by Brenda Joyce
He smiled back at her, a smile that did not reach his gray eyes.
He knew she was up to something. It didn’t matter, as long as he let her leave the room. Claire walked slowly out of the front store, when what she wanted to do was run. His gaze burned holes in her back. She darted into her office, pausing at her small desk, and unplugged and snatched up her laptop. No sound came from the front. Holding the laptop to her chest, she started up the stairs, tripping in her haste.
In her bedroom, she leaped onto the bed, lifting the computer’s lid. Shaking, feeling ill with dread, she went to the Internet and did a search for the Cladich, then lifted the phone.
But before she could even dial 911, the information she wanted appeared on her screen. Claire forgot all about calling the police.
The Cladich was a myth. There was almost no proof that it had ever existed, except for a reference to the holy manuscript that had been found on the effigy of a tomb in the tiny village of Cladich, Scotland. Three scholars believed the claim. They all held that it had been a book of healing, belonging to a secret society of pagan warriors. However, they were divided after that. One claimed the brotherhood and scripture dated to the Dark Ages; another, to the birth of Christ. The third opinion was that the secret brotherhood had survived into the Middle Ages, although it was doubtful the book had.
Claire began to tremble with excitement. She had to remind herself that the book was a legend. But both Malcolm and Sibylla believed a page was in her store. What if it wasn’t a myth?
As she scanned the article again, she felt him.
She slowly looked up, across her bed. Malcolm stood as still as a statue in the doorway of her bedroom. His silver gaze was fastened upon her.
She couldn’t move. She stared at him, forgetting all about the Cladich and its missing page. His gaze moved over her face, her breasts, her legs. Her skin fired and flamed. Slowly, vaguely aware that she was no longer herself, Claire leaned back against her pillows. She needed him.
His voice cut the trance like a whiplash. “Get up.”
Claire jumped from the bed. His face was so tight it looked as if it might crack. He strode past her, to the bed.
“Who are you?” Her heart was thundering madly.
His hand swept over her favorite pillow and he turned to look at her with astonished and furious eyes. “Goddamn it,” he exclaimed. “Aidan slept here? In yer bed?”
She did not know what he was talking about. “There was a cat…a stray…but I haven’t seen it in hours.” She was babbling. Her heart refused to slow. Worse, her body continued to ache for fulfillment.
He was thunderous. “There be nay time left.” He looked her up and down, scathingly. “Change yer fashion an’ come down now. Yer comin’ with me, lass.” It was a statement, not a request. He spun past her and left.
Claire stood there in shock. All of her fear returned, and with it, a vast confusion. There had been no mistaking his urgency. He had perceived some threat, real or imagined—but he was the threat, wasn’t he? And who the hell was Aidan?
Claire felt as if she was in the path of an oncoming hurricane and that her life was about to be blown to hell. She ran to the top of the stairs. “I’m not going anywhere with you!” Even as she insisted, she had the dreadful feeling that he was going to have his way. But where did he think to take her? And why would he want to take her anywhere?
He didn’t answer. He had walked into the kitchen but hadn’t turned on any lights.
Claire raced back into the bedroom. She slammed the door and frantically ran to the phone. She dialed 911. The operator was calm and in no hurry, which infuriated Claire. “There is a burglary in progress!” she screamed at the man, and slammed the receiver down. At least the police should be there within five or ten minutes.
She ran to her suitcase, leaping out of her boxers and tank top as she did so. She shimmied into a thong and pulled on a bra. Her hands were shaking and it took her three tries to hook it closed. What was he up to now? She was almost afraid to find out. But she wasn’t going anywhere with him. She’d stall until the police came and carted him away and then she’d start researching. She seized the top garments from her open suitcase and quickly pulled on a denim mini and a cap-sleeved tee. Stumbling into a pair of really worn cowboy boots, she grabbed a cotton cardigan and ran to the bedstand. She seized the deadly Taser, slipped it in her pocket and flew down the stairs.
