Advance praise for

DARK SEDUCTION

“Brenda Joyce mesmerises…[The] Masters of Time® [series] is intense, compelling and wickedly erotic!”

—New York Times bestselling author Virginia Henley

“Brenda Joyce has consistently written high-quality romance. Now she’s adding a chilling touch of the paranormal. It’s a ‘keeper’ – I loved it.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“In the mood for timeless danger and passionate adventure? Dark Seduction is sensual paranormal romance by a master! Brenda Joyce delivers a book you won’t want to put down.”

—New York Times bestselling author Christina Skye

Dark Seduction

By

Brenda Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Also by Brenda Joyce

The de Warenne Dynasty

A LADY AT LAST

THE STOLEN BRIDE

THE MASQUERADE

A DANGEROUS LOVE

The Deadly Series

DEADLY KISSES

DEADLY ILLUSIONS

For my son, the genius who brainstormed the original concept with me – without the “hot” parts, of course!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book would not have been possible without many different layers of support and faith. I would like to thank my agents, Aaron Priest and Lucy Childs, who suspended their own uncertain feelings toward the paranormal genre and got solidly behind the original concept for The Masters of Time®, allowing me to “sell” the concept. I must also thank my editor, Miranda Stecyk, for her lavish support. Although uncertain of some paranormal elements, she was open-minded enough to let me “go for it” and became a great cheerleader for the work in progress, encouraging me as a writer, while sharing her enthusiasm in-house, and for both I am indebted. And of course, my assistant and proofreader, Laurel, once again offered priceless support, enthusiasm and encouragement. Thank you all!

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Title Page

Other Books By

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Dear Reader

Copyright

PROLOGUE

The Past

WHEN Claire awoke, it was the dead of night.

For one moment, she was disoriented and confused. It was raining heavily outside. She lay in a canopied bed in a room she did not recognize. As she blinked in the darkness, she saw a fire in a stone hearth and two small, narrow windows. Instead of glass, iron bars bisected them. Through the bars, she saw a torrential night sky. And then she heard him.

Claire…come to me.

Claire bolted upright, alarmed. Instantly, she recalled Malcolm’s near brush with death. But he wasn’t with her in the room; she didn’t know where he was. Was Malcolm all right? How long had she been unconscious? The sky had been cloudy earlier, but there hadn’t been any sign of rain.

Claire…upstairs…above ye. I need ye…

Claire froze, breathing hard. She was very much alone, but he was using telepathy to communicate with her and his thoughts were as clear as if he’d spoken them. He was somewhere above her. She could feel him. Claire faltered, her insides hollowing with terrible urgency. He was hurt, close to death. They had locked him up somewhere. She could save him.

Claire jumped from the bed. She was warm, but not from the small fire—her blood was running hot in her veins from his potent summons. She had to find him. She was choking on desperation. Claire tore the brat from her body and flung it aside, but she found no relief from the feverish heat. She had to be with Malcolm. Swallowing, she became very still, listening for him.

It took but a moment to get past the sound of her pounding heart. And then she felt his torment. He was weak from the battle, his body savagely cut, and he was in pain. He could not even sit up. She had to find him. He needed her. He needed to be deep inside her, taking power from her.

Claire tensed as heat flared between them. He had heard her. He knew she was coming and he was waiting for her.

She looked up at the ceiling. Aidan had told Royce to take Malcolm to a tower. There were four towers, one on each corner of the curtain walls of the castle. Both gatehouses had towers, too, but she was certain he was directly above her. Claire jerked on the neckline of her leine, the linen sticking to her wet skin. It did not become easier to breathe.

She ripped the offending gown from her body, panting hard, clad only in her denim skirt and T-shirt. Where are you?

Claire. Upstairs. Above ye. ’Tis the East Gatehouse.

She smiled, her heart pounding with renewed urgency. I am coming. Claire tried the doorknob and realized it was locked. She was instantly enraged. They had locked her in the chamber!

Hurry, lass.

Claire inhaled and caught his scent. She could smell sex. His lust filled the room from the ceiling above. Frenzied, she pulled on the old-fashioned door handle. Her fear had given her superhuman strength, because the door blew in, the lock snapping.

Panting, she peered into the corridor and saw that it was empty, a single torch burning in one wall sconce. Barefoot, she soundlessly ran up the narrow, winding stone staircase. Her flesh felt as if it might explode from her body if she did not leap into his arms soon.

Another landing faced her, one torch burning in the hall. Claire didn’t stop. She went to the next level, where she found a small round antechamber instead of a corridor. A heavy wood door faced her, bolted from the outside, an iron padlock on it.

A throbbing tension filled the anteroom. Malcolm’s.

He was on the other side of that door, hard and hot, promising her a universe of ecstasy. Claire now knew she would eagerly die for his touch.

Claire moaned and found her dagger stuck into the waistband of her skirt, jamming it into the padlock. In New York City, she would have never been able to pick such a lock. But now she viciously thrust the dagger into the lock and it sprang open. Moisture began to trickle down her legs. Claire flung the bolt aside and yanked the door open.

His silver gaze slammed into hers.

Malcolm lay naked on his back on a pallet at the far wall, a pale linen bandage glaring in contrast against his swarthy skin. His head was turned toward her and he was watching her carefully. He was fully erect. Claire understood; he had become the hunter lying in wait for her. She was eager to be his prey.

Claire wanted to run to him, but at the sight of so much beauty and the anticipation of so much pleasure, she simply could not move.

A smile began as he sat up slowly, grunting with pain. The bandage was stained with red blood. “Come t’ me, Claire.”

Claire stumbled forward as he carefully stood, clearly weak from the battle and loss of blood. She caught him, wrapping her arms around him, and when his entire naked body came into contact with hers, tears of desire began.

“Lass,” he gasped, holding her in a viselike grasp. He flung his head back and his power fell over her like a huge cloak. Claire was cocooned in warmth that began an invasion from the outside, in. She was acutely aware of a soft, sweet draining sensation—and as aware of Malcolm, groaning uncontrollably, head flung even farther back. Suddenly she felt his terrible pleasure begin.

He cried out thickly. “Aye, Claire!”

She met his gaze as he seized her arms and she saw the triumphant lust there. He smiled savagely, spread her thighs, his mouth against hers. He thrust deep, gasping. “Ye taste good.”

A huge wave broke and Claire wept in more pleasure than she had dreamed, but Malcolm moved now, draining her and coming at the same time, and the wave kept breaking. Lightning comprehension shocked her as the universe became solidly black and filled with exploding stars, each one another one of her climaxes. This time she would be lost in this galaxy of endless pleasure, she was never coming out and she didn’t want to. Every climax was more violent, more brutal and better than the one before. It didn’t matter. This was how she wanted to die, giving Malcolm her life, while riding his huge hardness into eternity.

His seed streamed and burned. He roared his pleasure as he took her, the sound that of a beast, not a man.

Claire wept and begged for more, and more always came. She somehow knew she could not withstand this, but she wanted it anyway. Another terrible wave broke, crushing her with ecstasy.

Suddenly Malcolm roared a final time—and thrust himself away from her.

Claire wanted to protest but she couldn’t. She was in a vortex of pleasure and pain and spinning away so rapidly now that she realized she was really dying. She could feel the last essence of her life spinning out of her, faster and faster, like a whirling top about to keel over…

Claire began to settle, limp and empty, fading away. She looked down on her nearly naked body, sprawled out on the stone floor, and saw Malcolm standing by the window, staring at her in horror. Aidan and Royce bent over her now. And suddenly the tower was filled with blinding light. Suddenly she saw the Ancients faintly outlined and crowding into the room…

“Is she alive?” Malcolm cried.

CHAPTER ONE

The Present

CLAIRE WAS AFRAID of the dark.

It was dark now—and something had just thudded downstairs.

She stood absolutely still in the bedroom that was above her bookstore. Claire sold old and rare books and manuscripts, as well as the occasional used but rare tome, and because of the quarter-of-a-million-dollar inventory she kept downstairs, she had a state-of-the-art security system, a Taser and a gun. She knew she hadn’t left a window open, as it was sweltering in the city in July, and she would never leave a window open anyway. It was too dangerous. Crime was out of control in the city. Last month, her neighbor, a wannabe model, had been murdered, and although the police weren’t saying so, she suspected it had been a pleasure crime. She strained to hear, debating getting her Beretta from her bedside drawer.

But she heard nothing now. As she stood there, clad in a pair of cotton candy-striped boxers and a thin ribbed tank top, her bedroom looking as if a tornado had cycled through it, the stray cat that had appeared earlier that day wandered in from the hall outside. She was flooded with relief. The cat had knocked something over! She shouldn’t have suspected the worst—after all, her motion-detection sensors hadn’t gone off—but even after all these years, she hated being alone at night.

Terrified, the child crouched by the door, as a dark, deathly shadow drifted by.

Claire scowled at the handsome black cat, refusing to allow a single thought of her mother’s long-ago murder to invade her consciousness now. “You! I shouldn’t have fed you, now, should I?”

Purring, the cat slithered between her ankles, rubbing sensually there.

Claire scooped him up, the first time she had done so, holding him tightly to her chest. “Rascal,” she whispered. “I need a dog, not a cat, but if I didn’t know that someone was missing you, I’d keep you.”

The cheeky creature actually licked her face.

Claire wiped her chin, dropping the cat to the floor, knowing she’d have to post some Found notices in her Tribeca neighborhood before she left for the airport tomorrow. She was in the midst of packing for a long-overdue vacation. Tomorrow, she was bound for Edinburgh, and on Friday she would be driving across the Highlands. This time, her first stop would be the starkly beautiful island of Mull.

Excitement filled her. The cat had made himself comfortable on her bed, and Claire stepped away to return to her packing. She went to her antique bureau, purchased on a previous trip abroad in Lisbon. She traveled extensively for her business. Smiling as she tossed her dark auburn hair over her shoulder, she pulled out a pile of tanks and tees. She was twenty-eight years old, soon to be twenty-nine, and she ran an extraordinarily successful business, with half of it conducted on the Internet. Since graduating from Princeton with a master’s degree in medieval European history, she’d taken exactly two personal vacations. Her first had been to London with a tour of Cornwall and Wales. At the last minute a friend had told her she had to spend a few days in Scotland, and even though she was not a creature of impulse—Claire liked to be in control—she had changed her itinerary the day before-departing to do so. The moment she had passed Berwick-upon-Tweed, an odd excitement had filled her. She had instantly loved Scotland.

It had almost been like coming home.

She’d given herself the standard tour that time—Dunbar, Edinburgh, Stirling, Iona and Perth. But she had known she would come back to explore the Highlands. Their stark majesty and rugged desolation called out to her in a way she had never before experienced. Two years ago, she had returned, spending ten days in the north and northwest. On her last day, she had discovered the small, craggy, beautiful island of Mull.

She had traveled to Duart on the sound of Mull, the seat of the Maclean lairds for many centuries past. An intense need to explore and discover the history of the area had overcome her, but wandering through the castle hadn’t satisfied her at all. Just before leaving the island, she had stumbled across a charming bed-and-breakfast in Malcolm’s Point, and she had been directed to Dunroch by its owners. She had been told Dunroch was seat of the Macleans of south Mull and Coll and that the current laird remained in residence, although he was rarely seen. He was a recluse, they said, and unwed, a terrible shame. Like most aristocrats, financial reasons forced him to open the grounds and a few rooms to the public.

