by Brenda Joyce
“Aye,” he said dangerously. “Ye’ll hide there fer years, as long as it takes fer me t’ forget yer taste, yer feel, yer look!”
She jerked, stunned.
He flushed. “Ye’ll stay until Moray fergets ye have any use to him,” he amended harshly. “An’ that be the day ye go home to yer cousin an’ yer books.”
“That’s not what you said,” she said, her heart palpitating wildly. “And it’s not what you meant.”
He was grim, even savage. “Ye see what I’m thinking of! Ye ken an’ ye dinna retreat! Ye want me to admit it? Ye want me t’ admit the truth?”
Claire hesitated. She knew she wasn’t going to like it. “You’re going to hurt me.”
“Aye, better I hurt ye now than fuck ye to death!” He pointed at her, his hand shaking. “Ye be an obsession, Claire. Not a passion, an obsession. I dinna love ye now an’ I never will. I dinna want yer love! I want yer body an’ yer life.” He pushed his face close. “I want to push inside ye right now an’ taste yer life until ye have nothing left to give. Until yer dead. Now get out.”
She began shaking her head, refusing to move, and tears began. He could not mean it. She didn’t expect his love, but she expected, wanted and needed his affection. “I don’t believe you. I won’t. I can believe I’m an obsession, but you do not want me dead. You want me alive and in your bed. I think you also want me in your life, because you care more than you can ever admit.”
He paled.
“So if you think to terrorize or horrify me, well, I’m already terrorized and horrified and I am not about to forget last night. I will never forget last night. I am scared, Malcolm, but I am not dead! Because you stopped yourself from taking my life. And why is that?” She was shouting, crying. “Because there is good inside you. I am not looking at and speaking to an evil man! Moray set you up. I don’t get the damn physiology of healing yourself with someone else’s life, I will never understand what god made such a stupid plan, that kills innocent people to save great heroes. But life is about moral decisions, Malcolm. Throughout history, men make choices, men fight for good against bad, and they even fight against the bad in themselves! You made your choice last night.
“You beat Moray,” she added more quietly, wiping her tears. “And I intend for us to defeat him again and again and again, however long it takes, together.”
“Ye won’t live t’ see it,” he said flatly, turning and mounting the gray horse.
Claire was dismayed. She had spoken with her heart, and she had passionately meant her every word. But Malcolm wasn’t going to change his mind. His decision was set in stone. He was not going to consider that they could fight Moray together. He was not going to consider that they should fight Moray together.
Claire seized the reins. “I know there is a risk!” she cried furiously. “But I am willing to take it, because that is how much your soul means to me. This is my choice, Malcolm.”
“No. It’s nay yer choice. I am sworn t’ protect ye, Claire, an’ that is what I do. Ye be the most stubborn, pigheaded woman I ever met.” His eyes blazed. “Ye’ll go to Iona as I command. Let go o’ my reins.”
She inhaled, releasing the bridle. “I know you are king here, but in my world, a woman is free and she obeys no one, not even her husband. She only obeys herself!”
His laughter was harsh. “We be in my world, Claire, an’ in this world, I be yer lord an’ ye obey me.”
Claire could barely think. This wasn’t the best time to debate, not with their passions running wild, but if she did not convince him to trust himself, he was leaving without her. Maybe he was right and fighting for him was a huge and fatal mistake. But maybe he was wrong.
Claire decided to gamble her life.
And he must have sensed her intentions, because he turned white. The same horror she had seen last night covered his face.
She moved in front of the door, blocking the path out of the stable. “Malcolm, we have to believe in each other. And you have to believe in yourself. Please,” she added desperately.
“How in God’s name can ye do this now?” he roared, erupting into fury.
Claire’s heart was pounding so hard she felt faint. “Make love to me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN HER HEART, Claire believed that if they could have a night like they’d had at Dunroch, without any spell, Malcolm would realize he could triumph over the darkness. But the moment the words were out, Claire wished she hadn’t spoken them. Because what she was really asking was for him to love her.
