“Nay, lass, I’d never seen the man before.” That much was true. “’Tis as you thought, he lied to find out when I’d be returning, how long you’d be alone. He may have gotten my name anywhere. The mail call, the phone book.” He wasn’t listed in either of those places. But she didn’t need to know that.
“Why would Security let him up?”
Dageus shrugged. “I’m sure they didn’t. There are ways to circumvent Security,” he evaded, scanning the damage resultant from the attack. He needed to tidy the kitchen before the police inevitably came to question the occupants on his side of the building. Fortunately, there were twenty-eight terraces below his, down to the fourteenth level, and the police would, he knew, in that wide berth the rich were ceded in any century, leave the penthouse level for last.
His mind raced over details: eradicate all sign of a tussle, pack up the last two tomes, stop at her place for her passport, take her artifacts to the bank, get them to the airport. He was glad they were leaving today. He’d dragged her into something even he didn’t understand, and only he could protect her.
And he would protect her. She was keeper of his Selvar. His life was now her shield.
May I serve the Draghar . . . the man had said.
It made no sense to him. He’d been so startled to hear those words on the man’s lips that he’d stared blankly. He was furious with himself because, had he moved or spoken more quickly, he could have forced answers from the man. Apparently, someone knew more about his problem than he himself did. How? Who could possibly know what he’d gotten himself into? Not even Drustan knew for certain! Who the blethering hell were the Draghar? And in what fashion had the man been serving them?
If they were, as he’d considered earlier, some part of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, and if they had indeed decided to hunt him down, why harm an innocent woman? And if they were the allegedly immortal race, why send a mortal to do their bidding? There was no question the man had been mortal. Dageus had seen him. He’d landed on a car, or rather, merged with the car.
While he’d cleansed Chloe’s wounds, he’d quizzed her thoroughly about the intruder, in part to keep her talking so she wouldn’t go into shock. The man had identified himself to her as Giles Jones, though Dageus suffered no illusions ’twas his real name. The man had recognized him somehow. He might not have known Giles Jones, but Giles Jones had known him. How long had the man been watching him? Spying on him. Waiting for a moment to strike.
A sudden fear for his brother and Gwen gripped him. If he was being watched, was Drustan also? What curse had he brought down upon himself and his clan?
He shook his head, sorting through dozens of questions for which he had no answers. Thinking was of no avail. Action was necessary now. He needed to get things tidied up, get them out of the country, then he could concentrate on discovering who the Draghar were.
He finished with the last cut and glanced up at her. She was watching him in silence, her eyes huge, but the color was slowly returning to her face.
“Forgive me, lass. I should have been here to protect you,” he apologized gravely. “’Twill never happen again.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” She gave a shaky little laugh. “You can’t be held responsible for all the criminals in the city. It’s obvious he wasn’t in his right mind. I mean—my God, he jumped. He killed himself.” She shook her head, still unable to fathom it. “Did he say something before he jumped? It looked like he did.”
She’d been too far away to hear it. “’Twas gibberish. Made no sense. I’m sure you’ve the right of it. Like as not he was crazy or . . .” He shrugged.
“On drugs,” she said, nodding. “His eyes were weird. Like he was some kind of fanatic. I really thought he was going to kill me.” A pause, then she said. “I fought back. I didn’t just collapse.”
She looked both shocked by and proud of that fact, and well she should be, he thought. How difficult it must have been for her, as wee as she was, to face a man so much larger than she, who’d been wielding a weapon with the intent to kill. It was one thing for a man of his size and girth, not to mention training, to enter battle, but her? The lass had courage.
“You did well, Chloe. You’re an extraordinary woman.” Dageus tucked a stray, damp curl behind her ear. He was beginning to lose the struggle to keep his gaze from hungrily roving her body, knowing she was nearly naked beneath the soft throw. A peculiar icy heat was flooding his veins. Dark and demanding. Need that cared not that she had been traumatized, need that endeavored to convince him that sex would make her feel better.
