“Greetings, Your Grace! Even without introduction, I ken you as MacAvee laird. At first glance! You’re the image of your grand-sire. I was but a wee lad, but I swear . . . the verra image. Welcome to the Hall. We’ve kept it readied and prepared for your arrival at any time, to orders.”
“Thornton . . . is na’ it?”
The man bowed, displaying a bald spot ringed with silver hair. “Aye. Gerard Thornton. Steward and comptroller of MacAvee Hall. This is your new wife?”
“Her Grace, the Duchess of MacAvee.”
Sean announced it with a voice that seemed incongruous on such a thin frame. Tira curtsied, holding the cloak like the most perfect ball gown.
“Come in. Please. Follow me. We’ve prepared . . .”
There was more. Tira heard a portion as the man led them, speaking his words to the air in front of him. But then it didn’t matter as her eyes widened on the breath-taking sight of MacAvee’s great hall. The two-story carved entrance doors opened to a raised entry that dropped down into such an enormous chamber ; the size was impossible to gauge, despite the volume of torches they’d lit. Tira had to use her new power, enhancing her eyesight to bring everything into perfect focus.
A hammer-beam ceiling spanned the entire chamber, its surface covered with colorful paintings in the Jacobite style. There were no less than four fireplaces carved into both walls, with stone sides and thick wooden mantels. Black rock walls peeked from between tapestries and banners, framing sizable paintings that could only have come from the paintbrushes of Renaissance masters.
Each step echoed through the chamber, blending into a beat of thumping noise, dragging her pulse into it. They passed through an archway at the far end into what might be a hall, although the width couldn’t be easily spanned with a glance. This space had dark wooden walls rising only two stories, framed wherever she looked with more tapestries, more torches in sconces, and more paintings, although these mainly featured Iain in several different poses and costumes. Tira noted more than one portrait of a woman as well. And everywhere was the glint of silver, gold, or crystal. It appeared the castle hadn’t been changed or modified in the years Iain refrained from visiting it. Or perhaps Iain liked medieval period. He didn’t offer it and she didn’t ask. It felt nearly too sacrosanct even to whisper in such magnificence.
Thornton hadn’t the same issue. He turned and addressed Iain and then her. “I’ll show you the chieftain chamber now. If you’ll follow me?”
Another set of doors was opened at the end of the hall, leading to a four-man-wide spiral stair, or maybe it was wide enough to accommodate three men on horseback, such as a Seton chieftain had built at Fyvie Castle. She’d heard of it but never seen such a thing and wondered why such trivial things occurred to her now.
The landing at the top was another rock-walled edifice, with but one ending. There was a smaller set of doors, surmising a small room. That was proven a misnomer upon opening them. Tira felt the same slack-jawed response to even more spacious, torchlit luxury. MacAvee’s chamber had one wall devoted entirely to a window. If it wasn’t a rain-filled night, the view would be extraordinary: ocean as far as the eye could see, topped by sky just as broad and all-encompassing. Tira followed the steward and Iain into the center of the room and then pirouetted in a slow circle.
It already felt big and incredibly desolate. Tira tightened her hands on the cloak’s opening. Large and lonely . . . and that window couldn’t be safe. There wasn’t a drape attached to either side of it that she could see. There were various shapes of furniture along the other walls, two fireplaces, as many groupings of chairs, as if conversations took place in the chieftain’s chambers, and on a raised platform to one side was a structure she immediately knew was a bed, with three wooden sides enclosing it.
“Thornton? Her Grace and I thank you. Grant? See to things.”
Iain spoke for her. Tira didn’t move. She kept her eyes on the raised bed while projecting with every fiber of her new powers. Don’t leave me! Iain . . . please! She heard the doors thumping together before they thudded into place. Then she heard the distinct sound of a key turning in a lock.
