Читать книгу Dark Seduction - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 12

WHEN HE FELT SATISFIED that she could control the charger somewhat, Malcolm left Claire with two of Royce’s men and rode to the side of the column so he could be alone. The forest was thick and dark around them, but he could smell the sea as they approached Loch Linnhe. There was no scent in the world like that of the woods mingling with Highland sea, he thought, except, of course, for the scent of her.

But now he could not touch her. He must not touch her. With her, he had no control.

Royce rode over to him. “What’s botherin’ ye, Calum?” he asked softly, speaking in Gaelic.

Malcolm hesitated, aware of his cheeks heating. Fortunately, Masters respected one another and did not lurk upon each other. He spoke in their native tongue, grim. “Sibylla has the power to leap time, Ruari. Moray has given it to her when she was but a lowly Deamhan all these years.”

Royce’s eyes widened; he was clearly dismayed.

As he should be, Malcolm thought. The powerful, demonic earl of Moray was the overlord of evil in Alba. It was said that, long ago, in the beginning, Moray had been a Master, until evil had corrupted him, stealing his soul. There was no doubt his line came from the Ancients, for his power was so great that no Master had been able to vanquish him, not in a thousand years. His quest was power and control, his means, destruction, anarchy and death. He had a great title, great lands, huge armies of both Deamhanain and humans. Those he sent easily into death’s jaws. And he was so charming, so handsome, so clever that he was favored by the royals—especially the current queen, Joan.

Many of the Deamhanain were simply humans possessed—like the knights that had just attacked them, giants among men, their powers enhanced by the demonic possession. Sybilla was human, but Moray had made her his lover, taken her soul, given her his children. And now, he had given her one of the most coveted powers of all, the power to leap the ages.

Royce glanced at him. “I dinna think ye be broodin’ about a Deamhan, even if she be Sibylla, whose time has come.”

“Aye, she must die. If she can leap like a Master, she has too much power now.” The most powerful Deamhanain were always to be hunted and vanquished. It was too dangerous to allow them their lives. “But she may ha’ the page. I followed her to the city of New York,” he said grimly. “I followed her to Lady Claire’s bookshop. She was there first. The shop was ransacked. Lady Claire doesna ken what be stolen, and what nay.”

“If there be a page from the Cladich, it must be returned to the Brotherhood,” Royce said firmly. “Moray has enough powers, an’ he canna have the power to heal his own spawn.”

Malcolm could not imagine a world where the Deamhanain could heal each other. The first Deamhanain, those who’d been seduced by the devil and stolen from the Brotherhood, were hard enough to vanquish without such powers.

“If Sibylla left Lady Claire alive, she has a use fer her,” Royce added. “If Sibylla doesna have the page, she may think yer lady has it.”

Unfortunately, Malcolm had just had that exact thought. His heart lurched with dread. The wife of John Frasier, a treacherous and powerful Lowland earl, Sibylla was even more dangerous than her husband, for he was simply an ambitious nobleman, while she was possessed and allied with Moray. She was almost as evil and cold-blooded as her overlord. Her reputation was vast. She loved to slowly torture her victims, both male and female, and then take pleasure in their deaths. He almost hoped that Sibylla had the page. Otherwise, Sibylla might believe that Claire knew where the page was, and she would hunt Claire. He was sickened, as he knew what Sibylla would do to Claire if she ever caught her.

“I think ye need make certain Sibylla kens Lady Claire be ignorant o’ our affairs.”

“She be ignorant.” But she was not as ignorant as she had been, Malcolm thought grimly. He had brought Claire back to protect her from Sibylla and Aidan. Now he wasn’t certain he had done what was in her best interests.

“’Tis nay safe to send her back, alone,” Royce said suddenly. “Not yet.”

Malcolm looked at him. “Do ye lurk?”

“I dinna have to lurk in yer head to ken yer fears fer her.”

He hesitated, wondering what Royce had left unsaid. He hoped his lust was not obvious. “Aidan was also there.” His blood boiled at that thought.

Royce’s tawny brows lifted. “So he hunts the page, as well.”

