“You have nice taste, Laird,” she said, turning around to face him.
The title caused a slight smile to crack his deadpan expression. For a brief instance, Moirae could once again sense him. She had surprised him and he had enjoyed the feeling. “I am no laird. I just own a castle,” he corrected her.
Moirae shrugged her chin, glad to learn that he did not just know Kilnhurst’s owner—the castle actually belonged to him. It was also heartening to hear him admit the truth about his lack of title. She had known he was not a laird, but in her experience, most men would have let such incorrect assumptions continue for as long as they could benefit from it. “I wonder what clan you purchased it from.”
“Does it matter?”
“Aye,” she answered, gazing at him intently before continuing. “But I have a feeling that asking questions about how you came to live in this place would be waste of time.” She licked her lips. “The previous owner had nice taste.”
“My nephew still does. He prefers to live well.”
“And you?”
“Sometimes.”
“But not all of the time?” she asked, truly interested.
“No.”
Moirae nodded with sincere understanding. “The comforts of life all too often entail unwanted complexities and responsibilities. To balance the two can be a challenge.”
Dorian attempted to suppress his shock at her comment. It simply was not a statement he had expected a human to say, let alone truly believe, especially one so young. Forcing his limbs to move, he came up behind her and reached out to touch her shoulders. “Let me take your cloak.”
Without argument, she unhooked the clasp and released the blood-soaked garment. Once again, she was wearing men’s breeches and a leine with a gambeson. The woolen armor had been slashed down the side and was still wet with her blood. “Take that off,” he ordered. “I need to examine your wound.”
Moirae, still looking around the room, froze, forgetting just how she had come to be there. “I don’t have one,” she said truthfully.
“Your clothes say otherwise,” Dorian countered, forcing her to stand still as he lifted the heavy material to reveal the flesh beneath.
He inspected the area as well as he could without making her strip, but he could find not a scratch. Like her neck, her skin was flawless. Relief filled him and yet the fact made no sense. Dorian took a deep breath but could detect only her humanity and burgeoning womanhood. And yet her blood, as well as the man’s she had stabbed, were unmistakable on her clothes. Could the rip be a result from a previous injury? Instinct said there was another explanation, but without her being a spawn, he could not fathom what it was.
Moirae swallowed and stepped back, unnerved by his closeness. “Kilnhurst is most unusual. Whoever designed it considered both defense and upkeep. Time can be destructive to castles, especially unused ones.”
Dorian felt his jaw grow hard. Was she toying with him? Had Aeolus found her and instructed her on things to say to gain his attention? It was possible, but he would swear her statement had been unrehearsed. And yet mortals thought about time in segments related to their own lifetime, not those that encompassed their descendants’. Whoever she was, Moirae was living up to her name.
Dorian threw her mantle over a chair and went to light the fire, realizing that she most likely found the room to be rather cold. After getting the flames to catch hold, he asked, “Are you hungry?”
Moirae shook her head and watched him remove a large curved sword from his belt and place it with its smaller mate. Though different lengths, each had an ivory handle carved with strange markings. Both were mesmerizing, compelling her to reach out and touch them. Unable to resist, she walked up to the first, but before her finger could feel the cool surface, Dorian grabbed her wrist from behind, halting her.
Realizing what she had just been about to do, she apologized. “I’ve just . . . well, I’ve never seen a sword like it before.”
Dorian let her go and stepped back. “And you probably never will again.”
Moirae exhaled and turned around abruptly, bumping into him. Damn. She had thought he had moved farther away. Normally, her sense of smell told her just how many people were in the room and where they were standing in relation to her. Unfortunately, the man in front of her was the one person with whom she truly needed the ability.
Dorian lifted his finger to move back a wayward piece of her hair and stroked her cheek. Moirae really was beautiful. Her delicately carved cheekbones held just a hint of rose in the dim reflection cast by the shadowy light. With a small nose and a soft pert mouth composed of a lower lip slightly fuller than the upper, her face was the model of feminine delicacy. And yet one only had to glance into her expressive eyes to know such fragility was a lie. The woman had strength, of will and spirit—a captivating and, therefore, dangerous combination.
