by Brenda Joyce
“Nay.” He turned away from her, his stance stiff and braced. “Royce be the earl of Morvern, nothin’ more.”
Claire hesitated, very aware that Malcolm was closing the discussion now. But they were treading upon dangerous and probably forbidden territory. His beliefs—and his ability to travel through time—were undoubtedly a very secret subject. But she was beyond certain that Royce had Malcolm’s abilities, and probably his beliefs, too. She slowly walked up behind him. When he turned, she was aware that only an inch separated them, and that she should not use any feminine wiles to get the answers she wanted. She slowly laid her hand on his chest.
A huge jolt of desire stabbed her as her palm smoothed the linen shirt flat against his hard muscle. “Tell me. Finish it. You’ve already told me a terrible secret, one that threatens your life, so tell me the rest.”
His smile was twisted. “Dinna play me, Claire.” But his eyes blazed and not just with anger. Claire recognized lust.
“Why not?” Touching him was making her feel weak and faint. “You’ve played me from the start.”
“Then ye play with yer life.”
In spite of the pulse now throbbing against the silk of her thong, she felt more chills. “No. I trust you, too.” Oddly, she realized she did. “How many of you can time travel? And why do you do it? Do you belong to some kind of religious order, a secret society?” But she knew the answer.
His stare hardened and his hand covered hers, pressing her palm even more firmly to his chest. “Ye ask too many questions. Ye dinna need so many answers.”
“Not fair! You brought me here—I do need to know,” she cried. And she did what would have been unthinkable in New York City—she slid her hand into the slit neckline of his leine, her fingers brushing a heavy cross and chain and then settling against his hot skin.
His smile was tight. “Fire, lass,” he warned.
Something bumped her hip. Claire tried to breathe. “You said you trust me. You brought me here. I’m a historian, Malcolm, a scholar. That’s why I know so much about your time. Please. I have to know.” She looked at him imploringly.
He breathed hard. “The Masters are sworn to defend God an’ the Ancients, keep Faith, an’ guard the Books.”
She gasped, trembling with the excitement of discovery.
“We are sworn to protect ye, Claire, an’ all like ye. Protect Innocence. ’Tis the holiest of the vows after the vows we make to God.”
She could not look away. “I knew it. You’re not the first knight to belong to a secret order with heretical beliefs. Will you tell me the name of the order?”
His smile was like a snarl. “There be no name.” And he jerked away from her, his leine bulging over his stiff manhood.
She could not retreat now. “What are you defending God from? What are you defending the Ancients from? What are you defending the Books and people like me from?”
He whirled. “Evil.”
Chills broke out all over Claire’s body.
“What be wrong, Claire? Ye look frightened. Or have ye asked too many questions fer that pretty little head?” He was cool, mocking and furious.
She swallowed. “I don’t care how condescending you are. Yes, you have frightened me. We both know there is evil in the world. You just made it sound…organized.”
His stare intensified, making her want to squirm. “Do ye nay believe in the devil, lass?”
And Claire thought about her mother. She stared at the back of the frayed tweed sofa as she hid behind it, trembling with fear, wishing her mother would come home. A shadow drifted into the room…
“No, I do not,” she gasped, sweating profusely now. “Do you want to frighten me?”
His expression lost its ferocity. “Ye pushed me, lass. An’ ye seduced me with a simple touch. I want t’ protect ye, but mayhap this be best. Mayhap ye need ken the way o’ life here.”
She seized the opening. “How many Masters are there?”
He made a harsh sound, stalking over to the table to pour more wine. Claire realized he was not going to give up his fellow knights.
She changed tack. “Why were we attacked? Who were those men and what did they want?”
“They were Moray’s men. Moray wants the page, Claire. He also wants me dead.”
Claire tensed, suddenly sick in her soul. “Moray is your enemy.”
“The earl of Moray be God’s enemy, Claire. He sent Sybilla to yer shop t’ find the page. He must not find the page or the book.” He added intensely, “He be yer enemy, as well.”
