by Brenda Joyce
“Lass, ye will never find the Deamhan who killed yer mother. Leave it to a Master.”
“Like hell,” Claire said softly. “I just need tools, weapons, knowledge. And it’s rude to read my mind!”
Ironheart stared. Then he spoke grimly. “If Malcolm will nay teach ye, I will.”
“You? Why would you do such a thing?” She was incredulous.
“I have spoken the same vows as Malcolm, Claire. ’Tis my duty t’ protect ye. If ye think to hunt a Deamhan, then ye need some skill. But,” he added darkly, “ye willna succeed alone. Ye had better sway Malcolm to yer cause.”
She had already reached that exact conclusion. “Thank you.”
His attention was diverted as two women began placing streaming trays of meat and fish on the table. Both men began to heap their trenchers with game and fish.
Claire was also diverted, for Malcolm and Royce were coming to sit down. Royce smiled at her. “Hallo a Chlaire.”
“Hallo a Rhuari,” she returned swiftly in Gaelic.
His smile widened as he sat down besides her. “Ciamar a tha sibh?”
Claire had heard this phrase several times since arriving in the past. She had also heard the response. “Tha gu math,” she said.
Royce grinned and Malcolm turned to stare. Royce murmured, “An’ you might also say, Tapadh leibh.”
He was flirting. Claire didn’t mind, and why would she? His chest rippled beneath the leine and his biceps bulged. Today he wore a huge, wide gold cuff on his left arm, one with a citrine cross in its center. Besides, maybe he was only half the chauvinist that Malcolm was. She might need an ally down the road. “Tapadh leibh,” she said.
He smiled, revealing the fact that he had dimples, too. “Ye have a fine ear, lass,” he murmured.
“Did you just ask me how I am?”
“Aye, and ye said, ‘Fine, thank ye kindly.’” His gray eyes were warm—too warm.
Malcolm sat down beside Ironheart, facing them, his gaze narrowed. He was not pleased.
“O’ course, if we be familiar,” he said softly, “I’d ask ye differently. Ciamar a tha thu?”
He was definitely flirting. And Malcolm was jealous. Claire was pleased. She also understood. She’d caught quite a bit of Gaelic in the past few days. “Tha gu math, tapadh…leat?”
Royce’s eyes gleamed. “Ye learn fast, lass.”
Malcolm slammed his fist on the table. “An’I’ll be the one teachin’ her now.”
Claire grinned, enjoying his primitive jealousy. There was an upside to medieval chauvinism. “But Ironheart has already offered to teach me how to fight with a dagger and a sword,” she said innocently, batting her lashes at him.
Ironheart choked.
Malcolm turned red. “Like hell. We already discussed this. Ye’ll wind up dead. I ken ye wish t’ fight the Deamhanain, Claire, but ye canna. Yer a woman, an’ a mortal one at that.”
Claire became dead serious. “Do you think I think I will succeed? But I have to try! My days are numbered—I know it. But I will do what I have to do. Which is why you must help me by teaching me what I need to know!”
Malcolm recovered his composure. “Lass. Yer too brave fer yer own good.”
He meant it and even though he was wrong, his praise moved her to no end. “Malcolm, I’m not brave. I’m afraid. But you need to try to see my side.”
“A warrior without fear be a very foolish man,” Malcolm said. “Men fight because they are strong. Women stay safe behind stone walls t’ bear their bairns. ’Tis the way o’ the world. If I can, when we are done here, I’ll find the Deamhan who murdered yer mother.”
He wasn’t going to even try to hear what she was saying, she thought. It took Claire a moment to respond. “Is it your vows? Do you think to protect me even when I leave because you swore to do so? Because when I go back, my life is my own.”
His jaw flexed. “I ha’ told ye again an’ again, I dinna wish to see ye dead.”
She reached across the table for his hand. “Do not get me wrong. I am grateful for the protection you have given me, Malcolm, I am. But it might take years to find the demon who killed my mom and you’re pretty busy right here in 1427.” She hesitated. “I know you’ll never understand me—what I want, what I need, what I have to do—or my world.” The comprehension hurt.