He’d locked her in. Emptiness settled around her, making everything even more chilled and vacant and lonely. Tira moved slowly toward the window, her hands out like a sightless person. If this was her future, she’d rather face pure sunlight and have it ended and done with. But then her fingers touched cold black stone. She splayed her hand open and found nothing but solid rock.
“I had it walled in over a century ago.”
Tira whirled to see Iain standing near the door, directly beneath a candlelit chandelier, highlighting his beauty, arms folded, showing their size, legs apart, showing his readiness for confrontation. He’d untied his hair, as well.
“You didn’t leave?”
“I doona’ concede defeat that easily.”
Black eyes locked with hers as he just stood there, unmoving.
“We . . . have to talk, Iain.”
He stopped breathing for a moment, looked over her head and way up the wall before returning to her gaze. “Can we na’ do something I have a fair chance of success at?”
“I can’t even heft a sword.”
One side of his lip lifted. “I have other skills.”
“As I’m very much aware.”
This time he grinned. Then he sobered. “You wish to talk?”
She nodded.
He gestured her to one of the groupings of furniture about a fireplace. A fire sparked to life in the grate before she settled into an overly large, stuffed wing chair. Tira studied the beginning flames for a bit before looking up at where he stood, an arm reclining on the mantel.
“How do you do that?” she asked.
“ ’Tis part my power. Yours appears to be an ability to see through solid rock walls.”
“It’s an incredible view,” she replied.
“Still is. If you wish, I’ll take you there.”
“Where?”
“Either tower. Or along the battlements. The view does na’ discriminate. Every guardsman has noted it as well as every guest.”
“You take in guests?”
“MacAvee does na’ turn down wayward travelers.”
“What of the women?”
She could tell he stiffened. “What women?”
“You can start with the ones in the paintings.”
“Oh. Paid ones. Mostly.”
“Not wives?”
“The first duke took a wife.”
“You mean you took a wife when pretending to be the first duke.”
“There’s nae pretence, love. I was the first duke. As such, a union was forced. I dinna’ marry of my own free will. Na’ until you.”
His voice cracked slightly. Tira narrowed her eyes. “Forced? You?”
“ ’Twas the best way to end the MacGruder clan feud and gain Castle Blannock.”
“You’re married?”
“You see? The more I speak the angrier you become.”
“Iain—”
“I’m widowed. She passed on. A decade ago. An auld woman of ninety-two.”
“No children?”
“She locked me from her chamber. I dinna’ fight it. We had little in common. She golfed. Rode to hounds. Hunted. Fished. She excelled at every Scot pursuit.”
“Sounds divine.”
“Did I fail to mention a face like a horse and frame to match? There was nae way to get drunk enough to tup her.”
“Why don’t you move closer?”
He straightened. She could hear the rustle of his clothing. “That would be unwise.”
“Why?”
“I canna’ keep a strict enough leash on it . . . and I am still a gentleman born.”
“It?”
“I need you, Tira. Vastly. To a consuming level. ’Tis ever-increasing and ever-present. If I’m near you, I lose control . . . and do things that make you hate me.”
His voice dropped as did his gaze. The man
was mistaken. She didn’t hate him at all. What she felt startled and shocked her, sending a surge of emotion with each beat of her heart that blended with the rivulet of shivers coursing her skin. And he had a great gift with words, especially when they snagged in the middle.
“You must excuse me now. I’ve . . . things to see to yet.”
“Things?”
“Grant is bringing my pallet and your mattress.”
“Oh. Good. I’d hate to think I have to tote it.”
Tira pushed the hood off her head. She probably looked a sight. It had been impossible to tell on his yacht since he didn’t keep any mirrors. She looked about as it occurred to her. There hadn’t been any in the lower rooms, either.
“Why are there no mirrors, Iain?”
“I had them destroyed.”
“Why?”
He cleared his throat. “A vampire has nae reflection. Such a thing could cause rumor and speculation.”
“You fear those?”
“There’s only one thing I fear.”
