Dark Victory (25 page)

And why should he? He could buy whatever he wanted, destroy whatever he wanted, fuck whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. And he expected it to be that way.

He was a bastard and it was that simple. He’d looked at her, clearly thinking about all of the things he’d like to do to her in his bedroom.
Ha-ha,
Sam thought. If push came to shove and she took him to bed to get what she wanted, it would be exactly that—
her
taking
him
to bed. However, she hated the idea. She was not going to be one of a thousand forgettable women, not ever. She needed to go back in time, but she had a bargaining chip or two. She knew he’d never help her just because they were both good guys on the same side of the battlefield. But he could surely use her connections at HCU.

He’d never do anything for nothing.

Sam braked in front of a huge, centuries-old ancestral home. She got out of the car, a short skimpy dress beneath her wool coat. She was wearing stilettos and she had to navigate the stone path leading up to the front door. She felt his power coming from within the house in huge hot waves, and she felt the power of two more men, as well.

A butler greeted her at the front door, his eyes wide with
surprise. “I’m afraid I did not realize his lordship was expecting another guest.”

He had a
butler.
It was so absurdly classic that it was funny. Sam stepped past the man, handing him her coat. “He’s not. I opened the gates with my superpowers. So where’s his
lordship?
”

The butler paled. “Your name, madam?”

“Madam Butterfly.” Sam smiled. “I’ll find his lordship myself.” She started across the entry hall, acutely aware of the coat of arms on one wall and the multimillion-dollar masterpieces on the other walls. She heard voices and the tinkle of glasses. Great, a party. She loved parties.

“Please wait, madam,” the butler cried, chasing her.

Sam strode to the threshold of a living room, instantly dismissing the two other men and three beautiful women in the elegant, old-world room. Ian stood in front of a massive stone hearth, clad in an impeccably tailored tuxedo, a flute of champagne in one hand. A solid gold watch was exposed, as were sapphire cuff links. His eyes were on her as she paused. He’d felt her, too, and was expecting her.

“It’s all right, Gerard,” he drawled in a heavy Scot brogue. “The more, the merrier.” He tipped his flute at her, his blue gaze gleaming with male interest.

Sam breathed hard. Well, she hadn’t imagined the lust—or how frigging hot he was. He was looking at her long, strong, bare legs, undoubtedly speculating about how it would feel to have them wrapped around his waist.
Dream on,
she thought silently.

He started.

Great, he thought to read her mind. Two could play this game. “Your lordship, I hope I am not imposing,” Sam mocked. She thought about curtsying but decided that would be overdoing it.

His eyes gleamed even more brightly. “I was wonderin’ how long it would take ye to find me.”

She smiled coldly at him. “In your dreams,” she murmured.

“I’m very fond o’ dreams.”

“I’ll bet.”

A beautiful woman in a long, slinky red dress stood, moving to stand possessively beside him. She had a
Playboy
center-fold body, a perfect face and endless legs—but so did Sam. She did not have lethal blades concealed in her high heels or a laser-edged DVD in her purse that could sever a man’s head from his body. “I didn’t realize you’d invited another guest to Lord Ross’s.”

Ian didn’t look at her. He sauntered forward and Sam tried not to inhale. His stride was sensual and suggestive, the gait of a man in slow pursuit, a man absolutely certain of the evening’s outcome. “Hello, Rose.” He paused by a dry bar and poured champagne into an untouched flute. He handed it to her. “Welcome to my lair.”

“But your father was the wolf.” Sam batted her lashes at him.

“Like father, like son,” he murmured, his gaze dipping to her cleavage.

The champagne was Cristal, of course. Sam took the flute and knew he meant for their fingers to brush. Her body was very hot and very tight, but it didn’t matter. She was never giving in to him—unless it was on her terms. “In the mood for a proposition?”

His mouth curved. “I’ve been in the mood since Oban.”

“I’m so flattered.” Sam nodded toward a pair of closed doors. Ian took her arm and looked at his guests and obviously expendable date. “We have some unfinished business to conclude. We’ll only be a moment.”

Sam glanced at his guests. The two women were affronted, but the two men seemed amused. She glanced at him carefully.
His eyes were almost silver now, and directed at the woman in red. He was mesmerizing her to his will.

