Dark Seduction

Claire shivered as she rode across the drawbridge, Malcolm still beside her. An outer bailey filled with huts and livestock was behind them, and she glanced down into the ravine. Hundreds of feet below, it was filled with sharp, jagged rocks. Attackers who were thwarted on the drawbridge or trying to scale the curtain walls would fall to their deaths on the ground below.

As if reading her mind, Malcolm said, “No one has besieged Carrick.”

Claire managed a sickly smile. A castle built solely to withstand assault and attack was, in a way, as unnerving as the battle they’d just survived. The sun was rising above the towers and the ramparts, and the sky was a pale gray, stained with fingers of crimson and pink. The sight would have been breathtaking, just as her brochure had promised, if she didn’t know that each and every jagged rock had been put in that ravine by human hands, meant to inflict pain and death.

They now rode single file through the narrow, dark passageway of the gatehouse and its four towers. Claire looked up. There were “murder holes” above her from which attackers would be doused with hot oil and arrows if they ever got this far. She looked down. Her horse was crossing a wooden plank set in the stone floor. She knew it was a trapdoor.

Claire looked grimly at Malcolm. “What’s beneath us?” Whatever was there, she knew that anyone unfortunate to be riding or walking over the trapdoor when it opened would not survive.

“I dinna ken,” he said. “Mayhap sharpened staves or beds of knives.” His gaze was interested. “Ye ken the way of our warfare.”

Claire was dry mouthed. “I’ve studied it a bit.”

They rode past a pair of thick, studded, open doors and into the inner bailey.

She breathed. Although it was early, men and women were hurrying about the bailey, clearly intent on their morning tasks. Smoke was rising from two buildings that were directly ahead, built against the northern walls. She smelled baking bread and saw so many serving women going to and fro that she was certain that the smaller building contained the kitchens.

Beside it was the imposing, four-storied great hall. Black Royce was dismounting there, a small boy having materialized to take his horse. He patted the boy’s head and headed up a wooden staircase, vanishing beyond a heavy wooden door.

She glanced around again, trying to absorb everything. A man in priestly robes stood in front of what had to be the chapel, a two-story stone hall built against the eastern walls. The rest of Black Royce’s men were dismounting by the building she assumed to be their hall, which was above the stables. Women and children had appeared to greet them, the women wearing long leines, the children short ones. Some of the soldier’s wives wore brats. Laughter and conversation ran rampant, as did hugs and kisses.

Claire breathed hard, overcome by the sights and sounds, the hustle and the bustle, and the emotion, of these fifteenth-century people. So far, all was as she had imagined, but she wasn’t imagining anything now. She was at Carrick Castle, and it was 1427. Chills swept her. This was truly an amazing opportunity. Then she realized Malcolm was staring.

Unthinkingly, she smiled at him.

He started, and slowly he smiled back. “Ye be pleased.”

She inhaled, because she was thrilled. “I am in a fifteenth-century fortress. I am very fond of history.” She wasn’t going to explain her degree to him. “I’ve read about what life is like in these times, but I am seeing it myself firsthand.”

He was wry. “’Tis nay special.” He slid from the horse, handed off his reins to a waiting boy and held up his hand for her.

Claire came to her senses. She was making the best of a bad situation, but taking his hand was not a good idea. She pretended not to notice and slid from the horse.

Malcolm thanked the boy, touched her back and indicated she would precede him up the stairs. Claire didn’t understand. She felt certain that men in his time did not allow women to go first, never mind that chivalry was a huge part of medieval culture.

He gestured impatiently. She gave him a grudging nod and then hurried up the stairs. She stepped through an oversize, paneled-wood door and into the great hall and blinked, surprised.

She had been expecting the very sparse furnishings of the period. She had been wrong. The walls and floors were stone, of course, and wood rafters supported the high ceiling. But there were several fine rugs on the floor, obviously from France, Italy or Belgium, instead of rushes. While there was a crude trestle table with two benches before a huge hearth in which a fire roared, there were also several arrangements of upholstered chairs, each finely and intricately carved by the best medieval craftsmen. A magnificent sword collection was displayed over the hearth. Several beautifully carved trunks served as tables. Oil paintings were on the walls, the portraits highly stylized as was standard for the period, and a stunning tapestry was on one wall. Claire had expected far more primitive conditions. She had expected dogs, mice, vermin and rushes on the floors. Black Royce’s home was very well furnished for the fifteenth-century Highlands and as livable as a modern manor home. Still, something was missing—a personal touch. Claire would bet he was not married.