Intrigued, Claire had rushed over to Dunroch an hour before closing. She had been so overwhelmed by the gray castle that the moment she approached the drawbridge that lay over the now-empty moat, chills had begun to run up and down her spine. She had been breathless as she passed under a raised portcullis and through the short, dark passageway of the gatehouse, realizing it had been a part of the original castle, built in the early fourteenth century by Brogan Maclean. She had paused in the inner bailey, staring not at the bare courtyard, but toward the sea and the keep. She didn’t have to be told to know that the tower, looking out over the Atlantic, was a part of the original fortifications, too.

All of the rooms were closed to the public except for the Great Hall. Once inside, Claire had stood there, oddly mesmerized. It had seemed familiar, although she had never been there before. She had stared at the large, sparsely furnished chamber, seeing not the three elegant seating arrangements, but a trestle table, occupied by the lord and his noblemen. No fire burned in the massive hearth, but Claire felt its stifling heat. When another tourist had walked past her, she had jumped, almost expecting the see the laird of Dunroch. Claire could have sworn she felt his presence.

She could still recall the sight of the imposing castle from the road below the high cliffs as if she had been there yesterday. She’d thought about the castle a lot and she’d even done some research, but the southern Macleans were mysterious. A Google search and her online research library hadn’t brought up any reference to any of the southern Macleans since Brogan Mor, and he had died in 1411 at a bloody battle called Red Harlow. The lack of information only whetted her appetite, but Claire had always been insatiable when it came to history.

Claire sorted through a pile of jeans, breathless now. This trip, she was spending one night in Edinburgh and driving directly to Dunroch. She was staying at the bed-and-breakfast, Malcolm’s Arms, and she had given herself three entire days on the island. But there was more. As a seller of rare books, she intended to ask the present-day laird if she could have access to his library. It was an excuse to meet him. She didn’t know why she was compelled to do so. Maybe it was because there was no history on this branch of the Macleans since Brogan Mor. Claire had decided the current laird was probably sixty years old, but she had an image of him in her mind, like a mature version of Colin Farrell.

Claire tossed a few pairs of jeans into her suitcase, deciding that she was almost done. She was tall for a woman, standing five foot ten in her bare feet, and she was incredibly fit from kickboxing, running and weight training almost every day. Being strong made her feel safe. When Claire was ten years old, her mother had gone to the corner grocery store, leaving Claire alone in the one-room apartment, promising her that she’d be back in five minutes. She’d never come home.

Claire tried not to remember about that endless night. She’d been a fanciful child, believing in monsters and ghosts, annoying her mother to no end with her claims that creatures lived in her closet and beneath her bed. That night, she’d seen terrifying shapes in every shadow, every drifting drape.

That had been a long time ago. Still, she missed her mother. To this day, she wore an odd pendant which her mother had never taken off—a highly polished pale semiprecious stone set in four arms of gold, each arm intricately detailed with an obviously Celtic design. Whenever Claire felt particularly sad, she would clasp the pendant in her palm, and her grief would ease. She didn’t know why her mom had been so attached to it, but she suspected it had something to do with Claire’s father. The stone was the dearest memento Claire had.

Not that she had a father. Her mother had been painfully honest, explaining that there had been a single night of passion when she had been young and wild. His name was Alex, and that was all Janine knew—or said she knew.

After her mother’s death, Claire had gone to live with her aunt and uncle on their upstate farm. Aunt Bet had welcomed her with open arms, and growing up, Claire had become close to her cousins, Amy and Lorie, both near her own age. When Claire turned fifteen, Aunt Bet had sat her down and told her the gruesome truth.

Her mother hadn’t been murdered for the money in her purse or her credit cards. She’d been the victim of a pleasure crime.

That knowledge had changed Claire’s life. Her mother had been murdered by a perverted madman. It confirmed her worst fears—bad things were out there and they happened at night.

And then, in her sophomore year of college, her cousin Lorie was murdered while leaving a late-night movie not far from campus. The police had swiftly determined that Lorie had been the victim of yet another pleasure crime. That had been five years ago.

She didn’t know when the nation’s oh-so-clever press had first coined the phrase pleasure crime, but it had been around for as long as she could remember. Social commentators, psychiatrists, liberals and conservatives alike all claimed that society was in a state of anarchy. Eighty percent of all murders were now sexually related, and every year it was getting worse. Lorie had died like a thousand others. She’d had sex. Bodily fluids had shown that she had been very aroused and that the perpetrator had climaxed several times. There had been no struggle, and to this day, the police had no clue as to who Lorie had been with. A witness had seen Lorie leaving the theater with a young, handsome, athletic-looking man. She had seemed happy, even smitten. A police sketch had been circulated but no one recognized him and, as usual, there was no match in the FBI’s criminal database.

But that was why pleasure crimes were so shocking and disturbing. These perverted murderers always seemed to be complete strangers, yet they somehow seduced their victims, and to this day, no one knew how. There were all kinds of theories. Cult theory claimed that the perps belonged to a secret society and used hypnotism to entrance the victims. Sociologists called the deaths a pathological trend and blamed it on everything from video games, rap and the culture of violence, to broken homes, drugs and even blended families. Claire knew it was bull. No one knew how and no one knew why.

It almost didn’t matter. Every victim was young and attractive and died in the same way. Their hearts simply stopped beating, as if overcome by the excitement and arousal.

Ever since her cousin’s murder, Claire had made certain she was strong enough to do some damage should one of the city’s criminally perverted think to assault her. Amy had decided to take martial arts, too. In fact, Amy had been the one to suggest the self-defense course and she had encouraged Claire to learn to shoot. Both young women kept guns in their homes. Claire was glad that Amy’s husband was in the FBI, even if he sat behind a desk. She felt certain he did have some inside information, because Amy was always talking about how evil the crimes were. She never said more and Claire suspected she wasn’t allowed to. That was okay. Pleasure crimes were evil. Maybe there was a sick cult after all. Claire kept her gun loaded in her bedside night table. No one was ever going to hurt her, not if she could help it.

Her packing almost concluded, she decided to make herself a light supper. She smiled at the cat, who was curled up on the pillow she slept with. “Rascal, not my pillow, please! C’mon. You can have some catnip while I eat. A glass of wine is definitely in order.”

As if he understood her perfectly, the black cat leaped from the bed and approached.

Claire bent to stroke him. “Maybe I should keep you. You are such a handsome thing.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when the motion detectors chimed and someone began banging on the front door of her shop.

Claire jumped a foot and then froze, instantly flooded with adrenaline. The pounding continued. She glanced at the clock by her bed. It was half past nine. This was either an emergency or a loon. And she damn well wasn’t opening the door to a crazy. There were too many madmen on the loose.

Claire ran to the nightstand, taking her Beretta from the drawer. Sweat gathered between her breasts. Her two neighbors had her number, just in case there ever was an emergency. This had to be a stranger. She started barefoot down the stairs.

She tried not to think about all the heinous crimes being committed in the city.

She tried not to think about her neighbor, Lorie or her mother.

“Claire! I know you’re in there,” a woman cried, sounding pissed off.

Claire faltered. Who the hell was that? She didn’t recognize the voice. The person who was so impatient to get in that she was rattling the door, as if to break it off its hinges. That, of course, was impossible. The door was thick as all hell and the hinges were cast iron.

There was a small hall with a console table at the bottom of the stairs where she always kept a single desk lamp lit. Her office was across the hall. To the left of the stairs was her kitchen, with its breakfast area, and to the right, the large room that served as her store. Claire entered the store, hitting the light switch and flooding the shop as she did so.

The black Venetian blinds were drawn. “Who is it?” Claire demanded, not going to the door.

The banging and rattling stopped. “Claire, it’s me, Sibylla.”

Claire tried to think. She was almost certain she did not know anyone named Sibylla. She was about to tell her to get lost—in a polite way, of course—when the woman spoke. “I know you have the page, Claire. Let me in.”

Claire wasn’t curious, not now, not with a loony stranger banging down her door, not when it was black as Hades out. “I have twelve thousand books in stock,” she said tersely. “At four hundred pages on average, there’s a lot of pages in here.”

“It’s the page from the book of healing.” Sibylla was sounding very annoyed, dangerously so. “It’s from the Cladich and you know it.” She pushed the door open and stepped inside, something snapping as she did so.

For one second, Claire was in shock. Only the Terminator could break her door open that way, and the red-haired woman stepping determinedly into her shop was not the Terminator, not by any stretch. She was of medium height and frame, no more than five foot six, probably not much more than a hundred and ten pounds. Claire realized she was dressed all in black, like a cat burglar, and that she had clearly picked her state-of-the-art locks.

Tomorrow she was installing a new security system.

Claire pointed the gun right between her eyes. “Stop right there. I don’t know you and this doesn’t feel like a bad joke. Get out.” Her hand wasn’t shaking and Claire was amazed, because she was afraid. She had never looked into such cold, soulless eyes before.

Sibylla smiled at her without any mirth and it transformed her beauty into a mask of malice. Her smile spoke of threats. For one moment, Claire’s heart went wild as she realized this strange woman wasn’t going to listen. But the woman did not appear to be armed and Claire had at least twenty pounds on her.

And then Sibylla laughed. “Oh, my gods! You don’t know me…You haven’t gone back yet, have you?”

Claire never wavered, keeping the gun trained on the middle of the woman’s forehead. “Get out.”

“Not until you give me the page,” Sibylla said, striding directly to her.

“I don’t have any page!” Claire cried in disbelief. Her hand began to shake. Claire started to squeeze the trigger, lowering the gun to point it at Sibylla’s shoulder, but she was too late. Sibylla took the gun from her with the speed of a striking snake. Then she raised her fist.

Claire saw the blow and tried to block it, but the other woman was amazingly strong and her braced forearm fell away. The fist felt like brass knuckles as it slammed into the side of her head. Pain exploded and Claire saw shooting stars. Then there was only blackness.

CLAIRE CAME TO SLOWLY, layers of blackness receding, replaced with thick gray shadows. Her head hurt like hell. That was her first coherent thought. Then she realized she lay on the wood floor. Instantly, she remembered everything.

A woman had broken into her shop and assaulted her. For one moment, Claire lay still, pretending to be unconscious, listening acutely to the night. But all she heard were the cars passing and horns blaring on the street outside.

Slowly, Claire opened her eyes, realizing she had been moved. She now lay in the area between the kitchen and the shop, not far from her office. The desk lamp remained on. Claire slowly turned her head to gaze into the store. She almost cried out. It was empty, the front door thankfully closed, but it looked as if every single book had been thrown onto the floor. Her store had been ransacked.

Claire sat up, rigid with dismay and disbelief. The woman had most definitely been looking for a page from that book she had mentioned. She touched the side of her head, finding a huge lump behind her ear, and hoped against all odds that her most valuable inventory hadn’t been stolen. She needed to call the police, but she also needed to know what Sibylla had taken.

She had never heard of the Cladich. But in medieval times, there had been references to books and manuscripts which contemporaries had believed had various restorative and healing powers. In spite of her aching head, she became excited. She would do a Google search on the Cladich as soon as she got her bearings. But why would that intruder think that a page from that book was in her store?

The intruder could be a simple nutcase, but Claire was uneasy. Sibylla had seemed to know her and she hadn’t seemed crazy, not at all. She had seemed vicious, ruthless and determined. Claire reached up and clasped the pendant she wore, taking a moment to recover her composure. Of all the nights for a burglary and an assault! But she wasn’t really hurt. If she was lucky, the woman hadn’t found what she wanted. If she was really lucky, that page was actually in her possession!

Claire stood, beginning to calm, the throbbing receding to a dull ache, while a familiar excitement tingled in her veins. Her instinct was to rush into the store and take inventory, but she knew she ought to ice her head first and then call the cops. And she also wanted to check to see if a book called the Cladich had ever existed at all.