“He hunts whatever pleases him,” Malcolm exclaimed, filled with fury. “He follows no command! The bastard was in her bed. I sensed him there.”

“Aidan is a rogue,” Royce said calmly, “but he is nay evil. Surely the Brotherhood sent him to the future, as they did ye. And Lady Claire is beautiful. If he had her first, ye may hate him, but ye canna change the past. ’Tis nay allowed,” he warned.

The Code was not simple. There were many rules, some subject to debate, as well as interpretation, but never going back in time to change the past was one of the most important ones. No Master was allowed to change history. But if Aidan had even touched her, he’d be tempted to go back in time and do the forbidden. “He didna bed her. I’d have sensed him in her. But if he touched her—aye, a single touch—I will kill him.”

Royce stared. “Ye be very possessive, lad.”

Malcolm looked straight ahead between the stallion’s pricked ears. “Dinna start.”

“Ye dinna ken the lass.”

“Aye, I dinna. Soon, when ’tis safe, when I ken that Sibylla doesna hunt her, then she will go back.” And that way she would be safe from him, he thought grimly. He tried to imagine her at Dunroch, while not in his bed. It was impossible.

He could send her to Carrick with his uncle. Instantly, he dismissed the thought. His uncle was the least romantic man he knew, but like all the Masters, he could entrance a woman to his will and he always had a beautiful woman in his bed. He’d seen the way Royce had looked at her—the way he’d almost preened upon being introduced.

And by the gods, he became aware of a burning jealousy, because Claire had given his uncle a good lookover, in return. No, she was going to Dunroch, and he’d deal with his dilemma with an iron will when the time came.

As for Aidan, he had better keep his distance, too. Aidan was a rogue warrior, doing as he pleased, when he pleased. The world knew he was a hedonist. He’d had legions of lovers already. Beauty was his weakness. Did Aidan burn with lust for her, too? Malcolm did not trust him. Did he think to pleasure her and take her life while he did so? Malcolm felt certain Aidan had committed pleasure crimes because Aidan had but half a soul—and that half was black.

“Aidan invited ye to Awe once,” Royce finally said, as if sensing his thoughts.

Malcolm jerked. “Aye—three years ago.” Aidan had sent an invitation by messenger shortly after Malcolm’s induction into the Brotherhood. He had ripped the missive to shreds.

Royce ignored that. “Ye should go to Awe and speak with him. Make a truce, Calum.”

Malcolm stared, and said softly, “If I go t’ Awe, I go fer one cause an’ one cause alone. I go t’ kill the bastard.”

Royce’s expression became hard. “Ye better cease such talk. A Master canna kill another Master an’ ye ken.”

Malcolm smiled coldly. “Really? That be one rule I dinna care for.”

“I want to see peace between ye an’ Aidan afore I die,” Royce said sharply.

Malcolm stiffened. “What kind o’ talk is that?” In truth, he didn’t even know how old his uncle was.

“We’re nay immortal.” Royce said, his smile suddenly tired. “I been huntin’ evil fer hundreds of years, Calum. My time will come.”

Malcolm was aghast. “Do ye have a death wish? Yer a great Master. The Brotherhood needs ye, Ruari. The Innocent need ye.” I need you, he added silently, but his uncle had to know that. Brogan had died when Malcolm was nine years old, and Royce had been more of a father than an uncle ever since, as well as a loyal friend.

Royce smiled then. “Ye be so young, Malcolm. I envy ye yer innocence—an’ I pray ye’ll never be without hope.”

Malcolm became concerned. “Ye never speak this way. Is there something yer not telling me? Is something amiss?”

“After two hundred years, we have word of a page from the Cladich bein’ near. The Deamhanain want it, and we must once again guard such a power for ourselves and Alba. I remember the first time the book was stolen, and the hunt to find it an’ bring it back to the shrine. I remember when the Cladich was stolen the second time—an’ we ha’ not seen it since. I remember when Moray stole the Duaisean. The cycle of life never changes, like the sun rising an’ setting, day after day an’ year after year. It is a cycle of good an’ evil, an’ it will never end. Nothing changes—it is all the same. If a Master finally vanquishes Moray, there’ll be another, greater Deamhan t’ take his place.”

