by Brenda Joyce
Claire turned to gaze at Malcolm. She wanted him to have a long life, but this was too much to bear. What if he lived a few hundred years? But it wasn’t as if they would be together. When she died at ninety or so, he wasn’t going to know about it—or even care.
I will care.
Malcolm’s voice sounded loud and clear in her mind, although he stood so far away she couldn’t hear him if he spoke to her. “This is really hard,” she heard herself say. She forced a smile that felt ghastly at MacNeil. “I wonder if I’ll wake up tomorrow in my bed in NewYork—in a sane world filled with criminals who are sociopaths and perverts, nothing more.”
Compassion flitted through MacNeil’s emerald-green eyes. “We both ken ye canna return yet.”
Claire thought about Sibylla and the demon on the road to Dunroch. She shivered. “I have a major question. Why haven’t you guys brought all kinds of modern inventions back to this time? Why are you fighting with swords and not guns? For that matter, why not just suck the life from each other?”
His smile flashed. “I can take yer life away, but not the life of a powerful Deamhan—he’d use his great power to thwart mine. But if I wound him badly, I can take his life very simply, for he’ll be too weak to stop me.”
Unfortunately, that made sense.
“It takes a great effort to take life, lass. ’Tis often easier to take a man’s head with a blade. Besides,” he added, “we’re Highlanders. Even though we can travel to yer time, we live here.”
“What about the rest?”
He became serious. “There be many rules, Claire. When we make our vows, we swear to obey the Code. There be debate to some meanings, but certain rules are clear. A Master shall not change history. A Master shall not corrupt the present people. A Master shall not defy fate. Bringing your guns here would do all o’ that.”
“And the demons? Surely those time-traveling twerps are into guns and gas.”
“We destroy them when they come, whether they bring the future with them or not. When they do, we destroy their weapons.” He added softly, “The Deamhanain do not take pleasure in using poison, gas or guns. They take pleasure in torture and pain inflicted with their own foul hands, in rape and then the murder o’ innocent life.”
“Got it,” Claire breathed. She turned away, sick to her stomach. Is that what Sibylla intended for her? Torture, rape and then death?
She touched her throat and walked toward a pair of fir trees, pausing in the shade. She gulped air. Her mind was ready to shut down. “What other powers do the demons have? What is the worst they can do?” What is the worst Sibylla can do?
MacNeil’s gaze darkened. “If there be a power, there be a demon, somewhere, who has it.” His mouth hardened. “But there be a Master, somewhere, who has it, too.”
She was swept with unpleasant chills. “Great. Something to look forward to. Invincible demons.” Claire sat down on a small, handsomely carved bench.
“I just told ye, there be a Master to vanquish them.” He continued, revealing that he was reading her mind, “Sibylla has been given great powers o’ evil. She truly enjoys torture, takin’ life.”
She stared grimly at him. “Lucky me.”
“Ye have Malcolm to protect ye. He willna fail, lass.”
She began to tremble. “Why? Why am I here, MacNeil? Little old human, scholarly, cowardly Claire!”
“Ye have yearned to be here fer years,” he returned. “Ye have yearned to meet Malcolm. Why do ye complain?”
“That is not an answer!” she cried. “And how do you know this? Why was I expected? Damn it, what do the Ancients want of me?” And she realized she considered her journey through time to be fate.
“I have the gift o’ sight at times, but I dinna ken what the Ancients intend fer ye. They have nay let me see.” He stared intently at her. “My suggestion be this. Dinna fight yer fate.”
She stared. “Is Malcolm my fate?”
“I canna answer ye.”
“Like hell!” she cried, fists clenched. “You can’t—or you won’t?”
His face hardened, and in that instant, there was nothing pleasing or reassuring about him. “I willna.”
Claire retreated. He could be affable, even flirtatious, but now, there was no mistaking he was a powerful, authoritative man. Like Malcolm, he was a Highland laird—and on Iona, he was a virtual king. “Gotcha,” she said.
His face eased slightly.
