Dark Seduction. Brenda Joyce
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cried out in elation, too.
It was so good. He could barely think rationally now. He wanted to watch her come; he drove deeper, steadily, then paused to stroke her distended sex. She wept. He smiled triumphantly and plunged within her throbbing flesh again. She met him savagely, desperately, and he felt her pent-up hunger from years of denial become a swirling cocoon of energy and passion. He had known it would be like this. He pinned her wider. Look at me, lass.
She did, crying out in a shuddering, endless climax.
His mind went blank, black. He needed release, too. He came, spilling all he had into her, spinning in ecstasy as he did so, and as he shouted in pleasure and triumph, the urge overcame him completely.
The desire was dark. Demonic. It was the urge to take far more than her body.
Because his pleasure could be enhanced so easily—with one taste of her power.
His mind froze even as his body kept streaming.
Nothing compared to the rapture of such power.
He looked down at her as she wept in ecstasy, aghast with his desire.
But it was forbidden. He was a Master, not a Deamhan. He had vowed to protect Innocence, not to destroy it.
Malcolm staggered away from her, reeling. He leaned against a tree, dizzy from the prolonged climax and the realization that she tempted in him in an unspeakable, evil way.
“No!” she gasped, frantically reaching out for him. And then she fell back, eyes closing.
She lay still now, as if dead.
But he hadn’t done anything but pleasure them both. He swiftly knelt, lifting her into his arms. He was still thoroughly aroused, but it did not matter. He could barely believe what he had wanted to take from her. He wanted it still. “Lass!”
Her eyes fluttered. She had fainted from the excitement of such a huge release. He laid her face against his chest, where his heart thundered, holding her there, relieved. The lass was fine. But he was not fine, not at all. The horror remained.
And he was hardly done with the woman. He wanted her still, in his bed, in every sexual way. But how could there be another time when he did not dare trust himself?
And then he felt the chill.
Like an Arctic breeze coming off the highest mountain, the cold crept closer, instantly dropping the temperature of the pleasant summer evening. The blades of grass, the thistle and wildflowers around him froze. Malcolm became rigid, straining not to see but to feel.
The chill settled over the glen.
It was hunting him again.
CLAIRE BEGAN TO REALIZE that she was in a man’s arms, being swiftly carried and then laid down on the ground. It was hard and cold. She was weak and dazed, disoriented. What had happened? Where was she?
“Dinna speak and dinna move,” the man said. “Ye stay with yer back to the boulder, ye ken?”
Claire heard him. She realized her back was pressed unpleasantly against a rock face of some sort while her nails dug into wet, cold dirt. She stared down at the ground, seeing not a tiled kitchen floor but leaves, branches, dirt and grass. Images and sensations scrambled together in her mind—stars and agony, a terrible force, Malcolm and ecstasy, his power huge. And then she heard that bloodcurdling war cry. “A Bhrogain!”
She cried out as numerous swords rang, being drawn from their sheaths. She stumbled to her feet, so weak she staggered. In a panic, she looked for her gun and an image assailed her, of Malcolm in her kitchen putting the gun aside. They weren’t in her kitchen now. Goddamn it. She was in the woods somewhere!
Leaning against a tree, she seized the pendant at her throat, her heart fluttering wildly with fear. It was cold out and the stone was hot. And then she saw Malcolm, a few steps from her, his back to her, holding a branch aloft, his stance defensive and belligerent at once. Her gaze moved past him and she choked off her cry.
A dozen knights faced him. The men were giants, clad in chain-mail shirts, steel chausses, gauntlets and helmets. The eye plates were closed, making them look evil. They were armed with lances, swords and axes. Their huge warhorses snorted and pranced, white-eyed. Wildly, Claire realized that they were in a clearing, surrounded by black woods. Beyond the woods she saw the dark shadows of numerous mountains. The night sky was the most brilliant she had ever beheld.
Malcolm said, not turning, “Get back to the rocks.”
Claire didn’t move. Did he think to face down over a dozen huge armed men himself? And he had no shield! Before she could even begin to think about what was happening, the first few knights charged, howling terrifying Gaelic war cries.
Claire bent and seized the first rock at hand and ran to stand beside Malcolm. He cursed in his tongue but did not look at her. Claire didn’t think twice. As the first rider came upon them at a gallop, his lance couched under his arm, she flung the rock at the man.
Malcolm thrust his makeshift staff as she hurled the rock. The rider ducked and the rock missed, but Malcolm knocked him from his horse, then used his longsword to sever the man’s head from his body as if the man were a rag doll. Claire backed up against the tree, seeking the Taser. Malcolm used his staff to parry another lance, flinging a mail-clad warrior to the ground. In one violent motion, he thrust his sword at the prone knight, instantly beheading him, too. Claire choked.
He turned to face another warrior, this time tossing the staff aside. He locked swords, shouting. “Lass!”
But she had already seen the third warrior-knight riding right at her, as if he would simply run her down. His black helmet had sinister eye slits. Certain she was about to die, Claire leaped forward, below the lance he held, thrusting the Taser against the horse’s shoulder. The horse reared, screaming, as the rider swung his lance at her. Claire ducked; she had ruined his aim. And she felt his savage fury.
There was no time to run. The horse reared again and Claire went after it. It was in midair as she shocked it in the chest. The man cursed while the horse flipped over onto its back, crushing its rider, and then the animal leaped up and galloped off.
The mail-clad giant lay still, his neck at a grotesque angle, clearly broken.
Claire knew she was not alone. She whirled and held up the Taser threateningly, two mounted warriors having come up behind her. They hesitated, clearly uncertain as to whether to attack her or not. Beyond them, Claire saw Malcolm fiercely slaying man after man. In spite of the odds, he was definitely in control of the situation.
“Lass,” he roared. “Get back to me.”
That was a great idea, Claire thought, except that one of the two warriors was between her and Malcolm. He was smiling at her now, smugly, clearly anticipating her death. He tossed his lance aside and drew a steel rod with a spiked ball dangling from its chain.
Claire was terrified. He could take her head off easily with it. That ball, whirling wildly, could flay her body into pieces. She had to attack or she would die.
Claire bristled and stepped forward. Evil had killed her cousin and her mother and if it killed her, she’d take as many of the bastards down as she could. She’d get his horse, too, or die trying.
“Damn it, lass!” Malcolm was shouting at her.
Too late, she realized she was putting an even greater distance between them, but she didn’t dare take her gaze from the warrior. She was certain he smiled, backing his mount just out of her reach.
“Coward,” Claire hissed.
He said something to her in Gaelic, and Claire knew it was a taunt.
His buddy had ridden his horse to the side, clearly thinking to watch her murder or to get behind her, just in case. Claire knew she couldn’t defend herself against them both. Letting him sidle behind her was not a good idea.