She turned and sat down with the other women, an obedient little slave. She even smiled at them.

Ian opened the pair of doors, gesturing, as if a gentleman. Sam slithered past him, very deliberately, brushing her hip against him as she did. She entered a dark room. She heard him close the door; the lights came on. He smiled with relish at her. “I expected more of a hunt, Samantha.”

“No one hunts me. And no one calls me Samantha.”

Ian’s mouth curved. “Ye’ve never had a real man.”

Sam laughed with disdain at him. What a jerk! She sat down, crossing her legs, making sure her short black dress rode up precariously high. He looked. She leaned forward to set her flute down, aware of his focus on her full, mostly exposed breasts. She straightened, pleased. “I like toys,” she said. “Oops, I mean
boys.
”

“No wonder ye’re so hot an’ bothered around me.” He smiled, hardly perturbed.

Sam bristled inwardly. “I am always ready for a good time.”

His mouth curved again. “Then come here.”

She sat back.
Not in a million years.
She lowered her lashes and said, “I need your help.”

“O’ course ye do. Ye need to go back in time to find your sister.”

She jumped to her feet. He’d been reading her mind well before she’d arrived at his home on Loch Awe and that set her off balance, when she was almost never surprised. “I am not asking for a favor, Maclean.”

He laughed at her, approaching, his gait slow and unrushed. “Of course not. Ye think I’m Santa Claus.”

Sam tensed as he touched her bare shoulder, and his touch went through her entire body, causing a thousand tiny pulse
points to explode in delight. “Santa wears a red suit and he’s fat and gray. Have no fear, I know you helped Brie only to save your father.”

“Take off the dress.”

She started.

His eyes smoldered now. “Ye don’t have to share my bed tonight. ’Tis yer loss, not mine. But I want to see the goods.”

Sam seethed. He hadn’t even given her the chance to make a deal. “You are an unbelievable bastard.”

He laughed. “I’ve heard it a thousand times. Can’t ye come up with something a bit more original? What’s wrong? Are ye afraid of the bright lights?”

She didn’t have a drop of cellulite on her body. Furious, Sam said, “I never refuse a challenge.”

“Good.”

Sam lifted her spaghetti straps and slid the dress down her otherwise naked and very flushed body. His gaze narrowed and his smile vanished. There was no laughter now. “Take a good long look, because it’s your last one.”

His thick lashes lifted. His stare was gray and sizzling. “’Tis my first one, Samantha, an’ not the last.”

“Delusions are always so sweet.”

His gaze moved down every inch of her body then lifted. “Do ye really wish to prolong the agony?”

Unfortunately, every inch of her body seemed to be expanding and hurting. Sam stepped out of the pile of silk, leaving it at her stiletto-clad feet. “Send me back in time and I’ll think about playing nice with you when I get back.”

His mouth curled. It was a moment before he spoke. “I don’t want ye to play nice,” he said softly. “I want ye to play
bad.
”

She inhaled. Desire dripped, pooled. It was a huge blow to her gut. “What’s wrong? Miss Goody Two-shoes bore you? Oh, wait, let me guess. She only knows three positions.”

He slid his hand over her breast. “She only knows two positions.”

Sam bit off a gasp, refusing to make a sound of pleasure. Then, with the speed of a striking snake, she reached down, popped a four-inch stiletto from her heel, and pressed it against his jugular. “I so want to spill your blood.”

He smiled. “Go ahead an’ cut me. I don’t care. I like blood. But we both know ye want me deep an’ hard inside ye.”

She was furious. “Drop your hand.”

He did, only to stroke the curve of her cheekbone. “Good luck to yer sister,” he said, turning away from her.

Sam was disbelieving.

Ian Maclean walked out of the room, leaving her standing there naked.

And he left the doors open, too.

M
ACLEOD DID NOT KNOW
if he would ever become accustomed to the leap through time. He straightened, breathing hard, his head still exploding with pain.

“Ye fuckin’ bastard,” Coinneach gasped, moaning as he rolled in pain on the ground. “What kind…o’ torture…have ye devised?”

Macleod breathed hard, not certain he could speak coherently yet. They had landed within Melvaig’s central courtyard, the huge tower soaring almost directly above them—the tower from which Criosaidh practiced her magic, or so it was said. It was the tower that would be destroyed in the fires of 1550. If he had leaped correctly, it was but minutes later in the day.

