by Brenda Joyce
He held on as tightly.
She couldn’t speak. She had never loved anyone this way and she never would. He didn’t speak, either, holding her so tightly it was hard to breathe. Thank the gods yer all right.
Claire looked up. “Moray abducted me from our chamber at court.”
“Aye. I ken. How did ye escape, Claire?” His eyes were wide and worried.
“Malcolm, I leaped out of a tower. I should have died. I didn’t.” She touched his face. “Ironheart is my father.”
Malcolm actually gasped. “He told ye that? How can ye trust a word from the Deamhan’s tongue?”
“He told me, and I know it’s true.” She suddenly stiffened, shivering from the cold, which had intensified. Fear began. “We need to get out of here, please, now. Let’s leap to the Sanctuary.”
Malcolm eased his hold on her, his gaze not on her but beyond.
Claire whirled and saw a hundred knights above on the northwestern ridge to their right. And then she saw one man riding across the field. Moray slowly approached.
“Malcolm!”
His eyes burned with the need for vengeance and destruction, for death. He had eyes only for the demon. “Give me yer hand. I will send ye back alone.”
Horror began. “You cannot defeat him!”
“Give me yer hand,” he ordered as Moray rode past the first stones, looking very pleased. “Ye go to the Sanctuary. I failed to avenge Mairead and Brogan, Now, I avenge ye all.”
He was going to die. He knew it and didn’t care. He was determined to take Moray with him, somehow.
She did not give him her hand.
He briefly turned an incredulous gaze on her. “Claire. Ye gave me yer word. Ye swore to obey me in battle.”
“I know. But I can’t let you face him alone.”
“I want ye to live!” Malcolm cried, seizing her hand.
Claire steeled herself against him.
“A lover’s quarrel?” Moray asked softly. “Hallo a Chaluim. Has she told ye what I intend?”
Malcolm faced Moray, moving to stand in front of Claire. “Get off o’ yer horse.”
Moray dismounted, laughing.
“Malcolm, please, leap away with me!” Claire begged.
He ignored her, unsheathing his longsword. Moray slid his blade free, as well. And Claire felt the blast of his power as she stood right behind Malcolm. Malcolm was shoved back a dozen steps, as she was. It was like being thrown back by a tornado.
Malcolm recovered. “A Bhrogain!” But he spoke softly, and he did not move.
Moray grunted, being forced three steps back. His eyes gleamed red. “You can’t match my power, Calum.”
“Nay?” Malcolm strode forward, sword raised.
Claire cut off her cry as Moray easily parried the blow. As the swords rang, she looked around for a weapon. She found a jagged stone with a point that she intended to be lethal. The swords rang again and then again. Claire tensed, because from Malcolm’s expression, she saw that he was using all of his strength to battle Moray. His face was drawn into a hundred lines, his arms and legs bulged with muscle, and sweat drenched his body. The demon was fighting back, using great effort, but Malcolm’s power was still less than Moray’s.
Claire dropped her stone. Thinking to use it was absurd. She looked at Moray and tried to focus any power she might have on him like a dagger, into his back.
Moray grunted, meeting another vicious thrust of Malcolm’s blade. He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes wide.
Claire tried to stab him telepathically again.
He dealt Malcolm a terrible blow, one that cut into his shoulder, spewing blood. Before Claire could gasp, Moray glanced at her and snarled, “You’ll pay.”
“A Mhairead,” Malcolm said, and with his shortsword in his left hand, he cut across Moray’s chest.
Blood gushed.
Enraged, Moray cried out and Malcolm staggered backward from an energy blow. Then he quickly straightened, viciously parrying Moray’s pointed thrust.
Claire felt someone behind her. She looked up in alarm…and went still.
Only a ghostlike outline of a transparent figure was there, hovering a few feet from her, but this time, the figure was distinctly female.
And the woman materialized, becoming a dark beauty in white, flowing, almost Grecian robes. She spoke in Gaelic. Claire understood her every word.
“The son shall avenge the father, the daughter, the mother, for the two are blessed. It has been written.”
The light shifted.
The goddess vanished.
The circle of stones blazed with blinding light.
