by Brenda Joyce
Aidan looked at Royce without hostility and Royce stared back. Claire realized they knew each other better than in passing, and that Aidan would accept criticism from Malcolm’s uncle, although they were not related at all. She felt certain that Royce had cultivated the relationship out of his love for his nephew. The tension in the room softened and she breathed.
“Actually, I’d love a glass of wine,” she lied. She smiled at Aidan and Royce and walked over to the sideboard to help herself, hoping that an act of normalcy would further lighten the atmosphere. Having poured it, she faced the room. “You have a beautiful home,” she said to Aidan. She was uncertain as to how to address him.
Aidan’s smile began. He was pleased, and somewhat amused. “’Tis made far more beautiful by yer presence,” he returned.
Claire glanced at Malcolm, who just shook his head in disgust. Claire felt like telling Aidan that in her time, women would laugh at such lines. But maybe not; he was so seductive, no woman would want to miss her chance with him.
Malcolm gave her a dark look and said to his half brother, “Ye ken why we be here.”
Aidan faced him. “Aye.” He set his glass down and reached inside his brat, producing a rolled-up and tied parchment page.
Claire gasped. “Is that what I think it is?”
Aidan handed the page to Malcolm. “Aye, Lady Claire, an’ I can see yer entranced. But the page be worthless.”
Malcolm untied the ribbon and unrolled the single page. Claire put her glass down and rushed to him. A page of beautifully but very stylized and heavily decorated script faced her, the letters even more distorted than in the Cathach. “I canna read the Latin. Lass?”
It was written in Latin, not Gaelic? “Yes,” Claire breathed, taking the page from him. Her heart was thundering and she felt faint. “Thank you!” She kissed his cheek and ran to the fire, sitting down on a velvet bench there. She stared at the words, realizing that only a single paragraph was written in Latin. The rest was in old Irish Gaelic. It was hard to read because of the stylized script and the lack of spacing between words. And then she understood. It was a prayer, but not the likes of any she had ever heard. A Celtic goddess of healing whose name she had never heard—Ceanna—seemed to be the subject matter. “I wonder why a Latin insert is in such an old Celtic manuscript,” she said, not looking up. The question was rhetorical, and no one answered her. “Are there Latin inserts in the Cathach?”
“There be two,” Malcolm said. “When the scribes put the wisdom of the Ancients on the pages, one scribe preferred Latin. ’Tis said he was a Roman.”
The Romans had conquered Britain, but not Ireland. On the other hand, a Roman could have easily crossed the Irish Sea. “This is an incredible discovery, with all kinds of implications,” Claire breathed.
She looked up at Malcolm. “Can you translate the Gaelic for me?”
He hesitated. “I nay be as learned as the monks an’ priests. I can try. It willna be easy.”
“We’ll do it together.” Claire smiled brightly at him. “There’s no rush. This page has to be translated. We have all night, don’t we? We are spending the night, aren’t we?”
His gaze held hers. It was a moment before he spoke. “Aye.” He turned to Aidan. “Lady Claire wishes t’ translate the page. She’ll need light, parchment, a quill an’ ink.” He spoke in the tone of one giving commands.
Aidan just looked at him, clearly not about to obey.
Claire had finally translated the first Latin line. She looked up, aware that her hands were shaking from her excitement. “How can you say that this is worthless?” she exclaimed. “This is some kind of prayer to heal. Why do you think this is worthless? Where did you find this, Aidan? It is priceless.”
He strolled over. “I found it in yer store, Claire,” he murmured.
Claire wished he would stop trying to remind her that he was sexy. “Where in my store?” she demanded.
Aidan started to laugh. “In a King James Bible.”
Claire stood up, stunned. There was one King James Bible in her inventory, and it had been published in 1728. She had acquired the Bible just a month ago from an estate in London.
“There was a hiding place in the back cover,” Aidan said. “I dinna ken how I found it. Sibylla had looked at the Bible first. I felt her prints on it. I be followin’ her trail.”
