The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  “D-Dageus?” Her voice quavered a little. She cleared her throat and tried again.

  If she was still in the circle of stones—and she was beginning to think that might be A Very Big If—she could no longer see them. The fog consumed everything. It was like being blind. She shivered, feeling horribly alone. The past few minutes had been so bizarre that she was beginning to wonder if she’d not … well, she wasn’t sure what she was beginning to wonder, and would rather not wonder it.

  Some people say they’re portals …

  She scooped at the fog with her hand. Condensation beaded on her palm. It was thick, dense stuff. She blew at the white air in front of her. It didn’t puff away.

  “H-hello?” she called, feeling frantic.

  A dark swirl of movement flickered in the whiteness. There. No, she thought, turning, there. Inexplicably, the temperature dropped again and her teeth began to chatter. The hail stopped steaming on the ground.

  She sat back on her knees, drenched to the bone, shivering and waiting nervously, half-expecting something awful to leap out at her.

  Just when her frayed nerves were about to snap, Dageus glided out of the fog, or rather, one moment he wasn’t there and then he materialized in front of her.

  “Oh, thank God,” Chloe breathed, relief flooding her. “Wh-what—” just happened was what she was trying to say, but the words died in her throat as he moved nearer.

  He was Dageus, but somehow … not Dageus. As he moved, the fog swirled away from him like something out of a creepy sci-fi movie. Against the whiteness, he was a great, hulking dark shape. The expression on his chiseled features was as cold as the ice upon which she knelt.

  She shook her head, once, twice, trying to scatter the idiotic illusion. Blinked several times.

  He’s almost inhumanly beautiful, she thought, staring. The storm had ripped his hair free from his thong and it fell to his waist in a wet, wind-tossed tangle. He looked wild and untamed. Animal. Predatory.

  He even moved like an animal, fluid strength and surety.

  And all the devil ever wants in exchange, a small voice said warningly, is a soul.

  Oh, puh-lease, Chloe rebuked herself sternly. He’s a man, nothing more. A big, beautiful, sometimes scary man, but that’s all.

  Graceful as a stalking tiger, the big, beautiful, scary man dropped into a crouch on the ground before her, his dark eyes glinting in the shadowy night. They knelt mere inches apart. When he spoke, his words were painstakingly articulated, as if speaking was an immense effort. His words were carefully spaced, tight, coming in rushes, with pauses between.

  “I will give you. Every. Artifact I own. If you kiss. Me and ask no. Questions.”

  “Huh?” Chloe gaped.

  “No questions,” he hissed. He shook his head violently, as if trying to scatter something from it.

  Chloe’s mouth snapped shut.

  It was too dark to see his eyes clearly, the sharp planes of his face shadowed. In the misty gloom, his exotic coppery eyes looked black as midnight.

  She peered at him. He was perfectly still, motionless as a tiger before the killing lunge. She reached for his hands and found them, in tight fists. Most reserved when he feels most strongly, she reminded herself. She closed her hands over his.

  His body was racked with sudden shudders. He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them again, she could have sworn she saw shadowy … things moving behind them, and she had that strange feeling she’d had once before in his penthouse, as if there was another presence with them, ancient and cold.

  Then his eyes cleared, revealing such utter desolation that her chest tightened and she almost couldn’t draw a breath.

  He hurt. And she wanted to take it away. Nothing else really mattered. She didn’t even want his stupid artifacts in exchange; she only wanted to wipe that horrid, awful look from his eyes however she could.

  She wet her lips and that was all the encouragement he seemed to need.

  He crushed her in his arms, swept her up and, in a few powerful strides, backed her hard against one of the standing stones.

  Ah, so the stones are still here, she thought dimly. Or I’m still here. Or something.

  Then his mouth was hot and hungry on hers and she couldn’t have cared less where she was or wasn’t. She might have been leaning up against a great big nasty, winter-starved bear for all she cared, because Dageus was kissing her as if his life depended upon their tangle of tongues and the heat between them.

