It was Chloe’s turn to make a strangled sound. “A w-winged serpent?”
Dageus glanced at her. “Aye. Does that mean something to you, lass?” he asked swiftly.
“Dageus, that man who attacked me in your penthouse—didn’t you see his tattoo?”
He shook his head. “I saw it, but I didn’t get a good look at it. I doona ken what it was.”
“It was a winged serpent! I saw it up close when he was on top of me in the kitchen.”
“Bletherin’ hell,” Dageus exploded. “It begins to make sense.” He leapt to his feet so abruptly that the Book of Manannán tumbled to the floor. “But . . .” he trailed off. “How could that be?” he muttered, looking baffled.
Chloe was about to ask what made sense and how what could be, when Silvan rose and retrieved the fallen tome. While Dageus paced, muttering beneath his breath, Silvan continued reading where Dageus had left off.
“’Tis said that some time after the Druids were scattered, and the thirteen locked away in their prison, a small band of those who survived regrouped in an effort to reclaim their lost lore. Och, listen to this: An Order arose, founded upon the divination of a seer who claimed the Draghar would one day, far in the future, return and reclaim the powers the Tuatha Dé had stolen from them. Apparently this seer wrote a detailed prophecy, describing the circumstances under which the ancient ones would return, and the Druid sect of the Draghar was formed to watch and await such events that would signify the prophecy’s fruition—” He broke off abruptly, read a few moments in silence, then flipped the page. Then he scanned through the final few remaining sheaves. “That’s it. ’Tis all that was written about it.” He cursed, skimming and reskimming the subsequent pages. Then he snapped the tome shut and placed it aside.
Chloe’s mind was whirling as she watched Dageus pace. She and Silvan exchanged uneasy glances.
Finally Dageus stopped pacing and looked at his father. “Well, that seals it. Chloe and I must return to her century.”
“Doona be hasty, lad,” Silvan protested. “We need to reflect on this—”
“Nay, Da,” he said, his features taut, his gaze dark. “’Tis evident that the man who attacked Chloe was a member of this Draghar sect. Their prophecy must have guided them to me. From what we just read, ’tis apparent they doona have the power of the stones, so they can’t come through time after me. I doona know how to find the sect in this century, but in hers, they know where I am.”
“You want them to find you?” Silvan exclaimed. “Why?”
“Who else might possess the most detailed information on these beings that inhabit me, than the Druid Order that has preserved their Prophecy all these millennia?” He cast a sweeping glance around the contents of the chamber. “We could waste many moons searching here, to no avail, and I . . . well, let’s just say I’ve a feeling my time is swift being exhausted.”
Chloe drew a deep, fortifying breath. “I think he’s right, Silvan,” she said. “The Keltar have all this lore about the Keltar, it’s logical to assume that the Draghar have an equally large collection of works about the Draghar. Besides, you can continue searching here, and pass it forward to us, if you find something. If I understand this time-travel stuff correctly, anything you find would be waiting for us when we get back.”
“I doona like this,” Silvan said stiffly.
“Da, even if we’d not uncovered this information today, I wouldn’t have been able to remain much longer and you know it. In case you’ve no’ noticed, my eyes—”
“We’ve noticed,” Chloe and Silvan said together.
“Then,” Dageus said firmly, “you know I’ve the right of it. If naught else, I must get Chloe back to her time before ’tis too risky for me to use the magic to open the white bridge again. We must go back and best we do so without delay.”
They spent their final night in the sixteenth century over a leisurely dinner in the great hall, then passed the remainder of the gloaming on the terrace. Chloe sat on the cobbled stones with Silvan and Nell and watched Dageus playing with his young half brothers, chasing them about the lawn beneath the crimson-streaked sunset.
