CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
Her heart slamming in alarm, Claire didn’t hesitate.
She fired. The bullet hit Sibylla in the chest and the impact through her armor should have sent her flying from her horse; it did not.
Instead, she reached down and jerked the gun from Claire as if she hadn’t felt the gunshot.
From her eyes, Claire saw that she had felt some pain and that she was now angry, but it wasn’t stopping her.
Worse, as their gazes met, Claire felt a terrible sensation, as if her insides were being turned to jelly. Her racing heart slowed.
Sibylla was taking her life.
Claire’s knees felt weak. She stumbled, aghast with what was happening. And she felt lust blaze in the other woman. Claire looked up to beg for her life.
Sibylla’s eyes were hot and bright as she leaped from the horse to kneel over Claire.
And the moment their gazes connected, Claire knew she’d made a fatal mistake.
For Sibylla began to mesmerize her and Claire felt her body relax, even though her mind screamed at her to resist. The mushy feeling inside her increased—and to her horror, a wave of pleasure swept her body, and her loins swelled, aching for a caress.
Sibylla laughed softly. “You have so much power! But I have known that for some time. Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to kill you, darling. And by the way, you won’t need that.”
And before Claire could understand, Sibylla leaned down and reached for her throat.
And Claire saw the other woman holding her mother’s necklace.
Disbelief and impotence vanished. Instead, there was rage.
She howled, attacking the woman, intent on dragging her down—she’d get the stone back!
But Sibylla caught her wrist, her strength shocking once more.
In that moment, Claire knew she was toast.
Time stopped. Silence fell. Her eyes gleaming and crazed like a drug addict’s, Sibylla thrust her shortsword deep into Claire’s shoulder.
Claire had never known so much pain. She stiffened, blinded by the red-hot agony, incapable of any thoughts except a terrible awareness of the stunning torment.
“I’m not allowed to kill you,” Sibylla whispered. “But maybe you’ll die anyway.” She released Claire.
Claire heard her but couldn’t reply. She sank to the ground, her legs giving way instantly. The sky was turning black. She wanted it to turn black. She spun in a cyclone of pain. Vaguely she heard Malcolm’s roar of rage. The pain made her want to die. Then there was nothing but silence.
MALCOLM PANICKED.
As Claire fell, blood pouring down her chest and arm, he froze. Then panic exploded. Sibylla leaped onto her horse, sword raised, and charged at him.
He came to his senses. He parried her blow effortlessly and ran past her steed to Claire. He knelt as the sounds of battle died behind him. “Claire!”
She was unconscious and bleeding profusely, dangerously.
He saw that the sword had gone through most of her shoulder.
There would be no way to save her arm if she lived, but the rate at which she was losing blood made her survival questionable.
She needed someone who had the power to heal her with ancient gifts. He roared for his brother. “Aidan!”
Royce jumped from his charger, running to him. “They’re gone. Do ye have the page?”
“Aye. Get Aidan. Get Aidan here now!” Malcolm shouted at him, cutting off a long piece of his leine. She was turning white from the blood loss. He bound up the wound, aware of his hands shaking. She could not die!
Aidan leaped off of his black steed. Malcolm looked up and saw the fear in his half brother’s eyes. “Ye heal her,” he warned thickly. “Ye find the power an’ ye find it now!”
Aidan knelt. “Get away from me,” he said tersely, putting his hands on her wound. “Ye be a distraction I dinna need!”
Malcolm did not want to leave Claire. He stood, staring at her, unable to believe that this was happening. Fear made it almost impossible to think. He only knew he could not lose her. Not now, not like this. Not ever.
Aidan was sweating now.
Malcolm looked up at the heavens above and prayed.
He prayed to all the old gods and, afraid they would not listen, offered them his own life in return for hers.
Surely they would accept such a bargain!
Then he looked down at his half brother.
“What happens?” he cried. He could not find calm, no matter how he might try.
“I can feel her life,” Aidan said tersely. He finally glanced up. “She be weak, Malcolm.”
“Ye feel it returnin’ or leavin?” Malcolm demanded furiously. He knew how weak Claire was!
Royce seized his arm and pulled him away. “Yer fear doesna help him.”
“It be returnin’ to her,” Aidan said harshly. “She doesna need me. She be healin’ herself. I can feel her force. Malcolm, she has power.”
He felt no surprise. He had been suspicious of who she was from the start.
Malcolm knelt and took Claire’s hand. As he did so, he felt her life, weak but steady, flowing in her hand, around his.