His fingers trailed down her cheek to her neck, and he could feel the beat of her heart racing. He was not alone in his reaction to their close proximity. He may not be able to sense her emotions, but he could smell her response. Desire pumped through her pores.
Tilting her head up toward him, she looked directly into his gray eyes, peering at him intently. Slowly and seductively, Dorian let his gaze slide downward and witnessed the resulting shiver that went through her. The woman was a virgin. He had had many in his past, and some were pleasing, but most were so timid they failed to inspire. He suspected Moirae Deincourt would prove to be just as surprising in bed as she was out of it, but the possibility of a small, brief thrill was not enough to make him want to play with fire. And that was what Moirae was. Someone to be avoided.
Dorian stepped back and waved for her to sit down on one of the four padded chairs that were placed in a semicircle around the hearth.
Moirae went to the closest chair, irked by his cool, aloof manner mostly because she had been anything but composed. It was time to refocus. “I want you to stop being the Guardian,” she said directly.
Dorian’s scoff was soft but still painful. “An unwise request. Tonight was proof enough that you are unable to fulfill the role. Maybe it is you who should stop, lest next time I’m not nearby.”
Sudden anger lit her eyes. “I don’t fear death. And for nearly a year now, my bow has been more than enough.”
“Miraculously. I cannot believe anyone can shoot with your grip.”
“And yet I hit my targets,” she uttered through clenched teeth.
He laughed. “That you do.”
The acknowledgment should have made her feel better, but his laughter pricked her pride. “Then why should I change?” she challenged.
“Because no one should aspire to do things incorrectly. None of the men who ever followed me into battle would have done so if I fought ridiculously, even if I was somehow successful.”
“It is not loyalty I crave—”
Moirae halted in midsentence and Dorian wondered what she had been about to admit. Just what did a woman like Moirae crave?
Before he could press her, she decided to put him on the defensive. “Besides you do not fool me. You profess to lead others, and yet it is clear, there is no one that follows you. You command the loyalty of what? Your two hounds and husband and wife staff?”
His eyes narrowed. Moirae had only glimpsed one male servant, and he was positive that she had seen nothing of his dogs. She obviously knew much more than he realized. Time for playing was over. “It is time you left, Lady Destiny.”
She looked at him with mute defiance. If possible, her expression was even more stubborn than his own. “Not until you agree to leave Badenoch.”
“And if I refuse?”
“There is a danger of pushing me too far, my lord,” she warned.
Her emerald eyes were wide, brilliant, and slightly mocking. She was utterly intoxicating, standing right up to him, defying him, twisting her lips, making them all the more tempting. Dorian felt every muscle in his body tighten with hot, intense, primitive need.
<
br /> He reached out to catch her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He turned her head so she was forced to meet his eyes. “Not laird. Not lord. Just Dorian,” he murmured.
He had intended to tell her to go home, but when Moirae sucked in a quivering breath, Dorian could hold back his curiosity no longer. Moving his hand to the back of her head, he took her mouth, kissing her with an inviting passion that caused her to shiver in his arms, but she did not pull away. Instead, her arms stole around his neck and her lips parted, inviting him to deepen the kiss.
That encouragement was all he needed, and Dorian plunged inside, tasting, teasing, kissing her mouth hungrily. Tentatively at first, then with growing urgency, she matched the intensity of his kisses, creating a hot tide of passion to rise rapidly between them.
When he paused to let go, she opened her eyes and met his. Her luminous dark green and gold pools blazed with desire, and he was hard with wanting her. He could still taste her on his tongue, hot and wet and woman sweet. It took all his concentration to control the most elemental of his male urges and not take her in his arms again and end things with more than just a kiss. He truly could not remember the last time wanting a woman, any woman, as much as he desired her. It was almost enough to shatter his long-held ideas of immortals mixing with mortals.