It was hard to believe they were going back again, Chloe thought, savoring the soft hooting of owls and hum of crickets. She’d missed such peaceful sounds since she’d left Kansas and had thoroughly been enjoying falling asleep each night to such sweet music in the strong arms of her Highlander. It occurred to her that though she’d been in the past for weeks, she’d scarcely gotten to see much of it, other than the castle and one dusty chamber. She’d so wanted to return to the village of Balanoch and explore more, and if she’d had enough time would have begged to go to Edinburgh to really get a good look at the medieval life. She especially rued having to leave Silvan and Nell, knowing she’d never see them again, except in portraits on Maggie’s castle walls.
But she understood his insistence that they return immediately, and knew that, even if he’d been willing to stay, she wouldn’t have been able to enjoy it. Until they found what they needed to save him, she doubted she’d enjoy much of anything.
“Ye will take care of him, won’t ye?” Nell said softly.
Chloe glanced over to find both she and Silvan watching her intently.
She smiled. “I love him. I’ll be at his side every step of the way,” she vowed firmly. “Doona be getting yerself all in a fankle, Silvan,” she added in a teasing lilt, hoping to lighten his somber expression. “I’ll take care of your son. I promise.” Her gaze skimmed back to Dageus. He was carrying Robert while chasing Ian, and both were squealing with delighted laughter. His dark hair was loose, and his chiseled face fairly blazed with love.
“Believe me, if I have anything to do with it,” she added fervently, “I’ll be putting my own babies in that man’s arms.”
Nell laughed delightedly. “Now there’s a fine lass,” she clucked approvingly. Silvan heartily concurred.
24
Dageus finished etching the second to last of the formulas necessary to open the white bridge. Though they’d spent weeks in the sixteenth century, they would return to a time in the twenty-first century, a mere three days after the day they’d departed. He would etch the final complex series of symbols when they were ready to go.
Outside the circle of towering megaliths, his da and Nell stood with his wee brothers in their arms. He’d long since said his good-byes. Now Chloe was hugging and kissing them, and both her and Nell’s eyes were suspiciously bright. How easily, he marveled, women faced those canyons of grief men were wont to venture far and wide in hopes of circumventing. He wondered if women were, in some intangible way, stronger for it.
While Silvan and Nell gave Chloe messages for Drustan and Gwen, Dageus pondered what he’d discovered last eve, after Chloe had fallen asleep. In the wee hours of the morn, he’d crept back down to the chamber library. He was no fool; he knew his canny father had broken off too abruptly when reading the final passage in the fifth Book of Manannán.
And indeed, there it had been. One crucial bit of information Silvan had opted to keep to himself. Dageus didn’t need to ask him, to understand why he’d omitted the telling words. Silvan would argue that a prophecy was no more than a foretelling of a “possible” future. However, Dageus knew (and hadn’t Drustan’s experience with the seer Besseta proved it?) that the future foretold was the most likely future, which meant it was going to be damned difficult to avert.
Inscribed in the fifth Book of Manannán, in a slanted majuscule script, had been his most likely future:
The thirteen shall be made one, and the world will descend into an epoch of darkness more brutal than mankind has ever known. Unspeakable atrocities will be committed in the Draghar’s name. Civilization will fall and ancient evils rise, as the Draghar pursue their unceasing quest for vengeance.
He would never permit such a future to become reality. Chloe’s love had strengthened him and hope burned like a beacon in his heart. Though the darkness was ever growing in him, his
resolve and determination had never been stronger.
He glanced at her, drinking her in. For their return, they’d donned the clothing they’d worn in the twenty-first century, and she stood in her slim blue trews and creamy sweater, her tousled curls spilling down her back. Desire quickened in his veins. Anon he would be loving her, and every minute betwixt now and then was a minute too long.
He’d warned her how opening the bridge would affect him.
I won’t be . . . quite myself, Chloe. You remember how I was when we came through the first time?
I know, she’d said firmly. I know what you’ll need.
He’d gritted his teeth. I may be . . . rough, love.
I’m tougher than you think. A pause, then those words he would never tire of hearing: I love you, Dageus. Nothing will change that.
She was so wee, yet so strong and determined. She was, quite simply, everything he’d ever wanted.
“Son,” Silvan’s voice shattered his thoughts, “I’d have a word with you before you go.”
