Drawn into Darkness

  Rachel was silent for a moment. Then she said, “There’s such thing as having too much self-control, you know.”

  His eyes met hers. “Pointing a finger at me, are you?”

  “Yes. This is a pretty momentous day, but you’ve barely said ten words about it.”

  He lifted his gaze to the bluebell-dotted green hills above the loch. The only hints that a fortified manor house had once stood in this spot were two crumbling pieces of wall, both overgrown with moss and bracken. But on a thin crag of rock overlooking the choppy blue water, a twelve-foot granite statue of an angel now gazed up at the sky, wings spread.

  Four simple names were etched into the wide base, no dates.

  “I’m pleased,” he said. “It’s a fine marker.”

  “Wow, we’re up to sixteen.”

  He sighed. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know. More. You carried the weight of their deaths on your shoulders for four hundred years, and here we are on the anniversary of their murders and you feel nothing?”

  “I feel plenty. Thanks to you.”

  With her cheek resting against his heart, he felt her smile. Then he heard her say, “So, share.”

  “This is the first time I’ve set foot on this spot since the raid,” he confessed, “no’ counting those brief moments with Drusus. I couldn’t bear to return, knowing what I’d done. But the guilt has eased. I’m no’ very comfortable acknowledging I played the puppet for a demon, but I am … accepting.”

  “Okay. But something still fills your chest when you look at that monument, right? What is it?”

  The memory that had swamped him down by the edge of the loch—of his two eldest children giggling with delight as they skipped stones on the water—surfaced again. He could finally open the pages of his inner photo album without being ripped apart by regret. He gave Rachel a quick squeeze. “Nostalgia. The bittersweet tug of old memories, nothing more. I promise.”

  She stiffened. “I’m not jealous.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I was jealous. And hey, no offense, but I had good reason. You looked me right in the eye and swore you only went down in the cave to rescue them, not Em and me.”

  “I was lying. To protect you from Drusus.”

  She smiled up at him. “Yeah, I know. And you’ve made a very impressive effort to make up for that lie since we got married.”

  “I can do more.” He deepened his smile to a leer. “Much, much more.”

  “Hmmmm. That sounds promising.” Grinning, she unwrapped herself from his body and bent to her painting supplies. “Let me pack up my stuff and we can head back to the hotel.”

  “Nay, no’ the hotel,” he objected. “Everywhere you look in the village, you see the stamp of the Campbells. The MacGregors of the mist are long forgotten there. I may have forgiven the past, but I’ll no’ make our future in a Campbell bed, pretty as it may be.”

  “Uh, the brochure says the village is Victorian in design. And the hotel isn’t owned by a Campbell.”

  “Brochure be damned. When I was a lad, the Campbells had full reign of the village and their stench still fills my nose. This is MacGregor land. Right here.”

  Her eyebrows soared. “You’re not suggesting … ?”

  “I am.”

  She glanced around, wide-eyed. “Outside? With Em and Carlos within hearing range? Are you crazy?”

  “No, I’m no’ crazy. Just madly in love. With you.”

  Her eyes softened. “Yes, but—”

  Giving in to the urge that had assailed him from the moment he first met her, Lachlan scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder, oblivious to her squeal of protest. Sometimes the old ways were best.

  “Carlos,” he called out, “pack up Rachel’s things and take Emily back to the village. Rachel and I are going sightseeing.”

  Emily’s snort was audible.

  “Sightseeing?” Rachel hissed. “Is that the best story you could come up with?”

  “It’ll do.” Leaving the dirt road, he trekked north through the sweet-scented bluebells, up the glen, toward a large patch of forest.

  “I don’t think … this is such … a good idea.” Her words came in gusts, her breathing impacted by every surging stride he took up the hill. “The grass is wet.”

  “It’ll be drier under the trees.”

  “I can’t believe … I’m letting you do this.”

