by Brenda Joyce
Instantly, beneath the horse’s hooves, in a single heartbeat, the dirt turned white with frost.
The leaves and thistle on the sides of the trail turned white, too, and her breath made puffs in the air.
And Claire knew.
So did Malcolm. He shouted a command in Gaelic. He glanced at Claire. “Ye stay back!”
Before Claire could exclaim or protest, he was on his charger, galloping down the road with his men, one warrior having seized her reins. She tried to jerk her reins back, because all she could comprehend was that evil was hunting them and Malcolm was not going to face it alone.
“Let go!” she screamed.
The man was young, huge and annoyed. He reached for her—and Claire jammed her Taser into his arm. He collapsed.
She seized her reins and kicked her horse as hard as she could, galloping headlong down the trail, holding the saddle horn, determined not to fall off. Malcolm’s war cry rang out in all its bloodcurdling intensity. Her heart went wild. She rounded a corner and saw Malcolm’s men furiously battling their attackers. Already, bloody bodies littered the road. She saw him whirl his charger, meeting a vicious assault with his shield. A moment later his attacker lay on the ground, face-first. And as suddenly as it began, the battle seemed to be over.
She sawed on her reins. Five men in mail lay prone on the ground. Huge relief began.
The mare halted, flinging her head about in protest. Claire didn’t want to go closer, not yet. She wanted to see what Malcolm was going to do now, because they’d taken three prisoners.
Malcolm dismounted and handed his shield off. His swords sheathed, he approached the three prisoners, who were being held by his men. Claire tensed, uncertain. She had a very bad feeling. Malcolm’s expression had never been so ruthless.
Malcolm paused before the trio. She saw him look at one man, dismiss him mentally, then look at another and finally face the third. A terrible light flickered in his eyes.
The third man, a tall, fair-skinned giant with blond hair, paled as if with pain.
Malcolm said something to him in Gaelic. Claire knew he was demanding answers.
The other man gave the most evil smile Claire had ever seen and her gut turned over with dread.
Malcolm spoke again.
The giant stared coldly back. Malcolm didn’t move a muscle. He skewered the giant with his stare and the man went down on his knees, as if pushed. But Malcolm hadn’t touched him, and his men stood behind the prisoner to prevent his escape.
Claire’s skin crawled. What was happening? The giant seemed to be in some pain. Malcolm’s stare burned and the prisoner went abruptly down on his back, as if flung by a huge force.
Malcolm pressed one booted foot on the man’s throat.
Claire bit off a cry.
And now, although Malcolm spoke in Gaelic, Claire understood. “Moray neo Sibylla?” Moray or Sibylla? He wanted to know who had sent them.
The giant sneered.
Malcolm smiled with such menace that Claire froze—and then she silently begged him to stop. He did not. A terrible crack sounded as he stepped harder on the man’s throat. Claire cried out.
But the giant, his neck now bent at an impossible angle, spoke. In French, he said, “Your lord sent me and he’ll send others. There is no place for her to hide.” He snarled, very much like an animal, spittle on his mouth.
Claire couldn’t breathe. Her heart raced with hurtful speed.
Malcolm removed his boot from the man’s neck. A terrible expression formed on his face and his stare never wavered.
“Stop, Malcolm,” Claire cried instinctively, but it was too late. The giant’s snarl had frozen. His face was a stiff mask, his eyes wide and lifeless now.
In utter shock, Claire slid from the mare, walked over to the woods and knelt. As she tried to vomit, she heard Malcolm giving orders and the men mounting. What had just happened? What had he done? Then she heard him come to stand behind her.
“Ye were t’ stay behind.”
She couldn’t throw up, she realized. She turned. He held out his hand, his expression no longer utterly ruthless, just harsh and grim. She refused it, staggering to her feet. “What did you do?”
He stared, his eyes glittering. “I be sworn to vanquish evil. He be a Deamhan. We do not allow Deamhanain to live. He’d kill ye the moment I turned me back.”