Dageus nodded and made his way toward Silvan, who led him toward the castle. He’d already said his good-byes to his da, Nell, and his brothers, and was impatient to go, lest someone weep again and tear at his heart.
“When you return, son, you must tell Drustan about the chamber library.”
Dageus blinked, perplexed. “But he’ll know. We opened it again, and you’ll be passing the knowledge to Ian
and—”
“I’ll be doing no such thing.” Silvan said calmly.
“But why?”
“I spent some time last eve pondering the possibilities. If the chamber library is made known to the Keltar, it may affect too many things over the next centuries. It must be forgotten. ’Tis too risky for us to restore such a wealth of knowledge to successive generations and think naught else might change. I plan to seal it this very eve and will no’ enter it again.”
Dageus nodded, instantly seeing the wisdom of it. “Ever clever, you are, Da. I hadn’t thought of it, but you’re right. It could indeed cause inestimable changes.” ’Twas good, he realized then, that he and Chloe weren’t remaining in the past any longer. He could trust his father to tidy up any loose ends, if aught were to be found.
Unable to endure a prolonged leave-taking, he turned back toward Chloe and the stones.
“Son,” Silvan said, his voice low and urgent.
Dageus kept his back to him. “Aye?” he said tightly.
There was a long pause. “If I could be there with you, I would. A father should be with his son at such times.” He swallowed audibly. “Lad,” he said softly, “Give my love to Drustan and Gwen, but know you carry the bulk of it with you.” Another pause. “I ken a da shouldn’t have favorites, but—och, Dageus, my son, you were always mine.”
When, a few moments later, Dageus returned to the center slab and began to etch the final symbols, he noticed Chloe staring at him strangely. Her eyes got misty again and her lower lip quivered a bit.
He didn’t understand until she pulled his head down to hers and kissed the tear from his cheek.
Then, as the white bridge opened, she flung herself into his arms, clasped her hands behind his neck and kissed him passionately. He pulled her legs around his waist and held her tightly. It became a battle of wills for him then: It was him against the devastating, shifting, dimensional storm. He felt as if—if he could only make it through the chaos of the white bridge without losing hold of her—he could make it through anything.
He held onto her for all he was worth.
“Oomph!” Chloe gasped as they hit the icy ground, still in each other’s arms. A fierce little smile curved her lips—they’d made it without letting go of each other! She didn’t know why it seemed so important to her, but it did, as if it somehow proved that nothing could ever tear them apart.
A low growl, a rough rumble more animal than human, was the only sound Dageus made as he rolled her beneath him and slanted his mouth hard over hers. His body was rock-hard against the softness of hers, his hips grinding into the cradle of her thighs, and in a heartbeat she was breathless with lust. The man had only to look at her to make her feel weak with desire, but when the hot, thick hardness of him rode between her legs, she became mindless with need. Every single time, her mouth went dry, and she felt shaky from head to toe, anticipating all those delicious things he would do to her. All those ways of touching and tasting, all those very specific demands he made of her that she so loved filling.
She yielded, greedily taking all of him, locking her arms around his strong neck, burying her fingers in his wet hair. They rolled and tumbled across the hail-covered ground as the rain poured down and the wind shrieked deafeningly, numb to all around them but the searing intensity of their passion.
Mouth sealed tightly to hers, his kiss was both dominating and yet utterly seductive, demanding yet coaxing. When he slipped his hands beneath her wet sweater, popped the clasp of her bra and cupped her breasts, she panted against his lips. There, she thought dimly, oh, yes. He played with her nipples, rolling them between his fingers, tugging lightly, and she could feel her breasts swelling beneath his hands, growing excruciatingly sensitive.
When he drew abruptly away, she cried out, reaching for him, trying to pull him back down on her, but he moved out of her grasp, leaning back on his heels at her feet. Her back arched as she stared up at him, his gaze black in the shimmering moonlight. “Please,” she gasped.
He gave her a feral smile. “Please what?”
She told him. In detail.
