Page 11 of Dark Embrace

No one could defeat him now—not man, not beast, not deamhan and not even a god. Not even his demonic father. His father had returned to murder Ian, when a beheading would destroy most deamhanain. There were Masters who believed Moray immortal. Others said he had returned with otherworldly help. Aidan had dared to demand answers upon Iona. MacNeil had told him Moray’s return was written, but that no deamhan was immortal, no matter how it might appear.

Ian’s image seared his mind, as hot as a firebrand. He welcomed the pain.

“Is she alive?” The other woman gasped, kneeling half-naked beside the Innocent.

He barely glanced at the lush redhead, who was flushed with her own pleasure. He’d left the Innocent alive, although barely. “Aye. Tend her.”

Anna Marie took the limp woman in her arms, but she was staring at him with glittering eyes. Most women feared his desire. Having lurked in her mind on several occasions, he knew that she both feared and desired his passion—all of it. Now, she said, “Do you want me again?”

He’d found her in Paris in the mid-eighteenth century. She was the courtesan of a prince. She enjoyed hours in his bed and understood his need to take far more than pleasure from her and others, even simultaneously. Her presence was convenient, especially because he never slept and there was one certain way for him to pass the long, dark hours of the night.

He hadn’t slept in sixty-six years.

Sleeping only brought nightmares.

He bared his teeth at her. What she did not understand was that he looked at her with absolute indifference, and felt nothing when their bodies were joined except for the lust for power and revenge. He would avenge Ian, even if it took an eternity to do so.

“Nay.” Naked, his body still hard and huge, he stalked from the chamber, and as he did so, he heard her moan.

He didn’t care. He didn’t need her or the other one now. He had enough power to destroy his father—if he could find him. For Moray had vanished into time sixty-six years ago, and Aidan had been hunting him ever since.

It was time to hunt now.

A pair of chambermaids was hurrying down the hall. A glance at the single, barred window at the hall’s east end showed him that the sun was high. He’d been with the women since the previous day at dusk. The maids looked at him and froze in their tracks, terrified and mesmerized at once. Ignoring them, he was about to enter the east tower room when he felt a huge power approaching, fierce and determined and white.

He roiled with anger, instantly aware of the intruder’s identity. He turned to face his half brother, Malcolm, the man who had unearthed him from Awe’s rubble instead of allowing him to die.

He would never forgive him for it.

Malcolm of Dunroch came up the stairs at the hall’s far end, a large, powerful man in a leine and dark-green-and-black plaid, wearing both long and short swords, his muddy boots indicating a long, hard ride. Dirt flecked his bare thighs. His face was flushed with anger. “Ye canna march on Inverness with the rebels,” he said harshly, striding up the hall. He gave Aidan’s naked body a quick, dismissive glance.

“Do ye nay march on Inverness with Donald Dubh an’ Lachlan Maclean, yer cousin?” he mocked, knowing Malcolm was too busy saving Innocence to bother with political intrigues. Politics didn’t interest him, either, but feeding and horsing his four thousand men did.

And destroying the Campbell was something he could still do for his son.

Malcolm’s face hardened. “Ye’ll hang with the traitors when they’re defeated,” he said tersely, legs braced as if to bar his way.

“Good,” Aidan said softly, meaning it. He wasn’t afraid of death. He looked forward to it—as long as Ian was avenged first.

Malcolm seized his arm. “’Twas not yer fault. Ye have yer destiny to return to, Aidan.”

“Yer nay welcome here. Get out,” Aidan roared, shrugging him off. He whirled, entering the tower room and slamming the door closed behind him.

His damned brother was wrong. He had failed to keep his son safe. He had saved hundreds of Innocents, but not his own son; he would never forgive himself for it. He steeled himself against the anguish, but too late.

From the door’s other side, he heard Malcolm’s every silent thought. I willna let ye die an’ I willna give up on ye. Nor will I be leavin’ Awe soon.

Furious with his brother, hating him for refusing to lose faith, Aidan threw the bolt down on the door. Inside it was dark and cold. No fire burned in the stone hearth and every small arrow slit had long since been nailed closed with shutters, so the darkness was complete.

Eventually Malcolm would leave. He always did, as there was always a deamhan to vanquish, an Innocent to save. Malcolm served the gods as if his vows were his life, with his wife at his side. But Malcolm was not a deamhan’s son. He was the son of the great Master, Brogan Mor, and a Master himself—as well as the laird of the Macleans of south Mull and Coll. They had nothing in common.

Malcolm had been raised at Dunroch by his father and then, after Brogan Mor’s death in battle, by his uncle, Black Royce, to be chief of Clan Gillean. Aidan had been sent as an infant into a nobleman’s foster care, for his mother had retired to an abbey to spend the rest of her life there. Malcolm had often gone to visit Lady Margaret at the abbey, ever the dutiful son. His calls had been welcome. Aidan had met his mother but once, when he was a Master, and she had not been able to look at him. He had quickly left her to her prayers and repentance.

He had grown up an outsider; his brother had been the next great laird, a Master whose vows were his life.

Aidan had forsaken his vows the day of Ian’s murder.

If Moray’s return was fated, the gods, apparently, had written his son’s death, as well. He hated the gods passionately and he cursed them now—as he did every single day of his life.