went stil but for the fine hairs on his neck rising
again. “Excuse me?”
“We’l use swords.” The wizard arched a brow. “You are
the reigning champion of the highland summer games
down on the coast, are you not?”
“How in hel do you know that?”
“And since I’m about to spend the next two months
driving a lumbering house across the country and back with
only my wife and children for company, I believe I’m up for a
rousing battle before I leave. In fact, it might be nice if we
met up here a couple more times this week to break a
sweat together, as I haven’t faced a worthy opponent since I
left Midnight Bay.”
Yeah, right; like he was going to match swords with a
wizard.
“No magic,” Mac assured him. “Only mortal brain and
brawn … and skil .”
“Sorry,” Duncan drawled, “but considering I came here to
build a road, I didn’t think to bring my sword.”
Mac gestured to his left. “No problem; I brought one for
you.”
Duncan stiffened again when he saw the two swords
leaning against a stunted old pine tree growing out of the
ledge.
“I believe you’l find the grip wil fit your hand,” Mac said,
walking over and picking up one of the swords. He slid it
out of its sheath, then turned and held it out to Duncan. “Just
as it did your father’s.”
Duncan slowly reached for the ancient-looking weapon,
only to feel a powerful surge of energy sweep through him
when he closed his left fist around the hilt. He snapped his
head up. “My father’s sword was nearly nine hundred
years old when he and the others came to this time over
forty years ago, and was sold for a smal fortune.”
Mac nodded. “Yes, I believe it was purchased by an
anonymous bidder at an auction house in Edinburgh.”
“And old Uncle Ian’s sword?” Duncan asked, staring
down at the one in his hand. “It was decided at the time that
Greylen and Morgan should keep their weapons as they
were the youngest of the four warriors, but Greylen needed
the money from the sale of Ian’s and Dad’s to buy TarStone
Mountain.”
“Old Ian found his beloved weapon hanging in his
hut when Robbie MacBain took him back to his original
time several years ago.”
Duncan lifted his father’s sword so that the sunlight
reflected off the tarnished and pitted steel, pul ing in a deep
breath at how perfectly balanced and how … right it felt in
his hand. “Al the time I was growing up, Dad complained
that his left palm constantly itched to wield a true and
proper weapon again. When he comes to visit me at the
work site, can he see this? Wil you let him hold it again?”
“That privilege is yours, Duncan, as is the sword. It’s my
gift to you.”
He snapped his gaze to Mac again. “Why?”
The wizard tossed his jacket down beside the tree, then
began unbuttoning his shirt. “Because it belongs in a
MacKeage’s hand, not hanging on some col ector’s wal
gathering dust.”
“But it’s worth a smal fortune.”
“A weapon’s worth is in the man who wields it.”
Mac tossed down his shirt and unsheathed the other sword,
then turned to Duncan with a frown. “Are you not going to
strip off?” He grinned. “Or are you feeling the need to keep
a little cloth between my blade and your flesh?”
“You expect me to be a worthy opponent against your
thousands of years of experience?”
Mac stood the tip of his sword on the ledge between his
feet and rested his hands on the hilt. “I was under the
impression MacKeage fathers raised warriors.”
“Real y? I prefer to think they raised us not to be fools,”
Duncan muttered even as he leaned his sword against the
tree—because dammit to hel , it appeared he was going to
have to battle the bastard. He shed his jacket, unbuttoned
his shirt and shrugged it off, then picked up the sword and
turned to Mac with a heavy sigh. “So, about those bridges;
are you saying that if I draw first blood, we build them my
way?”
Mac palmed his sword and touched it to his forehead
with a slight bow, then planted his feet as he gripped his
lethal and far older weapon in both hands. His grin turned
feral again with his nod. “If you manage to spil anyof my
blood, then you may build your timber bridges. But if I draw
first blood, you wil make damned sure Peg Thompson
doesn’t break her beautiful neck on your watch.”
Since he figured he was damned either way, Duncan
swung his weapon in a swift arc as he lunged into Mac’s
defensive strike, his MacKeage war cry rising above the
loud, echoing peal of their clashing swords.
“Is there a reason I left a nice warm bed at two a.m.—which
happened to be occupied by an even warmer woman, I
might point out—to spend three hours running a gauntlet of
road-stupid moose to get here before the sun comes up,
only to find you stil in bed … Boss?”
“Ye nudge me again, and you’re going to wish you’d hit
one of those moose instead of my fist,” Duncan growled
without opening his eyes—partly because one of them was
swol en shut, but mostly because he didn’t want his
nephew’s face to be the first thing he saw this morning.
“I figure we have about an hour before it gets above
freezing and the road postings go back into effect,” Alec
said, his voice wisely moving away. “Or is it your intention
to be on a first-name basis with the local deputy sheriff
before we’ve even hauled our first load?”
Duncan opened the one eye he could and immediately
closed it again when Inglenook’s otherwise empty dorm
suddenly flooded with light. He then tried to push back the
blanket only to discover his arms didn’t want to move—
along with every other muscle in his body except his mouth.
“What time is it?”
“Half an hour before sunrise,” Alec said, his voice moving
closer. “What in hel happened to you? Christ, ye look like
you tangled with a bear.”
Duncan snorted, then immediately groaned in pain, but
he did manage to open both eyes. “I tangled with our new
resident theurgist.”
“Why?” Alec asked, looking around as if he expected
Mac to materialize. “What in hel did ye do to piss him off?”
“He wasn’t pissed off; he merely wanted some sport.”
Duncan snorted again, this time using the pain to lever