Claire stared at Malcolm’s half brother. He could feel fingerprints? She focused. “This is a huge find,” she stressed. She turned to Malcolm. “The sooner we translate this page, the better. But how did this page get into my store? Was it hidden in the Bible all along?” She didn’t look at Royce now.
“It could ha’ been in that Bible fer centuries, Claire,” Malcolm said softly.
“And fate brought me to the Bible—and the page to my store?” She finally looked at Royce.
His gaze skidded aside.
“I can take ye back if ye wish t’ do some searchin’,” Aidan said, grinning.
Before Claire could politely refuse, Malcolm barked, “Ye’ll take Claire nowhere, Aidan. Nowhere.”
Aidan shrugged, his eyes gleaming. “’Twas only a suggestion.” Then he sobered. “The page doesna have power, Lady Claire. I can read well enough. ’Tis prayers an’ a blessing to keep the mortally wounded from dyin’, if the wounds be inflicted from a sword or a similar cuttin’ weapon. My squire impaled himself. I tried to protect him from dyin’ and I failed. There’s no power in that page.”
It took Claire a moment to understand what he was telling her.
But Malcolm looked at Aidan and spoke. He said, “Yer half Deamhan. The Deamhanain destroy. They canna heal. Yet ye tried to heal?” He was scathing.
Aidan clearly did not wish to speak, but he said coldly, “I may be half Deamhan, but I be Faola’s grandson. An’ I have healed, Malcolm, with these two hands an’ a great white light.” He held up his hands, which were shaking with his anger.
Royce walked over to stand between them. “I be pleased ye can heal a bit, Aidan.” He glared at Malcolm. “Ye need set aside yer privy battles now. There be more important matters to attend.”
Claire sat back down on the bench. Aidan had some ability to heal and Malcolm did not. That was interesting enough. Did it mean that the various Masters inherited traits in the same manner that people did?
Aidan’s mouth was hard. “The power be new to me. I healed a very sick lass once. I didna ken it well an’ it made me weak.” He flushed, looking at Royce. “I didna think t’ use such a weakening power again.”
Claire was riveted. He’d healed a woman, and in doing so lost some of his strength?
“Mayhap the power will grow an’ be easier to use, in time.” Royce clasped his shoulder. “I be glad ye saved a life.”
Claire stood. “Malcolm.” She walked over to him and smiled earnestly. “It doesn’t matter whether this page has healing power or not. What matters is that it might be from the Cladich. This page is incredibly valuable if it is genuine. It needs to be enshrined or go back to my time with the rest of the recovered manuscript, so it can be preserved.”
Malcolm shook his head. “It matters if it doesna have powers, Claire. It matters greatly. If it be genuine, it will heal.”
He didn’t get it, Claire thought. Twenty-first century scholars would beg to have the opportunity to study this page.
And she didn’t get its value to him, either. “You can take life to heal. Why is the Cladich so important?”
Malcolm made a sound. “Because we dinna need take life if we have the powers in the Cladich, Claire. The book can heal on its own.”
Claire breathed hard. “So the book can heal the dying?” A Master would never have to take life if he was dying in order to survive. She got it now, all right. The book was beyond priceless.
And no wonder Moray wanted it. He could heal his demonic hordes with it. Holy shit.
“Aye. If ye read the right pages. Each page has its own cause.”
And Claire suddenly shivered, bec
ause an icy chill had settled over the hall. Someone must have left the front door open.
But as the temperature dropped, just the way it had in the glade when they had first arrived in the fifteenth century, Claire began to realize what was happening.
Malcolm stepped beside her, filled with so much alarm and urgency Claire felt it. With dread, Claire followed his intense gaze to the open door. A black shadow filled it.
Death, Claire thought, unable to breathe.
But the black shadow parted to reveal a golden man in crimson robes. And the earl of Moray smiled at her. “Hello, Claire.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
CLAIRE FELT HER KNEES SHAKE. She did not have to be introduced to know she was looking at Moray. “How do you know my name?” She was vaguely aware that everyone in the room had closed ranks, standing beside her and Malcolm.
“I know everything,” he said, his white teeth flashing. No human being could be more beautiful. He had the face of a Greek god—no, a Celtic god, but then, that was what he was, or nearly so. Claire knew he was physical perfection, beauty in its most reverent form—just as she knew he had no soul and that death followed in his wake while he relished it.
