Kitabı oku: «Dark Seduction», sayfa 3
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.