Malcolm was very alarmed. “One day, Moray will be vanquished. No one will take his place.”

“Ye stay far from Moray! I have tried to kill him a hundred times. Ye tried once, too, an’ look at what it got ye.”

Malcolm tensed. It had gotten him to Urquhart, where he had come close to losing his soul.

And then Royce smiled, revealing two dimples. It was the smile Malcolm had seen women fight amongst themselves to receive. “Dinna listen to the ramblings of an old Master like me. Ye protect the woman. She’s yer Innocent now. Ye’ll stay safely at Carrick t’night. T’morrow I’ll be holding Moray’s men back if they attack another time when ye go t’ Dunroch. The MacNeil will want a report,” he added.

“And he’ll have one,” Malcolm responded, relieved that Royce’s odd, bleak humor was gone. “I go to Iona immediately. ”

Royce became grim. “Calum, Sibylla obeys Moray. If she let Lady Claire live, there be one more possibility. Ye will not care fer it.”

Malcolm tensed.

“Mayhap the dark lord wishes Lady Claire to live.” Malcolm whirled his mount. “Dinna begin t’ think that Moray has any idea the lass exists!”

“If Sibylla has the page, why else would she let her live?”

EVEN IN A CAVALCADE of armed men, Claire was afraid. She did not like the black forest they were riding through. She didn’t need an imagination to know that all kinds of danger lurked in its impenetrable depths. And she wasn’t thinking about wolves and mountain lions. What if there was an ambush? What if the men who had escaped returned to finish them off? They had meant to kill Malcolm—and they had meant to kill her. And to think she had been afraid of crime in the city!

She still could barely believe all that had happened. She had gone back in time, which was shocking enough, and there had been a huge battle. She hoped she would never witness or participate in such a battle again. However, if she stayed in the fifteenth century for very long, the odds were she was going to find herself in such dire straits another time. Her expertise was medieval European history, not Highland history, but she had certainly dabbled in the latter. It was filled with intrigue, conspiracy, bloodshed, murder and warfare. Reading about it in a classroom had thrilled her. Living it was an entirely different matter.

Claire knew she had to set her fear aside and find calm in order to think. But her composure was in shreds. Two large, silent Scots, apparently assigned to escort her, rode on each side of her. Claire focused on deep breathing while trying to think happy thoughts. She thought about Thanksgiving at the farm and then gave up. She started to laugh, feeling hysterical, images of the bloody battle and severed heads vying with images of Malcolm’s lust-ravaged face in her mind. She wasn’t calm—she didn’t think she would ever be calm again.

She recalled her insane behavior during the battle, when, instead of hiding as Malcolm had ordered her to do, she had tried to fight back. She was never going to understand what had motivated her. Claire Camden was not brave. She was afraid of her own shadow and everyone else’s, which was why she had created such a little fortress in her shop. Except that fortress had been breached tonight. And she was not a Taserwelding female Schwarzenegger, even if she had acted like one. She didn’t want to be a female version of Malcolm!

What if she couldn’t get back?

Her tension increased. This was her greatest fear. Claire’s heart lurched. If she started thinking about being trapped in the past forever, she wouldn’t be able to think, period, and her mind was her only defense. Even in this violent, chauvinistic world, wisdom must surely prevail, even if it came from a female.

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. The night was lit by so many stunning stars and a brilliant half-moon, that it really wasn’t all that hard to see. For one moment, as Claire scanned her surroundings, she allowed herself a grudging acceptance of the beauty of the night sky. Only in the fifteenth century could one see such a magnificent sight.

A few of the warriors also held torches, which helped illuminate the night. Her gaze moved to the pair of towering men who led the riders, then settled on Malcolm. He and Black Royce were silent now, but they had conversed for quite some time, clearly about grave matters. Claire grimaced. She knew they had been discussing her.

