by Brenda Joyce
“Mom liked to joke,” Claire whispered. The story was beautiful.
“I had a Deamhan to chase. Instead, I helped yer mother open boxes an’ then I was tryin’ to fix her lights.” He looked as if he might laugh. “I ken nothin’ about electricity, Claire. Yer mother thought me a fool.”
Claire actually smiled. “I doubt it.”
His smile faded. “I wanted her. She wanted me. One night wasn’t enough.”
Claire stared. “How many nights were there?”
“Seven.”
Her mother had lied. “Did you love her?”
He flushed. “I didna ken. I have one mistress, Claire. My vows.” He sobered. “I told her after the first night that I had taken sacred vows, vows she wouldna ken, vows that required me to leave her. I didna lie. I made no promises, an’ the leaving was sad.” He paced across the room restlessly. “She didna weep. I gave her my stone, to keep her safe.” He met her gaze. “When I saw ye wearin’ the stone, for one moment, I thought ye were Jan. ’Twas a trick o’ my mind. And then I felt the truth.”
Claire wondered how much her mother had really known about her lover. “She loved you,” Claire said thickly. “She never said so. She didn’t have to. And she never took the stone off.”
“Can ye forgive me, Claire, fer not protectin’ ye both?”
“Of course I can,” Claire said. “You didn’t know.”
A moment passed. “What will ye do now? Ye love Malcolm, but he’s a Master. He be displeased t’ night an’ saddened deeply.”
Claire’s heart ached. “I have family at home—my cousin, her two kids. Who will protect them if I don’t?” She added hoarsely, “And I make Malcolm weak.”
“’Tis yer duty to defend yer kin. But Claire? Ye made Malcolm strong t’ day.” He smiled at her. “If ye need me, ye summon me. I’ll hear.”
CLAIRE RETURNED to the hall and found it empty. Her father had gone outside for some air. Claire knew he was traveling down memory lane and that he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. She hesitated, desperately wanting to be with Malcolm now. She hated the look she’d put in his eyes and on his face. She hated hurting him, but there wasn’t any other choice.
She hurried up the stairs. The door to the chamber was open and Malcolm sat before the hearth, staring into the flames. The moment she came to the door, he looked up, smiling sadly. He stood. “Did ye have a pleasin’conversation with yer father?”
Claire nodded. “I can’t stand seeing you so sad,” she whispered.
“Then dinna leave.”
Claire wanted to cry. If ye love him, if ye truly do, ye’ll leave when it’s time. “I have a duty, Malcolm, just like you.”
“Then stay a year—I’ll teach ye t’ fight. Ye need skills, Claire,” he said urgently.
If she stayed a year, she’d never leave. “When I was on Iona, speaking privately to MacNeil, I asked about the future. He said I’d succeed.”
Malcolm inhaled. Their gazes held, locked. She heard his heart beating, slow but strong.
“I want to make love to ye, Claire.”
Claire cried out. He was telling her that he loved her, damn it. “That’s not fair.”
He walked over to her, his gray eyes reflecting anguish. “Ye’ve wanted me to say it fer some time now. I want to make love. I want to show ye how I feel with me body, in bed.”
Claire couldn’t speak. Malcolm loved her. He was wrapping her in his arms and she grasped his shoulders, laying her cheek on his strong chest. His mouth moved over her hair, her ear, slowly, softly, sweetly. She shuddered, the sorrow easing, her hurting heart racing with far different feelings instead. He cupped her face and tilted it up. That tenderness shimmered in his eyes.
Claire realized she was starting to cry. He lowered his face and brushed his mouth against hers.
Love vibrated in the caress of lips. His tongue finally touched the seam. “Open,” he whispered. “Let me fill ye, lass, all o’ ye.”
Claire wanted nothing more and she opened her mouth for him, releasing the muscles of her thighs, too. His tongue swept in, slow and soft. He bent his knees and his engorged penis swept up against the length of her sex.
