by Brenda Joyce
Claire tensed. In the bailey below, Malcolm and Royce were dealing a series of blows against one another. For one moment she stared as the men locked swords, confused. They were so focused she would have sworn they meant to injure one another. Malcolm went after Royce with such an aggressive thrust that, for an instant, she thought Royce was doomed. But he blocked the blow and they braced there, savagely.
Claire ducked back inside, trembling anew.
Her heart was beating hard and fast. She might never forget what had happened last night, but she wasn’t afraid of Malcolm. She was afraid for him.
As Claire crossed the room to leave, she glimpsed her reflection in the small mirror standing on the room’s single bureau. Clad in her city clothes, she faltered. Her face was very pale, stained with two huge dark circles under her eyes. She looked ill, seriously so. And that was because she had almost died last night.
Claire turned away from the looking glass. She stepped into her cowboy boots and went downstairs. The hall was empty and outside, the Highland morning was wet and damp from last night’s rain. The scent of summer rain, fresh flowers and wet grass was heady and intense but not enough to shake the ill feeling deep inside her.
Claire paused. Malcolm and Royce were so furiously engaged that she had grave doubts about the nature of their practice. As she took a good look at Malcolm and then Royce, she realized that both men were very angry. If this was practice, she did not know what a real battle would be like. Each was clearly intent on defeating the other. She could guess why Royce was so angry, but Malcolm looked just as mad. Her heart lurched and she started forward.
Blow parried blow. Malcolm’s leine was soaking wet and it stuck to his powerful body, revealing every rippling muscle. His shoulder-length hair was dripping wet and sweat streaked his face. Royce matched him exactly.
Claire was certain that the events of last night were the reason for such terrible animosity. Malcolm needed to back down. Royce had been a father to him since Malcolm was nine years old. She understood Royce’s anger. It came from fear for his nephew.
Malcolm glanced at her and Royce struck the sword from his grasp and then laid his blade against Malcolm’s jugular. Malcolm tilted his head farther back, accepting his defeat but looking damn displeased about it.
“Royce!” Claire cried. Had Malcolm heard her thoughts? Surely Royce wasn’t going to cut him!
Royce snarled and then flung his sword tip first into the ground, where it stood, quivering. He strode past Claire, brushing his wet golden hair from his face, spraying her with his sweat.
She breathed hard as Malcolm bent to retrieve his sword. She was ready to rush into his arms. Instead, she slowly went to him. “Are you all right?” Royce had left a thin red line on his throat.
He straightened, sheathing his sword. Then he pushed his wet hair straight back over his forehead and behind his ears. Claire trembled, realizing he wasn’t looking at her. “Malcolm?”
He finally met her gaze, his eyes burning bright. “What, exactly, do ye ask? I should be the one asking ye if yer well.”
She tensed. “I’m fine…upset…a little bit scared…but fine.” She hugged herself. “Royce is angry about last night, isn’t he? He doesn’t really understand what happened.”
He flinched, looking away, a terrible expression of revulsion on his face. “I dinna wish t’ ever discuss last night. An’ dinna try to defend me now.”
“Of course I’ll defend you! I will always defend you, because you are the most honorable man I have ever met! Honor won last night.”
He faced her furiously, but he became stricken as he finally stared at her face. “’Tis time fer dinner,” he said harshly. He started past her.
“We have to talk about last night!” Claire seized his wet forearm, but he whirled and leaped away. “Malcolm, we cannot ignore what happened! I almost lost you last night—and I almost died!”
“Will ye nay leave it alone?” he shouted. “I be here, do I not? Yer alive, are ye not?”
“How can I leave it alone? Moray almost turned you evil. I was ready to die last night in your arms, in pleasure—willingly!” she cried wildly, shaking.
He inhaled, and for one moment Claire thought he was going to shove her away. Instead, very gently, he removed her hand from his arm. “Aye, ye almost died last night. I took all o’ ye that I could.” His eyes blazed.
When he did not say another word, she whispered, “You were going to die. You’re programmed to live, no matter the cost. And you didn’t take all of me.” Then, because she wanted to be certain, “You stopped, didn’t you? Somehow, you stopped.”
