The Dark Highlander

by Karen Marie Moning

  “Do you like it, lass?” Dageus asked, watching her intently.

  “It’s magnificent! It’s—it’s—” she broke off, sputtering. “Oh, thank you,” she exclaimed. “Do you have any idea how thrilling it is to me to be standing in an authentic medieval castle? I’ve dreamed of this moment.”

  He smiled faintly. “Aye, the castle is magnificent, isn’t it?”

  He couldn’t have sounded more proud if he’d built it himself, Chloe thought. “Did you grow up here?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I could get tired of that answer in a hurry,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I’m not exactly hard to talk to. You should try it.” Since he’d told her that he and his brother had had some kind of falling out, she was better able to understand his withdrawn attitude. But if he thought it would keep her from asking questions, he was wrong.

  “Ever the curious lass, aren’t you?”

  “If I waited for you to offer information, I’d never find out anything. Speaking of which, we need to talk about this curse-thing soon too. I can’t help you if I don’t know exactly what we’re looking for.”

  Wariness flickered through his eyes. “Aye, I know. Anon, lass. For the now, let’s see if I survive the wrath of my bro—”

  He broke off abruptly, his gaze flying to the stairs.

  Chloe’s gaze followed, and she sucked in a sharp breath. A man who looked exactly like Dageus was standing there, halfway down the stairs, looking down at Dageus. She looked between them rapidly, disbelievingly.

  “Oh, God, you’re twins,” she said faintly. Faintly, because the man at the top of the stairs wore only a towel around his waist.

  “Stay right there!” the man on the stairs thundered. “I’ll but get my trews. My apologies, lass. I had to see him with my own eyes.” He turned around and loped up the stairs, three at a time.

  Dageus mumbled something that sounded almost like, if he drops his towel I’ll kill him, but Chloe decided she was imagining things.

  The man skidded to a halt at the top and cast a sharp glance directly at Chloe. “Doona let him leave, lass,” he roared at her.

  “Wow,” was all she could manage.

  Beside her, she felt Dageus stiffen. For a moment, it seemed the hall grew markedly cooler.

  “The lasses have oft said I am more handsome,” he said icily. “And a better lover.”

  Chloe blinked up at him.

  “So doona be ogling him. He’s married, lass.”

  “I wasn’t ogling,” she protested, knowing full well she’d been ogling. “And if I was, it’s only because you didn’t warn me that you were twins.”

  He gave her a dark look.

  “Besides, he only had a towel on,” she justified.

  “I doona care if he had naught but his skin on. ’Tisn’t polite to ogle another woman’s husband.”

  Chloe caught her breath. His expression was furious and he looked . . . jealous. About her? For looking at his brother? She peered at him, hardly daring to credit it.

  Abruptly, his gaze was gone again, fixed at the top of the stairs, and hers followed. She glanced from Drustan to Dageus and back again.

  And she wondered how Dageus might have worried for even a moment that Drustan wouldn’t welcome him home. The expression on his brother’s face took her breath away. Love blazed in his eyes and, though she couldn’t tell from this distance, it looked as if they glistened with tears.

  “Drustan,” Dageus said with a cool nod.

  Drustan’s eyes dimmed and his mouth tightened.

  “Drustan?” Drustan snapped. “That’s it? A mere Drustan? No ‘Good morrow, brother, ’tis sorry I am that I’ve been such an ass and no’ come home’?” His voice was rising with each word and he began stalking down the stairs.

  God, they even moved the same way, Chloe marveled, like great sinuous cats, all sleek strength and smoothly sculpted muscles. Though Drustan had pulled on “trews,” he’d not bothered with a shirt and his hair was wet, dripping down his chest. The muscles in his glistening torso rippled with every movement. He must have been in the shower, she realized.

  “. . . is that how you’ll greet me?” Drustan was still talking, but she’d missed part of his verbal barrage, apparently temporarily deafened by visual overload. “Get over here and greet me properly,” he thundered.

