The Dark Highlander (4 page)

And the MacKeltar library was by far the best bet.

He’d been avoiding it at all cost, for it was fraught with myriad and varied perils. Not only did the land of his ancestors make the darkness inside him stronger, he dreaded facing his twin brother. Admitting that he’d lied. Admitting what he was.

Arguing bitterly with his da, Silvan, seeing the anger and disappointment in his eyes had been bad enough, Dageus wasn’t certain he’d ever be ready to face his twin brother—the brother who’d never broken a vow in his life.

Since the eve he’d broken his oath and turned dark, Dageus had not once worn the colors of his clan, though a scrap of well-worn Keltar plaid was tucked beneath his pillow. Some evenings, after he’d seen whichever woman it was into a cab (though he tooped many, he shared his bed with none), he would close his hand around it, shut his eyes and pretend he was in the Highlands again. A simple man, naught more.

All he wanted was to find a way to fix the problem, to get rid of the dark ones himself. Then he would regain his honor.
Then
he could proudly face his brother and reclaim his heritage.

If you wait much longer,
that nagging voice warned,
you may no longer care to reclaim it. You may no longer even understand what it means.

He forced his thoughts away from such an unpleasant bent, and they drifted with alarming intensity straight back to the lass tied to his bed. Tied vulnerably and helplessly to his bed.

Dangerous thought, that. Seemed all he ever had anymore were dangerous thoughts.

Raking a hand through his hair, he forced his attention to the text she’d left on the coffee table, refusing to dwell on the disconcerting fact that a part of him had taken one look at the lass in such proximity to his bed and said simply:
Mine.

As if from the moment he’d seen her, that he would claim her had been as certain as the morrow’s dawn.

Several hours later, Chloe’s volatile emotions had run the gamut. She’d pretty much exhausted fear, plunged with effusive glee, for a time, into outrage at her captor, and was now thoroughly disgusted at herself for her impetuous curiosity.

Curious as a wee kitten, you are, but a cat has nine lives, Chloe,
Grandda used to say.
You have but one. Beware where it leads you.

You can say that again,
she thought, listening intently to see if she could hear the thief moving around out there. His penthouse had one of those music systems that was piped into every room and, after an initial painfully loud blast of a bass-heavy song that sounded suspiciously like that Nine Inch Nail’s song that had been banned from airplay a few years ago, he’d put on classical music. She’d been treated to a medley of violin concertos for the past few hours. If it was intended to soothe her, it was failing.

It didn’t help that her nose itched and the only way she could scratch it was to bury her face in his pillows and bob her head.

She wondered how much time would have to pass before Bill and Tom would start to wonder where she’d gotten off to. Surely they would come looking for her, wouldn’t they?

Not.

Though both would say, “but Chloe never deviates from routine,” neither would question or accuse Dageus MacKeltar. After all, who in their right mind would believe the man anything but a wealthy art collector? If asked, her captor would simply say, “No, she dropped it off and left, and I have no idea where she went.” And Tom would believe, and no one would push, because men like Dageus MacKeltar weren’t the kind one questioned or pushed. No one would ever imagine him a kidnapper and a thief.
She
was the only one who knew differently, and only because she’d gotten all foolishly infatuated with his artifacts and gone snooping through his bedroom.

No, although Tom might send Bill around this afternoon, or more likely tomorrow, asking when Chloe had left, it would end there. In a day or two, she imagined Tom would really start to worry, call her at home, stop by, even report her missing to the police, but there were oodles of unexplained disappearances in New York all the time.

Deep shit, indeed.

With a sigh, she puffed a ticklish strand of hair out of her face and did the nose-in-pillow thing again. He smelled good, the dirty rotten scoundrel. Womanizing, bullying, amoral, larcenous, vilest-of-the-vile, debaucher of innocent texts.

“Thief,” she muttered with a little scowl.

She inhaled, then caught herself. She was not going to appreciate his scent. She was
not
going to appreciate a darned thing about him.

Sighing, she wriggled her way up the bed until she was leaning, in a mostly upright position, against the headboard.