His face looked to be in danger of cracking. She wasn’t certain he could speak, as he was breathing so hard. Finally he said, “Aye. I felt ye leavin’ this world. I stopped the beast that lives in me. This one time.”
“You chose good, not evil,” she managed to say. “There is so much hope!”
He roared, “Ye had nothin’ left that I wanted!”
She cringed. “Don’t.”
“Don’t tell ye the truth yer so fond of?”
Compassion overcame her. “I understand your anger,” she whispered. “And I understand last night. You know I do. I felt every explosive moment that you were having and it made me want more and more, too. It made me want to die for you. I get it, now. Who wouldn’t want more of that kind of insane sex, that kind of unbelievable ecstasy, after trying it once? I get it. Even knowing the risks, it could tempt me to try it again! But you’re not an average man. You were destined for good, not evil. You defeated Moray at the last possible moment. Malcolm, you won.”
He became savage. “Ye should be afraid. I defeated no one! Ye wish to encourage my memories? When I look at ye, I see ye as ye were last night—near death, yer face filled with pleasure—and I feel ye flowin’ in my veins. I feel ye even now!”
She recoiled, realizing that last night had changed everything. His control was very fragile, and she had spoken far too freely and in too much detail. She hesitated, uncertain of what to say.
“Aye. I can still taste ye, Claire. But ye want to ‘talk’ about it. Fine. We’ll talk. I am close to bein’a Deamhan. Maybe I am already becoming one. Do ye still want to talk?” He strode away, toward the hall.
She had hoped, foolishly, that in the light of day the old Malcolm would be back. His anger told her that he cared about his fate. As long as he did, they could beat this terrible thing. But he was afraid now. She had never guessed that he might be afraid of anything, and he was afraid of himself.
Hearing her, he turned, eyes wide. “I be very angry, Claire. Aye, an’ I be afraid. Ye need to stay far from me. And there be no ‘we.’ I fight Moray alone.”
Claire knew she could not abandon him in this hour of crisis. She wasn’t hiding in any more closets.
“Then yer a fool!” he cried, reading her thoughts. “Ye think to believe in me now, after what I did to ye?”
“I will always believe in you. You are the son of Brogan Mor,” she whispered.
“Fer how much longer?” he demanded, their gazes colliding.
“Forever,” she returned.
“Yer the most headstrong, foolish woman I have ever met,” he said, disbelieving. “Ye think to trust me? Royce be right. Yer a temptation I dinna need, and yer nay safe with me. He’ll take ye to Iona tomorrow.”
Claire’s eyes widened. They had planned to go to Iona together, to bring the page to the Brotherhood. However, those plans had been made before the events of last night. “What are you saying?”
“No Deamhan ever knowingly enters God’s place. Ye’ll be safe from Moray an’ his Deamhanain there.” His tone was cold, cruel. “If I turn Deamhan, ye’ll be safe from me.”
CLAIRE DIDN’T FOLLOW Malcolm inside. She turned, went over to the steps leading up to the ramparts and sat down hard. It was difficult to think, much less be rational now.
Malcolm was fighting terrible, dark urges. She wanted to fight them with him. But if evil was t
empting him now—if she was tempting him—then maybe it was better that they put some distance between them for a while. Apparently, the abbey would be a very safe place for her to go. But this was a temporary solution at best. She couldn’t stay at the abbey forever.
She glanced toward the castle. How could she let Malcolm fight evil alone?
Last night, Moray had gained ground, but Malcolm had been the victor in that single battle. He had to triumph over the dark urges consuming him now. How could she hide at Iona and let him do so alone? His future was at stake, and so was his soul.
She thought of her vivid recall of that night in Brooklyn. The memory had been so graphic, it could have been happening then and there. But while she knew she had seen a demon’s face, she had not been able to imagine him.
He had said he would come back for her.
Fear slithered over her. Twenty years had passed, but to a demon who had lived for hundreds or thousands of years, that was like a second.
What had the demon wanted with her? And was it the same demon who’d murdered her mother?
Someone stepped out of the front door of the castle onto the landing above the stairs. “Claire?”