Almost.
The kiss had been meant to establish she was a young inexperienced woman with nothing to tempt him. Unfortunately, it had proven quite the opposite. He was tempted, but she was dangerous. There was something different about her, and while it was undeniably appealing, she was also undeniably human. And he was not.
Leaning toward her, Dorian cradled her face in his strong hands and gently brushed his lips softly against hers. He then stepped back and pulled a cord, a clear sign that he was ending whatever had erupted between them. Moirae was not unsure that she wasn’t glad for the interruption. She had just been burgeoning into womanhood when her world had been turned upside down. Men, relationships, love . . . these were no longer options for her. Her life had a different purpose.
“Thank you for the kiss,” she whispered, and then willed her voice to strengthen. “But it changes nothing. Leave Badenoch.”
Dorian smiled. He liked her tenacity. She was new to desire and yet she refused to let it rule her. He wondered what it would be like with her if she ever genuinely let go. “I’ll leave when I am ready, my lady. And not before.”
Just then, a short dark-haired man appeared in the doorway. “Did you retrieve the lady’s horse?” Dorian asked. Upon the man’s nod, Moirae felt the large fingers of Dorian’s hand upon her back.
Sweeping up her cloak off the chair as he escorted her out the study door, Moirae went without argument, but not without a promise. “You will be seeing me again . . . Dorian. And on my terms.”
Somehow, Dorian didn’t doubt it. He was fairly certain Moirae had not a clue how she intended to make her vow a reality, but he was just as positive that she would come up with a plan.
And he was looking forward to discovering just what it might be.
Chapter Four
Moirae drummed her fingers on the very armchair she had been sitting on seven nights ago, just before she had been summarily escorted to the stables and to her horse. It had taken a week for Moirae to devise a scheme that would, in the end, suit her true needs. It was only last night that she realized her initial desire for Dorian to leave had been not only narrow-minded and improvident, but damn near foolish.
Rising, she went over to study the long sleek blade that was so unlike any weapon she had ever before seen. She fingered the empty frame that held its mate, reminding herself that an opportunity had presented itself and a wise person would seize the chance, despite the risks.
Enion had been the only one willing to train her on any type of weapon, and unfortunately, his expertise had been limited to that of archery—not the sword. The near deadly trap she had stumbled into the other night was proof that such skill limitations could not only be lethal for her, but for those she sought to protect. She needed to learn how to fight. But seeking that type of training from a Highlander was not only highly inadvisable as a woman with a bad leg, it would breed personal questions that she had to avoid—not attract.
But Dorian was a swordsman who also held secrets he wanted kept private. He also had a most unusual sword.
Moirae reached out and clasped the ivory-engraved handle, but before she could pick up the weapon, the study door opened. She knew without turning around that she was in serious and imminent danger.
Unfortunately, this time Dorian was not nearby to save her.
Dorian returned to Kilnhurst disgruntled. There had been no new attacks beyond normal clan rivalries since the night he had saved—or thought he had saved—Moirae. And yet the spawns tormenting the humans had not left the area. Whoever it was they were after, Ionas obviously did not want Dorian to find them first.
To break the stalemate, Dorian decided to covertly search the area himself for anyone matching the flimsy description of an old woman with two puncturelike scars on her neck. Because of its water access, Badenoch brought together the borders of many clans, and an abundance of clansmen. Finding a particular woman without divulging his presence not only made things more difficult, but significantly delayed his departure. Not enough years had passed to allow him to ease back into local Highland life. A few more decades. Maybe then he could return.
Dorian sauntered down the hall toward the study, glad he had satiated his hunger for blood earlier that night. A rare smile crept into his expression as he inhaled Moirae’s sweet unusual fragrance. He had found her horse hidden on the outskirts of Kilnhurst tied to a tree. The idea that she thought she could surprise him, pleased him. He had thought their kiss had scared her off, and he was markedly happy it had not. Nor had it changed her into a timid girl, suddenly shy after being introduced to the power of sexual desires.
