CHAPTER NINETEEN #2
“I will give you more pleasure than Malcolm ever has,” he murmured. “Night after day and day after night. Come here. That’s a good girl.”
And Claire felt her legs moving. Aghast, she realized she was walking toward him, her heart racing now, but not with fear—with excitement. She must not let him mesmerize her now! She must fight his powers of enchantment. “No,” she said hoarsely. “I won’t give in to you!”
He smiled at her, impossibly beautiful, and his lust thickened the air that had become her cocoon and cage.
The images replayed now in her mind, and she saw herself writhing in his arms. She forced her mind away from the horrific fantasy. She burst into the Gaelic prayer, whirling somehow, but she faced the stone wall.
He moved over her, spreading her thighs wide. In another instant, his huge hardness would be inside.
Claire screamed, wanting to rush at the wall, fling herself upon the stone, anything to get Moray out of her mind. And she saw Malcolm.
He stood transposed upon the stone, like an apparition, his hand extended toward her.
She reached for it. Malcolm vanished. Claire expected to touch stone. Instead, she felt nothing but air.
Moray hadn’t built a wall of stone—he had built an illusion.
“Claire,” he murmured seductively.
She felt his hand slither over her back. In her mind, he impaled her and she wept in pleasure.
Claire leaped.
It was a leap a tiger might make. But Claire’s legs sprang with shocking power and she burst through the small stone window and into the damp, cold air outside.
Time stood still. As she was launched into the sky, she looked down at the trees far below, and she knew she was about to die.
“Claire!” Moray snarled in fury.
And time returned and she fell.
The trees rushed up at her. She fell with the force of gravity, faster and faster, and she knew she was dead. She was only sorry that Moray lived—and that she could not tell Malcolm how much she loved him.
Suddenly pine needles and wood branches tore at her. Claire cried out with pain as she fell through branches, wood snapping. Pine abraded her face, her flesh. She landed hard on a bed of pine needles and dirt.
Stars exploded. The sky turned black. And then it cleared and she saw fingers of gray daylight streaking through the thick forest canopy above her head.
In shock, she realized she wasn’t dead at all.
She should have died on impact, her body broken. Claire lay still, panting, waiting to be consumed with pain. Agony did not begin.
She was alive.
In fact, she didn’t seem to be even close to death.
She sat up, reaching for her necklace, but of course it was gone. The stone hadn’t saved her.
Moray would hunt her now.
Claire crouched, amazed that nothing hurt—but then, she was the daughter of a Master.
However, she wasn’t a Master. Masters had to be summoned and take vows, and not every child born to them was chosen.
MacNeil had told her that. She hadn’t asked, but in the patriarchal Brotherhood, she bet there were no women Masters.
Still, she had some powers, oh, yes, and she’d use them now.
A chill fell over the wood.
The hunt had begun.
Claire started to run down the steep, forested hillside.
MALCOLM STOOD on the other side of the loch across from the palace, alone in a field. His eyes were closed, his face turned up to the morning sun, and sweat poured down his body. He strained to sense Claire.
He wasn’t sure he had the power to do so. Moray had taken her and they could be any place, in any time.
Moray wanted to use her against him. His various strongholds were impregnable, guarded by his Deamhan hordes. Malcolm thought it likely that Claire remained in Scotland, even in the Highlands, and in this time.
No matter where she had been taken, he had to locate her.
He strained to sense her. Time passed and he remained acutely attentive.
Claire! Where are you?
But there was only silence.
CLAIRE HAD REACHED low ground and she froze. The forest ended in rolling, grassy hills, and she could hear horses and men shouting. They were looking for her.
She had been praying to Faola and the other great gods, including Lug and Daghda, incessantly. She was almost certain her only chance of surviving Moray was with the grace of the Ancients. Now she crouched low as the first troops appeared on the hillside.
Claire didn’t move as the riders galloped toward her, but she prayed harder, sweat covering her entire body.
The riders came closer still. It was as if they knew where she was.
Claire wished she had the power to become invisible. She hid at the base of the pine, praying.
The first dozen riders crashed into the forest.
Claire saw a pair of men heading directly toward her. A wave of ice swept over her as the riders galloped through the wood, passing by her so closely their horses’ hooves shot clods of dirt at her arms and face. And then they were gone, the forest silent, the hills empty.
