Dark Seduction Read online

  Three years ago, he had thought himself the hunter, but he had been wrong. Moray had been hunting him; Moray had been hunting his soul.

  And now the woman tempted him in an unthinkable way. He had thought his soul safe, but he had been wrong.

  CLAIRE WAS SUMMONED the following dawn. Her eyes barely open, she met the gaze of a small boy who poked her, grinned and mimed dressing and eating. He gestured rapidly at the door and grinned and left. Claire sat up, clutching a fur to her body, feeling as if she were terribly hungover.

  But she wasn’t hungover, not in the normal sense of the word. And her pulse quickened as she recalled that she was in medieval Scotland—and that last night, Malcolm had made love to her.

  Claire felt the fist of desire slamming into her chest and belly. She stared at her chamber, at the small fire in the hearth, the rickety table where a jug of water sat, and the narrow window. The shutter had been thrust open and the sky outside was bloodred.

  Although she hadn’t believed she would be able to sleep a wink yesterday, exhaustion had swiftly claimed her after Malcolm had left. She had slept like a log until the knock on her chamber door.

  The boy clearly wished for her to hurry, and she knew why. She was wide-awake now. They were going to Dunroch. Genuine excitement began.

  But there was also apprehension. It was the light of a new day. She was about to see Malcolm, and yesterday—well, she had behaved like a woman she did not know. And damn it, she wasn’t ever going to forget how he had pleasured her without asking her for anything in return.

  Claire washed using frigid water, hoping he would be gentleman enough not to remark on what had happened between them. And what about Sibylla? Just how safe would their trek be? She threw Malcolm’s plaid over her shoulders, her trepidation rising, and went downstairs. Only the serving maids were in the great hall and Claire was disappointed, even if she didn’t want to be. Starving now—Claire wasn’t sure when she had last eaten—she sat down to a huge tray of bread, cheese and several various types of smoked fish, as well as a bowl of oatmeal. She ate swiftly, using a two-pronged fork and a crude knife and spoon, eager to leave the hall. As she ate, she kept glancing at the great door, but it did not open.

  She pushed the tray away. She had to face Malcolm sooner or later, and she didn’t know what to say, how to act or what to do. But she had to face the fact that she did not have regrets. It would be hypocritical to pretend to have them. She had needed a night like that one.

  She felt her cheeks heat. Malcolm was a generous lover. She was going to throw all stereotypes out. She would never think of him as some macho medieval jerk again. He was definitely complicated, intriguing and very, very sexy. She wouldn’t mind really sharing his bed.

  The mere thought made her feel weak and faint.

  Do not go there, she warned herself, heading for the doors. She knew herself. If she ever really slept with him, she’d fall in love. And that was a very bad idea. She must not become fond of him. Only a fool or a madwoman would care for Malcolm, considering the circumstances. She warned herself to keep her interest in him purely academic.

  She opened the doors and was met by a blast of chilling Highland wind, never mind that it was summer. She paused on the top of the steps. A dozen men were mounting their chargers by the other hall. Just below her, Malcolm stood beside two saddled horses, speaking with Royce. As one, both men turned to look at her.

  Her gaze met Malcolm’s and she blushed. This was, she thought, beyond awkward. They were virtually strangers. She started down the stairs, avoiding his eyes.

  He probably thought her really fast and loose, although that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Malcolm strode forward. “Did ye sleep well?” he asked. His gaze was direct and searching.

  If he was referring to the fact that she had been so physically sated she had passed out, she could not tell. “Yes. And you?” She meant to be polite but the moment she spoke, she wished she hadn’t. He’d probably tossed and turned all night.

  His stare intensified. Then he shrugged, his gaze veering to her throat. He began unpinning the brooch with which she’d awkwardly pinned her cloak. “Ye need garments,” he said. “I’ll see ye clothed at Dunroch.” He swept the long, oddly shaped cloak from her shoulders, shook it out, folded it not quite evenly and draped it over her, pinning it to one shoulder. It now fell to her knees, securely covering her thighs and skirt.

