Dark Seduction

Royce shrugged and turned to Claire. “Malcolm wishes to protect ye, Lady Claire. He be strong an’ powerful an’ the chief o’ Clan Gillean. Ye be in good hands.”

A sarcastic quip formed. She held it back. She was shocked, angry and frightened, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think that she could survive for very long in fifteenth-century Scotland without someone to look out for her. She slowly faced Malcolm as Royce rode ahead, his men forming in two lines behind him. “When can I go home?”

“I dinna ken.”

“Great,” she retorted, trembling.

He gestured. Claire preceded him to where a man was holding two of the steeds taken from the dead. He paused, taking the reins of the gray horse. “Can ye ride?”

“I grew up on a farm,” Claire said tersely. She hadn’t been on a horse in years and the horses she had ridden back then had been plow horses, not warhorses. But after the events of that evening, getting up on the huge, blowing animal seemed like a piece of cake.

How had her life come to this? And what was she going to do? Despair consumed her. What if she couldn’t get back?

A big, callused hand settled on her shoulder.

Claire slowly turned, a familiar tension vibrating within her. He was powerful and sexual and she did not want to be aware of him as a man. But she was, especially after the brief interlude they had so unfortunately shared.

How could she have done such a thing?

His hand left her and he unpinned his brat, deftly draping it around her. His every accidental touch made it harder to breathe. He pinned the plaid closed just below the hollow of her throat, where her pulse was pounding like mad, belying her intentions to be indifferent to him and pretend she didn’t want him. His hands stilled there and he raised his gaze to hers.

Claire’s heart lurched at the sight of so much heat. Very, very vividly, she recalled his breadth, his length, his hardness and power. Desire made her feel faint.

His hands dropped away and his smile began, smug and satisfied. He nodded at the horse.

Claire mounted, his brat shielding her thighs from view.

CHAPTER FOUR

WHEN HE FELT SATISFIED that she could control the charger somewhat, Malcolm left Claire with two of Royce’s men and rode to the side of the column so he could be alone. The forest was thick and dark around them, but he could smell the sea as they approached Loch Linnhe. There was no scent in the world like that of the woods mingling with Highland sea, he thought, except, of course, for the scent of her.

But now he could not touch her. He must not touch her. With her, he had no control.

Royce rode over to him. “What’s botherin’ ye, Calum?” he asked softly, speaking in Gaelic.

Malcolm hesitated, aware of his cheeks heating. Fortunately, Masters respected one another and did not lurk upon each other. He spoke in their native tongue, grim. “Sibylla has the power to leap time, Ruari. Moray has given it to her when she was but a lowly Deamhan all these years.”

Royce’s eyes widened; he was clearly dismayed.

As he should be, Malcolm thought. The powerful, demonic earl of Moray was the overlord of evil in Alba. It was said that, long ago, in the beginning, Moray had been a Master, until evil had corrupted him, stealing his soul. There was no doubt his line came from the Ancients, for his power was so great that no Master had been able to vanquish him, not in a thousand years. His quest was power and control, his means, destruction, anarchy and death. He had a great title, great lands, huge armies of both Deamhanain and humans. Those he sent easily into death’s jaws. And he was so charming, so handsome, so clever that he was favored by the royals—especially the current queen, Joan.

Many of the Deamhanain were simply humans possessed—like the knights that had just attacked them, giants among men, their powers enhanced by the demonic possession. Sybilla was human, but Moray had made her his lover, taken her soul, given her his children. And now, he had given her one of the most coveted powers of all, the power to leap the ages.

Royce glanced at him. “I dinna think ye be broodin’ about a Deamhan, even if she be Sibylla, whose time has come.”

“Aye, she must die. If she can leap like a Master, she has too much power now.” The most powerful Deamhanain were always to be hunted and vanquished. It was too dangerous to allow them their lives. “But she may ha’ the page. I followed her to the city of New York,” he said grimly. “I followed her to Lady Claire’s bookshop. She was there first. The shop was ransacked. Lady Claire doesna ken what be stolen, and what nay.”

“If there be a page from the Cladich, it must be returned to the Brotherhood,” Royce said firmly. “Moray has enough powers, an’ he canna have the power to heal his own spawn.”