She could not shake the sick feeling. “I get it. The books are holy relics, really. You guys are fighting over them and you’ll kill to discover them—and to prevent your enemy from taking them.”
“The Cathach be safe in its shrine,” Malcolm said. “I be sworn t’ guard the sacred books, Claire. If the Cladich be near, I must use all me power to find it an’ return it to Iona.”
“You keep saying books. How many are there?”
“Three.”
“I know the Cathach is the Book of Wisdom, the Cladich the Book of Healing. What does the third book offer?”
“It holds every power known to the Ancients.”
Claire’s insides lurched. Somehow, she knew this was not good. “I don’t understand.”
“The Duaisean holds the power to leap time, the power to take life, the power t’ give it. In it is the power o’ minds, o’ slavery, o’ dreams. There be many more powers, too.” He was grim. “This book gives anyone its powers.”
That sounded terrifying. Of course, no book could give anyone such powers. And while she didn’t believe in these powers, he did, and so did everyone who was a part of his order. She knew the power of the mind. These Masters were probably empowered by their beliefs. Hadn’t she seen Malcolm in action on the battlefield? He’d had superhuman prowess—or that was how it had appeared.
Claire sought calm and failed. “Where is the third book?”
He simply looked at her.
Oh, my God, Claire thought. She tried to remind herself that the book had no power, but she whispered, “Your enemies have it.”
“Aye. It’s with Moray an’ it has been with him fer a long time.” He added in warning, “He has great powers, Claire, an’ nay Master has been able to defeat him.”
And Moray wanted Malcolm dead. She did not want to care—this wasn’t her affair, not at all—but if Malcolm believed Moray to be invincible, he would never defeat him. Suddenly she wasn’t excited, not at all.
Instead, she was afraid, not for herself, but for Malcolm.
WHEN MALCOLM LEFT, Claire ignored his parting words to rest. Her head was spinning—sleep would be impossible.
She turned and slowly paced the small chamber, trying to sort through everything she had learned. Malcolm was a religiously motivated knight. There was no doubt he took his vows very seriously and would probably give his life to fulfill them. The Masters had to form a secret society, otherwise they’d be prosecuted for their heretical beliefs. Still, no matter their faith, they seemed to serve mankind. That was admirable and she admired him now, even if she wasn’t sure she should.
And now she was beginning to fully understand. There was no question that the three books were incredible historical artifacts. But these men believed the books to have great powers given by the old gods. They were powerful and empowering holy relics. Of course, factions would form to fight over those relics and kill to acquire them, or to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands.
This power game had nothing to do with her—except that she owned a store filled with rare and old books and Malcolm had brought her back in time with him. And Moray’s men had tried to kill her, too. She changed her mind. This war had everything to do with her now. Somehow, she was smack in the middle of it.
What are you defending God from? What are you defending the Ancients from? What are you defending the books and people like me from?
Evil.
Claire did not want to t
heorize about evil in the Middle Ages. Her plate was full. Moray was probably an ambitious, ruthless and clever nobleman, and nothing more. He had the Duaisean, but he did not have extraordinary powers, no matter what Malcolm claimed. And he wasn’t her enemy—or was he?
She became grim. If she was under Malcolm’s roof and his protection, then she probably was Moray’s enemy. She did not like the thought.
Uneasy, Claire walked over to the narrow window and instantly, she was diverted.
The Highlands stretched away into eternity, a blend of the sparkling blue waters below and emerald-green hills beyond. The sun had risen, high and bright, in a cloudless, vividly blue sky. The water was almost iridescent, and the forests glittered, too. The view was majestic, breathtaking, and it made her suddenly feel that everything was almost worth it.
She gripped the sill. Last night she had been in New York, packing for her trip to Scotland. She had been bound for Dunroch and she had yearned to meet Dunroch’s laird. And he had appeared in her store, whisking her back to his time. How could this be a coincidence?
Claire touched the stone pendant. Malcolm felt she had some connection to his world, other than the obvious one. She was starting to wonder if he was right. And every time he was near, there was that intense physical pull, mostly desire, but there was even more than that.