The kitchen remained dark but the refrigerator was open, shedding light, and he was staring into it. Claire hit the lights and he whirled to face her, his sword ringing as he unsheathed it.
Claire leaped back so quickly she fell against the stove. She’d never heard a genuine sword before, but she knew immediately that his weapon was real.
He held the sword high, his eyes black with fury, as if she was his mortal enemy and he was an instant away from cleaving her in two.
He lowered the sword. “By the gods, lass,” he said hoarsely. “Dinna sneak up on me that way!”
She wet her dry lips, unable to look away, her heart hammering so hard she felt faint. For one instant, she had been afraid he was going to kill her on the spot.
A madman with a sword. She was in deep shit.
“I’ll never hurt ye,” he said, a strange expression twisting his face. His gaze had slipped to her legs again.
“You scared me,” Claire managed to say, beginning to tremble. That was a vast understatement. If that sword was genuine, what did it make the man?
“Be ye impoverished? Ye have no garments but rags?” His gaze lifted to hers.
Claire didn’t even try to answer. She stood there, overwhelmed with what her mind wanted to tell her.
“Dinna fear, lass, I’ll see ye clothed soon enough.” He began to smile reassuringly at her, when she could not possibly be reassured, but then his gaze jerked past her and widened. Before Claire could really register that something or someone was in the hallway, he shoved her behind him. “Get back,” he commanded.
Claire stumbled from the force of his push as his sword rang, unsheathed once again. The sound was answered by another sword’s terrible echo behind them. In dread and disbelief, she turned and cried out.
Another towering man, dressed almost exactly as Malcolm, faced him, a huge sword raised threateningly in both hands. He was dark haired but fair skinned, impossibly handsome, and his eyes were filled with malicious delight. “Hallo, a Chaluim.” He spoke softly in Gaelic, his words clearly taunting. “De tha doi?”
Malcolm roared, “A Bhrogain!” The battle cry was ancient, barbaric and deafening. It was also terrifying. Claire cringed as Malcolm wielded a blow that would have cleanly sliced the other man’s head from his neck had his adversary not met it with equally great strength and skill. The two swords locked and rang again.
And in that moment, she knew everything was real. These men wanted to kill one another and it was not an act. Malcolm’s adversary no longer smiled, his expression primitive, feral. As Malcolm went on the offensive, his enemy parrying every blow, she saw that they had the kind of ability that only came from years of practice—and years of actual battle. They were not in costume. They were medieval warriors intent on murder, mayhem, death.
So much testosterone filled the store that she felt ill and faint.
Blow after blow sounded.
Someone was going to die soon. Malcolm could die.
And Claire thought about the Beretta.
She had left it in the hallway. Both men were in the midst of their battle in the center of her kitchen. Claire edged toward the door, skirting the breakfast area as she did so, making certain she stayed far from the battling men.
And then she ran into the hall as their swords rang again and again, the violent battle clearly reaching a savage crescendo. She saw the Beretta and seized it. She wanted to turn and flee, but instead, she ran back to the kitchen and pointed the gun at Malcolm’s enemy.
“Stop,” she tried, but her teeth were chattering.
Mal
colm had seen her. His eyes had briefly widened. “Lass, nay!”
“I’ll shoot!” she cried. “Malcolm, tell him I will kill him if he doesn’t stop!”
Malcolm and the other man were braced against one another, sword to sword. Malcolm smiled coldly. “Ye heard my lass, Aidan. Surrender, afore she murders ye with her weapon.”
Claire prayed he would surrender. She didn’t know who he was, and she didn’t know why she was defending Malcolm, but she would put a bullet in the intruder if she had to. She was a very good shot, but she had never fired a gun under such circumstances, or in such fear. Her hands were shaking, and while she would try to only wound the man, she wasn’t confident that she would not kill him by mistake.