He unpinned the brooch and tossed her brat aside. Her leine quickly followed. Claire was wearing only the fifteenth-century drawers. Briefly, he cupped her through the slit, gazing into her eyes. The light of his grief was still there, but she saw silver heat rising. As he slid them down, she stepped awkwardly out of her boots, looking from his strong, scarred hand up to his strained, scarred face. Desire, affection, even love were mirrored there, in every taut tendon, every angle, and in his beautiful gray eyes.
He sank to his knees and spread her throbbing lips, gently easing his tongue against her. Claire gasped, all of her anguish vanishing. There was no room now in her mind for thought. There was only need and the promise of so much pleasure. There was only love.
She wasn’t sure if it was hers—or his.
HE HAD NEVER known such intense feeling—joy, despair, affection, loyalty, love—and he knew he never would again. He lifted Claire and carried her to the bed, overcome with far more than desire. He could not find the beast he’d left chained in his chest. It felt as if it was gone forever.
But hadn’t he heard someone say, once, that love healed all wounds?
“Hurry,” Claire breathed. Her eyes were hot and bright.
Malcolm stripped off his belt and leine. “Ye said ye want me slow. I want to take ye slow, Claire, too.” It was the truth. Although he was so engorged he was close to coming, he wanted to worship her body for an eternity, if she would only stay.
“I lied,” she managed to say, restlessly shifting for him in an ageless invitation. “I want you hot and hard, and I want you now.”
A savage sense of elation began. He straddled her and clasped her hair behind her nape. “Yer so strong an’ so beautiful…an’ ye belong to me, Claire,” he said flatly. “An’ dinna think to argue now!”
Her response stunned him. “I’ll always belong to you,” Claire said thickly. Tears filled her eyes. He lurked easily and was pleased, because she meant it. “I’m glad you’re a chauvinist,” she whispered.
“Yer glad I’m a powerful man,” he returned, and the bargain done, he slowly filled her, inch by orgasmic inch, refusing to thrust quickly or deeply.
And Claire was coming before he was done.
He held her in his arms, murmuring in her ear, stroking long and slow and deep. As they made love, his excitement escalated, and as he started to reach for her, just to stroke her soul, he began to realize the black beast was truly gone. Deep inside, he touched her power, her essence, her life. There was so much beauty. All thought vanished, except for one. I love ye, lass.
I love you, Claire tried to gasp. She wept in pleasure and joy, instead.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Malcolm moved onto his back, apart from her. Claire lay beside him, completely sated, smiling at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. She was so deeply in love she was floating.
And then she felt his sorrow returning, a huge and heavy cloud.
A dozen cracks radiated through her heart. After so much love, there was so much pain.
Are ye really leavin’me?
Coherent thought returned, along with her awareness of what they had just done.
They had made love. No demonic desire had arisen, either.
Claire moved to her side and laid her cheek on his chest, her hand on his abdomen, not far from where his beautiful manhood lay resting. Malcolm had just made love to her. She did not have any doubts. His every touch, every kiss, every stroke, had been filled with feeling and emotion. But there had been even more. She had felt as if they had been joined on a plane that was not physical. She pressed her lips to his skin in a kiss, her heart finally breaking in two.
He sat up abruptly.
Claire sat up, too, her chest aching.
He glanced at her, stricken, and slid from the bed. In that moment, she felt him closing to her.
Claire panicked as he walked over to the hearth. He leaned heavily on the mantel.
She listened for him and heard silence.
Claire got up. “I can stay a few days. Maybe a week!”
He didn’t look at her. “I’ll never forsake ye fer another. But yer right. A Master stands alone. ’Tis best.”
She choked on a sob. “Who will hold you in the dark of the night?”
He half turned. “I need no one.”
Claire thought, You need me.
“Nay, lass. Ye have a duty to yer kin. If ye willna protect them, provide fer them, who will?”