  She swallowed. “Thank you.” The merest brushing of his hands caused a frisson of pleasure. How was she going to keep her focus on the books, the shrine, the secret society—everything but the man himself?

  His gaze locked with hers. “I nay be the only man with eyes,” he said with a slight smile. He nodded toward Royce, whose expression was wry.

  Claire didn’t care if his uncle had been openly regarding her legs or anything else. It was hard to think clearly with Malcolm hovering about, being possessive. She wished she could tell what he was thinking about last night. He probably had a different woman in his arms every night, which meant their little interlude wasn’t a big deal for him. And that was for the best. Because it was far too big a deal to her, and she needed to keep a good perspective, no matter how hard it might be.

  He helped Claire mount and turned to leap on his own destrier. Claire realized she had been given an older, quiet horse, for which she was grateful. She moved it over to Royce. “Thank you for the room, the bed and breakfast,” she said.

  “’Twas my pleasure, Lady Claire. Bon voyage.”

  His smile was utterly masculine and just a bit knowing. Claire hoped she hadn’t been so loud that he had heard her crying out last night. “Adieu.” She flushed and moved her horse past him.

  Malcolm signaled to the cavalcade and the troops fell into line behind him and Claire. He turned to Royce. “I’ll speak with ye after I return from Loch Awe.”

  Royce nodded but seized Malcolm’s bridle. “Do nothing rash.”

  Malcolm smiled tightly. Then he lifted his hand and glanced at Claire, and they moved toward the passageway beneath the gatehouse. After passing through the dark, stonewalled tunnel, riding side by side over the trapdoor through the dark shadows, the sunlight outside was almost blinding.

  For Claire, as they left the dank passage behind, a new tension began.

  It was another medieval morning, her second day in the past. So much had happened since the leap that she felt as if she had been in the fifteenth century for weeks. While she did not know if the journey from Carrick to Dunroch was a safe one, she was too excited now to care. Dunroch had been her goal from the start and by that evening, they would be there. Soon she would be at Iona’s holy shrine, because she was going with Malcolm, no matter what he said or what he wanted. She was not being left behind.

  Because it was a holy shrine, it was guarded by the Masters. Malcolm had indirectly said so. She was about to discover a secret society that no historian had ever revealed.

  She was living Highland history now. This was an incredible opportunity. Her fear had long since diminished. She had survived time travel, a brutal battle, a violent assault and Malcolm’s lust—all in the span of twenty-four and some hours.

  She did not know when she would be going home, although she was determined that she would. Until that time came, she was going to take advantage of this amazing twist of fate. She was going to focus all of her interest on the secret society, the sacred books and the political wars engendered by them, and on avoiding Sibylla, too. And she was going to forget last night had ever happened. Malcolm seemed indifferent. She would be indifferent, too. It was better to be detached from him in every possible way. Her focus on Malcolm would be as a historical artifact of sorts, because he was a fifteenth-century laird and Master.

  Malcolm was staring at her. She hoped he did not sense her thoughts. She smiled. “It’s a gorgeous morning.” As she spoke, an eagle soared overhead.

  “Aye,” he said flatly, his tone noncommittal, his gaze sharp. “Aye.”
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br />   DUNROCH WAS AS GRAY as the towering cliffs it sat upon. Below were rock-strewn beaches and the vast enormity of the steel-gray Atlantic Ocean. Beyond, shrouded in mist, was the dark peak of Ben More. Claire inhaled as she rode her horse toward the Barbican.

  Claire had only spent an hour at Dunroch two years ago, and she had not come by horse and then by galley, rowed through the sound and the ocean by six Highland men. She had arrived in a rental car, racing across unkempt roads heading south and west along the shore so she would make it to Dunroch before it closed. It had been a gray afternoon then, too—the island was often buffeted by the inclement ocean climate—but there had been cars parked just outside the castle’s curtain walls. There hadn’t been a barbican, just a few clumps of stone to indicate it had once been present.

  Now the moat that surrounded three sides of the castle was full. The west side sat on sheer cliffs that dropped to the ocean. She and Malcolm remained astride their mounts, waiting as the drawbridge was slowly lowered over the moat by what Claire suspected was a pulley system.