Malcolm’s expression turned from horror to fear. “Ye be mad,” he said thickly. “Ye think to play with yer life. I willna play, Claire.”
“You won’t touch my life,” she whispered. She was relieved. He hadn’t made the connection. He thought she was asking only for sex.
“Why? Why would ye make me such an offer? Do ye belong to Moray now? Is this his plan to lure me to the dark?” Suspicion filled his eyes. “Is he in yer mind now?” Malcolm asked softly, dangerously. “Has he enslaved ye an’ ye dinna ken?”
Claire cried out, shocked. “What are you saying?”
“Aye,” Malcolm said. “’Tis his greatest power—to enslave weak minds. ’Tis how he turns good men into his evil soldiers. He can creep into a human mind an’ do as he wills.”
“No,” Claire said in horror.
He shook his head, incapable of further speech, jammed his heels into the gray and galloped past her. Claire leaped out of his way. Dust and straw flew up in his wake.
Claire sat down on a bale of straw. Moray could control minds? Surely, surely, she was not being controlled that way. Her heart had led her to make such an offer and had he accepted it, she would have gambled her life on Malcolm’s will, strength and valor.
Claire couldn’t stop shaking. She was certain her offer had come from her heart, because it had been motivated by so much love. Claire wished she had never admitted her feelings, because damn it, now she wanted Malcolm to love her back.
Hadn’t she warned herself not to get entangled with this man?
Malcolm was not capable of love. He was capable of affection, passion, duty. But love?
He had promised her fidelity, but that didn’t have anything to do with love. And they both knew she was going home, sooner rather than later, so it hadn’t been a difficult promise to make or even keep.
Claire began to consider the fact that it might be some time, years even, before she went home. Everything had changed because they were both on Moray’s radar.
Now what? It was one thing to want to help Malcolm fight for his soul, and it was another to be yearning for him to love her back, when the future of their relationship was doomed, no matter what.
She needed to get a grip on her heart, but she didn’t think that was possible. She had always pitied women who fell hopelessly in love with men who did not return their feelings. Holy shit, she was one of those women now.
But she wasn’t weak. Claire stood, resolved. She loved Malcolm in spite of their differences, in spite of what the future held, so she had one choice now. Fight with him, fight for him, and be strong enough to go home when the time came—with no regrets and no sorrow, with all of her pride intact.
And as for Iona, well, being a woman stuck in the Middle Ages had vastly reduced her power. If they insisted on it, she’d have to go, but she wasn’t going to stay there for years and years. Royce had become hostile, but there was always MacNeil. And if she couldn’t convince him to help her, there were all those hunky Masters coming and going. Claire smiled. She liked having a plan. It was barely formulated, but it was better than nothing.
“Claire?”
She jerked, realizing that Ironheart had paused in the doorway, carrying a small, rolled-up plaid, which she knew contained his gear. Her eyes widened. “Are you leaving?”
He smiled briefly, walking past her and leading his big bay stallion from a stall. “Aye.”
She was dismayed. “How can you leave now? Malcolm
needs you!” She thought, I need you.
He tied the horse and threw a blanket and saddle on him. “I’m going back to the Black Isle. I’ve been gone fer almost a month an’ I have clan affairs to attend.”
“The Black Isle?” she echoed.
“Aye. ’Tis my home in Lachlan.” He finished saddling his mount and faced her. “I see ye fear fer Malcolm.”
Claire hugged herself. “I am very worried about him.”
“Aye, I ken. Claire, he is strong an’ he is good. If he can stay alive, in time this war will pass. These wars always pass.”
The first statement was disturbing, the second hopeful. “How much time will it take Moray to decide to stalk someone else?”
He hesitated. “A hundred years, perhaps more, mayhap less.”
Claire’s eyes widened. “Great.”
Ironheart paused before leading the bay from the stable. “Ye are welcome at Lachlan Castle any time.”
Claire was confused. What the hell was this? She knew it was not a come-on.
