Page 76 of Dark Seduction

Damn it. If Moray could not be mortally wounded and thus weakened, then the gods were their only hope.

That was not particularly comforting. She wondered if any Master had recently seen one of the Ancients. They probably hung out in the Dalriadan version of Mount Olympus, the way the gods in Greek mythology did.

And where was Malcolm? Did he have to be outside, alone, at dark?

Claire trembled. She was afraid for Malcolm, really afraid. Claire opened her eyes, taking long, deep breaths. Malcolm was a great hero, a champion for all that was good in this world, and Moray was trying to turn him. She had to help him somehow. She couldn’t imagine the world without Malcolm in it, a Master protecting Innocence through all ages.

There had to be a way.

She stared across the room. A beautiful oval dining table that sat twelve, its chairs upholstered in sapphire velvet and studded with nails, had been set for supper with gilded china and flatware. Ironheart and Royce were eating as quickly and efficiently as possible. As fueling up was probably crucial to their well-being—and power—she did not begrudge them their intent, nonsocial behavior. Aidan sat at the table’s head, removed from the other men, drinking wine, his plate empty. He was obviously brooding.

Suddenly Claire felt a terrible searing pain in her side. She gasped, about to faint, her hand on her waist. For one moment, she thought a sword had gone through her side.

Aidan leaped to his feet. “Claire?”

Claire looked at her hand, expecting to see it covered with blood. There was none. Malcolm.

She staggered to her feet. “Malcolm is wounded!”

Claire moved first, running across the hall and flinging the door open. The night was blue-black, but the sky was filled with Highland stars and a waxing moon, which was golden and bright. Her eyes went right to the ramparts, just to the left and above where she stood, and she saw the two figures there.

One figure collapsed while the other stood tall and straight. Even in the starlight, Claire saw his perfect, bronzed face, the flash of white teeth and the sun-gold hair. He smiled at her, their eyes meeting. And Moray vanished.

Claire screamed and ran up the stairs, Aidan on her heels. She tripped and stumbled and fell to her knees where Malcolm lay prone. For one second, he looked so peaceful, as if asleep. She looked at his left side, and saw only the heavy wool brat that he wore over the mail hauberk. Then she saw that the wool was unusually dark, soaked with blood.

Malcolm’s eyes opened, meeting Claire’s. She recoiled. His gaze was silver and glittering insanely and his hand seized her wrist. For one terrible instant, Claire thought he meant to harm her.

“Get her gone!” Malcolm cried harshly, his face ravaged with pain.

Aidan knelt beside her, moving the brat and mail aside. He unlaced the leather vest to reveal a blood-soaked leine. “Leave now, Claire,” Aidan said firmly.

“I am not going anywhere!” Claire cried as Aidan ripped open the linen. She gasped when she saw the horrible wound. There was so much blood. If Malcolm was hemorrhaging, or if an organ had been damaged, or become infected, he would die.

“Get her…gone,” Malcolm repeated, his grasp on her wrist shockingly brutal, his eyes ablaze.

“Yer going to die if ye keep movin’,” Aidan said tersely. “Lie still an’ save yer strength.”

As Malcolm held her wrist, Claire looked into his burning eyes and she recognized uncontrollable lust. He had already killed one woman to save his own life, and in that moment, she understood. He needed to live. He needed life to live.

Fear came, but she did not move. “I’m not going,” she whispered. Her heart thundered hard. “I want you to live. Take my life. Take…what you need.”

“I…I willna…take ye,” he gasped. His eyes closed, his head rolling to the side as he became unconscious.

Aidan cursed, glaring at Claire. “He’s dyin’! Ye be an interference now—an’ a temptation!”

“Then heal him!” she shouted back. “You said you had power—do it!” She pressed on the wound to stop the bleeding with her bare hands.

Booted steps sounded as Claire turned. “Hurry!” she screamed at Royce. “Get me bandages!”

Royce knelt, handing her his wadded-up brat. Immediately Claire covered the wound, put Royce’s hands there and reached for Malcolm’s pulse. She couldn’t find it. She was on the verge of panic, but somehow she kept it at bay. “I can’t find a pulse, Aidan,” she warned. “If you don’t heal him, he will die!”

Aidan had his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders, a fierce expression on his face. Claire began to pray, Malcolm’s head on her lap, his face in her hands. Ironheart knelt beside them.

Royce said thickly, “He’s slippin’ away, Aidan.”

Claire saw fear in his eyes. She stared at Malcolm’s face, which was so terribly pale now. The stone she wore was burning her throat and oddly she was reciting the prayer she had just read, that brief paragraph to some Celtic goddess. It was as if she had memorized it. The Latin formed on her tongue perfectly, making absolute sense, and nothing had ever been as comforting. She chanted silently to herself. It was as if she had no will of her own. She closed her eyes, sweating profusely, chanting quietly aloud now. The Latin litany was the only sound in the night.

Claire paused and looked at Aidan, who had released Malcolm. “What are you doing?” she gasped.