Trevor nodded. "And I?"
"You wait here. Too risky for both of us to go up. He's not to know we exist yet. If anything goes awry, ring Simon immediately."
Trevor nodded again, and they drifted apart, to settle back and wait. They were patient men. They'd been waiting for this moment all their lives. They were the lucky ones, those born in the hour of the Prophecy's fruition.
To a man, they would die to see the Draghar live again.
A messenger from a travel agency arrived shortly before the small crew of people who delivered dinner from Jean Georges.
Chloe couldn't begin to imagine what something like that cost—didn't think Jean Georges delivered—but she suspected that when one had as much money as Dageus MacKeltar, virtually anything could be bought.
While they ate before the fire in the living room, he continued working on the book that had initially landed her in this mess.
The envelope from the travel agency lay unopened on the table between them—a glaring reminder, chafing her. Earlier, while he'd been in the kitchen, not quite brazen enough to tear open the envelope, she'd snooped instead through his notes—what she could read of them. It appeared that he was translating and copying every reference to the Tuatha Dé Danaan, the race that had allegedly arrived in one of several waves of Irish invasions. There were a few scribbled questions about the identity of the Draghar, and numerous notes about Druids. Between her major in ancient civilizations and Grandda's tales, Chloe was well versed in most of it. With the exception of the mysterious Draghar, it was nothing she'd not read about before.
Still, some of his notes were written in languages she couldn't translate. Or even identify, and that gave her a kind of queasy feeling. She knew a great deal about ancient languages, from Sumerian to present, and could usually target, at least, area and approximate era. But much of what he'd penned—in an elegant minuscule cursive worthy of any illuminated manuscript—defied her comprehension.
What on earth was he looking for? He certainly seemed to be a man on a mission, working on his task with intense focus.
With each new bit of information she gathered about him, she grew more intrigued. Not only was he strong, gorgeous, and wealthy, but he was unarguably brilliant. She'd never met anyone like him before.
"Why don't you just tell me?" she asked point-blank, gesturing at the book.
He raised his gaze and she felt the heat of it instantly. Throughout the day, when he hadn't been utterly ignoring her, the few times he'd looked at her, there'd been such blatant lust in his gaze that it was eroding every bit of common sense she possessed. The sheer force of his unguarded desire was more seductive than any aphrodisiac. No wonder so many women fell prey to his charm! He had a way of making a woman feel, with a mere glance, as if she were the most desirable woman in the world. How was a woman to stare into the face of such lust, and not feel lust in response?
He was leaving soon.
And he couldn't have made it more clear that he wanted to sleep with her.
Those two thoughts in swift conjunction were abjectly risky.
"Well?" she pressed irritably. Irritated with herself for being so weak and susceptible to him. Irritated with him for being so attractive. And he'd just had to go and return those texts, confounding her already confounded feelings about him. "What, already?"
He arched a dark brow, his gaze raking her in a way that made her feel as if a sudden sultry breeze had caressed her. "What if I told you, lass, that I seek a way to undo an ancient and deadly curse?"
She scoffed. He couldn't be serious. Curses weren't real. No more than the Tuatha Dé Danaan were real. Well, she amended, she'd never actually reached a firm conclusion about the Tuatha Dé or any of the "mythological" races said to have once inhabited Ireland. Scholars had dozens of arguments against their alleged existence.
Still… Grandda had believed.
A professor of mythology, he'd taught her that every myth or legend contained some reality and truth, however distorted it had grown over centuries of oral repetition by bards who'd adapted their recitations to the unique interests of their audiences, or scribes who'd heeded the dictums of their sponsors. The original content of uncounted manuscripts had been corrupted by shoddy translations and adaptations designed to reflect the political and religious clime of the day. Anyone who devoted time to a study of history eventually realized that historians had succeeded in gathering only a handful of sand from the vast, uncharted desert of the past, and it was impossible to vouchsafe the terrain of the Sahara from a few mere grains.