But security came first. Claire went into the shop to lock the front door. As she crossed the store, carefully stepping over books and manuscripts, she retrieved the Beretta from the floor. The door had a double lock. Tomorrow, when she had triple locks put on, she’d also add a bolt. As she turned the lock, the reassuring click sounded, but when she tested the door, it opened.

Her heart leaped with dismay. If her locks no longer worked, she was going to a hotel. Claire hesitated and opened the door a crack to look at the lock. Her eyes widened as she stared at the gouges in the wood door frame. It almost looked as if Sibylla had pushed the locked door open, ripping the teeth of the locks through the wooden jamb to do so.

But that was impossible.

She slammed the door closed, refusing to panic. The street outside had been relatively quiet except for some passing cars, but she had no security now. Every night, dozens of pleasure crimes occurred. She had made it her business to know.

She hurried to her desk, skipping over piles of books, grabbed the chair and put it under the doorknob. When the police came, she’d ask them to help her move a bookcase in front of the door. That should add enough security for the moment.

But how could she leave town tomorrow, as planned? Her trip would have to be postponed, Claire realized. She was going to have to take inventory of her stock. The police would demand it. And what if someone had put a valuable page in one of the volumes?

The lure of her vacation and Dunroch warred with her excitement over the possibility of making such a huge discovery. Claire ran into her office, not even turning the lights on. She tapped the space bar on her laptop to bring it out of hibernation, her pulse pounding now. She raced into the kitchen, hitting lights, and began filling a Ziploc bag with ice. The pain in her head had dulled to an unpleasant headache. Maybe she would skip the hospital after all.

From the store, she heard the chair scraping across the floor just as she heard a man curse.

Claire was in disbelief. It could not be another intruder! And then the fear began. She moved, grabbing the gun from the counter, checking wildly to see if it was loaded and then slamming off the kitchen lights. She faded into the wall behind the open kitchen door. Trying not to panic, she listened intently for the man again but heard nothing.

Yet it hadn’t been her imagination. She had heard a curse, nearly inaudible. Claire’s heart pounded with frightening force. Had he left? Or was he even now ransacking her store? Was she going to be assaulted again?

Was he looking for that page from the Cladich? Because this could not be a coincidence. She hadn’t been burglarized in the entire four years she had been open for business.

The phone was on the other side of the kitchen. She knew she should call 911 but she was afraid the intruder would hear her and turn his attentions on her. She gripped the gun so hard her fingers ached, her palms sweaty now. Anger began. This was her store, damn it. But the fear was consuming and no amount of righteous anger could chase it away.

Afraid her shallow breathing was audible and would expose her, Claire began creeping into the hall. The damn desk lamp remained on, making her feel horribly exposed. She could see across the store to the front door, but no one stood in there.

As she passed the stairs, she was seized from behind.

Claire cried out as a powerful arm locked her in place against what felt like a stone wall. Panic made it impossible to think. She became aware of being held, viselike, against a huge, obviously male body.

Her heart was thundering, but suddenly it slowed and Claire had a shocking sense of familiarity. In that moment, fear vanished, replaced only by her acute awareness of stunning male power and strength.

He spoke.

Claire did not understand a single word he said. Her heart raced and fear clawed at her again. Her instinct was to struggle and she began to squirm, grasping his arms to wrench them off. She wished she had spike heels on so she could jam one into his booted foot. Her bare legs came into contact with his thighs and she froze. His legs were absolutely bare, as well. Claire inhaled harshly.

He spoke, jerking on her with his thick arm, and she did not have to understand his language to know he was telling her to be still. And as he pulled her closer, she felt him stiffen against her backside.

Claire froze. Her captor was aroused, shockingly so. The sensation of a great, hard length pressed against her was terrifying—and electrifying, too. “Let me go,” she gasped desperately. And two words blazed across her mind: pleasure crime.

She felt his grip tighten in surprise. Then he said, “Put yer weapon down, lass.”

He spoke English, but there was no mistaking the exaggerated Scottish accent. Claire wet her lips, too dazed to even try to consider what that meant. “Please. I won’t run. Let me go. You’re hurting me.”

To her relief, he relaxed his hold. “Put the weapon down, be a good lass.” As he spoke, she felt his stubble against her jaw, his breath feathering her ear.

Her mind went blank, and she could only think of the powerful pulse pounding against her. Something terrible was happening, and Claire didn’t know what to do. Her body had begun to tighten and thrum. Was this how those women died in the middle of the night? Did they become dazed and confused—and aroused? She dropped the gun and it clattered onto the floor but did not go off. “Please.”

“Dinna scream,” he said softly. “I willna hurt ye, lass. I need yer help.”

Claire somehow nodded. When he removed his arm, she ran to the other side of the hall, whirling and slamming her back against the wall to face him. And she cried out.

She had expected anything but the masculine perfection facing her. He was a towering man, at least six inches taller than she was and hugely muscular. His hair was as black as midnight, his skin bronzed, but he had shockingly pale eyes. They were trained upon her with unnerving intensity.

He seemed just as surprised by the sight of her as she was by him.

She shivered. God, he was handsome. A slightly crooked nose, perhaps broken once, achingly high cheekbones and a brutally strong jaw gave him the look of powerful hero. A scar bisected one black brow and another formed a crescent on one cheek. They merely added to the appearance that this man was battle-hardened, experienced and far too strong for anyone’s good.

But he was a loon. He had to be, because he was wearing clothing she instantly recognized—a midthigh, mustardcolored linen tunic, which was belted, and over that, covering one shoulder, a blue-and-black-plaid mantle pinned with a gold brooch. He wore knee-high, heavily worn, cuffed leather boots, and a huge sword was sheathed on his left side, the hilt sparkling with paste jewels. He was costumed as a medieval Highlander!

He looked like the real deal. He had the bulging arms that could have wielded a huge broadsword effortlessly in the kind of battle one read about in a history book. And whoever had made his costume had done their research. His leine looked authentic, as if it had been dyed with saffron, and that blue-and-black mantle looked hand-loomed. She had to look at his strong thighs again, where his muscles bulged, thighs that looked rock hard from years of riding horses and running hills. Her gaze crept upward to the short skirt of the leine, where a rigid raised line remained. Claire realized she was ogling him, perspiration running in a stream between her breasts and thighs. She was breathless, but that was because she was afraid of him.

And then she saw that his eyes had lowered to her legs. She blushed.

He lifted his unmistakably heated gaze to hers. “I didna think to see ye again, lass.”

Claire’s eyes widened.

His smile became seductive. “I dinna like me women t’ vanish in the night.”

He was most definitely mad, she thought. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. We haven’t met.”

“I be insulted, lass, that ye didna recall the event.” But his satisfied smile never wavered and he kept glancing at her legs and her tiny, midriff-baring tank top. “What manner o’ dress is that?”

Her color increased and she felt it. She prayed he was not one of those pleasure-seeking murderers. “I could ask you the same thing,” she retorted, shaking. “This is a bookshop. You must be on your way to a costume party. It’s not here!” She had to appease this man at all costs and she had to get him to leave her store.

“Dinna be afraid, lass. Temptation ye may be, but I have other matters on me mind. I need yer help. I need the page.”

She exhaled now loudly, but not in relief. She didn’t want to be alone with this man. Her mind raced. “Come back tomorrow.” She forced a smile and it felt sickly. “We’re closed. I can help you tomorrow.”

He sent her another seductive smile, clearly used to charming women to his way—and his bed. “I canna return on the morrow, lass.” And he murmured, “Ye wanna help me, lass, ye do. Leave the fear. It dinna serve ye well. Ye can trust me.”

His soft tone sent a spiral of desire through her. No man had ever looked at her in such a manner or spoken so seductively, much less a man like this. Claire could not look away from his gaze. The wild pounding of her heart eased. Some of her fear receded. Claire actually wanted to believe him, to trust him. He smiled at her knowingly.

“Ye’ll help me, lass, an’ send me on me way.”

For one moment, she was going to agree, but her mind was screaming at her oddly, confusing her. Then the sirens of a fire engine blared on the street outside, passing in front of her shop. He jumped, turning toward the door, and she came to her senses. She was covered in sweat now. She had been about to do all that he asked!

“No.”

He started.

“My assistant will help you tomorrow.” She swallowed. She was as firm as she could be and it felt like a huge feat. She wiped her bangs from her eyes, her hand trembling. It was as if he had almost hypnotized her. She avoided his gaze now. “If it’s important, you’ll come back. Now, please leave. As you can see, I have some cleaning up to do—and you are likely late for your party.” She wished her voice hadn’t cracked with the terrible tension and fear filling her.

He did not move, and it was very hard to tell if he was annoyed, angry or surprised. “I canna leave without the page,” he finally said, and there was no mistaking his stubbornness then.

Claire glanced at the Beretta, which lay on the floor in the hall about an equal distance from them. She wondered if she could seize it and force him out.

“Dinna think to try,” he advised, his tone soft.

She stiffened, knowing she could not best this man and that it would be dangerous to attempt to do so. He didn’t seem to be violent, but he was obviously a nut. She’d help him if that would get him to leave. “Fine. I doubt I have what you are looking for, but go ahead, tell me what you want.” She glanced very briefly at his face and when she took in his hard beauty again, her heart did a double somersault.

A look of triumph flitted through his eyes. “Ancient wisdom was given to the shamans of Dalriada long ago an’ put in three books. The Cladich be the book o’ healin’. It was stolen from its shrine. It’s been gone fer centuries. We ken a page be here, in this place.”

Claire started. What the hell was going on? “Your lady friend was already here, looking for a page from the Cladich, or so she said. But I hate to tell you this, it’s bunk. No books existed in the time of Dalriada.”

He stared, and then fury glinted. “Sibylla was here?”

“Not only was she here, she whacked me over the head. I think she had brass knuckles in her fist,” Claire added with a wince. Was he in cahoots with the first burglar? But if so, why on earth would he be dressed in such a costume?

The moment she had spoken, she wished she had not. He crossed the narrow hall before she could take a breath. Claire cried out, but it was too late. His arm was around her again and briefly, their gazes met.

“I said I wouldna hurt ye. It would benefit ye greatly, lass, t’ trust me now.”

“Like hell,” Claire cried, her heart thundering in alarm. But she could not look away from his magnetic gray eyes. “Let go.”

“God’s blood,” he finally snapped, jerking her. “Let me see the wound!”

Claire understood his intentions then and she was shocked. He only wanted to see if she was hurt? But why would he care?

“Ease yerself,” he said with a smile, his tone coaxing.

And when she allowed herself to relax just slightly, he released his hold, as well. “Good lass,” he murmured, the words as sensuous as silk upon her bare skin. Then he was threading his long, blunt fingers through her hair, brushing the shoulder-length strands aside, finding her scalp. Claire stopped breathing. His touch was like a lover’s caress, the barest flutter of his fingers across her hot skin, causing her body to tighten. For one maddening moment, she wished he would run his hand down her neck, her arm and over her breasts, which were tight and peaked. He gave her a brief glance that was almost smug, telling her that he knew. “Tha ur falt brèagha.” His tone had dropped into a soft, seductive whisper.

Claire breathed. “What?” She had to know what he had said.

But he had found the lump. She winced as he touched it. He said more firmly, “’Tis a good-sized robin’s egg, I think. Sibylla needs a lesson in proper manners an’ I have the mind t’ be the one to teach her.”

She had the oddest feeling he meant his words. She stared into his gaze, trying to understand who and what he was, when he lifted the pendant she wore. Surprisingly, she did not mind. He held the pale grayish-white stone in his hand, his knuckles firm against her skin, there beneath the hollow of her throat.