Anger entered his gray eyes. “Ah, lass, ye be arrogant again—annoyingly so!”
“You listen, but you refuse to hear a word I am saying!” she cried, upset as she realized the extent of the cultural gulf between them. “It’s not even the way of this world, Malcolm, because in a few years in France, Joan of Arc is going to lead her people in battle against her enemies. And in the time of your ancestors, women were great warriors, fighting alongside their men. In my time, women are soldiers. They go to war and they fight and die beside men.”
Malcolm said softly, dangerously, “As long as I can breathe, I will keep ye safe. ’Tis the vow I took t’ protect the Innocent and ye be my Innocent, Claire. Even when ye leave me, that canna change.”
She tensed, because he had spoken of her returning to her time in such a personal way. And she knew that she had come up against a brick wall. “There’s a bottom line. If you want to protect me until I die, I guess I can’t stop you. But my life belongs to me. If I want to avenge my mother, no one can stop me. Now that I know the truth, how can I sit back and do nothing? If that demon is alive, I have to try to avenge my mother. You would do the same damn thing for your mother.”
Malcolm paled.
And Claire knew she had said something terribly wrong, because the three other men at the table stilled. Abruptly everyone turned their attention to their plates except for Malcolm. She looked at him and saw that he was stricken.
“Malcolm,” she said carefully. “I’m sorry. Whatever I just said, it was a mistake.” But she didn’t have a clue as to what she had done to upset him so.
Malcolm shoved his empty trencher aside. For one moment he stared at it, clearly grappling with his emotions, and then he stood. He walked out into the night.
Claire looked at the men. “What just happened?”
Royce said softly, “His mother be a sore spot, lass.”
Claire remained utterly clueless. Then she leaped up and ran after him.
Outside, the night had settled, a Highland darkness filled with a billion bright stars. She saw Malcolm walking up the stairs to the ramparts. He wanted to be alone, she was certain. Claire went after him anyway.
“Nay now, lass,” he said, not turning, his gaze directed across the ocean, an expanse of shimmering ebony.
Claire paused behind him. “Can you tell me what I said to distress you so?”
“Ye be right. Vengeance be proper. Yer a warrior in yer heart, and ye burn to avenge yer mother.”
Claire wet her lips. “Glenna told me your mother is English, but that’s all. Is this about your mother—or about your father?”
A silence fell. “Aye. ’Tis about them both.”
And Claire knew something terrible had happened. She took his hand and held it.
He shrugged free. “Moray raped my mother,” he said suddenly, quietly. “When she was a bride.”
Claire made sure not to gasp, but she was horrified. And then she became afraid. “Moray isn’t your biological father, is he?”
His jaw tensed. “I was born three years later, Claire. Nay. I be the son o’ Brogan Mor.”
Claire bit her lip, beyond relief. “Was it a pleasure crime?”
He shook his head. “It be rape. Brutal, sadistic, hurtful rape. It be torture, Claire. Moray raped Lady Mairead when my father went to battle, many times. He could have murdered her, but he wanted to spare her, to worsen the torment. My mother tried to hang herself, but her maid found her in time.” He added, nostrils flared, “She’s cloistered now.”
Claire felt tears well. “I am sorry! That’s a terrible story!”
He faced her, eyes blazing. “I didna ken the truth until I’d
made my vows.” His laughter was harsh, angry. “The night afterward, my uncle told me exactly why Moray be my mortal enemy. An’ he begged me to leave the man who raped my mother alone,” he said sarcastically.
Claire began to realize what had happened. “Oh, God. That’s when you went after Moray. And he toyed with you, didn’t he? That’s when you fought, when you almost died, when he entrapped you with the woman.”
He faced her, his expression harsh, ruthless. “My father spent his life seeking revenge an’he failed. I sought revenge. I failed. I dinna want t’ see ye raped, Claire, or worse! I dinna want t’ see ye die.”