  He sealed his mouth tightly over hers, his velvety tongue seeking, claiming. He thrust his hands into her wet curls, wrapping handfuls of it around his fists, holding her head cradled in his big, powerful hands, his hot tongue plunging deep into her mouth.

  He kissed like no man she’d ever known. There was something about him, a rawness, an earthy sensuality that bordered on barbaric, something she’d never be able to explain to someone else. A woman had to be kissed by Dageus MacKeltar to fully understand how devastating it was. How it could bring a woman to her knees.

  For a moment she couldn’t even move. Could only take his kiss, not manage the strength to return it. She felt like she was being consumed, and knew that sex with him would be a little bit dirty and a whole lot raw. No inhibitions. She’d been tied to his bed with silken scarves; she knew what kind of man he was. Dizzy, light-headed, she clung to him, arching against him, reveling in the sensation of his big hands gliding over her body, one burrowing impatiently beneath her bra to close roughly over her breasts, teasing her nipples, the other cupping her bottom and lifting her against him. Feverishly, she wrapped her legs around his powerful hips.

  She was so aroused that she throbbed, aching and empty. She whimpered into his mouth when he shifted that last bit, fitting them together so the hard ridge of him was cradled in her yielding heat. Oh, finally! After denying herself, refusing to even let herself think about it, he was there, trapped snugly in the vee of her thighs, huge, hot man. He braced her back against the stone again, grinding himself against her, driving her to an erotic frenzy.

  Tangling her fingers in his thick silky hair, she strained against him, arching forward each time he thrust, meeting him. His lips were locked to hers, his tongue deep in her mouth. She was delirious with need. Her defenses had not merely dropped, they’d toppled, and she wanted shamelessly, everything, all that he’d been teasing her with for so long now.

  As if he’d read her thoughts, he captured one of her hands in his and guided it between them, pressing her palm to the hard ridge in his jeans, and she gasped when she realized how big he was. She’d only caught a glimpse of him when he’d dropped his towel, but she’d been wondering about him ever since she’d found those incriminating condoms. It wasn’t going to be easy to take him, she thought, with a dark erotic shiver. Everything about him was too much man, and it exhilarated her, seduced her into finally acknowledging her most private fantasies. By his sheer nature, he was the answer to them all. Dark, dominant, dangerous man.

  She touched him frantically, trying to shape her fingers over him through his jeans, but the damn things were too constricting, strained by his heavy bulge. She gave a small whimper of frustration and, growling savagely, he shifted her in his arms, braced her against the stones, holding her with one arm, while roughly unfastening his jeans.

  Chloe panted, her eyes wide, watching his beautiful dark face, taut with lust while he freed himself. She wanted, needed, was beyond thinking about it anymore. The intensity of the attraction between them was mind-numbing. Then he was pushing the hot, thick hardness of himself into her hand.

  She couldn’t close her hand around it. Her breath hitched in her throat and she dropped her head forward against his chest. There was no way.

  “You can take me, lass.” He cradled her jaw with his palm and forced her face back up for more urgent, heated kisses. He closed his hand over hers, moving it along his thick erection. She whimpered, wishing her jeans would just melt away so she could take him inside her.
r />   “Do you need me, Chloe?” he demanded.

  “I’d say she does, but I doona think ’tis either the time or the place,” a dry voice cut through the night briskly.

  Dageus stiffened against her with a savage oath.

  Chloe made a sound that was half-startlement, half-sob. No, no, no! she wanted to scream. I can’t stop now! Never in her life had she wanted so desperately. She wished that whoever had spoken would simply disappear. She didn’t want to come back to reality, didn’t want to think about the consequences of what she was about to do. Didn’t want to return to the myriad questions that she would have to face: about Dageus, about her whereabouts, about herself.

  They froze in that intimate moment for what felt like a miserable eternity, then Dageus shuddered and with a hand beneath her bottom, leaned her against the stone and dislodged her hand. She had a hard time making herself let go and they waged a short, silent, silly little battle that he won, which she reluctantly conceded was probably only fair since it was part of his body. He stood still, inhaling measured breaths, then lowered her to the ground.

