by Brenda Joyce
Claire closed her eyes. This couldn’t be Malcolm, could it? Was it possible a single plane ride separated them? “If you’re interested in Lord Malcolm, miss, you should come out and visit us.”
Claire agreed, wondering what she would do if she learned that the current laird was Malcolm. For her, they’d been separated two weeks. If he was still alive, they had been apart for almost six hundred years. He had probably forgotten all about her. And then she knew that was impossible. Malcolm had given her his heart. She would own it forever.
“Are there any stories about him in the local papers?” she asked, her heart slamming.
“The Maclean doesn’t allow any press, Miss Camden. He is a very private man. He has a publicist to keep his name out of the newspapers.”
Claire began to breathe hard. This was sounding more and more like Malcolm! “So there’re no articles—no photos, nothing?”
There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “Actually, we took a picture of him and his pretty wife at a charity event they held to save the Highland forests. We could send it to you.”
Claire froze.
He had a wife?
Her mind had slowed, becoming heavy and dull. Her heart had slowed, too. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. “Last month, when we spoke, you said he was unwed.” She could barely get the words out.
“That’s impossible. He’s been married for a very long time—and happily, I might add.”
Claire reminded herself that this might not be her Malcolm. After managing to ask the proprietress to send her the photo by e-mail, Claire sat down, stunned and ill. She could hardly think, but she tried. A month ago, the twenty-first-century laird of Dunroch had been unwed. If he’d been affianced, she would have been told so. No, he’d been a bachelor and available.
And now he was married.
What did that mean?
In the ensuing month, she’d gone back in time to him and they’d fallen in love.
Claire felt ill. Her laptop beeped. She went to it and opened the e-mail from Scotland. Very dizzy now, she clicked on the attachment.
It was Malcolm—her Malcolm—looking forty, not twenty-seven, but he remained a gorgeous hunk, even in his navy blue sports jacket and tan trousers.
He had married someone else.
It was over.
She couldn’t believe it. Claire looked at his wife.
Her vision blurred, she saw a beautiful, elegant lady from high society, dressed very much the way the British royals did. She wore a sleeveless print dress, white gloves, high heels and a beautiful large-brimmed white straw hat trimmed with flowers.
And Claire looked at her face.
Her heart slammed to a stop.
The woman was herself.
AMY SMILED uncertainly at her as she came into Claire’s store. Claire hugged her hard. “Let’s go into the kitchen,” she said breathlessly.
Amy was wary. Then her cousin saw the small duffel bag near the stairs. In it were two pairs of Claire’s favorite jeans, a dozen thongs and bras, her sexiest little red cocktail dress with her Manolo Blahnicks, and five super-warm sweaters. Her laptop was in it, too, along with eight batteries.
“What’s this?” Amy asked very quietly, as if she already knew.
Claire took her hand. “I told the cops the truth. I really did go to Scotland.”
Amy stared. “I know. Who is he, Claire?”
Claire smiled. Amy thought she’d had a rendezvous in the present. “Malcolm of Dunroch, the laird of Dunroch.”
Amy’s eyes went wide. “You fell in love with the man you were fascinated with from the start?”
“Yes, I did. And he loves me.” Claire trembled. “I have to go back.”
“Of course you do. John and I were talking about it last night and wondering when you’d tell us the truth and why you left the love of your life.” Amy seemed relieved, but the last had been a question.
Claire said, “You should sit down.”
Amy followed Claire into the kitchen and sat. “I’m so happy for you.” She reached for her hand and grasped it.
Claire inhaled. “Amy, I meant it when I said I told the truth. I went to Scotland, but not the Scotland you are thinking of. I went to medieval Scotland, to the fifteenth century, and landed in the middle of a battle between good and evil. That’s where I fell in love with Malcolm.”
Amy didn’t bat an eye.
“Amy? Why aren’t you surprised?” But now, an inkling began. Hadn’t she always suspected that Amy knew more than she’d let on?
Amy covered her hand. “John doesn’t work for the Bureau’s counterterrorism unit,” she said. “He works for CDA.”
