Dark Embrace (9 page)

And why could she see him so clearly, for long moments, when he was cursed with a brief glimpse?

A wolf could not weep. A wolf could not moan. He rose up on his haunches, and this time when he howled, the sound reverberated through the forests and to the mountain peaks. The pack took up his cries.

His son had been haunting him since the day he had been murdered. It did not matter whether he was at Awe, at Dunroch, at court or in battle, whether in the future or the past—the moment came unfailingly every single day. He might be turning the corner of a corridor, leaving the great hall or exiting a stairwell. He could be hunting a stag, or in the bow of a galley. But from the corner of his eye, suddenly and with no warning, he would glimpse his small son.

And for one heart-stopping instant he would come face-to-face with Ian, who would stand there looking at him, so very frightened, and then vanish.

There had been 14,093 such moments in the past sixty-six years.

But today, Ian had gone to Brianna.

What did it mean?

No one had ever glimpsed the small ghost except for Aidan. He knew that his servants thought him mad, as did Malcolm and most of Alba. And now
she
had seen Ian, too.

Not a single day passed in which he did not yearn for and anticipate that momentary sight of the only person he still loved.

Not a single day went by in which he didn't dread the sight of his dead son.

Because that single glimpse wasn't enough. That single glimpse was torture. It was so obvious that Ian wished to speak with him—but the moment he tried to do so, Ian would vanish.

The howls faded. The pack was restless, sensing his intent. Aidan stood, hackles raised, the pack gathering. Her image was engraved on his mind. He did not want her at Awe—he did not want her in his life—but he would never let her go now.

He bounded into the woods, the pack following, to take out his fury on the innocent beasts of the wood.

 

“H
AVE YE SETTLED HER FER THE NIGHT
?” Malcolm asked with a smile. As concerned as he was for his brother, the sight of his wife always made his heart leap and his body stir.

Claire closed the chamber door behind her. “Yes. She's so exhausted, she passed out the moment her head hit the pillow. Malcolm, I'm worried about her.”

Malcolm went to her, pulling her into his arms, wanting to pleasure her a hundred times before the sun rose but knowing their passion had to wait. “Claire, I can send her back against her wishes.”

“I know, but she's so determined, Malcolm. She is not what I would have expected, not for Aidan.”

He looked into his wife's beautiful eyes. “Yer a warrior, Lady Allie is a healer an' Lady Tabitha has great spells. But can I remind ye that when we first met, ye had no clear power? An' when Lady Tabitha first arrived at Blayde, her spells often failed. Only Lady Allie had great powers when she came to the past.”

Claire bit her lip. “She's a computer geek, Malcolm. She told me so. She works for CDA, but in the basement. She does
research.
She isn't a warrior, a healer or a witch. If Aidan chooses, he will destroy her. She is no match for him. He's probably already seduced her and used her.”

“She has gifts, Claire,” Malcolm reminded her gently, “and a powerful faith.”

“Yes, she has a deep faith in Aidan, Malcolm. The kind of faith I had in you, the kind of faith Allie had in Royce, the kind of faith Tabby had in Guy. She is in love with him, even if she doesn't know it.”

“An' ye dinna think she can survive her love—an' his hate?”

“I am afraid for her. I want to protect her for the journey she seems intent to start upon,” Claire cried.

“So ye wish fer me to send her back?” he asked, bemused. He knew his wife so well now, and he knew her answer.

Claire hesitated. If she had learned one thing, it was that love could heal anyone and that Fate was the strangest of bedfellows. She had been in over her head with Malcolm, but the impossible had happened—their love had triumphed against all odds.

Reading her mind as he always did, Malcolm said, “She's a pretty lass, Claire. Mayhap she's meant to bring my brother back. She thinks so. That kind o' faith will serve her well.”

Claire breathed, aware that the wrong decision could mean Brie's death. “Let's give her a few days,” she said. “Let's give Aidan a few days.”

 

B
RIE WASN'T SURE WHAT AWOKE HER
, but suddenly she was staring at a night-darkened ceiling, aware that she was not alone.

Claire had shown her to a small chamber on an upper floor. She and Claire had begun a conversation about the Brotherhood, and Claire had started to tell her about three holy books and a shrine, but Brie had been too tired—and too upset about the date of her arrival in the past—to listen. Then she had seen the bed and stumbled toward it, falling into it without even removing her Sketchers. Brie knew she'd passed out the moment her head had hit the pillow.

Now Brie slowly sat up, trying to adjust her rotten vision to the darkness. A small fire remained, dancing in the hearth. She blinked, tension arising. There was a shadow at the foot of her bed.

She felt so much male power, neither black nor white.

She breathed nervously. “Aidan?”

The shadow did not move or speak.

Brie knew it was Aidan, but he emanated no emotion at all, just heat. She tried to stay calm, but it was impossible. “Is everything all right?”

Suddenly he walked to the fireplace and began throwing more wood into it. The fire blazed, illuminating him as he turned back to her. “Dinna fear me,” he said harshly. Across the small chamber, their gazes locked. “I willna hurt ye.”

Brie did not move. There was only his presence and his power and her acute senses and gifts. In the vacuum of the night, she knew he meant his every word.

She stared toward his blurry shape and he stared back. She thought about the fact that it was November 1502, and he would hang by the end of the year—if history was right. She thought about the fact that a long time ago—she did not know how long—his own father had murdered his child. She thought about the fact that he had once been a man who smiled easily and defended Innocence. He was grieving now, furious, and he was being haunted by his own dead child.

