CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LINLITHGOW MANOR HAD BURNED to the ground several years earlier in a fire that had also destroyed the burgh, but King James had built a magnificent palace in its place.
Malcolm stood with Royce in the large courtyard, their mounts left behind in the stables on the other side of the small loch just beyond the castle’s red-brown walls.
Three four-story ranges with ramparts enclosed the courtyard, while the main part of the palace was five stories high, a grand tower in its midst. Other towers were on the corners of the walls.
Courtiers and servants were coming and going as Malcolm glanced cautiously around.
He’d been to Linlithgow when it was but a manor.
The new stronghold was imposing, but instead of being impressed, he had a distinct feeling of unease.
“Have ye been here afore?” Malcolm asked quietly as they crossed the courtyard, a pair of departing noblewomen smiling at them as they did so.
“Six months ago,” Royce said. He turned to look after the redhead. “Ye know I hate the intrigue o’ court.”
Malcolm almost smiled. “But nay the intrigue o’ the wives.”
Royce smiled grudgingly.
A ranking steward met them as they entered a vast hall, the far wall consisting entirely of hearths.
A hundred lords and ladies mingled, many of them awaiting an audience with the king or queen.
Malcolm recognized every Highland chieftain in the great room.
He did not see the earl of Moray, but he felt his dark presence and knew he was at court.
He was very glad he had not brought Claire with him, he thought.
She did not need political intrigue, royal treachery and demonic conspiracy heaped upon her plate.
But his heart hurt when he thought of her.
He had been trying not to do so. He had begun to understand why she called sex “making love.” He cared deeply for her when he did not want to, and his feelings had been inextricably entwined with his desire the other day.
Thinking about it made him uncomfortable and uncertain.
He had to gain control of his affection.
He must think of her as another Glenna—a pleasing mistress to use and eventually tire of and send away.
Except, he had no interest in her leaving. Even from the first moment of their meeting, he’d wondered if she might stay in his time with him. But she had made her intentions clear. MacNeil had seen the future, too, corroborating that her will would prevail over his. By the gods, it was shocking.
And he could not even use her as he would a mistress. He had wanted to hold her and touch her as they mated, yet his desire had turned to demonic lust in moments. When his excitement had begun to escalate out of control, the beast had leaped from its lair to take her life.
Except, oddly, he had not touched her life—he had touched and felt her soul.
It had been as beautiful and desirable as she was. He could not understand what had really happened, but it had been different from that time in the tower—blinding in pleasure, but somehow different.
Royce clasped his shoulder. “Yer at court. Ye wish fer passion, pick an’ choose, but forget Lady Claire. The redhead in the courtyard was pretty enough.”
Malcolm smiled tightly at him. He wished he could do just that. “She was inviting ye to her bed.”
And suddenly Malcolm felt evil approaching. He turned, tension vibrating within him.
“Surely you will not be faithful to Lady Claire?” Moray said, the tone laced with amusement.
Malcolm tensed. Had Moray read his thoughts?
“You’ve healed well,” Moray murmured. “And I take it yer beautiful mistress has also survived Sibylla’s inopportune attack?”
“I am going t’kill Sibylla,” Malcolm said. “Ye should ha’ kept yer bitch leashed.”
Moray shrugged. “And I will replace her,” he said indifferently, “but that you already know.”
“Ye keep yerself leashed,” Malcolm warned, filled with hatred. “Ye stay away from Lady Claire. Ye’ll not use her against me. I warn ye now. For if ye touch her, ye will face such a war as never afore. I dinna care what the royals command.”
“Such treasonous speech,” Moray murmured. “And how can I manage such an impossible feat when she is so…hot beneath a man?” Moray laughed, teeth flashing.
Malcolm moved to strike Moray but Royce held him back. Malcolm flung him off.
“Aye,” Moray said, smiling. “I know her passion. I know it very well.”
Malcolm stared, filled with dread. Had Moray spied on them in their most private moments? Or had he lurked in their minds, his favorite means of gathering his intelligence? For that was how the devil’s own knew everything he wished to know.
Then Moray’s smile was gone. “I am impressed, Malcolm, with your determination to deny your lust for such a woman. Have no fear. I will happily make up for your neglect. If you do not want to taste her impressive power, I do. If I cannot turn you, I will simply destroy you as I did Brogan, while she begs me for more, just as your mother did.” His eyes hard, he left.