And as she stood there, paralyzed by fear, the last clouds in her mind lifted.
The front door opened. But it wasn’t Mom. A dark shadow drifted in.
In terror, Claire ran into the closet, slamming the door, but not before looking over her shoulder. A man stood in the center of the living room, staring at her.
Claire sobbed in fear.
The door opened.
Claire hid her eyes behind her hands, cowering beneath the sweaters and jackets hanging there. And he reached out, taking her hand. Claire was pulled into the light. She looked up—into his black, bottomless eyes.
I will come for you soon.
Claire choked on the horrific recollection.
“Ye have no affair with Claire.” Malcolm’s harsh tone cut into her thoughts. He was standing directly in front of her now. “Yer affair be with me. Only with me.”
“Actually, you are wrong,” Moray said softly with a beautiful smile. “Claire’s destiny is in my hands. Like father, like son,” he added.
Claire froze.
Malcolm unsheathed his sword and Royce seized his arm.
Moray laughed at them all. “There is so much fear in this room that my power grows.” He wet his lips, looking at Claire, and she felt his arousal and was horrified. “I will enjoy you far more than I did Mairead.”
Malcolm started forward, enraged.
Aidan stepped in front of him, almost skewering himself on Malcolm’s blade in the process. Royce and Ironheart seized him, but Malcolm tried to fling them off. Claire would have screamed at Malcolm but her vocal cords were also frozen. She could only think about the fact that Moray had mortally wounded him once and he could do so again.
“Ye will never touch her,” Malcolm roared.
“And who will stop me?” Moray purred. “A weak Master like you? Your own father spent eleven years hunting me—or so he thought. I led him a merry chase and all the while Mairead mourned her treachery, her disloyalty, her faithlessness.”
Malcolm broke free of Royce and Ironheart. “A Bhrogain!”
Claire screamed.
Aidan turned and seized his sword arm. “’Tis nay the way!” he shouted.
Malcolm threw him off, only to have Royce and Ironheart leap on him, dragging him backward to the other side of the room. He somehow shook them off, too. Moray laughed.
Claire cried out in horror as Malcolm staggered as if struck. But he stood alone, and there had been no physical blow.
“Dinna try,” Royce said fiercely, and she saw Moray pale and grunt as if he had just been struck, too. “There be four o’ us,” he added coolly.
Claire looked around. So much power swirled in the room, male and hot. She realized she was standing in the midst of some kind of kinetic stalemate. Sweat dripped from Royce’s temples and his eyes blazed. And every man in the room had an identical expression, even Moray.
Aidan confronted Moray, legs braced wide and hard. “I grow tired o’ yer visits,” he snapped. “Ye be in my home now. I be lord here an’ I dinna give ye permission to enter my hall. Get out.”
Moray smiled with no mirth. “Three years ago I chose to let Malcolm live when I could have ended his life. He tasted the wonderful pleasure we find in death, as was my wish, and soon, he will taste such pleasure again. He will be mine.”
Moray took Aidan’s face in one hand and stroked his cheek with his long fingernails. He murmured, “And you, my boy, will be mine, too. It is but a matter of time.” He released him and smiled at Claire. Then he vanished.
Claire wanted to run to Malcolm but she couldn’t move. What Moray intended for everyone was worse than death. He was Satan, after all.
She was ready to retch and fell to her knees.
And then Malcolm was kneeling besides her. “’Tis over now,” he said harshly, pulling her into an embrace. He held her hard.
“Over?” Claire gasped, barely able to speak. “It’s not over, nothing is over. It has only begun!”
“I will protect ye,” he tried, his arms tightening, his gaze hard.
She jerked away and her fear became outrage. “How? How will you do that? Did you not hear him? Me, he will rape and get with child. You, he will turn into a master of evil! Aidan? Aidan is marked, too! Unless there is a way to destroy him, we will all suffer fates far worse than death!”
Malcolm was breathing hard. “Ye have every right t’ be afraid, Claire. Ye ha’ just seen the lord o’evil fer the first time. I ken how distressed ye be.”