  It took him several minutes to refasten his jeans. Dropping his dark head forward, lips to her ear, he said in a burr thickened by desire, “There will be no takin’ this back, lass. Doona even think to be tellin’ me later that you willna hae me. You will hae me.” Then abruptly, wrapping one strong arm around her waist, he turned them both to greet the intruder.

  Still dizzy and breathless with desire, it took Chloe a few moments to focus. When she did, she was startled to discover that the fog had vanished as utterly as the storm, leaving the night bathed in pearly luminance by a fat moon hovering just beyond the mighty oaks that towered around the circle of stones. She refused to dwell on the fact that a short time ago there had been no oaks around the circle of stones, only a vast expanse of manicured lawn. If she thought about that too long, she might start to feel sick to her stomach again.

  So she concentrated instead on the tall, elderly man, with shoulder-length, snowy-white hair, clad in long blue robes, who stood about a dozen paces away, his narrow back to them.

  “You can turn around now,” Dageus barked at him.

  “I was but ceding you what privacy I could,” the man muttered defensively, his posture rigid.

  “Had you wished to cede me privacy, you would have steered yourself right back into the castle, old man.”

  “Aye,” the man snapped right back, “so you could off and disappear again? I think not. I lost you once. I’ll no’ be losing you again.”

  With that, the elderly man turned around to face them and Chloe’s eyes widened in astonishment. She’d seen him somewhere before! But where?

  Oh, no. As quickly as it occurred to her, she denied it, shaking her head. Earlier in the day, in the portrait gallery at Maggie MacKeltar’s castle. She’d seen several portraits of him displayed in a section where half a dozen other paintings around them had been removed, leaving great dark spots on the wall. That was part of what had drawn her eye to them. Maggie had told her that the others from that particular century—the fifteen hundreds—had been taken down and sent out to be restored.

  This man’s face had lingered in her mind because she’d been captivated by his uncanny resemblance to Einstein. With his snowy hair, rich brown eyes feathered by fine lines, and deep grooves bracketing his mouth, the man looked unnervingly like the great theoretical physicist. Albeit with a slightly wizardish cast. Even Gwen had agreed with a sunny smile when Chloe had remarked upon it.

  “Wh-who is th-that?” Chloe stammered to Dageus.

  When Dageus didn’t reply, the elderly man raked both hands through tufts of white hair and scowled. “I’m his da, m’dear. Silvan. ’Tis thinking, I am, that he told you no more than Drustan told Gwen afore he brought her here. Is that so? Or did you even tell her that much?” He shot an accusing glance at Dageus.

  Dageus was as still as stone beside her. Chloe looked up at him, but he wouldn’t look at her.

  “You said your father was dead,” she said uneasily.

  “I am,” Silvan agreed, “in the twenty-first century. But not in the sixteenth century, m’dear.”

  “Huh?” Chloe blinked.

  “Rather odd when one ponders it,” he allowed with a pensive expression. “As if I’m immortal in my own slice of time. Gives a thinking man the shivers.”

  “The s-sixteenth c-century?” She tugged on Dageus’s sleeve in a plea for him to jump right in and clear things up anytime now. He didn’t.

  “Aye, m’dear,” Silvan replied.

  “As in, you mean that since I’m seeing you—which means either you’re alive or I’m dreaming or I’ve lost my mind—that if I’m not dreaming and haven’t lost my mind, I must be, er … where it is that you aren’t dead?” Chloe asked gingerly, making certain she didn’t spell it out too clearly because then she’d have to entertain it as a valid thought.

  “A brilliant deduction, m’dear,” Silvan said approvingly. “Though a bit roundabout. Still, you’ve the look of a clever lass about you.”

  “Oh, no,” Chloe said firmly, shaking her head. “This isn’t happening. I’m not in the sixteenth century. That’s not possible.” She looked up at Dageus again, but he was still refusing to look at her.

  Disjointed bits of conversation flashed through her mind: talk of portals and ancient curses and mythical races.

