by Brenda Joyce
What had he done?
What could he do now?
He needed more power and more wisdom. Three years ago he had hunted Moray, cornering him in the tower at Urquhart, and he had been easily defeated. He did not have enough power to vanquish Moray—no Master did or the Deamhan would have been sent to hell long ago. Moray had set a trap, but maybe he could be the trapper now.
Moray laughed, behind him.
Malcolm braced his power against the Deamhan and he whirled, sword ringing as he unsheathed it. It felt terribly familiar, as if that fatal dance at Urquhart was playing once more.
“Think harder, Malcolm, and you will see her begging me for more and more pleasure, which I will gladly give her. She will beg me for my seed in a frenzy of mindless need. I will come inside her a hundred times every single night. And when I send her back to you, her belly swollen with my child, she won’t want to leave me. She will hate you for taking her back.”
All reason vanished. Malcolm roared, “A Chlaire.”
Moray unsheathed his sword and met the vicious attack, smiling in delight.
Malcolm swung again and again, and it was déjà vu. In the back of his mind, he knew Moray had wanted this battle and he knew exactly why. Three years ago Moray had chosen to let him live.
He knew this was a trap.
He did not care.
Bloodlust consumed him.
He struck and Moray’s blade met his own. The swords screamed.
THE WINE HAD the precise calming effect Ironheart had hoped for, Claire thought. She had stopped shaking and she was breathing normally. The fear remained, but it was controlled. Moray was half human. Moray could bleed.
She took another sip and exhaled, closing her eyes. She was an intellectual woman. There had to be a way to reduce Moray’s powers, or to mortally wound him. Malcolm had said the demons never entered holy places, as they lost their powers there. There was an obvious conclusion to be drawn, but Moray probably knew better than to wander into a church or chapel. If he could have been lured to such a place, he would have been destroyed long ago.
Her mind turned over Aidan’s frightening words. She had been ready to believe that Moray was Satan himself, but Aidan said he had Satan’s protection, which was why his power couldn’t be taken by the Masters. Well, she believed in everything else, and she was ready to embrace Aidan’s world view now, too.
Damn it. If Moray could not be mortally wounded and thus weakened, then the gods were their only hope.
That was not particularly comforting. She wondered if any Master had recently seen one of the Ancients. They probably hung out in the Dalriadan version of Mount Olympus, the way the gods in Greek mythology did.
And where was Malcolm? Did he have to be outside, alone, at dark?
Claire trembled. She was afraid for Malcolm, really afraid. Claire opened her eyes, taking long, deep breaths. Malcolm was a great hero, a champion for all that was good in this world, and Moray was trying to turn him. She had to help him somehow. She couldn’t imagine the world without Malcolm in it, a Master protecting Innocence through all ages.
There had to be a way.
She stared across the room. A beautiful oval dining table that sat twelve, its chairs upholstered in sapphire velvet and studded with nails, had been set for supper with gilded china and flatware. Ironheart and Royce were eating as quickly and efficiently as possible. As fueling up was probably crucial to their well-being—and power—she did not begrudge them their intent, nonsocial behavior. Aidan sat at the table’s head, removed from the other men, drinking wine, his plate empty. He was obviously brooding.
Suddenly Claire felt a terrible searing pain in her side. She gasped, about to faint, her hand on her waist. For one moment, she thought a sword had gone through her side.
Aidan leaped to his feet. “Claire?”
Claire looked at her hand, expecting to see it covered with blood. There was none. Malcolm.
She staggered to her feet. “Malcolm is wounded!”
Claire moved first, running across the hall and flinging the door open. The night was blue-black, but the sky was filled with Highland stars and a waxing moon, which was golden and bright. Her eyes went right to the ramparts, just to the left and above where she stood, and she saw the two figures there.
One figure collapsed while the other stood tall and straight. Even in the starlight, Claire saw his perfect, bronzed face, the flash of white teeth and the sun-gold hair. He smiled at her, their eyes meeting. And Moray vanished.