  She shivered, her mouth dry. It was so different; it was strikingly the same.

  “Lass, the public rooms close in an hour. Ye can come back on Thursday an’ ye won’t throw yer money away,” a toothless, white-haired Scot had told her, trying to be helpful.

  Claire had been dizzy and faint, probably from driving at a breakneck speed across the island on the wrong side of theroad. “I won’t be here on Thursday, I’m going home tomorrow.” She had bought her tickets, barely able to concentrate on the man selling them, wishing he didn’t move with such infuriating slowness. She had been trembling with tension, excitement. And as she had hurried over the drawbridge, she had thought, “This is it.”

  Claire realized the bridge was down and Malcolm was waiting for her to join him. Dunroch’s gatehouse was far less elaborate than the one at Carrick, and it comprised one wide, circular tower. It only took a moment to pass beneath.

  She had forgotten the intense feelings she’d had then, but she was having the same feelings now. She drew her mare to a halt, staring at the face of the castle. And the same words whispered through her mind. This is it.

  Claire stiffened, glancing around at the inner bailey and at the outer bailey that was north of it, inside the curtain walls. She knew Malcolm was staring but she couldn’t look at him, because her mind was spinning.

  Her entire vacation had been planned around this place, with the hope of meeting Dunroch’s laird. If she could accept that this was fate, then there was one monumental question: Why?

  Surely, surely it could not be about Malcolm.

  “Ye be entranced, lass,” Malcolm said. “Ye like me home?”

  She tore her gaze from the goats and sheep in the lower bailey, wetting her lips. Her heart fluttered. “I was here before—two years ago. Why, Malcolm? Why do you think I am here now, in your time, not mine?”

  “I ken ye dinna mean why did I bring ye back.” He spurred his horse forward and Claire followed. Several men had materialized from the hall in the bailey. One tall, gray-haired Scot hurried toward them.

  Malcolm dismounted in front of the castle’s main entrance, a paneled and studded wood door set in another gated tower. He handed the horse off to one of the men. “I be askin’ the same questions, lass. The Ancients have strange, inexplicable ways.”

  Did that mean he thought it fate, too? “What about Sibylla? Do you think she might make an attempt to find me here?” She had been trying hard not to freak out over the fact that the other woman was running around the Highlands with an apparent agenda against her.

  His face darkened. “She’d be a fool to do so. We be ready fer her an’ her kind now.” He offered her another smile, about to reach up to help her dismount.

  Before Claire could ask how they were ready for her and what, exactly, “her kind” meant, a shrill cry sounded. Claire turned and saw a small boy fly into Malcolm’s arms. It took her all of one second to realize this was his son, and her insides lurched with sickening force.

  Malcolm swung the small, dark-haired boy around. Then they spoke swiftly, in French. “You obeyed Seamus, lad?”

  “Yes, Father, I did. I also bagged a buck.” He smiled proudly. “There’ll be a fine supper tonight.”

  Malcolm caressed the boy’s hair, smiling in approval.

  The gray-haired man stepped forward. “There be a fine rack on the wall, Malcolm. A dozen points.”

  Malcolm smiled and clasped his shoulder. “Seamus, Brogan, I’d like ye t’ meet our guest, Lady Camden. She be from the south,” he added. His eyes twinkled when his gaze met Claire’s.

  Claire couldn’t smile. Malcolm was married.

  She felt faint and incapable of movement. She remained mounted on her horse. Of course he was married. Marriage was an important tool in the ever-shifting balance of power among the great nobles and the king. Likely he had married for political, geographical or monetary gain.

  But he hadn’t said a word. Not one damn word.

  And she was an idiot, because she should have known.

  She tried to tell herself this was for the best, but she was stricken with dismay. Still, if she was falling for this man, then this was a fortunate turn of events. His marriage would be a barrier between them that could not be breached.

  Malcolm glanced at Brogan. “Go into the hall an’ order the great chamber readied fer our guest.”

  The boy nodded eagerly and dashed off. Malcolm called after him. “With wine an’ refreshments, lad, an’ a fire. Lady Camden is a bit chilled. Seamus, I’ll speak with ye in a bit.”

