CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CLAIRE AWOKE with a pounding migraine, the likes of which she had never before had. Pain consuming her, she staggered from the bed to a chamber pot, where she vomited helplessly.
She sat on the floor, trying to get her bearings and praying that she felt better. The terrible pain was gone, replaced by a less severe headache, but she felt nauseous now. In fact, she felt as if she’d drunk a whopping amount of wine last night.
But there hadn’t been any wine last night.
Last night, there had been Malcolm.
Aghast, Claire glanced toward the chamber’s two windows. Outside, it was a cloudy morning, the sun barely visible. She began to shake, becoming ill, not in her body but in her heart, her soul.
She was at Awe and last night Moray had dealt Malcolm a nearly fatal blow—for the second time. But he wasn’t dead. He was very much alive.
Oh, God. What had she done? What had he done?
Malcolm had been near death. He had been locked up like a wild beast and she had been out of her mind, she thought, slowly standing.
Now she recalled the terrible desperation, the shocking need to find him, be with him.
Last night, she had been certain he was calling her, willing her to him.
It had felt as if their minds were communicating.
She had not hesitated to obey. In fact, to the contrary, nothing and no one could have stopped her from going to him.
She had not been in control of either her body or her mind. Malcolm had been controlling her. But he hadn’t been sane, either.
His savage roars filled her mind. He had taken her life last night.
Claire stumbled to a chair and sat down, horrified. Pleasure in death. That was the understatement of the ages. Last night she had wanted to die for him. Last night she had wanted to die in the throes of an inhuman ecstasy.
How close had she come to death? She vaguely recalled MacNeil and Aidan hovering over her. Claire’s teeth began to chatter. Had Malcolm stopped…or had he been dragged from her like a rabid animal? She could not remember the details.
Claire could not believe she’d had no will of her own. That was terrifying.
But Malcolm had had no will, either. Being near death had turned him into something insatiable, determined to live no matter the cost.
Moray was about to own Malcolm’s soul. Or was it too late?
A tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another and another. And Claire thought of his warm glances and affectionate smile as she lay in his arms after lovemaking, that one, single night, when he had stunned her by telling her he wished to make a commitment of fidelity to her.
Her heart shrieked in protest, demanding that she listen.
Malcolm could not have turned evil last night.
Malcolm hadn’t really hurt her, because she was very much alive today.
He was good, and she knew it with her heart, her soul.
It was Moray who was evil, Moray and all of his kind.
It was Moray who had left Malcolm to die, hoping Malcolm would kill Claire to save himself, hoping to entrap Malcolm into becoming a full-fledged Deamhan as he had tried to before.
But Malcolm had regained his sanity before it was too late.
Claire was not reassured. Moray had almost succeeded in engineering her death and Malcolm’s downfall. Her mind raced, pointing out that Malcolm had now violated his vows twice, even if she was alive. Was he on the brink of becoming evil?
What would she do if she went to Malcolm and found something else in his place?
Claire was ready to finally admit the truth. She was very much in love with a medieval man descended from a goddess. And last night, he had been insane with a barely comprehensible lust.
She went to the window and, realizing it pushed outward to open, managed to do so. As the fresh, damp air rolled in off the loch, she breathed deeply, her heart racing wildly. And she heard swords clashing.
Claire tensed. In the bailey below, Malcolm and Royce were dealing a series of blows against one another.
For one moment she stared as the men locked swords, confused.
They were so focused she would have sworn they meant to injure one another.
Malcolm went after Royce with such an aggressive thrust that, for an instant, she thought Royce was doomed.
But he blocked the blow and they braced there, savagely.
Claire ducked back inside, trembling anew.
Her heart was beating hard and fast. She might never forget what had happened last night, but she wasn’t afraid of Malcolm. She was afraid for him.
As Claire crossed the room to leave, she glimpsed her reflection in the small mirror standing on the room’s single bureau.
Clad in her city clothes, she faltered. Her face was very pale, stained with two huge dark circles under her eyes.
She looked ill, seriously so. And that was because she had almost died last night.
Claire turned away from the looking glass.
She stepped into her cowboy boots and went downstairs.
The hall was empty and outside, the Highland morning was wet and damp from last night’s rain.
The scent of summer rain, fresh flowers and wet grass was heady and intense but not enough to shake the ill feeling deep inside her.