  Chloe stared at Dageus’s chiseled profile, sorting through facts that were suddenly imbued with a terrible significance: He knew more languages than anyone she’d ever met, languages long dead; he had artifacts in mint condition; he was searching books that centered on the history of ancient Ireland and Scotland. He’d stood her in the center of a circle of ancient stones and asked to her to go somewhere with him that he couldn’t tell her about, but had to show her, as if only seeing was believing. And in that circle of stones a powerful storm had risen and she’d felt as if she were being torn apart. There’d been a sudden climate change, the scenery currently included full-grown, century-old trees that hadn’t been there before, and there was an elderly man claiming to be his father—in the sixteenth century.

  And while they were on that topic—if any part of her current circumstances was actually real—what was his father doing in the sixteenth century, for heaven’s sake? She latched onto that lovely little bit of blatant illogic as proof that she must be dreaming.

  Unless …

  What if I told you, lass, that I’m a Druid from long past?

  “What?” she snapped, glaring up at him. “Am I supposed to believe that you’re from the sixteenth century too?”

  He finally looked at her then, and said stiffly, “I was born in fourteen hundred and eighty-two, Chloe.”

  She jerked as if he’d struck her. Then she started laughing, and even she heard the note of hysteria in her voice. “Right,” she said gaily. “And I’m the Tooth Fairy.”

  “You know you felt something about me,” he pressed ruthlessly. “I know you did. I could see it in the way you watched me sometimes.”

  God, she had. Repeatedly. Felt that he was strangely anachronistic, felt a bizarre sense of ancientness.

  “You’re strong, Chloe-lass. You can accept this. I know you can. I’ll help you. I can explain it to you, and you’ll see that ’tis no’ … magic, but a sort of physics modern men doona—”

  “Oh, no,” she cut him off, shaking her head vehemently. A hiccup terminated her laughter abruptly. “It’s impossible,” she insisted, rejecting it all in one grand unilateral sweep. “This is all impossible.” Hiccup. “I’m dreaming, or … something. I don’t know what, but I’m not going to”—hiccup—“think about it anymore. So don’t even bother trying to convince—”

  She broke off, suddenly too light-headed to continue. The trauma of the storm, the absurdity of the conversation was all too much. Her knees felt as if they might buckle beneath her. Really, she thought dimly, there was only so much a girl could be expected to handle, and time-travelling Dru
ids just weren’t part of it. More of that helpless laughter bubbled inside her.

  As if from a far distance, she heard Silvan say gruffly, “ ’Tis good to be seeing you again, lad. Nellie and I have been sore fashed o’er you. Och, the wee lass is going, son. You might catch her now.”

  When Dageus’s strong arms slipped around her, Chloe tuned out the voices and embraced the mercy of oblivion, because she just knew that when she woke up again, everything would be all right. She’d be in bed, in Gwen and Drustan’s castle, having had one of those strangely intense dreams about Dageus.

  I like the sex dreams better was her final peevish thought, as her knees gave way and her mind went blank.

  Adam Black was dozing—not sleeping, for the Tuatha Dé Danaan did not sleep—but drifting in memory and time when the nine members of the council appeared behind his queen’s dais.

  He sat up abruptly.

  One of them spoke into the queen’s ear. She nodded and dismissed them back to wherever it was the elusive council made their home.

  Then Aoibheal, queen of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, raised her hands to the sky and said, “The council has spoken. It shall be trial by blood.”

  Adam tensed to rise, but caught himself, and forced himself to sink back down on his cushioned chaise. He waited, measuring the reactions of the others gathered in the forest bower on the isle of Morar where the queen was wont to hold her court. Drowsing beneath silken canopies, the others stirred languidly, their melodic voices humming softly.

  He heard no protests. Fools, he thought, it’s a wonder we’ve survived this long. Though immortal, they could be destroyed.

  When Adam spoke, his voice was dispassionate, bordering on bored, as befitted his kind. “My queen, I would speak, if you will it.”

  Aoibheal glanced his way. There was a glimmer of appreciation in her gaze as it raked over him. He wore her favored glamour—that of a tall, dark-haired smith, rippling with muscle. An otherworldly beautiful man who was wont to waylay human travelers, particularly women. A smith who took them to places and did things to them they later recalled as dark dreams of unending pleasure.