Malcolm and Moray were braced liked horned stags, both of them bleeding heavily. As one, both men looked at the sky, startled.
The sun was gone and the sky remained dull and gray, except in the circle, which was filled with golden, shimmering light.
Moray’s expression changed to surprise and then fear.
“A Chlaire,” Malcolm said, and with his left hand he seized his shortsword and thrust across Moray’s neck.
Claire cried out.
Moray’s head fell, severed, to the ground.
For one more moment, the halo of light intensifying, the headless body remained engaged against Malcolm, long-swords braced. Malcolm plunged the shortsword daggerlike into Moray’s heart. He twisted it viciously there.
Claire covered her mouth with her hands. Malcolm pulled the blade from Moray’s chest and the bloody body collapsed. Stunned, Claire glanced at Moray’s head.
Moray smiled tightly at her the moment before his head vanished.
His body disappeared an instant later. Her mother’s necklace lay in the damp, bloody grass.
Malcolm sheathed both swords and strode to her. She seized his arms. “What was that? What happened?” Even as she spoke, the light dulled rapidly, until only the inclement day remained.
His face hard, he put his arm around her. “I think ye have caught the ear o’ the Ancients, Claire.” He slowly looked around, as if expecting Moray to appear from thin air. Then he bent to retrieve the necklace.
“Malcolm, is he dead?”
“If he’s nay dead, he’ll never die.” He sighed and pulled her close. “Let’s go home, lass.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
CLAIRE LAY in a very hot bath, the water up to her chin and ears, eyes closed. They had just returned to Dunroch and she was in Malcolm’s chamber. There had been no question of where she would go and where she would sleep, not now. Moray was probably dead—vanquished at Malcolm’s hands, with her help and some very holy help, too. In spite of the heat, Claire shivered.
I have many guises.
She bet he did. She just hoped not to ever encounter that particular guise again. Claire turned her thoughts away from the master of all that was dark, ugly, demonic and evil. Malcolm was a great hero. He had finally avenged Mairead and Brogan and she was thrilled for him. But it had been written.
The goddess had said so. When she had told Malcolm about the brunette goddess, who Claire assumed had been Faola, he hadn’t seemed surprised. But then, the gods worked in mysterious ways. Claire smiled.
It had been fated that they’d deliver the bastard together. Well, that’s what they’d done, and she had a bit of a telepathic warrior power herself. Her smile faded.
She was Ironheart’s daughter.
Her heart raced. Had he intended to ever tell her? What should she do? She had to speak with him at length before she went home. Did he care about her? And how had she been born? Masters apparently were adept at birth control. What about her mother? Had he loved her at all?
When she went home.
Claire opened her eyes and saw the roaring fire. Through one window, the moon was high and full and bright in the Highland universe, alight with so many stars. She looked at the pleasant, if sparsely furnished, stone chamber, and then at the four-poster bed. Her body tensed, swelling with anticipation. Very soon, Malcolm was going to take her to bed. She could not wait to be
in his arms, using her body to tell him just how much she loved him. And afterward they could cuddle, argue, chat.
She didn’t want to leave.
Claire sat up, stunned. The chamber was absolutely silent except for the soft sound of her breathing, the flames licking wood, and from outside, an owl’s deep hooting. She didn’t miss anything about the twenty-first century or New York City. She didn’t miss Ben & Jerry’s, Favio’s thin-crust pizza, electric lights and running water, smog and rush hour, shopping in Soho or Colin Farrell movies. She didn’t even miss her books.
But she missed Amy and the kids.
She loved them with all of her heart, even John, and she sure as hell missed them.
But she really, truly loved Malcolm of Dunroch, a medieval warrior who belonged to the Brotherhood. A Master of Time.
Claire became afraid. There were a million reasons why she shouldn’t stay with him. She loved him, but so what? He didn’t love her back, although he clearly cared. They’d exchanged vows of fidelity, but how long would those vows last? Supersexed as he was, how long before someone younger, prettier and new caught his eye? As arrogant and autocratic as he was, he could be surprisingly open-minded, but he was still a product of his times. If she stayed, she was going to be so badly brokenhearted, she’d want to die.
Of course, if they married, it would be different. Claire knew he’d be faithful until he died. Malcolm was a man of his word.