  He smiled as he ducked under an arching willow branch and entered the tranquility of the forest. “Are you letting me?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  Stopping beneath an ancient elm, he lowered her to the ground, sliding her very feminine body along the length of his as he did so. Enthralled by the notion that she was his wife, he stared into her lovely eyes. Every time he thought about how lucky he was to have this incredible woman in his life, he was humbled. She made him feel clean and worthy and honorable. She made him whole. “There are moments when I’m weak-kneed with the knowledge that we’re wed. This is one.”

  A smile erased the grumpy expression on her flushed face. “See? Now that’s why I love you. You don’t talk nearly enough, but when you do, you say absolutely wonderful things.”

  Taking her hips in hand, he pulled her against him. Hard. A jolt of delicious heat went in all directions, licking through his veins like warm brandy. “I want to make love to you right here, in the country where I was born, under trees that sprouted when I was just a lad. Are you game?”

  She glanced down at the bed of moldering leaves and fallen pine needles and wrinkled her nose. “Uh …”

  He kissed one side of her mouth. The taste of her, still faintly flavored with her early-morning coffee, was sweet to his tongue. “Say aye, Rachel.”

  “But I’m wearing my brand-new cashmere sweater.”

  He kissed the other side of her mouth. “Say aye, Rachel.”

  The stiffness of her shoulders told him she still wasn’t convinced. She needed a little more … motivation. His hand slipped under the edge of her cream sweater and found the soft, bare skin he was craving—smooth as satin, a delightful contrast to the rough skin of his fingers. He brushed his knuckles along the underside of her breast, deliberately teasing.

  Her breath caught.

  His lips wandered along her jaw and down the tender slope of her neck to the pulse that beat a little faster now. With his tongue, he adored that indisputable evidence of her desire for him, evidence that his own body responded to with brain-fogging enthusiasm.

  “Say aye, Rachel,” he pleaded hoarsely.

  “Aye.”

  It was a raspy, almost-choked response, but it was all the encouragement Lachlan needed. His hand popped the clasp on her bra, freeing her breasts to his touch.

  He groaned.

  Delightful. But not enough to satisfy him. Not nearly.

  Grabbing the edge of her sweater, he tugged the soft wool up and over her head, baring her to the cool Scottish air … and to his avid stare. “Have I mentioned that you’re incredibly beautiful?”

  “Yes, but feel free to say it as often as you like.”

  “Be forewarned.” He tugged his gaze away from her puckered nipples and up to meet her eyes. “I’ll say it with such frequency, you’ll tire of hearing it.”

  “Impossible.”

  The dampness in the air made the tips of her hair curl and her skin glow. She had that same fresh-faced look she’d worn the first time he saw her.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  Under his intent stare, she flushed. “So are you. Honestly, I never thought I’d find a man’s knees sexy, but you in this kilt sure get my vote for best-dressed man. When we get back to the States—”

  He unfastened the button on the top of her jeans.

  “Uh, Lachlan?”

  “Aye?” He slid the zipper down and parted the denim until the lace of her black panties saw daylight.

  “I just remembered. Nigel called this morning, begging me to help him out
with a new project—” His fingers grazed along her delicate skin and slipped beneath the lacy edge. She tensed a little, her voice gaining a subtle edge of desperation. “Now that the MaskWeave product has finally shipped and Celia’s been fired, he says he can hire me back as a contract designer. He needs me to call him. What time is it in San Jose?”

  He bent his head and kissed the pale arch of her neck. Using his tongue, he painted a filigree pattern on her flesh. The sweet spice of her skin was ambrosia to his senses, inciting a fresh tide of hot possession. The woman of his dreams was his.

  Suddenly, with a gusty sigh, she relaxed. “Damn. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

  He blinked, then pulled back to look in her eyes. “What?”

  “Being somewhere else instead of being with you. Letting the world and all its problems rate a little higher than my happiness.” Her smile was wry. “Old habits die hard.”

  “That’s why we’re learning new ones.” His hand dipped lower and found the dampness between her legs. A slick, warm welcome that made it incredibly difficult to remain on his feet. The thought of sinking into her became a dizzying drumbeat in his head.

  He opened his mouth to demand her full attention, to seduce her with every coarse promise of pleasure he could muster, but he never got a chance to speak. She reached up, dug her fingers deep into his hair, and tugged his head down until their lips met.