Malcolm could not imagine a world where the Deamhanain could heal each other. The first Deamhanain, those who’d been seduced by the devil and stolen from the Brotherhood, were hard enough to vanquish without such powers.

“If Sibylla left Lady Claire alive, she has a use fer her,” Royce added. “If Sibylla doesna have the page, she may think yer lady has it.”

Unfortunately, Malcolm had just had that exact thought. His heart lurched with dread. The wife of John Frasier, a treacherous and powerful Lowland earl, Sibylla was even more dangerous than her husband, for he was simply an ambitious nobleman, while she was possessed and allied with Moray. She was almost as evil and cold-blooded as her overlord. Her reputation was vast. She loved to slowly torture her victims, both male and female, and then take pleasure in their deaths. He almost hoped that Sibylla had the page. Otherwise, Sibylla might believe that Claire knew where the page was, and she would hunt Claire. He was sickened, as he knew what Sibylla would do to Claire if she ever caught her.

“I think ye need make certain Sibylla kens Lady Claire be ignorant o’ our affairs.”

“She be ignorant.” But she was not as ignorant as she had been, Malcolm thought grimly. He had brought Claire back to protect her from Sibylla and Aidan. Now he wasn’t certain he had done what was in her best interests.

“’Tis nay safe to send her back, alone,” Royce said suddenly. “Not yet.”

Malcolm looked at him. “Do ye lurk?”

“I dinna have to lurk in yer head to ken yer fears fer her.”

He hesitated, wondering what Royce had left unsaid. He hoped his lust was not obvious. “Aidan was also there.” His blood boiled at that thought.

Royce’s tawny brows lifted. “So he hunts the page, as well.”

“He hunts whatever pleases him,” Malcolm exclaimed, filled with fury. “He follows no command! The bastard was in her bed. I sensed him there.”

“Aidan is a rogue,” Royce said calmly, “but he is nay evil. Surely the Brotherhood sent him to the future, as they did ye. And Lady Claire is beautiful. If he had her first, ye may hate him, but ye canna change the past. ’Tis nay allowed,” he warned.

The Code was not simple. There were many rules, some subject to debate, as well as interpretation, but never going back in time to change the past was one of the most important ones. No Master was allowed to change history. But if Aidan had even touched her, he’d be tempted to go back in time and do the forbidden. “He didna bed her. I’d have sensed him in her. But if he touched her—aye, a single touch—I will kill him.”

Royce stared. “Ye be very possessive, lad.”

Malcolm looked straight ahead between the stallion’s pricked ears. “Dinna start.”

“Ye dinna ken the lass.”

“Aye, I dinna. Soon, when ’tis safe, when I ken that Sibylla doesna hunt her, then she will go back.” And that way she would be safe from him, he thought grimly. He tried to imagine her at Dunroch, while not in his bed. It was impossible.

He could send her to Carrick with his uncle. Instantly, he dismissed the thought. His uncle was the least romantic man he knew, but like all the Masters, he could entrance a woman to his will and he always had a beautiful woman in his bed. He’d seen the way Royce had looked at her—the way he’d almost preened upon being introduced.

And by the gods, he became aware of a burning jealousy, because Claire had given his uncle a good lookover, in return. No, she was going to Dunroch, and he’d deal with his dilemma with an iron will when the time came.

As for Aidan, he had better keep his distance, too. Aidan was a rogue warrior, doing as he pleased, when he pleased. The world knew he was a hedonist. He’d had legions of lovers already. Beauty was his weakness. Did Aidan burn with lust for her, too? Malcolm did not trust him. Did he think to pleasure her and take her life while he did so? Malcolm felt certain Aidan had committed pleasure crimes because Aidan had but half a soul—and that half was black.

“Aidan invited ye to Awe once,” Royce finally said, as if sensing his thoughts.

Malcolm jerked. “Aye—three years ago.” Aidan had sent an invitation by messenger shortly after Malcolm’s induction into the Brotherhood. He had ripped the missive to shreds.

Royce ignored that. “Ye should go to Awe and speak with him. Make a truce, Calum.”

Malcolm stared, and said softly, “If I go t’ Awe, I go fer one cause an’ one cause alone. I go t’ kill the bastard.”