The tatters of his honor did not agree. But they were tatters and he needed to get her away from him. Fast.
“Are your feet better?”
She slid them from his lap to the floor, then stood, testing them.
He glanced out the window hastily, fisting his hands to keep from reaching for her. He knew if he touched her now, he would drop her, spread her and push himself inside her. His thought patterns were changing, the way they did when it had been too long. Becoming primitive, animal.
“Yes,” she said, sounding surprised. “Whatever that salve is, it’s amazing.”
“Why doona you go up and finish packing your things?” His voice sounded thick and guttural, even to his own ears. He rose swiftly and moved toward the kitchen.
“But what about the police? Shouldn’t we call the police?”
He paused, but kept his back to her. “They’re already out there, lass.” Go, he willed silently, desperately.
“But shouldn’t we talk to them?”
“I’ll take care of everything, Chloe.” He used a brush of compulsion that time and told her to forget about the police. Just enough magic to ease her mind, to help her trust that he would handle things. To make her not wonder later why she’d not been questioned. So far as the police would be concerned, the man hadn’t fallen from his terrace, but she need not know that.
He’d just entered the kitchen when she came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Dageus?”
He stiffened and closed his eyes. He didn’t turn around. Christ, lass, please. I doona want to rape you.
“Hey, turn around,” she said, sounding mildly peeved.
Teeth clenched, he turned.
“Even though it’s not like you did it on purpose, thank you for forgetting the key,” she said, then cupped his face in her wee hands, stood on her tiptoes and pulled him down to plant a soft kiss on his lips. “You probably saved my life.”
He could feel muscles leaping in his jaw. Leaping in his entire body. Had to unclench his teeth to manage a thick, “Probably?”
“I was putting up a good fight,” she pointed out. “And I’d gotten to the claymore.”
A wan but cheeky smile, then, blessedly, she moved toward the stairs.
At the foot of them, she glanced back. “I know you probably don’t care, because we’re leaving, but you should tell the building manager that this penthouse has some serious heating problems. Would you mind turning it up a bit?” She rubbed her arms through the coverlet and, without waiting for an answer, hurried up the steps.
Five minutes later, he was still leaning against the wall, shaking from the battle he’d almost lost when she’d so innocently touched her lips to his. She’d kissed him as if he were honorable, in control. Safe.
As if he weren’t the man who’d been about to take her virginity by force. As if he weren’t dark and dangerous. Once, he’d gone to Katherine when he’d been in nearly as bad a state. He’d seen the fear mixed with the excitement in her eyes when he’d taken her roughly, without speaking a word, in her kitchen where he’d found her. Had known she’d sensed it in him, the darkness. Had known it had turned her on.
But not Chloe. She’d kissed him gently. Beast and all.
Trevor watched Dageus MacKeltar and his companion from a distance as they exited the building onto Fifth Avenue. The police had been crawling all over the place for hours, removing Giles’s body, and questionin
g witnesses, but by midafternoon, had moved on, leaving two grizzled and grouchy detectives in their wake.
He felt no grief for Giles; his death had been swift, and death was not a thing they feared, as the Druid sect of the Draghar believed in the transmigration of the soul. Giles would live again in some other body, some other time.
As the Draghar would live again in the Scotsman’s body, once they’d taken full possession of him.
Trevor was awed that the man had managed thus far to fend off the transformation. As powerful as the Draghar were, Dageus MacKeltar must be uncommonly powerful in his own right.
But Trevor had no doubt the Prophecy would come to pass as had been promised. No man could contain such power and fail to use it. Day by day, it would seep into him until he no longer knew he was being transformed. They simply needed to provoke him, to goad and corner him. The use of dark magic for dark purposes would plunge him into an abyss from which there was no escape.