Claire bit her lip. She wanted to know if she would make it back home and if Amy, John and their kids would live long, healthy lives.
“Ye will return, lass,” he said softly. “I be allowed to tell ye that much.”
Claire had expected to be thrilled. Instead, she was dismayed. Her stare wandered across the gardens to Malcolm, whose gaze was riveted upon them. Her heart lurched. One day, she would leave him.
She swallowed. “Can you please tell me about my family?”
“If I tell ye yer cousin doesna need ye, will ye believe me?”
Claire hesitated. Could she really trust this man’s interpretation of the future when it came to Amy and the kids? It hit her then that Amy had to be told everything. She might know that evil wasn’t as random as it seemed, but she couldn’t possibly know about inhuman demons, could she?
Or could she?
If the war between good and evil had gone on since time began; if cults existed like this Brotherhood to fight it; if she, Claire Camden, had uncovered the truth; then damn it all, others had to know, too.
“When will ye ask me what ye really wish to?” MacNeil said softly.
Claire became rigid and her gaze flew to his. Then she glanced at Malcolm. Suddenly, she felt as if Malcolm was listening to their every word, but that was impossible. She was sure that he was listening to her every thought, though.
But there was no avoiding the most frightening subject of all. It was hard to get the words out because she dreaded MacNeil’s answer. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “He is supposed to protect the Innocent, but he killed an innocent woman during sex. Was it an accident?”
“Aye.”
“Then explain it to me,” she cried softly. “Because it sounds like a crime of pleasure!”
“He was seduced into the crime by Moray.”
Claire felt all the blood drain from her face.
“Evil always hunts the young Masters, those who dinna ken their powers well. Moray wanted Malcolm to take pleasure in death—and then wish to take such pleasure again. He wanted Malcolm to turn demon, Claire.”
“Oh, my God,” Claire whispered. “He wanted Malcolm’s soul.”
“Aye. Moray lured Malcolm to Urquhart, battled him there an’ left him dyin’. Then he sent a beautiful maid to him—to tempt him to evil.”
Claire’s mind scrambled. “I don’t get it.”
He was very serious now. “The Ancients gave us the power to take life from others, not just to destroy evil but to enhance our powers an’ to save ourselves from mortality. We are meant to live, Claire, for we are the salvation o’ mankind. Malcolm was dyin’. He took life from the woman to heal himself—as he should. But he didna realize he’d taken all she had until it be too late, an’ she lay dead.”
Claire was on her feet, partly horrified—and partly mesmerized. “I would understand this, except they were having sex, MacNeil.”
“Ah, lassie, well, power be the ultimate pleasure. Power makes men hot,” he said softly, “an’ there be no rapture like havin’ more power swellin’ in the veins.”
Claire went still, a very graphic image coming into mind. Taking power was sexually arousing? Taking power and a life force made a man want sex? It was orgasmic?
“Aye,” he murmured, and he grinned.
His tone had become so seductive that she instantly knew he’d taken power during sex. She looked from his smoking green eyes toward Malcolm. He was now striding over, appearing enraged.
MacNeil said, his gaze sparkling, “When ye add sex to Le Puissance, there be even more rapture.”<
br />
When he grinned, appearing very much a naughty boy, Claire knew he had wanted to make her hot. It had worked. In spite of the dire nature of their conversation, every inch of her was inflamed.
She walked away from him, too stunned to be angry with such antics. In a way, this also made sense, because since time began, power was as much an aphrodisiac as beauty, if not more.
She whirled with sudden comprehension. “The women—the victims—they get off on it, too, don’t they?”
MacNeil nodded. “Like yer telepathy, lassie. What the man feels, the woman does, an’ the other way around.”
Malcolm seized her arm. “She’s had enough words with ye,” he told MacNeil furiously. “But I’ll be havin’ a few words with ye, meself.”
MacNeil shrugged. “Ye be very fortunate, Calum. An’ I be a man, as well as a Master. I canna help but admire such beauty an’ want it fer meself.”