The dark-haired man visibly relaxed, although for one more moment he and Malcolm remained braced like two horned stags. Then, as one, both men disengaged, stepping farther apart.
Claire sidled past Aidan, who turned to smile at her. Her heart turned over at the sight of so much male beauty and strength.
Aidan murmured, “Ah, beauty, ye let me live another day.” He grinned, clearly enjoying himself and not in the least bit shaken by such a violent fight. “Rascal that I am, I be eagerly awaitin’ our next meeting,” he added.
Claire rushed to Malcolm’s side, barely comprehending him. He stepped protectively in front of her, and in doing so, he briefly blocked her view of Aidan. “There willna be another time,” he growled back at Aidan.
Then he turned to Claire, his gaze searching. “Did he hurt ye?”
Claire was shaking like a leaf. She was about to tell him that she was fine—a monstrous lie—when she realized that Aidan was gone. “Where did he go?” she gasped.
“Give me the weapon, lass,” Malcolm said softly, taking the gun from her. He set it on the counter and put his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace.
And dear God, he felt safe. Claire clung, shocked by the overwhelming sense of security his huge body was giving her. “Who was that? Where did he go?”
His gaze seemed to melt as he looked down at her. His huge hand stroked down her hair to the small of her back, and everything changed. His body was so strong and male, his scent was so heady and sexual that her knees buckled. Her bare thighs were molded to his equally bare ones, but his tough leather boots were a startling and not unpleasant contrast against her shins. In her cowboy boots, she was still shorter than he was, and her breasts were crushed against the solid wall of his chest.
And he was massively aroused, his erection standing hard and high against one hip.
Claire’s insides hollowed. She wanted this man and it had nothing to do with any trance.
“Have no fear, lass. The bastard’s gone.” His hand moved lower, over her denim-clad bottom, his fingers spreading firmly there. “I be wantin’ ye, lass.”
She wet her lips. “I know.” She dared, “I want you, too.”
He smiled at her and she felt his hand caress her bottom, low near the hem of her skirt. “Can ye wait an hour or so?” he murmured.
Claire was overcome with pulsating desire. Ordinarily she was hard to please, but she felt that if he touched her—really touched her, right then, between her legs—she was going to climax. Maybe it was the battle she had witnessed. “Take me upstairs,” she heard herself whisper, and she was too hot to be horrified by her forward behavior. She had never felt this way before.
She would worry about who and what he was another time, later, after they had used each other and pleasured each other again and again.
His jaw tightened. “Ye dinna listen well, do ye? It’s nay safe and I canna protect ye here. But I will protect ye, lass. Ye be my Innocent now.”
“I don’t understand,” Claire whispered, pressing closer. The only thing she did understand was that he was refusing her offer. She leaned her face against his chest and her desire escalated out of all control. In his arms, she shook with an intense, consuming hunger. She ran her hands down to his waist, barely able to bite back a moan. He seemed to rise higher and harder in response.
His grip on her tightened. “I be sorry, lass,” he said.
Once again, Claire just couldn’t understand. It was as if they were from two different worlds, speaking two different languages—except for the language spoken by their inflamed bodies.
And then they were catapulted across the room, through walls, past stars.
Claire screamed.
CHAPTER THREE
’TWAS HIS FOURTH LEAP, but he was still unprepared for the pain.
Holding the woman, her screams renting the night, he fought to withstand the excruciating torment. It was as if his skin was being flayed from his body, as if his scalp was being torn from his skull, as if his limbs were being wrenched from their sockets. He knew he would land whole. It did not matter. He had never known such agony and torment could exist. He choked on his own sobs, too.
And then they landed.
’Twas with the force of being thrown from the highest cliff and landing upon a jagged rock face. Malcolm grunted, pain exploding in his back and head, bright lights blazing. But he did not release the woman. He thanked the Ancients that he had somehow kept her with him and then he prayed that she was strong enough to live.
The woman wept now, softly, against his chest.
A Master shall not use his powers for his own gain.
