The MacGregor by Jenny Brigalow Page A

loudly, making the hairs in his nostrils quiver which gave Megan a fit of nervous giggles. He lifted one tufty white eyebrow and leaned over the table towards her. ‘And what, may I ask, have you been hunting?’
    Megan was silent as she tried to decide just how much they’d squeezed out of poor Douglas. She glanced his way and he shook his head a fraction. Without a doubt the cat was not just out of the bag, but halfway to China. Oh dear. ‘I wasn’t hunting. I was visiting a friend.’
    She caught an irritatingly smug look passing between the two old men just as Douglas rolled his eyes in his head and let out a loud sigh. Megan recognised exasperation in her friend’s hiss of breath. Her spirits plummeted into the abyss. Like a fool she’d totally misread the situation. Douglas had kept stum. Dammit.
    With the light of battle in his eyes her grandfather put his dead pipe into his mouth and sucked. The pipe whistled obligingly. ‘So, which is it then? Hunting or visiting a friend?’
    Megan glared at him but kept silent. After all, what could they do?
    As if he could read her mind (and he probably could) Grandad beamed a tiny smile at her. ‘Well, then, if we can’t be having the truth, we’ll just have to put the ceremony off for another year or so. Or until you’ve found the use of your tongue. Whichever comes first.’
    Megan was furious. Below the belt! He was just being mean. How she longed to tell him to stick the ceremony into his pipe and smoke it. But she didn’t. For her kind, the ceremony marked her coming of age. It was a rite of passage passed down through the ages. Without it she would be viewed as a child forever. She could not be joined with a partner, nor inherit the family home. Her arm would be bare of its totem for all her life. A shameful thing. And she would never be invited to the hunts or be privy to any matter of import. Possibly worst of all, without it she would always see herself as a child. Humiliation rolled over her.
    The croft was silent. The atmosphere thicker than pea soup. The three men watched her, their expressions expectant. Douglas looked anxious, his father curious and Grandad implacable. Like a bare bit of rock on the mountain. Megan’s brain hurt as she tried to find some explanation that was not a lie. And failed miserably.
    Finally she hissed softly, forced to accept she was beaten.
    Grandad grinned at her in an infuriating manner. ‘So?’ he said.
    Utterly wretched, Megan forced her lips to form the words. ‘I’ve been seeing Sean.’
    Grandad grunted softly and tapped his big white teeth with the stem of his pipe. ‘And who is Sean ?’
    She eyeballed her grandfather defiantly. ‘He’s the man I’m going to marry,’ she said. And, although surprised at her own daring, Megan knew the words she spoke were true.
    The three men stared at her like a catch of mackerel. All glassy eyes and gaping mouths. Megan grinned to herself. It seemed she may have gained the upper hand. At least, for the moment.

Chapter 33
    The three men in the croft kitchen took a wee while to rally. Megan took full advantage of the fact and put the kettle on to boil. The mere act seemed to dissolve some of the tension that hung like invisible webs around the snug room.
    â€˜Tea?’ she said sweetly.
    They all nodded silently. Megan hid a smile. Things were turning out better than she’d anticipated. Her announcement regarding her forthcoming nuptials seemed to have taken the wind out of their collective sails. Appropriate for fishermen, she decided.
    She felt a faint twinge of worry as it occurred to her that Sean’s sentiments may not reflect her own. But as the whistle screamed at her and she filled the pot, she decided that it was a minor matter. After all, what man could possibly resist her charms? She wasn’t just werewolf, she was magic. Bagging a mere mortal shouldn’t be too much