She stared at Malcolm’s back. He seemed to be a superior warrior. In fact, if she thought about it, his prowess had been extraordinary. She was probably as safe as a woman in this particular time and place could be, considering that he seemed to feel obligated to protect her. But by God, she would feel a helluva lot better once they were at Carrick and behind solid stone walls.

And then what?

She had a hundred questions and she needed a hundred and one answers. She had to know that she could get back and when that would be. She had to know why they had been attacked. Had it been a mere instance of two clans feuding? She did not think so. And she did not like Malcolm’s reference to evil.

Those warriors had been strange and different.

Claire shuddered. She didn’t want to think anymore, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Sometimes, while walking down the city streets, more frequently at night than during the day, Claire would pass by someone and feel thoroughly chilled. The first time it had happened, she had been so surprised that she had turned to look at the passerby. She had looked into hollow eyes.

It had somehow been terrifying, horrifying. She had been fifteen years old at the time, but it had been before Aunt Bet’s stunning revelation about her mother’s death. She had never looked at any such person again. Instead, she would duck her head, avoid all eye contact and keep on going.

She pretended it was a New York thing to do. Everyone knew New Yorkers were cold and strange, they weren’t friendly and they didn’t make eye contact. That was how one managed in the big city amongst millions of people.

The night her mother had been murdered, it had been so cold in the house although it had been an Indian-summer evening. It was the one fact she recalled with vivid, tactile clarity.

Claire stiffened and her mount danced in protest. One of the Highlanders reached out to seize her reins and Malcolm whirled to see what was happening. Claire didn’t want to think about the past. Dealing with the present was bad enough.

But Claire breathed hard, the horse snorting now. Damn it. A terrible draft had chilled the glade just before the warriors had invaded, the same kind of cold that had filled the apartment.

Claire had spent her entire life avoiding overthinking the dark side of the city. She’d worked her ass off to make a small, secure and successful world for herself. When bad things happened to friends, neighbors and coworkers, she began supporting challenging political candidates. Crime was out of control and society was breaking down, so she worked harder. Work was a refuge. She wished she was working now.

But that world felt as if it had just gone up in smoke. And damn it, life seemed equally dark and chaotic in medieval Scotland. She didn’t know what to think, and she certainly didn’t know what to do.

Ye be my Innocent now.

She shivered. What did that mean?

Malcolm’s tone had been filled with possession back in her apartment when he had first made that statement, and it had been as possessive when he had told Royce that he didn’t share. She felt her cheeks warm. He had pointedly told Royce that he’d “taken” her. That was the point. He had taken and used her body, just like that, in one stunning instant, when she had been recovering from the torture of time travel. There hadn’t been warm words, promises, declarations of affection. Love had not been involved. It had been pure, raw, carnal sex.

She was never going to believe that she had welcomed his attentions the way that she had. She still couldn’t believe she’d actually wanted—desperately—his invasion. Traveling back in time must have altered her senses or her sensibilities, or both. Maybe it had changed her physically, too. She’d always been hard to please and finding a release had usually been a chore, but it had been shockingly easy with Malcolm.

She was old-fashioned and proud of it. She was not going to deny how attractive he was, but so what? She met attractive men in New York all the time, and even if they weren’t as macho as Malcolm, there were some real power players out there. Power had always turned her on more than dumb good looks, but she had easily dismissed the men who had briefly tried to pursue her. Most of the men she met were highly dysfunctional. She had been celibate for three years because she insisted on affection, if not love, before intimacy. Power players weren’t into affection or love, they were into conquests.

It sounded awfully familiar.

Claire did not want to continue to think about that brief, combustible act of penetration and climax. If she did, her dry mouth would get drier and her speeding heart would race even more wildly. However, she had better think about it and prepare herself for his advances. He still wanted her. It was more than obvious. She felt it every time he looked at her. His sexuality and desire emanated from him in hot, tangible waves. And he was possessive. He had been warning Royce away. She wasn’t going to compromise her morals or her standards—or her dreams—just because she was lost in medieval times with the hunk of all ages. She had never had casual or meaningless sex. Ever. She’d had two relationships. She had been in love as a sophomore at Barnard, but her other affair had been more tepid. She’d wanted it to be love, but it had been hard to pretend, and in the end, she had given up.