She wished she hadn’t stupidly thought about marriage and Malcolm in the same breath. It was impossible. Secretly, like a pitiful, unliberated female, she’d love to swear to love him until death, but he had said he would never wed. And she knew why. A wife would be his downfall. He cared about her and they had just gone through hell, because his relationship with her made him vulnerable to his enemies.
So marriage was out. Staying behind in the past was out. She would never forget Royce’s words on the way to Awe. If ye truly love him, when it’s time, ye’ll go.
She loved him as much as was humanly possible.
And could she ever sleep at night, worrying about Amy and the kids? They needed her. She understood the world of good versus evil. They deserved long, healthy lives, demon free. She had a major familial duty to them.
She was going to have to leave, soon…really soon. There was no reason to linger. Moray was gone and the page from the Cladich had been found. As for the Cladich itself, well, it had been missing for hundreds of years. It might never be found.
The door opened and Malcolm stepped inside, smiling. “We have guests,” he said, and as their eyes met, his smile vanished.
There was only one reason to linger, she thought, her heart beginning to break apart. Claire knew her thoughts were written all over her face, her grief reflected in her eyes. She managed a bright, fake smile.
His expression became utterly impassive. She hated it when he hid his thoughts. “It’s the black of night,” she remarked. “Who would arrive at this hour?”
“’Tis a half day by sea from Lachlan.”
Claire sat up, stunned. “Ironheart is here?”
“He said he’ll see ye when yer ready.” His tone had become as wooden as his face. Malcolm picked up a thick wool plaid and stepped over to the tub.
Claire stood and he settled the towel around her from behind, his strong arms going around her, as well. She turned in the circle of his arms so they stood face-to-face. He released her. His gaze was searching and grim.
“Yer leaving me,” he said.
She inhaled. “How can I stay?”
He stiffened. She could not read his feelings, and she strained to lurk in his mind. It was blank. “Don’t block me,” she said softly.
“I’ll be in the hall with yer father.” He turned and walked out.
IT TOOK CLAIRE a while to dry her hair before the fire. As upset as she was about leaving Malcolm, she was apprehensive about seeing the man who was her biological father. Had she ever seen an expression on his face other than determination, resolve, ambition? He reminded her of a career general. When her hair was almost dry, she went into the hall, her heart scudding with the fear of rejection and some anger that he had left her and her mother to fend for themselves.
She realized they had quite a bit of company. Malcolm was brooding with a mug of claret. Ironheart sat across from him, his face expressionless. MacNeil sat there, as well, the only man in an apparent good humor. Claire was very surprised to see him.
MacNeil was first to leap to his feet, green eyes twinkling, dimples deep. “Hallo a Chlaire.”
“Hallo a Niall. Ciamar a tha sibh?”
His eyes brightened as he strode to her and clasped her hands. “Very well, lass. Ye’ve had quite a day.”
Claire glanced past him, unable to return his smile.
“Fer a powerful woman who helped vanquish Moray, ye dinna seem all that pleased.”
She jerked to face MacNeil. “Did we vanquish Moray?”
He hesitated. “Only the Ancients ken, Claire. But ye seem to have earned their favor. Ye have Faola’s protection now.”
He had all of her attention. “Was that her?”
“Aye, she was there. She allowed me a glimpse o’ the battle in my crystal stone.”
She noticed what he was showing her, a chunk of milky quartz set in gold arms, which he wore on a gold chain around his neck, beneath his leine. The stone was the size of an apricot. “Is that your crystal ball?”
“When I’m allowed to see,” he said with a grin. “I never ken.”
She had to know. “Does Malcolm have her protection, too?”
“I dinna ken, but even if Moray comes back, he will never hunt him again, not after what Malcolm has done. I’ve known the Deamhan fer a thousand years. He hunts what is easy. He be a coward at heart, Claire.”
“Why was it written that we’d defeat Moray together?”
“Ye ask me? I dinna ken the Ancients’ plans fer the future, lass.” His smile broadened. He was clearly in great spirits. “I’m proud o’ yer lord. He’s the youngest o’ us all an’ he defeated Moray, with yer help. Malcolm has proven himself a great Master, hundreds o’ years ahead o’ the time fer such proof.” He said softly, to Malcolm, “Calum Leomhaiin.”