Royce had been helped out of his armor and was sitting in the room’s largest chair, the upholstery burgundy velvet. A young woman handed him a mug of what Claire assumed to be ale. She now noticed that another young woman had taken his brat and mail and was carrying it away. Both females looked to be no more than twenty, if that, and they were blond and pretty. As Claire came to the realization that she was not the only young and attractive woman in the Highlands, a third woman appeared. She offered Malcolm a mug, smiling and blushing as she did so.

“Tapadh leat,” he said, smiling back at her.

She was very pretty, with strawberry-blond hair, half Claire’s size and nowhere close to twenty-one. Claire had always liked being tall, but suddenly she felt gawky and more like a giant than a woman. The blonde murmured, “De tha sibh ag larraidh?”

Claire’s heart lurched with dread. Was this woman his love? And why did she care?

Malcolm shook his head, speaking softly in reply. His smile was terribly seductive.

The girl’s color increased. She glanced at Claire and hurried from the hall.

Claire realized she was hugging herself. If he wanted to bed someone that young, it wasn’t her affair. And of course he would. He was macho and oversexed. He was a medieval lord. He thought it his right and the dumb blonde probably thought it an honor to jump into his bed.

Claire was jealous. And that was even worse.

He took her arm but spoke to Royce. “I will show Claire t’ her chamber.”

Royce had stretched out his long, boot-clad legs and seemed to be utterly indifferent. He sent them both a lazy, knowing smile.

Claire flushed. If he thought she was Malcolm’s lover, he was wrong. Claire carefully shrugged away from Malcolm’s grasp. She followed him up a narrow staircase, trying to keep her distance from him while also trying not to stare at the back of his bare legs.

He pushed open a wood door and stood aside. “Ye can sleep here. We’ll go to Dunroch t’morrow.”

Claire wondered grimly if that would allow him a more leisurely romp in the hay with the strawberry blonde. She stepped past him into her chamber.

The room was very small, but there was a good-size fireplace on one wall and the bed had four carved posters and a fur coverlet. There was a single window, a slit without glass, the shutters open. As no fire had been started, it was icy in the room.

She knew she would never sleep. Her mind would race in circles.

The strawberry blonde appeared, sending Malcolm a smile before kneeling to start a fire.

Claire bristled. “Get a room.” She smiled sweetly at him, belying her caustic tone.

He grinned. “Yer jealous o’ the maid?”

Claire could not believe she had been so transparent. “Hardly. Oh, by the way, thank you for the loan.” She fumbled with the brooch to give him back his plaid. She didn’t want it. It reeked of his masculinity.

He reached out and grasped her hand, stilling it.

Claire stiffened, certain he was preparing to make a pass. That certainty increased when the blonde glanced at them and silently left the room, closing the door behind her.

Claire knew she should move away. Instead, the man’s sex and heat pulled at her, encouraging her to step closer.

“’Tis cool and ye have nay clothes.” He released her hand, moving to the single table in the room. There was one roughly carved wood chair there, along with a pitcher, a flask and two mugs. He poured liquid from the flask into a mug and handed it to her. Claire smelled the red wine and was immediately diverted. She was, she realized, thirsty and ravenous.

“’Tis a fine claret, from France,” he said softly.

Claire saw the glitter in his gaze, and felt her own pulse escalate. She took a drink, wondering if he hoped to loosen her up, and then another. “It is good. Thank you.”

He smiled, clearly having no intention of leaving the room. “Why do ye care if I bed the wench?”

His tone was casual but Claire almost leaped out of her skin. “I do not!”

“I dinna want the wench, lass,” he murmured.

His meaning was beyond clear. He had the ability to speak in such a suggestive tone that all she could do was think of sex. She had to do something before he put his hands on her.

He turned away, stunning her. She saw him pour another mug, his hand rock steady. When he faced her, he leaned one hip against the table.

“We ha’ matters to discuss,” he said bluntly, clearly aware of her discomfiture.

