"Are we going a wee bit daft, love?"

"Gabriel, my baby didn't die. Mother lied. She sent her to Clara. Probably to legitimize her."

"You don't mean ... Bridget is yours?"

"Dearest, you may never forgive me, but she's more than my daughter-"

Gabe groaned. "Right; she's Nick's."

"Remember how I counted on Nick to get me out of trouble. Think about it."

"I don't understand."

Jace kissed him with all her love, and though he was confused, he put love into his kiss.

"Gabriel," Jace said, "Bridget is more than my daughter, she's our daughter." She showed him the sacque. "I embroidered 'Baby Macgregor' inside. I wanted the truth somewhere."

He stroked the embroidery: "I fathered your child? Not Nick?"

"My mother couldn't make his life hell in America, so I waited for him to leave, then I named him, with his permission."

"Jace. That about killed me. If I wasn't so happy, I'd ..."

"I didn't want you defrocked. You'd just taken holy orders. Your father's parish was yours, you had your family name to mend. How could I destroy your dreams?"

"I wanted our babe," he said. "And you, you were more my dream than anything. Didn't you know?"

The resultant kiss lasted longer, meant more, because they'd added honesty and forgiveness. "I love you Gabriel."

"I love you, Jace, and our daughter. Bridget is ours. Jace, you bore my child and the stigma of sin to protect me." He cupped her face. "Marry me, please. I'll try to be worthy."

Jace kissed his palm. "With our passion; we'll have six more."

"At least," he said, hearing a whispered "shush". "Hear that, Mackenzie?" he called. "You'll have a job here forever."

"We hear," Bridget said, throwing open the door and climbing into their laps. "Nanny Mac says you're my real Mama and Papa. She brought me to my first mama to keep me till 'you two came to your senses'."

"Did she now?" Gabe eyed Mackenzie.

"I have to go tell Suttie and Hedgehog," Bridget said.

"Suttie's gone," Mac said, "though I didn't hear the wagon. She left a note: 'My work is done. Fairy kisses and long happy lives. Suttie.'"

"We'll do just fine right here, won't we, darling? You're right about Papa. Lots of growl but no bite."

Her MacKinnon.

Sandy Blair.

The Legend.

I came into being on Beltane morn' on the shores of Skye in the year of our Lord 1490.

In my veins runs the blood of Alpin, king of the Picts and father of Cinaed mac Ailpin king of Scots, of Bebe, king of Norway and that of the first abbots of Iona.

Brought down by treachery before my time, my immortal soul does not rest. My essence remains with the gold signet ring bearing the hand clutching the cross that I and all those who came before me wore.

I am the MacKinnon, then and now.

Board's Head Pub, Isle of Skye, present day.

One.

"Come on, man, just one half and a half."

Since the last thing A.J. MacKinnon needed was another dram and a half-pint of ale, Mickey shook his head. "You've had quite enough for one day, A.J. Go home to that pretty wife of yours before she worries herself sick."

A.J. made a sound at the back of his throat. "The bitch is already dead to the world ... or pretendin' to be."

No. More likely Maggie was pacing, her eyes brimming with tears and silent accusations. Why his cousin stayed with this sorry excuse for a man no one in the family could figure out.

Sure, Alistair Jerome MacKinnon stood an easy six feet four inches, had a head full of auburn hair and blue eyes that could stop a clock even had an aura about him that initially drew you in but soon enough you discovered he was all hot air and pretention. Cold sober, the man couldn't keep a job to save his soul. Drunk, he got mean. Real mean. And this evening, he'd arrived drunk as a lord after being fired from yet another job. This time it was from one Mickey had found for him.

Having heard enough, Mickey leaned forwards, hands fisted on his centuries-old oak bar. "Do not be talking like that about Maggie. She's a good woman, better than you deserve and well you know it."

Bleary-eyed and sullen, A.J. muttered, "Oh ya? Well, I've news for you. She's a blubbering nag." He thumped his fist on the bar again. "Come on, just one more for the road."