He was going to kill Criosaidh. And while he was at it, if the other witch was there, he’d kill her, too. Tabitha would be safe from her enemies—unless the damned deamhan-ghost somehow survived.

His gut clenched so tightly it hurt. Tabitha had almost died
that day. He would never forgive himself for what had happened to her. He would never forget how she had suffered. And it was his fault—he knew that now.

He would end this today. He would destroy Criosaidh, and then use his powers to go to An Tùir-Tara, if necessary, to save Tabitha from death. And when he was done, when she was safe, she could go back to her time, if that was what she still wished to do. He had brought her to Blayde against her will and he was sorry he had done so. Tabitha hadn’t deserved such treatment. He would never force her to his will again. Now, he wished to atone for his behavior and for all that he had done, even if it meant sending her back to her time.

He could not bear the idea of life without her.

If he was truly fortunate, she would forgive him and wish to stay with him in his world.

The boy was afraid to be alone.

Cries began sounding from the watchtowers.

Coinneach sat up, his eyes widening as he realized where they were. “We’re at Melvaig?” His befuddled glance blazed at Macleod. “’Tis true. Ye’re one of them.”

Macleod reached down and lifted him to his feet. “Bring yer witch mother to me.”

Coinneach snarled, “I dinna think to obey ye, Macleod. An’ if ye think I’ll show ye mercy, think again. Ye’ll die here, today, by my blade, at my hand!”

Macleod stared at Coinneach. Suddenly he pitied him. His life would be one of bloody revenge and it would never change—unless he found a great lady like Tabitha.

Let me help you.

He flinched. Now he understood what she had been trying to do for the past century.

And Coinneach jerked, as if he sensed a change in Macleod. He tightened his grasp on him anyway, as dozens of soldiers
began rushing toward them from the ramparts and the hall. He would use Coinneach against the witch if he could. There was no other choice, even if Coinneach was an Innocent. He felt her evil approach.

He tensed. Thunder rumbled—but it wasn’t Criosaidh, it was the gods. Surely they were not displeased now?

And as the evil intensified, as the hatred welled, as the fury rushed toward him, he slowly looked up.

Criosaidh stood in a tower embrasure, staring down at him and her son. Even from this distance, her black eyes blazed.

Then he felt a frisson of surprise trickle through him. Sensing an unfamiliar white power, he glanced at the soldiers surrounding them. Either a Master was present or someone very close to the gods. Whoever it was, he did not know him.

Behind several soldiers he saw a tall, dark-haired man, whom he instantly recognized. They had never been introduced, but he had observed Nick from his hiding place outside the school after the hostage crisis, during the hours Tabitha had been forced to remain there, answering his questions. He had learned his name and determined that he toiled to fight evil. He was clad as a Highlander, as was the beautiful blond woman with him. His ambition seethed.

Their gazes locked.

Nick sent him his thoughts.
I am hunting Kristin.

Mayhap I will leave her fer ye.

I want her alive!

Macleod didn’t care what Nick wanted. A big MacDougall man stepped forward. “Coinneach, are ye all right?”

Coinneach smiled coldly. “I’ve been starved an’ beaten like a dog, but Macleod willna live to see the night fall. We’ll have our revenge, Douglas.”

Douglas’s eyes hardened. “Ye’re a fool, Macleod. Ye come alone? Ye think we will accept Coinneach’s return an’ feast with
ye? Thank ye? Release him now. Ye’re outnumbered here. Yer day is done.”

“Bring me Criosaidh,” Macleod said.

And suddenly the wind blasted through the courtyard, stirring up leaves and dirt, tunics and skirts lifting. “Release my son.”

Macleod looked up at the tower window where Criosaidh stood, haloed in a dark mist on a bright sunny day. “Come down an’ ask me nicely.”

He felt her rage. The wind blasted him this time, causing dirt to strike him in the eyes. But even though briefly blinded, he did not release Coinneach. Instead, he sent his power at the tower, intending to strike stones from it.

But his powers failed him entirely.

He was furious and disbelieving.

The gods would dare to interfere
now?

He had sworn off his vengeance against the MacDougalls, and his revenge now was against the evil hunting Tabitha!