He hadn't answered her. She didn't know why he had come to her room, but she knew she wasn't in any jeopardy. Compassion swelled. He had spent the night mourning his son. She would never forget the sound of the Wolf howling at the orange moon.

“Are you all right?” she asked again softly.

He remained facing her, too far away for her to see his features or expression. “Aye.”

She needed to see his face. She wanted to know what he was feeling and thinking, without having to experience it as an empath. On the other hand, she hesitated, because it was the middle of the night, and they were alone in her bedchamber. She pulled the covers up higher. “Aidan, I met Malcolm and Claire.”

His answer was to take the room's single chair and move it closer to the bed. He didn't sit down. “I wish to speak with ye, Brianna.”

She wasn't surprised. His emotions were blocked, so they might have a normal conversation. She was almost thrilled. “I guess it must be pretty urgent.”

“'Twill be dawn shortly. Please come an' sit.”

Brie realized the sky was softening with gray and violet light; dawn was creeping across the Highland horizon. She hesitated, hoping he wanted to talk about his son. Then she slid from the bed, fully dressed. She pushed her heavy hair behind her ears as she went to the chair. His hands were on the chair's back. Her body seemed to hum as she sat. She hadn't mistaken his magnetism. This close, his power seemed to vibrate toward her, and vice versa.

He released the chair, and she felt his hands brush against her hair as he did so.

She reminded herself that now was not the best time to feel any attraction. She closed her eyes. She had to stay neutral and ignore his heat and pull, his masculinity and looks. She wanted to save him. She wanted them to be friends. That took precedence over everything else.

Besides, anything else wasn't an option.

When she opened her eyes he was staring, only steps away. She could see him so clearly. His vivid gaze was on hers, serious and searching. But the moment she looked into his eyes, his lashes lowered. He had no intention of allowing her to see into his eyes—or his soul.

But he seemed almost himself now. He could have been that long-ago Master, a man dedicated to the gods and sworn to defend mankind. Yet she knew he had taken a long, dark journey away from that man.

She wasn't sure what had happened after he'd ceased howling tragically. It might be better that she didn't know. “I heard the Wolf earlier. Why do you do it?”

His mouth curved mirthlessly. “Because I can.”

“Do you do it often?”

To her surprise, his gaze dropped to her mouth. “Often enough,” he finally said.

She hugged herself, becoming uneasy. Had he just looked at her with sexual interest? Had he done so earlier that night? “I don't like the Wolf.”

He shrugged.

“Beasts are prey or predator,” Brie said carefully. “We both know the Wolf is a predator.” He looked at her. “And animals do not have a conscience.”

“Yer meaning?” he asked, rather coolly.

“How convenient that Wolf is for you.”

His face tightened. “Aye, the Wolf serves me well.”

“But the Wolf has a conscience, after all, just as you do. I saw it.”

His shoulders lifted, stiffened. “Dinna challenge me.”

Brie hadn't meant to provoke him. “I'm not! I was thinking aloud, trying to understand you. I'm sorry.”

“Ye dinna need to comprehend me, Brianna. Dinna even try.” His eyes flashed with anger.

She had raised a sore subject. She did not want to make him mad. “I am sorry about your son,” she said, meaning it with all of her heart. “I am so sorry. What happened is so terrible—tragic and unfair.”

He was so still he could have been carved from stone. Then she saw his chest rising and falling beneath the vee neckline of the leine. She could see the fang necklace he wore.

He folded his bulging arms across his chest. “Ye saw Ian,” he said bluntly, “when no one has ever seen him, except fer me.”

So Aidan could see Ian, too, although apparently not all of the time. She nodded, trying to search his gaze, but he wouldn't let her. “Malcolm and Claire told me what happened. How long has he been haunting you?”

His face tightened. “He was murdered sixty-six years ago next month.”

Brie was shocked. Aidan had been haunted for a human lifetime!

“What did he wish o' ye?”

“I don't know,” she said truthfully. “He was trying to speak, but I couldn't hear him.” She stopped. The little boy had been afraid and desperate, and telling Aidan that would only cause more anguish.

Aidan flushed with anger. “I can hear yer every thought,” he warned. “He was afraid.”

Oh, God, he
was
telepathic. “Yes, he seemed very afraid.” And suddenly a wave of grief hit her, very much the way an ocean wave might.

“Why did he come to ye, instead of me?” he cried. “He's been tryin' to speak to me fer all these years! What does he want to say?'

His desperation added to the flood tide of anguish. It was hard to speak. “I don't…know.”

Suddenly the anguish and desperation vanished, tamped down in his soul. Brie breathed, shaking like a leaf. She had to monitor her thoughts, so as not to hurt him. “The other day, I felt your suffering, across time. There was so much pain and anguish, I thought you were being tortured. There was rage, and then, at the end, there was grief, and it was the worst emotion of all—like now. You weren't being tortured, were you? It was about Ian.”

“Moray took my son from me.” He breathed hard. “I stood there, helpless, while he was murdered! I tried to stop Ian's murder by going back in time. I tried again an' again…. I failed.”

Aidan had witnessed his son's death many times, and she had felt his pain as he relived the murder.

Her head ached now. “Did the demon bury you alive?” she asked carefully.

Aidan turned away. “I brought my own walls down.”

Brie wanted to reach out but didn't dare. “So you were buried alive and you waited to die.”

He faced her. “'Twas sixty-six years ago. Now I live for my revenge.”

His savage, ruthless bloodlust overwhelmed her, frightening her. But she didn't blame him—she couldn't. She couldn't help thinking about how his poor son's soul was suffering, caught between this world and the next one. Ian did not deserve his fate, just as his father did not.