Female laughter echoed down the hall and his smile vanished. Puzzled, Dorian hastened his pace only to come to an abrupt stop at the door. He had been mentally rehearsing a feisty encounter, with her impatiently waiting for his return so that she could once again demand his immediate departure. He even imagined the less likely, but still possible idea, of her eagerly waiting for him in hopes that he would introduce her to passions she had not yet fathomed. What he had not prepared himself for was the sight of Moirae on the floor playing with his two massive and supposedly deadly dogs.
He had carefully selected animals bred to be huge and ferocious, intentionally cultivating their naturally volatile traits so that only he could constrain them. And yet both giant hounds were acting as if they were friendly, sweet puppies, licking her and yipping as the three of them played keep-away with a large stick she must have pulled from the woodpile.
“Hello.” She giggled, detangling herself from his hounds and rising.
He arched an eyebrow, hoping that it hid his shock, and unhooked his cape to throw it over one of the chairs before cradling the katana in its holder.
“Dyavolsko. Erebes. Come,” he ordered and both dogs sauntered up to him in obedience. They sniffed and wagged their tails a couple of times before turning right around to lay down at Moirae’s feet. He could not read her, but he could read them. Both dogs loved her. And until now, neither had ever given their affection to anyone but him.
Forcing his jaw to relax, Dorian glanced at the bread and drink on the table and said, “I assume Holland offered you food and drink.” Moirae smiled mischievously and Dorian knew that she had charmed his manservant and no doubt his wife the same way she had the dogs.
With intentional flair, she sat down in the padded settee behind her. “He did. As you can see, I have already indulged myself while I waited for you.”
“Your presence was not expected, Lady Deincourt.”
“Really?” she asked with mock astonishment. “Based on my parting comment, I would have thought you to be surprised it took me so long to return.”
Th
e truth of her statement rankled him. “Kilnhurst is not a place for visitors.”
Moirae sighed, unperturbed, and leaned back. “Then you should have made it much more difficult to breach your defenses.” Then, she made the same gesture he used to get in the castle when he carried her back to Kilnhurst thinking her injured.
Dorian narrowed his eyes. She was teasing him and enjoying it. And in a strange way, so was he. “Are you here to beg me once again to end my activities as the Guardian?”
Moirae smiled and shook her head. “Not at all. You obviously have your own reasons to steal my role.” Dorian could feel the corners of his mouth twitch at the blunt accusation. But her tone held no malice.
“Being the Guardian of Badenoch must serve some mysterious purpose for you,” she continued. “For no one of intelligence spends their nights doing something that provides nothing in return. My guess is that you are looking for whatever the attackers are. You are just going about it in a less destructive, and much less noticeable manner.”
Dorian reclamped his jaw. Again, Moirae Deincourt was proving to possess an understanding of the world—and him—that was astonishingly accurate and uncomfortably unexpected. Plus, he still could not fathom her own desire to continue playing the hero when the level of danger associated with the role had significantly risen in recent weeks. Was it adrenaline? Some humans were addicted to danger, but Dorian was certain simple excitement was not Moirae’s motivation. She was right that he desired the role of Guardian for personal reasons, but so did she. And those reasons had driven her to once again come to Kilnhurst and confront him. That, and the sexual desire he could smell coursing through her being.
It had been a long time since Dorian had met someone who had interested him enough to make him want to seek out physical relations. For the past several centuries, he had restricted his mating to female spawns just to eliminate the possibility of emotional attachment often associated with humans. But too often, spawns gained a sadistic quality fairly soon after conversion that came from the sudden misperception of invincibility. After enough flat encounters, Dorian had concluded that bad sex was not necessarily better than no sex. And based on the kiss he and Moirae had shared, he suspected that the act would be far more enjoyable than in recent memory.
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