She was tied to a strange man’s bed. A criminal to boot.

“Chloe Zanders, you’ve got all kinds of problems,” she murmured, testing the silken bonds for the hundredth time. A little play, no give. The man knew how to tie knots.

Why hadn’t he hurt her? she wondered. And since he hadn’t, just what did he plan to do with her? The facts were pretty simple and quite horrifying; she’d managed to stumble into the lair of an expert, slick, thoroughly top-notch thief. Not a petty thief or a bank robber, but a master thief who broke into impossible places and stole fabulous treasures.

This was not small-time stuff.

There weren’t thousands riding on her silence, but
millions
.

She shivered. That dismal thought could send her straight into hysterics, or at the least, a potentially terminal bout of hiccups.

Desperate for a distraction, she wriggled as far to the edge of the bed as the bonds permitted, and peered down at the stolen texts.

She sighed longingly, aching to touch. Though not originals—any originals worth having were securely tucked away in the Royal Irish Academy or Trinity College Library—they were superb late-medieval copies. One of them had fallen open, revealing a lovely page of Irish majuscule script, the capital letters gloriously embellished with the intricate interlacing knotwork for which the Celts were renowned.

There was a copy of
Lebor Laignech
(the Book of Leinster),
Leborna hUidre
(the Book of the Dun Cow),
Lebor Gabála Érenn
(the Book of Invasions), and several lesser texts from the Mythological Cycle.

Fascinating. All of them about the earliest days of Éire, or Ireland. Full of tales of the Partholonians, the Nemedians, the Fir Bolg, the Tuatha Dé Danaan, and the Milesians. Rich in legend and magic, and endlessly disputed by scholars.

Why did he want them? Was he selling them to fund his fabulous lifestyle? Chloe knew there were private collectors who didn’t give a damn where the item came from, so long as they could own it. There was always a market for stolen artifacts.

But, she puzzled, he had only Celtic artifacts. And she knew for a fact that most of the collections he’d raided for those texts boasted far more valuable items from many different cultures. Items he’d not taken.

Which meant, for whatever reason, that he was highly selective and not motivated solely by the value of the artifact.

She shook her head, befuddled. It didn’t make any sense. What thief wasn’t motivated by the value of the artifact? What thief stole a lesser-valued text and left dozens of more valuable items untouched once he’d gone to the trouble of breaching security? And
how
was he managing to breach security? The collections he’d robbed had some of the most sophisticated anti-theft systems in the world, requiring sheer genius to penetrate.

The door suddenly opened, and she scrunched hastily away from the edge of the bed, donning her most innocent expression.

“Are you hungry, lass?” he said in his deep burr, glancing around the partially opened door at her.

“Wh-what?” Chloe blinked. Not only was the dastardly man not killing her, he was going to feed her?

“Are you hungry? I was preparing food for myself and it occurred to me that mayhap you were hungry.”

Chloe puzzled over that for a moment. Was she hungry? She was completely freaked out. She was going to have to use the bathroom soon. Her nose itched furiously and her skirt was getting all bunched up again.

And in the midst of it all, yes, she was hungry.

“Uh-huh,” she said warily.

Only after he left did it occur to her that maybe that was how he was going to get rid of her—by poisoning her!

4

Poached salmon, stovies and cullen skink. A salad
tossed
with nuts and cranberries. A plate of Scottish cheeses, shortbread and marmalade. Sparkling wine in Baccarat goblets.

Death by scrumptious Scots cuisine and fine crystal?
“I thought I’d get a peanut butter sandwich or something,” Chloe said warily.

Dageus placed the final dish on the bed and looked at her. His entire body tightened. Christ, she was fantasy come to life on his bed, sitting back against the headboard, her wrists tied to the posts. She was all soft curves, her skirt riding up her sweet thighs, teasing him with forbidden glimpses, a snug sweater hugging full, round breasts, hair tousled about her face, her eyes wide and stormy. He had no doubt that she was a maiden. Her response to his brief kiss had told him that much. He’d never had a lass like her in his bed. Not even in his own century, where proper lasses had given the Keltar brothers wide berth. Rumors about “those pagan sorcerers” had been abundant in the Highlands. Though experienced women, married women, and maids had eagerly sought their beds, even they’d eschewed more permanent ties.