“Ye wear a charm stone, lass.”

She knew she couldn’t possibly speak. This man was too potent, too mesmerizing.

“Be ye kin, then? Do ye hail from Alba? Be ye a Lowlander?”

His hand had moved lower, so that her heart was thundering beneath it. Alba was Gaelic for Scotland. “No.”

He let the pendant fall against her skin, but as he removed his hand, his fingers deliberately brushed a path along the top of her breast, trailing fire in its wake.

Claire gasped, looking into his heated and bold eyes. She could see them entwined, there in the small hall of her home. “Don’t.” She didn’t even know why she protested, because protesting was not on her mind.

An eternity seemed to pass. There was no doubt he was seeing the same image she was. She had the feeling he was debating giving in to the huge tension knifing between them. Then his expression changed and he smiled, but it was selfdeprecating. “Ye need,” he said thickly, “a new manner of dress. A man canna think clearly with such a fashion afore him.” And he turned away from her.

It was a relief. Instantly, Claire came to her senses, jumping away from the wall. Her body was on fire. This man was dangerously seductive. Finally she said, “Who are you? Who are you, really? And why are you dressed that way?!”

A twinkle came to his startling eyes and his face softened. And he smiled at her, the smile so genuine he became beauty incarnate, revealing two deep dimples. “Ye be needin’ a pretty introduction? Lass, dinna be shy. Ye need only have asked.” His voice rang with pride. “I be Malcolm of Dunroch,” he said.

CHAPTER TWO

FOR ONE MOMENT, Claire was in disbelief, and then she got the joke. Amy! Her cousin was her best friend. Amy knew she was on her way to Mull, where she would stay at Malcolm’s Arms, and she also knew that Claire had fantasized about meeting the laird of Dunroch. Her cousin had decided to play a prank on her by sending this wannabe actor to impersonate a medieval Highlander. And Claire laughed.

Normally, she would not be amused, but she was so relieved.

The man pretending to be Malcolm of Dunroch stopped smiling. He stared at her, first in suspicion, and then his expression hardened, becoming dark. “Be ye laughin’ at me, lass?” he asked too softly.

“Amy sent you!” Claire cried, still having one last chuckle. “God, you are good! You had me for a moment—I thought you were a loon. The truth is, I almost believed, just for a second, that you were the genuine article.” She grinned at him.

He scowled. “Ye be mad, lass. An’ you accuse me of bein’ the loon?”

His quick anger almost seemed real. “I know you’re not mad,” Claire said quickly, instinctively appeasing him. “Just one damn good entertainer.”

“I dinna ken ye, lass.” His regard was piercing.

His theatrics were no longer amusing. He was an actor, not a loon, not a burglar. Her cousin had hired the most gorgeous hunk she had ever seen as a joke. And not only was he gorgeous, he was clearly attracted to her, too. She became still. She hadn’t been with anyone in three years, not since her last relationship had ended. Claire began to think hard about the fact that he was not an insane burglar and that men like him were not a dime a dozen. But what was she going to do, exactly?

He was as still. “Lassie?”

Then she came to her senses. He was a stranger. In a city filled with vicious murdering criminals, only crazy or desperate women met men without a friend’s introduction. She wasn’t crazy and she wasn’t desperate. She should not be thinking about sex.

But she was.

Claire wet her lips, aware that her body was turned on, no matter her common sense. “Enough with the brogue. Cat’s out of the bag.” She turned away from him and as she did so, she was faced with the devastation in her store.

Her attention was instantly diverted. Claire stared at the precious books littering the floor. Her cousin would never condone such destruction.

That woman had not been a joke. He might be an actor, but Sibylla had been a burglar. She had ransacked Claire’s store and assaulted her, and Claire still didn’t know what she had taken. Suddenly, Amy’s joke wasn’t funny anymore. Malcolm had scared her, considering what had happened before he had appeared. And it didn’t even make sense. Sibylla had also asked about a page from the Cladich. What did that mean?

As she tried to make sense out of the events of that evening, he walked past her and began retrieving the books.

“What are you doing?” she asked tersely, riddled with tension all over again. This wasn’t right; everything was still wrong.

He faced her, a dozen books in his arms. The imitation leine had short sleeves, and his biceps bulged. “I will help ye, lass, but ye need to help me in return.” He sent her that engaging and alluring smile.

Claire steeled herself against his magnetism, jerking her gaze away. It was almost too late, as her body heat was climbing. She hugged herself defensively now. “That was improv, right? I told you about Sibylla and the page from the Cladich and you went with it. That’s what actors do.” That was the only possible explanation…except she wasn’t certain she had mentioned Sibylla before he had asked her about the page.

He slowly shook his head. “I dinna ken. But if ye be thinkin’ I be an actor, ye be wrong, lass. I be the Maclean of south Mull an’ Coll.”

Claire became angry. She folded her arms against her chest, then regretted it, as his gaze moved to her breasts. “Please stop,” she said harshly. “This has been a terrible night. I know Amy sent you as a joke, but Sibylla assaulted me and ransacked my store.”

“An’ that be why I wish to help ye now. Where do ye want me t’ put the books?”

Claire shook her head. “No. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll clean up by myself.” She wanted him gone. She needed to think and she needed to call the police.

But he ignored her, placing the books in a neat pile on the floor, as if he understood there was no point in putting anything back on the shelves. He glanced at her as he straightened.

Clearly he intended to stay and help. Did that make him decent, as well as gorgeous? Softly, she said, “The joke’s done. Really. You can go now.”

He muttered something in Gaelic and she froze. “You’re really a Scot.”

“Aye.” He held another armful of books.

Claire told herself not to panic. He could be a Scottish actor, just like Sean Connery, and some Scots continued to speak Gaelic. “Amy did send you, didn’t she?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stacked the books next to the first pile.

She shook her head, her unease about to become full-blown panic again. If Amy hadn’t sent him, then who and what was he?

He bent to retrieve more books, and Claire was faced with the sight of the leine riding high up on his powerful, corded hamstrings. The fact that he was so masculine didn’t help alleviate her confusion. Her body continued to vibrate with all kinds of tension, but she wasn’t as frightened now as she had first been. If he wasn’t going to leave, what should she do?

She should call her cousin and find out the truth, but damn it, she was afraid of what Amy would say.

He straightened and caught her staring. “Ye be too hungry fer such a beauteous lass,” he said softly. “Where’s yer man?”

“There isn’t one.” She was flushing.

He stared blankly at her. “I dinna ken this world,” he finally said, shaking his head. “Ye live here alone?”

Claire nodded. “Yes, I do.” They were having a conversation that was almost normal. She debated how to innocently make that phone call without his becoming alarmed. There was no way to avoid it.

He was incredulous. “And who’s t’ protect ye in danger?”

“I protect myself.” She smiled weakly.

He made a sound. “With that weapon?” He nodded disparagingly toward the hall, where her Beretta lay on the floor.

“I also have Mace, pepper spray and a Taser.”

His eyes narrowed. “More weapons?”

Surely he knew what Mace and pepper spray were, at least. “I am hardly the only single woman in the city.”

“A woman needs a man to keep her safe, lass. ’Tis the way o’ the world, the way o’ men.” He was firm.

Claire was briefly speechless. This man spoke as if he were from a past century. “It’s not the way of my world,” she finally said. “And you’re scaring me. I admit it. I’m a wuss and you need to get out of character.” Her cheeks were hot.

“I dinna wish to frighten ye, lass,” he murmured. “But what man in his good mind would leave ye to yerself?”

She couldn’t help being flattered. And the way he was regarding her now, from beneath thick black lashes, left her in no doubt that he was oversexed. Claire swallowed. She couldn’t just sense the sexual tension coming from him, she could actually feel it. It was almost a third presence there in the room with them. She had not a doubt he would be an amazing lover.

“Ye need a man, lass,” he said softly. “’Tis a shame it willna be me.”

She stiffened. Was he reading her mind? Was that a rejection? She was only thinking about what was terribly obvious!

She stared at him and he stared back. “Why not?” Her tone was hoarse. She could barely believe herself. She had never even had a casual affair.

And his gaze intensified. “Ye be intent on seduction, lass? Ye wish to seduce me?”

Claire was mortified. “No.” She couldn’t think, so how could she even begin to know what she intended?

He smiled—a soft, heartbreaking smile—and then he spoke with vast regret. “In another life, momhaise, I would gladly accept such a beautiful invitation.”

Only this man could make a rejection so utterly sexual. His words should have hurt her. Instead, she stood there aching.

He turned away. Claire glimpsed the very evident ridge of his arousal beneath the tunic and she almost expected her store to go up in flames.

He spoke brusquely now. “I need the page afore another takes it. It belongs in the shrine with the Cathach. I expect yer help an’ then I’ll be gone.”

It was another moment before Claire came to her senses. “This isn’t a joke, is it? My cousin didn’t send you here. You are from Scotland.”

His gray gaze was steady. “Aye.”

She began to shake. “The Cathach is in the Royal Irish Academy. Every scholar knows, because it’s the oldest illuminated Irish manuscript that anyone has ever found.”

As emotional as she was becoming, he was as calm. “The Cathach be enshrined on Iona, lass.”

Claire shook her head. Was he a nut after all? “There is no shrine on Iona—it is nothing but ruins!”

His face settled into hard planes and taut angles. “Maybe in yer time.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she cried.

“It means I ha’ been to the shrine many times. I have guarded it meself.”

She swallowed, backing away. “I believe you are a true Scot, but why the costume? Why the absurd story—the lies? And who is the woman who broke into my store?”

His eyes flashed. “Dinna accuse me o’ lies, lass. Men ha’ died fer less.” He shook his head. “I dinna ken what book is in yer academy, but ’tis nay the book o’ wisdom, which I ha’ seen with me own eyes.”

“That’s impossible!” Claire cried, terribly agitated now. “You believe it, though, don’t you?”

“I speak the truth.” He folded his massive arms across his chest.

Her mind was racing now at an alarming speed. There was no way to rationalize his behavior or beliefs. The genuine Cathach was in Dublin, on display. It was not enshrined on the island of Iona. There was no shrine on Iona! She had been there. The monastery and abbey were in ruins. Had a shrine existed there, she would have seen it. And what about the Cladich—and the page that both he and Sibylla claimed they were after? She was a scholar, but she had never heard of such a book before.

“Tell me about the Cladich,” she said.

His gaze narrowed, as if he was wary. “Fergus MacErc brought the book to Dunadd. When St. Columba established the monastery on Iona, it was enshrined there with the Cathach. ’Twas stolen from the Benedictines,” he said.

She wet her lips, her heart racing. He was definitely mad, because he believed his every word. “If you are telling me that a manuscript predates the Cathach and the establishment of St. Columba’s monastery on Iona, you are wrong.”

His eyes darkened. “Do ye accuse me o’ lies again?”

“I don’t know what to think! There was no written tradition among the Celts until St. Columba’s time—none,” she cried. “The Druids prohibited writing. Everything was oral.”

His smile was smug. “Nay. The books were written, because the Ancients wanted it so.”

“The Ancients?”

Softly he said, “The old gods.”

Beyond mad, she thought. She prayed for the strength to dissemble. Then she looked right at him. “All right, I concede. I am only a bookseller, so maybe I’m the one who’s wrong.” She smiled. “I’m cold. I am going upstairs to change, but I’ll be right back. Go ahead, look for the page. I’ll help you when I come back downstairs.” She didn’t bother to tell him that such a page, if original, would be in fragments if not carefully preserved.

He smiled back at her, a smile that did not reach his gray eyes.

