gray gaze was steady. “Aye.”
She began to shake. “The Cathach is in the Royal Irish Academy. Every scholar knows, because it’s the oldest illuminated Irish manuscript that anyone has ever found.”
As emotional as she was becoming, he was as calm. “The Cathach be enshrined on Iona, lass.”
Claire shook her head. Was he a nut after all? “There is no shrine on Iona—it is nothing but ruins!”
His face settled into hard planes and taut angles. “Maybe in yer time.”
“What the hell does that mean?” she cried.
“It means I ha’ been to the shrine many times. I have guarded it meself.”
She swallowed, backing away. “I believe you are a true Scot, but why the costume? Why the absurd story—the lies? And who is the woman who broke into my store?”
His eyes flashed. “Dinna accuse me o’ lies, lass. Men ha’ died fer less.” He shook his head. “I dinna ken what book is in yer academy, but ’tis nay the book o’ wisdom, which I ha’ seen with me own eyes.”
“That’s impossible!” Claire cried, terribly agitated now. “You believe it, though, don’t you?”
“I speak the truth.” He folded his massive arms across his chest.
Her mind was racing now at an alarming speed. There was no way to rationalize his behavior or beliefs. The genuine Cathach was in Dublin, on display. It was not enshrined on the island of Iona. There was no shrine on Iona! She had been there. The monastery and abbey were in ruins. Had a shrine existed there, she would have seen it. And what about the Cladich—and the page that both he and Sibylla claimed they were after? She was a scholar, but she had never heard of such a book before.
“Tell me about the Cladich,” she said.
His gaze narrowed, as if he was wary. “Fergus MacErc brought the book to Dunadd. When St. Columba established the monastery on Iona, it was enshrined there with the Cathach. ’Twas stolen from the Benedictines,” he said.
She wet her lips, her heart racing. He was definitely mad, because he believed his every word. “If you are telling me that a manuscript predates the Cathach and the establishment of St. Columba’s monastery on Iona, you are wrong.”
His eyes darkened. “Do ye accuse me o’ lies again?”
“I don’t know what to think! There was no written tradition among the Celts until St. Columba’s time—none,” she cried. “The Druids prohibited writing. Everything was oral.”
His smile was smug. “Nay. The books were written, because the Ancients wanted it so.”
“The Ancients?”
Softly he said, “The old gods.”
Beyond mad, she thought. She prayed for the strength to dissemble. Then she looked right at him. “All right, I concede. I am only a bookseller, so maybe I’m the one who’s wrong.” She smiled. “I’m cold. I am going upstairs to change, but I’ll be right back. Go ahead, look for the page. I’ll help you when I come back downstairs.” She didn’t bother to tell him that such a page, if original, would be in fragments if not carefully preserved.
He smiled back at her, a smile that did not reach his gray eyes.
He knew she was up to something. It didn’t matter, as long as he let her leave the room. Claire walked slowly out of the front store, when what she wanted to do was run. His gaze burned holes in her back. She darted into her office, pausing at her small desk, and unplugged and snatched up her laptop. No sound came from the front. Holding the laptop to her chest, she started up the stairs, tripping in her haste.
In her bedroom, she leaped onto the bed, lifting the computer’s lid. Shaking, feeling ill with dread, she went to the Internet and did a search for the Cladich, then lifted the phone.
But before she could even dial 911, the information she wanted appeared on her screen. Claire forgot all about calling the police.
The Cladich was a myth. There was almost no proof that it had ever existed, except for a reference to the holy manuscript that had been found on the effigy of a tomb in the tiny village of Cladich, Scotland. Three scholars believed the claim. They all held that it had been a book of healing, belonging to a secret society of pagan warriors. However, they were divided after that. One claimed the brotherhood and scripture dated to the Dark Ages; another, to the birth of Christ. The third opinion was that the secret brotherhood had survived into the Middle Ages, although it was doubtful the book had.
Claire began to tremble with excitement. She had to remind herself that the book was a legend. But both Malcolm and Sibylla believed a page was in her store. What if it wasn’t a myth?
As she scanned the article again, she felt him.
She slowly looked up, across her bed. Malcolm stood as still as a statue in the doorway of her bedroom. His silver gaze was fastened upon her.
She couldn’t move. She stared at him, forgetting all about the Cladich and its missing page. His gaze moved over her face, her breasts, her legs. Her skin fired and flamed. Slowly, vaguely aware that she was no longer herself, Claire leaned back against her pillows. She needed him.
His voice cut the trance like a whiplash. “Get up.”
Claire jumped from the bed. His face was so tight it looked as if it might crack. He strode past her, to the bed.
“Who are you?” Her heart was thundering madly.
His hand swept over her favorite pillow and he turned to look at her with astonished and furious eyes. “Goddamn it,” he exclaimed. “Aidan slept here? In yer bed?”
She did not know what he was talking about. “There was a cat…a stray…but I haven’t seen it in hours.” She was babbling. Her heart refused to slow. Worse, her body continued to ache for fulfillment.
He was thunderous. “There be nay time left.” He looked her up and down, scathingly. “Change yer fashion an’ come down now. Yer comin’ with me, lass.” It was a statement, not a request. He spun past her and left.
Claire stood there in shock. All of her fear returned, and with it, a vast confusion. There had been no mistaking his urgency. He had perceived some threat, real or imagined—but he was the threat, wasn’t he? And who the hell was Aidan?
Claire felt as if she was in the path of an oncoming hurricane and that her life was about to be blown to hell. She ran to the top of the stairs. “I’m not going anywhere with you!” Even as she insisted, she had the dreadful feeling that he was going to have his way. But where did he think to take her? And why would he want to take her anywhere?
He didn’t answer. He had walked into the kitchen but hadn’t turned on any lights.
Claire raced back into the bedroom. She slammed the door and frantically ran to the phone. She dialed 911. The operator was calm and in no hurry, which infuriated Claire. “There is a burglary in progress!” she screamed at the man, and slammed the receiver down. At least the police should be there within five or ten minutes.
She ran to her suitcase, leaping out of her boxers and tank top as she did so. She shimmied into a thong and pulled on a bra. Her hands were shaking and it took her three tries to hook it closed. What was he up to now? She was almost afraid to find out. But she wasn’t going anywhere with him. She’d stall until the police came and carted him away and then she’d start researching. She seized the top garments from her open suitcase and quickly pulled on a denim mini and a cap-sleeved tee. Stumbling into a pair of really worn cowboy boots, she grabbed a cotton cardigan and ran to the bedstand. She seized the deadly Taser, slipped it in her pocket and flew down the stairs.
The kitchen remained dark but the refrigerator was open, shedding light, and he was staring into it. Claire hit the lights and he whirled to face her, his sword ringing as he unsheathed