Claire swallowed, her ability to breathe failing. Heartbreak consumed her. “I think I fell in love with you my very first night in your time, that night at Carrick. I love you, Malcolm, and I always will. There will never be anyone else.”
He straightened and slowly turned.
Claire winced, because her words had brought tears to his eyes which he would never shed. Could she really do this? How could she leave this man?
How could she stay?
“I ken. Ye be an independent woman, an’ in yer time women fight their own battles an’ they be lairds. Ye be laird o’ yer clan, Claire.” His gaze found hers.
Claire nodded, crying. “There’s no one else.”
His nostrils flared. His nose was red. He stared, his eyes shining now. “I willna take ye back. Ironheart will do so.” He struggled to speak. “If ye need me, summon me.” He breathed hard. She had never seen him more stricken. “I’ll come.”
He released the mantel and took a brat from the pegs on the wall. He walked out, wrapping it around his waist as he did so.
Claire realized that he had just said goodbye to her. She panicked and ran after him. “Malcolm, wait!” It could not end like this. She needed to hold him one last time!
But he was striding up the stairs to the ramparts, his posture stiff and set against her.
And she knew he wasn’t going to halt or turn back. He had said his farewell.
It was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
New York City—The Present
CLAIRE LANDED in her kitchen, alone. She fought to swim through the pain of the leap through six centuries, willing a swift healing. Claire had no idea if her determination had worked, but when she finally sat up, still breathless but in one piece, she instantly realized that her store was a crime scene. Do Not Cross police lines were taped everywhere.
She was sore from the leap and her head ached, but nothing could compare to the agony of her broken heart. Claire realized she was still devastated over losing Malcolm—it was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. She slowly stood up, wearing not only her city clothes but her leine and brat. Ironheart had sent her back to her time by herself, a power he had apparently perfected.
She walked over to the small TV on the kitchen counter and flicked it on. Disbelieving, she learned it was August 5. She had left Dunroch on August 5, too, just five hundred and eighty years earlier.
She walked to the wall calendar, finding a Kleenex to wipe her eyes. She had been gone for fifteen days. She had to call Amy and her aunt. She had to call the police. Her disappearance was probably more of a priority than the investigation into the burglary she had reported. Focusing on what she had to do now might help her get through the grief.
Fifteen days. It felt like fifteen hundred years—it felt like fifteen lifetimes.
Claire didn’t go to the phone. She walked into her office, hitting the lights, and sat down, but her laptop was gone. Rage began.
She had to research the fifteenth century. She had to learn what had happened to Malcolm after she had left him.
But the police had confiscated the computer. Some of Claire’s fury had eased. What was she going to tell them, exactly?
Claire reached for her office phone and dialed her cousin. Amy answered, her tone dull and depressed.
“Hey, it’s me. Don’t be mad—I’m fine!”
“Claire, where are you?” Amy choked.
“I’m home. Can you come over? And bring your laptop.”
“Where have you been?” Amy was in tears.
“Scotland.”
“We thought you were abducted. We were afraid you were dead—like Lorie!” Amy gasped.
Claire hesitated. “I was abducted, sort of. But I’m not dead. I’m very much alive. Hey, Aim? I’m sorry.”
FIVE HOURS LATER, Claire was allowed to leave the local precinct. She knew she had been deemed certifiable. Amy and John were with her, the two of them looking as haggard and drained as Claire felt.
She had told the two detectives the truth. WithAmy holding her hand, she had told them how a medieval Highlander had appeared in her store, looking for a missing page from a sacred book. Both detectives, one a Sonny Crockett type, had begun the first exchanges of many odd glances. She had then described Aidan’s appearance and the ensuing swordfight.
Crockett had said, “So two guys on their way to a costume party decided to play knight in shining armor? Oh, wait. No armor, just leines and brats and boots? Oh, yeah, and swords?” His tawny brows rose.