And maybe that was half of the problem. He’d noticed right away that she’d been starving her body sexually. Crude and rude as he was, he’d commented openly. What had he said? He’d called her “hungry.” Apparently, he’d hit the nail on the head.

The next time they spoke, she had to set some boundaries and make some rules. She was very alone and this was his world. If he was chieftain of his clan, he was used to doing what he wanted, when he wanted, all of the time. Claire knew enough about the structure and culture of the Highland clans to know that a laird was God and king, judge and jury, policeman and warlord. His word was law and it was final.

Her heart had picked up an alarmed beat. She didn’t have to be rational to recall striking him and cursing him. She no longer knew herself, but she did know this. He might have deserved it, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t know him, never mind that he wanted to protect her. He was lord here, absolutely, and she had better appease him if she could. Otherwise, and maybe anyway, she was in deep shit.

Suddenly, Malcolm appeared at her side. Claire was so immersed in her thoughts that his appearance was as startling as that of a ghost. She flinched, her horse prancing. But he smiled, reaching out for her reins, steadying the charger. “I didna mean t’ scare ye. Ye be all right, lass?”

Claire tried to ignore his powerful presence, his masculinity and what might happen later if she didn’t find a way to keep him at bay. “We need to talk.” That was the understatement of her life, she thought.

“Aye.” He gestured ahead. “Carrick.”

Claire followed his gaze and her eyes widened. The pale castle was perched high above them on equally pale cliffs. Her heart beat wildly, but not with fear.

The last time she had been in Scotland, she had almost taken the turn at the sign pointing to Carrick Castle. Her guidebook had said the scenery was breathtaking, and a tour of the grounds and castle was not to be missed. But in the end she had driven by, intent upon arriving at Iona by nightfall.

Maybe being thrust back in the past wasn’t all that bad, Claire thought, excitement sweeping over her as she stared up at the imposing pale stone walls, the towers and the keep. If Malcolm kept his distance and she avoided any more battles, if she kept her head on straight and her courage up, this might just be an incredible and amazing, once-in-alifetime educational experience. She could probably even write about it, not that anyone would believe her. She was about to enter a fifteenth-century stronghold. She was about to see things that no historian had ever reported. And while she remained afraid, she wanted to go inside that castle.

If she could get back home in one piece, sooner rather than later, she might be able to manage this amazing twist of fate. She turned to look at him. “How long will it take to get there?”

“Less than an hour,” he said. “And we’ll discuss yer matters when we arrive.”

THEY RODE UP the steep hill in double file, but had to go one at a time through the very narrow entrance of the walled barbican. Carrick was set on the top of a hill, overlooking steep cliffs on all sides, and the site had clearly been chosen because the hill was divided from the road by a steep, impassable ravine. Without the drawbridge, ladders or siege engines, no one was entering or leaving.

Claire shivered as she rode across the drawbridge, Malcolm still beside her. An outer bailey filled with huts and livestock was behind them, and she glanced down into the ravine. Hundreds of feet below, it was filled with sharp, jagged rocks. Attackers who were thwarted on the drawbridge or trying to scale the curtain walls would fall to their deaths on the ground below.

As if reading her mind, Malcolm said, “No one has besieged Carrick.”

Claire managed a sickly smile. A castle built solely to withstand assault and attack was, in a way, as unnerving as the battle they’d just survived. The sun was rising above the towers and the ramparts, and the sky was a pale gray, stained with fingers of crimson and pink. The sight would have been breathtaking, just as her brochure had promised, if she didn’t know that each and every jagged rock had been put in that ravine by human hands, meant to inflict pain and death.

They now rode single file through the narrow, dark passageway of the gatehouse and its four towers. Claire looked up. There were “murder holes” above her from which attackers would be doused with hot oil and arrows if they ever got this far. She looked down. Her horse was crossing a wooden plank set in the stone floor. She knew it was a trapdoor.

Claire looked grimly at Malcolm. “What’s beneath us?” Whatever was there, she knew that anyone unfortunate to be riding or walking over the trapdoor when it opened would not survive.

