Page 118 of Dark Seduction

Claire had a terrible sense of dread. “I am going to kill myself,” she said slowly, “before allowing you to touch me.”

“No, you will not. Because the daughters of Masters have a particular value to me. They bear me great, powerful Deamhan sons. I will even let you return to Malcolm with my bastard. You may raise and love him—and then one day you will watch him worship me.”

“You’re sick.”

“No, Claire, I am the devil.”

Claire backed up against the wall. She shook her head.

“I have many guises,” he said softly. “Come, darling,” he said, and his eyes began to glow, not silver but red.

Claire looked away. “Aidan is not evil!”

“Ah, well, he may have a genetic defect. His mother is far too devout and I think that is the problem. However, I have not given up on him. I will never give up on him. He is the only one of my many children to dare defy me. Look at me,” he murmured.

Claire knew she was about to be used, and her life would never be the same. This man had murdered her mother. Helpless, she looked up into his fiery eyes, but as she did so, she started praying. And to her shock, the words forming in her mind weren’t English or even Latin—they were Gaelic.

She had been listening to the Highlanders conversing in their native tongue for weeks now, but she wasn’t a genius and she didn’t know the language. She didn’t know how she knew this prayer, but she knew every word she was saying. It was a supplication to Faola, the willful goddess Malcolm claimed was his ancestor, for her help and protection.

Moray seemed delighted. “She won’t help you now. As bold as that goddess is, she would never dare to confront me here. Here, my power is absolute. Here, the Ancients fear me.”

Claire was panting. From the corner of her eye, she saw the tower window.

“I told you, I won’t let you die. You will not jump. You do not want to.”

I do want to, Claire thought. And she steeled her mind against him.

“You can’t block me,” he said quietly, amused. “My powers are vast. Yours are pitiful in comparison.”

She could and she would. And Claire decided to jump to her death.

“I will not allow you to jump,” he said easily, clearly reading her mind.

And the window vanished, becoming stone. Claire gasped, dismayed. The certain death had been her only way out.

And suddenly Claire felt his thoughts. She had been clinging to the prayer with the back of her mind, but now she let it go.

“Haven’t we had enough conversation? Now you know the truth. There is nothing left to tell. And you can rest more easily, my dear, for I will return you to Malcolm with my bastard in your womb when I am done with you. Come to me, Claire.” He extended his hand. “You want to come to me now. You want my touch, my caress, my power. You want the pleasure I will give you. Come.”

And Claire became dazed. For one instant, she saw herself in a handsome man’s arms, in the throes of sublime ecstasy. Her body became heavy, her flesh began to swell. The air cloaked her, hot and heavy, swirling with so much strength, she felt as if she were being pushed forward by a powerful wind.

“I will give you more pleasure than Malcolm ever has,” he murmured. “Night after day and day after night. Come here. That’s a good girl.”

And Claire felt her legs moving. Aghast, she realized she was walking toward him, her heart racing now, but not with fear—with excitement. She must not let him mesmerize her now! She must fight his powers of enchantment. “No,” she said hoarsely. “I won’t give in to you!”

He smiled at her, impossibly beautiful, and his lust thickened the air that had become her cocoon and cage.

The images replayed now in her mind, and she saw herself writhing in his arms. She forced her mind away from the horrific fantasy. She burst into the Gaelic prayer, whirling somehow, but she faced the stone wall.

He moved over her, spreading her thighs wide. In another instant, his huge hardness would be inside.

Claire screamed, wanting to rush at the wall, fling herself upon the stone, anything to get Moray out of her mind. And she saw Malcolm.

He stood transposed upon the stone, like an apparition, his hand extended toward her.

She reached for it. Malcolm vanished. Claire expected to touch stone. Instead, she felt nothing but air.

Moray hadn’t built a wall of stone—he had built an illusion.