"Do you believe in this stuff?" she asked, waving a hand at the jumble of texts, curious to know his take on history. As smart as he was, it was certain to be interesting.
"Much of it, lass."
She narrowed her eyes. "Do you believe the Tuatha Dé Danaan really existed?"
His smile was bitter. "Och, aye, lass. There was a time when I didn't, but I do now."
Chloe frowned. He sounded resigned, like a man who'd been given incontrovertible proof. "What made you believe?"
He shrugged and made no reply.
"Well, then, what kind of curse?" she pressed. This was fascinating stuff, the kind that had led her to her choice of career. It was like talking with Grandda again, debating possibilities, opening her mind to new ones.
He looked away, stared into the fire.
"Aw, come on! You're leaving soon, what harm is there in telling me? Who would I tell?"
"What if I told you that'tis I who am cursed?"
She glanced about at his opulent home. "I'd tell you a lot of people would like to be cursed like you."
"You'd never believe the truth." He flashed her another of those mocking smiles that didn't reach his eyes. She realized that she'd give a great deal to see him smile, actually smile and mean it.
"Try me."
It took him longer to respond this time, and when he did his gaze was filled with cynical amusement. "What if I told you, lass, that I'm a Druid from a time long past?"
Chloe gave him an exasperated look. "If you don't want to talk to me, all you have to do is tell me that. But don't try to shut me up with nonsense."
With a tight smile, he nodded once, as if he'd satisfied himself of something. "What if I told you that when you kiss me, lass, I doona feel cursed? That mayhap your kisses could save me. Would you?"
Chloe caught her breath. It was such a silly thing to say, as silly as his joke about being a Druid… but so hopelessly romantic. That her kisses could save a man!
"I thought not." His gaze dropped back to the text and the heat of it had been so intense she felt chilled by its absence.
She frowned. Feeling like the biggest coward, feeling strangely defiant. She glared at the infernal envelope from the travel agency. "When are you leaving?" she asked irritably.
"On the morrow's eve," he said, widiout looking at her.
Chloe gaped. So soon? Tomorrow her grand adventure would be over? Though only yesterday she'd tried to escape him, she felt oddly deflated by her encroaching freedom.
Freedom didn't seem so sweet when it meant never seeing him again. She knew all too well what would happen: He would disappear from her life, and she would return to her job at The Cloisters (Tom would never fire her—not for missing a few days of work—she'd think of some excuse), and each time she looked at a medieval artifact she would think of him. Late at night, when she awakened filled with that terrible restlessness, she would sit in the dark, holding her skean dhu, wondering the worst question of all: What might have been? She would never again be wined and dined in a luxury penthouse on Fifth Avenue. Never again be looked at in such a way. Her life would resume its usual stultifying cadence. How long before she would forget that she'd once felt intrepid? Felt so briefly and intensely alive?
"Will you be coming back to Manhattan?" she asked in a small voice.
"Nay."
"Never?"
"Never."
A soft sigh escaped her. She fidgeted with a
curly strand of hair, spiraling it around a finger. "What kind of curse?"
"Would you try to aid me if I was?" He looked up again and she felt a tension in him she couldn't fathom. As if her reply was somehow critical.
"Yes," she admitted, "I probably would." And it was true. Though she didn't approve of Dageus MacKeltar's methods, though there was much about him she didn't understand, were he suffering, she wouldn't be able to refuse him.
"Despite what I've done to you?"
She shrugged. "You haven't exactly hurt me." And he'd given her a skean dhu. Would he really let her keep it?
She was about to ask him that when, with a swift flick of his wrist, he tossed the envelope from the travel agency at her. "Then come with me."
Chloe caught the envelope by one end, her heart skipping a beat. "Wh-what?" She blinked at him, thinking she must have heard him wrong.
He nodded. "Open it."