Royce’s expression became hard. “Ye better cease such talk. A Master canna kill another Master an’ ye ken.”

Malcolm smiled coldly. “Really? That be one rule I dinna care for.”

“I want to see peace between ye an’ Aidan afore I die,” Royce said sharply.

Malcolm stiffened. “What kind o’ talk is that?” In truth, he didn’t even know how old his uncle was.

“We’re nay immortal.” Royce said, his smile suddenly tired. “I been huntin’ evil fer hundreds of years, Calum. My time will come.”

Malcolm was aghast. “Do ye have a death wish? Yer a great Master. The Brotherhood needs ye, Ruari. The Innocent need ye.” I need you, he added silently, but his uncle had to know that. Brogan had died when Malcolm was nine years old, and Royce had been more of a father than an uncle ever since, as well as a loyal friend.

Royce smiled then. “Ye be so young, Malcolm. I envy ye yer innocence—an’ I pray ye’ll never be without hope.”

Malcolm became concerned. “Ye never speak this way. Is there something yer not telling me? Is something amiss?”

“After two hundred years, we have word of a page from the Cladich bein’ near. The Deamhanain want it, and we must once again guard such a power for ourselves and Alba. I remember the first time the book was stolen, and the hunt to find it an’ bring it back to the shrine. I remember when the Cladich was stolen the second time—an’ we ha’ not seen it since. I remember when Moray stole the Duaisean. The cycle of life never changes, like the sun rising an’ setting, day after day an’ year after year. It is a cycle of good an’ evil, an’ it will never end. Nothing changes—it is all the same. If a Master finally vanquishes Moray, there’ll be another, greater Deamhan t’ take his place.”

Malcolm was very alarmed. “One day, Moray will be vanquished. No one will take his place.”

“Ye stay far from Moray! I have tried to kill him a hundred times. Ye tried once, too, an’ look at what it got ye.”

Malcolm tensed. It had gotten him to Urquhart, where he had come close to losing his soul.

And then Royce smiled, revealing two dimples. It was the smile Malcolm had seen women fight amongst themselves to receive. “Dinna listen to the ramblings of an old Master like me. Ye protect the woman. She’s yer Innocent now. Ye’ll stay safely at Carrick t’night. T’morrow I’ll be holding Moray’s men back if they attack another time when ye go t’ Dunroch. The MacNeil will want a report,” he added.

“And he’ll have one,” Malcolm responded, relieved that Royce’s odd, bleak humor was gone. “I go to Iona immediately. ”

Royce became grim. “Calum, Sibylla obeys Moray. If she let Lady Claire live, there be one more possibility. Ye will not care fer it.”

Malcolm tensed.

“Mayhap the dark lord wishes Lady Claire to live.” Malcolm whirled his mount. “Dinna begin t’ think that Moray has any idea the lass exists!”

“If Sibylla has the page, why else would she let her live?”

EVEN IN A CAVALCADE of armed men, Claire was afraid. She did not like the black forest they were riding through. She didn’t need an imagination to know that all kinds of danger lurked in its impenetrable depths. And she wasn’t thinking about wolves and mountain lions. What if there was an ambush? What if the men who had escaped returned to finish them off? They had meant to kill Malcolm—and they had meant to kill her. And to think she had been afraid of crime in the city!

She still could barely believe all that had happened. She had gone back in time, which was shocking enough, and there had been a huge battle. She hoped she would never witness or participate in such a battle again. However, if she stayed in the fifteenth century for very long, the odds were she was going to find herself in such dire straits another time. Her expertise was medieval European history, not Highland history, but she had certainly dabbled in the latter. It was filled with intrigue, conspiracy, bloodshed, murder and warfare. Reading about it in a classroom had thrilled her. Living it was an entirely different matter.

Claire knew she had to set her fear aside and find calm in order to think. But her composure was in shreds. Two large, silent Scots, apparently assigned to escort her, rode on each side of her. Claire focused on deep breathing while trying to think happy thoughts. She thought about Thanksgiving at the farm and then gave up. She started to laugh, feeling hysterical, images of the bloody battle and severed heads vying with images of Malcolm’s lust-ravaged face in her mind. She wasn’t calm—she didn’t think she would ever be calm again.

