Page 48 of Dark Seduction

Many religious houses had been fortified in this time period, but this one was not. There were no high, crenellated walls, no defensive towers, no gatehouse, no moat or barbican. “Malcolm, this is such a flimsy door.”

“No Deamhan enters a holy place, Claire,” he said.

“Why not?”

“They lose their powers an’ we can easily destroy them.”

Thank God for small favors, she thought. Claire heard a bolt being lifted and the heavy door opened.

Claire preceded Malcolm inside, glancing curiously around. The monastery was a small village, really, with a dotter and refectory where the monks slept and ate, cookhouses, breweries, a church and many other buildings, as well as gardens and orchards.

Then she looked at the man who had admitted them and her heart almost stopped.

It was like looking at Matthew McConaughey playing the part of a medieval Highland warrior. He was dressed almost identically to Malcolm, except his brat was green and black, thinly striped with white and gold. He was tall and powerfully built, with dark gold hair, bulging biceps and quads, and he wore gold cuffs on both arms. She quickly revised her opinion—he looked like a bigger, stronger, sexier version of Matthew McConaughey.

His very green, very intense gaze swept her from head to toe and then he smiled slightly at Malcolm. That was all it took for his dimples to be revealed. “Ye break so many rules, Calum.”

Malcolm did not smile back. “This be Lady Claire,” he said. “I ken ye have seen us on our voyage.”

This could not be the abbot, Claire thought, trying not to ogle his thighs and arms. Abbots were short, fat and old. Abbots were bald.

“I have expected ye,” Matthew said flatly. His gaze slid very sensually over Claire again. A slight smile began. “Welcome, Lady Camden.”

Claire tensed. Malcolm had not uttered her last name.

“Niall MacNeil, lass,” Malcolm said tersely. “Niall? I dinna care how great yer powers be, keep yer eyes where they belong—in the head upon yer shoulders.”

Niall MacNeil smiled, amused. “I dinna chase yer Innocent, Malcolm. An’ye can ease yerself. I ken ye’d come, an’ the Ancients have allowed it.” He sent another very seductive, very indolent smile at Claire, and she instantly decided that he enjoyed his blatant male sensuality far too much.

“You were expecting me, or Malcolm?” she asked, shaken.

“Both,” he said, gesturing for them to start walking up the path.

Claire didn’t like games, especially not now. “Did you mean that the Ancients don’t mind my being here?” What did the old gods want with her? If there were old gods!

“Aye, lassie. Odd as it may be, the Ancients dinna mind yer presence amongst the Brotherhood.”

Before she could respond, she started, glancing past both men. A pair of huge, armed hunks was leaving one of the adjacent buildings.

The red-haired man was dressed like a Highlander in brat and leine, the other, a swarthy dark-haired man, like an Englishman in dark hose, knee-high boots, jeweled spurs, and a doublet and short-skirted burgundy jacket, which barely covered his upper hips. Claire had read all about codpieces but had never seen one—and she had never expected to see one on a six-foot-three-or four-inch walking billboard for manhood.

She stared at the bulging laced-up pouch of fabric attached to his hose, then knew she flushed. She turned away, but not before the Englishman gave her an inviting smile. That attire was shocking and indecent on a man built like that. Women in her time would go nuts for it and him—for all of them!

“So now ye like Englishmen?” Malcolm asked dangerously.

Was he jealous? She took one quick look at him and saw he was irate. She remained too shaken from the morning to be even slightly pleased. “This is a monastery?” She was entirely disbelieving. Except now, the chapel bells were ringing and she saw actual monks leaving the refectory—normal men in robes, some thin, some fat—all utterly silent as they made their way to the church. Then another gorgeous giant, also dressed as an Englishman, appeared from a smaller building and crossed over to the gardens behind the church. And then she saw several other Highlanders coming toward them from another building, all huge, powerful and frigging gorgeous. There was so much testosterone in the air now that she was dizzy. She stared after the trio, her heart racing. Malcolm gave her a dark look.

She met his gaze, thinking that she was undoubtedly surrounded by the most gorgeous, sexy, virile men in the history of the world, but none of them compared to Malcolm of Dunroch.

“A small chapter o’ monks remain,” MacNeil said, lowering his incredibly thick lashes, “to keep the grounds holy. The monastery became our sanctuary long ago. Most of the monks have gone to other cloisters. ’Tis a secure haven fer us, when we choose to come.” He suddenly grinned, dimples deep, his gaze direct. “An’ sometimes they are summoned fer the orders I give them.”

She swallowed and glanced at Malcolm, who was now royally pissed with his buddy. MacNeil was showing off by letting her know who the boss really was there. “I need the truth,” she said, aware of the desperation in her tone.

His gaze moved slowly to her mouth. “Ye have so many questions,” he exclaimed softly. “Malcolm has told ye the truth. ’Tis spinning in yer mind, like a top.”

“He is really the great-grandson of a goddess?” she cried.

“Aye.”