Malcolm was ready to explode and Claire knew it. But before she could try to defuse his anger, MacNeil said, “I’d never betray ye, lad.” He shrugged as if he’d done no wrong and walked away.
Malcolm pulled on Claire, dragging her aside. Claire turned into his arms instead. His eyes widened, and then he gripped her shoulders. Claire stepped closer, knowing what she would find. His huge arousal hit her hip.
“Is that what happened?” she whispered.
“Aye.” His gaze held hers searchingly.
“But you were hurt—dying. With me, you’re fine. Why do you think you’ll lose control?” she cried, touching his cheek.
“Because I’ve known Le Puissance. Any man who has will want such rapture again. When I be with ye, lass, I have the urge to take one taste—one taste—o’ yer power.”
Claire stared into his heated eyes, aware that his desire, which should have frightened her, was having a very opposite effect. Her heart pounded far too rapidly now. “I trust you,” she said, and dear God, she did.
In spite of what he was saying, she moved deeply into his embrace, laying her cheek on his chest, listening to his thundering heart. Her body throbbed against his. Malcolm’s hands moved over her back. “Damn the MacNeil fer makin’ ye so hot.”
“You make me hot,” she managed to say. She looked up. “I do trust you. I am certain we can make love without resorting to…” She hesitated. “Le Puissance.”
And the moment she had spoken, she felt his body jerk and swell impossibly. “Nay.”
“Malcolm!”
“Canna ye try to ken? Moray wanted me to take pleasure in death. He wants me to lust fer Le Puissance.”
Claire stared back. Dread arose, and with it, fear. “You do want it again,” she said thickly. “You want it from me.”
“Aye,” he said as roughly. “Yer my test, Claire.”
CHAPTER NINE
“MY LORD,” his steward said carefully, but his eyes were filled with fear, “the earl of Moray is downstairs and he has requested your presence.”
Aidan already knew that the lord of darkness was in his castle. He had felt his dark, chilling presence while he was buried deeply inside the woman who was his most recent lover. He glanced at her with regret. She lay beneath a cover, waist-length blond curls spilling past her naked shoulders, beyond any doubt the fairest woman in all of Scotland. Her beauty was breathtaking—and now she was his. When it came to beauty, he never denied himself. He had been prepared to battle her father for her favors, besieging his keep if necessary until the man came to heel, but that hadn’t been necessary. Isabel’s father had understood the lengths he would go to have her. There hadn’t been bloody battles, just a swift negotiation. Aidan would see Isabel properly wed when he was done with her, providing a very generous dowry. As MacIver lived on land adjacent to Awe, Aidan would marry her off to one of the lesser lords who served him. In the end, Isabel’s father would be a new lieutenant serving Aidan, and his daughter would be lady of her own small keep.
Aidan bent over her. He was hardly sated but she was exhausted. “Sleep well, my beauty, ye deserve it.” He stroked his thumb over her swollen mouth, when he would prefer to caress her lips with his tongue.
Her eyes shone with adoration. “My lord.”
His reputation as a lover with infinite stamina and as much generosity was well established and deserved. He turned away, very pleased. Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe this time the ennui would be slower to come. Thanks to his damn father, he had blood that was always hot but his interest always waned, and quickly. Isabel had been at Awe for five days. He wished he could enjoy her for many months, or even longer, but knew it would be only a matter of weeks before he moved on.
Of course, it didn’t really matter. There would be someone new to replace her in his bed. There always was.
Clearly, he had not inherited a single trait from his mother, a noblewoman of great character. She was a woman capable of undying love and loyalty. He could not imagine pining away for a deceased spouse as she did. But she had loved her husband, and she preferred the cloister now that he was gone. Until recently, he had never loved anyone—not his mother, whom he did not know, and not his foster parents, who had raised him only because they had not been given any choice. That had changed, though, with the birth of his son, whom he cherished and adored.
“Shall I tell his lordship you will be down shortly?” Rob asked, his face flushed.
Aidan was still. Briefly he imagined denying the most powerful and dangerous man in the realm. He would relish thwarting Moray, but was hardly foolish enough to do so over such an insignificant issue. He smiled coldly. “Nay. I’ll speak with him myself.”