  “Aye.” Seamus turned and strode off.

  Malcolm took her hand. “Brogan is me bastard, Claire. I nay be married. But ye look as if someone has died.”

  There was so much relief.

  “Come down,” he said softly.

  Claire slipped from the horse, beginning to think more clearly. She had just been devastated that he was not available, and now she was faint with relief. Oh, boy, if she was genuinely interested in this man, she was in big trouble.

  She managed to gather some of her wits. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  He hesitated. “I told ye afore, yer thoughts scream so loudly, they be easy t’ hear.”

  Claire folded her arms across her chest. “I am beginning to wonder if you have telepathic powers, too.”

  “I dinna ken all the words ye speak, lass.”

  “Can you read my mind?”

  He stared.

  “Oh, my God,” Claire said, shaken. “You can read minds, can’t you?”

  “’Tis another wee gift I have,” he said, but he flushed.

  She would analyze the ramifications of this particular gift another time. Right now, she was furious. “You need to respect the privacy of my thoughts,” she said harshly. “It’s not fair that you eavesdrop on what I am thinking.”

  He smiled, tilting up her chin, turning his potent gaze on her. “But if I had nay heard ye, loud an’ clear right now, ye’d be in tears an’ thinkin’ o’ denying what’s between us.”

  Her eyes went wide. He’d been acting as if nothing had happened all day. “What’s between us? I didn’t even know you recalled yesterday morning,” she said tersely. “And I wouldn’t care if you were married!”

  “Liar.”

  She felt her cheeks heat. “Well, maybe I’d care—a bit. But only because, in my time, it’s wrong to sleep with a married man.” Then she added, “It’s wrong in your time, too, and you know it.”

  “I be glad I have not made such vows, Claire,” he murmured very seductively. His thick, dark lashes slanted down. “Ye think I did not hear yer cries all night? I didna sleep, Claire, because of ye.”

  Her heart turned over, hard. “Well,” she managed to say thickly. Desire surged. “Well.”

  His smile was as beautiful as the rising sun had been earlier that day. “I dinna ken why ye wished to go to Dunroch in yer time. I dinna ken why I want ye as I do. But I thi
nk there are answers t’ be found, maybe on Iona.”

  “Iona,” she repeated, instantly diverted.

  “The MacNeil be almost as old as the Ancients, lass,” he said. “I’ll find the answers there. An’ do not think o’ Sibylla now. Ye be safe with me. Come.” He walked beneath the portcullis, disappearing into the gatehouse.

  Claire’s mind scrambled. Were the answers to her presence in the past at Iona? God, she hoped so! And did Malcolm mean to pick up tonight where they’d left off yesterday?

  She hurried after him. A very small courtyard was on the other side of the gatehouse and Malcolm was walking up the stairs to the great hall. Claire increased her pace, entering the great room.

  The elegant seating arrangements were gone, as was the sword collection. Instead, there was only a long trestle table, benches and several period chairs. Tapestries covered most of the walls, their colors bright and new.

  He was pouring ale from a jug on the table. Claire steeled herself as she approached. “We’ll find the answers on Iona together,” she said firmly.

  He gave her an amused look. “I didna say ye’d come to the island with me, lass.”

  “I’m coming, come hell or high water,” she snapped. “We agreed yesterday!”

  He drained a mug and sighed. “I already spoke too boldly about affairs that are privy.”

  “You know you can trust me.” It occurred to Claire that he trusted her because he could read her mind. “That is why you trust me, isn’t it? You snoop about in my thoughts!”

  He flushed. “Ye interest me.”

  She was thrilled, but now was not the time. “Malcolm, this is so important to me!”

  “Yer not allowed on the island,” he snapped.

  Claire stiffened. “I don’t believe it. A monastery always opens its doors to travelers.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and his biceps bulged. He seemed very annoyed, but there was no way he was winning this one. “If you return from Iona and I am dead—murdered by Sibylla in an unspeakable way—you will never be able to forgive yourself. First the maid, at your hands, and then me, your Innocent, at Sibylla’s.”