  It was a kiss unlike any he’d gotten from Rachel before—aggressive and possessive. Her lips swept over his with brazen demand—hot, wet, and insistent. She didn’t just taste him; she ate him up, pressing hard, chewing on his bottom lip, thrusting her tongue in and out of his mouth in an impossible-to-miss suggestion of what she wanted next.

  The rush of blood to his groin was so swift, he actually thought his legs had turned to jelly. His hand slipped out of her pants as he grabbed her hips to stop the world from spinning.

  “I love you,” she said when she surfaced for a breath.

  Her words cut through the haze of his excitement and tunneled their way right into his heart. She sounded so fervent and sure, so utterly convinced. He scooped her up, dropped to his knees in the perennial layer of fallen leaves, and laid her out before him.

  “Lord, Rachel, I love you, too. In ways I couldn’t have imagined before I met you. One look from you and I’m on my knees. My heart pounds as if it will burst from my chest. You make me feel unbelievably alive, mo cridhe.”

  He buried his face against the tender flesh of her breasts, drawing in her scent, memorizing it for eternity.

  “Lachlan?”

  “Aye?” He glanced into her eyes.

  “I’m tired of being on the bottom.”

  He grinned. “Are you?”

  Gathering her in his arms, he rolled over in the leaves. Sunlight streamed through the canopy overhead, the lacy pattern painted in the shade a perfect foil for her dark beauty.

  “Better?”

  “Getting there.” She stood and quickly shucked her jeans. Wearing nothing but a silky scrap of black panties, she straddled his hips, wriggling suggestively against the hard ridge of his erection. The wool of his kilt rasped against his bare flesh. “Mmmm, much better.”

  Lachlan could barely think. Between the pleasure rocketing through his body with every grind and the wondrous sight of her breasts bobbing in front of his eyes, there weren’t a lot of brain cells working.

  “Much,” he agreed hoarsely.

  “I have a question.” She danced her fingers up the ridges of his belly, over the planes of his chest, and down his arms. Everywhere she touched, he trembled.

  “Christ. Whatever it is, my answer is yes.”

  “You’re alive now.”

  “Aye.” So bloody alive, it was killing him.

  She wriggled again. “It feels different, right? Different than when you were dead?”

  He grabbed her hips to stop her from moving. It was a question that deserved a coherent answer. “Aye. When Death held my soul, I was still me, but I felt mildly disconnected. I could see and touch and feel, but something was missing.”

  “And now?”

  “Colors are brighter, food tastes better, and all my senses are keener. Everything is more vivid, more real. I’m alive.” He let his eyes darken suggestively. “In every possible sense of the word.”

  “Really.” She licked her full lips, then smiled slyly. “Well, then. I’m thinking we need some quantitative data to prove just how alive you are. How ’bout I do a test-drive?”

  “Test-drive?”

  “Uh-huh.” Leaning over to nibble his jaw, she let the tips of her breasts brush across his chest. Unbearable. “Pedal to the metal stuff. To check you out. See if you moan louder, breathe heavier, last long—”

  “Finish that sentence on pain of death,” he warned.

  Grinning, she pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “What exactly does a test-drive involve?”

  “Me at the wheel, pushing you to the very limits of your endurance, making you see stars, making you beg for mercy. If you’re real lucky, I’ll let you explode. What do you say?”

  Lachlan looked into her face.

  She’d changed subtly over the past few months. In losing her job and nearly losing Emily, she’d found herself. She was back to painting, less concerned with rules and doing everything by the book. She smiled more often. Best of all, the worry lines were long gone, replaced by a playful, carefree look that made her eyes dance.

  The notion of being teased to the point of begging for mercy was a little disconcerting, but that sparkling look in her eyes was worth any sacrifice, even his rigid self-control, which was already dangerously close to snapping, anyway.

  “I’m game.” He cupped her head in both hands, tugged her down, and kissed her, hard. Because warriors who’d once been immortal should never be soft—at least, not on the outside. “Go ahead, love. Drive me wild.”

