by Brenda Joyce
Every couple had differences. Arguing because of those differences wasn’t going to bring them closer together. So far, arguing hadn’t accomplished anything positive at all.
Like any couple, modern or not, they were going to have to figure out how to understand each other and compromise.
However, she wasn’t going to blindly obey his orders.
Claire went downstairs and into the great hall. It was early morning and bright light was trying to flood the great room, but unsuccessfully, due to the depth of the numerous windows. Isabel was breaking the fast alone. She smiled at her. “I am so glad that you are up and about,” she said.
Claire smiled back. “Whatever potion they gave me, it kept me weak, tired and in bed, which was the point, I guess. But I feel like myself. Isabel, where is Aidan?”
Isabel started. “He left last night, Claire. He said he had affairs in Paris.”
Claire sat down in sheer dismay. “He left us here—alone?”
“He said he would be back today.”
Her eyes widened but she instantly got it. He was leaping over to Paris and back, never mind the rules—unless, of course, he was hunting evil, in which case he wasn’t breaking any rules. She was about to ask Isabel if she was certain, when Aidan strode into the hall, smiling.
Claire’s eyes widened. He was wearing a cloak that wasn’t remotely a part of the fifteenth century, not even in France, and he was carrying a beautiful gold velvet, gilded rococo chair.
He grinned at them both. “What do ye think?”
Isabel blushed. Claire stood. “You went to France for a chair?”
“Aye.” He set it down next to a table and sofa. “Malcolm owes me the chair but I dinna think he will ever replace it. He can pay me back another way.” He stroked the gilded, intricately carved back. “’Tis a great beauty.”
Claire went to him. “So much for only using your powers to uphold the Code.”
He waved dismissively at her. “Rules, Claire, are made to be broken. What is it yer dyin’ to ask me?”
Claire hesitated, glancing at Isabel.
Aidan walked over to his mistress. He bent, kissed her cheek, murmured to her and she dutifully got up and left the room. Then he faced Claire.
Claire thought about the fact that she actually liked him when he was both a heartbreaker and a chauvinist in the worst way. “Aidan, how can I convince you to take me to Malcolm?”
His eyes widened briefly. “Ye canna.”
She went over to him. “I have to go. Malcolm cannot face Moray alone. This is a battle for his soul. He has to win. You know he must. If he loses, he will be a Deamhan and he will be dead to us. Please.”
“No.” His tone was absolute. “Malcolm has asked me to take ye to the abbey, where ye’ll be safe. Sibylla has gone to court. The court is nay safe, nay with Moray there, thinkin’ to use ye against him. Malcolm has Royce to look after his soul.” His gray eyes had become hard.
“He’s followed Sibylla to court?” Dismay began. “If you take me, I will go with you back to my time and show you more beauty than you have ever seen.” If Aidan had a weak spot, it was his love of beautiful women and beautiful objects. She would take him to the Met, Tiffany’s, Asprey’s…. She could think of a hundred places to go.
His smile was wry. “I can find beauty meself, Claire. Anytime, anyplace.”
Claire took both of his hands in hers. “I am begging you. I am begging you to help me help your brother.”
He shrugged free. “I dinna worry about my brother,” he said.
That was a lie. Claire felt it. She stared, thinking about the fact that Malcolm seemed to hate Aidan and vice versa. But in the past few days, the brothers had become civil and they had been allies. Malcolm, Claire knew, remained distrustful, but Aidan had tried to heal him, then had locked him up for his own good. And he had tried to heal her. He had been nothing but helpful since they had come to Awe. And why?
Claire suddenly had a terrible inkling. His mother had abandoned him at birth. Moray he despised—and possibly feared. He had some kind of relationship with Royce, but they were not related. His wife was dead. His only personal adult and familial relationship seemed to be with Isabel, and Claire knew that was a fling. Malcolm, however, was his half brother.
Aidan needed Malcolm.
“What would you do if Malcolm admitted you were his brother, if he treated you like his brother, if he came to care for you as a brother?” she asked softly.
