Page 129 of Dark Seduction

At dawn, she fell asleep in her chair. She hadn’t found a single reference to Malcolm of Dunroch, not in the fifteenth century or any other one. It was as if he hadn’t existed.

TWO WEEKS LATER, the grief remained. Claire reminded herself on an hourly basis that she was doing what was best for Malcolm. She had moved in with Amy and the kids. Her cousin believed it to be a temporary situation, but Claire planned otherwise. She had enrolled in a martial arts course. And she had dabbled with her “powers.” She seemed to have the ability to make the sniffles vanish, and she had actually moved a spoon across the kitchen table with her mind, but that was about it—for now.

Her store was open for business again, but it was late August now and the city was deserted. Everyone who was anyone had taken off for the most humid, hottest month of the summer. Claire was glad. She spent her days online, at the midtown library and at NYU, searching for a reference to Malcolm. She’d interviewed some of the foremost authorities on medieval Scotland over the phone. She was becoming frightened. It was almost as if her journey back in time had been a wild dream. If she didn’t have the leine and brat neatly tucked away, she’d start to think she’d had an incredible fantasy. But every day in the city newspapers, usually buried in the midsections, there were reports of pleasure crimes.

She hadn’t been sleeping well, either. When she did sleep, Malcolm came to her in her dreams and often they made love. The dreams were so real that she wondered if they were somehow making love telepathically across the gulf of six centuries.

But mostly she read books and articles online, fanatically determined to uncover some single, minuscule reference to him.

Claire was cross-eyed from the strain of spending twenty hours a day staring at her computer screen. It was only noon, and she’d spent all morning searching. And she started to cry.

She had made a mistake. Malcolm hadn’t wanted her to go. Hadn’t they vanquished Moray together? What if she did make him stronger, not weaker? And did it even matter, when she had a broken heart—and so did he?

She couldn’t live this way. She was in love with a medieval man who was probably dead. Well, maybe not. He was a Master. For all she knew, he was still alive.

And Claire froze, but her mind raced. If he was still alive, he was at Dunroch.

But there were no references to Malcolm at all. If he was still laird of Dunroch, surely there’d be local articles about him.

She reached for the phone. It was seven hours later in Scotland. Finally she tracked down the number for the bed-and-breakfast where she had been planning to stay, Malcolm Arms. The wife of the elderly couple who owned the inn was more than happy to tell Claire all she knew. Yes, The Maclean’s surname was Malcolm, but that was an old family name. No, he wasn’t elderly, not at all. He was in his prime.

Claire closed her eyes. This couldn’t be Malcolm, could it? Was it possible a single plane ride separated them? “If you’re interested in Lord Malcolm, miss, you should come out and visit us.”

Claire agreed, wondering what she would do if she learned that the current laird was Malcolm. For her, they’d been separated two weeks. If he was still alive, they had been apart for almost six hundred years. He had probably forgotten all about her. And then she knew that was impossible. Malcolm had given her his heart. She would own it forever.

“Are there any stories about him in the local papers?” she asked, her heart slamming.

“The Maclean doesn’t allow any press, Miss Camden. He is a very private man. He has a publicist to keep his name out of the newspapers.”

Claire began to breathe hard. This was sounding more and more like Malcolm! “So there’re no articles—no photos, nothing?”

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “Actually, we took a picture of him and his pretty wife at a charity event they held to save the Highland forests. We could send it to you.”

Claire froze.

He had a wife?

Her mind had slowed, becoming heavy and dull. Her heart had slowed, too. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. “Last month, when we spoke, you said he was unwed.” She could barely get the words out.

“That’s impossible. He’s been married for a very long time—and happily, I might add.”

Claire reminded herself that this might not be her Malcolm. After managing to ask the proprietress to send her the photo by e-mail, Claire sat down, stunned and ill. She could hardly think, but she tried. A month ago, the twenty-first-century laird of Dunroch had been unwed. If he’d been affianced, she would have been told so. No, he’d been a bachelor and available.

And now he was married.

What did that mean?

In the ensuing month, she’d gone back in time to him and they’d fallen in love.

Claire felt ill. Her laptop beeped. She went to it and opened the e-mail from Scotland. Very dizzy now, she clicked on the attachment.

It was Malcolm—her Malcolm—looking forty, not twenty-seven, but he remained a gorgeous hunk, even in his navy blue sports jacket and tan trousers.

He had married someone else.

It was over.

She couldn’t believe it. Claire looked at his wife.