She recalled her insane behavior during the battle, when, instead of hiding as Malcolm had ordered her to do, she had tried to fight back. She was never going to understand what had motivated her. Claire Camden was not brave. She was afraid of her own shadow and everyone else’s, which was why she had created such a little fortress in her shop. Except that fortress had been breached tonight. And she was not a Taserwelding female Schwarzenegger, even if she had acted like one. She didn’t want to be a female version of Malcolm!

What if she couldn’t get back?

Her tension increased. This was her greatest fear. Claire’s heart lurched. If she started thinking about being trapped in the past forever, she wouldn’t be able to think, period, and her mind was her only defense. Even in this violent, chauvinistic world, wisdom must surely prevail, even if it came from a female.

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. The night was lit by so many stunning stars and a brilliant half-moon, that it really wasn’t all that hard to see. For one moment, as Claire scanned her surroundings, she allowed herself a grudging acceptance of the beauty of the night sky. Only in the fifteenth century could one see such a magnificent sight.

A few of the warriors also held torches, which helped illuminate the night. Her gaze moved to the pair of towering men who led the riders, then settled on Malcolm. He and Black Royce were silent now, but they had conversed for quite some time, clearly about grave matters. Claire grimaced. She knew they had been discussing her.

She stared at Malcolm’s back. He seemed to be a superior warrior. In fact, if she thought about it, his prowess had been extraordinary. She was probably as safe as a woman in this particular time and place could be, considering that he seemed to feel obligated to protect her. But by God, she would feel a helluva lot better once they were at Carrick and behind solid stone walls.

And then what?

She had a hundred questions and she needed a hundred and one answers. She had to know that she could get back and when that would be. She had to know why they had been attacked. Had it been a mere instance of two clans feuding? She did not think so. And she did not like Malcolm’s reference to evil.

Those warriors had been strange and different.

Claire shuddered. She didn’t want to think anymore, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Sometimes, while walking down the city streets, more frequently at night than during the day, Claire would pass by someone and feel thoroughly chilled. The first time it had happened, she had been so surprised that she had turned to look at the passerby. She had looked into hollow eyes.

It had somehow been terrifying, horrifying. She had been fifteen years old at the time, but it had been before Aunt Bet’s stunning revelation about her mother’s death. She had never looked at any such person again. Instead, she would duck her head, avoid all eye contact and keep on going.

She pretended it was a New York thing to do. Everyone knew New Yorkers were cold and strange, they weren’t friendly and they didn’t make eye contact. That was how one managed in the big city amongst millions of people.

The night her mother had been murdered, it had been so cold in the house although it had been an Indian-summer evening. It was the one fact she recalled with vivid, tactile clarity.

Claire stiffened and her mount danced in protest. One of the Highlanders reached out to seize her reins and Malcolm whirled to see what was happening. Claire didn’t want to think about the past. Dealing with the present was bad enough.

But Claire breathed hard, the horse snorting now. Damn it. A terrible draft had chilled the glade just before the warriors had invaded, the same kind of cold that had filled the apartment.

Claire had spent her entire life avoiding overthinking the dark side of the city. She’d worked her ass off to make a small, secure and successful world for herself. When bad things happened to friends, neighbors and coworkers, she began supporting challenging political candidates. Crime was out of control and society was breaking down, so she worked harder. Work was a refuge. She wished she was working now.

But that world felt as if it had just gone up in smoke. And damn it, life seemed equally dark and chaotic in medieval Scotland. She didn’t know what to think, and she certainly didn’t know what to do.

Ye be my Innocent now.

She shivered. What did that mean?

Malcolm’s tone had been filled with possession back in her apartment when he had first made that statement, and it had been as possessive when he had told Royce that he didn’t share. She felt her cheeks warm. He had pointedly told Royce that he’d “taken” her. That was the point. He had taken and used her body, just like that, in one stunning instant, when she had been recovering from the torture of time travel. There hadn’t been warm words, promises, declarations of affection. Love had not been involved. It had been pure, raw, carnal sex.