Then, the Draghar would walk the earth again. Then, all the power, all the knowledge the Tuatha Dé Danaan had stolen from them millennia ago would be restored. The Draghar would teach them the Voice of Power that brought death with a mere word, and the secret ways to move through time. When their numbers were many and strong, they would hunt the Tuatha Dé Danaan and take what should have been theirs long ago. That which the Tuatha Dé Danaan had ever denied the Draghar: the secret of immortality. Eternal life, no chancy rebirth necessary.
They would be gods.
Trevor studied the woman intently. Tiny little bit, she was, and he wondered how Giles had ended up going over that terrace. Had it been by choice? Had Dageus MacKeltar thrown him off? Surely the small female hadn’t done it. She didn’t amount to much. Barely topped five feet.
The Scot towered over her. The Draghar had been given a mighty vessel, his form strong, that of a warrior. Men would respond well to his innate authority. Even as Trevor thought that, he noted how the crowds parted for him, instinctively moving out of his way, and he strode as if he knew they would. No hesitation in the man, none whatsoever. Even from his safe distance, he could feel the power rolling off him.
When the Scot glanced down at the woman, Trevor’s eyes narrowed.
Possessiveness in his gaze. Protectiveness in the way he shielded her body from passersby, his intent gaze constantly scrutinizing his surroundings. Simon would not be pleased.
Before Trevor had found his calling in the Order, he’d run the con, quite successfully, and the cardinal rule of such business applied here: isolate the mark; the quarry falls faster alone.
He paced them, at a cautious distance.
They paused outside a bank and Trevor glided closer, dropped a few coins and bent to scoop them up. Listening, to see if he could overhear any conversation.
And finally he heard what he needed; they were planning to fly out to Scotland some time this evening.
He melted back into a small cluster of pedestrians and slipped out a cell phone. It would be a simple matter to have one of his computer-savvy brethren find out from which airport and when, and book him on the flight as well.
Speaking swiftly, he filled Simon in.
And Simon’s instructions were precisely what he expected.
Hours later, Trevor slid into a seat a dozen rows behind them. He would have preferred to sit nearer, but the flight wasn’t full, and he worried that the Scot might spot him.
He’d shadowed them all afternoon and not once gotten the chance to strike. Blades were his sect’s weapon of choice, each spilling of blood a ritual in and of itself, yet he’d had to abandon his weapons before boarding. His tie would have served well to strangle her, if he’d only been able to get a moment with her alone.
He wished he knew what had transpired in the penthouse. Something had put Dageus MacKeltar on the alert for another attack. If caught, Giles was supposed to make it look like a robbery, or the work of a sociopath, whichever best fit the moment. Yet it was apparent that the Scot was anticipating another attempt. He’d not once left the woman’s side. When twice she’d gone to the rest room in the airport, he’d trailed her there, waited in the doorway, and escorted her back. When too many people for his comfort had sat near them in the waiting area, he’d coaxed her off for a walk.
The bloody man was a walking shield.
Trevor massaged the back of his neck, sighing.
He would regroup in Scotland, acquire weapons, and eventually the man’s guard would drop. If only for a few moments. A few moments were all he would need.
10
The flight from JFK to London was only half full, the lights dimmed for the comfort of night travelers, the seats comfy (they had a whole row to themselves and had pushed all the armrests up), and Chloe fell asleep shortly after takeoff.
Now, stirring drowsily, she kept her eyes shut, mulling over the events of the day. It had whizzed by with incredible speed, from the attack, to the packing, to going to her place for her passport, to getting a box at the bank for her artifacts (her artifacts!), to a hasty late lunch/early dinner, and finally the trip to the airport.
No wonder she’d fallen asleep. She’d not slept much the night before, nervous and excited about the decision she’d made to accompany Dageus to Scotland. Then the day had been crammed full, and the shock of the attack, alone, had nearly drained her of energy. She still couldn’t believe it had happened; it seemed surreal, as if she’d watched it on TV or it had happened to someone else. She’d been living in New York, in one of the less savory sections for almost a year, and nothing bad had ever happened to her. She’d never been mugged, never been harassed on the subway, in fact, hadn’t encountered any adversity, so she supposed maybe her number had finally come up. Unless, of course, the police determined some other mot—
That thought was slippery and abruptly vanished from her mind.