She did not want any more internal debates. She was missing a thousand answers, but she wasn’t going to figure it all out now. This scene was exactly what she needed, a brief respite, a moment of cleansing beauty and peace. She left the chamber, determined to enjoy the view from a better vantage point. She really needed to chill out, big-time.
The ramparts had been a story above her chamber. She didn’t hesitate, finding a small, winding staircase at the end of the short hall. She hurried up. The moment she stepped onto the walkway, not far from a corner watchtower, she inhaled deeply, finally smiling.
Claire walked to the crenellated edge of the ramparts, overwhelmed by the beauty of the land. Where in Morvern were they, exactly?
“Hello, Claire.”
The voice was frighteningly familiar. Claire whirled to face Sibylla. Her heart skidded as she met the other woman’s black, fathomless eyes.
Sibylla was smiling. She wasn’t dressed like a modern cat burglar, and Claire recognized the style of her gown. The style was popular in France among the wealthiest noblewomen and far more immodest than its English counterpart, low cut, the bodice and sleeves fitted. But now Claire saw the glitter in Sibylla’s eyes. Her expression was one of sheer lust.
Sibylla had time traveled, too. “How did you get in here?” Had somebody been stupid enough to lower the drawbridge for her? Or had she leaped from the future into the past, right inside Carrick Castle? “Malcolm is inside.”
Sibylla’s smile stretched. “I don’t want Malcolm, I want you. You don’t have to be so frightened, Claire. I won’t hurt you. I let you live, didn’t I?”
“What do you want?” Claire cried, not reassured.
“I want the page,” Sibylla said harshly, suddenly enraged. “You have it, I am certain. I went back—I went through every damn book. It’s not there!”
Claire gasped. “I didn’t even hear about the damn page until last night! Why do you think it’s in my store, or that I have it? I don’t!” She glanced over her shoulder at the tower. Where was the guard?
Sibylla laughed. “They’re dead. And I have changed my mind. You did not tell me what I wish to know, so I will have to hurt you, won’t I?” She smiled. “The pleasure is mine, Claire.”
Claire turned to flee when she was seized from behind. Sibylla whipped her back around with stunning strength. Before Claire could react, she had her pressed against the crenellated wall with so much force Claire thought her spine might snap in half. And then she put one powerful hand on Claire’s face, increasing the terrible pressure to Claire’s back.
Her eyes shimmered with bloodlust. “I have waited so long for this, Claire.” And she bent close and slowly licked Claire’s pulsing jugular artery.
Claire couldn’t breathe now. She was afraid she’d be broken in half if she struggled. She tried to stay still, as Sibylla sent her tongue up and down her throat, but she couldn’t stand it and she cried out, “Please stop!”
“Tell me where the page is or I will kill you,” she murmured, her mouth close to Claire’s. “After I make you weep in pleasure.”
Claire felt tears begin because the pain in her back was unbearable. Just when a vast gray world began to descend upon her, Sibylla released her.
Claire straightened, gasping in pain, and then went down on her knees, reaching for the stone at her throat. The gray shadows receded, replaced by vivid blue skies and Sibylla’s frighteningly dark, hollow eyes. “I’ll tell you everything,” she lied, her back against the stone wall. She slowly pushed herself to stand.
Sibylla smiled. “Take your time. No one will look for us here and I don’t mind if you resist.” Her eyes gleamed.
Claire closed her eyes, sweating in fear, her back throbbing. She had to lead Sibylla on and she needed help. The woman had superhuman strength and if she didn’t need Claire, she’d probably kill her in the most unimaginable way.
The stone was scalding her hand. Suddenly she knew what she could do. She could tell Sibylla the page was hidden at her store, and the woman would take her back there to find it.
She would be home in her relatively safe world—but she would never see Malcolm again.
Claire realized there was no decision to make. “It’s in my chamber just below us.”
“If you are lying, I will torture you before I kill you. There will be so much pain, Claire. You will beg me to take your life, but I won’t do so quickly.”