He tensed. Although the torment had lessened, it remained. He had been told that the strange limbo of being weak and defenseless lasted mere minutes, and had he been alone, he would have had patience. But he wasn’t alone. The woman was in his arms, and as the pain faded, his body hardened. He wanted sex.
But he hadn’t brought her back because he wanted her. He had followed Sibylla to the future, hunting both her and the page. The woman was an Innocent, caught between evil and good. He couldn’t leave her in her time, alone and without defenses, not with both Sibylla and Aidan nearby. He had taken vows to protect Innocence through all ages. His life was no longer his own.
Three years ago he had been chosen. He had been summoned to the monastery on Iona, only to learn that the monastery did not exist. Instead, a secret Brotherhood lived behind those stone walls. He had been told that he came from an ancient line of princes, descended from the old Celtic gods, and that he must follow in his father’s footsteps, defending mankind. He had taken the sacred vows, vows that had irrevocably changed his life. Defend God. Keep Faith. Protect Innocence. His war was not with kings and queens or the clans, his war was with evil. There had been shock—but somehow, there had been relief and an utter comprehension, as if he’d known that one day, the summons would come.
For now, his entire life made sense. His unusual strength, his keen intellect, his compassion and endurance had always awed others, and he had always felt different, even from his own people. He was different. He had been destined from the moment of his birth.
With the Abbot’s blessing, he’d read the ritual pages, and he had come into most of his powers. They were powers which no mere mortal could ever possess. Other powers would mature more slowly. He no longer had a human life span. And while the vows were simple and straightforward, the Code was long and subject to interpretation. However, the most basic tenet of the Code held that no Master could use his powers except to uphold his vows.
And that did not exclude his sexual powers, which were greatly enhanced now.
He did not have to look down at the woman in his arms to know she was beautiful, and somehow different from the others he’d taken to his bed. The urge to move over her was consuming. He could so easily mount her, sliding long and deep, pleasuring them both. He was hugely virile and rarely sated—it was almost a curse. Apparently, every Master suffered such extreme manhood. Carnal pleasure was not forbidden, and no Master would tolerate it if it were. But there were different kinds of pleasure that were forbidden, pleasures that were evil. He finally looked down at her. Her sobs were softer now and she turned her gaze up to his.
Her eyes were a shock
ing shade of green.
He watched her carefully. Her torment was fading and he saw no reason to deny himself. Although he had patience in politics, diplomacy and battle, with women he had none. And why should he? He was the Maclean and a Master and he had never met a woman who did not wish to eagerly share his bed.
Those who hesitated were so easily entranced.
He felt the moment she thought about his embrace, his body, his manhood and what he could offer her. He felt her quicken, and her genuine surprise at her own response. She was not accustomed to desire but she desired him. That pleased him.
Her eyes widened.
He smiled, caressing her bare arm to reassure her, about to promise her great delights. He did not have to focus on the black Highland night to know they were alone and safe. Evil brought an intense chill with it, one far different from that of a northern summer evening. Danger was not near—not yet.
“Ye did well, lass.” He leaned over her, aware of a tremor passing through him. Anticipation made him feel almost faint. “There’s nay more danger—an’ we be very much alone.”
Her eyes turned bright with hunger.
Although already thick with blood, more heat rushed to his loins. He had never seen such a tall woman, with such endless legs, and the way she was sculpted with such taut muscles maddened him. He wanted those legs wrapped around his waist—now.
“Lass,” he murmured in his most enchanting tone. He had lurked in her mind and knew that she had been celibate for three years. He knew the passion he would receive. The woman was sexually desperate and he did not blame her.
He ran his hand down her arm, taking a good look at her scantily clad bosom, and then at the hem of the rag she wore, which was just a handspan from the wet treasure he would soon plunder and possess. She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering. He slid his hand to that hem and hesitated. Their gazes held, and his heart did a strange flip. “I be glad,” he whispered, “that ye survived the fall.”