Mickey was fed up and needed to close, so he came around the bar and grabbed A.J. by the scuff; no mean task given the man stood a full head taller than he and outweighed him by an easy three stones. "Let's go. Your pockets are bare and I'll not be extending credit."

Maggie was working two jobs as it was.

A.J., cursing and boxing the air, stumbled forwards. In the parking lot, Mickey gave A.J. a shove. "Go home."

A.J. staggered to his beat-up Ford Focus and got behind the wheel. When the engine finally sputtered to life, Mickey slammed the pub door closed and shut off the lights.

Had his last customer been anyone other than A.J., he'd have taken the car keys and seen the man home, but A.J. and Maggie lived only a quarter mile up the road. Being well past midnight, there wouldn't be another soul on the road till dawn so he'd be safe enough.

Maggie pushed aside the lace curtain and peered into the night. "Where the hell can he be at this hour?"

A.J. had promised he'd only stop by the Boar's Head to thank Mickey for finding him the job at the Portree restaurant, then come straight home for a celebration dinner, which should have been hours ago.

Worried A.J. might be passed out in the pub's parking lot, she reached for the telephone to call Mickey, only to remember her service had been cut off weeks ago. Cursing, tears springing to her eyes, she continued pacing.

This was not the life she'd envisioned when she's fallen in love and married A.J. MacKinnon, who claimed to be the legitimate heir to the MacKinnon legacy. According to A.J., the MacKinnon ring he wore, given to him by his grandfather, had been passed down to the rightful heir for centuries. The Mackinnon title was by all rights his, not some distant cousin's. Only A.J. had no way of proving it other than his having the ring, which was no proof at all according to their high-priced solicitor. The court needed birth and marriage records dating back to the beginning of time, but the crucial evidence of his lineage had been lost to war and a kirk fire.

Peering out the window, Maggie cursed A.J.'s grandfather yet again for filling his head with grandiose nonsense. This crazy obsession of his having the blood of kings running in his veins was eating A.J. alive, and had turned him from the charming and ambitious lover she'd fallen for during their whirlwind courtship five years ago into a bitter man she barely recognized. Worse, when he drank he blamed everyone but himself for his every failing. Bosses were out to get him. The small cottage she'd inherited was a joke. The meals she prepared weren't fit for dogs. Worse, whenever she lashed back, he called her a shrew. How she'd managed to escape his fists when he went on one of his drunken rampages was still a mystery. Thank God, he was prone to stumbling and falling whenever he swung a fist.

But then would come morning or more often afternoon and he'd stumble out of the bedroom, beg her forgiveness, saying it had only been the whisky talking, making him a bloody ass. He'd profess his love and swear never to do it again. And because she'd once loved him beyond reason, had pledged to love and honour him in good times and bad, she hung on, desperate to believe, putting her dreams on hold. And all because A.J. couldn't pass a pub if he had a penny in his pocket.

She hated admitting it but Mickey had been right when he'd repeatedly warned her that if she married in haste she'd repent in leisure.

The mantel clock struck two and she dashed the tears from her cheeks. All this pacing and fretting was getting her nowhere. Hoping Mickey had at least seen A.J., she pulled her cardigan from the wall-mounted coat rack by the door. Outside, she hunched against the wind coming off Inner Sound, its choppy water reflecting moonlight like a fractured mirror, bathing both the empty two-lane carriageway before her and the mountains at her back in a cool white glow.

Only minutes down the road she caught the pungent scent of fire on the wind. Alarmed, she looked back at her home, then at her immediate neighbours, then towards the village. A hundred yards ahead she saw ghostly columns rising from beneath the bridge that spanned a burn.

"Please dear God, no."

Heart hammering, she broke into a run.

Racing on to the bridge, the stench of petrol made her stomach heave. She leaned over the railing and peered into the darkness below. Oh dear God, is that a car? The wind shifted, brushing the smoke aside. In the rubble below lay a listing undercarriage and four wheels.

"A.J.!"