He knew she was up to something. It didn’t matter, as long as he let her leave the room. Claire walked slowly out of the front store, when what she wanted to do was run. His gaze burned holes in her back. She darted into her office, pausing at her small desk, and unplugged and snatched up her laptop. No sound came from the front. Holding the laptop to her chest, she started up the stairs, tripping in her haste.

In her bedroom, she leaped onto the bed, lifting the computer’s lid. Shaking, feeling ill with dread, she went to the Internet and did a search for the Cladich, then lifted the phone.

But before she could even dial 911, the information she wanted appeared on her screen. Claire forgot all about calling the police.

The Cladich was a myth. There was almost no proof that it had ever existed, except for a reference to the holy manuscript that had been found on the effigy of a tomb in the tiny village of Cladich, Scotland. Three scholars believed the claim. They all held that it had been a book of healing, belonging to a secret society of pagan warriors. However, they were divided after that. One claimed the brotherhood and scripture dated to the Dark Ages; another, to the birth of Christ. The third opinion was that the secret brotherhood had survived into the Middle Ages, although it was doubtful the book had.

Claire began to tremble with excitement. She had to remind herself that the book was a legend. But both Malcolm and Sibylla believed a page was in her store. What if it wasn’t a myth?

As she scanned the article again, she felt him.

She slowly looked up, across her bed. Malcolm stood as still as a statue in the doorway of her bedroom. His silver gaze was fastened upon her.

She couldn’t move. She stared at him, forgetting all about the Cladich and its missing page. His gaze moved over her face, her breasts, her legs. Her skin fired and flamed. Slowly, vaguely aware that she was no longer herself, Claire leaned back against her pillows. She needed him.

His voice cut the trance like a whiplash. “Get up.”

Claire jumped from the bed. His face was so tight it looked as if it might crack. He strode past her, to the bed.

“Who are you?” Her heart was thundering madly.

His hand swept over her favorite pillow and he turned to look at her with astonished and furious eyes. “Goddamn it,” he exclaimed. “Aidan slept here? In yer bed?”

She did not know what he was talking about. “There was a cat…a stray…but I haven’t seen it in hours.” She was babbling. Her heart refused to slow. Worse, her body continued to ache for fulfillment.

He was thunderous. “There be nay time left.” He looked her up and down, scathingly. “Change yer fashion an’ come down now. Yer comin’ with me, lass.” It was a statement, not a request. He spun past her and left.

Claire stood there in shock. All of her fear returned, and with it, a vast confusion. There had been no mistaking his urgency. He had perceived some threat, real or imagined—but he was the threat, wasn’t he? And who the hell was Aidan?

Claire felt as if she was in the path of an oncoming hurricane and that her life was about to be blown to hell. She ran to the top of the stairs. “I’m not going anywhere with you!” Even as she insisted, she had the dreadful feeling that he was going to have his way. But where did he think to take her? And why would he want to take her anywhere?

He didn’t answer. He had walked into the kitchen but hadn’t turned on any lights.

Claire raced back into the bedroom. She slammed the door and frantically ran to the phone. She dialed 911. The operator was calm and in no hurry, which infuriated Claire. “There is a burglary in progress!” she screamed at the man, and slammed the receiver down. At least the police should be there within five or ten minutes.

She ran to her suitcase, leaping out of her boxers and tank top as she did so. She shimmied into a thong and pulled on a bra. Her hands were shaking and it took her three tries to hook it closed. What was he up to now? She was almost afraid to find out. But she wasn’t going anywhere with him. She’d stall until the police came and carted him away and then she’d start researching. She seized the top garments from her open suitcase and quickly pulled on a denim mini and a cap-sleeved tee. Stumbling into a pair of really worn cowboy boots, she grabbed a cotton cardigan and ran to the bedstand. She seized the deadly Taser, slipped it in her pocket and flew down the stairs.

The kitchen remained dark but the refrigerator was open, shedding light, and he was staring into it. Claire hit the lights and he whirled to face her, his sword ringing as he unsheathed it.

Claire leaped back so quickly she fell against the stove. She’d never heard a genuine sword before, but she knew immediately that his weapon was real.

He held the sword high, his eyes black with fury, as if she was his mortal enemy and he was an instant away from cleaving her in two.

He lowered the sword. “By the gods, lass,” he said hoarsely. “Dinna sneak up on me that way!”

She wet her dry lips, unable to look away, her heart hammering so hard she felt faint. For one instant, she had been afraid he was going to kill her on the spot.

A madman with a sword. She was in deep shit.

“I’ll never hurt ye,” he said, a strange expression twisting his face. His gaze had slipped to her legs again.

“You scared me,” Claire managed to say, beginning to tremble. That was a vast understatement. If that sword was genuine, what did it make the man?

“Be ye impoverished? Ye have no garments but rags?” His gaze lifted to hers.

Claire didn’t even try to answer. She stood there, overwhelmed with what her mind wanted to tell her.

“Dinna fear, lass, I’ll see ye clothed soon enough.” He began to smile reassuringly at her, when she could not possibly be reassured, but then his gaze jerked past her and widened. Before Claire could really register that something or someone was in the hallway, he shoved her behind him. “Get back,” he commanded.

Claire stumbled from the force of his push as his sword rang, unsheathed once again. The sound was answered by another sword’s terrible echo behind them. In dread and disbelief, she turned and cried out.

Another towering man, dressed almost exactly as Malcolm, faced him, a huge sword raised threateningly in both hands. He was dark haired but fair skinned, impossibly handsome, and his eyes were filled with malicious delight. “Hallo, a Chaluim.” He spoke softly in Gaelic, his words clearly taunting. “De tha doi?”

Malcolm roared, “A Bhrogain!” The battle cry was ancient, barbaric and deafening. It was also terrifying. Claire cringed as Malcolm wielded a blow that would have cleanly sliced the other man’s head from his neck had his adversary not met it with equally great strength and skill. The two swords locked and rang again.

And in that moment, she knew everything was real. These men wanted to kill one another and it was not an act. Malcolm’s adversary no longer smiled, his expression primitive, feral. As Malcolm went on the offensive, his enemy parrying every blow, she saw that they had the kind of ability that only came from years of practice—and years of actual battle. They were not in costume. They were medieval warriors intent on murder, mayhem, death.

So much testosterone filled the store that she felt ill and faint.

Blow after blow sounded.

Someone was going to die soon. Malcolm could die.

And Claire thought about the Beretta.

She had left it in the hallway. Both men were in the midst of their battle in the center of her kitchen. Claire edged toward the door, skirting the breakfast area as she did so, making certain she stayed far from the battling men.

And then she ran into the hall as their swords rang again and again, the violent battle clearly reaching a savage crescendo. She saw the Beretta and seized it. She wanted to turn and flee, but instead, she ran back to the kitchen and pointed the gun at Malcolm’s enemy.

“Stop,” she tried, but her teeth were chattering.

Malcolm had seen her. His eyes had briefly widened. “Lass, nay!”

“I’ll shoot!” she cried. “Malcolm, tell him I will kill him if he doesn’t stop!”

Malcolm and the other man were braced against one another, sword to sword. Malcolm smiled coldly. “Ye heard my lass, Aidan. Surrender, afore she murders ye with her weapon.”

Claire prayed he would surrender. She didn’t know who he was, and she didn’t know why she was defending Malcolm, but she would put a bullet in the intruder if she had to. She was a very good shot, but she had never fired a gun under such circumstances, or in such fear. Her hands were shaking, and while she would try to only wound the man, she wasn’t confident that she would not kill him by mistake.

The dark-haired man visibly relaxed, although for one more moment he and Malcolm remained braced like two horned stags. Then, as one, both men disengaged, stepping farther apart.

Claire sidled past Aidan, who turned to smile at her. Her heart turned over at the sight of so much male beauty and strength.

Aidan murmured, “Ah, beauty, ye let me live another day.” He grinned, clearly enjoying himself and not in the least bit shaken by such a violent fight. “Rascal that I am, I be eagerly awaitin’ our next meeting,” he added.

Claire rushed to Malcolm’s side, barely comprehending him. He stepped protectively in front of her, and in doing so, he briefly blocked her view of Aidan. “There willna be another time,” he growled back at Aidan.

Then he turned to Claire, his gaze searching. “Did he hurt ye?”

Claire was shaking like a leaf. She was about to tell him that she was fine—a monstrous lie—when she realized that Aidan was gone. “Where did he go?” she gasped.

“Give me the weapon, lass,” Malcolm said softly, taking the gun from her. He set it on the counter and put his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace.

And dear God, he felt safe. Claire clung, shocked by the overwhelming sense of security his huge body was giving her. “Who was that? Where did he go?”

His gaze seemed to melt as he looked down at her. His huge hand stroked down her hair to the small of her back, and everything changed. His body was so strong and male, his scent was so heady and sexual that her knees buckled. Her bare thighs were molded to his equally bare ones, but his tough leather boots were a startling and not unpleasant contrast against her shins. In her cowboy boots, she was still shorter than he was, and her breasts were crushed against the solid wall of his chest.

And he was massively aroused, his erection standing hard and high against one hip.

Claire’s insides hollowed. She wanted this man and it had nothing to do with any trance.

“Have no fear, lass. The bastard’s gone.” His hand moved lower, over her denim-clad bottom, his fingers spreading firmly there. “I be wantin’ ye, lass.”

She wet her lips. “I know.” She dared, “I want you, too.”

He smiled at her and she felt his hand caress her bottom, low near the hem of her skirt. “Can ye wait an hour or so?” he murmured.

Claire was overcome with pulsating desire. Ordinarily she was hard to please, but she felt that if he touched her—really touched her, right then, between her legs—she was going to climax. Maybe it was the battle she had witnessed. “Take me upstairs,” she heard herself whisper, and she was too hot to be horrified by her forward behavior. She had never felt this way before.

She would worry about who and what he was another time, later, after they had used each other and pleasured each other again and again.

His jaw tightened. “Ye dinna listen well, do ye? It’s nay safe and I canna protect ye here. But I will protect ye, lass. Ye be my Innocent now.”

“I don’t understand,” Claire whispered, pressing closer. The only thing she did understand was that he was refusing her offer. She leaned her face against his chest and her desire escalated out of all control. In his arms, she shook with an intense, consuming hunger. She ran her hands down to his waist, barely able to bite back a moan. He seemed to rise higher and harder in response.

His grip on her tightened. “I be sorry, lass,” he said.

Once again, Claire just couldn’t understand. It was as if they were from two different worlds, speaking two different languages—except for the language spoken by their inflamed bodies.

And then they were catapulted across the room, through walls, past stars.

Claire screamed.

CHAPTER THREE

’TWAS HIS FOURTH LEAP, but he was still unprepared for the pain.

Holding the woman, her screams renting the night, he fought to withstand the excruciating torment. It was as if his skin was being flayed from his body, as if his scalp was being torn from his skull, as if his limbs were being wrenched from their sockets. He knew he would land whole. It did not matter. He had never known such agony and torment could exist. He choked on his own sobs, too.

And then they landed.

‘Twas with the force of being thrown from the highest cliff and landing upon a jagged rock face. Malcolm grunted, pain exploding in his back and head, bright lights blazing. But he did not release the woman. He thanked the Ancients that he had somehow kept her with him and then he prayed that she was strong enough to live.

The woman wept now, softly, against his chest.

A Master shall not use his powers for his own gain.

He tensed. Although the torment had lessened, it remained. He had been told that the strange limbo of being weak and defenseless lasted mere minutes, and had he been alone, he would have had patience. But he wasn’t alone. The woman was in his arms, and as the pain faded, his body hardened. He wanted sex.