His voice was nonexistent. If she hadn’t used her enhanced hearing, she’d have missed it.
“And that is . . . ?”
He flinched. She saw it and heard it. As well as the rapid beat of his heart. And the next moment he was at the chamber door, twisting the key and showing he’d used his power again.
“Iain! Don’t you dare leave! You hear?”
Chapter Sixteen
Could he hear?
His body was thrumming with the sound of her voice, the feel of her presence, and the view of her perfection. She didn’t need a mirror. There wasn’t a woman to match her. And the damn key wasn’t turning. He couldn’t see clearly enough. His hands weren’t working properly, either. Then she added to his torment with the feel of her body pressed against his back, her arms looped about his belly, holding him.
He’d been wrong on all fronts. This was hell.
“Iain?”
“Let go, Tira.”
“Why?”
“I need . . . a bit of time.”
She giggled. “You need time? You?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
To get these accursed woman tears banished back where they come from! He shook his head and concentrated on the chieftain chamber door, looking over the entwined vines, thistles, and thornbushes they’d carved into it. Yet, the more he worked at staunching the emotion, the worse it all got.
“Lass . . . you need to . . . let me go.”
“What if I say no?”
Iain pulled in a shuddering breath. “You ken I canna’ control it and what happens . . . and yet you torment me apurpose? To what end, lass? Well? You wish me begging?”
“Would you?”
Iain pulled her arms apart, spun, and glared down at her before blinking a tear trail into existence. He didn’t even care. But when he moved from her, he got more anguish as the step took him to his knees.
“Iain?”
“All right, lass! All right. You win! I’m filled with fear. I fear this existence without you. I’ll say it. I’ll shout it, if you like! I love you and I fear you’ll never forgive me . . . and then I’ll be damned to a worse existence than afore. There. I’ve said it! You’ve got me on my knees begging. What more can you wish of me?”
The last was sobbed and he detested that the most. And then she was on her knees facing him. He didn’t look to verify it. He could feel and sense her, and it stirred the very beast he was straining to keep caged.
“Iain?”
He shook his head, glared at the spot of floor between them, tightened every muscle in his body. He was not giving in to the power this time. No matter what the prevarication. He wasn’t.
“I’m not a morning person, anyway.”
“What?”
He blinked. Grimaced. Watched another tear drop onto the wood. He was still looking as the wood soaked it up.
“And—and that pallet of yours could use a bit of padding . . . like a mattress.”
Puzzlement wove through the other emotion, helping to calm and pacify it. Iain dared a glance at her and then jerked away as if scorched. She was too beautiful! Too beloved! A russet cloud of hair enveloped her, lit with torchlight he’d just sent to a blinding level. Her green eyes glistened with secret messages. Her lips were open just slightly, allowing fang tips to peek out. . . . The beast flexed and he held to it, curling forward into a hunched ball for the effort.
“A-a-and . . . I have my own demons to satisfy. My own passions. Cravings. Lusts.”
The roar consumed him, ripped from his throat to encompass the entire room. Iain fought with everything at his command but felt the grip slipping as his canines lengthened and prepared.
“Are you going to make me say it?”
“Lass, you have to move away from me. Now! You hear? Away!” The words came through teeth clenched so tight, his spikes jabbed his chin. The effort scorched every muscle into fire.
“Where?”
“Any . . . where!”
“What if I say no?”
Iain swore, lunged for her and had her beneath him, smashed between the unforgiving wood and his frame. Her clothes were missing as well. The knowledge barely made it through his senses since she held his face in her hands and was covering him with kisses and saying the sweetest words. Iain used the entire scope of his power to stall time, encasing them in a bubble of it so he could experience and store every bit of it. Forever.
“I love you, Iain MacAvee. I love you! I can’t imagine this world without you, either. It’s desolate and bereft . . . and I’d rather die! You hear me, Iain? I love you!”
“You love me?”
“Yes! And yes. And another yes! Desperately!”
