CHAPTER FIFTEEN #4
Claire went downstairs and into the great hall. It was early morning and bright light was trying to flood the great room, but unsuccessfully, due to the depth of the numerous windows. Isabel was breaking the fast alone. She smiled at her. “I am so glad that you are up and about,” she said.
Claire smiled back. “Whatever potion they gave me, it kept me weak, tired and in bed, which was the point, I guess. But I feel like myself. Isabel, where is Aidan?”
Isabel started. “He left last night, Claire. He said he had affairs in Paris.”
Claire sat down in sheer dismay. “He left us here—alone?”
“He said he would be back today.”
Her eyes widened but she instantly got it. He was leaping over to Paris and back, never mind the rules—unless, of course, he was hunting evil, in which case he wasn’t breaking any rules. She was about to ask Isabel if she was certain, when Aidan strode into the hall, smiling.
Claire’s eyes widened. He was wearing a cloak that wasn’t remotely a part of the fifteenth century, not even in France, and he was carrying a beautiful gold velvet, gilded rococo chair.
He grinned at them both. “What do ye think?”
Isabel blushed. Claire stood. “You went to France for a chair?”
“Aye.” He set it down next to a table and sofa. “Malcolm owes me the chair but I dinna think he will ever replace it. He can pay me back another way.” He stroked the gilded, intricately carved back. “’Tis a great beauty.”
Claire went to him. “So much for only using your powers to uphold the Code.”
He waved dismissively at her. “Rules, Claire, are made to be broken. What is it yer dyin’ to ask me?”
Claire hesitated, glancing at Isabel.
Aidan walked over to his mistress. He bent, kissed her cheek, murmured to her and she dutifully got up and left the room. Then he faced Claire.
Claire thought about the fact that she actually liked him when he was both a heartbreaker and a chauvinist in the worst way. “Aidan, how can I convince you to take me to Malcolm?”
His eyes widened briefly. “Ye canna.”
She went over to him. “I have to go. Malcolm cannot face Moray alone. This is a battle for his soul. He has to win. You know he must. If he loses, he will be a Deamhan and he will be dead to us. Please.”
“No.” His tone was absolute. “Malcolm has asked me to take ye to the abbey, where ye’ll be safe. Sibylla has gone to court. The court is nay safe, nay with Moray there, thinkin’ to use ye against him. Malcolm has Royce to look after his soul.” His gray eyes had become hard.
“He’s followed Sibylla to court?” Dismay began.
“If you take me, I will go with you back to my time and show you more beauty than you have ever seen.” If Aidan had a weak spot, it was his love of beautiful women and beautiful objects.
She would take him to the Met, Tiffany’s, Asprey’s…
. She could think of a hundred places to go.
His smile was wry. “I can find beauty meself, Claire. Anytime, anyplace.”
Claire took both of his hands in hers. “I am begging you. I am begging you to help me help your brother.”
He shrugged free. “I dinna worry about my brother,” he said.
That was a lie. Claire felt it. She stared, thinking about the fact that Malcolm seemed to hate Aidan and vice versa.
But in the past few days, the brothers had become civil and they had been allies.
Malcolm, Claire knew, remained distrustful, but Aidan had tried to heal him, then had locked him up for his own good.
And he had tried to heal her. He had been nothing but helpful since they had come to Awe. And why?
Claire suddenly had a terrible inkling. His mother had abandoned him at birth.
Moray he despised—and possibly feared. He had some kind of relationship with Royce, but they were not related.
His wife was dead. His only personal adult and familial relationship seemed to be with Isabel, and Claire knew that was a fling. Malcolm, however, was his half brother.
Aidan needed Malcolm.
“What would you do if Malcolm admitted you were his brother, if he treated you like his brother, if he came to care for you as a brother?” she asked softly.
He paled, then a flush of anger began. “Treachery, Claire?” he asked coldly.
She had struck a nerve. “The two of you should be great friends!” she cried. “You are as much a victim as Malcolm of what Moray did to your mother!”
Aidan was furious, his eyes blazing. “Ye go too far,” he warned. He turned away.
Claire seized his arm. “No. Take me to Malcolm and I swear on my mother’s grave, I will make him see that you are his greatest ally! Aidan, I like you, even though I do not care for philandering men. You are a good and, at times, kind man, and I will make Malcolm see that.”
His face remained flushed, his eyes glittered. “I dinna care if we be friends or brothers or not.”
“That is such a lie!”
He shook his head.
“You need Malcolm and he needs you, now more than ever,” Claire tried passionately.
He flung his hands up, the fur-lined cloak flying back like wings. “He doesna want my help.”
“But I can change that—I want to change that.” She meant it. “When I go home, I want Malcolm to have you in his life as a brother, an ally, a friend. For God’s sake, it’s a dangerous world. The two of you should stand together.”
He appeared distressed now and more grim than she had ever seen him. “I’ll take ye,” he finally said. “But ye dinna breathe one word o’ our negotiation to Malcolm.”
Claire gasped. He would take her. Somehow she would fulfill her part of the bargain. “When do we go?”
He shrugged. “Anytime.”
“Now?”
“If ye wish.”
“I need to get my gun and dagger.” Claire impulsively kissed his cheek and raced upstairs. The sooner she got to court and was reunited with Malcolm, the better. Because Moray was there—and so was Sibylla. She seized her weapons and securely tucked them in her belt.
Turning to leave, she faltered.
Claire whirled to stare at the wildflowers.
The flowers in the vase remained dead. But the pink flower she had removed from the bunch lay on its side at the base of the vase—in full bloom.