Claire stopped praying, and quickly thanked whoever had been listening for his, her or their help. She collapsed against the tree trunk, panting and in disbelief. Somehow, with the help of the Ancients, they had not discovered her.
She was soaking wet, freezing cold and scared out of her mind. And she was lost.
Malcolm, she thought, suddenly aching for him. I’m lost. I need you.
There was only silence. Claire listened acutely now for him, but she heard nothing. The riders gone, she stood, walking out of the woods. And as she finally paused on a low grassy ridge, the sky began to clear.
Still thunderously gray, she glimpsed the darker steel of the ocean below, somewhere. She had to cross the hills first.
Claire, where are you?
Claire froze. Had she just heard Malcolm?
Malcolm! Help me! I’m lost!
She strained to hear, but there was only silence. Claire started across the hills, and as she did so, the sun appeared in the gray sky. It was faint, but the promise was there, and Claire realized she was heading southwest.
The Highlands were southwest.
Malcolm was southwest, somewhere.
MALCOLM STIFFENED. Claire was lost, but she wasn’t hurt. And she was alone. Somehow, she had escaped Moray.
He felt her now. He turned to face the northeast.
Royce came galloping up to him, leading his charger. “Ye have found her?”
Malcolm nodded. “I dinna need the charger. See him home, Ruari.”
“Where is she?”
“She be near Tor.”
CLAIRE REACHED the edge of the rolling hills and cried out. Below her, the drop perhaps a hundred feet, was one final plateau. A circle of giant stones faced her. Beyond, she saw black rock beaches and the steel waters of the ocean.
Claire began scrambling down to the standing stones.
She had never been to the Orkneys, but to the best of her knowledge, no standing stones had ever been discovered there.
She stumbled and tripped as she took a steep, rocky trail down to the field.
Claire ran the short distance to the first towering black stone, which was the size of four or five men. And then she paused, overcome and awed.
She touched the stone. It was ice-cold.
Claire realized she had been hoping to find holiness in this place.
Demons would not enter a holy place. She walked past the first stone into the circle and stood still, trying to find the Ancients, God or even any unknown pagan gods there.
She began to despair. The chapel at the Sanctuary had been filled with power and grace.
This circle was only that, a circle of tall stones.
The gods, like mankind, had forgotten this place long ago.
Claire wanted to cry. Instead, she knew she must not give up. She wasn’t dead and she wasn’t Moray’s prisoner. She crossed the circle, her destination the beach below. And she sensed that she was not alone.
Stiffening with alarm, Claire turned.
For one moment, in the gray day, she thought she saw a figure, ghostlike, standing beyond the circle of stones. “Malcolm?” she breathed.
The light shifted. No one was there.
Claire stared, her heart lurching. She wanted to believe she had seen a ghost, or better yet, an Ancient.
And then her eyes widened, for Malcolm appeared as he climbed up from the beach.
She cried out, rushing toward him. He saw her and scaled the ledge.
Running to her, he pulled her against his chest, relief written all over his face.
Claire held on, hard.
He held on as tightly.
She couldn’t speak. She had never loved anyone this way and she never would. He didn’t speak, either, holding her so tightly it was hard to breathe. Thank the gods yer all right.
Claire looked up. “Moray abducted me from our chamber at court.”
“Aye. I ken. How did ye escape, Claire?” His eyes were wide and worried.
“Malcolm, I leaped out of a tower. I should have died. I didn’t.” She touched his face. “Ironheart is my father.”
Malcolm actually gasped. “He told ye that? How can ye trust a word from the Deamhan’s tongue?”
“He told me, and I know it’s true.” She suddenly stiffened, shivering from the cold, which had intensified. Fear began. “We need to get out of here, please, now. Let’s leap to the Sanctuary.”
Malcolm eased his hold on her, his gaze not on her but beyond.
Claire whirled and saw a hundred knights above on the northwestern ridge to their right. And then she saw one man riding across the field. Moray slowly approached.
“Malcolm!”
His eyes burned with the need for vengeance and destruction, for death. He had eyes only for the demon. “Give me yer hand. I will send ye back alone.”
Horror began. “You cannot defeat him!”
“Give me yer hand,” he ordered as Moray rode past the first stones, looking very pleased. “Ye go to the Sanctuary. I failed to avenge Mairead and Brogan, Now, I avenge ye all.”