“You’re sure? ’Tis na’ just the vampire speaking?”
“Oh, Iain. I think I fell for you the moment you claimed me at the ball. I just didn’t know it.”
“You truly love me?” Joy was radiating through him, tempering the beast, and then she added more sweet words.
“I love you! I just didn’t know what it was. Forever, Iain. I love you . . . and thank goodness you didn’t make me say it!”
He pushed up from her to slide his lips along her jaw to her neck. That’s when his breath caught in surprise at the way her hands delved beneath his kilt and shoved it open, gripping and guiding and making certain he got captured in her woman-place—exactly as she wanted.
She may have sent a cry from the throat he was lapping at before he sank his fangs in, but he didn’t hear it. He was experiencing such joy it slammed to the top of his head and near took it off. The strength of it ever-increasing, louder and larger, and so powerful it was impossible to experience anything else. That’s why he didn’t hear Grant pounding at the door, or his obedience to her words to guard the items until required, easily heard through solid wood. Everything was exactly as it should be.
THE GUARDIAN
Michele Sinclair
To E&H, you have been and will forever be the loves of my life.
Prepare for each day as if a million were to follow,
but live each moment as if it could be your last.
Prologue
Northern Japan—1365
Dorian examined the unique long, slender blade that fit singularly in his palm, creating a seamless extension of his arm. “Do you have any others?” he asked as he expertly swung the sword at a phantom attacker. Pivoting on his left heel, he deftly ripped a swathe through the neatly manicured bushes. He grimaced at the unintentional destruction and forced his eyes to raise and receive the warranted glare from his brother. “My apologies.”
“Akihiko will not be pleased,” Aeolus murmured, eyeing the damage to the once beautiful shrubbery before answering his brother’s question. “Masamune was a genius. It was he who thought of combining soft and hard steel for use in swords. You are in luck that I made sure he taught his technique to others before his death. So if the katana entertains you, keep it. I shall also offer its m
ate. Somewhat smaller, but just as deadly.”
“I find it surprising you would so easily give up such a prize,” Dorian commented. “What is wrong with it?” he asked, speaking from past brotherly experience.
Aeolus chuckled and waved his finger, pointing at the sword. “Look at the saya,” he said, gesturing toward the handle.
Dorian shifted his grip to examine the handguard portion of the sword. The intricately carved design was a true work of art in which the lambda was prominently featured. The upside-down V-like symbol had played a role in both of the empires he had built, making it clear that the sword had been constructed for only one owner—him.
Dorian nodded, accepting the offer. Only a slight glimmer in his smoky gray eyes revealed his appreciation. He knew Aeolus understood that he was amused by little these days. Such feelings came and went with the decades. His brother was currently finding pleasure by building a dynasty in the East, an area of the world most of their kind refrained from inhabiting. Their considerable size and dark Greek features stood out, making it impossible to blend into the crowd—but discretion had never been Aeolus’s style.
“I’m impressed,” Dorian said, once again speaking about his unexpected gift. “You must be inspiring these humans for them to create such beauty.”
“And they are skilled fighters, able to defeat men twice their size,” Aeolus added, hinting that his own height was not quite the intimidator it had been elsewhere.
“Perhaps,” Dorian sighed in mock agreement. He was in no mind to argue, but he doubted Aeolus’s growing army could ever match Scotland’s Highlanders in strength or skill. Then again, the chances of the two cultures ever battling were incredibly slim.
“Why don’t you return to your beloved mountains and form something of those barbarians who live there?”
Dorian sighed and watched the sparkle of afternoon sunlight play on the waves from the safety of the shaded garden. “I already guided men to better lives—twice.”
“The Peloponnesian League and then Rome. Both times you prematurely left and both empires gave in to war and eventually crumbled so that now only a few of us can remember their glory,” his brother asserted, commencing one of their more common debates. “I’ll never understand why you abandoned them.”
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