Dark Seduction

by Brenda Joyce

  He sent her another seductive smile, clearly used to charming women to his way—and his bed. “I canna return on the morrow, lass.” And he murmured, “Ye wanna help me, lass, ye do. Leave the fear. It dinna serve ye well. Ye can trust me.”

  His soft tone sent a spiral of desire through her. No man had ever looked at her in such a manner or spoken so seductively, much less a man like this. Claire could not look away from his gaze. The wild pounding of her heart eased. Some of her fear receded. Claire actually wanted to believe him, to trust him. He smiled at her knowingly.

  “Ye’ll help me, lass, an’ send me on me way.”

  For one moment, she was going to agree, but her mind was screaming at her oddly, confusing her. Then the sirens of a fire engine blared on the street outside, passing in front of her shop. He jumped, turning toward the door, and she came to her senses. She was covered in sweat now. She had been about to do all that he asked!

  “No.”

  He started.

  “My assistant will help you tomorrow.” She swallowed. She was as firm as she could be and it felt like a huge feat. She wiped her bangs from her eyes, her hand trembling. It was as if he had almost hypnotized her. She avoided his gaze now. “If it’s important, you’ll come back. Now, please leave. As you can see, I have some cleaning up to do—and you are likely late for your party.” She wished her voice hadn’t cracked with the terrible tension and fear filling her.

  He did not move, and it was very hard to tell if he was annoyed, angry or surprised. “I canna leave without the page,” he finally said, and there was no mistaking his stubbornness then.

  Claire glanced at the Beretta, which lay on the floor in the hall about an equal distance from them. She wondered if she could seize it and force him out.

  “Dinna think to try,” he advised, his tone soft.

  She stiffened, knowing she could not best this man and that it would be dangerous to attempt to do so. He didn’t seem to be violent, but he was obviously a nut. She’d help him if that would get him to leave. “Fine. I doubt I have what you are looking for, but go ahead, tell me what you want.” She glanced very briefly at his face and when she took in his hard beauty again, her heart did a double somersault.

  A look of triumph flitted through his eyes. “Ancient wisdom was given to the shamans of Dalriada long ago an’ put in three books. The Cladich be the book o’ healin’. It was stolen from its shrine. It’s been gone fer centuries. We ken a page be here, in this place.”

  Claire started. What the hell was going on? “Your lady friend was already here, looking for a page from the Cladich, or so she said. But I hate to tell you this, it’s bunk. No books existed in the time of Dalriada.”

  He stared, and then fury glinted. “Sibylla was here?”

  “Not only was she here, she whacked me over the head. I think she had brass knuckles in her fist,” Claire added with a wince. Was he in cahoots with the first burglar? But if so, why on earth would he be dressed in such a costume?

  The moment she had spoken, she wished she had not. He crossed the narrow hall before she could take a breath. Claire cried out, but it was too late. His arm was around her again and briefly, their gazes met.

  “I said I wouldna hurt ye. It would benefit ye greatly, lass, t’ trust me now.”

  “Like hell,” Claire cried, her heart thundering in alarm. But she could not look away from his magnetic gray eyes. “Let go.”

  “God’s blood,” he finally snapped, jerking her. “Let me see the wound!”

  Claire understood his intentions then and she was shocked. He only wanted to see if she was hurt? But why would he care?

  “Ease yerself,” he said with a smile, his tone coaxing.

  And when she allowed herself to relax just slightly, he released his hold, as well. “Good lass,” he murmured, the words as sensuous as silk upon her bare skin. Then he was threading his long, blunt fingers through her hair, brushing the shoulder-length strands aside, finding her scalp. Claire stopped breathing. His touch was like a lover’s caress, the barest flutter of his fingers across her hot skin, causing her body to tighten. For one maddening moment, she wished he would run his hand down her neck, her arm and over her breasts, which were tight and peaked. He gave her a brief glance that was almost smug, telling her that he knew. “Tha ur falt brèagha.” His tone had dropped into a soft, seductive whisper.

  Claire breathed. “What?” She had to know what he had said.