But he hadn’t brought her back because he wanted her. He had followed Sibylla to the future, hunting both her and the page. The woman was an Innocent, caught between evil and good. He couldn’t leave her in her time, alone and without defenses, not with both Sibylla and Aidan nearby. He had taken vows to protect Innocence through all ages. His life was no longer his own.

Three years ago he had been chosen. He had been summoned to the monastery on Iona, only to learn that the monastery did not exist. Instead, a secret Brotherhood lived behind those stone walls. He had been told that he came from an ancient line of princes, descended from the old Celtic gods, and that he must follow in his father’s footsteps, defending mankind. He had taken the sacred vows, vows that had irrevocably changed his life. Defend God. Keep Faith. Protect Innocence. His war was not with kings and queens or the clans, his war was with evil. There had been shock—but somehow, there had been relief and an utter comprehension, as if he’d known that one day, the summons would come.

For now, his entire life made sense. His unusual strength, his keen intellect, his compassion and endurance had always awed others, and he had always felt different, even from his own people. He was different. He had been destined from the moment of his birth.

With the Abbot’s blessing, he’d read the ritual pages, and he had come into most of his powers. They were powers which no mere mortal could ever possess. Other powers would mature more slowly. He no longer had a human life span. And while the vows were simple and straightforward, the Code was long and subject to interpretation. However, the most basic tenet of the Code held that no Master could use his powers except to uphold his vows.

And that did not exclude his sexual powers, which were greatly enhanced now.

He did not have to look down at the woman in his arms to know she was beautiful, and somehow different from the others he’d taken to his bed. The urge to move over her was consuming. He could so easily mount her, sliding long and deep, pleasuring them both. He was hugely virile and rarely sated—it was almost a curse. Apparently, every Master suffered such extreme manhood. Carnal pleasure was not forbidden, and no Master would tolerate it if it were. But there were different kinds of pleasure that were forbidden, pleasures that were evil. He finally looked down at her. Her sobs were softer now and she turned her gaze up to his.

Her eyes were a shocking shade of green.

He watched her carefully. Her torment was fading and he saw no reason to deny himself. Although he had patience in politics, diplomacy and battle, with women he had none. And why should he? He was the Maclean and a Master and he had never met a woman who did not wish to eagerly share his bed.

Those who hesitated were so easily entranced.

He felt the moment she thought about his embrace, his body, his manhood and what he could offer her. He felt her quicken, and her genuine surprise at her own response. She was not accustomed to desire but she desired him. That pleased him.

Her eyes widened.

He smiled, caressing her bare arm to reassure her, about to promise her great delights. He did not have to focus on the black Highland night to know they were alone and safe. Evil brought an intense chill with it, one far different from that of a northern summer evening. Danger was not near—not yet.

“Ye did well, lass.” He leaned over her, aware of a tremor passing through him. Anticipation made him feel almost faint. “There’s nay more danger—an’ we be very much alone.”

Her eyes turned bright with hunger.

Although already thick with blood, more heat rushed to his loins. He had never seen such a tall woman, with such endless legs, and the way she was sculpted with such taut muscles maddened him. He wanted those legs wrapped around his waist—now.

“Lass,” he murmured in his most enchanting tone. He had lurked in her mind and knew that she had been celibate for three years. He knew the passion he would receive. The woman was sexually desperate and he did not blame her.

He ran his hand down her arm, taking a good look at her scantily clad bosom, and then at the hem of the rag she wore, which was just a handspan from the wet treasure he would soon plunder and possess. She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering. He slid his hand to that hem and hesitated. Their gazes held, and his heart did a strange flip. “I be glad,” he whispered, “that ye survived the fall.”

She inhaled, trembling. Her hand crept up between them to his chest. Another tear stained her cheek and she whimpered softly, restlessly shifting. He recognized the nuances in the sound and he swelled further, pleased.

He shifted deliberately, the leine riding high, his cock thrusting past it, and he slid his hand down her thigh, and then upward, lifting the rag. He pressed her closer so that he could throb against her sex. She gasped in pleasure, her gaze flying to his. “I want to pleasure ye, lass, an’ ye been denied. Let me come inside ye.”

He brushed his mouth over her ear, breathing there. She gasped, bucking up against his hardness, spreading for him—the answer he wanted. He lifted her leg over his waist and as he did so, there was consuming desire. His veins ran with so much hot, pulsing blood, he could not stand it.

As he moved over her, lifting up the short rag she wore, she clawed his shoulders, rearing up to kiss him. But kisses were of no interest now, not when he was pulsing so fiercely and so hard. He stabbed forward and cried out. Her flesh was soaking wet and burning hot and it seized him tightly, a perfect vise; he gasped from the force of such blinding pleasure.

She cried out in elation, too.

It was so good. He could barely think rationally now. He wanted to watch her come; he drove deeper, steadily, then paused to stroke her distended sex. She wept. He smiled triumphantly and plunged within her throbbing flesh again. She met him savagely, desperately, and he felt her pent-up hunger from years of denial become a swirling cocoon of energy and passion. He had known it would be like this. He pinned her wider. Look at me, lass.

She did, crying out in a shuddering, endless climax.

His mind went blank, black. He needed release, too. He came, spilling all he had into her, spinning in ecstasy as he did so, and as he shouted in pleasure and triumph, the urge overcame him completely.

The desire was dark. Demonic. It was the urge to take far more than her body.

Because his pleasure could be enhanced so easily—with one taste of her power.

His mind froze even as his body kept streaming.

Nothing compared to the rapture of such power.

He looked down at her as she wept in ecstasy, aghast with his desire.

But it was forbidden. He was a Master, not a Deamhan. He had vowed to protect Innocence, not to destroy it.

Malcolm staggered away from her, reeling. He leaned against a tree, dizzy from the prolonged climax and the realization that she tempted in him in an unspeakable, evil way.

“No!” she gasped, frantically reaching out for him. And then she fell back, eyes closing.

She lay still now, as if dead.

But he hadn’t done anything but pleasure them both. He swiftly knelt, lifting her into his arms. He was still thoroughly aroused, but it did not matter. He could barely believe what he had wanted to take from her. He wanted it still. “Lass!”

Her eyes fluttered. She had fainted from the excitement of such a huge release. He laid her face against his chest, where his heart thundered, holding her there, relieved. The lass was fine. But he was not fine, not at all. The horror remained.

And he was hardly done with the woman. He wanted her still, in his bed, in every sexual way. But how could there be another time when he did not dare trust himself?

And then he felt the chill.

Like an Arctic breeze coming off the highest mountain, the cold crept closer, instantly dropping the temperature of the pleasant summer evening. The blades of grass, the thistle and wildflowers around him froze. Malcolm became rigid, straining not to see but to feel.

The chill settled over the glen.

It was hunting him again.

CLAIRE BEGAN TO REALIZE that she was in a man’s arms, being swiftly carried and then laid down on the ground. It was hard and cold. She was weak and dazed, disoriented. What had happened? Where was she?

“Dinna speak and dinna move,” the man said. “Ye stay with yer back to the boulder, ye ken?”

Claire heard him. She realized her back was pressed unpleasantly against a rock face of some sort while her nails dug into wet, cold dirt. She stared down at the ground, seeing not a tiled kitchen floor but leaves, branches, dirt and grass. Images and sensations scrambled together in her mind—stars and agony, a terrible force, Malcolm and ecstasy, his power huge. And then she heard that bloodcurdling war cry. “A Bhrogain!”

She cried out as numerous swords rang, being drawn from their sheaths. She stumbled to her feet, so weak she staggered. In a panic, she looked for her gun and an image assailed her, of Malcolm in her kitchen putting the gun aside. They weren’t in her kitchen now. Goddamn it. She was in the woods somewhere!

Leaning against a tree, she seized the pendant at her throat, her heart fluttering wildly with fear. It was cold out and the stone was hot. And then she saw Malcolm, a few steps from her, his back to her, holding a branch aloft, his stance defensive and belligerent at once. Her gaze moved past him and she choked off her cry.

A dozen knights faced him. The men were giants, clad in chain-mail shirts, steel chausses, gauntlets and helmets. The eye plates were closed, making them look evil. They were armed with lances, swords and axes. Their huge warhorses snorted and pranced, white-eyed. Wildly, Claire realized that they were in a clearing, surrounded by black woods. Beyond the woods she saw the dark shadows of numerous mountains. The night sky was the most brilliant she had ever beheld.

Malcolm said, not turning, “Get back to the rocks.”

Claire didn’t move. Did he think to face down over a dozen huge armed men himself? And he had no shield! Before she could even begin to think about what was happening, the first few knights charged, howling terrifying Gaelic war cries.

Claire bent and seized the first rock at hand and ran to stand beside Malcolm. He cursed in his tongue but did not look at her. Claire didn’t think twice. As the first rider came upon them at a gallop, his lance couched under his arm, she flung the rock at the man.

Malcolm thrust his makeshift staff as she hurled the rock. The rider ducked and the rock missed, but Malcolm knocked him from his horse, then used his longsword to sever the man’s head from his body as if the man were a rag doll. Claire backed up against the tree, seeking the Taser. Malcolm used his staff to parry another lance, flinging a mail-clad warrior to the ground. In one violent motion, he thrust his sword at the prone knight, instantly beheading him, too. Claire choked.

He turned to face another warrior, this time tossing the staff aside. He locked swords, shouting. “Lass!”

But she had already seen the third warrior-knight riding right at her, as if he would simply run her down. His black helmet had sinister eye slits. Certain she was about to die, Claire leaped forward, below the lance he held, thrusting the Taser against the horse’s shoulder. The horse reared, screaming, as the rider swung his lance at her. Claire ducked; she had ruined his aim. And she felt his savage fury.

There was no time to run. The horse reared again and Claire went after it. It was in midair as she shocked it in the chest. The man cursed while the horse flipped over onto its back, crushing its rider, and then the animal leaped up and galloped off.

The mail-clad giant lay still, his neck at a grotesque angle, clearly broken.

Claire knew she was not alone. She whirled and held up the Taser threateningly, two mounted warriors having come up behind her. They hesitated, clearly uncertain as to whether to attack her or not. Beyond them, Claire saw Malcolm fiercely slaying man after man. In spite of the odds, he was definitely in control of the situation.

“Lass,” he roared. “Get back to me.”

That was a great idea, Claire thought, except that one of the two warriors was between her and Malcolm. He was smiling at her now, smugly, clearly anticipating her death. He tossed his lance aside and drew a steel rod with a spiked ball dangling from its chain.

Claire was terrified. He could take her head off easily with it. That ball, whirling wildly, could flay her body into pieces. She had to attack or she would die.

Claire bristled and stepped forward. Evil had killed her cousin and her mother and if it killed her, she’d take as many of the bastards down as she could. She’d get his horse, too, or die trying.

“Damn it, lass!” Malcolm was shouting at her.

Too late, she realized she was putting an even greater distance between them, but she didn’t dare take her gaze from the warrior. She was certain he smiled, backing his mount just out of her reach.

“Coward,” Claire hissed.

He said something to her in Gaelic, and Claire knew it was a taunt.

His buddy had ridden his horse to the side, clearly thinking to watch her murder or to get behind her, just in case. Claire knew she couldn’t defend herself against them both. Letting him sidle behind her was not a good idea.

“Fuck you,” Claire said. She ran at the knight with the ball and chain and jabbed the horse in the face.

It screamed, rearing, the rider spurring it viciously to bring it back to the ground. Claire grabbed his leg, pulling on him. He was glued into his saddle. Claire had read about how the saddles knights used were designed so they were as secure as if strapped in. She gave up. The horse had come down and the rider swung the ball viciously. Claire ducked entirely beneath the horse, aware she could be trampled, and as she came out the other side, the ball was flying there, at her. She dived for the ground and the ball ripped open his horse’s hindquarter. The horse screamed, rearing. Claire glimpsed his bare knee above the plates on his armor. She leaped and jabbed the Taser there.