“I don’t get it,” Claire said slowly. “I’ve never heard of CDA.”
“It’s the Center for Demonic Activity. It’s top secret, a-need-to-know-only organization. He’s an agent there.”
Claire wasn’t that surprised. She thought of all of her cousin’s references to evil. Amy had known it all.
“He hunts evil, Claire, with some very sophisticated equipment, and he’s followed demons into past centuries three times.” She paled. “I hate it when he does that. I’m so afraid he won’t come back!”
“You know, when I learned about the demons and the Masters, I figured I wasn’t the only one who knew the truth. The odds were that world leaders and the government knew.”
“They do know. The DNA left at the scene of pleasure crimes isn’t human.”
Of course it’s not, Claire thought. “I guess the government’s afraid to come clean.”
“They’re afraid of mass hysteria! The demons are so strong. Every century, it has gotten worse. In CDA, there’s a department called HCU, which stands for Historical Crimes Unit. They research the crimes of the past and crunch numbers on the crime trends. Do you know that Stalin had aberrant DNA? This has been going on forever. It’s scary.”
“Is John a Master?” Claire asked bluntly.
Amy started. “The Masters are a myth—aren’t they? I mean, there are whispers and rumors of these old-world super knights—and I do mean super, as in supernaturally endowed with power—but no one has ever seen one. They’ve never been documented. It’s legend, it’s folklore, it’s fantasy. But we can hope, can’t we? It would be great if such a superhero really did exist.”
Claire hesitated. “They do exist. I’ve met them.”
Amy gasped, eyes wide. “Not Malcolm?”
Claire had to smile. “As superheroic as it gets.” She blushed. And as superendowed, she thought. “They have great powers, Aim. Inhuman strength, telepathy, kinetic force.”
Amy just shook her head, teary-eyed. “I am so happy for you! But John won’t believe this. I mean, we both sort of wondered if you’d told the cops the truth. But he won’t believe that there are Masters out there, fighting evil with extraordinary powers. But thank God! Claire, he’ll want to talk to you.”
“I can’t stay here another moment.” Claire meant it. “Amy, coming back was a mistake. Malcolm is at Dunroch right now, in the twenty-first century. A month ago, he was unwed. Now, he’s wed—to me.”
Amy started.
“I know you don’t get it. But I wasn’t supposed to come back. I was supposed to stay with him and live through six centuries with him. The proof of that is the fact that right now, we’re alive and well and really old, living in the Highlands together as husband and wife. If I don’t go back, I’m going to blow our fate.”
Amy began shaking her head. “Claire, you can’t live six hundred years.”
“I forgot to tell you. My father is a Master, and I have that godly DNA going on.”
Amy gaped. “Damn it, girl! You had better go back before you rewrite your history with your man. But God, I will miss you!”
“I’ll miss you, too,” Claire said and they hugged.
WITH AMY GONE, Claire sat down with her duffel, holding it tightly. She wasn’t a Master but she was the daughter of one, and she intended to will herself b
ack in time, the way Malcolm had done. If that didn’t work, she’d try to summon Malcolm to come help her get back. He’d said he would come if she needed him. She wasn’t worried—she could probably talk John into sending her back, although he’d balk at using his top-secret fed technology to do so. One way or another, she was going back to become Malcolm’s wife and live a helluva long time with him.
She was beyond excitement.
As she sat there, Faola’s image came to mind and Claire was certain it was a sign. Did the goddess want to help? Claire was under her protection. Maybe, after destroying Moray, Faola had become fond of her.
Claire smiled and hugged her knees to her chest. “If you can help, I will be eternally obligated to you.” She closed her eyes and willed herself back into the past. Then she waited.
Nothing happened.
Claire opened her eyes and looked at the clock in her office. Fifteen minutes had passed. She grimaced. Maybe she didn’t have the power to leap. She closed her eyes again and strained to put herself back in the fifteenth-century medieval world at Dunroch. She concentrated so hard she became dizzy. And she waited and waited.