He paled, then a flush of anger began. “Treachery, Claire?” he asked coldly.
She had struck a nerve. “The two of you should be great friends!” she cried. “You are as much a victim as Malcolm of what Moray did to your mother!”
Aidan was furious, his eyes blazing. “Ye go too far,” he warned. He turned away.
Claire seized his arm. “No. Take me to Malcolm and I swear on my mother’s grave, I will make him see that you are his greatest ally! Aidan, I like you, even though I do not care for philandering men. You are a good and, at times, kind man, and I will make Malcolm see that.”
His face remained flushed, his eyes glittered. “I dinna care if we be friends or brothers or not.”
“That is such a lie!”
He shook his head.
“You need Malcolm and he needs you, now more than ever,” Claire tried passionately.
He flung his hands up, the fur-lined cloak flying back like wings. “He doesna want my help.”
“But I can change that—I want to change that.” She meant it. “When I go home, I want Malcolm to have you in his life as a brother, an ally, a friend. For God’s sake, it’s a dangerous world. The two of you should stand together.”
He appeared distressed now and more grim than she had ever seen him. “I’ll take ye,” he finally said. “But ye dinna breathe one word o’ our negotiation to Malcolm.”
Claire gasped. He would take her. Somehow she would fulfill her part of the bargain. “When do we go?”
He shrugged. “Anytime.”
“Now?”
“If ye wish.”
“I need to get my gun and dagger.” Claire impulsively kissed his cheek and raced upstairs. The sooner she got to court and was reunited with Malcolm, the better. Because Moray was there—and so was Sibylla. She seized her weapons and securely tucked them in her belt.
Turning to leave, she faltered.
Claire whirled to stare at the wildflowers.
The flowers in the vase remained dead. But the pink flower she had removed from the bunch lay on its side at the base of the vase—in full bloom.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LINLITHGOW MANOR HAD BURNED to the ground several years earlier in a fire that had also destroyed the burgh, but King James had built a magnificent palace in its place. Malcolm stood with Royce in the large courtyard, their mounts left behind in the stables on the other side of the small loch just beyond the castle’s red-brown walls. Three four-story ranges with ramparts enclosed the courtyard, while the main part of the palace was five stories high, a grand tower in its midst. Other towers were on the corners of the walls. Courtiers and servants were coming and going as Malcolm glanced cautiously around. He’d been to Linlithgow when it was but a manor. The new stronghold was imposing, but instead of being impressed, he had a distinct feeling of unease.
“Have ye been here afore?” Malcolm asked quietly as they crossed the courtyard, a pair of departing noblewomen smiling at them as they did so.
“Six months ago,” Royce said. He turned to look after the redhead. “Ye know I hate the intrigue o’ court.”
Malcolm almost smiled. “But nay the intrigue o’ the wives.”
Royce smiled grudgingly.
A ranking steward met them as they entered a vast hall, the far wall consisting entirely of hearths. A hundred lords and ladies mingled, many of them awaiting an audience with the king or queen. Malcolm recognized every Highland chieftain in the great room. He did not see the earl of Moray, but he felt his dark presence and
knew he was at court.
He was very glad he had not brought Claire with him, he thought. She did not need political intrigue, royal treachery and demonic conspiracy heaped upon her plate. But his heart hurt when he thought of her. He had been trying not to do so. He had begun to understand why she called sex “making love.” He cared deeply for her when he did not want to, and his feelings had been inextricably entwined with his desire the other day. Thinking about it made him uncomfortable and uncertain. He had to gain control of his affection. He must think of her as another Glenna—a pleasing mistress to use and eventually tire of and send away.
Except, he had no interest in her leaving. Even from the first moment of their meeting, he’d wondered if she might stay in his time with him. But she had made her intentions clear. MacNeil had seen the future, too, corroborating that her will would prevail over his. By the gods, it was shocking.
And he could not even use her as he would a mistress. He had wanted to hold her and touch her as they mated, yet his desire had turned to demonic lust in moments. When his excitement had begun to escalate out of control, the beast had leaped from its lair to take her life.