His gut twisted as he went downstairs. No one could instill as much tension in him as the earl of Moray. He hated the game they played, the war they waged. There was no other choice. However, there was one small consolation. Moray had yet to kill him, and Aidan had begun to think that he never would. Moray intended victory over him, at all costs. It was a matter of the devil’s pride.
The closer Aidan came to the great hall, the more frigid the castle became. He was used to it, but he shivered anyway. The shudder was filled with distaste and dread.
Moray was alone in the great hall, admiring an oil painting by John Constable. No one knew the earl’s true age, but he appeared to be in his midthirties. He was so beautiful, blond and blue-eyed, that women fought to share his bed, even though they rarely survived the night. Men fought to enjoy such “favors,” too.
He was dressed in the current court style of long red robes and crimson hose, his short, skirted jacket black. And of course, he wore the red, black and gold brat of Moray and many jewels. Moray had furnished the hall over the centuries before handing Castle Awe to Aidan, in the hope of buying his loyalty, aware of his preference for great beauty. Aidan had continued the endeavor, and the vast room was filled with treasures from all over the world and many different centuries, including those in the future.
“I believe you have something for me,” the lord of darkness said.
Refusing to reveal his tension, Aidan guarded his mind so Moray could not read his thoughts. But of course the earl would somehow know he had found the missing page in the New York bookstore. Moray had spies everywhere. And he probably spied on Aidan’s thoughts when they were not guarded, as well as his dreams.
“Aye, I have found the page from the Cladich. But what good is it to me if I hand it to ye?”
“You will remain in my favor,” Moray said softly, his pale eyes gleaming. “You curry nothing but disfavor with your reckless, ungrateful and independent behavior.”
“Ye can always take off my head an’ be rid of such a nuisance,” Aidan said. Moray was undefeated in battle. He could probably do such a thing before Aidan could even unsheathe his sword. Aidan walked to the trestle table and poured claret into a beautiful crystal wineglass made by someone named Baccarat. He handed it to Moray, who accepted it, then poured a glass for himself.
“We both know I am never defeated. In the end, I will win. You will
realize you have wasted the first years of your life on the Brotherhood. You are destined to be one of the most powerful demons of all time. You are destined to serve me.”
Aidan saluted him and drank. He was not a good man, but he was not evil, either. He had protected Innocence in spite of his ambivalence about his vows, and would continue to do so, although he much preferred seducing it. What he would not do was take pleasure in death, even if at times his loins screamed for such fulfillment. He would kill himself first. He hated Moray that much.
“We both know you will enjoy your new lover even more if you taste her pure life, if you take her power while you are fucking her,” Moray murmured.
He stiffened. “Aye, fer a moment.” He turned away, aroused and hating it, going to the locked chest on the room’s far side. It was from a place called India, and was made of solid gold and silver. He removed the key from the chain on his neck, unlocked it and handed Moray what he wanted—a page from the sacred Cladich. Maybe then the lord of darkness would leave him in peace.
This particular page had great powers, for Aidan had had his priest translate it. The third verse could give life back to the dying, if the wounds were inflicted by sword, or a similar weapon that cut a man in that way, such as a dagger or knife. Considering the nature of most battles, there could be no more important page in the entire book of healing.
Moray took the page instantly, his eyes turned red with fury. “This is useless! Its power is gone.”
Aidan smiled, pleased. “Aye, ’tis worthless. I tried it meself on one o’ me squires who fell on his sword, impaling himself instantly. But he died from the wound.”
Moray let the parchment fall to the floor. “You think to deceive me?”
Aidan’s heart accelerated. “I found this in the bookstore. ’Tis nay my fault it be useless. I believe it to be a forgery.”
Moray smiled, his eyes still glowing. “You played me and enjoyed it.”
Aidan tensed, aware of his fear escalating. He was afraid of Moray, but not of dying, although he very much preferred to live. “Ye didna ask if it be potent.” He shrugged.