Claire wiped an errant tear, heartbroken for him, his mother and father, but dread was blooming. Moray hadn’t killed Mairead—he wanted her to spend a lifetime suffering. And he’d used her as bait in the trap he’d set for Malcolm.
He said roughly, “Do ye ken? I must protect ye. I canna fail ye.”
Claire swallowed hard. “Yes. I get it.” Was Moray done with the Macleans—or not? Was he done with Malcolm?
His gaze held hers. “Yer world may be different. I dinna ken. But in my world, I protect women. In my world, I protect ye. Or I die in the tryin’.” He softened. “Will ye nay allow me t’ protect ye, lass?”
Claire nodded, overwhelmed. But she could not change her mind about what she had to do. She wasn’t Mairead, or anything like her. No matter how strong Malcolm was, she couldn’t rely on him as if she were a fifteenth-century woman. She didn’t even have a choice, not anymore. Maybe Malcolm was right about one thing. Maybe in her heart, she was a warrior, because she had to have vengeance.
But she wasn’t going to argue. He would never change his mind, that was now clear. He was filled with guilt, and his failure to avenge his mother was something he’d live with forever. Except the man standing in the dark before her was burning with determination. “You were young and rash,” she said through stiff lips. “But it’s different now, isn’t it?”
His eyes flickered; he looked away.
“Oh, God. It’s not over. You’re biding your time. You’ll never rest—not until you’ve vanquished Moray or somehow paid him back, equally.”
He faced her, his gray eyes burning. “One day, we’ll meet again. I may die. It won’t matter. Because I will take him with me—this time.”
Claire panicked, not for herself but for Malcolm. “Is your power equal to his?” She already knew that answer. “Haven’t Masters tried to vanquish him for centuries? Two wrongs don’t make a right!”
“The day will come,” he said, so softly chills swept over her. “Dinna fear fer me. The day I die, if Moray dies I be pleased, Claire, very pleased.”
Claire couldn’t speak. Impossibly macho, impossibly heroic. Damn it, he was the one who was going to die.
He reached out. “Canna ye have some faith in yer man, lass?”
Her man. She looked up and he met her gaze, his regard sweeping and intense. “I have faith. I’m just so worried now.”
His smile began, so soft and so beautiful it left her breathless. “Ah, lass, ye have a care fer me.” His grasp tightened. “But ye will fight me anyway.”
She bit her lip. It wasn’t a question and they both knew it. “Sometimes,” she said carefully, her heart slamming so much she thought she might explode, “a difference of opinion between a man and a woman is a good thing.”
He reeled her in with another soul-shattering smile. “Aye,” he whispered. “A very good thing. Ye let me worry, Claire. Let me worry—let me fight—let me please ye…now.”
She was in his arms, her breasts crushed by his iron chest. The night was velvet on her bare calves, her cheek. And Malcolm was as hard as a rock against her belly, her waist. This was it, she somehow thought. And now, there was only one possible conclusion to their opposing world views. “Malcolm,” she breathed.
His gaze moved over her face, his large hands sliding over her back. He smiled, touching her lips with his mouth, just once. “Aye, lass, I ken what ye need from me. An’ye ken what I need from ye.”
Claire inhaled as his hands slid lower, firmly grasping her bottom over the denim skirt and linen tunic, pulling her entirely against a very impressive erection. “Oh.” His arousal was burning hot, even though her clothes.
He ran his tongue along her full lower lip. Claire gasped, while his hands delved lower, beneath the brat and leine, over her miniskirt, fingertips perilously close to where she wished them to be, on the back of her bare thighs. He licked at her lips, the tip of his tongue relaxing, murmuring, “Ye still wear the rag.”
“It’s…a…skirt.”
“Nay,” he breathed. And he took her mouth with his.
Claire forgot about everything except the man she wanted. She moaned in pleasure, holding on to his huge shoulders as he turned her, pressing her against the wall, his mouth firm and commanding, forcing her to part her lips for him. His tongue swept deep. If he could make her throb greedily in a near climax with his tongue down her throat, she knew she’d die and go to heaven when they made love.