Claire paused. Malcolm and Royce were so furiously engaged that she had grave doubts about the nature of their practice.
As she took a good look at Malcolm and then Royce, she realized that both men were very angry.
If this was practice, she did not know what a real battle would be like.
Each was clearly intent on defeating the other.
She could guess why Royce was so angry, but Malcolm looked just as mad.
Her heart lurched and she started forward.
Blow parried blow. Malcolm’s leine was soaking wet and it stuck to his powerful body, revealing every rippling muscle. His shoulder-length hair was dripping wet and sweat streaked his face. Royce matched him exactly.
Claire was certain that the events of last night were the reason for such terrible animosity. Malcolm needed to back down. Royce had been a father to him since Malcolm was nine years old. She understood Royce’s anger. It came from fear for his nephew.
Malcolm glanced at her and Royce struck the sword from his grasp and then laid his blade against Malcolm’s jugular. Malcolm tilted his head farther back, accepting his defeat but looking damn displeased about it.
“Royce!” Claire cried. Had Malcolm heard her thoughts? Surely Royce wasn’t going to cut him!
Royce snarled and then flung his sword tip first into the ground, where it stood, quivering. He strode past Claire, brushing his wet golden hair from his face, spraying her with his sweat.
She breathed hard as Malcolm bent to retrieve his sword. She was ready to rush into his arms. Instead, she slowly went to him. “Are you all right?” Royce had left a thin red line on his throat.
He straightened, sheathing his sword. Then he pushed his wet hair straight back over his forehead and behind his ears. Claire trembled, realizing he wasn’t looking at her. “Malcolm?”
He finally met her gaze, his eyes burning bright. “What, exactly, do ye ask? I should be the one asking ye if yer well.”
She tensed. “I’m fine…upset…a little bit scared…but fine.” She hugged herself. “Royce is angry about last night, isn’t he? He doesn’t really understand what happened.”
He flinched, looking away, a terrible expression of revulsion on his face. “I dinna wish t’ ever discuss last night. An’ dinna try to defend me now.”
“Of course I’ll defend you! I will always defend you, because you are the most honorable man I have ever met! Honor won last night.”
He faced her furiously, but he became stricken as he finally stared at her face. “’Tis time fer dinner,” he said harshly. He started past her.
“We have to talk about last night!” Claire seized his wet forearm, but he whirled and leaped away. “Malcolm, we cannot ignore what happened! I almost lost you last night—and I almost died!”
“Will ye nay leave it alone?” he shouted. “I be here, do I not? Yer alive, are ye not?”
“How can I leave it alone? Moray almost turned you evil. I was ready to die last night in your arms, in pleasure—willingly!” she cried wildly, shaking.
He inhaled, and for one moment Claire thought he was going to shove her away. Instead, very gently, he removed her hand from his arm. “Aye, ye almost died last night. I took all o’ ye that I could.” His eyes blazed.
When he did not say another word, she whispered, “You were going to die. You’re programmed to live, no matter the cost. And you didn’t take all of me.” Then, because she wanted to be certain, “You stopped, didn’t you? Somehow, you stopped.”
His face looked to be in danger of cracking. She wasn’t certain he could speak, as he was breathing so hard. Finally he said, “Aye. I felt ye leavin’ this world. I stopped the beast that lives in me. This one time.”
“You chose good, not evil,” she managed to say. “There is so much hope!”
He roared, “Ye had nothin’ left that I wanted!”
She cringed. “Don’t.”
“Don’t tell ye the truth yer so fond of?”
Compassion overcame her. “I understand your anger,” she whispered.
“And I understand last night. You know I do. I felt every explosive moment that you were having and it made me want more and more, too. It made me want to die for you. I get it, now. Who wouldn’t want more of that kind of insane sex, that kind of unbelievable ecstasy, after trying it once?
I get it. Even knowing the risks, it could tempt me to try it again!
But you’re not an average man. You were destined for good, not evil.
You defeated Moray at the last possible moment. Malcolm, you won.”
He became savage. “Ye should be afraid. I defeated no one! Ye wish to encourage my memories? When I look at ye, I see ye as ye were last night—near death, yer face filled with pleasure—and I feel ye flowin’ in my veins. I feel ye even now!”