CHAPTER TEN #2
She reached across the table for his hand.
“Do not get me wrong. I am grateful for the protection you have given me, Malcolm, I am. But it might take years to find the demon who killed my mom and you’re pretty busy right here in 1427.
” She hesitated. “I know you’ll never understand me—what I want, what I need, what I have to do—or my world. ” The comprehension hurt.
Anger entered his gray eyes. “Ah, lass, ye be arrogant again—annoyingly so!”
“You listen, but you refuse to hear a word I am saying!” she cried, upset as she realized the extent of the cultural gulf between them.
“It’s not even the way of this world, Malcolm, because in a few years in France, Joan of Arc is going to lead her people in battle against her enemies.
And in the time of your ancestors, women were great warriors, fighting alongside their men.
In my time, women are soldiers. They go to war and they fight and die beside men. ”
Malcolm said softly, dangerously, “As long as I can breathe, I will keep ye safe. ’Tis the vow I took t’ protect the Innocent and ye be my Innocent, Claire. Even when ye leave me, that canna change.”
She tensed, because he had spoken of her returning to her time in such a personal way.
And she knew that she had come up against a brick wall.
“There’s a bottom line. If you want to protect me until I die, I guess I can’t stop you.
But my life belongs to me. If I want to avenge my mother, no one can stop me.
Now that I know the truth, how can I sit back and do nothing?
If that demon is alive, I have to try to avenge my mother.
You would do the same damn thing for your mother. ”
Malcolm paled.
And Claire knew she had said something terribly wrong, because the three other men at the table stilled. Abruptly everyone turned their attention to their plates except for Malcolm. She looked at him and saw that he was stricken.
“Malcolm,” she said carefully. “I’m sorry. Whatever I just said, it was a mistake.” But she didn’t have a clue as to what she had done to upset him so.
Malcolm shoved his empty trencher aside. For one moment he stared at it, clearly grappling with his emotions, and then he stood. He walked out into the night.
Claire looked at the men. “What just happened?”
Royce said softly, “His mother be a sore spot, lass.”
Claire remained utterly clueless. Then she leaped up and ran after him.
Outside, the night had settled, a Highland darkness filled with a billion bright stars. She saw Malcolm walking up the stairs to the ramparts. He wanted to be alone, she was certain. Claire went after him anyway.
“Nay now, lass,” he said, not turning, his gaze directed across the ocean, an expanse of shimmering ebony.
Claire paused behind him. “Can you tell me what I said to distress you so?”
“Ye be right. Vengeance be proper. Yer a warrior in yer heart, and ye burn to avenge yer mother.”
Claire wet her lips. “Glenna told me your mother is English, but that’s all. Is this about your mother—or about your father?”
A silence fell. “Aye. ’Tis about them both.”
And Claire knew something terrible had happened. She took his hand and held it.
He shrugged free. “Moray raped my mother,” he said suddenly, quietly. “When she was a bride.”
Claire made sure not to gasp, but she was horrified. And then she became afraid. “Moray isn’t your biological father, is he?”
His jaw tensed. “I was born three years later, Claire. Nay. I be the son o’ Brogan Mor.”
Claire bit her lip, beyond relief. “Was it a pleasure crime?”
He shook his head. “It be rape. Brutal, sadistic, hurtful rape. It be torture, Claire. Moray raped Lady Mairead when my father went to battle, many times. He could have murdered her, but he wanted to spare her, to worsen the torment. My mother tried to hang herself, but her maid found her in time.” He added, nostrils flared, “She’s cloistered now. ”
Claire felt tears well. “I am sorry! That’s a terrible story!”
He faced her, eyes blazing. “I didna ken the truth until I’d made my vows.” His laughter was harsh, angry. “The night afterward, my uncle told me exactly why Moray be my mortal enemy. An’ he begged me to leave the man who raped my mother alone,” he said sarcastically.
Claire began to realize what had happened. “Oh, God. That’s when you went after Moray. And he toyed with you, didn’t he? That’s when you fought, when you almost died, when he entrapped you with the woman.”
He faced her, his expression harsh, ruthless. “My father spent his life seeking revenge an’he failed. I sought revenge. I failed. I dinna want t’ see ye raped, Claire, or worse! I dinna want t’ see ye die.”
Claire wiped an errant tear, heartbroken for him, his mother and father, but dread was blooming. Moray hadn’t killed Mairead—he wanted her to spend a lifetime suffering. And he’d used her as bait in the trap he’d set for Malcolm.