“Distressed?” That, Claire thought, was the understatement of the ages. She looked at Malcolm. “Are you all right? What just happened?”
Malcolm hesitated. “He struck me with his power. I was braced fer it, an’ he didna knock me down. With all o’ us together, usin’ our powers against his, he canna do great damage.”
Claire shuddered. “Then why didn’t the four of you combine your powers and zap him dead?”
Malcolm’s eyes hardened. “If he could be vanquished in such a way, we would have done it.”
“Great! He has enough power to withstand the four of you!” Claire tried to breathe deeply and evenly. She failed. She hadn’t realized until that moment what evil really was. It was omnipotent, horrible, horrifying, and it intended to wreck total annihilation on everyone. More specifically, evil wanted to use her—and it wanted to use her against Malcolm. It wanted Malcolm’s soul.
Royce’s suspicions had been right.
Malcolm said, “I’ll die before I turn evil. An’ I’ll do ye the same favor afore I let him touch ye.” He stood and held out his hand.
Malcolm was promising to end her life before allowing Moray to use her. She was trying to think rationally now. His words were not helpful—because he meant them. But death was better than ever suffering that man’s touch. She continued to shiver uncontrollably as she stood. “You said so yourself. No Master has been able to vanquish him for centuries.”
“Aye, but there will be a first time. I asked ye t’ have faith.” His face hard and determined, showing no sign of fear, Malcolm turned and stalked out into the night.
Claire stared after him, impossibly cold. She wanted to have faith in him, but that seemed like suicide. It was better to err on the side of caution. This was a new reality and it defied the imagination.
Moray was hunting Malcolm.
Her heart lurched with sickening force.
Aidan walked over to her. “He sold his soul to Satan a thousand years ago, mayhap more, an’ his power is protected by the devil. Many Masters combined cannot take it. We have tried. Some Masters have more power than others. Moray has taken the lives o’ the lesser ones. He’ll weaken a Master with mortal blows an’ then do the evil deed. I be certain there be a mortal blow that can weaken Moray.” Aidan’s eyes burned. “I be certain. He lives in a half-mortal
body. He bleeds.”
Claire stared at him, realizing that if Aidan was right, it wasn’t entirely hopeless. On the other hand, Moray was so powerful, how could such a deadly blow be wielded?
Someone handed her a glass. It was Ironheart. “Take some wine, Claire,” he said firmly. “’Twill clear yer fear. And yer wrong, lass.”
Claire met his gaze and saw nothing but resolve. His expression was identical to Malcolm’s. There was no fear, just courage.
“Malcolm has great power fer a Master so young. He will protect ye. Dinna judge him so poorly. An’ I will protect ye, too. But mostly, if there be a way, Malcolm will find it. He burns with his ambition.”
Claire took a breath. “I don’t want him to burn with ambition and wind up dead,” she said harshly. She looked at the men’s faces. For them, this was just another moment in the line of Brotherhood duty. “As you said, he’s young—too young to die. Or worse!” She swallowed. “Moray has to be stopped. Are you sure there isn’t the knowledge we need to do just that in the Cathach?”
MALCOLM STOOD on the ramparts, no longer furious, just sick in his soul.
He had brought Claire back to his time to protect her, but now, in hindsight, he knew he had made a terrible mistake. She would have been safer in her store, facing the likes of Sibylla and Aidan, than she was now. Aidan would have done nothing worse than seduce her, and armed with her modern weapons, Claire was strong enough to have fought Sibylla, perhaps even triumphing over her. Moray was an entirely different matter.
It was entirely his fault that she was now an object Moray lusted for. If he dared to closely inspect his reasons for bringing her back with him, he would have to admit that the powerful attraction he had felt for her had been as much a factor as his desire to protect her.
Moray’s threats had been clear. He planned to use Claire against Malcolm as Mairead had been used against Brogan. Royce and MacNeil had both warned him not to become fond of her, but it was too late. Suddenly, he saw Claire naked, beneath Moray, in the throes of pleasure as the other man used her and took her life.
