CHAPTER SIX #2
A terrible lust began. It was the lust to live, and it raged.
Somehow he struggled to his feet, clutching his bleeding chest. His body screamed at him for life.
Urges began which he suddenly, instantly, understood—urges to take power so he might restore his own.
But he was alone and his life was rapidly draining away.
As death crept over him, he prayed to the Ancients who had first brought the Masters to the earth.
A woman rushed into the tower, shouting his name in alarm.
He was near death. She was unfocused in outline, dancing before his eyes, the tower swimming in gray shadows. And he was shocked, because he knew she had been sent to him.
She ran to him. Before she even touched him, he realized that she was young, wholesome, healthy and filled with so much life force that he choked on it. He reached for her. She helped him stand upright and he felt her power flowing into his veins.
He cried out, relieved.
She staggered and he held her. With every passing moment of union, his strength returned, increasing, escalating. It was good…and he became triumphant.
And he threw his head back against the wall, crying out as power swelled inside his veins.
And with the surging strength came a sense of invincibility, the comprehension that he would not die.
Elation roared in him—he had never known so much power.
He had never known such rapture. Shocked, he realized his loins had engorged, too. Even more rapture beckoned.
He pulled her close so she could feel his lust, and her eyes widened. “Aye,” he said roughly. “Let me pleasure ye, lass.”
“My lord,” she whispered, throwing her arms around him.
He turned her back to the wall, moving aside his leine and her skirts. And he could not wait. He pushed her thighs apart and thrust hard, directly, deep. And as he came, he had to take even more from her—it felt too good not to.
He was blinded by the lust, the power, her ecstasy, his.
Her life rolled from her in huge, slick waves and the power escalated a hundredfold.
She was weeping and begging. He did not hear.
He had been carousing since he was fourteen and he had never experienced so much ecstasy or known it could exist. He came again, his loins never slackening.
He had more virility than any single man should ever claim.
This was a power he had not dreamed of.
And the power blinded him, kept him engorged, allowing him terrible stamina and endurance. He howled his pleasure at the sunrise. This time he would be able to kill Moray.
And then he realized the woman was finally still.
He glanced down at his chest. His leine was soaked withblood, but the wound had closed. There was only a ridged scar above his left nipple.
He owed this woman his life. Cradling her, filled with gratitude, he gently brought her to the floor. He unpinned his brat and laid it over her, then stood. And he realized Moray was present.
The demon stepped out of the shadows, his eyes glowing and red.
And as Moray laughed at him, Malcolm knew.
Dread began. The maid lay motionless.
No. He knelt at her side. He turned her face toward him and found her blue eyes wide and sightless.
“Welcome, my brother. Welcome to the pleasures of death.”
Malcolm stood abruptly, throwing his mug of wine savagely at the hearth. It was midnight, and he was alone in the great hall, except for a pair of prized wolfhounds. The dogs watched him, unperturbed.
He had not allowed himself to think of Urquhart in months. He had spent three years atoning for his sins, wrestling with his guilt. He had thought himself firmly in control. There had been a hundred women since Urquhart, yet there had been no temptation. But it was a lie.
He was not in control. He thought about Urquhart now. And then he thought about the woman who slept upstairs, another innocent maid, a woman who was so seductive, he wished to taste her life.
Three years ago, he had thought himself the hunter, but he had been wrong. Moray had been hunting him; Moray had been hunting his soul.
And now the woman tempted him in an unthinkable way. He had thought his soul safe, but he had been wrong.
CLAIRE WAS SUMMONED the following dawn. Her eyes barely open, she met the gaze of a small boy who poked her, grinned and mimed dressing and eating. He gestured rapidly at the door and grinned and left. Claire sat up, clutching a fur to her body, feeling as if she were terribly hungover.
But she wasn’t hungover, not in the normal sense of the word. And her pulse quickened as she recalled that she was in medieval Scotland—and that last night, Malcolm had made love to her.
Claire felt the fist of desire slamming into her chest and belly. She stared at her chamber, at the small fire in the hearth, the rickety table where a jug of water sat, and the narrow window. The shutter had been thrust open and the sky outside was bloodred.