She was never going to believe that she had welcomed his attentions the way that she had. She still couldn’t believe she’d actually wanted—desperately—his invasion. Traveling back in time must have altered her senses or her sensibilities, or both. Maybe it had changed her physically, too. She’d always been hard to please and finding a release had usually been a chore, but it had been shockingly easy with Malcolm.

She was old-fashioned and proud of it. She was not going to deny how attractive he was, but so what? She met attractive men in New York all the time, and even if they weren’t as macho as Malcolm, there were some real power players out there. Power had always turned her on more than dumb good looks, but she had easily dismissed the men who had briefly tried to pursue her. Most of the men she met were highly dysfunctional. She had been celibate for three years because she insisted on affection, if not love, before intimacy. Power players weren’t into affection or love, they were into conquests.

It sounded awfully familiar.

Claire did not want to continue to think about that brief, combustible act of penetration and climax. If she did, her dry mouth would get drier and her speeding heart would race even more wildly. However, she had better think about it and prepare herself for his advances. He still wanted her. It was more than obvious. She felt it every time he looked at her. His sexuality and desire emanated from him in hot, tangible waves. And he was possessive. He had been warning Royce away. She wasn’t going to compromise her morals or her standards—or her dreams—just because she was lost in medieval times with the hunk of all ages. She had never had casual or meaningless sex. Ever. She’d had two relationships. She had been in love as a sophomore at Barnard, but her other affair had been more tepid. She’d wanted it to be love, but it had been hard to pretend, and in the end, she had given up.

And maybe that was half of the problem. He’d noticed right away that she’d been starving her body sexually. Crude and rude as he was, he’d commented openly. What had he said? He’d called her “hungry.” Apparently, he’d hit the nail on the head.

The next time they spoke, she had to set some boundaries and make some rules. She was very alone and this was his world. If he was chieftain of his clan, he was used to doing what he wanted, when he wanted, all of the time. Claire knew enough about the structure and culture of the Highland clans to know that a laird was God and king, judge and jury, policeman and warlord. His word was law and it was final.

Her heart had picked up an alarmed beat. She didn’t have to be rational to recall striking him and cursing him. She no longer knew herself, but she did know this. He might have deserved it, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t know him, never mind that he wanted to protect her. He was lord here, absolutely, and she had better appease him if she could. Otherwise, and maybe anyway, she was in deep shit.

Suddenly, Malcolm appeared at her side. Claire was so immersed in her thoughts that his appearance was as startling as that of a ghost. She flinched, her horse prancing. But he smiled, reaching out for her reins, steadying the charger. “I didna mean t’ scare ye. Ye be all right, lass?”

Claire tried to ignore his powerful presence, his masculinity and what might happen later if she didn’t find a way to keep him at bay. “We need to talk.” That was the understatement of her life, she thought.

“Aye.” He gestured ahead. “Carrick.”

Claire followed his gaze and her eyes widened. The pale castle was perched high above them on equally pale cliffs. Her heart beat wildly, but not with fear.

The last time she had been in Scotland, she had almost taken the turn at the sign pointing to Carrick Castle. Her guidebook had said the scenery was breathtaking, and a tour of the grounds and castle was not to be missed. But in the end she had driven by, intent upon arriving at Iona by nightfall.

Maybe being thrust back in the past wasn’t all that bad, Claire thought, excitement sweeping over her as she stared up at the imposing pale stone walls, the towers and the keep. If Malcolm kept his distance and she avoided any more battles, if she kept her head on straight and her courage up, this might just be an incredible and amazing, once-in-alifetime educational experience. She could probably even write about it, not that anyone would believe her. She was about to enter a fifteenth-century stronghold. She was about to see things that no historian had ever reported. And while she remained afraid, she wanted to go inside that castle.

If she could get back home in one piece, sooner rather than later, she might be able to manage this amazing twist of fate. She turned to look at him. “How long will it take to get there?”

“Less than an hour,” he said. “And we’ll discuss yer matters when we arrive.”

THEY RODE UP the steep hill in double file, but had to go one at a time through the very narrow entrance of the walled barbican. Carrick was set on the top of a hill, overlooking steep cliffs on all sides, and the site had clearly been chosen because the hill was divided from the road by a steep, impassable ravine. Without the drawbridge, ladders or siege engines, no one was entering or leaving.