Claire jumped to her feet, facing Ironheart.
“Ye’ll miss the feast. Ye need t’ eat,” he said without inflection.
He was right. She crossed the bailey, entering the hall behind him. Then she hesitated. Everyone was at the dining table, the great room hushed. A woman was seated beside Aidan, taking Claire by surprise.
Ironheart gestured at a vacant chair as he sat. She smiled gratefully at the older Master, aware that the other three men were actually ignoring her. Claire took the empty chair next to Royce, across from the blond woman. A quick glance showed her the next Swedish supermodel, if the woman ever wished to time travel. She was beautiful and very young. Claire doubted she was even twenty. Since Aidan’s wife was deceased, she assumed this woman was his lover. Claire couldn’t help stealing a glance at Malcolm to see if he was checking out the woman, but he was not. She was relieved.
Aidan looked up. “Isabel, this is Lady Claire,” Aidan said in French. “She is my guest. Cherie, Lady Claire is from abroad.”
The blonde smiled warmly at her. “I am so pleased to meet you, Lady Claire. It has been lonely here with no other ladies present.”
Claire managed a slight smile back, thinking that her nights were likely not lonely. The young woman seemed besotted. Her French was stilted, and she had made a grammatical error. Although she wore a stunning gold necklace that looked as if it was set with sapphires, her leine was average in quality and a plain brooch pinned her brat. Claire decided she was from the lower ranks of the nobility. “Enchantée,” Claire returned. She glanced at Malcolm. He continued to ignore her but his plate was almost empty.
We need to finish our conversation, she told him silently.
His shoulder stiffened but he kept on eating.
Claire knew he’d heard her. She decided that the mind-reading thing was not such a bad deal after all. I mean it, she added for emphasis. Then she gave in to her heart. I want to help! I know I can. I am not going to Iona.
Malcolm threw his utensils on his plate, giving her an angry but incredulous stare. Claire thought he was going to storm from the table but he did not.
“Will you be at Awe for long?” Isabel asked pleasantly from across the table, preventing Claire from making a response.
Claire somehow focused on her. “I don’t think so,” Claire replied. She glanced at Malcolm, who had pushed his plate away. His face was hard, his gaze dangerously dark.
“Will you return to Dunroch?” Isabel smiled, making her beauty even more dazzling.
“That is the plan,” Claire said pleasantly, aware of Royce now staring at her. Maybe a frontal attack wasn’t the best idea. She heaped her plate and started to quickly eat.
“Actually,” Royce said darkly, “Lady Claire misunderstands. I will escort her to Iona in the morning.”
Like hell, Claire thought furiously. Was this Malcolm’s new plan?
“Iona is a beautiful island,” Isabel said. “Will you join me in the solar after we eat? I am almost finished with my needlepoint. I have a tapestry I wished to start, but you can begin it if you want.”
Claire looked at her blankly. She was not going to Iona with Royce; she was going to Dunroch with Malcolm. “Actually, I don’t sew.”
Isabel looked at her as if she had the plague. “You cannot sew?”
“I’m afraid not,” Claire said. She returned to her food, eating as fast as she could. Chairs were pushed back. Royce was pouring himself wine, but Malcolm was stalking from the hall. She took one more bite, preparing to run after him.
Royce seized her wrist. “Ye’ll be his death,” he warned in English.
“I thought we were friends,” Claire cried.
“I like ye well enough. But ye ha’ the power to turn him to evil, Claire, an’ I willna allow it.” His gray eyes blazed.
In that moment, Claire felt his authority. This man was a Master who could leap time, taking life if he so chose, and had other powers she had yet to comprehend. She had crossed the line and he was not her ally now. But at least he intended to protect Malcolm from the dark.
Still, Claire did not like his attitude. “Take your hand off me,” she warned. “And I mean it.”
His eyes widened.
Claire thought about taking her Taser and giving him a damn good shock.
Royce’s expression tightened and he released her. “Ye be ready to leave at dawn. Ye go to Iona, whether ye wish it or nay.”