Except, oddly, he had not touched her life—he had touched and felt her soul.
It had been as beautiful and desirable as she was. He could not understand what had really happened, but it had been different from that time in the tower—blinding in pleasure, but somehow different.
Royce clasped his shoulder. “Yer at court. Ye wish fer passion, pick an’ choose, but forget Lady Claire. The redhead in the courtyard was pretty enough.”
Malcolm smiled tightly at him. He wished he could do just that. “She was inviting ye to her bed.”
And suddenly Malcolm felt evil approaching. He turned, tension vibrating within him.
“Surely you will not be faithful to Lady Claire?” Moray said, the tone laced with amusement.
Malcolm tensed. Had Moray read his thoughts?
“You’ve healed well,” Moray murmured. “And I take it yer beautiful mistress has also survived Sibylla’s inopportune attack?”
“I am going t’kill Sibylla,” Malcolm said. “Ye should ha’ kept yer bitch leashed.”
Moray shrugged. “And I will replace her,” he said indifferently, “but that you already know.”
“Ye keep yerself leashed,” Malcolm warned, filled with hatred. “Ye stay away from Lady Claire. Ye’ll not use her against me. I warn ye now. For if ye touch her, ye will face such a war as never afore. I dinna care what the royals command.”
“Such treasonous speech,” Moray murmured. “And how can I manage such an impossible feat when she is so…hot beneath a man?” Moray laughed, teeth flashing.
Malcolm moved to strike Moray but Royce held him back. Malcolm flung him off.
“Aye,” Moray said, smiling. “I know her passion. I know it very well.”
Malcolm stared, filled with dread. Had Moray spied on them in their most private moments? Or had he lurked in their minds, his favorite means of gathering his intelligence? For that was how the devil’s own knew everything he wished to know.
Then Moray’s smile was gone. “I am impressed, Malcolm, with your determination to deny your lust for such a woman. Have no fear. I will happily make up for your neglect. If you do not want to taste her impressive power, I do. If I cannot turn you, I will simply destroy you as I did Brogan, while she begs me for more, just as your mother did.” His eyes hard, he left.
Malcolm was shaking in rage. Sick fear spoiled his anger. He had never been more afraid for Claire.
Royce took his arm. “He taunts ye apurpose! And dinna think o’ Mairead now! Dinna think o’ Claire!”
“He means his every word! And damn it, he be right. He could nay turn Brogan, but he destroyed their marriage and to this day, my mother suffers! Now, if he doesna turn me, he will attempt t’ use Claire and destroy her.” And for the first time in his life, Malcolm felt despair. He felt trapped and impotent, shocking feelings, feelings he hated. “All I wish t’ do is protect her from evil. Instead, my every action brings her closer to its shadow and its strangling hold.”
“Ye made the mistake o’ allowing yerself to love her,” Royce said grimly. He pulled him to a corner of the hall. “I dinna expect ye to change yer heart. I ken ye will love her till ye die.”
“I swore to protect her, Royce,” Malcolm said grimly. “Wanting her an’ protecting her are nay love. Ye made the mistake o’ lovin’ yer wife an’ look at yer life, hundreds o’ years later! I willna be such a fool.”
Royce shook his head, clearly not convinced or impressed. “I expect ye to stand true to the Code and God. Ye need to start praying, and not just to Christ. The old gods will awaken an’ listen if ye mean it.”
This was a subject he could manage. “I’ve already started praying,” Malcolm said. “I’ve prayed fer strength in my soul to control what I dearly want to unleash.”
“Ye have controlled the evil. Ye won. Ye beat Moray. It will get easier in time. And Moray will hunt another.”
“In how much time?” Malcolm exclaimed. “How long does it take to find control, real control o’ the dark?”