  Chloe tore her gaze away from Drustan and looked at Dageus. And stared. Though he looked as remote and impassive as ever, his eyes positively burned with emotion. He was as still as one of the many standing stones they’d passed, seeming every bit as ancient and obdurate. If one didn’t notice the hands fisted at his sides. And those eyes.

  Oh, there was more to Dageus MacKeltar than he let on! And her hypothesis was right. When he felt most deeply was when he exhibited the greatest reserve.

  So that was how such a man wore love, she realized. Quietly. Not an expressive man. Not a man to laugh or cry or dance. A man who had hair to his waist, but never wore it down. Did he ever let himself go?

  I’ll bet he does in bed. She was utterly rattled by the thought of all that disciplined muscle coming undone in bed. God, she could just taste it. . . .

  She shivered, studying the two men.

  They were twins, but they weren’t completely identical, she realized. There were minute differences. Drustan’s hair wasn’t as long, a bit past his shoulders, his eyes silvery. Taller, and he probably weighed more. Drustan was packed with muscle, Dageus’s body was leaner, more ripped. Same beautiful, chiseled features though. Even the same dark shadow beard on similar jaws. She peered intently. Dageus’s mouth was more . . . full and sulky. The mouth of a born seducer.

  She was so engrossed that she didn’t even notice the woman’s approach until she spoke softly.

  “Gorgeous, aren’t they?”

  Chloe turned, startled. The woman who’d spoken was as short as she was, and extremely pregnant, with silvery-blond hair and wispy fringed bangs. Her hair was twisted up in a knot and slightly damp, and Chloe blushed a little, realizing they’d obviously both been in the shower, and she found it highly doubtful that they’d been in separate ones. She was beautiful, glowing with the unique radiance of a pregnant woman who was utterly thrilled by impending motherhood, or . . . the radiance of a woman who’d just been treated to a MacKeltar’s special seductive talents in the shower, Chloe thought wistfully. The mere thought of taking a shower with Dageus made Chloe feel rather glowy herself.

  “Very. I had no idea they were twins. Dageus didn’t tell me.”

  “Drustan didn’t tell me either. He regretted that later, when I kissed Dageus because I thought he was Drustan. Drustan didn’t care for it one bit. They’re possessive about their women, but I’m sure you know that. I’m Gwen, by the way, Drustan’s wife.”

  “Hi. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Chloe Zanders.” Chloe nibbled her lip uncertainly, then felt it necessary to clarify, “But I’m not his . . . er, woman. We met only recently and I’m just here to help him with translations.”

  Gwen looked highly amused. “If you say so. How did the two of you meet?”

  If you say so? Now just what did that mean? And how to answer the question about how they’d met? Chloe opened her mouth and shut it again. Surely not, I snooped through his penthouse and he tied me to his bed. And then I started turning into a person I hardly recognize anymore. “That’s a long story,” she said warily.

  “Those are the best kind—I can’t wait to hear it! I have a few of my own.” Gwen looped her arm through Chloe’s and steered her toward the staircase. “Farley,” she called over her shoulder to the white-haired butler, “would you have tea and coffee sent up to the solar? And some snacks. I’m starving.”

  “Right away, milady.” With a doting look at Gwen, the butler rushed off.

  “Why don’t we get to know each other while they catch up?” Gwen asked, turning back to Chloe. “They’ve not seen each other in quite some time.”

  Chloe glanced again at Dageus. He and Drusta
n were still standing in the middle of the great hall, talking intently. Just then, as if he felt her gaze on him, Dageus looked at her, tensed, and started to walk toward her.

  Surprised by his concern for her at what was clearly a difficult moment for him, Chloe shook her head, assuring him wordlessly that she was fine.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he turned back to Drustan.

  Chloe smiled at Gwen. “I’d like that.”

  13

  When the lasses hastened off to the solar, Drustan and Dageus adjourned to the privacy of the library. A spacious, masculine room with cherry bookcases recessed into paneled walls, comfortable chairs and ottomans, a dusky-rose marble fireplace and tall, bay windows, the library was Drustan’s retreat, much as the glass-faced solar that overlooked the gardens was Gwen’s.