She panted. “He didn’t die from a broken neck!”
“Nay.”
Oh, God, she thought. “What did you do? Suck his life out?”
Malcolm turned away, then back. “We need ride.” He was angry now.
Claire had seen it with her own eyes. “You killed that monster using some kind of kinetic power, didn’t you!”
He didn’t answer—and it was an answer enough.
“What are you?” she cried.
IONA WAS JUST a few miles long and as wide, with low, lush green hills dotted with sheep, and pearl-white beaches. As the galley they were in approached, Claire huddled in her brat, chilled to the bone.
Malcolm had killed that creature with a look.
He had superhuman powers, too.
What did that make him?
She glanced at Malcolm where he stood in the galley’s bow. Last night he had spent the entire night making certain she was safe. He had done so more to comfort her than to protect her from evil beings.
But evil was out there. That creature hadn’t been human.
Claire closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready to use the word demon, not even in her own thoughts.
And then she felt him stand above her. She looked up. He stared down at her with that concerned expression she was becoming so familiar with. “I be sorry,” he said grimly, “that ye saw what ye did.”
“Tell me,” she whispered.
“’Tis forbidden.”
“You’ve told me everything else!”
He hesitated and she saw he was truly uncertain.
“Who am I going to tell? The pope?”
“’Tis nay amusing t’ jest in such a manner.” He was harsh.
Claire reminded herself that, in this time, heresy was the most serious offense in Christendom, more so even than witchcraft. Any Catholic clergyman who had witnessed what she had would believe Malcolm was both a heretic and a sorcerer. He’d be prosecuted ruthlessly. If fortunate, his punishment would be excommunication and exile. “I am trying,” she said, low, “to keep it together. And maybe I can remain sane, if you just tell me what I need to know.”
He sat down beside her on the bench. His voice as low, he said grimly, “The Deamhanain be nay the only ones descended from the goddess Faola. Every Master can claim her blood.”
She made a sound, almost a laugh. He was also descended from ancient gods. Of course he was. How could she have thought otherwise? She clasped her cheeks, which were hot. A nervous breakdown wasn’t going to help her now!
Staring at the bow, he said grimly, “Evil was born with Adam and Eve, as ye ken. Long ago, the Ancients saw the need fer a race o’ warriors t’ fight the evil, Claire. Faola was sent to many kings.”
Claire choked on shock and fear. Her determination to dismiss his beliefs had become frighteningly fragile.
She stared at him, trying to think clearly. Malcolm had powers that were becoming harder and harder to rationalize. And he was good. “So you’re half god and half human.”
“Nay. There be three generations between me an’ Faola, lass. I be her great-grandson.”
He might believe he was the great-grandson of a goddess, Claire told herself, but that didn’t make it true. Maybe there was a rational explanation out there, somewhere. “Did you suck the life out of that thing the way the Deamhanain do?”
He stood. “Canna a god take life an’ give it? A Master can take life, lass. And some, a very few, can give it, too.”
“Great! You can give life, too?” she cried, shaken all over again.
“Nay. I canna heal. But all Masters have the power t’ take life. Otherwis
e, we are nay chosen.”
Unfortunately, he had finally made sense. The power of life and death was the greatest power of all, a power belonging to God or the gods. This race of warriors, if given by the gods to fight evil, would obviously have such a power, too.
An odd calm began. Wasn’t it better that the Masters had the same immortal blood in their veins as the demons?
She breathed hard and bit her lip. “That…thing was a demon. You broke its neck.”
“Aye. The Deamhanain dinna feel pain the way we do.”
Claire searched his gaze. “You don’t feel pain the way we do, either, do you?”
“I be strong.” His gaze held hers, a question there.
Claire knew what he was asking. He wanted to know how she felt about him now. She didn’t have that answer. “Why did you let the other two demons live? Why are they on this galley?” They were up front in the bow, tied up.
“They be humans, Claire, that be possessed. The monks have spells an’ mayhap they can be freed.”
She started. “You mean the monks will try to exorcize them?”