  But he had found the lump. She winced as he touched it. He said more firmly, “’Tis a good-sized robin’s egg, I think. Sibylla needs a lesson in proper manners an’ I have the mind t’ be the one to teach her.”

  She had the oddest feeling he meant his words. She stared into his gaze, trying to understand who and what he was, when he lifted the pendant she wore. Surprisingly, she did not mind. He held the pale grayish-white stone in his hand, his knuckles firm against her skin, there beneath the hollow of her throat.

  “Ye wear a charm stone, lass.”

  She knew she couldn’t possibly speak. This man was too potent, too mesmerizing.

  “Be ye kin, then? Do ye hail from Alba? Be ye a Lowlander?”

  His hand had moved lower, so that her heart was thundering beneath it. Alba was Gaelic for Scotland. “No.”

  He let the pendant fall against her skin, but as he removed his hand, his fingers deliberately brushed a path along the top of her breast, trailing fire in its wake.

  Claire gasped, looking into his heated and bold eyes. She could see them entwined, there in the small hall of her home. “Don’t.” She didn’t even know why she protested, because protesting was not on her mind.

  An eternity seemed to pass. There was no doubt he was seeing the same image she was. She had the feeling he was debating giving in to the huge tension knifing between them. Then his expression changed and he smiled, but it was self-deprecating. “Ye need,” he said thickly, “a new manner of dress. A man canna think clearly with such a fashion afore him.” And he turned away from her.

  It was a relief. Instantly, Claire came to her senses, jumping away from the wall. Her body was on fire. This man was dangerously seductive. Finally she said, “Who are you? Who are you, really? And why are you dressed that way?!”

  A twinkle came to his startling eyes and his face softened. And he smiled at her, the smile so genuine he became beauty incarnate, revealing two deep dimples. “Ye be needin’a pretty introduction? Lass, dinna be shy. Ye need only have asked.” His voice rang with pride. “I be Malcolm of Dunroch,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FOR ONE MOMENT, Claire was in disbelief, and then she got the joke. Amy! Her cousin was her best friend. Amy knew she was on her way to Mull, where she would stay at Malcolm’s Arms, and she also knew that Claire had fantasized about meeting the laird of Dunroch. Her cousin had decided to play a prank on her by sending this wannabe actor to impersonate a medieval Highlander. And Claire laughed.

  Normally, she would not be amused, but she was so relieved.

  The man pretending to be Malcolm of Dunroch stopped smiling. He stared at her, first in suspicion, and then his expression hardened, becoming dark. “Be ye laughin’ at me, lass?” he asked too softly.

  “Amy sent you!” Claire cried, still having one last chuckle. “God, you are good! You had me for a moment—I thought you were a loon. The truth is, I almost believed, just for a second, that you were the genuine article.” She grinned at him.

  He scowled. “Ye be mad, lass. An’ you accuse me of bein’ the loon?”

  His quick anger almost seemed real. “I know you’re not mad,” Claire said quickly, instinctively appeasing him. “Just one damn good entertainer.”

  “I dinna ken ye, lass.” His regard was piercing.

  His theatrics were no longer amusing. He was an actor, not a loon, not a burglar. Her cousin had hired the most gorgeous hunk she had ever seen as a joke. And not only was he gorgeous, he was clearly attracted to her, too. She became still. She hadn’t been with
anyone in three years, not since her last relationship had ended. Claire began to think hard about the fact that he was not an insane burglar and that men like him were not a dime a dozen. But what was she going to do, exactly?

  He was as still. “Lassie?”

  Then she came to her senses. He was a stranger. In a city filled with vicious murdering criminals, only crazy or desperate women met men without a friend’s introduction. She wasn’t crazy and she wasn’t desperate. She should not be thinking about sex.

  But she was.

  Claire wet her lips, aware that her body was turned on, no matter her common sense. “Enough with the brogue. Cat’s out of the bag.” She turned away from him and as she did so, she was faced with the devastation in her store.

  Her attention was instantly diverted. Claire stared at the precious books littering the floor. Her cousin would never condone such destruction.

