by Brenda Joyce
Ian finally looked at his father. “This is my home.”
Sam closed her eyes, wanting to cry in despair.
“If ye ever need me, summon me an’ I’ll come,” Aidan said. Moisture shimmered on his lashes. He reached out and Brie moved into his arms.
“I never gave up on your father and I’m never giving up on you,” Brie whispered. She smiled sadly, then looked at Sam. “Take care of him. Take care of yourself.”
Sam thought of Moray. “Wait!” she cried, but it was too late. They vanished, the room shifting as they did so.
Okay, Sam thought, wishing they hadn’t gone. But they were gone and she was alone with Ian. Sam glanced at Ian, saw a tear slipping from his eyes, and looked away so he wouldn’t know she’d seen his emotions. She did not know what that tear could mean. He was already striding down the hall, leaving her alone in the foyer.
Her heart broke. He’d been through hell—first sixty-six years of demonic captivity, and then a life of absolute isolation, one filled with suffering. She stared after him and hugged herself, a rare gesture for her. She loved him so much.
If only he could let go of his past. He needed his father and Brie; he needed her, Tabby, and the other Highlanders.
In spite of his choices, he wasn’t alone. Not anymore. She might not have his love, but she had his back, and she knew that she could count on him now in return.
Because she loved him, she finally hurried after him. She wasn’t going to leave him alone, not now, not tonight.
She found him in his walk-in closet, stepping out of the scrubs. He was pulling jeans off a shelf; she touched his hard, scarred back as he stepped into them.
He slowly turned. Anguish and pain shimmered in his eyes.
She heard herself say, “Don’t reject me, too.”
His gaze met hers.
Sam walked forward, put her arms around him and embraced him. She wanted to tell him how worried she’d been, how sick with fear, and how much she cared, but she didn’t. She just held him.
He let her. As she held him, he started to tremble. It wasn’t about desire. It was extreme exhaustion—at once mental, physical and emotional.
“You got him,” she whispered, his jaw on the top of her head. She stroked her hands down his scarred back. Tears came. “I was terrified for you.”
He made a sound and slipped his arms around her.
“What is it?” she whispered.
It was a moment before he spoke. “There are too many memories,” he said harshly. “That house…”
She held him more tightly. “Have you been having flashbacks?” It would explain his utter silence for the past hour.
He shook his head, then spoke thickly. “I can’t stop the memories, Sam.”
She didn’t know how to comfort him. “The memories will fade with time.” Or so she prayed. “The past is over, Ian. You did it. You destroyed your captor. The helpless boy is gone. And he’ll never be back.”
He exhaled. “I can hardly believe it’s over.”
“It is over,” she stressed. But then she thought about Moray.
He was quiet for a moment. “There were ghosts, Sam, all the souls of his victims. They helped me.”
She was briefly surprised. “I’m glad,” she said fiercely, clinging now.
He hesitated. “I was so angry…and in the end, not just for myself.”
She started.
“I was angry for all those poor souls he’d destroyed.”
She smiled. “I think that’s a genetic thing,” she said softly.
He held her gaze. “Is a genetic thing why I enjoyed inflicting pain? Because I was thrilled when I made him suffer.”
Sam went still, dismayed, but then she shook her head. “It was a very human reaction, Ian, to the evil that tortured you for so long and took so much pleasure doing so.”
“If ye say so,” he said, releasing her. He walked over to a shelf but simply stared at the T-shirts folded there.
“You’re not like Moray. Your father isn’t.”
He made a sound. “Really? I recall my father being evil for about sixty-six years.”
“You don’t have an evil bone in your body.”
He turned to stare at her.
“I’m glad you tortured Carlisle.”
His brows lifted. “Ye mean it.”
“I think I’d have twisted the knife, too.”