He nodded. Then, hesitantly, he smiled at her. “I need t’ help the men.”
Claire saw that they were pushing up to a pair of wooden piers. She couldn’t quite smile back.
As Malcolm leaped from the galley to the first pier, two other Highlanders leaped out, as well. Ropes were tossed at the pilings, the other four men remaining at the oars. Claire finally turned her attention to Iona. She’d come by ferry last time, so her vantage point was the same. Otherwise, nothing was the same at all.
Two walled enclosures were visible, and she knew they were the older, fortified monastery and the medieval abbey. Both had been ruins in the present, and a newer cathedral existed in their place. The famous Celtic Cross that stood before the present-day cathedral was gone. The abbey was not far from the pier, clearly built recently. The monastery was farther up the road and built in paler stone.
The galley dipped as Malcolm climbed back inside. He returned to Claire and held out his hand. “Lass.”
Claire met his penetrating gaze, wishing she could keep his world at bay. “I think I believe you,” she said harshly. “I don’t want to, but I think I do.”
“’Tis better if ye do.”
Claire stared at him and he regarded her steadily. And she wondered where that left them.
CLAIRE BECAME INTERESTED in her surroundings as they waited for the monastery’s paneled wood door to be unlocked. She was about to enter an intact, working, fifteenth-century monastery. Here, there might be answers from an abbot named MacNeil. Her guidebooks had claimed that the monastery had been built centuries earlier than the abbey, although the original buildings, made of wood, would have been built by St. Columba in the sixth century. No wood buildings remained now, she saw, glancing over the monastery’s walls. The walls were too low for comfort. They could be so easily scaled.
Many religious houses had been fortified in this time period, but this one was not. There were no high, crenellated walls, no defensive towers, no gatehouse, no moat or barbican. “Malcolm, this is such a flimsy door.”
“No Deamhan enters a holy place, Claire,” he said.
“Why not?”
“They lose their powers an’ we can easily destroy them.”
Thank God for small favors, she thought. Claire heard a bolt being lifted and the heavy door opened.
Claire preceded Malcolm inside, glancing curiously around. The monastery was a small village, really, with a dotter and refectory where the monks slept and ate, cookhouses, breweries, a church and many other buildings, as well as gardens and orchards.
Then she looked at the man who had admitted them and her heart almost stopped.
It was like looking at Matthew McConaughey playing the part of a medieval Highland warrior. He was dressed almost identically to Malcolm, except his brat was green and black, thinly striped with white and gold. He was tall and powerfully built, with dark gold hair, bulging biceps and quads, and he wore gold cuffs on both arms. She quickly revised her opinion—he looked like a bigger, stronger, sexier version of Matthew McConaughey.
His very green, very intense gaze swept her from head to toe and then he smiled slightly at Malcolm. That was all it took for his dimples to be revealed. “Ye break so many rules, Calum.”
Malcolm did not smile back. “This be Lady Claire,” he said. “I ken ye have seen us on our voyage.”
This could not be the abbot, Claire thought, trying not to ogle his thighs and arms. Abbots were short, fat and old. Abbots were bald.
“I have expected ye,” Matthew said flatly. His gaze slid very sensually over Claire again. A slight smile began. “Welcome, Lady Camden.”
Claire tensed. Malcolm had not uttered her last name.
“Niall MacNeil, lass,” Malcolm said tersely. “Niall? I dinna care how great yer powers be, keep yer eyes where they belong—in the head upon yer shoulders.”
Niall MacNeil smiled, amused. “I dinna chase yer Innocent, Malcolm. An’ye can ease yerself. I ken ye’d come, an’ the Ancients have allowed it.” He sent another very seductive, very indolent smile at Claire, and she instantly decided that he enjoyed his blatant male sensuality far too much.
“You were expecting me, or Malcolm?” she asked, shaken.
“Both,” he said, gesturing for them to start walking up the path.
Claire didn’t like games, especially not now. “Did you mean that the Ancients don’t mind my being here?” What did the old gods want with her? If there were old gods!