“Yer too young,” Royce said, shaking his head. “An’ no leap can change yer real age. The control comes with time. All young Masters want Le Puissance. Ye’ll grow stronger, it will be easier to ferget it. Ye need to avoid Claire. Take a different wench to bed, a woman who willna tempt ye to stray.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I dinna wish to bed another maid! I wish to bed Claire! You’re over eight hundred years old! I’m twenty-seven! I canna wait eight centuries to love Claire properly.” The moment he realized his choice of words, he felt his cheeks heat. He did not want to love Claire, ever—he merely wished to pleasure her.
Royce sighed. “I meant what I said earlier. Ye need to stay away from her, not others, as she is yer temptation. I am pleased ye left her at Awe.”
“I dinna ken how long I can stay away from her.”
“Ye fight yer lust. Ye fight it like ye fight Moray. The lust is Moray,” Royce flashed. “An when ye ken that truth, ye’ll win.”
Royce was wrong. The lust was evil only when it became a raging beast that wished for more power than any man or Master should ever claim. Because briefly, when Claire had been recovering from Sibylla’s attack, there had been desire that had nothing to do with evil. There had been desire that had come from the heart. “Ruari, have you ever felt a woman’s soul?”
Royce was surprised. “What in God’s name are ye speakin’ of?”
Malcolm felt himself blush, and avoided his uncle’s penetrating gaze. “Never ye mind.”
Royce clasped his shoulder. “When I said pray to the Ancients, I meant it. ’Tis a god who will give ye the power to stay holy, Malcolm.”
Royce was right. He had been steeped in religion from the day of his birth. When Brogan had died on the battlefield, some of his faith had wavered. Maybe it should have strengthened that day, instead. He was glad he had started praying to the Ancients again.
The only problem was that the gods could be capricious.
THE PAIN WAS TERRIBLE. Even though Aidan had given her a potion to withstand it more easily, Claire wept, vaguely aware of being in Aidan’s strong arms. He did not speak as her body tried to explode from the force of leaping time. Every bone felt broken; every limb felt wrenched out of its socket. Even her hair hurt.
But the agony lessened rapidly. Claire became cognizant of the fact that not only were Aidan’s arms around her, she had her face pressed to the wool of his brat, against his chest, which rose and fell softly and steadily.
“Ye be better now?” he asked hoarsely.
She couldn’t quite speak. She took a deep breath, flexing her fingers, wishing he would get up and put some distance between them. She had just become aware of a tension in him she could not help but recognize. It was desire.
Aidan released her, standing. The color was returning to his face.
Claire b
linked and met his too-bright, very warm silver gaze. “What…was that?”
His smile was wry. “I only hold a woman when I’m about to bed her, Claire. I canna help it if my body was expectin’ more.”
“Jerk.” She didn’t quite feel capable of standing just yet. She saw that they had landed just outside Linlithgow Palace itself, but inside the outer bailey. She was seated on damp, soft grass. From their elevated position, she could see the small, perfectly blue loch below, where swans drifted, and the dozen riders crossing the bridge that spanned it, heraldic banners waving above them, apparently on their way to the palace. She looked above her and saw guards standing on the highest ramparts of the two towers facing the palace entryway, and then she glanced back, where more guards paced the ramparts between the corner towers. Her heart flipped over hard. Malcolm was inside—and so was Moray. She knew it with every fiber of her being.
Aidan extended his hand.
Still angry for his daring to become aroused by her, she ignored it and stood up. “Father Paul’s potion really helped manage the torment of the leap,” she said. “Do you take it, too?” He hadn’t made a sound.
“I be a man. I dinna need potions fer pain. I suffer the pain.” He shrugged.
“Right, as if a woman could forget how macho you are.”
He seemed amused. “If ye stop thinkin’ about my body, ye’ll stop being so angry. But I don’t think it’s me yer angry with.”
“Like hell. Don’t even begin to think I’m one bit attracted to you. You cannot compare to Malcolm, not in any way.”
He flushed and gestured at the court entrance.
Claire regretted her words. After all, she owed Aidan for being at court now, and he probably couldn’t help his oversexed nature. Worse, he was the son of all evil and Malcolm was the son of a great Master. “I’m sorry. You are a lot like Malcolm, actually,” she began.