Malcolm was shaking in rage. Sick fear spoiled his anger. He had never been more afraid for Claire.
Royce took his arm. “He taunts ye apurpose! And dinna think o’ Mairead now! Dinna think o’ Claire!”
“He means his every word! And damn it, he be right. He could nay turn Brogan, but he destroyed their marriage and to this day, my mother suffers! Now, if he doesna turn me, he will attempt t’ use Claire and destroy her.
” And for the first time in his life, Malcolm felt despair.
He felt trapped and impotent, shocking feelings, feelings he hated.
“All I wish t’ do is protect her from evil.
Instead, my every action brings her closer to its shadow and its strangling hold. ”
“Ye made the mistake o’ allowing yerself to love her,” Royce said grimly. He pulled him to a corner of the hall. “I dinna expect ye to change yer heart. I ken ye will love her till ye die.”
“I swore to protect her, Royce,” Malcolm said grimly. “Wanting her an’ protecting her are nay love. Ye made the mistake o’ lovin’ yer wife an’ look at yer life, hundreds o’ years later! I willna be such a fool.”
Royce shook his head, clearly not convinced or impressed. “I expect ye to stand true to the Code and God. Ye need to start praying, and not just to Christ. The old gods will awaken an’ listen if ye mean it.”
This was a subject he could manage. “I’ve already started praying,” Malcolm said. “I’ve prayed fer strength in my soul to control what I dearly want to unleash.”
“Ye have controlled the evil. Ye won. Ye beat Moray. It will get easier in time. And Moray will hunt another.”
“In how much time?” Malcolm exclaimed. “How long does it take to find control, real control o’ the dark?”
“Yer too young,” Royce said, shaking his head. “An’ no leap can change yer real age. The control comes with time. All young Masters want Le Puissance. Ye’ll grow stronger, it will be easier to ferget it. Ye need to avoid Claire. Take a different wench to bed, a woman who willna tempt ye to stray.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I dinna wish to bed another maid! I wish to bed Claire! You’re over eight hundred years old!
I’m twenty-seven! I canna wait eight centuries to love Claire properly.
” The moment he realized his choice of words, he felt his cheeks heat.
He did not want to love Claire, ever—he merely wished to pleasure her.
Royce sighed. “I meant what I said earlier. Ye need to stay away from her, not others, as she is yer temptation. I am pleased ye left her at Awe.”
“I dinna ken how long I can stay away from her.”
“Ye fight yer lust. Ye fight it like ye fight Moray. The lust is Moray,” Royce flashed. “An when ye ken that truth, ye’ll win.”
Royce was wrong. The lust was evil only when it became a raging beast that wished for more power than any man or Master should ever claim.
Because briefly, when Claire had been recovering from Sibylla’s attack, there had been desire that had nothing to do with evil.
There had been desire that had come from the heart.
“Ruari, have you ever felt a woman’s soul? ”
Royce was surprised. “What in God’s name are ye speakin’ of?”
Malcolm felt himself blush, and avoided his uncle’s penetrating gaze. “Never ye mind.”
Royce clasped his shoulder. “When I said pray to the Ancients, I meant it. ’Tis a god who will give ye the power to stay holy, Malcolm.”
Royce was right. He had been steeped in religion from the day of his birth. When Brogan had died on the battlefield, some of his faith had wavered. Maybe it should have strengthened that day, instead. He was glad he had started praying to the Ancients again.
The only problem was that the gods could be capricious.
THE PAIN WAS TERRIBLE. Even though Aidan had given her a potion to withstand it more easily, Claire wept, vaguely aware of being in Aidan’s strong arms. He did not speak as her body tried to explode from the force of leaping time.
Every bone felt broken; every limb felt wrenched out of its socket. Even her hair hurt.
But the agony lessened rapidly. Claire became cognizant of the fact that not only were Aidan’s arms around her, she had her face pressed to the wool of his brat, against his chest, which rose and fell softly and steadily.
“Ye be better now?” he asked hoarsely.
She couldn’t quite speak. She took a deep breath, flexing her fingers, wishing he would get up and put some distance between them. She had just become aware of a tension in him she could not help but recognize. It was desire.
Aidan released her, standing. The color was returning to his face.
Claire blinked and met his too-bright, very warm silver gaze. “What…was that?”
His smile was wry. “I only hold a woman when I’m about to bed her, Claire. I canna help it if my body was expectin’ more.”