He tried to sense her power and slowly, he began to feel it, soft but strong, a clean and good white life force, so oddly familiar.
Aidan pulled the soaking red linen off her arm. He laid his hand on the wound. “She’s nay bleedin’ now.”
As Aidan sat with her, his hands on her, Malcolm held her hand. He felt her pulse becoming stronger. Relief finally began.
Royce squatted and clasped his shoulder.
Malcolm looked at him.
“She’ll need to stay at Awe fer a few days,” Royce said. “I’ll take the page to Iona.” He hesitated. “I willna ask if ye’ll stay with her.”
“Good.” Malcolm wasn’t leaving Claire until she was well on her way to recovery. He reached into his brat and handed Royce the rolled-up page. Royce stood, his expression turning hard, and a moment later he had vanished into thin air.
Claire murmured his name.
Malcolm leaned over her. “Lass!”
Her lashes fluttered but her eyes did not open.
Aidan sagged to his hands and knees, his hands and forearms covered with Claire’s blood. He was deathly white. “Get her inside. Ye can move her now,” he gasped.
Malcolm realized Aidan had used his own power to heal Claire, so much so that he had made himself weak. He was dumbfounded. He signaled to the men surrounding them. “Help yer lord into the keep,” he said sharply.
“I be fine,” Aidan snapped, but he remained on the ground and did not appear to be capable of getting up.
He was a pigheaded man, Malcolm thought grimly. He knelt and lifted Claire gently into his arms. More relief made it hard to breathe. Two men had helped Aidan to his feet and he stared.
Malcolm gave in. “Thank ye.”
Aidan nodded. “Ye be welcome.”
CLAIRE REALIZED she was in a fluffy feather bed.
Floating on down, she smiled dreamily, wondering whose bed she was in.
Maybe she was dreaming, she somehow thought, as her own Doctor’s Choice mattress was far firmer than this.
Sunlight poured into the room. But such bright sunlight was nonexistent in Manhattan.
Claire blinked, confused, and saw unfamiliar, crude stone walls that bobbed around her.
Her shoulder hurt, the throbbing ache deep and intense.
Then she realized that she was in someone’s arms.
Claire pushed through the layers of fog.
She was dazed, groggy. She saw a man’s powerful forearm across her waist and felt his broad chest against her back, and realized Malcolm lay on his side behind her, and she was spooned against him.
He felt incredibly right—strong, warm, safe.
The room continued to slowly spin. She wasn’t in the city or the present.
She began to recall the terrible battle outside of Awe and Sibylla’s vicious attack.
Sibylla had thrust her sword into Claire’s shoulder and she had enjoyed doing it.
She had enjoyed taking some of Claire’s life force even more.
Claire realized she was on some kind of medieval drug and it was hellishly strong. The bed seemed to be on a merry-go-round and it was hard to think clearly. She should be out of her mind with pain. But maybe there was another reason she wasn’t in agony.
Afraid, Claire tensed and looked at her left arm, but it was attached to her shoulder. She sank against Malcolm in sheer relief. How long had she been unconscious? Days? Weeks? Thank God someone had saved her arm!
She somehow shifted, so she was on her back and could look up at him. She had assumed him to be asleep, but he was wide-awake and watching her closely. When she met his gaze, he smiled.
It was a beautiful, unreserved, heartbreaking, heartwarming smile. “Good afternoon, lass,” he said softly.
Claire shifted to face him, pain stabbing through her, but not badly. Malcolm seemed to bob, too, but not in tandem with the walls and window. She laid her left hand on his hard chest and shivered with pleasure. “These are wild drugs,” she whispered. “Why are you in my bed?” She smiled up at him.
His hand clasped her waist. “I was tired. I thought to sleep.”
Claire looked up into his stunningly gentle and uncomplicated gray eyes. Affection shimmered there. “You have your own bed,” she murmured. Was she seeing what she wanted to see, as she was so heavily under the influence of whatever potion she had been given?
He hesitated. “Do ye remember what happened, lass?”
Claire nodded. “How did they save my arm?”
Malcolm met her searching gaze. “Aidan worked to heal ye. But ye have yer own powers, Claire. There’s no more denyin’ it.”
She knew that was absurd. “The stone has power,” she whispered, reaching for it with her left hand. She froze—it was gone. Sibylla had taken it.
“I’ll get it back fer you,” Malcolm said, sliding his other hand into her hair, the gesture entirely comforting.