He stared. Sam stared back, thinking about the sex tape in the vault at Loch Awe. Dread churned in her gut. “I need to ask you something. This might not be the best time, but since we’re being so brutally honest with one another, I’ll give it a shot.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I found a DVD in the safe in your bedroom at Loch Awe,” Sam said, her gaze unwavering on him now.
He was poker-faced.
“Not the one Hemmer had,” she added, then realized how unnecessary that statement was.
“And ye think I gave Hemmer the first tape to blackmail ye?” His gray eyes darkened.
“I don’t really know what to think, except that you couldn’t have been all that surprised to see us making love in the future, because you’d obviously seen the DVD I found there.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t surprised.” He turned and started from the walk-in closet.
Shit, Sam thought, becoming angry. “Did you give Hemmer the damned sex tape?” She strode after him.
He whirled, facing her. “I didn’t give him the tape,” he said harshly. “But he might have stolen it from me.”
“Why did you have the tape in the first place, for God’s sake?” she cried.
“Because I was obsessed,” he shouted back.
She jerked. “What?”
He flushed, but his gray eyes blazed silver. “Ye heard me, Sam,” he said dangerously. “After we met in Oban, I got too hot to think clearly. I leapt to the future. I knew my homes were wired. I knew I’d have ye eventually. I went right to my security tapes and voilà, there we were.”
She reeled. “But you hate leaping.”
“I got drunk first,” he snapped.
It began to sink in. He’d been so attracted to her that he’d gotten drunk and leapt through time, all to find them on video together. She could imagine him sitting in a darkened room, watching them screw each other’s brains out—and watching them make love.
He slowly smiled. “Don’t worry. I enjoyed the tapes…a lot.”
Desire slammed into her. “I’m glad.”
The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by simmering warmth. Sam closed the step between them, seized the waistband of his jeans. “Not very many women would be happy with you right now,” she murmured.
“I don’t care about other women. I never have.”
She jerked him closer and he let her do so. “And you never will.” But he cared about her. She was certain.
He moved his hands down her jeans and cupped her buttocks hard. Then he paused. “Yer the woman who has my back. Ye’ll always have my back. Ye told me so.”
“Yes,” she whispered, her heart lurching. He was throbbing so urgently against her that it was hard to think straight. She wanted to blurt out her real feelings. That was crazy. Instead, she kissed his collarbone. “This is a really good time to celebrate, Ian. You won.” She kissed his throat. “Carlisle is dead.”
He moaned, heavier against her now. Pleasure began, rippling through her, and she reached down and undid her zipper. He helped her slide the tight denim down. “Why?” he asked roughly. “Tell me why yer so damned loyal?”
She moved closer and heard him even though his mouth didn’t move. Tell me why ye care so much?
She froze, no easy task with her body on fire. “Ian,” she breathed. “I think the time for talking is over.”
“No.” He slid his hand over the back of her head, threading his fingers through the wisps of her hair, and tilted her back over his arm. One hard thigh moved between hers. “Ye love me. Ye said so.” His gray stare held hers.
Dam
n it, she thought, her heart lurching. For the first time in her life, Sam Rose was afraid—of three words. “I can’t remember,” she lied, and instantly knew how pathetic the lie was.
He smiled. Then he walked her backward, their gazes locked. Sam knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t just her body. She didn’t know if she could or would ever get those words out again. The back of her body hit the wall of shelves. He’d kept one hand low, under her buttock, and she raised herself onto a shelf. He helped her.
It was awkward. The other shelves hurt her back, but who cared? She lifted her right leg and hooked it over his hip.
He finally tore his gaze from hers and looked at her mouth. “I want ye more than I did at Oban,” he said. “More than I did all those nights I watched the tapes. More than I did yesterday or this morning.”
Sam inhaled. “Good. The feeling is…mutual.” Isn’t it? she thought silently.
He was moving toward her. His eyes widened as he entered her.
Sam choked, overcome by the pressure within her, and the immediate tide of pleasure that began to rise. But he paused. She knew she flushed. She hadn’t been fishing, had she? She didn’t expect him to love her back—or did she?