They’re drawn to danger, but of no mind to live with it,
Drustan had once said with a bitter smile.
They like to stroke the beast’s silky pelt, feel his power and wildness, but make no mistake, brother—they’ll never,
never
trust the beast around children.

Well, ’twas too late. She was with the beast whether she liked it or not.

If only she’d stayed on the street, she’d have been safe from him. He’d have left her alone.

He’d have done the honorable thing and erased her from his mind. And if by chance he’d encountered her again, he’d have turned coldly about and walked the other way.

But ’twas too late for honor. She hadn’t stayed on the street like a good lass. She was here in his bed. And he was a man, and not an honorable one at that.

And when you leave her?
the tatters of his honor hissed.

I’ll leave her so weel pleasured she’ll no’ rue it. Some other bumbling fool would hurt her. I’ll awaken her in ways she’ll never forget. I’ll give her fantasies that will heat her dreams for the rest of her life.

And that was the end of that argument, so far as he was concerned. He needed. The darkness in him grew wild without a woman. He no longer had the option of entertaining Katie, or any other women, in his home. But seduction, not conquest, was the main course on the table this eve. He would give her this night, mayhap the morrow, but anon, ’twould be conquest.

“So, um, are you going to untie me?”

With effort, he pried his gaze from her twisted skirt. She’d clamped her knees together anyway.
Wise lass,
he thought darkly,
but ’twill do you no good in the end.

“You can’t just keep me,” she said frostily.

“But I can.”

“People will be looking for me.”

“But no’ here. None will press me, you know that.”

When he eased himself down on the bed facing her, she plastered herself back against the headboard.

“You’ll come to no harm at my hands, lass. I give you my word.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, as if she’d thought better of it. Then she seemed to change her mind, shrugged, and said, “How can I believe that? I’m sitting in the middle of all this stolen stuff and you’ve tied me up. I can’t help but worry about how you plan to deal with me. So, how do you?” When he didn’t respond immediately, she added heatedly. “If you’re going to kill me, I’m warning you right now—I’ll haunt you till the end of your thieving days. I’ll make your life a living hell. I’ll make your legendary banshee seem demure and soft-spoken by comparison. You . . . you . . . you barbarian Visigoth,” she spat.

“Och, and there’s your Scots blood, lass,” he said with a faint smile. “A fine bit o’ temper too. Though Visigoth is a bit far-fetched, I’m hardly doing anything so epic as the sacking of Rome.”

She scowled. “Lots of books were lost then too.”

“I treat them with care. And you needn’t fash yourself, lass. I will no’ harm you. Naught will be done to you that you doona wish done. I may borrow a few tomes, but that’s the extent of my crimes. I’ll be leaving soon. When I do, I’ll release you.”

Chloe searched his face intently, thinking she didn’t quite like that part about “naught will be done to you that you doona wish done.” Just what did he mean by that? Still, his gaze was level. She couldn’t imagine why he would bother lying. “I could almost believe you mean that,” she finally said.

“I do, lass.”

“Hmph,” she said noncommittally. A pause, then, “So, why do you do it?” she asked, nodding her head in the direction of the stolen texts.

“Does it matter?”

“Well, it shouldn’t, but it sort of does. You see, I know those collections you stole from. There were far more valuable relics in them.”

“I seek certain information. I merely borrowed them. They will be returned when I leave.”

“And the moon is made of cheese,” she said dryly.

“They will, though you doona believe me.”

“And all the other things you’ve stolen?”

“What other things?”

“All that Celtic stuff. The knives and swords and badges and coins and—”

“All of that is mine by right of birth.”

She gave him a skeptical look.

“’Tis.”

Chloe snorted.

“’Tis Keltar regalia. I am a Keltar.”