  Drustan couldn’t take his eyes off his twin brother. He’d nigh given up hope that Dageus would come home. He’d been dreading what he might have to do if his brother didn’t. But he was here now, and the tight fist that had been clutched around his heart since the day he’d read and, in a fit of fury, burned the letter their da had left him, finally, blessedly, eased a bit.

  Dageus tossed himself into a chair near the fireplace, stretched out his legs, and propped his feet on a stool. “What think you of the castle, Drustan? It appears to have withstood the centuries well.”

  Aye, that it had. The castle had surpassed all of Drustan’s expectations. If ever a man had received proof of his brother’s love, it had been in the gift of their home. Then Dageus had topped even that gift by sacrificing himself to ensure Drustan would survive to live in it. But Dageus had always been like that: though not a man to whom soft words came readily, when he loved, he loved to a dangerous point. ’Tis both his greatest strength and weakness, Silvan had oft remarked, and truer words had never been uttered. He had the wild, true heart of a child, in the body of a jaded man. Intensely guarded, unless he chose to give it, yet once given, it was given completely. Without thought to his own survival.

  “’Tis even more magnificent than I’d imagined when we worked on the plans,” Drustan said. “I can’t thank you enough, Dageus. Not for this. Not for anything.” How did one thank a brother for sacrificing his soul for one’s own happiness? My life for yours, his brother had chosen. Thanks weren’t possible.

  Dageus shrugged. “You drew the sketches.”

  Ah, so he will pretend I meant only the castle and evade deeper issues, Drustan thought. “You built it. Gwen loves it too. And we’ve nigh finished having electricity and plumbing installed.”

  There was so much they needed to talk about, and naught of it would be easy to address. After a moment’s hesitation, Drustan decided to confront it directly, for he suspected Dageus would talk circles around it.

  Crossing to the liquor cabinet, Drustan splashed Macallan into two glasses, and handed one to Dageus. Thirty-five-year-old single-malt scotch, only the finest for his brother’s return. “So, how bad is it?” he asked matter-of-factly.

  Dageus flinched, a small, hastily contained reaction, but there. Then he tossed back the drink in one swallow and handed him the glass for a refill. Drustan complied, waiting.

  His brother sipped more slowly at the second one. “Worse now that I’m back on Scottish soil,” he said finally.

  “When did your eyes change?” It wasn’t only his eyes that had changed, Dageus moved differently. His most minute gestures were carefully executed, as if he could contain what was in him only by constant vigilance.

  A tiny muscle leapt in Dageus’s jaw. “How dark are they?”

  “They’re not gold anymore. A strange color, nigh like your drink.”

  “They change when it starts to get bad. When I’ve used too much magic.”

  “What are you using magic for?” Drustan asked carefully.

  Dageus tossed back the rest of his drink, rose, and went to stand before the fire. “I was using it to obtain the texts I needed to see if there was a way to . . . get rid of them.”

  “What is it like?”

  Dageus rubbed his jaw, exhaling. “’Tis as if I have a beast inside me, Drustan. ’Tis pure power and I find myself using it without even thinking. When did you know?” he asked, with a faint, bitter smile.

  Cold eyes, Drustan thought. They hadn’t always been cold. Once they’d been warm, sunny-gold, and full of easy laughter. “I’ve known since the first, brother.”

  A long silence. Then Dageus snorted and shook his head.

  “You should have let me die, Dageus,” Drustan said softly. “Damn you for not letting me die.”

  Thank you for not letting me die, he added silently, torn by emotion. It was a terrible mixture of grief and guilt and gratefulness. If not for his brother’s sacrifice, he would never have seen his wife again. Gwen would have raised their babies in the twenty-first century, alone. The day he’d read Silvan’s letter, and discovered the price his twin had paid to ensure his future, he’d nearly gone crazy, hating him for giving up his own life, loving him for doing it.

  “Nay,” Dageus said. “I should have watched over you more carefully and kept the fire from happening.”