The annoying beeps and thumps drew Alex out of his turbulent dreams only a moment before cool fingers pried open his right eye. Piercing light, as hot as steel in a smithy's forge, stabbed his brain.

Good God almighty!

He swung an arm to bat the offender away.

"Ah, he's finally waking up," said a man on his left.

A feminine voice her voice, said, "A.J., can you hear me? Sweetheart, open your eyes."

Not on your life, woman. Not after what just happened. Head aching unmercifully, still in a haze, Alex tried to roll away from his tormentors only to come to a groaning stop.

Saint Columba, have mercy! Every damn bone in his body ached as if he'd been hurled from a catapult and into a curtain wall. Worse, something hard and dry clotted his throat. Fearing he'd choke to death, he reached up to pull the obstruction out and the man grasped his wrist.

"Leave it alone."

Like hell, he would. Alex wrenched free of the man's grip and before anyone could naysay him, jerked the obstruction free and gasped. Searing pain tore at his throat. Behind him, an ear-shattering whistle sounded.

The man cursed and the wailing ceased. Alex, his throat on fire, cautiously peered through his lashes.

Who were these people leaning over him? The woman, dark circles under beautiful green eyes, he must know the sight of her summoned feelings of warmth and protection but not so the grey-haired man dressed in the odd blue garments holding his wrists.

Alex wrenched his arms free. "Leave me ... be!"

Good God, his throat hurt. Hell, everything hurt.

The woman Maggie, aye, that was her name stroked his cheek. "Shhh, it's alright, A.J. You had an accident and you're in hospital."

Hospital? He was neither poor nor infirm so why ...?

And why did she keep addressing him as A-jay?

He looked about the strange green room. Not liking or understanding any of it, his heart hammered and the beeping became a frantic rhythm.

Humph! The what and why of all this insanity mattered not. He would eventually sort it all out ... after he made good his escape.

He bolted upright only to feel wires and snaking tubes pull at his bruised and torn flesh. Head swimming, he jerked against his restraints and swung his legs over the bedside.

Maggie held up her hands as if to stop him, just as the man shouted, "Mr MacKinnon, stop! You need to lie down."

Grasping Maggie's shoulder for balance, Alex ripped the wires from his chest and jerked out the tube embedded in his arm, sending blood and water flying. Over a new screeching, he croaked, "Leaving."

Head hanging and seeing a yellow tube dangling betwixt his legs, he jerked on it and nearly passed out. Holy Saint Columba!

The sheep buggers had even invaded his manhood!

Maggie grasped his chin as he fought for breath. "Listen to me. Doctor MacDonald will take it out if you'll just lie down."

Behind him, the doctor said, "Listen to your wife, Mr MacKinnon. I'll take the catheter out if you'll just lie back down."

Panting, Alex shook his head. Wife? Nay, Maggie was not his wife but the drunkard's. Aye, that much he did know, although how he knew he could not recall. "Ye'll take the bloody thing out whilst I sit." If he dared lie back down the bastards would, in all likelihood, tie him to the bed.

The doctor huffed. A moment later a disembodied female voice said, "May I help you?"

At his back, the doctor said, "I need a ten cc syringe in 114."

The voice responded, "I'll be right there."

Augh! Another heathen was coming.

A moment later a thin lass of about twenty years, her garments much like the doctors, came in. The doctor pulled the tip from a clear tube she'd handed him, exposing a long needle. When the doctor reached betwixt his legs, Alex clamped a hand over the man's arm, growling, "And what do ye think yer doing?"

"I have to take the fluid out of the ball that's holding the tube inside you. It won't hurt."

"Upon my honour should it, you're a dead man." Glaring, Alex reluctantly released the doctor's arm.

To his great relief the man was as good as his word. The nasty tube only smarted as it came clear of his body.

With Maggie's help, Alex alarmed more by the softness of his body than by any of its many injuries dressed then found himself staring at a mountain of documents he could make neither head nor tail of.

"Just sign here and here," the woman in blue said, marking the pages with an "x" then handing him her odd writing implement.