Her gaze turned measuring. “Are you saying the only things you’ve actually stolen are the texts?”

“Borrowed. And aye.”

“I don’t know what to make of you,” she said, shaking her head.

“What does your viscera”—nay, that wasn’t quite the right word—“instinct tell you?”

She looked at him intently, so intently that it was intimate. He wondered if a lass had ever looked at him so piercingly before. As if trying to probe the depths of his soul, down to the blackest heart of it. How would she judge him, this innocent? Would she damn him as he’d damned himself?

After a few moments, she shrugged and the moment was lost.

“What kind of information are you looking for?”

“’Tis a long story, lass,” he evaded, with a mocking smile.

“If you let me go, I really won’t tell anyone. I far prefer to stay alive than get all hung up on moral compunctions. That’s always been a no-brainer for me.”

“No-brainer,” he repeated slowly. “Simple decision?”

Chloe blinked. “Yes.” She peered at him. Between some of the words he used and the way he occasionally paused, as if mulling over a word or phrase, it occurred to her that perhaps English wasn’t his native tongue. He’d understood French. Curious, testing him, she asked him—in Latin—if Gaelic was his first language.

He answered in Greek that it was.

Sheesh, the thief was not only gorgeous, he was multilingual! She was starting to feel treacherously like Rene Russo again. “You’re actually
reading
these things, aren’t you?” she said wonderingly. “Why?”

“I told you, lass, I’m looking for something.”

“Well, if you tell me what, maybe I can help.” The minute the words left her mouth, she was appalled. “I didn’t mean that,” she retracted the offer hastily. “I did
not
just offer to aid and abet a criminal.”

“Curious lass, aren’t you? I suspect it oft gets the best of you.” He gestured toward the food. “’Tis cooling. What would you like?”

“Anything you eat first,” she said instantly.

A look of incredulity crossed his face. “Think you I would poison you?” he said indignantly.

When
he
said it, it sounded like a patently ridiculous and perfectly paranoid thought. “Well,” she said defensively, “how am I supposed to know?”

He gave her a chiding glance. Then, holding her gaze, he took a full bite from each plate.

“It might only kill in large doses,” she countered.

Raising a brow, he took two more bites from each dish.

“My hands are tied. I can’t eat.”

He smiled then, a slow, sexy, shiver-inducing smile. “Och, but you can, lass,” he purred, spearing a tender slice of salmon and raising it to her lips.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said flatly, clamping her lips shut. Oh, no, he wasn’t going to harm her, he was just going to torture her, tease her, pretend he was being seductive, and watch Chloe Zanders turn into a stammering idiot while being hand-fed by the most incredibly gorgeous man this side of the Atlantic. No way. She wasn’t going there.

“Open,” he coaxed.

“I’m not hungry,” she said mulishly.

“You are too.”

“Am not.”

“You will be on the morrow,” he said, a faint smile playing about his sensual lips.

Chloe narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“There was a time, long ago in Scotland, when a man would select the finest from his trencher and feed his woman.” His glittering golden gaze locked with hers. “Only after he’d sated her desires—fully and completely—did he sate his own.”

Whuh.
That comment went straight to her tummy, filling it with butterflies. Went straight to a few other parts, too, parts it was wiser not to think about. Not only was he a womanizer, he was smooth as silk. Stiffly, she gritted, “We aren’t in long-ago Scotland, I’m
not
your woman, and I’ll
bet
she wasn’t tied up.”

He smiled at that and she noticed what had been bothering her about his smile then: Though he’d smiled several times, his amusement never seemed to reach his eyes. As if the man never quite dropped his guard. Never relaxed fully. Kept some part of himself locked away. Thief, kidnapper and seducer of women: What other secrets did he hide behind those cool eyes?

“Why do you fight me? Think you I might slay you with my fork?” he said lightly.

“I—”

Salmon in her mouth. Tricky thief. And it was good. Cooked to perfection. She swallowed hastily. “That wasn’t fair.”

“But was it good?”

She glared at him in stalwart silence.

“Life isn’t always fair, lass, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still be sweet.”