Claire inhaled. This was safer territory, indeed. But before she could ask a single question, his expression hardened. “I dinna ken the way o’ yer world, Claire, but in my world, no one—not man, not woman, not child, not wild beast or dog, no one—disobeys me.”

She stood at attention now. “I am sorry.”

“Ye nay be sorry. Ye plot yer own causes!” he exclaimed.

She had been caught. “Sometimes I feel you can read my mind!” she said furiously.

“I can sense yer strongest thoughts as if ye speak them aloud,” he shot back, standing. He set the mug down hard, hard enough that the table jumped. “In battle, I will protect ye. But that means ye hide if I say hide and run if I say run and ye dinna think, ever.” His eyes flashed.

Claire knew she should not allow herself to debate him. She fought her temper and lost. “My lord,” she said, meaning to speak demurely and failing. Instead, her tone was undeniably sarcastic. “In my world, women are leaders, warriors, queens without kings!”

“Ye argue now?” He was incredulous.

She flushed. Appease him! she thought frantically. “I am sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t hide. I am an utter coward. And I didn’t intend to disobey you. It just happened.”

His expression eased slightly. “Ye be nay coward, lass. Ye be strong an’ brave.” His gaze slid over the brat as if he could see through it. “I never seen such a body in me entire life.”

He stared at her, his gray eyes fiercely intent.

This was the time to set some boundaries, Claire thought, if she could. Her body raging just as it had in the woods, she took a long, deep breath. “In my world,” she said carefully, “a man does not touch a woman without her permission.”

His expression did not change.

“Do not pretend not to understand!” she cried desperately.

His tone was dangerous. “Oh, I ken, lass. I ken.”

“What does that mean?”

Very softly, he said, “I took what ye offered an’ I gave what ye wanted.”

She gasped, outraged. But she also recalled wanting him desperately and having the best damn orgasm ever. She felt her cheeks burn. “I am not a.. .a.. .lightskirt! I have never…ever.. .jumped into bed with a stranger! Did you hypnotize me?”

“I dinna ken.” His lashes lowered, fanning out on his high, beautiful cheekbones.

She swallowed, her mouth unbearably dry, while an ache raged between her thighs. Why couldn’t she control her attraction? This wasn’t helping matters—it was complicating them! “I don’t throw myself at strange men. You need to keep your distance.”

His gaze slid over her in a very suggestive manner. “I think,” he said softly, “ye dinna throw yerself at any man, except me.”

He was right. She was speechless.

He looked satisfied now.

“Did you hypnotize me in the woods?” she cried hoarsely. “Because the only other explanation for my behavior is that I have lost my mind—or it’s been altered by what has happened!”

“Explain the word hypnotize,” he said.

She tried to speak more calmly. “It means mesmerize, entrance, enchant! When you look at me sometimes, it is very hard to think!”

“’Tis a small gift,” he said smugly. “And a useful one.”

“What, from Merlin the Magician?”

“Ye be so distressed an’ angry, lass, an’ why? Ye wanted it an’ ye were pleased. ’Tis nay important now. Or be ye mad because I ha’ decided not t’ give over to such temptation again?”

It took her a long moment to decipher his words. “ What?“

“I want ye, Claire. Dinna doubt me. But I be sworn to protect ye.”

“Are you telling me you are not going to—” She stopped. She had been about to say make love, but if she did, he would laugh at her, she was certain.

His lashes lowered again. “Fuck ye?”

She inhaled. If a modern-day man spoke that way, it would probably be offensive. Coming from Malcolm, it only conjured up graphic and heated images of his driving his very extraordinary length into her repeatedly, with shocking power and stunning effect. If he did so now, right now, she would explode.

She swallowed. She had been certain she was going to have to hold him off. Now he was telling her he was not interested—except he was, because even now she felt him throbbing in the room. His lust was as tangible as the wine she could smell in her mug. Was he clever enough to be manipulating her? She was confused, and damn it, she was even dismayed.

“What would make you decide to be a gentleman?” she managed to say.

He looked up with a brief, self-derisive laugh. “I be nay gentle, lass, an’ we both ken.” His humor vanished. His gray eyes turned black. “I dinna wish to see ye lyin’ dead beneath me.”