“Aye, lassie. Odd as it may be, the Ancients dinna mind yer presence amongst the Brotherhood.”
Before she could respond, she started, glancing past both men. A pair of huge, armed hunks was leaving one of the adjacent buildings.
The red-haired man was dressed like a Highlander in brat and leine, the other, a swarthy dark-haired man, like an Englishman in dark hose, knee-high boots, jeweled spurs, and a doublet and short-skirted burgundy jacket, which barely covered his upper hips. Claire had read all about codpieces but had never seen one—and she had never expected to see one on a six-foot-three-or four-inch walking billboard for manhood.
She stared at the bulging laced-up pouch of fabric attached to his hose, then knew she flushed. She turned away, but not before the Englishman gave her an inviting smile. That attire was shocking and indecent on a man built like that. Women in her time would go nuts for it and him—for all of them!
“So now ye like Englishmen?” Malcolm asked dangerously.
Was he jealous? She took one quick look at him and saw he was irate. She remained too shaken from the morning to be even slightly pleased. “This is a monastery?” She was entirely disbelieving. Except now, the chapel bells were ringing and she saw actual monks leaving the refectory—normal men in robes, some thin, some fat—all utterly silent as they made their way to the church. Then another gorgeous giant, also dressed as an Englishman, appeared from a smaller building and crossed over to the gardens behind the church. And then she saw several other Highlanders coming toward them from another building, all huge, powerful and frigging gorgeous. There was so much testosterone in the air now that she was dizzy. She stared after the trio, her heart racing. Malcolm gave her a dark look.
She met his gaze, thinking that she was undoubtedly surrounded by the most gorgeous, sexy, virile men in the history of the world, but none of them compared to Malcolm of Dunroch.
“A small chapter o’ monks remain,” MacNeil said, lowering his incredibly thick lashes, “to keep the grounds holy. The monastery became our sanctuary long ago. Most of the monks have gone to other cloisters. ’Tis a secure haven fer us, when we choose to come.” He suddenly grinned, dimples deep, his gaze direct. “An’ sometimes they are summoned fer the orders I give them.”
She swallowed and glanced at Malcolm, who was now royally pissed with his buddy. MacNeil was showing off by letting her know who the boss really was there. “I need the truth,” she said,
aware of the desperation in her tone.
His gaze moved slowly to her mouth. “Ye have so many questions,” he exclaimed softly. “Malcolm has told ye the truth. ’Tis spinning in yer mind, like a top.”
“He is really the great-grandson of a goddess?” she cried.
“Aye.”
Claire stared at the tawny Highlander. He just smiled at her. Then he said softly, never removing his gaze from her, “Calum, lad, I wish a few moments alone with the lass.”
Malcolm turned to Claire. She didn’t hesitate. “Please.”
He nodded grimly and strode off.
She was alone with the so-called abbot now. “So it’s all true. This is a world of good and evil, demons and Masters. The demons have superpowers, and so do you. You’re both descended from old gods. Malcolm is descended from that goddess, Faola. And this is a secret brotherhood.”
“Aye.”
Claire stared, finally accepting reality—or the ultimate nightmare. He stared back, patient but intent. It was so hard to bend her mind around the fact that Malcolm was the great-grandson of a deity. She finally said, with dread, “Is he immortal?”
MacNeil smiled. “None of us be immortal, lass. Brogan Mor died in battle from mortal wounds. He was two hundred and fifty-two.”
Claire had almost forgotten. “Can Malcolm die in a battle, too? The way his father did?” That thought made her even more distraught.
“O’ course he can. Any Master can die from the worst wounds, if no one heals him—or if he doesna heal himself.”
Claire had to know. “And if he isn’t hurt, how long will he live? Two hundred years? Five hundred years?”
“I dinna ken.”
“Take a guess!” she cried, trembling.
MacNeil sobered. “My guess would be hundreds of years.” His expression was searching now, as if he wished to understand the turmoil in her heart.