Claire opened her eyes. She was sweating and the room was spinning. Clearly, leaping wasn’t one of her powers. Maybe Faola hadn’t been listening after all or didn’t care to help her. Maybe she wasn’t even that powerful anymore. After all, she’d been forsaken by most of Alba along with her godly kin.
And a huge force swept Claire through the hall, the walls, through time, through space.
CLAIRE LANDED so hard she wondered if she’d survive this leap. She looked up at a very familiar raftered ceiling. Still fighting the waves of torment, she began to rejoice. She had landed flat on her back in Dunroch’s great hall!
Gasps sounded.
Claire clutched the duffel bag to her chest. The pain was receding and a dozen male faces stared down at her. Claire met Malcolm’s wide gray eyes and her joy knew no bounds. Love ballooned in her breast. It was hard to speak and she couldn’t move yet. “I am so…happy…to see you!”
His eyes gleamed as he knelt beside her. “Ah, lass, I be very pleased t’ see ye, too.” He reached to help her sit up.
His touch had its usual, immediate warming effect, but Claire was confused. He slid his arm around her as if she were a trophy he’d just won or a notch he was adding to his belt. His gaze was filled with heat, primitive and carnal, but not joy, and certainly not love.
Something was wrong.
He smiled seductively at her, murmuring. “’Tis not every day a beautiful woman appears in my hall. Ye have powerful magic, lass.”
His arm was around her. But now Claire saw that he looked terribly young—and he didn’t have a scar over his left eyebrow. Claire could not believe this was happening. “Do you know who I am?” she cried in disbelief.
His grasp tightened. “Nay, but I will. After this night, I will ken ye very well, lass.”
Claire’s disbelief escalated. What had Faola done? Did the goddess think this amusing?
He turned and barked orders in Gaelic and the hall cleared. He added softly, “I dinna fear witches, either, lass. After we have pleasured one another, I’ll make certain ye can travel safely to yer home.”
She inhaled, trembling. “What year is this?”
He slid his hand down her arm, causing a delicious thrill of pleasure to begin, smiling with anticipation. “Fourteen hundred an’ twenty.”
Claire cried out. She had leaped too far back in time. He was only twenty years old—he hadn’t been summoned by the Brotherhood yet. She stood, stepping away from him. “Damn it, Faola,” she cried. “Not fair! Not fair at all!”
He released her. “Are ye mad?” he asked, puzzled.
Claire seized the duffel and focused hard. She was going to leap forward now into 1427, anytime after August 3, the day she’d been abducted, the day they’d killed Moray. She quickly reprised her plans. August 10, 1427 was a good, solid, safe date.
Just as she vanished, she saw Malcolm’s shock and anger. This time the agony was unbearable. When she landed she was crying. Leaping twice hurt so badly she felt stretched out on the rack. Her entire body felt as if it was coming apart and as if screws were being driven into her bones to splinter them into shards. And then she felt Malcolm’s powerful presence as he knelt besides her. “Claire!”
She opened her eyes and saw his shocked expression—and then she saw the relief flooding his eyes. “Malcolm?”
“Dinna speak. Yer hurt.” He swept her into his arms and cradled her gently against his chest. His heart thundered there. His mouth pressed against her hair and scalp.
She had made it. She relished the feel of his power, his strength, his life, and she thought she could feel an odd joining coming from her to him and him to her. A union of souls, she thought.
Silently, Claire thanked the Ancients and Faola for everything. “What year—what month—is this?”
“’Tis two weeks since ye left me, Claire,” he said roughly.
Claire realized she had a bit of practicing to do if she was ever going to leap time again by herself. She’d been off by nine days. She didn’t care. Malcolm’s gray eyes were moist with tears.
He gazed down at her. “Are ye here to stay? Will ye leave me again?” he demanded harshly.
“No. I am here to stay.” She caressed his hard, beautiful jaw.
He made a harsh sound, holding her again, more tightly this time, his cheek pressed to hers. Joy flowed. This was right.