Claire would have backed up if there was somewhere to go. “I don’t understand.” But the fear that had vanished during their conversation returned.

His gaze slowly moved over her, deliberately, and then it lifted to her face. “I want ye badly, very badly, but I dinna trust meself.”

“What does that mean?” she gasped.

He was blunt. “I killed a maid. I willna do so again.”

“You killed a woman?” Claire cried, backing up into the bed. The word evil went right through her mind.

“Ye be terrified,” he said softly.

“No!” Her heart shrieked at her. Malcolm was not evil. She would bet her life on it. He had not just said what she thought he had. “You said you wanted to protect me,” she breathed.

“Aye.”

Claire realized she was panting. “Please don’t tell me…!”

His face was hard. “She died in my arms, Claire. She died takin’ her pleasure from me.”

CHAPTER FIVE

CLAIRE REALLY NEEDED to sit down. Malcolm’s gaze was hard, even angry, and entirely unwavering. But he was not evil—there was nothing evil about him. He could not have committed a pleasure crime.

“What happened?” she somehow said, seeing him not as he stood there, but with some woman beneath him, in the throes of her passion.

“I told ye!” He was sharp.

Claire finally sat down on the edge of the bed. “People do die during sex, I mean, normal sex. Even if it’s not a pleasure crime, sometimes a man’s heart stops. Or a woman’s. It’s from the excitement. If the woman’s heart was weak, if she’d been ill, if she was older, feeble—”

He cut her off. “She wasna old. She was younger than ye. Her heart was strong.”

This could not be happening. She did not want Malcolm to be an evil madman, but the parallels were glaring. Strangers seducing the young and the innocent. Malcolm was a stranger—and he was mesmerizing.

Had she been mesmerized in the woods?

“How well did you know her?” she asked carefully, fear uncoiling inside her.

“I dinna ken the lass.” His gray gaze glittered.

“You were strangers.”

“Aye.”

She couldn’t breathe. A challenge seemed to be in his eyes, but she wasn’t sure she could meet it. Sweat ran down her body in streams and she couldn’t help but be afraid—and sickened. But somewhere deep inside herself, she refused to believe what he was telling her. “You killed her for fun?”

His eyes went wide. He said with great care, “I dinna amuse meself with death, Claire. I dinna ken me powers. I needed the maid, badly. I dinna wish to hurt her or see her dead.”

In that instant, she saw the pain blazing in his eyes. He was in the throes of guilt. She slumped in relief, and sympathy swelled. “Malcolm, it was probably her heart.”

He turned and lifted his mug of wine, draining it. “I didna stop when it was time to stop. I couldna think.” He turned his heated silver eyes to her. “Like in the forest. Fer a moment, I couldna think o’ anything but the pleasure I was takin’ from ye.”

She trembled, swept abruptly back to a vivid recollection of that stunning orgasm. She had stopped thinking in the woods, too. It had been impossible to be rational while in the throes of such desire. But now, she was uncertain. Clearly he regretted what had happened, deeply. As clearly, he was haunted by guilt. But he spoke as if he had killed the woman out of brute strength. And that sounded like rape.

His gaze was direct. “I didna rape her, or any woman. She wanted me.”

Claire believed him. What woman wouldn’t want the medieval stud facing her? And that only made it harder for her to understand what had happened. It had to have been the woman’s heart, she thought. It could not be anything else. A madman did not feel guilt.

“Now ye ken why I willna bed ye,” he said firmly.

She shivered. They were having a terrible conversation about a ghastly sexual death and she was having grave reservations about this man, but she still couldn’t escape his sexuality. It seethed in the room and his words conjured up the image of her in his embrace, passionately entwined. “That’s fine,” she said through dry lips. “I don’t want to share your bed. Not now, not ever.”

He gave her a disbelieving look.

Claire flushed. Her body no longer obeyed her will, but she did have a will. “When I sleep with a man, it is because he has my heart,” she said slowly, and she felt her color increase.

His eyes widened. “Surely, ye be in jest.”

Claire was mute. She wished she hadn’t revealed herself that way.

He choked, but she realized he wanted to laugh. His face straight, he said, “An’ ye have loved men, lass, aye?”