He said roughly, “Do ye ken? I must protect ye. I canna fail ye.”
Claire swallowed hard. “Yes. I get it.” Was Moray done with the Macleans—or not? Was he done with Malcolm?
His gaze held hers. “Yer world may be different. I dinna ken. But in my world, I protect women. In my world, I protect ye. Or I die in the tryin’.” He softened. “Will ye nay allow me t’ protect ye, lass?”
Claire nodded, overwhelmed. But she could not change her mind about what she had to do.
She wasn’t Mairead, or anything like her.
No matter how strong Malcolm was, she couldn’t rely on him as if she were a fifteenth-century woman.
She didn’t even have a choice, not anymore.
Maybe Malcolm was right about one thing.
Maybe in her heart, she was a warrior, because she had to have vengeance.
But she wasn’t going to argue. He would never change his mind, that was now clear.
He was filled with guilt, and his failure to avenge his mother was something he’d live with forever.
Except the man standing in the dark before her was burning with determination.
“You were young and rash,” she said through stiff lips. “But it’s different now, isn’t it?”
His eyes flickered; he looked away.
“Oh, God. It’s not over. You’re biding your time. You’ll never rest—not until you’ve vanquished Moray or somehow paid him back, equally.”
He faced her, his gray eyes burning. “One day, we’ll meet again. I may die. It won’t matter. Because I will take him with me—this time.”
Claire panicked, not for herself but for Malcolm. “Is your power equal to his?” She already knew that answer. “Haven’t Masters tried to vanquish him for centuries? Two wrongs don’t make a right!”
“The day will come,” he said, so softly chills swept over her. “Dinna fear fer me. The day I die, if Moray dies I be pleased, Claire, very pleased.”
Claire couldn’t speak. Impossibly macho, impossibly heroic. Damn it, he was the one who was going to die.
He reached out. “Canna ye have some faith in yer man, lass?”
Her man. She looked up and he met her gaze, his regard sweeping and intense. “I have faith. I’m just so worried now.”
His smile began, so soft and so beautiful it left her breathless. “Ah, lass, ye have a care fer me.” His grasp tightened. “But ye will fight me anyway.”
She bit her lip. It wasn’t a question and they both knew it. “Sometimes,” she said carefully, her heart slamming so much she thought she might explode, “a difference of opinion between a man and a woman is a good thing.”
He reeled her in with another soul-shattering smile. “Aye,” he whispered. “A very good thing. Ye let me worry, Claire. Let me worry—let me fight—let me please ye…now.”
She was in his arms, her breasts crushed by his iron chest. The night was velvet on her bare calves, her cheek.
And Malcolm was as hard as a rock against her belly, her waist. This was it, she somehow thought.
And now, there was only one possible conclusion to their opposing world views. “Malcolm,” she breathed.
His gaze moved over her face, his large hands sliding over her back. He smiled, touching her lips with his mouth, just once. “Aye, lass, I ken what ye need from me. An’ye ken what I need from ye.”
Claire inhaled as his hands slid lower, firmly grasping her bottom over the denim skirt and linen tunic, pulling her entirely against a very impressive erection. “Oh.” His arousal was burning hot, even though her clothes.
He ran his tongue along her full lower lip.
Claire gasped, while his hands delved lower, beneath the brat and leine, over her miniskirt, fingertips perilously close to where she wished them to be, on the back of her bare thighs.
He licked at her lips, the tip of his tongue relaxing, murmuring, “Ye still wear the rag.”
“It’s…a…skirt.”
“Nay,” he breathed. And he took her mouth with his.
Claire forgot about everything except the man she wanted.
She moaned in pleasure, holding on to his huge shoulders as he turned her, pressing her against the wall, his mouth firm and commanding, forcing her to part her lips for him.
His tongue swept deep. If he could make her throb greedily in a near climax with his tongue down her throat, she knew she’d die and go to heaven when they made love.
So much heat ran through her, swelling her sex impossibly, that she could not stand it.
But before she could beg him to either take her down to bed or take her there, against the wall, he reached between them, beneath her skirt.
The moment his fingers found her turgid flesh, spreading her there, she flung her head back and sobbed as pleasure exploded over her.
And then she felt the massive tip of him, bare, hot and slick, pressing against her swollen lips.
He rubbed himself back and forth, breathing hard, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, spinning mindlessly, so much pleasure cresting.
He seized her thigh, helping her wrap it around his waist.