Claire screamed and ran up the stairs, Aidan on her heels. She tripped and stumbled and fell to her knees where Malcolm lay prone. For one second, he looked so peaceful, as if asleep. She looked at his left side, and saw only the heavy wool brat that he wore over the mail hauberk. Then she saw that the wool was unusually dark, soaked with blood.
Malcolm’s eyes opened, meeting Claire’s. She recoiled. His gaze was silver and glittering insanely and his hand seized her wrist. For one terrible instant, Claire thought he meant to harm her.
“Get her gone!” Malcolm cried harshly, his face ravaged with pain.
Aidan knelt beside her, moving the brat and mail aside. He unlaced the leather vest to reveal a blood-soaked leine. “Leave now, Claire,” Aidan said firmly.
“I am not going anywhere!” Claire cried as Aidan ripped open the linen. She gasped when she saw the horrible wound. There was so much blood. If Malcolm was hemorrhaging, or if an organ had been damaged, or become infected, he would die.
“Get her…gone,” Malcolm repeated, his grasp on her wrist shockingly brutal, his eyes ablaze.
“Yer going to die if ye keep movin’,” Aidan said tersely. “Lie still an’ save yer strength.”
As Malcolm held her wrist, Claire looked into his burning eyes and she recognized uncontrollable lust. He had already killed one woman to save his own life, and in that moment, she understood. He needed to live. He needed life to live.
Fear came, but she did not move. “I’m not going,” she whispered. Her heart thundered hard. “I want you to live. Take my life. Take…what you need.”
“I…I willna…take ye,” he gasped. His eyes closed, his head rolling to the side as he became unconscious.
Aidan cursed, glaring at Claire. “He’s dyin’! Ye be an interference now—an’ a temptation!”
“Then heal him!” she shouted back. “You said you had power—do it!” She pressed on the wound to stop the bleeding with her bare hands.
Booted steps sounded as Claire turned. “Hurry!” she screamed at Royce. “Get me bandages!”
Royce knelt, handing her his wadded-up brat. Immediately Claire covered the wound, put Royce’s hands there and reached for Malcolm’s pulse. She couldn’t find it. She was on the verge of panic, but somehow she kept it at bay. “I can’t find a pulse, Aidan,” she warned. “If you don’t heal him, he will die!”
Aidan had his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders, a fierce expression on his face. Claire began to pray, Malcolm’s head on her lap, his face in her hands. Ironheart knelt beside them.
Royce said thickly, “He’s slippin’ away, Aidan.”
Claire saw fear in his eyes. She stared at Malcolm’s face, which was so terribly pale now. The stone she wore was burning her throat and oddly she was reciting the prayer she had just read, that brief paragraph to some Celtic goddess. It was as if she had memorized it. The Latin formed on her tongue perfectly, making absolute sense, and nothing had ever been as comforting. She chanted silently to herself. It was as if she had no will of her own. She closed her eyes, sweating profusely, chanting quietly aloud now. The Latin litany was the only sound in the night.
Claire paused and looked at Aidan, who had released Malcolm. “What are you doing?” she gasped.
His gaze met hers. “I canna feel any life. I canna seem to give him life. Moray has put a block on him. Royce, can ye stop the bleeding?”
Royce didn’t answer, almost as white as Malcolm now.
Claire fought panic. Malco
lm could not die! She ripped the stone from her neck and held it in her hands, shoving Royce aside, who understood and moved away from her. The wool beneath her hands was soaking wet. She chanted faster, finishing the prayer to Ceanna a fourth or fifth time as Royce swiftly changed the wool beneath her hands. Her mind screamed at her that Malcolm was not dead. She would feel it if he was.
Royce had his face to Malcolm’s. “He doesna breathe, Aidan.”
Aidan laid his hands on him again, sweat running down his face. “I canna give him anything,” he said. “If I had the power, it’s blocked or gone.”
Claire sobbed. She seized Royce’s hand and made him staunch the wound and she bent over Malcolm’s face. She held his nose closed, opened his mouth and started giving him CPR. He did not breathe.
She had the Taser in the pocket of her skirt, which she wore under her leine.
Claire ripped open the neckline of his leine, tearing it down to his ribs, her strength fueled by adrenaline. She was about to lay the Taser there and shock his heart when she saw his chest move.