Disconcerted by his intense regard, Chloe decided it would be wiser to simply capitulate. God only knew what he might do if she didn’t, and besides, she was hungry. She suspected she could argue with him until she was blue in the face and get nowhere. The man was going to feed her and that was that.

And frankly, when he was sitting there on the bed, all sinfully gorgeous and playful and pretending to be flirtatious . . . it was a little hard to resist, even though she knew it was just some kind of game to him. When she was seventy years old (assuming she survived unscathed), sitting in her rocking chair with great-grandkids trundling about, she could reflect upon the memory of the strange night the irresistible Gaulish Ghost had fed her bits of Scots dishes and sips of fine wine in his penthouse in Manhattan.

The brush of danger in the air, the incredible sensuality of the man, the bizarreness of her situation were all combining to make her feel a little reckless.

She’d not known she had it in her.

She was feeling . . . well . . . rather intrepid.

Hours later, Chloe lay in the dark, watching the fire sputter and spark, her mind racing over the events of the day, reaching no satisfying conclusions.

It had been, by far, the strangest day of her life.

Had someone told her that morning, when she’d tugged on her panty hose and suit, how this ordinary, chilly, drizzly Wednesday in March would unfold, she’d have laughed it off as pure nonsense.

Had someone told her she would finish the day tied to a sumptuous bed in a luxurious corner penthouse in custody of the Gaulish Ghost, watching a fire burn down to embers, well fed and sleepy, she’d have escorted that person to the nearest psychiatric ward.

She was frightened—oh, who was she kidding? Embarrassed though she was to admit it, she was every bit as fascinated as she was frightened.

Life had taken a decidedly loopy turn and she wasn’t as upset about it as she suspected she probably should be. It was a little difficult to work oneself into a satisfying fit of fear-for-one’s-life, when one’s captor was such an intriguing, seductive man. A man who cooked a full Scots meal for his prisoner, built a fire for her, and played classical music. An intelligent, well-educated man.

A sinfully sexy man.

When not only hadn’t one been harmed, one had been quite tantalizingly kissed.

And although she had no idea what tomorrow would bring, she was curious to find out. What could he be looking for? Was it possible he was no more than what he presented himself as? A wealthy man who needed certain information for some reason, who—if he couldn’t obtain the texts he needed by legitimate means—stole them, intending to return them?

“Right. Color
me
stupid.” Chloe rolled her eyes.

Still, throwing a wrench into the works, impairing her ability to neatly label him a thief, was the fact that he’d donated valuable, authenticated artifacts in exchange for the third Book of Manannán.

Why would the Gaulish Ghost do such a thing? The facts just weren’t adding up to the profile of a cold-blooded mercenary. She was bursting with curiosity. She’d long suspected it might one day be her downfall and, indeed, it had landed her in quite a pickle.

After dinner, he’d untied her and escorted her to the bathroom adjoining the master suite (walking a bit too close for her comfort, making her painfully aware of two hundred-plus pounds of solid male muscle behind her). A few minutes and a knock later, he’d informed her he’d placed a shirt and sweats (he’d called them trews) outside the door.

She’d spent thirty minutes in the locked bathroom, first snooping for a convenient person-sized heating duct—the kind one frequently saw in the movies but never found in real life—then deliberating over whether writing an SOS message in lipstick on the window might accomplish anything. Other than him finding it and getting aggravated. She’d opted not. Not just yet anyway. No need to alert him to her intention to escape at the earliest opportunity.

She’d not felt brave enough to risk nudity and showering, even with the locked door, so she’d washed up a bit, then brushed her teeth with his toothbrush because there was no way she was
not
going to brush her teeth. She’d felt strange using it. She’d never used a man’s toothbrush before. But after all, she’d rationalized, they’d eaten from the same fork. And she’d nearly had his tongue in her mouth. Honestly would have rather
liked
his tongue in her mouth, so long as she had a firm guarantee it would stop there. (She wasn’t
about
to become the next pair of panties beneath his bed, not that she had any to leave.)