He stiffened.

Claire didn’t wait. She stunned him again in the only place she could—the knees. He fell from the horse, crashing to the ground at her feet.

But before she could feel any triumph, he jumped up when he should have been stunned senseless, the ball and chain in hand. Claire didn’t think twice. She kicked him as hard as she could in the head, snapping his head back and then she jammed the Taser into his neck.

This time he went down.

And she felt the beast coming. Claire whirled to face the bulging whites of the other warrior’s destrier as it galloped toward her. Claire dropped and rolled as the horse thundered past. Malcolm shouted at her again.

And when she leaped up, he was striking her attacker. Claire watched Malcolm cleave the man’s arm from his shoulder. Her stomach protested violently and then the man’s head went flying through the air. Her stomach churned even more.

Thundering hooves sounded in the distance.

More warriors, Claire thought frantically.

“Lass!” Malcolm roared, leaping onto the riderless steed. He galloped toward her and held out his hand. Claire didn’t hesitate. More riders were approaching and she had no wish to stick around to find out if they were friends or foes. She gave him her hand and he pulled her up behind him, suddenly halting the charger. Shocked, Claire saw the rest of their attackers fleeing at a gallop, while from a different direction, a smaller group of horsemen came cantering toward them.

She felt all of the tension leave Malcolm’s huge body.

She was gripping his waist, still clutching the precious Taser. “Friends?” she gasped, beginning to shake. She was about to throw up.

“Aye, Ruari Dubh, me uncle.”

Claire collapsed against his back, shaking uncontrollably. Worse, tears came. She was in such shock she could not think. But nothing had ever felt better than his wool brat under her cheek and nothing could be more reassuring than his musky male scent.

He slid from the horse, turned and pulled her down, right into his powerful arms. “Ye be brave, lass. But by the gods, when I give ye a command, ’tis t’ be obeyed!” His eyes were silver, and they blazed.

She couldn’t speak. Now she understood the scars on his face. She just shook her head and leaned her face against his chest, shaking like a leaf.

But his tunic was wet and sticky against her cheek. Claire pulled away, instantly afraid he was wounded and bleeding. Their eyes locked.

“’Tis nay mine,” he said softly, the same softness coming to his eyes

Relief made her knees buckle. He put his arm around her, allowing her to stand upright against his powerful side

And then she saw the bodies—and body parts—lying scattered about them. She really saw them. And every single moment of that awful battle raced through her mind. Claire pulled away, ran a short distance, dropped to the ground and vomited violently. What in God’s name was happening?

A medieval man—knights welding swords and axes—a night sky the likes of which she had never before seen.

Claire couldn’t breathe.

There were no electric lights anywhere, no telephone poles, no cars, no sounds at all except for trees whispering in the breeze and the horses snorting, bits jangling.

“Lass.” His huge hand was on her back. “’Tis over now. Ye got a good weapon there an’ I ken ye can use it. Ruari and his men will see us safely on.”

Claire closed her eyes, wanting to vomit again, but she had nothing in her system to heave. They weren’t in her store. She recalled being hurled by a huge force through walls, past stars, almost like being thrown from an airplane without a parachute. There had been so much pain.

She struggled for air, panting hard now.

He was the real deal. There were a dozen bodies in the clearing to prove it. Oh, God.

His arm went around her. “I ken ye never been in battle afore. ’Twill pass. Ye need t’ breathe deep.”

’Twill pass.

He’d said that before. He’d said that in the exact same way, as if to reassure her—but he hadn’t reassured her. Instead, there had been so much desire, and the next thing she knew, she was on her back and he was inside her, impossibly hard, impossibly deep, and she was coming.

Claire was in disbelief.

Something terrible was happening.

He was speaking in French now, over his shoulder, to his friend. Claire was fluent, but she didn’t hear what he said. She did not want to be there and she didn’t want to believe that they had had sex. She turned and struck him as hard as she could.

Her blow landed on his cheek and echoed. He didn’t move, but his eyes went wide.

Claire backed as far from him as she could get. She hit a boulder. “Don’t come near me,” she warned. “I want nothing—nothing—to do with you!” She hadn’t asked for any of this, damn him!

His face was expressionless, but she saw his chest rise and fall more swiftly now, a sign of some agitation. Well, let him be pissed, she thought wildly. She was pissed!

“Lass, tell me yer name.”

“Go to hell,” she cried. “Where am I?”

His nostrils flared, his jaw flexed. A terrible moment passed before he answered, making Claire wish she hadn’t cursed him. “Alba. Scotland,” he amended. “Morvern.” He tried a smile on her, but it was cool. He was angry with her. “Not far from me home.”

The irony made her laugh shrilly. She would have been at Dunroch by Sunday, and now she was just a few miles away!

“We’ll be goin’ to Carrick Castle fer the night. Come, lass, ye be tired, I ken.” His tone was cautious now.

She shook her head, shivering, even though the night was pleasant once more. Her teeth chattered as she spoke. “We’re in your time.” She had no doubts.

His expression remained deadpan. “Aye.”

She swallowed. “What time is that?” When he did not respond instantly, she yelled, “What year is this, damn it?”

He stiffened. “1427.”

Claire nodded. “I see.” She turned her back to him, hugging herself, aware that her entire body was shaking as if with convulsions. She had always wanted to believe in time travel. There were scientists who said it was possible, and they had put forth theories of quantum physics and black holes to explain it. Claire hadn’t even tried to understand, as science was not an easy subject for her. But she understood the basics: if one traveled faster than the speed of light, one would go into the past.

None of the theories or what she had thought or even currently believed mattered. She knew with every fiber of her being that Malcolm was the medieval laird of Dunroch. No Hollywood set would ever be able to replicate the battle she had just seen—and had been a part of. Her knees went weak all over again. She was sick and she was exhausted. She wanted to get as far from this man as she could. And she was also afraid.

The last place she wished to be was medieval Scotland. She wanted to be home in her safe apartment, with its state-of-the-art security system. In fact, right now, she’d give just about anything to be in her kitchen, sipping a glass of wine and watching the reruns of I Love Lucy or That ’70s Show. She slowly turned and their gazes clashed.

“We need to go,” he said flatly, with no compassion in his eyes. “There be evil in the night, lass. We need to be behind solid walls.”

Claire started. Unfortunately, she could not agree more. She told herself not to think about her mother now, but it was impossible. On the other hand, she did not want to go anywhere with him. What she wanted was to go home.

“I didna give ye a choice. Ye come with me.” His eyes were hard now.

“Send me home,” she said harshly.

“I canna.”

She stared and he stared back. “You can’t—or you won’t?” she finally said.

“’Tis nay safe,” he said flatly.

Claire began to laugh hysterically. “Like fighting a bunch of medieval knights armed with swords and axes is safe?”

His expression became thunderous. “I ha’ tried to ken, lass,” he said grimly. “I ha’ nay more patience left.”

Claire thought about the way he had looked at her and used his powerful legs to spread hers, without even an if you please. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. It didn’t matter if this was the fifteenth century, she was a modern woman. She wanted to curse him again. She knew better than to dare.

A man rode forward. “Maybe I can be o’ help. Black Royce o’Carrick, at yer service, Lady.”

Claire looked up at him and a frisson of shock went through her. “Black” Royce was actually dark blond, with the hard but nearly perfect features of a Viking. He was in his early thirties, and he was as tall as Malcolm, with broad shoulders and bulging arms. He was clad like the knights who had attacked them. He wore a shirt of mail that reached his upper thighs, with gauntlet, elbow cups, chausses, knee cups and a helmet, the visor up. He carried a lethal-looking lance under one arm, wore two swords, long and short, and over the mail shirt, he wore a brat. It was impossible not to wonder if, like Malcolm, he went bare beneath the leine he surely wore under the chain-mail tunic.

He smiled slowly at her, as if he was aware of her admiration and her suspicions. His eyes flickered as he spoke. “Yer name, Lady?”

She knew Malcolm was watching her. She glanced at him. He was furious—which was fine by her, as he damn well deserved it. She didn’t know what had set him off. “Claire. Claire Camden,” she said. She forced her witless mind to work. “I need to get back to my time,” she said. “Can you help?”

He did not seem taken aback by her question. “I would dearly love to take ye home, but that duty is nay mine.”

“He has abducted me,” Claire cried. But she flushed as she spoke, because she was beginning to recall a few pertinent facts—like being whacked over the head by Sibylla and that warrior Aidan’s intrusion, as well.

Malcolm stepped to her side, his expression purely black. “Ken as ye will,” he said darkly. Then he stared coldly at Royce. He spoke in French. Claire wasn’t surprised, as she recalled that most of the nobles in England and Scotland spoke the language of the European court. “She is my Innocent. She is under my protection and it stays that way until I decide otherwise.”

Claire pretended not to understand.

“I understand,” Royce returned softly in the same language. “She has been through a shock. She is very upset. If you wish, I’ll escort her back to Carrick. I am sure by then she will have calmed.” His smile was dry.

Malcolm spoke. “I have already taken her, Royce, and I will not share.”

Claire flushed, turning away so neither man could guess that she could understand them. She was enraged. How dare he tell the other man what he had done! But he hadn’t been bragging like a boy in a locker room. Were they fighting over her like two dogs over a bone? She was stunned, but what did she expect from a pair of macho medieval warriors?

Royce shrugged and turned to Claire. “Malcolm wishes to protect ye, Lady Claire. He be strong an’ powerful an’ the chief o’ Clan Gillean. Ye be in good hands.”

A sarcastic quip formed. She held it back. She was shocked, angry and frightened, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think that she could survive for very long in fifteenth-century Scotland without someone to look out for her. She slowly faced Malcolm as Royce rode ahead, his men forming in two lines behind him. “When can I go home?”

“I dinna ken.”

“Great,” she retorted, trembling.

He gestured. Claire preceded him to where a man was holding two of the steeds taken from the dead. He paused, taking the reins of the gray horse. “Can ye ride?”

“I grew up on a farm,” Claire said tersely. She hadn’t been on a horse in years and the horses she had ridden back then had been plow horses, not warhorses. But after the events of that evening, getting up on the huge, blowing animal seemed like a piece of cake.

How had her life come to this? And what was she going to do? Despair consumed her. What if she couldn’t get back?

A big, callused hand settled on her shoulder.

Claire slowly turned, a familiar tension vibrating within her. He was powerful and sexual and she did not want to be aware of him as a man. But she was, especially after the brief interlude they had so unfortunately shared.

How could she have done such a thing?

His hand left her and he unpinned his brat, deftly draping it around her. His every accidental touch made it harder to breathe. He pinned the plaid closed just below the hollow of her throat, where her pulse was pounding like mad, belying her intentions to be indifferent to him and pretend she didn’t want him. His hands stilled there and he raised his gaze to hers.

Claire’s heart lurched at the sight of so much heat. Very, very vividly, she recalled his breadth, his length, his hardness and power. Desire made her feel faint.

His hands dropped away and his smile began, smug and satisfied. He nodded at the horse.

Claire mounted, his brat shielding her thighs from view.

CHAPTER FOUR

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.”

CHAPTER FIVE

CLAIRE REALLY NEEDED to sit down. Malcolm’s gaze was hard, even angry, and entirely unwavering. But he was not evil—there was nothing evil about him. He could not have committed a pleasure crime.

“What happened?” she somehow said, seeing him not as he stood there, but with some woman beneath him, in the throes of her passion.