“The Black Isle will be safe fer ye an’ ye are welcome in my home fer as long as ye wish. If ye dinna want to go to Iona tomorrow, ye can come with me now.” His green gaze became searching.
Claire was stunned. Should she leave Awe—and Malcolm—now and go with Ironheart? “Where is the Black Island?”
“’Tis nay far, a bit to the south an’ west.”
And Claire realized she wanted to delay her separation from Malcolm for as long as possible. Besides, Iona was mere miles from Dunroch and Lachlan Castle was not. And she hadn’t been sent away yet. “Maybe, one day, I will accept your generous invitation. I’m not sure, though, why you made it.”
“Ye be Innocent, Claire. I took the same vows as Malcolm.” He swung up into the saddle.
Claire realized she no longer felt uneasy around him. He was an intense, motivated Master, without Aidan’s and Royce’s charm, but he felt like a very safe anchor. “Take care of yourself.”
He nodded at her. “Think afore ye act, Claire, an’ ye’ll be fine. But if ye need help, summon me. God keep ye.” He trotted past her.
Claire followed him from the barn, amazed by his words and his last directive. How on earth would she ever “summon” him? “God speed,” she said. She liked the farewell and she lifted her hand. “And God bless.”
He didn’t respond, breaking into a canter. The drawbridge remained down from when Malcolm had left the stronghold.
Claire watched him vanish into the first gatehouse. That had been odd, but apparently she had an ally she could count on. Considering that Royce was no longer supporting her, and Aidan was an enigma, she was fortunate. But Ironheart had promised to teach her to fight. Obviously that would not happen now.
She needed another dagger, Claire thought, as last night she had broken the blade of the weapon Malcolm had given her. She still had her Taser, but in this world, that wasn’t enough and the charge wouldn’t last forever. Claire started toward the hall. Aidan surely had a stash of weapons at Awe.
The hall was silent when she slipped inside. She was glad Royce had gone off somewhere, as there’d been enough tension that morning to last through the day. Aidan hadn’t been outside, but maybe he was going over Awe accounts. The castle was three times the size of Dunroch, and there was no point in trying to find him. Besides, Isabel probably knew where he was. The ladies’ solar should be on the next floor, directly over the hall.
Claire went upstairs.
It never occurred to her to knock, since the heavy wooden door was ajar. Claire walked in and felt her heart drop to her feet.
Aidan was making love to Isabel, stark naked, except for his boots. Isabel was gasping in pleasure and Claire saw everything she shouldn’t. He was a drop-dead gorgeous, powerful man.
He suddenly looked up, his gray eyes ablaze with lust.
Claire knew she turned red. “Sorry!” She turned and fled. In the hall, she leaned against the wall, breathless, trying not to envision Aidan with all that rippling muscle moving over that other woman. Isabel’s cries intensified and Claire fled back downstairs. Her body had fired up and she couldn’t help wishing she were in Malcolm’s arms without the threat of evil hanging over them.
She remained acutely aware of the two lovers upstairs. Well, she didn’t blame them. It was a great way to pass the afternoon.
Claire went to the table and poured a big glass of red wine. She drank some of it to relax and decided to look for Awe’s arsenal. A weapons room would be below the hall, for all stores were kept on the ground-floor level. Claire went down into the “basement.” It was stacked with barrels, chests and sacks. But on the east side, there was a door. It was locked.
Claire became excited. She would bet anything she had just found the weapons room. Of course it would be locked and she should wait for Aidan to finish his afternoon of delight and ask him for what she needed. She looked at the chain and padlock and jiggled it, not that it was a test of any sort. Of course, the chain remained firm.
Last night she’d had shocking strength, but she knew she wouldn’t have that kind of strength now. She had nothing to pick the lock with and breaking in would be rude, anyway, when Aidan had been the perfect host. She rattled the lock again, with some annoyance, thinking about the knives that had been on the dining-room table. She could probably pick this lock if she really tried.
Then Claire realized she was not alone. She tensed, turned.
Aidan’s brows lifted. “Ye want something, Lady Claire?”
An image of him in far too much male glory flashed through her mind. “Ah,” she began.