Despite Sibylla’s threat, her fear had entirely receded. Now she could think clearly, effortlessly. “No one was in the hall when I came up here. Malcolm believes I am sleeping. I doubt anyone will see us if we go inside.”
“You go ahead of me,” Sibylla ordered and she gripped Claire’s shoulder, her nails breaking Claire’s skin through all of her clothing. “If we are espied, you die.”
“Fine.” She walked slowly ahead, still holding the stone, which was cool now. When she realized she had been clutching it to her throat like a child’s ragged security blanket, she dropped it. She started down the narrow, circular staircase carefully. Adrenaline began.
Sibylla was a single step behind her.
Claire whirled and seized her ankle, pulling her forward as hard as she could. As Sibylla fell, Claire dashed to the steps above her, screaming as loudly as possible for help. Sibylla started to leap up, her expression murderous. But as she straightened, Claire was waiting for her. She kicked her in the face, a front kick her personal trainer would have been proud of.
But Sibylla only teetered slightly backward and then she kept on coming.
Claire turned and ran, reaching for her Taser, thinking, holy shit! The woman was a female Terminator and she was two steps behind her. Pissing off that woman was not a good idea. And then she heard racing footsteps coming up the hall below them and Malcolm shouting for her.
Of course he would save the day! Claire burst onto the ramparts, then realized Sibylla was gone.
She turned, shocked, breathing hard, as Malcolm, Royce and six men leaped through the open doorway, swords ringing as they were unsheathed.
“She’s gone!” Claire was in disbelief. Sibylla hadn’t passed her and she couldn’t have turned to flee back into the keep without running directly into the men. She had vanished into thin air.
Malcolm sheathed his sword, reaching for her. Claire didn’t think twice; she went into his arms. “It was Sibylla.”
He tilted up her chin, his eyes blazing, as Royce barked orders to the men. “She hurt ye.”
“I’m fine.” She began to tremble. “That woman has the strength of a dozen men.”
His nostrils flared. “Yer bleeding on yer shoulder.” But he was looking at her throat, as if h
e knew what Sibylla had done.
“I’m fine,” she cried as Royce strode over, looking even more enraged than Malcolm.
“Sibylla will pay,” he said. “No one enters Carrick without my pleasure.” He turned to Malcolm. “Two men are dead.”
That woman had so casually murdered the guards, Claire thought, shivering. But Sibylla was pure evil. She had seen the darkness in her soulless eyes—and she prayed she would never look into her eyes again.
But it was worse than that. Like Malcolm, she could time travel.
Royce turned to Claire. “If she wanted ye dead, ye’d be dead, as well.”
Claire wet her lips. “She thinks I have the page.”
Both men stared, eyes wide. Malcolm turned to Royce. “Sibylla does nay ha’ it, but I ken who does.”
Royce looked unhappy then. “Malcolm.”
“Nay, dinna try t’ stop me now.”
Claire had no idea what the exchange meant. But now that her adrenaline was gone, she realized she was shaken and exhausted. She felt violated by what Sibylla had done—and what she had wanted to do.
Instantly, as if he knew, Malcolm turned, putting his arm around her and holding her upright. “Come, lass. We’ll speak inside.”
Claire nodded and they went back down the stairs. Images flashed and she saw her brief struggle with Sybilla and the woman’s pale, furious face, her black, frightening eyes. “How did I make such an enemy?”
Malcolm guided her into the chamber and directly to the bed. Claire’s insides instantly tightened and she glanced at him. His steady regard met hers. “This time, Claire, ye obey me.” He threw the fur cover aside and took her arm, guiding her onto the down pallet.
Claire jerked off her cowboy boots and slid under the covers. He arranged the pillow behind her head, his expression deadly serious, his mind clearly not on his actions. But he was fussing over her and something melted in her heart. How could such a powerful, arrogant and presumptuous man reduce himself to fixing her pillows? Maybe she should not be so quick to stereotype him, she thought.
She touched his hand. Sparks ignited, but then, they were never really extinguished, not when he was nearby. “What is it?”