“I dinna ken,” he said. “Mayhap sharpened staves or beds of knives.” His gaze was interested. “Ye ken the way of our warfare.”

Claire was dry mouthed. “I’ve studied it a bit.”

They rode past a pair of thick, studded, open doors and into the inner bailey.

She breathed. Although it was early, men and women were hurrying about the bailey, clearly intent on their morning tasks. Smoke was rising from two buildings that were directly ahead, built against the northern walls. She smelled baking bread and saw so many serving women going to and fro that she was certain that the smaller building contained the kitchens.

Beside it was the imposing, four-storied great hall. Black Royce was dismounting there, a small boy having materialized to take his horse. He patted the boy’s head and headed up a wooden staircase, vanishing beyond a heavy wooden door.

She glanced around again, trying to absorb everything. A man in priestly robes stood in front of what had to be the chapel, a two-story stone hall built against the eastern walls. The rest of Black Royce’s men were dismounting by the building she assumed to be their hall, which was above the stables. Women and children had appeared to greet them, the women wearing long leines, the children short ones. Some of the soldier’s wives wore brats. Laughter and conversation ran rampant, as did hugs and kisses.

Claire breathed hard, overcome by the sights and sounds, the hustle and the bustle, and the emotion, of these fifteenth-century people. So far, all was as she had imagined, but she wasn’t imagining anything now. She was at Carrick Castle, and it was 1427. Chills swept her. This was truly an amazing opportunity. Then she realized Malcolm was staring.

Unthinkingly, she smiled at him.

He started, and slowly he smiled back. “Ye be pleased.”

She inhaled, because she was thrilled. “I am in a fifteenth-century fortress. I am very fond of history.” She wasn’t going to explain her degree to him. “I’ve read about what life is like in these times, but I am seeing it myself firsthand.”

He was wry. “’Tis nay special.” He slid from the horse, handed off his reins to a waiting boy and held up his hand for her.

Claire came to her senses. She was making the best of a bad situation, but taking his hand was not a good idea. She pretended not to notice and slid from the horse.

Malcolm thanked the boy, touched her back and indicated she would precede him up the stairs. Claire didn’t understand. She felt certain that men in his time did not allow women to go first, never mind that chivalry was a huge part of medieval culture.

He gestured impatiently. She gave him a grudging nod and then hurried up the stairs. She stepped through an oversize, paneled-wood door and into the great hall and blinked, surprised.

She had been expecting the very sparse furnishings of the period. She had been wrong. The walls and floors were stone, of course, and wood rafters supported the high ceiling. But there were several fine rugs on the floor, obviously from France, Italy or Belgium, instead of rushes. While there was a crude trestle table with two benches before a huge hearth in which a fire roared, there were also several arrangements of upholstered chairs, each finely and intricately carved by the best medieval craftsmen. A magnificent sword collection was displayed over the hearth. Several beautifully carved trunks served as tables. Oil paintings were on the walls, the portraits highly stylized as was standard for the period, and a stunning tapestry was on one wall. Claire had expected far more primitive conditions. She had expected dogs, mice, vermin and rushes on the floors. Black Royce’s home was very well furnished for the fifteenth-century Highlands and as livable as a modern manor home. Still, something was missing—a personal touch. Claire would bet he was not married.

Royce had been helped out of his armor and was sitting in the room’s largest chair, the upholstery burgundy velvet. A young woman handed him a mug of what Claire assumed to be ale. She now noticed that another young woman had taken his brat and mail and was carrying it away. Both females looked to be no more than twenty, if that, and they were blond and pretty. As Claire came to the realization that she was not the only young and attractive woman in the Highlands, a third woman appeared. She offered Malcolm a mug, smiling and blushing as she did so.

“Tapadh leat,” he said, smiling back at her.

She was very pretty, with strawberry-blond hair, half Claire’s size and nowhere close to twenty-one. Claire had always liked being tall, but suddenly she felt gawky and more like a giant than a woman. The blonde murmured, “De tha sibh ag larraidh?”

Claire’s heart lurched with dread. Was this woman his love? And why did she care?