Claire then told him about being swept back in time to the fifteenth century. When she described the bloody battle that had ensued, both detectives offered her coffee, which she declined. By the time she described her arrival at Dunroch, she glanced at Crockett’s partner to see if he was really taking notes. He was doodling.
An hour later she was free to go—case closed.
John, a hunky guy who almost looked like Joey from Friends and had that thick Queens accent, said, “Helluva story, Claire.” But his gaze was direct.
She avoided it. “I’m fine,” Claire said. He couldn’t possibly think she’d been telling the truth. “They have better things to do than investigate what happened to my store.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like shit. You’ve been crying,” Amy said fiercely. Dark blond and brown-eyed, she wasn’t quite as tall as Claire. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Amy said quietly as they walked down the precinct stairs.
“I am so sorry for not calling you,” Claire said, meaning it. “I made a mistake with my flights, Aim, that’s all. I had no idea I’d come home and find my store burglarized and myself a missing person.”
Amy didn’t comment and Claire knew her cousin was aware that she was not coming clean. Later, as they dropped her off at her store in John’s Lexus sedan, she asked, “Do you want to stay with us? I think you should, Claire.”
Claire hugged her. “How about lunch tomorrow?”
After they’d made plans, Claire let herself into her store, Amy’s laptop under her arm. More grief began. She reminded herself that this was what she wanted. She didn’t want to be Malcolm’s Achilles’ heel, and she had to protect Amy and the kids. She waved at Amy and John as they drove off and then went directly into her office. Powering on the laptop, she went online.
At dawn, she fell asleep in her chair. She hadn’t found a single reference to Malcolm of Dunroch, not in the fifteenth century or any other one. It was as if he hadn’t existed.
TWO WEEKS LATER, the grief remained. Claire reminded herself on an hourly basis that she was doing what was best for Malcolm. She had moved in with Amy and the kids. Her cousin believed it to be a temporary situation, but Claire planned otherwise. She had enrolled in a martial arts course. And she had dabbled with her “powers.” She seemed to have the ability to make the sniffles vanish, and she had actually moved a spoon across the kitchen table with her mind, but that was about it—for now.
Her store was open for business again, but it was late August now and the city was deserted. Everyone who was anyone had taken off for the most humid, hottest month of the summer. Claire was glad. She spent her days online, at the midtown library and at NYU, searching for a reference to Malcolm. She’d interviewed some of the foremost authorities on medieval Scotland over the phone. She was becoming frightened. It was almost as if her journey back in time had been
a wild dream. If she didn’t have the leine and brat neatly tucked away, she’d start to think she’d had an incredible fantasy. But every day in the city newspapers, usually buried in the midsections, there were reports of pleasure crimes.
She hadn’t been sleeping well, either. When she did sleep, Malcolm came to her in her dreams and often they made love. The dreams were so real that she wondered if they were somehow making love telepathically across the gulf of six centuries.
But mostly she read books and articles online, fanatically determined to uncover some single, minuscule reference to him.
Claire was cross-eyed from the strain of spending twenty hours a day staring at her computer screen. It was only noon, and she’d spent all morning searching. And she started to cry.
She had made a mistake. Malcolm hadn’t wanted her to go. Hadn’t they vanquished Moray together? What if she did make him stronger, not weaker? And did it even matter, when she had a broken heart—and so did he?
She couldn’t live this way. She was in love with a medieval man who was probably dead. Well, maybe not. He was a Master. For all she knew, he was still alive.
And Claire froze, but her mind raced. If he was still alive, he was at Dunroch.
But there were no references to Malcolm at all. If he was still laird of Dunroch, surely there’d be local articles about him.
She reached for the phone. It was seven hours later in Scotland. Finally she tracked down the number for the bed-and-breakfast where she had been planning to stay, Malcolm Arms. The wife of the elderly couple who owned the inn was more than happy to tell Claire all she knew. Yes, The Maclean’s surname was Malcolm, but that was an old family name. No, he wasn’t elderly, not at all. He was in his prime.