Though it troubled her that her assailant had killed himself (and if that didn’t demonstrate how crazy he’d been, she didn’t know what would), she knew he’d intended to injure her severely, if not kill her. Pragmatism tempered her emotion. The simple fact was: She was grateful she’d survived. Sorry the man had been so crazy that he’d attacked her, then taken a leap off the terrace, but glad to be alive all the same. It was startling how having one’s life placed in jeopardy reduced one to the basics.
Had Dageus not returned—that thought made her shudder—she would have fought to the death. She was discovering all kinds of parts of her personality she’d not known existed. She’d always worried that if someone attacked her, she might just crumple, or freeze helplessly. Had always wondered if she was a coward at heart.
Thank God she wasn’t. And thank God Dageus had forgotten the key.
She’d been so gullible. Giles “Jones,” indeed. What a tip-off that should have been. But she’d not given it a second thought because the man had looked and acted so darned normal, at first. Then again, she’d read somewhere that most serial killers looked like the guy next door.
When Dageus had walked in, the man had gotten the strangest look on his face. She couldn’t quite pin it down. . . .
Mentally shrugging, she pushed the grim thoughts away. It had been awful; she’d never been so frightened in her life, but it was over, and she would look forward, not behind. Dwelling on it would make her feel terrified all over again. A freaky, awful thing had happened right before she’d left New York, but she would not let it characterize her time there, nor cast a pall over her future. He was dead; she would not grant the man the success of making her feel terrorized. In twenty-four years, she’d been the victim of an attack once. She could live with those odds. Would live with them, would not let it make her frightened in the future. More cautious? Absolutely. Afraid? Not a chance.
She was on her way to Scotland, with a man that made her feel more alive than anyone she’d ever known.
And she was determined to enjoy every last minute of it.
She wondered what Grandda would have made of Dageus.
Chloe Zanders. Chloe . . . MacKeltar.
Zanders, she chided herself instantly, stop thinking like that! She was not going to romanticize things. She’d promised herself that earlier, while sitting in the airport with him, waiting for their flight to leave. He’d been so attentive, walking her to the ladies’ room, taking her for a snack, never leaving her side, yet with that eternal coolness. That infuriating reserve, that tight containment. It was no wonder women fell hard for him; such reserve challenged a woman, made her want to be the one who got inside Dageus MacKeltar. But Chloe wasn’t going to make that mistake. So far as she could see, she was woman-of-the-hour, nothing more. She was determined to be smart about things, to view the trip as an adventure, to take things purely at face value and not read any more into them than there was.
Still, Grandda would’ve liked it. . . .
Her thoughts returned to touch briefly on the morning again, but on a less disturbing part. After the man had jumped, Dageus had stripped her fast and frantically, the look on his face enough to mute any protest. Scarcely bridled rage had emanated from him, making her think her assailant might just have been granted a more merciful death by jumping. His strong hands had been shaking when he’d begun tending her. She’d never seen someone so filled with fury behave so gently. He’d sponged the wine from her, cleansed and bandaged her wounds, all the while resolutely ignoring her state of undress.
It seemed the stronger his emotions, the more rigidly he controlled himself. That was a hypothesis she was curious to examine further. But why the fury? she wondered. Because someone had dared to trespass on his property? Messed up his home? A woman inclined to romanticizing things might have read some emotion for her into it, but Chloe wasn’t going to be that fool.
With a soft sigh, she opened her eyes slowly to find him staring straight at her. He didn’t speak, just looked at her. In the shadows, his chiseled face was breathtaking, savagely masculine.
His eyes.
She got lost in them for a long moment, wondering how she could have ever thought them tiger-gold. They were the color of dark whisky. And filled with some emotion. She stared. Something like . . .
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