He smiled as if he knew.
She swallowed, banishing the image from her mind and her memory. “I am sorry about intruding.” She felt annoyed. The door hadn’t even been closed.
He shrugged. “I dinna care. Ye wish fer a weapon?”
He had a sly tone and an impudent smile. Claire smiled tightly back. If he thought for one second that she wished to share his bed, he was wrong. She thought about Malcolm and her heart ached. “Yes. I broke my dagger last night in your lock. You have been a gracious and generous host, and I have tremendous audacity asking you for another favor. But I have no real means to defend myself.” And the one man who had promised to teach her to fight was gone.
Aidan’s near leer vanished. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Ye need a weapon,” he agreed.
Claire gasped. The small round chamber was filled with swords, shields, daggers and—holy shit—guns. She turned her shocked gaze to his. “You have weapons from the future.”
“Aye, I do. I like the future an’ I couldna help myself.”
Claire had identified mid-to late-eighteenth century pistols. She also saw a revolver that she was pretty certain belonged in the nineteenth century. There were no modern revolvers, rifles or machine guns, which was too damn bad. “Isn’t this forbidden?”
His grin flashed. “I dinna like rules, Claire, except when I be breakin’ them.” He walked to rows of neatly hanging daggers and chose a knife that was about twelve inches long with an exquisite ivory handle.
Claire bit her lip. “You have no guns from my time.”
“I was in yer time fer that single day, an’ I was lookin’ fer the page.”
“Aidan, in my time, there are guns that fire rapidly, a hundred times before a man can blink his eyes even once. Would a gun like that kill a demon?”
“It would depend on the Deamhan, Claire. Great evil, like Moray, becomes even greater if he has taken power from another afore a battle. And even if he dinna enhance his power first, if life was near, Moray would take it an’ survive even if a hundred pellets struck him. But the lesser Deamhanain would quickly die,” he added.
Claire thought about trapping Moray in such a way that he could not tap into anyone’s life. But how would that be possible?
“It’s nay possible, Claire. If ye be attackin’ him with one o’ yer weapons, he’ll take ye. He might take ye afore ye can even attac
k the first time.” He held out the dagger. “How does this feel?”
Claire wanted a nineteenth-century revolver, but she grasped the dagger. The hilt was comfortable in her hand.
Aidan took the dagger from her and replaced it with another. The second hilt was smaller and felt perfect in her grip. He smiled. “’Twill do.”
“Is there any way Moray can be lured onto holy ground?”
Aidan laughed. “He can sense God the way we can sense evil. Nay.”
Claire slowly lifted her gaze to Aidan’s. “He’s the devil, isn’t he? Not the devil’s own, but the devil. He is one of the faces of Satan.”
Aidan hesitated.
Claire turned away. “Oh, God,” she whispered, and it was a supplication. But the devil would not choose this land as his stomping ground, would he? “Why Scotland?”
“Why not? There be great Deamhanain everywhere, in every time—in yer time, too,” Aidan said.
Aidan laid his hand on her shoulder. Claire tensed. “Ye ken, lass, ’tis an ancient belief that the devil chose Alba thousands o’ years ago, for he be Lug’s first an’ eldest son. He wanted the power over all the gods that belonged to his father and that quest led him to evil.”
“The fallen angel,” Claire murmured, shifting so he no longer clasped her shoulder.
“They say in the land called Greece that the devil be the son o’ their greatest god, too.”
“Great,” Claire whispered. “There are gods everywhere—and more than one devil.”
He smiled somberly. “Aye. I’ll teach ye how to defend yerself wi’ the blade,” he said quietly. “An’ ye can have the gun ye covet.”
She almost embraced him. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“CUT ME WITH THE BLADE.”
The sun was blazing down on them as they stood in the center of the bailey. A few of Aidan’s men had paused as they passed to watch them train. Claire blinked. “You want me to cut you,” she said.
His smile was arrogant. “I wish to see if ye have any skill, any speed,” he said. “Ye canna cut me, Claire.”