Malcolm shook his head, speaking softly in reply. His smile was terribly seductive.

The girl’s color increased. She glanced at Claire and hurried from the hall.

Claire realized she was hugging herself. If he wanted to bed someone that young, it wasn’t her affair. And of course he would. He was macho and oversexed. He was a medieval lord. He thought it his right and the dumb blonde probably thought it an honor to jump into his bed.

Claire was jealous. And that was even worse.

He took her arm but spoke to Royce. “I will show Claire t’ her chamber.”

Royce had stretched out his long, boot-clad legs and seemed to be utterly indifferent. He sent them both a lazy, knowing smile.

Claire flushed. If he thought she was Malcolm’s lover, he was wrong. Claire carefully shrugged away from Malcolm’s grasp. She followed him up a narrow staircase, trying to keep her distance from him while also trying not to stare at the back of his bare legs.

He pushed open a wood door and stood aside. “Ye can sleep here. We’ll go to Dunroch t’morrow.”

Claire wondered grimly if that would allow him a more leisurely romp in the hay with the strawberry blonde. She stepped past him into her chamber.

The room was very small, but there was a good-size fireplace on one wall and the bed had four carved posters and a fur coverlet. There was a single window, a slit without glass, the shutters open. As no fire had been started, it was icy in the room.

She knew she would never sleep. Her mind would race in circles.

The strawberry blonde appeared, sending Malcolm a smile before kneeling to start a fire.

Claire bristled. “Get a room.” She smiled sweetly at him, belying her caustic tone.

He grinned. “Yer jealous o’ the maid?”

Claire could not believe she had been so transparent. “Hardly. Oh, by the way, thank you for the loan.” She fumbled with the brooch to give him back his plaid. She didn’t want it. It reeked of his masculinity.

He reached out and grasped her hand, stilling it.

Claire stiffened, certain he was preparing to make a pass. That certainty increased when the blonde glanced at them and silently left the room, closing the door behind her.

Claire knew she should move away. Instead, the man’s sex and heat pulled at her, encouraging her to step closer.

“’Tis cool and ye have nay clothes.” He released her hand, moving to the single table in the room. There was one roughly carved wood chair there, along with a pitcher, a flask and two mugs. He poured liquid from the flask into a mug and handed it to her. Claire smelled the red wine and was immediately diverted. She was, she realized, thirsty and ravenous.

“’Tis a fine claret, from France,” he said softly.

Claire saw the glitter in his gaze, and felt her own pulse escalate. She took a drink, wondering if he hoped to loosen her up, and then another. “It is good. Thank you.”

He smiled, clearly having no intention of leaving the room. “Why do ye care if I bed the wench?”

His tone was casual but Claire almost leaped out of her skin. “I do not!”

“I dinna want the wench, lass,” he murmured.

His meaning was beyond clear. He had the ability to speak in such a suggestive tone that all she could do was think of sex. She had to do something before he put his hands on her.

He turned away, stunning her. She saw him pour another mug, his hand rock steady. When he faced her, he leaned one hip against the table.

“We ha’ matters to discuss,” he said bluntly, clearly aware of her discomfiture.

Claire inhaled. This was safer territory, indeed. But before she could ask a single question, his expression hardened. “I dinna ken the way o’ yer world, Claire, but in my world, no one—not man, not woman, not child, not wild beast or dog, no one—disobeys me.”

She stood at attention now. “I am sorry.”

“Ye nay be sorry. Ye plot yer own causes!” he exclaimed.

She had been caught. “Sometimes I feel you can read my mind!” she said furiously.

“I can sense yer strongest thoughts as if ye speak them aloud,” he shot back, standing. He set the mug down hard, hard enough that the table jumped. “In battle, I will protect ye. But that means ye hide if I say hide and run if I say run and ye dinna think, ever.” His eyes flashed.

Claire knew she should not allow herself to debate him. She fought her temper and lost. “My lord,” she said, meaning to speak demurely and failing. Instead, her tone was undeniably sarcastic. “In my world, women are leaders, warriors, queens without kings!”