He smiled at her. “Ye came back. Ah, Claire, ’twas only a few days but I didna think ye’d come back t’ me.”
She sat up, feeling infinitely better. “We are stronger together, Malcolm. I know it, and Faola knows it, too.”
“Aye,” he said softly. “Claire, we be written in the Cathach, by name.”
Claire gasped. “Are you kidding?”
He smiled at her. “Buried in the hundreds of pages, there be a verse about us. Aye, Calum Leomhain an’ his lady, Claire, victors o’ evil.”
This was fate. She moved closer into his arms, overcome. His mouth feathered her hair. So much need began, but only half of it was physical. They had a future to plan. Claire took a deep breath and looked up. “I missed you so much.”
“Aye, lass, an’ I missed you very much, too.” He smiled.
She caressed his cheek and asked somewhat playfully, “How much?”
“Do ye wish fer a show?” he murmured as playfully.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I want a big, splendid, prolonged show!”
He swept her into his arms and stood, chuckling. That was when Claire saw they had an audience. She had interrupted the evening meal. Brogan called out to her, waving, and Royce smiled at her, clearly bearing no grudges or ill will.
But there was one thing Claire had to know. “Wait!”
“I canna wait,” he said in his most seductive and sexy tone. “I be a man starvin’ fer his woman.”
“It was only two weeks!” she said happily. He let her go and she slipped to her feet and ran to the duffel. She pulled out the laptop as Malcolm knelt besides her. “This is a long shot. But shit, if we can travel through time, why can’t bytes?”
“I dinna ken,” he said seriously. He touched her hair. “But this be important t’ ye.”
“If this works, it will be great,” Claire said. His brows lifted. Claire shrugged, and having powered on, she hit the Internet button. After an interminable moment, the Microsoft Internet Explorer page came on. Her default page was www.weatherchannel.com, but it did not appear. “Oh, well,” Claire said. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was the future they would share—all six hundred years of it—at least.
“Aye,” he said, lifting her to her feet and pulling her against his big, hard body. “This be what matters, ye an’ me. I love ye, Claire, an’ I want ye t’ be my wife.”
Claire threw her arms around him. “I think you know my answer.”
“Ye dinna like it when I lurk,�
� he protested with mock innocence. And he laughed, because they both knew he was reading her mind and neither one cared.
He tugged her toward the stairs.
Claire’s skin tightened and thrummed. With the promise of so much pleasure—and so much love—she didn’t look back.
Her laptop whirred.
The weather in New York City on August 19, 2007, at 11:15 a.m., was sunny with a few clouds and a torrid 101 degrees.
Dear Reader,
I hope you have had as much fun reading Dark Seduction as I have had writing it. I had a blast and fell head over heels for Malcolm, just like Claire!
Branching out into the paranormal genre has been an excuse for me to do even sexier, more powerful heroes—and to dabble in my favorite time period, the Middle Ages. I chose contemporary heroines because I can think of nothing better than being swept into the past by a medieval hunk!
As always, I started by doing a lot of research into medieval Scotland, because my muse said these Masters would be Highlanders. Knowing that, I began to search for my hero’s name. I finally decided on Malcolm, the English version of Calum. I also dared to pick a clan for him, and my muse told me it would be the Macleans. Then I had to decide where in the Highlands his castle sits. I’d already made some decisions about the shrine being on Iona, so I picked the island of Mull, as it is an easy trip from one to the other.
I was still researching, and lo and behold, I learned that Mull was Maclean territory! I was really surprised and then thrilled. However, this kind of coincidence has often occurred for me when I write anything at all historical. It gets better. Duart is the seat of the Macleans of Mull. That is on the north shore. I decided to divide the clan up so Malcolm could be laird, and I still had to choose a location for Dunroch. I chose the island’s south shore so it would be a very easy trip by sea to Iona.
And then I bought a contemporary map of Scotland. Thus far, I’d been using very specific maps in the historical texts I was reading—clan maps and historical maps. Where I placed Dunroch are cliffs called Malcolm’s Point.