It rose…it fell.
Claire held his face and leaned over him. She felt his breath against her skin, and started to collapse, tears falling.
“Claire,” Royce said sharply. “The bleeding’s stopped. He breathes. ’Tis shallow, weak, but he breathes.”
She felt his lashes moving. “Don’t move. You’re hurt,” she managed to say, looking at him.
Malcolm stared at her, appearing somewhat dazed. Claire wasn’t sure he recognized her.
“Aidan, the wound is open an’ deep,” Royce said. “Ye need to heal him completely. I dinna think he can survive otherwise.”
“I told ye, I didna heal him at all,” Aidan said thickly. “’Twas Claire.”
Royce looked at Aidan, who stared back. Then both Masters stared at her.
Claire couldn’t focus on the two men. Malcolm was shockingly pale from the loss of so much blood. She was afraid he was going to die anyway. Claire sent him a smile she was certain was pitiful. “Royce. That needs to be cauterized.” The bleeding might have stopped but how could he survive this kind of wound without modern medical attention?
“I go to MacNeil,” Ironheart said, and vanished.
Claire began to shake. Apparently, they had stopped the bleeding and resuscitated him, but the crisis wasn’t over. She was so afraid he was going to die at any moment. “Can MacNeil save him? Can he heal?”
“He has the power—if he gets here in time.” Royce leaped up and hurried from the ramparts.
Claire couldn’t fathom where he was going, when Malcolm said, “Come here, lass.”
She jerked at his seductive tone. It went through her body, instantly causing warmth and heat. Stunned, she met his glittering eyes. His voice was hoarse, choked with pain. “I need ye, Claire…I’m dying…” And his intense regard held hers.
She could not look away. Claire went still, shocking desire crashing over and exploding inside her. There was no mistaking his meaning. He wanted to take life from her while he was buried inside her womb—the source of life. In that moment, there was complete comprehension and it made absolute sense. He needed her desperately—as desperately, she needed him. Her eyes went past the gaping bloody wound and she saw his manhood stirring, filling. Her gaze flew back to his eyes.
She should have been shocked but wasn’t. She knew she could heal him. She would give him her body and all of her being while he gave her impossible rapture. Her heart beat more frantically now. Somehow she knew what was in store. Le Puissance. The Power…She wet her lips, lowering her face to his. She gasped when her mouth found his. There was so much near-orgasmic pleasure in such a simple kiss. And Claire felt him grasp on to her life.
He gasped, and she reeled in a wave of brilliant, intense pleasure, ecstasy beckoning…
Suddenly, strong hands tore her away from Malcolm. Claire fought Aidan, her entire body throbbing relentlessly now. “No! Fool! He will die!”
“An’ ye will die, ’cause he needs yer life an’ he doesna ken what he be doing now. Ye give him yer life, an’ Malcolm belongs to Moray,” Aidan snapped.
Claire couldn’t understand. There was too much desperation and too much lust, as if she were an animal in heat. She stared at Malcolm, who lay prone on the stone, consumed with pain, breathing hard, desperately needing her, urgently wanting her. She had to go to him. Furious, she tried to jerk away from Aidan. “I can help him!” She was enraged. “Leave us alone!”
Ignoring her, Aidan easily pulled her toward the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Claire cried, disbelieving, but some of the shocking lust eased. In the back of her mind, she became aware of coming out of a trance. “Malcolm will die if I don’t help him! He needs me…Let go!”
“Yer out o’ yer head…an’ so is he. Moray has trapped my brother another time. He willna become a Deamhan.” He wrapped his arm around her, the vise like steel.
Claire struggled and looked back. Malcolm remained prone, as still as a hunter in the forest, his glittering gaze on her, tracking her as Aidan forced her to leave.
I need ye, Claire…dinna go. Dinna listen to them…Come back to me…
His mouth never moved but she heard him as if he had spoken aloud.
The terrible urgency began all over again.
I’ll come, she promised. I will always come when you call…
Royce bounded up the stairs, past Claire and Aidan, holding a red-hot iron that gleamed like hell’s fires in the night.