  That woman had not been a joke. He might be an actor, but Sibylla had been a burglar. She had ransacked Claire’s store and assaulted her, and Claire still didn’t know what she had taken. Suddenly, Amy’s joke wasn’t funny anymore. Malcolm had scared her, considering what had happened before he had appeared. And it didn’t even make sense. Sibylla had also asked about a page from the Cladich. What did that mean?

  As she tried to make sense out of the events of that evening, he walked past her and began retrieving the books.

  “What are you doing?” she asked tersely, riddled with tension all over again. This wasn’t right; everything was still wrong.

  He faced her, a dozen books in his arms. The imitation leine had short sleeves, and his biceps bulged. “I will help ye, lass, but ye need to help me in return.” He sent her that engaging and alluring smile.

  Claire steeled herself against his magnetism, jerking her gaze away. It was almost too late, as her body heat was climbing. She hugged herself defensively now. “That was improv, right? I told you about Sibylla and the page from the Cladich and you went with it. That’s what actors do.” That was the only possible explanation…except she wasn’t certain she had mentioned Sibylla before he had asked her about the page.

  He slowly shook his head. “I dinna ken. But if ye be thinkin’ I be an actor, ye be wrong, lass. I be the Maclean of south Mull an’ Coll.”

  Claire became angry. She folded her arms against her chest, then regretted it, as his gaze moved to her breasts. “Please stop,” she said harshly. “This has been a terrible night. I know Amy sent you as a joke, but Sibylla assaulted me and ransacked my store.”

  “An’ that be why I wish to help ye now. Where do ye want me t’ put the books?”

  Claire shook her head. “No. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll clean up by myself.” She wanted him gone. She needed to think and she needed to call the police.

  But he ignored her, placing the books in a neat pile on the floor, as if he understood there was no point in putting anything back on the shelves. He glanced at her as he straightened.

  Clearly he intended to stay and help. Did that make him decent, as well as gorgeous? Softly, she said, “The joke’s done. Really. You can go now.”

  He muttered something in Gaelic and she froze. “You’re really a Scot.”

  “Aye.” He held another armful of books.

  Claire told herself not to panic. He could be a Scottish actor, just like Sean Connery, and some Scots continued to speak Gaelic. “Amy did send you, didn’t she?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he stacked the books next to the first pile.

  She shook her head, her unease about to become full-blown panic again. If Amy hadn’t sent him, then who and what was he?

  He bent to retrieve more books, and Claire was faced with the sight of the leine riding high up on his powerful, corded hamstrings. The fact that he was so masculine didn’t help alleviate her confusion. Her body continued to vibrate with all kinds of tension, but she wasn’t as frightened now as she had first been. If he wasn’t going to leave, what should she do?

  She should call her cousin and find out the truth, but damn it, she was afraid of what Amy would say.

  He straightened and caught her staring. “Ye be too hungry fer such a beauteous lass,” he said softly. “Where’s yer man?”

  “There isn’t one.” She was flushing.

  He stared blankly at her. “I dinna ken this world,” he finally said, shaking his head. “Ye live here alone?”

  Claire nodded. “Yes, I do.” They were having a conversation that was almost normal. She debated how to innocently make that phone call without his becoming alarmed. There was no way to avoid it.

  He was incredulous. “And who’s t’ protect ye in danger?”

  “I protect myself.” She smiled weakly.

  He made a sound. “With that weapon?” He nodded disparagingly toward the hall, where her Beretta lay on the floor.

  “I also have Mace, pepper spray and a Taser.”

  His eyes narrowed. “More weapons?”

  Surely he knew what Mace and pepper spray were, at least. “I am hardly the only single woman in the city.”

  “A woman needs a man to keep her safe, lass. ’Tis the way o’ the world, the way o’ men.” He was firm.

  Claire was briefly speechless. This man spoke as if he were from a past century. “It’s not the way of my world,” she finally said. “And you’re scaring me. I admit it. I’m a wuss and you need to get out of character.” Her cheeks were hot.

  “I dinna wish to frighten ye, lass,” he murmured. “But what man in his good mind would leave ye to yerself?”