  Read on for a glimpse at the next

  sizzling paranormal romance in

  Annette McCleave’s Soul Gatherers series,

  BOUND BY DARKNESS

  Available in May 2010 from Signet Eclipse

  In the dim stairwell, he pulled his sword out from under his suit jacket. Freed from its mystically warded scabbard, the fifteenth-century Oakeshott was visible to the human eye, but witnesses were the least of his worries. A single explosion could have been caused by a havoc demon, one of those sick bastards who occasionally broke through the barrier for the simple joy of causing freak accidents. But havocs were like sparks from the fires of hell—they had only moments to execute their sorry-assed deed before they fizzled out. Once depleted, they were sucked back into the lower plane. They definitely didn’t have the juice to hit a joint twice. This was something else.

  He murmured a quick shield spell and then slowly descended to the landing. Debris littered the stairs—chunks of concrete, a fallen sign, and a thick layer of gray dust—but overall, the enclosed space seemed intact. Which made the crumpled body all the more confusing. A middle-aged woman with a huge gold lamé purse lay between him and the next floor, her limbs bent at awkward angles, almost as if she’d dropped midstep.

  Brian scanned her limp figure. No blood, no burns, no visible injuries of any kind. His gaze traveled outward, along the floor to the gray-painted cinder-block walls, where a series of scorch marks danced over the concrete, culminating in a black spot near the corner. The burn pattern was familiar, a perfect match to the forks of electrical energy that preceded every visitation from another plane.

  The poor woman had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The demon materialized right on top of her. Sighing, Brian put a hand to her throat. Immediately a warm, soothing sensation flowed into his fingers, fluttered up his arm, and wrapped around his heart. The tickle of a transitioning soul. The good news was this one was destined for heaven.

  The walls oscillated mortar dust into the air as another explosion hit the building. More sc
reams floated up from the floors below and a piece of concrete the size of a bread loaf dislodged from the stairs above, crashing to the ground a half inch from his toes.

  Fuck this.

  He tucked away his sympathy for the dead woman and leapt over the metal railing, dropping four floors in a blur. He landed at the bottom in an easy crouch, then sprang to his feet.

  Sword in hand, he strode into the smoke and fragmented masonry that had once been the ladies cosmetics section. The scene was bad. The first floor tended to be one of the busiest spots in the store, filled with gawking tourists and trend-worshipping teens. Tonight was no exception. Broken bodies lay everywhere, some piled three deep. Strewn about like garbage, dampened by a barely functioning sprinkler system. Men, women and … children.

  Brian tore his gaze away from the devastation, searching the hazy interior for any sign of movement. Emotional reactions could come later. Right now, dealing out justice took priority.

  The thin wail of sirens rose and fell in the distance. Reassuring, but not the sounds he needed to focus on. Filtering out emergency vehicles, electric crackles, and low moans of the injured, he homed in on the noises that typically haunted a Soul Gatherer’s nightmares: the raspy murmur of hellish incantations and the whoosh of fire bombs in the air.

  And he found the bastard.

  Left. About a hundred yards through the haze.

  Most of Satan’s henchies wore a glamour to disguise their presence among humans. But not this one. It was a mottled red and gray colossus, twice Brian’s height and probably three times his weight, horns and talons everywhere. A long ooze-dripping tail extended in his direction, writhing with a life of its own. Giving the flexible appendage a wide berth, Brian advanced through the rubble, visualizing his attack. Spotting his opportunity, he leapt atop the remnants of a display counter and dove at the hulking figure from behind. His target was the heavily muscled neck. An unlikely win, perhaps, but possible. The Oakeshott was a very fast blade.

  Just not fast enough.

  The demon pivoted as the arc of Brian’s swing gained full momentum. Red eyes glaring, it raised a platter-sized palm, muttered a single word, and blasted Brian in the chest with a fat glob of red-hot lava. The missile sent him flying, and he landed on a display case in a splash of splintered wood and tinkling glass. Worse, the lava bomb ate right through his shield, gnawed through his Jay Kos jacket, and drilled deep into muscle. Breathing became a serious chore.