Frowning, Chloe opened the envelope. She smoothed the papers wonderingly. Tickets to Scotland, for Dageus MacKeltar… and Chloe Zanders! Just seeing her name printed on the ticket gave her a little chill. Departing tomorrow night at seven o'clock from JFK. Arriving in London for a short layover, then on to Inverness. Within less than forty-eight hours she could be in Scotland!
If she dared.
She opened and closed her mouth several times.
Finally, "Oh, what are you?" she breathed disbelievingly. "The devil himself, come to tempt me?"
"Do I, lass? Do I tempt you?"
On just about every freaking level, she thought, but refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing that.
"I can't just up and travel to Scotland with some… some—" She broke off, sputtering.
"Thief?" he supplied lazily.
She snorted. "Okay, so you returned those things. So what? I hardly even know you!"
"Do you wish to? I'm leaving on the morrow. 'Tis now or never, lass." He waited, watching her. "Some chances come but once, Chloe, and swift are gone."
Chloe stared at him in silence, feeling utterly divided. Part of her was resolutely digging in her heels, ticking off on her fingers a thousand reasons why she absolutely could not do such a crazy, impulsive thing. Another part—a part that both horrified and intrigued her—was jumping up and down, shouting, "Say yes!" She had the sudden, strange desire to get up and go look at herself in the mirror, to see if she was changing outside as well as in.
Dare she do something so patently outrageous? Take such a chance? Put everything on the line and see what came of it?
On the other hand, dare she go back to her life the way it was? Go back to living in her tiny one-room plus bathroom-the-size-of-a-matchbox efficiency, making her solitary way to work each day, gaining solace only from playing with artifacts that would never be hers?
She'd tasted more, and—damn the man—now she wanted it.
What was the worst that could happen? If he had any intention of physically harming her, he could have done so long before now. The only real threat he posed was one she controlled: whether she would let him seduce her. Whether she would risk falling for a man who was, without question, an inveterate lone wolf and bad boy. A man who made no apologies and offered no comforting lies.
If she didn't fall for him, if she was a smart girl and kept her wits about her, pretty much the worst that could happen was that he might leave her stranded in Scotland. And that didn't strike her as completely unpalatable. If he did, she was confident that, with her waitressing experience in college, she could get a job in a pub over there. She could stay awhile, see her grandda's homeland, her trip over paid for. She would survive. She would more than survive. She might finally live.
What did she have here? Her job at The Cloisters. No social life to speak of. No family. She'd been alone for years now, ever since Grandda had died. In fact, more lonely than she'd cared to admit. A little lost and rootless, which she suspected accounted for her determination to visit Grandda's village, in hopes that she might find some remnants of roots there.
Here was her golden opportunity, coupled with the promise of an adventure she'd never forget, at the side of a man she already knew she'd never be able to forget.
Oh, God, Zanders, she thought, marveling, you're talking yourself into this!
What if he was leaving tomorrow and hadn't asked you to go with him? a tiny inner voice pressed. What if he'd made it absolutely dear that he was leaving, and you would never see him again? What would you have done with this last night with him?
Chloe inhaled sharply, shocked at herself.
Under those hypothetical circumstances, hypothetically, of course, she might have taken her one incredible shot at a man like him, and let him take her to bed. Learned what he had to teach her, eagerly allowed herself to become the focus of all that smoldering promise of sensual knowledge in his exotic eyes.
Looked at that way, going to Scotland with him didn't seem quite so crazy.
He'd been watching her intently, and when she lifted her wide-eyed gaze to his, he rose abruptly from the couch opposite her and moved to stand before her. Impatiently, he pushed the coffee table aside and slipped to his knees at her feet, wrapping his hands around her calves. She felt the heat of his strong hands through her jeans. His mere touch made her shiver.
"Come with me, lass." His voice was low and urgent. "Think of your Scots blood. Doona you wish to stand on the soil of your ancestors? Doona you wish to see the heathery fields and moors? The mountains and the lochs? I'm no' a man who oft makes promises, but I promise you this"—he broke off, laughing softly as if at some private joke—"I can show you a Scotland no other man could ever show you."