He was going to die. He knew it and didn’t care. He was determined to take Moray with him, somehow.
She did not give him her hand.
He briefly turned an incredulous gaze on her. “Claire. Ye gave me yer word. Ye swore to obey me in battle.”
“I know. But I can’t let you face him alone.”
“I want ye to live!” Malcolm cried, seizing her hand.
Claire steeled herself against him.
“A lover’s quarrel?” Moray asked softly. “Hallo a Chaluim. Has she told ye what I intend?”
Malcolm faced Moray, moving to stand in front of Claire. “Get off o’ yer horse.”
Moray dismounted, laughing.
“Malcolm, please, leap away with me!” Claire begged.
He ignored her, unsheathing his longsword. Moray slid his blade free, as well. And Claire felt the blast of his power as she stood right behind Malcolm. Malcolm was shoved back a dozen steps, as she was. It was like being thrown back by a tornado.
Malcolm recovered. “A Bhrogain!” But he spoke softly, and he did not move.
Moray grunted, being forced three steps back. His eyes gleamed red. “You can’t match my power, Calum.”
“Nay?” Malcolm strode forward, sword raised.
Claire cut off her cry as Moray easily parried the blow.
As the swords rang, she looked around for a weapon.
She found a jagged stone with a point that she intended to be lethal.
The swords rang again and then again. Claire tensed, because from Malcolm’s expression, she saw that he was using all of his strength to battle Moray.
His face was drawn into a hundred lines, his arms and legs bulged with muscle, and sweat drenched his body.
The demon was fighting back, using great effort, but Malcolm’s power was still less than Moray’s.
Claire dropped her stone. Thinking to use it was absurd. She looked at Moray and tried to focus any power she might have on him like a dagger, into his back.
Moray grunted, meeting another vicious thrust of Malcolm’s blade. He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes wide.
Claire tried to stab him telepathically again.
He dealt Malcolm a terrible blow, one that cut into his shoulder, spewing blood. Before Claire could gasp, Moray glanced at her and snarled, “You’ll pay.”
“A Mhairead,” Malcolm said, and with his shortsword in his left hand, he cut across Moray’s chest.
Blood gushed.
Enraged, Moray cried out and Malcolm staggered backward from an energy blow. Then he quickly straightened, viciously parrying Moray’s pointed thrust.
Claire felt someone behind her. She looked up in alarm…and went still.
Only a ghostlike outline of a transparent figure was there, hovering a few feet from her, but this time, the figure was distinctly female.
And the woman materialized, becoming a dark beauty in white, flowing, almost Grecian robes. She spoke in Gaelic. Claire understood her every word.
“The son shall avenge the father, the daughter, the mother, for the two are blessed. It has been written.”
The light shifted.
The goddess vanished.
The circle of stones blazed with blinding light.
Malcolm and Moray were braced liked horned stags, both of them bleeding heavily. As one, both men looked at the sky, startled.
The sun was gone and the sky remained dull and gray, except in the circle, which was filled with golden, shimmering light.
Moray’s expression changed to surprise and then fear.
“A Chlaire,” Malcolm said, and with his left hand he seized his shortsword and thrust across Moray’s neck.
Claire cried out.
Moray’s head fell, severed, to the ground.
For one more moment, the halo of light intensifying, the headless body remained engaged against Malcolm, long-swords braced. Malcolm plunged the shortsword daggerlike into Moray’s heart. He twisted it viciously there.
Claire covered her mouth with her hands. Malcolm pulled the blade from Moray’s chest and the bloody body collapsed. Stunned, Claire glanced at Moray’s head.
Moray smiled tightly at her the moment before his head vanished.
His body disappeared an instant later. Her mother’s necklace lay in the damp, bloody grass.
Malcolm sheathed both swords and strode to her. She seized his arms. “What was that? What happened?” Even as she spoke, the light dulled rapidly, until only the inclement day remained.
His face hard, he put his arm around her. “I think ye have caught the ear o’ the Ancients, Claire.” He slowly looked around, as if expecting Moray to appear from thin air. Then he bent to retrieve the necklace.
“Malcolm, is he dead?”
“If he’s nay dead, he’ll never die.” He sighed and pulled her close. “Let’s go home, lass.”