“Ye argue now?” He was incredulous.

She flushed. Appease him! she thought frantically. “I am sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t hide. I am an utter coward. And I didn’t intend to disobey you. It just happened.”

His expression eased slightly. “Ye be nay coward, lass. Ye be strong an’ brave.” His gaze slid over the brat as if he could see through it. “I never seen such a body in me entire life.”

He stared at her, his gray eyes fiercely intent.

This was the time to set some boundaries, Claire thought, if she could. Her body raging just as it had in the woods, she took a long, deep breath. “In my world,” she said carefully, “a man does not touch a woman without her permission.”

His expression did not change.

“Do not pretend not to understand!” she cried desperately.

His tone was dangerous. “Oh, I ken, lass. I ken.”

“What does that mean?”

Very softly, he said, “I took what ye offered an’ I gave what ye wanted.”

She gasped, outraged. But she also recalled wanting him desperately and having the best damn orgasm ever. She felt her cheeks burn. “I am not a.. .a.. .lightskirt! I have never…ever.. .jumped into bed with a stranger! Did you hypnotize me?”

“I dinna ken.” His lashes lowered, fanning out on his high, beautiful cheekbones.

She swallowed, her mouth unbearably dry, while an ache raged between her thighs. Why couldn’t she control her attraction? This wasn’t helping matters—it was complicating them! “I don’t throw myself at strange men. You need to keep your distance.”

His gaze slid over her in a very suggestive manner. “I think,” he said softly, “ye dinna throw yerself at any man, except me.”

He was right. She was speechless.

He looked satisfied now.

“Did you hypnotize me in the woods?” she cried hoarsely. “Because the only other explanation for my behavior is that I have lost my mind—or it’s been altered by what has happened!”

“Explain the word hypnotize,” he said.

She tried to speak more calmly. “It means mesmerize, entrance, enchant! When you look at me sometimes, it is very hard to think!”

“’Tis a small gift,” he said smugly. “And a useful one.”

“What, from Merlin the Magician?”

“Ye be so distressed an’ angry, lass, an’ why? Ye wanted it an’ ye were pleased. ’Tis nay important now. Or be ye mad because I ha’ decided not t’ give over to such temptation again?”

It took her a long moment to decipher his words. “ What?“

“I want ye, Claire. Dinna doubt me. But I be sworn to protect ye.”

“Are you telling me you are not going to—” She stopped. She had been about to say make love, but if she did, he would laugh at her, she was certain.

His lashes lowered again. “Fuck ye?”

She inhaled. If a modern-day man spoke that way, it would probably be offensive. Coming from Malcolm, it only conjured up graphic and heated images of his driving his very extraordinary length into her repeatedly, with shocking power and stunning effect. If he did so now, right now, she would explode.

She swallowed. She had been certain she was going to have to hold him off. Now he was telling her he was not interested—except he was, because even now she felt him throbbing in the room. His lust was as tangible as the wine she could smell in her mug. Was he clever enough to be manipulating her? She was confused, and damn it, she was even dismayed.

“What would make you decide to be a gentleman?” she managed to say.

He looked up with a brief, self-derisive laugh. “I be nay gentle, lass, an’ we both ken.” His humor vanished. His gray eyes turned black. “I dinna wish to see ye lyin’ dead beneath me.”

Claire would have backed up if there was somewhere to go. “I don’t understand.” But the fear that had vanished during their conversation returned.

His gaze slowly moved over her, deliberately, and then it lifted to her face. “I want ye badly, very badly, but I dinna trust meself.”

“What does that mean?” she gasped.

He was blunt. “I killed a maid. I willna do so again.”

“You killed a woman?” Claire cried, backing up into the bed. The word evil went right through her mind.

“Ye be terrified,” he said softly.

“No!” Her heart shrieked at her. Malcolm was not evil. She would bet her life on it. He had not just said what she thought he had. “You said you wanted to protect me,” she breathed.

“Aye.”

Claire realized she was panting. “Please don’t tell me…!”

His face was hard. “She died in my arms, Claire. She died takin’ her pleasure from me.”