His eyes blazed and, too late, she knew he’d heard her. She started to press at his chest, to keep him back, but he withdrew and then drove deep, forcing her other leg up and around his waist. And as he began to thrust long and slow, the sense of belonging was so consuming that Sam held him and surrendered to the moment and the man. She really loved Ian Maclean.
She was ready to shatter.
He pulled her head back and their gazes met. “Thank ye,” he said roughly. “Fer not runnin’ out on me.”
She somehow smiled and then she gave up. She couldn’t stand the love and joy, the desire. She gave herself over to the incredible force inside her, the incredible pressure building, the first wave of pleasure, and he kissed her.
He kissed her like it was the first time, the last time, the only time. Sam rode his waist and kissed him back exactly the same way.
TABBY PAUSED in the loft she used to share with Sam, overcome with so many memories of the times she’d spent there with her sister. Macleod put his arm around her. “I ken ye’ll always miss her.”
She looked up at his breathtaking face. “I have no regrets. Not one.”
He studied her for a moment. “Even if ye did, I’d never let ye go.”
Tabby smiled, when another woman would be annoyed or angered by his controlling nature. It had been hard, at first, to get used to being with such a ruthless, chauvinistic, medieval man. But every passionate argument had always ended with even more passionate lovemaking—and a deeper understanding of and greater love for one another. They were two souls drawn to one another like magnets, and he knew it as well as she did.
“There are no regrets, but I am worried,” Tabby said softly. “Until Ian Maclean sees the light, can she count on him?”
“He will be there for her,” Macleod said flatly. “He willna ken why, but he willna turn his back on her if she is in danger.”
“Brie has to be wrong. About Moray,” she added, hating having to speak the name aloud.
Macleod was silent but she heard his every thought. In the twenty-five years since Brie had come to live with Aidan at Castle Awe, she’d been wrong exactly one time about her visions.
Tabby walked across the large interior of the loft. Sam kept the chest at the far end locked, but Tabby still had her key, which she wore on her girdle with the other manor keys. She unlocked the chest and lifted the lid, crying out as she saw her beloved crystals. She ran her hands over every one before turning to smile at Macleod.
He shook his head, bemused. “Will ye take them home with us?”
She had dozens of powerful crystals at Blayde. “No. Sam might need them one day.”
“Her Fate is Maclean.”
“Yes, I believe he is her Fate. But I’m not willing to speculate as to when and where they will live out their lives.”
“He’s as medieval as I am,” Macleod pointed out, amused.
Tabby smiled, unconvinced. Sam had met her Fate, she was certain, just as she had more than two centuries ago. Sam would always be a Slayer, but Tabby was thrilled that she would now have Ian Maclean at her side. He wasn’t a Master, but he had power and he cared.
If Moray was back, they needed all the help they could get.
Macleod became sober, and so did she as they shared a look and their thoughts.
So much was still about to happen, if Brie were not wrong. “I was there,” she said slowly. “We all were, except for Sam and you. Brie, Allie, Claire and I vanquished Moray. Aidan destroyed his physical body. We watched his soul vanish into the universe. It looked as if his black energy scattered.”
“An’ if it dinna vanish?”
“Then I will find the right spell to do what we failed to do twenty-five years ago,” Tabby said simply.
“Tabitha,” he objected. “I ken yer power, but the burden now is far too great fer a single woman.”
“No, it’s not. I’m a Rose, Guy. Maybe it’s up to me to save this particular day.”
He crossed the room. “Yer the most stubborn of women an’ I love ye so much fer it. But I willna allow ye to have this great burden alone.” He was firm. “Are ye sure it can’t wait till dawn?” He pulled her close, his eyes warm.
Her body tightened. The attraction between them had been almost fatal from the start. She stroked his rough cheek. She loved Macleod now more than she ever had. “Have I ever been able to say no?”