Claire knew a threat when she heard one. “I guess you’ll have to knock me out the way Aidan did last night. I also suggest you tie me up. I do not follow your orders.” She stood, furious now, while Royce looked even angrier and taken aback. If he was expecting a meek and docile medieval wench, he had another think coming.
Claire strode across the hall in the direction Malcolm had gone. Her anger actually felt good. Anger, she realized, was empowering; fear and doubt were not. She was going to cling to it.
Malcolm was heading for the stables. For one moment she watched his back, all anger vanishing. She was afraid he was leaving, then and there. He disappeared into the stables. Claire lifted the calf-length brat and broke into a run.
He was saddling up his gray stallion as she burst into the stone-and-timber barn. “You cannot be leaving.”
He faltered, his strong hands on the animal’s leather girth. His back rigid with tension, he did not look over his shoulder at her. “I dinna want ye here. There is nothing more t’ say.”
“There’s plenty more to say!” Claire cried, and she almost shouted, I love you.
She breathed hard, hoping he hadn’t heard her.
He slowly faced her, looking just as taken aback as she felt. Hoarsely, he said, “Why canna ye ken? Ye’ll be safe at the abbey.”
He had heard her. “I understand that you are trying to protect me. But who will protect you?” she asked roughly.
He was aghast. “Ye canna protect me!”
Claire dared to reach out and touch his face. He jerked away. “Iona is a temporary solution—but it’s no solution at all. You are important to me. I can’t let you face Moray alone, Malcolm. I have to help. Your soul is at stake.”
He shook his head. “Ye’ll be my downfall, Eve to my Adam. Ye willna help, ye can only hurt. An’ if I dinna hurt ye, Moray will.”
That was one irrefutable point, she thought, but she was willing to take the chance. “I won’t lie,” she managed to say thickly, “not that it’s even remotely possible with you eavesdropping on my thoughts. I am scared, but not of you. Even though that sexual animal last night is scary as all hell, he’s a part of you—and I trust you, Malcolm.” She tried to smile at him.
He smiled cruelly back. “And will ye trust me when the sun goes down? Will ye trust me now, if I tell ye I am thinkin’ not about yer words, but your hot, wet body an’ yer powerful l
ife? I meant what I said earlier, Claire. I can still feel ye in my veins and ye dinna ken the power it gave me—or the lust.”
She flinched, but her heart picked up a terrible different beat. Her skin began to tingle. An aching began, purely physical, purely sexual. “You are trying to scare me. Are you also entrancing me?”
“I want ye to be afraid! And I dinna wish to entrance ye, but the beast will have his way.” He stared boldly at her, his eyes silver and hot.
In that second, Claire knew he was tasting every part of her all over again while thinking about being inside her, hard, strong and slick. In that moment, she felt his throbbing tension and knew that if she offered herself to him, he would accept. She was breathless now. Was the dark side of him mesmerizing her?
“Do ye still trust me now?” he asked softly, leaning toward her, the threat unmistakable.
She hesitated. She wanted to go into his arms and press up against his hardness. But she wasn’t mindless or in a trance. She didn’t want to die for him. She wanted to make love. “Yes, I do.”
“Then yer in danger, lass,” he said softly.
Oh, did she know that tone. It stirred her loins and licked her flesh. He was watching her with the same predatory intensity as he had last night. She found her voice. “Last night you were dying. You’re not dying now. That animal is gone. I trust you. And you should trust yourself.”
“That animal,” he said tauntingly, “is raging t’ be set free.”
She did not want to tempt him or test him, but somehow she was doing just that. “No. I’m looking at Malcolm of Dunroch, a Master of Time, and what you want I am not afraid to give.”
“Then ye dinna ken my needs, Claire.”
She breathed hard, the tension growing hotter, seething between them. “You want sex, not death,” she tried.
“I want to feel exactly what I felt last night,” he said furiously. “But I dinna wish to hurt ye, not in any way! So ye will obey me command this single time.”
He was in a terrible raging battle, she thought. It was worse than she had realized. “Fine. So you will go to Dunroch while Moray hunts you?” She was bitter, scathing. “And I will what? Languish at the abbey like Mairead? Hide in a new closet? For how long?”