And Claire fought Aidan wildly. “He doesn’t need that,” she screamed. “He needs me!”
Claire saw Royce hand Malcolm a dagger. She stopped struggling, panting in fear. Malcolm put the hilt in his mouth, biting down on the bone handle, his silver regard steady on her, unwavering there.
Claire held on to Aidan hard. Malcolm choked. The horrific smell of burning flesh rent the night.
Claire gagged, knees buckling. Aidan caught her, holding her tightly to his chest. “Oh, God,” she gasped, weeping. She had to go to him now. “Please, Aidan,” she cried, “Please!”
“He be unconscious. Ye canna help him now.”
“I can,” she sobbed. “I can.”
Aidan looked back at Royce. Royce nodded. “The tower above,” Aidan said. “There be but one way in an’ one way out. I’ll have locks put on the door.”
They were going to lock him up like an animal, Claire thought, horrified. “I swear I will stay away from him,” she lied. “Please, don’t lock him up.”
“I’m sorry, Claire. ’Tis best fer Malcolm,” Aidan said. “And this be best fer ye, as well.”
The blow on the back of her head took her by surprise. There was stunning pain and shocking comprehension. And then there was only darkness.
MALCOLM AWOKE.
He was burning in the fires of hell. He choked on the searing pain but could not move, the torment so terrible he couldn’t even open his eyes. It took him a moment to fight the pain of the fire consuming most of his body and only then could he find any thought. He was dizzy, ready to faint.
He was close to death. He finally gasped, unable to hold back the sound, choking from the pain. Tears burned his eyes and he swam in his world of torment.
Lust began—the lust to live.
There were vows. He was a Master. It could not end this way.
He had to hold the pain back—he had to think. He tried to become oriented. Where was he? He needed life now.
His body knew what to do.
Malcolm became still, trying to scent life.
He lay on the floor, a pallet soft beneath his back, the stone cold beneath his hand. He heard himself moan again, and then he heard the pounding rain.
He turned his head. He saw an arrow slit on the far side of the small round chamber and the wooden door. Had they locked him in? He stared at the door, and suddenly, shockingly, he could see through it. A padlock hung on the other side. It didn’t matter. Even if they’d left the door open, he di
dn’t think he could stand, or even crawl to the door, much less break it down.
He had only felt so much weakness a single time in his life, at Urquhart, when he was skewered to the wall by Moray’s sword, left there to die that way. But he hadn’t died, he had taken the maid instead. Her life had saved him….
He burned for life. It was all he could think of. He tried to scent life again. And this time, instantly, he did so. Claire was below him.
Now, he had no other coherent thought. She was asleep, but he needed her with him.
Wake up, Claire. I need ye. Wake up…
He felt her stirring, he felt her shock. Malcolm inhaled hard. The need to bring her close and take power from her consuming. He tracked her with his mind as she stumbled from the bed. But something was stirring elsewhere, in his chest, his heart. A memory…
Whatever it was, he ignored it.
I be hurt. They ha’ locked me up. When I come into yer body, ye will save me. Claire.
He felt her listening now. She was hearing him and that was good. He strained his senses and felt her desperation and then he felt her heat. He smiled. She was getting ready for him. His loins stiffened in anticipation and his heart began a new, stronger beat.
The memory tickled his mind now.
He didn’t want memories; he only wanted her body, her life.
Find me, lass. I be waitin’.
She did not answer but he knew she had heard. He reached down and touched himself so he would be ready when she came.
Where are you?
Malcolm smiled, savagely pleased. Claire. Upstairs. Above you.
And he could see her now, two stories below, wrenching at the locked door of her chamber. She was only wearing that tiny chemise and the rag and her boots. Lust consumed him, as did impatience. He throbbed greedily now. He could literally taste her power, as he’d wanted to for so long. And his heart beat swiftly, too swiftly.
I dinna mind if ye love me, lass.
You are so arrogant!
Malcolm moaned. If he allowed himself this luxury, he would fight his need—and he would die. He closed his eyes, sweating, tasting what would soon be his, salivating, until his heart ceased all protest. His loins raged.