  “’Twas not your fault—”

  “Och, aye, it was. Do you know where I was that eve? I was down in the lowlands in the bed of a lass whose name I can’t even recall—” He broke off abruptly. “How did you know? Did Da warn you?”

  “Aye. He left a letter for us explaining what had happened, advising that you’d disappeared. Our descendant, Christopher, and his wife, Maggie—whom you’ll meet anon—gave it to me shortly after I’d awakened. You called not long after that.”

  “Yet you pretended to accept my lies. Why?”

  Drustan shrugged. “Christopher went to Manhattan twice and watched you. You were doing naught I felt needed to be stopped.”

  His reasons for not going to America to retrieve his brother were complicated. Not only had he been loath to leave Gwen’s side while she was pregnant, he’d been wary of forcing a confrontation. After talking with him on the phone, he’d known that Dageus was indeed dark, but was holding on somehow. He’d suspected that were Dageus a tenth as powerful as Silvan believed, trying to force Dageus to return would have accomplished naught. Had it come to force, one of them would have died. Now that Dageus was there in the room with him, Drustan knew ’twould have been himself who’d died. The power in Dageus was immense, and he wondered how he’d withstood it this long.

  Cautiously, when Dageus turned his back to him and busied himself opening a new bottle of whisky, Drustan reached out with his Druid senses, curious to know more about what they were dealing with.

  He nearly doubled over. The whisky he’d sipped, curdled in his gut and tried to claw its way back up.

  He retracted instantly, frantically, violently. By Amergin, how did Dageus stand it? A monstrous, icy, rapacious beast pulsed beneath his skin, snaking through him, coiled, but barely. It had a fierce, gluttonous appetite. It was huge and twisted and suffocating. How could he breathe?

  Dageus turned, one brow arched, his gaze icy. “Never do that again,” he warned softly. Without bothering to ask, he poured Drustan a refill.

  Drustan snatched it from his hand and tossed it back swiftly. Only after the heat of it had exploded in his chest, did he trust himself to speak. He’d not kept his senses open long enough to explore the thing. His throat constricted by whisky and shock, he said hoarsely, “How did you know I was doing it? I scarce even—”

  “I felt you. So did they. You doona want them to. Leave them alone.”

  “Aye,” Drustan rasped. He hadn’t needed the warning; he had no intention of opening his senses around his brother again. “Are they different personalities, Dageus?” he forced out.

  “Nay. They have no separateness, no voice.” As yet, Dageus thought darkly. He suspected the day might well come when they found a voice. The moment Drustan had reached out, they’d stirred, sensing power, and for a moment he’d had the terrible suspicion that wha
t was in him could drain Drustan, suck him dry somehow.

  “So, it’s not as if you can actually hear them?”

  “’Tis—och, how can I explain this?” Dageus fell silent a moment, then said, “I feel them inside me, their knowledge as my own, their hunger as my own. It intensifies my desire for even simple things such as food and drink, to say nothing of women. There’s a constant temptation to use magic and the more I use it, the colder I feel. The colder I feel, the more reasonable it seems to use it, and the stronger my desires become. I suspect there’s a line that, should I cross, I will no longer be myself. This thing inside me will take over. I doona know what would happen to me then. I think I would be gone.”

  Drustan inhaled sharply. He could see a man being devoured by such a thing.

  “My thought patterns change. They become primitive. Naught matters but what I want.”

  “But you’ve controlled it this long.” How? Drustan marveled. How did a man survive with such a thing in him?

  “’Tis more difficult here. ’Tis why I left in the first place. What did Da tell you to do, Drustan?”

  “He told me to save you. And we will.” He deliberately omitted the last line of their father’s letter. And if you cannot save him, you must kill him. Now he knew why.

  Dageus searched his gaze intently, as if not convinced that was the entirety of what Silvan had said. Drustan knew he was about to push, so he launched an offensive of his own.

  “What of the lass you brought? How much does she know?” Though he was amazed that Dageus could still feel anything at all with that inside him, he’d not missed the possessiveness in Dageus’s gaze, or the reluctance with which he’d left her in Gwen’s care.