So much heat ran through her, swelling her sex impossibly, that she could not stand it. But before she could beg him to either take her down to bed or take her there, against the wall, he reached between them, beneath her skirt. The moment his fingers found her turgid flesh, spreading her there, she flung her head back and sobbed as pleasure exploded over her. And then she felt the massive tip of him, bare, hot and slick, pressing against her swollen lips. He rubbed himself back and forth, breathing hard, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, spinning mindlessly, so much pleasure cresting. He seized her thigh, helping her wrap it around his waist.
His face pressed to her ear, he murmured, “Hold on tight.” And he thrust hard and deep.
Wet, hot, huge strength. Claire gasped, blinded by having Malcolm finally inside of her, stretching her wide. His size was shocking, and she felt the power bursting from his erection. Claire felt a violent climax begin, making the first one pitiful in comparison, rolling over her in greater and greater waves. Pleasure escalated impossibly, until there was only mindless ecstasy, spasm after spasm, as he slowly and deliberately moved his massive length and breadth inside her. He gasped and she sobbed and keened.
Malcolm began thrusting with real urgency. The waves kept building. Claire thought she might die. This must be what he had been talking about, pleasure in death. She was shattering over and over in a black universe of ecstasy and she was never coming out. She didn’t want to ever return to reality again.
Malcolm gasped. She felt him expand, lengthen, explode. Hot seed scalded, going deep. And it didn’t stop…
Claire did not know how long she had been in the throes of either multiple orgasms or a single endless one, but at some far point in time, her body finally softened, giving up its greedy grasp on pleasure, and she began to float back into Malcolm’s arms. He kissed her cheek. Still dazed, she realized he remained hard and engorged, his entire body shaking, as if he hadn’t come. But that was impossible—except—she wasn’t imagining things. In fact, unless time moved differently here, she was beginning to think his orgasm had been extraordinary in duration, as well.
He kissed her cheek again and Claire realized she rode his waist, her back pinned to the rough rampart wall. And to make matters even more interesting, her body was warming to his once more as he impaled her still.
“Let me take ye to my bed, Claire,” he murmured in the sexiest tone she had ever heard.
Desire flamed. “We don’t need a bed,” she said thickly. She could not manage even the briefest separation.
And he started moving inside her again, long and slow. “I canna fuck ye properly against a wall.”
She smiled against his face. She couldn’t imagine what that meant. “Then hurry.”
He pulled away, holding her as she came to her feet. “Lusty wench,” he murmured, his eyes ablaze.
No man had ever looked at her with so much heat. Claire hollowed, desire fisting in her gut, her knees u
seless. And then she froze.
They hadn’t used protection.
“Claire?”
“May I assume that you might get me pregnant?” she managed to say.
Instantly he swept her up into his arms, smiling. “Yer not in yer time o’ month, Claire. If ye were, I wouldn’t be filling ye with my seed.”
“What?” she cried.
“I can sense when yer fertile. Can ye imagine how many bastards a Master would have otherwise?”
“Are you certain?”
“I am very certain,” he said with a wicked smile as he carried her down the narrow stairs.
She was so relieved. “Can you put me down? I’m not a feather. I’m five foot ten, for God’s sake!”
“Aye, and most of ye be legs. I be a fortunate man, especially when ye have them around my waist.”
He kicked open the door to his chamber, thrilling Claire. Elbowing the door closed, he swiftly crossed the room and laid her on the bed. His smiled re-formed as he tossed his brat aside. Claire sat up against the pillows, highly interested now. He grinned, removing each boot in turn. “I like yer eyes on me that way.”
Claire didn’t answer; she couldn’t. She was interested in one thing now—the object that had given her so much extraordinary pleasure. As he tossed the leine aside, she inhaled.
He sat down beside her, laughing. “Ye have nay shame.”
She wet her lips and ran her fingertips down his incredibly thick length. His smile vanished. She looked into his eyes, then abruptly stood.
Claire fumbled with the brooch.
Malcolm became still, watching. His eyes were molten silver now.
“I like your eyes on me that way,” Claire whispered. He didn’t smile and she knew he couldn’t.