"But my job—"
"To hell with your job. You speak the old languages. Two of us can translate faster than one. I'll pay you to help me."
"Really? How much?" Chloe blurted, then flushed, appalled by how quickly she'd asked.
He laughed again. And she knew that he knew he just about had her.
"Select a piece—any piece—from my collection."
Her fingers curled covetously. He was the very devil; he had to be! He knew her price.
His voice dropped to an intimate purr. "Then choose two more. For one month of your time."
Her jaw dropped. Three artifacts, plus a trip to Scotland, for one month of her time? Was he kidding! She could sell any one of the artifacts upon her return to Manhattan (she made a mental note to choose one with which she could bear to part), go back to school, get her Ph.D. and work in any darned museum she wanted to! She could afford to take fabulous vacations, see the world. She—Chloe Zanders—could lead a glamorous, exciting life!
And all the devil ever wants in exchange, a small voice inside her purred caustically, is a soul.
She ignored it.
"Plus the skean dhu?" she clarified hastily.
"Aye."
"Why Inverness?" she asked breathlessly.
A shadow flitted across his gorgeous face. " 'Tis where my brother Drustan, and his wife live." He hesitated a moment, then added, "He collects texts as well."
And if she'd been wavering before, that clinched it for her. His brother and his wife; they would be seeing his family. How dangerous could a man be if he was taking her to his family? It wasn't as if they'd be alone together all the time. They'd be with his family. If she was clever, she'd be able to insulate herself from his seduction. And to spend a month with him! To get to know him, learn what made such a man tick Who knew what might happen in a month? And the prince fell in love with the peasant girl… Her heart was hammering.
"Say aye, lass. You want to, I see it in your eyes. Choose your pieces. We'll drop them off at your place before we leave."
"They'd never be safe in my apartment!" Even she knew how feeble that protest was.
"Then in one of those boxes… One of those…" He glanced askance.
"Safety deposit boxes at a bank, you mean?"
"Aye, that's it, lass."
"And I get the key?" she pounced.
He nodded, the light of victory glittering in his predatory gaze. In a movie, the devil would wear just such a look before he said, "Sign here."
"Why are you doing this?" she breathed.
"I told you. I want you."
She shivered again. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Mayhap'tis soul-alchemy. I doona ken. I doona care."
"I won't sleep with you, MacKeltar," she said suddenly. She didn't want him expecting that, needed it spelled out very carefully. If, at some point, she decided it was something she was willing to risk, that was one thing. But he needed to understand that it was not part of their bargain. Such things couldn't be bargained for. "Your artifacts purchase only my company as a translator. Not sex. That's not part of our deal."
"I doona wish it to be part of our'deal.'"
"You think you can seduce me," she accused.
He caught his bottom lip with his teeth, released it slowly, and smiled. It was such an obvious thing, that gesture, Chloe thought irritably, deliberately designed to focus her attention on his lips. She saw through it, she did—but that didn't stop it from working every darned time he did it. From making her self-consciously moisten her own. Damn and double-damn, she thought, the man was good.
You're already seduced, Chloe-lass, Dageus thought, watching her, 'tis but a matter of accepting, a mere matter of time now. She wanted him. 'Twas no one-sided heat. Theirs was a dangerous attraction that defied logic or reason. She was as helplessly fascinated by him as he was by her. Each knew they should walk away from the other: he, because he had no right to corrupt her; she, because on some level she sensed that something was wrong with him. But neither was able to resist the pull. Devil and Angel: he, seduced by her lightness; she, tempted by his darkness. Each drawn to what they lacked.
"Well, you won't succeed," she said stiffly, piqued by his smug masculinity.
"I trust you'll forgive a man for tryin', lass. A kiss to seal it?"
"I mean it," she pushed. "I'm not going to be just another one of your women."
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