“I told ye!” He was sharp.

Claire finally sat down on the edge of the bed. “People do die during sex, I mean, normal sex. Even if it’s not a pleasure crime, sometimes a man’s heart stops. Or a woman’s. It’s from the excitement. If the woman’s heart was weak, if she’d been ill, if she was older, feeble—”

He cut her off. “She wasna old. She was younger than ye. Her heart was strong.”

This could not be happening. She did not want Malcolm to be an evil madman, but the parallels were glaring. Strangers seducing the young and the innocent. Malcolm was a stranger—and he was mesmerizing.

Had she been mesmerized in the woods?

“How well did you know her?” she asked carefully, fear uncoiling inside her.

“I dinna ken the lass.” His gray gaze glittered.

“You were strangers.”

“Aye.”

She couldn’t breathe. A challenge seemed to be in his eyes, but she wasn’t sure she could meet it. Sweat ran down her body in streams and she couldn’t help but be afraid—and sickened. But somewhere deep inside herself, she refused to believe what he was telling her. “You killed her for fun?”

His eyes went wide. He said with great care, “I dinna amuse meself with death, Claire. I dinna ken me powers. I needed the maid, badly. I dinna wish to hurt her or see her dead.”

In that instant, she saw the pain blazing in his eyes. He was in the throes of guilt. She slumped in relief, and sympathy swelled. “Malcolm, it was probably her heart.”

He turned and lifted his mug of wine, draining it. “I didna stop when it was time to stop. I couldna think.” He turned his heated silver eyes to her. “Like in the forest. Fer a moment, I couldna think o’ anything but the pleasure I was takin’ from ye.”

She trembled, swept abruptly back to a vivid recollection of that stunning orgasm. She had stopped thinking in the woods, too. It had been impossible to be rational while in the throes of such desire. But now, she was uncertain. Clearly he regretted what had happened, deeply. As clearly, he was haunted by guilt. But he spoke as if he had killed the woman out of brute strength. And that sounded like rape.

His gaze was direct. “I didna rape her, or any woman. She wanted me.”

Claire believed him. What woman wouldn’t want the medieval stud facing her? And that only made it harder for her to understand what had happened. It had to have been the woman’s heart, she thought. It could not be anything else. A madman did not feel guilt.

“Now ye ken why I willna bed ye,” he said firmly.

She shivered. They were having a terrible conversation about a ghastly sexual death and she was having grave reservations about this man, but she still couldn’t escape his sexuality. It seethed in the room and his words conjured up the image of her in his embrace, passionately entwined. “That’s fine,” she said through dry lips. “I don’t want to share your bed. Not now, not ever.”

He gave her a disbelieving look.

Claire flushed. Her body no longer obeyed her will, but she did have a will. “When I sleep with a man, it is because he has my heart,” she said slowly, and she felt her color increase.

His eyes widened. “Surely, ye be in jest.”

Claire was mute. She wished she hadn’t revealed herself that way.

He choked, but she realized he wanted to laugh. His face straight, he said, “An’ ye have loved men, lass, aye?”

She became affronted and sought refuge there. “If you want to know how many men I have made love to, I am not telling you!”

“I begin t’ ken, aye, I do.” He smiled endearingly. “It be fine, lass, really. ’Tis a shame, though, to have only had a dozen or so men in yer life.”

“There were two!” she cried.

He smiled at her.

Claire could not believe this medieval hunk had the wit to trap her into the truth. She stared, outraged and even insulted. At least he would never know the details of her love life. Her college lover had been gorgeous and smart, even if he had cheated on her. Her second lover, James, had been great to brainstorm with and debate, but rather lacking in the performance department. This man, of course, did not even know the definition of the word faithful, but he wouldn’t have any performance problems, either. And she would never, ever reveal that it had been three years since she’d last had sex.

He was smiling as he turned away to refill his mug. Claire didn’t like his knowing smile, either, except that it made him shockingly handsome. Maybe the real battle wasn’t with him, but herself.

And Claire thought about the terrible battle in the forest. “We need to talk, but not about sharing a bed.”

He set the mug down, facing her. His expression was stunningly serious. “Aye. Ye defended me fer a terrible crime an’ ye defended me in the wood. We be strangers, Claire, not kin. Why?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know why.”

Silence fell. His gaze slipped to her throat and she realized he was staring at the pendant she wore. “My father had a stone like that, lass. He wore it till the day he died.”

Claire was immediately interested. Of course his father was dead, otherwise Malcolm would not be laird. She wanted all the information she could get now. She wanted to know everything about the man standing before her. She told herself it would help her survive this ordeal. “How did he die?”

“He died at the Red Harlaw, lass, a huge and bloody battle.”

Claire went still. “Your father was Brogan Mor.”

His gaze narrowed. “I didna tell ye his name.”

Her heart was thundering in her chest. What kind of coincidence was this? “Do you want to hear something ironic?” She wet her lips, not waiting for his response. She didn’t have to, for his regard was intensely riveted to her now. “I was on my way to Scotland when you came to my store. I was leaving the following night. And while I was arriving in Edinburgh, my plan was to drive directly to Mull and stay at Malcolm’s Point, so I could visit Dunroch.”

His temples throbbed. He did not say a word, but from his expression, he did not seem terribly surprised.

“Your father is in the history books. I read he died in 1411 at the Red Harlaw, but of course, I had no idea I’d be meeting his son shortly thereafter.” She sat back down, shaken. Maybe, given the dates, she should have realized that Malcolm was Brogan Mor’s son. “There’s nothing on your line, Malcolm, after the death of your father.”

He came forward. “He was a great man, lass, a great warrior, a great laird. Did yer books say so?”

“I’m sorry. They only mentioned the date of his death and that he led the Macleans in the battle.”

“Not all of them,” Malcolm said. “The Maclean of north Mull, Tiree and Morvern sits at Duart.”

“Black Royce is not laird of his clan?”

“Nay. His lands were granted by a royal charter long ago. He be earl of Morvern, but vassal to me. He be a southern Maclean, lass.”

Claire couldn’t imagine Royce being subservient to Malcolm. He hadn’t acted so, she thought. “Who became laird of your clan when Brogan died, Malcolm? You were obviously too young to do so.”

“I was nine years old when Brogan died an’ I became laird. Royce helped me, spending much of his time at Dunroch, until I turned fifteen. That day I needed no one beside me to rule.”

Before Claire could assimilate that he had become a clan chief at nine years old, and the actual leader at fifteen, his gaze moved back to the stone she wore. “Tell me about the stone.”

He kept going back to the pendant. “It was my mother’s. Why?”

“Brogan lost his stone at Harlaw,” Malcolm said, staring at her pendant. “’Twas black, not white, like ye have, but it be the same. ’Tis charmed with powers of healing. There are other lairds an’ even clerics who wear a charm stone. But ye ken.”

“This is a piece of moonstone set in gold,” Claire cried nervously. “It isn’t magical!”

“How did yer mother get it? It belonged to a Highlander, lass.”

Claire went still. “I don’t know. I never thought to ask. I was a child when she died. But she never took it off. The truth is, I always thought—no, I always sensed—it had something to do with my father.”

His eyes widened. “If yer father gave it to yer mother,” he began.

“She could have bought it in a pawnshop! Or my father could have bought it there, if it was even his.” Oddly, she felt panic. Had her father been a Scot?

“Ye be distressed. Why?”

Claire shook her head, turning away, hugging his brat to her body. “I didn’t know him and he never knew about me. I was a mistake, the result of a single night of passion.” She whirled. “You’re almost making me think that my father is a Highlander—a contemporary one, of course.”

“Ye dinna look like any Highland lass, but I be thinkin’ ye be connected t’ me, somehow.”

She sputtered, “I am connected to you because you ripped me from my time and brought me back here with you!”

He smiled grudgingly. “Aye.”

“How? How do you travel through time?” This was the single most important question of all, if she was ever going to get back to the twenty-first century.

“I will it.”

Claire stared and he stared steadily back. “Some wizard or monk, some shaman, must have found a black hole and figured out accidentally how to use it,” she finally said. “And the knowledge was carefully passed along.” It crossed her mind that if a medieval man could travel through time, surely peers of hers were secretly doing the same thing.

“Nay. ’Tis a gift from the Ancients.”

She could not look away. “The ancient shamans?” Was he telling her that time travel dated back to pre-Christian times?

“The old gods, Claire,” he said softly. “The gods most of Alba have forsaken.”

She felt chills. Her theory had to be correct. Someone, perhaps in medieval times, perhaps much earlier, had stumbled upon time travel. Such knowledge would be carefully guarded and carefully passed on. Of course he believed that his ability was given by the gods. His culture was a primitive one. Throughout time, mankind sought explanations for events and phenomena they did not understand in religion.

But he was treading in dangerous waters with such beliefs. “Which old gods?” she asked, fear arising.

He just looked at her.

“If you believe you have powers from a god, any god, even Jesus, that’s heresy.”

His mouth hardened. “I be Catholic, Claire.”

Claire shuddered. No Catholic believed as he did. Her mind raced. Heresy was a serious crime in the Middle Ages. In Europe, the Church had actively and aggressively prosecuted heretical movements, using the notorious court of the Inquisition to do so. Heretics were usually excommunicated and outlawed, not executed. On the other hand, a member of the Lollard movement had been burned for heresy by the Church, right there in Scotland. The date was unforgettable, because the great wave of prosecutions had come a century later.

“Have you ever heard of John Resby?”

His eyes widened. “Aye.”

Claire tensed. “He was burned at the stake for his beliefs in 1409.”

“I was a small boy.”

Claire inhaled. “Then you know you should not be talking so openly about old gods and having powers a man should not have.”

“’Tis a privy discussion,” he said darkly. “I be trustin’ ye, lass. Ye have no fanatical beliefs.”

“How would you know that? But you’re right. I’m not even Catholic, Malcolm. I’m Episcopalian.” And that made her a heretic in his time, as well. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He nodded. “If I didna trust ye, I’d never tell ye the truth.”

She couldn’t imagine why he would trust her, an absolute stranger. He added, “But ye’ll come to the mass with me, Claire.”

“Of course I will. I’m not a fool—I have no problem playing along with orthodoxy until I go home.”

His gaze flickered oddly and he walked away from her.

“How many of you are there?” she asked grimly. The ramifications of his beliefs kept growing. A man who had extraordinary powers could be accused of witchcraft, sorcery, association with the devil. Thank God the great witch hunts were in the next century, not this one. “Can Black Royce travel through time? Is he one of you? Does he believe this power comes from the Ancients, too? And how have you kept yourselves secret?”

A cool smile flashed. “Why do ye care about Royce’s powers?”

“He’s different, like you,” Claire said firmly.

“Nay.” He turned away from her, his stance stiff and braced. “Royce be the earl of Morvern, nothin’ more.”

Claire hesitated, very aware that Malcolm was closing the discussion now. But they were treading upon dangerous and probably forbidden territory. His beliefs—and his ability to travel through time—were undoubtedly a very secret subject. But she was beyond certain that Royce had Malcolm’s abilities, and probably his beliefs, too. She slowly walked up behind him. When he turned, she was aware that only an inch separated them, and that she should not use any feminine wiles to get the answers she wanted. She slowly laid her hand on his chest.

A huge jolt of desire stabbed her as her palm smoothed the linen shirt flat against his hard muscle. “Tell me. Finish it. You’ve already told me a terrible secret, one that threatens your life, so tell me the rest.”

His smile was twisted. “Dinna play me, Claire.” But his eyes blazed and not just with anger. Claire recognized lust.

“Why not?” Touching him was making her feel weak and faint. “You’ve played me from the start.”

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