She became affronted and sought refuge there. “If you want to know how many men I have made love to, I am not telling you!”

“I begin t’ ken, aye, I do.” He smiled endearingly. “It be fine, lass, really. ’Tis a shame, though, to have only had a dozen or so men in yer life.”

“There were two!” she cried.

He smiled at her.

Claire could not believe this medieval hunk had the wit to trap her into the truth. She stared, outraged and even insulted. At least he would never know the details of her love life. Her college lover had been gorgeous and smart, even if he had cheated on her. Her second lover, James, had been great to brainstorm with and debate, but rather lacking in the performance department. This man, of course, did not even know the definition of the word faithful, but he wouldn’t have any performance problems, either. And she would never, ever reveal that it had been three years since she’d last had sex.

He was smiling as he turned away to refill his mug. Claire didn’t like his knowing smile, either, except that it made him shockingly handsome. Maybe the real battle wasn’t with him, but herself.

And Claire thought about the terrible battle in the forest. “We need to talk, but not about sharing a bed.”

He set the mug down, facing her. His expression was stunningly serious. “Aye. Ye defended me fer a terrible crime an’ ye defended me in the wood. We be strangers, Claire, not kin. Why?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know why.”

Silence fell. His gaze slipped to her throat and she realized he was staring at the pendant she wore. “My father had a stone like that, lass. He wore it till the day he died.”

Claire was immediately interested. Of course his father was dead, otherwise Malcolm would not be laird. She wanted all the information she could get now. She wanted to know everything about the man standing before her. She told herself it would help her survive this ordeal. “How did he die?”

“He died at the Red Harlaw, lass, a huge and bloody battle.”

Claire went still. “Your father was Brogan Mor.”

His gaze narrowed. “I didna tell ye his name.”

Her heart was thundering in her chest. What kind of coincidence was this? “Do you want to hear something ironic?” She wet her lips, not waiting for his response. She didn’t have to, for his regard was intensely riveted to her now. “I was on my way to Scotland when you came to my store. I was leaving the following night. And while I was arriving in Edinburgh, my plan was to drive directly to Mull and stay at Malcolm’s Point, so I could visit Dunroch.”

His temples throbbed. He did not say a word, but from his expression, he did not seem terribly surprised.

“Your father is in the history books. I read he died in 1411 at the Red Harlaw, but of course, I had no idea I’d be meeting his son shortly thereafter.” She sat back down, shaken. Maybe, given the dates, she should have realized that Malcolm was Brogan Mor’s son. “There’s nothing on your line, Malcolm, after the death of your father.”

He came forward. “He was a great man, lass, a great warrior, a great laird. Did yer books say so?”

“I’m sorry. They only mentioned the date of his death and that he led the Macleans in the battle.”

“Not all of them,” Malcolm said. “The Maclean of north Mull, Tiree and Morvern sits at Duart.”

“Black Royce is not laird of his clan?”

“Nay. His lands were granted by a royal charter long ago. He be earl of Morvern, but vassal to me. He be a southern Maclean, lass.”

Claire couldn’t imagine Royce being subservient to Malcolm. He hadn’t acted so, she thought. “Who became laird of your clan when Brogan died, Malcolm? You were obviously too young to do so.”

“I was nine years old when Brogan died an’ I became laird. Royce helped me, spending much of his time at Dunroch, until I turned fifteen. That day I needed no one beside me to rule.”

Before Claire could assimilate that he had become a clan chief at nine years old, and the actual leader at fifteen, his gaze moved back to the stone she wore. “Tell me about the stone.”

He kept going back to the pendant. “It was my mother’s. Why?”

“Brogan lost his stone at Harlaw,” Malcolm said, staring at her pendant. “’Twas black, not white, like ye have, but it be the same. ’Tis charmed with powers of healing. There are other lairds an’ even clerics who wear a charm stone. But ye ken.”

“This is a piece of moonstone set in gold,” Claire cried nervously. “It isn’t magical!”

“How did yer mother get it? It belonged to a Highlander, lass.”

Claire went still. “I don’t know. I never thought to ask. I was a child when she died. But she never took it off. The truth is, I always thought—no, I always sensed—it had something to do with my father.”

His eyes widened. “If yer father gave it to yer mother,” he began.