He laughed and held her hard.
But in spite of the raging desire, she was afraid. What if she couldn’t find the magic they now needed? Had Moray come back for Aidan or for Ian? Tabby loved her cousin and her sister impossibly. Their battles were her battles.
Macleod sighed and looked down at her.
She looked up. “Malcolm and Claire vanquished Moray in Orkney in 1425—and he came back from the dead. We vanquished him a second time, in 1502. Guy, if he’s come back, maybe the rumors are true.”
Macleod released her. His face had darkened. “That he’s immortal?”
“And we are not. Not a single one of us.”
SHE WAS FINALLY ASLEEP, even though it was noon and the sun was pouring into his bedroom.
Ian looked at her and gave over to the impossible need. He ran his hand over her long, lithe, beautiful body. He stared at her striking face. His heart thundered, close to bursting. In her sleep, she sighed and stirred.
Sam Rose loved him. He threw himself onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, unsmiling.
Images from that night flashed. The doctor he’d so ruthlessly strangled. The monk, being attacked by those souls. Sam, pointing her gun at Carlisle’s forehead.
He shifted uncomfortably. His heart kept telling him to smile, to rejoice. But how could he? He was sick inside.
He closed his eyes. He’d been afflicted with the incessant memories since leaving the Brooklyn town house. It was as if he’d been freed yesterday, as if sixty-six years of pain and fear were engraved on his mind and in his soul. The monk was dead but he saw him so clearly, it was as if he stood before him. And his grandfather. He’d never forget the mastermind behind his captivity and torture. Moray made the monk seem kind. Moray made the monk seem human. Sam had said the helpless boy was gone and that he’d never be back, but he felt like that boy again.
He wasn’t going to rejoice.
Not now, and not ever.
She loved him.
It didn’t matter.
He couldn’t love her back.
He didn’t want to love her back.
Tears began burning beneath his closed eyelids.
He was damaged still. He’d always be damaged. There was too much in his past, too much pain, too many memories. He didn’t know what love was, didn’t want to know, even if a stupid part of him was pleased that she loved him.
He could never give her what s
he wanted. He could never do this.
He realized he was afraid all over again. No, he was terrified. When was she going to figure out the truth about him?
She’d realize the truth when she read his file.
He stared up at the ceiling but something was wrong with his vision, which was blurred. It was hard to think clearly, hard to breathe. Come hell or high water, he would still get that file and have every copy destroyed. He just couldn’t figure out how he’d do that now, when he had no leverage. But it wouldn’t matter. Sam was smart. She probably knew the truth, because she had all the pieces of the puzzle. She just hadn’t had a moment to put the puzzle together. Sooner, not later, she’d do it.
And then her confusion would end. She might think she loved him, but it was impossible. It was the sex that enthralled her—and that wasn’t even a matter of his own skill, it was the power and stamina he’d inherited from the gods. It couldn’t be anything else. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t pleasant or charming. He had no morals, no code of ethics. He wasn’t a hero. A pretty face only went so far. It could only be the sex. He was not lovable. He knew that beyond any doubt.
No one loved him. Not now, not ever. Not even his father, because if Aidan had really loved him, he would have found a way to rescue him when he was that boy. He was unloved—as he should be. Men like him did not deserve love. He did not deserve love—he did not deserve Sam Rose.
He saw his entire life in his mind’s eye. It was a long, bleak, endless tunnel, one he traversed alone. The tunnel began with his imprisonment, a black hole of pain and despair. There was no light within the tunnel, not where it began and none at its end, to guide him out. There was no way out. He started to laugh, helplessly.
The tunnel was his Fate.
He stared down at Sam as she slept. She was the strongest, toughest woman he knew. Even in sleep, he saw and felt her warrior strength, the kind of strength even someone like him could rely on.
He’d been alone his entire life, for as long as he could remember. He was used to it. There was no reason for his chest to start aching now.