  She couldn’t help being flattered. And the way he was regarding her now, from beneath thick black lashes, left her in no doubt that he was oversexed. Claire swallowed. She couldn’t just sense the sexual tension coming from him, she could actually feel it. It was almost a third presence there in the room with them. She had not a doubt he would be an amazing lover.

  “Ye need a man, lass,” he said softly. “’Tis a shame it willna be me.”

  She stiffened. Was he reading her mind? Was that a rejection? She was only thinking about what was terribly obvious!

  She stared at him and he stared back. “Why not?” Her tone was hoarse. She could barely believe herself. She had never even had a casual affair.

  And his gaze intensified. “Ye be intent on seduction, lass? Ye wish to seduce me?”

  Claire was mortified. “No.” She couldn’t think, so how could she even begin to know what she intended?

  He smiled—a soft, heartbreaking smile—and then he spoke with vast regret. “In another life, momhaise, I would gladly accept such a beautiful invitation.”

  Only this man could make a rejection so utterly sexual. His words should have hurt her. Instead, she stood there aching.

  He turned away. Claire glimpsed the very evident ridge of his arousal beneath the tunic and she almost expected her store to go up in flames.

  He spoke brusquely now. “I need the page afore another takes it. It belongs in the shrine with the Cathach. I expect yer help an’ then I’ll be gone.”

  It was another moment before Claire came to her senses. “This isn’t a joke, is it? My cousin didn’t send you here. You are from Scotland.”

  His gray gaze was steady. “Aye.”

  She began to shake. “The Cathach is in the Royal Irish Academy. Every scholar knows, because it’s the oldest illuminated Irish manuscript that anyone has ever found.”

  As emotional as she was becoming, he was as calm. “The Cathach be enshrined on Iona, lass.”

  Claire shook her head. Was he a nut after all? “There is no shrine on Iona—it is nothing but ruins!”

  His face settled into hard planes and taut angles. “Maybe in yer time.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” she cried.

  “It means I ha’ been to the shrine many times. I have guarded it meself.”

  She swallowed, backing away. “I believe you are a true Scot, but why the costume? Why the absurd story—the lies? And who is t
he woman who broke into my store?”

  His eyes flashed. “Dinna accuse me o’ lies, lass. Men ha’ died fer less.” He shook his head. “I dinna ken what book is in yer academy, but ’tis nay the book o’ wisdom, which I ha’ seen with me own eyes.”

  “That’s impossible!” Claire cried, terribly agitated now. “You believe it, though, don’t you?”

  “I speak the truth.” He folded his massive arms across his chest.

  Her mind was racing now at an alarming speed. There was no way to rationalize his behavior or beliefs. The genuine Cathach was in Dublin, on display. It was not enshrined on the island of Iona. There was no shrine on Iona! She had been there. The monastery and abbey were in ruins. Had a shrine existed there, she would have seen it. And what about the Cladich—and the page that both he and Sibylla claimed they were after? She was a scholar, but she had never heard of such a book before.

  “Tell me about the Cladich,” she said.

  His gaze narrowed, as if he was wary. “Fergus MacErc brought the book to Dunadd. When St. Columba established the monastery on Iona, it was enshrined there with the Cathach. ’Twas stolen from the Benedictines,” he said.

  She wet her lips, her heart racing. He was definitely mad, because he believed his every word. “If you are telling me that a manuscript predates the Cathach and the establishment of St. Columba’s monastery on Iona, you are wrong.”

  His eyes darkened. “Do ye accuse me o’ lies again?”

  “I don’t know what to think! There was no written tradition among the Celts until St. Columba’s time—none,” she cried. “The Druids prohibited writing. Everything was oral.”

  His smile was smug. “Nay. The books were written, because the Ancients wanted it so.”

  “The Ancients?”

  Softly he said, “The old gods.”

  Beyond mad, she thought. She prayed for the strength to dissemble. Then she looked right at him. “All right, I concede. I am only a bookseller, so maybe I’m the one who’s wrong.” She smiled. “I’m cold. I am going upstairs to change, but I’ll be right back. Go ahead, look for the page. I’ll help you when I come back downstairs.” She didn’t bother to tell him that such a page, if original, would be in fragments if not carefully preserved.