His black eyes glittering, he laughed as she listed her many and varied requests, and she could see that her boldness was making him recklessly aroused. A month ago, Chloe would never have been able to say such things, but what the hell, she thought, he’d made her this way.
His laughter was of short duration. As he listened, desire narrowed his eyes and lust drew his chiseled features taut. He peeled away her jeans and sweater, and stripped off her panties and bra, baring her to his hungry gaze. Then he picked her up and tossed her naked over his shoulder, his big palm possessively roaming over her bare behind. He stalked from the circle of stones, walking with her through the night, deep into the gardens. He stopped at a low stone bench where he deposited her on her feet, ripped open the fly of his jeans and shed them. In a matter of seconds he was gloriously naked.
Then the big, fierce Highlander with wild black eyes who was clearly seething with impatience to be inside her, surprised her by dropping to his knees before her. He planted lazy, open-mouthed kisses on the thin, sensitive skin of her hips, and across her thighs. Gripping her bottom with both hands, he pulled her hips forward, his velvety tongue sliding deep, slipping over her taut bud and deeper still.
Her legs buckled and she cried out his name. He didn’t let her go down, but caught her weight, and forced her to remain standing, his dark head between her thighs, his long hair like silk against her skin. Slowly, he turned her in his arms, scattering scorching kisses over every inch of her behind, licking and teasing, his fingers slipping to the wetness between her thighs. Desperate to have him inside her, the minute his grip loosened a bit, she dropped forward to the ground on her hands and knees, and looked invitingly back over her shoulder at him, wetting her lips.
He made a strangled sound, his breath hissing between his teeth. “Och, lass,” he chided, “I tried to be gentle.”
Then he was on her, covering her with his big, hard body, pushing into her.
“Gentle later,” she panted. “Hard and fast now.”
As ever, her sexy Highlander was only too willing to oblige.
Much later, heads close together, hands entwined, they borrowed Maggie’s Jeep, and drove back to Drustan and Gwen’s castle. There they crept into the back entrance, quiet as mice so as not to wake anyone, where they fell into bed and began the loving all over again.
It was nearly noon by the time Dageus and Chloe ventured belowstairs, and when they did—much to Drustan’s
irritation—they went straight to the kitchens, evidently famished. He could hear a passel of McFarleys banging about in there, putting together a late brunch.
Drustan shook his head and resumed pacing in the library, scarcely able to contain his impatience. The elderly McFarley butled in, trying to find something he might bring “his lordship,” but the only thing his lordship wanted was his damned brother’s attention.
He’d been up since dawn, and already a dozen times this morn he’d stalked toward the stairs, yet each time Gwen had met him at the bottom and firmly turned him back toward the library.
He’d heard them slip in last eve (as if he’d be able to fall asleep on the night Dageus was to return!) and had begun to rise from bed to go to them then, but Gwen had placed her hand on his arm. Let them have tonight, love, she’d said. He’d growled, frustrated, eager to share his news and discover what they’d learned, but then she’d begun kissing him and his mind had stuttered the way it always did when she used that luscious mouth of hers on any part of him. Och, and the parts she’d used it on last eve!
He glanced at her. She was curled on the window seat beneath one of the library’s bay windows. Rain pattered lightly against the glass. She’d been reading for the past hour, but now she was staring dreamily out the window. Her skin had the unique translucent radiance of a pregnant woman, her breasts were full and tight, her belly heavily rounded with his—their—children. Fierce elation and protectiveness flooded him, accompanied by that never-ending need to be holding her, touching her. As if sensing his gaze on her, she turned from the window and smiled at him. He dropped into an armchair near the fireplace and patted his thigh. “Bring your bonny self over here, wee English.”
Her smiled deepened and her eyes sparkled. As she slipped from the window seat, she warned him, “I might squish you.”
He snorted. “I doona think there’s any danger of that, lass.” At but a few inches over five feet, even heavily pregnant, his wife would ne’er be aught but a wee lass in his mind. He pulled her onto his lap and clasped his hands around her, holding her close.
The Dark Highlander Page 27