Free Charmed by His Love by Janet Chapman Page A

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, pulling in a deep breath at how perfectly balanced and how … right it felt in his hand. “All the time I was growing up, Dad complained that his left palm constantly itched to wield a true and proper weaponagain. When he comes to visit me at the work site, can he see this? Will 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 collector’s wall gathering dust.”
    “But it’s worth a small 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.”
    “Really? 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 hell, 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 spill
any
of my blood, then you may build your timber bridges. But if I draw first blood, you will 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 still 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 swollen 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 hell happened to you? Christ, ye look like you tangled with a bear.”
    Duncan snorted, then immediately