Although she hadn’t believed she would be able to sleep a wink yesterday, exhaustion had swiftly claimed her after Malcolm had left. She had slept like a log until the knock on her chamber door.
The boy clearly wished for her to hurry, and she knew why. She was wide-awake now. They were going to Dunroch. Genuine excitement began.
But there was also apprehension. It was the light of a new day. She was about to see Malcolm, and yesterday—well, she had behaved like a woman she did not know. And damn it, she wasn’t ever going to forget how he had pleasured her without asking her for anything in return.
Claire washed using frigid water, hoping he would be gentleman enough not to remark on what had happened between them.
And what about Sibylla? Just how safe would their trek be?
She threw Malcolm’s plaid over her shoulders, her trepidation rising, and went downstairs.
Only the serving maids were in the great hall and Claire was disappointed, even if she didn’t want to be.
Starving now—Claire wasn’t sure when she had last eaten—she sat down to a huge tray of bread, cheese and several various types of smoked fish, as well as a bowl of oatmeal.
She ate swiftly, using a two-pronged fork and a crude knife and spoon, eager to leave the hall.
As she ate, she kept glancing at the great door, but it did not open.
She pushed the tray away. She had to face Malcolm sooner or later, and she didn’t know what to say, how to act or what to do. But she had to face the fact that she did not have regrets. It would be hypocritical to pretend to have them. She had needed a night like that one.
She felt her cheeks heat. Malcolm was a generous lover. She was going to throw all stereotypes out. She would never think of him as some macho medieval jerk again. He was definitely complicated, intriguing and very, very sexy. She wouldn’t mind really sharing his bed.
The mere thought made her feel weak and faint.
Do not go there, she warned herself, heading for the doors.
She knew herself. If she ever really slept with him, she’d fall in love.
And that was a very bad idea. She must not become fond of him.
Only a fool or a madwoman would care for Malcolm, considering the circumstances.
She warned herself to keep her interest in him purely academic.
She opened the doors and was met by a blast of chilling Highland wind, never mind that it was summer.
She paused on the top of the steps. A dozen men were mounting their chargers by the other hall.
Just below her, Malcolm stood beside two saddled horses, speaking with Royce. As one, both men turned to look at her.
Her gaze met Malcolm’s and she blushed. This was, she thought, beyond awkward. They were virtually strangers. She started down the stairs, avoiding his eyes.
He probably thought her really fast and loose, although that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Malcolm strode forward. “Did ye sleep well?” he asked. His gaze was direct and searching.
If he was referring to the fact that she had been so physically sated she had passed out, she could not tell. “Yes. And you?” She meant to be polite but the moment she spoke, she wished she hadn’t. He’d probably tossed and turned all night.
His stare intensified. Then he shrugged, his gaze veering to her throat.
He began unpinning the brooch with which she’d awkwardly pinned her cloak.
“Ye need garments,” he said. “I’ll see ye clothed at Dunroch.
” He swept the long, oddly shaped cloak from her shoulders, shook it out, folded it not quite evenly and draped it over her, pinning it to one shoulder.
It now fell to her knees, securely covering her thighs and skirt.
She swallowed. “Thank you.” The merest brushing of his hands caused a frisson of pleasure. How was she going to keep her focus on the books, the shrine, the secret society—everything but the man himself?
His gaze locked with hers. “I nay be the only man with eyes,” he said with a slight smile. He nodded toward Royce, whose expression was wry.
Claire didn’t care if his uncle had been openly regarding her legs or anything else.
It was hard to think clearly with Malcolm hovering about, being possessive.
She wished she could tell what he was thinking about last night.
He probably had a different woman in his arms every night, which meant their little interlude wasn’t a big deal for him.
And that was for the best. Because it was far too big a deal to her, and she needed to keep a good perspective, no matter how hard it might be.
He helped Claire mount and turned to leap on his own destrier. Claire realized she had been given an older, quiet horse, for which she was grateful. She moved it over to Royce. “Thank you for the room, the bed and breakfast,” she said.
“’Twas my pleasure, Lady Claire. Bon voyage.”