Claire looked at Malcolm. He held her gaze for a moment and she didn’t have to read his mind to know he was more than upset—he was hurt. She was hurting him now. “I’m so proud of him, too.” She tore her gaze from Malcolm. “What did you just call Malcolm?”
“The Lion, lass. Malcolm the Lion.”
He had earned the name, she thought, feeling her heart crack open even as pride swelled.
“I be proud o’ ye, too. Claire, yer brave an’ cunning, an’ ye have power. Ye be the daughter o’ Ironheart in every way.”
“How long have you known?”
“I didna ken, but I had my suspicions.”
“MacNeil, what about my powers? How did I prevent myself from dying in that leap from Tor? Did I make myself invisible when Moray’s hordes were searching for me? Do I have healing powers? What does that make me?”
“Yer Ironheart’s daughter.” MacNeil was firm. “I dinna ken why the Ancients gave ye some gifts, but yer not alone in this world. There be thousands of men an’ women born to Masters who have some power, but not the powers a Master must have before takin’ his vows. Every Master is different, Claire. We all have the power o’ takin’ life and leapin’ time. We all have the strength o’ ten mortal men. No man is chosen to make his vows otherwise. Ye haven’t been chosen, an’ ye won’t be—there be no women Masters—but ye do have gifts. Say yer thanks fer them.”
Claire got it. She’d have to figure out her powers, day by day. At least she would have some supernatural stuff going on to help her when she got home.
He clasped her shoulder. “I came to say farewell.”
For one dumb moment, Claire thought he was going somewhere. Then she realized and she inhaled, turning to look at Malcolm.
“I ken yer leavin’
in the morn,” MacNeil said. “Ye have the Ancients with ye, lass. Make certain ye dinna forsake them. Ye’ll be fine.”
Before Claire could thank him, he smiled, released her and vanished.
She heard the bench scraping the floor and she stiffened, turning.
Ironheart approached.
With a nod from Malcolm, they went into his privy chamber, closing the door. Claire walked to the other side of the small room, then faced him. Now she recognized the red glints in his hair. She was a natural redhead, but her hair was a dark and deep auburn, and so were the streaks in his hair. And she recognized his eyes. They were a vivid spring green, like hers.
He seemed uneasy and it was startling. “Ye have questions. I heard ye an’ I came.”
“You lurked?” She was instantly displeased.
“Nay, Claire. Ye’ve been summonin’ me even if ye didna ken.”
“When did you realize I’m your daughter? And why didn’t you tell me? Surely you haven’t known my entire life!”
He jerked. “I had no idea! Do ye think I’d abandon the mother o’ my daughter that way? I have no other children, Claire.”
Claire stared. “How is it possible? You’ve lived for hundreds of years.”
“I stand alone, Claire, an’ I’ll die alone. I made vows.”
That was tragic and heroic. His life was the Brotherhood. “I was a mistake.”
He hesitated. “Aye.”
Claire already felt rejected. She shook her head, incapable of speech, even though she wanted to know more about him and her mother. But what more was there to know? Mom had said it was a single night of passion.
His hand settled on her shoulder. “Yer a miracle, Claire,” he said harshly. “I never dreamed to have a child, an’ here I have a grown daughter, fearless, clever and beautiful.”
She whirled, stunned.
Moisture had gathered in his eyes. “Ye look like yer mother,” he said, turning away.
Claire knew he had lost his composure and she thought he had probably not done so in hundreds of years, if ever. “You cared about her?”
He tensed. “Aye. I was in yer time, huntin’. I had followed a Deamhan there. Yer mother was on the street, struggling to carry a heavy box upstairs to her apartment. She was ‘moving in,’ as she called it. Men were passing by, looking at her because she was so pleasing t’ the eye, but no one was helping her. Not only was she beautiful, she was wearing the shortest skirt I’d ever seen. I didna think twice. I took the box from her, and she was offerin’ me coffee.” He smiled. “Suddenly, I was moving a hundred boxes—and yer mother was makin’ me smile. Did ye ken she had a clever wit?”
