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 it.
Claire leaped back so quickly she fell against the stove. She’d never heard a genuine sword before, but she knew immediately that his weapon was real.
He held the sword high, his eyes black with fury, as if she was his mortal enemy and he was an instant away from cleaving her in two.
He lowered the sword. “By the gods, lass,” he said hoarsely. “Dinna sneak up on me that way!”
She wet her dry lips, unable to look away, her heart hammering so hard she felt faint. For one instant, she had been afraid he was going to kill her on the spot.
A madman with a sword. She was in deep shit.
“I’ll never hurt ye,” he said, a strange expression twisting his face. His gaze had slipped to her legs again.
“You scared me,” Claire managed to say, beginning to tremble. That was a vast understatement. If that sword was genuine, what did it make the man?
“Be ye impoverished? Ye have no garments but rags?” His gaze lifted to hers.
Claire didn’t even try to answer. She stood there, overwhelmed with what her mind wanted to tell her.
“Dinna fear, lass, I’ll see ye clothed soon enough.” He began to smile reassuringly at her, when she could not possibly be reassured, but then his gaze jerked past her and widened. Before Claire could really register that something or someone was in the hallway, he shoved her behind him. “Get back,” he commanded.
Claire stumbled from the force of his push as his sword rang, unsheathed once again. The sound was answered by another sword’s terrible echo behind them. In dread and disbelief, she turned and cried out.
Another towering man, dressed almost exactly as Malcolm, faced him, a huge sword raised threateningly in both hands. He was dark haired but fair skinned, impossibly handsome, and his eyes were filled with malicious delight. “Hallo, a Chaluim.” He spoke softly in Gaelic, his words clearly taunting. “De tha doi?”
Malcolm roared, “A Bhrogain!” The battle cry was ancient, barbaric and deafening. It was also terrifying. Claire cringed as Malcolm wielded a blow that would have cleanly sliced the other man’s head from his neck had his adversary not met it with equally great strength and skill. The two swords locked and rang again.
And in that moment, she knew everything was real. These men wanted to kill one another and it was not an act. Malcolm’s adversary no longer smiled, his expression primitive, feral. As Malcolm went on the offensive, his enemy parrying every blow, she saw that they had the kind of ability that only came from years of practice—and years of actual battle. They were not in costume. They were medieval warriors intent on murder, mayhem, death.
So much testosterone filled the store that she felt ill and faint.
Blow after blow sounded.
Someone was going to die soon. Malcolm could die.
And Claire thought about the Beretta.
She had left it in the hallway. Both men were in the midst of their battle in the center of her kitchen. Claire edged toward the door, skirting the breakfast area as she did so, making certain she stayed far from the battling men.
And then she ran into the hall as their swords rang again and again, the violent battle clearly reaching a savage crescendo. She saw the Beretta and seized it. She wanted to turn and flee, but instead, she ran back to the kitchen and pointed the gun at Malcolm’s enemy.
“Stop,” she tried, but her teeth were chattering.
Malcolm had seen her. His eyes had briefly widened. “Lass, nay!”
“I’ll shoot!” she cried. “Malcolm, tell him I will kill him if he doesn’t stop!”
Malcolm and the other man were braced against one another, sword to sword. Malcolm smiled coldly. “Ye heard my lass, Aidan. Surrender, afore she murders ye with her weapon.”
Claire prayed he would surrender. She didn’t know who he was, and she didn’t know why she was defending Malcolm, but she would put a bullet in the intruder if she had to. She was a very good shot, but she had never fired a gun under such circumstances, or in such fear. Her hands were shaking, and while she would try to only wound the man, she wasn’t confident that she would not kill him by mistake.
The dark-haired man visibly relaxed, although for one more moment he and Malcolm remained braced like two horned stags. Then, as one, both men disengaged, stepping farther apart.
Claire sidled past Aidan, who turned to smile at her. Her heart turned over at the sight of so much male beauty and strength.
Aidan murmured, “Ah, beauty, ye let me live another day.” He grinned, clearly enjoying himself and not in the least bit shaken by such a violent fight. “Rascal that I am, I be eagerly awaitin’ our next meeting,” he added.
Claire rushed to Malcolm’s side, barely comprehending him. He stepped protectively in front of her, and in doing so, he briefly blocked her view of Aidan. “There willna be another time,” he growled back at Aidan.
Then he turned to Claire, his gaze searching. “Did he hurt ye?”
Claire was shaking like a leaf. She was about to tell him that she was fine—a monstrous lie—when she realized that Aidan was gone. “Where did he go?” she gasped.
“Give me the weapon, lass,” Malcolm said softly, taking the gun from her. He set it on the counter and put his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace.
And dear God, he felt safe. Claire clung, shocked by the overwhelming sense of security his huge body was giving her. “Who was that? Where did he go?”
His gaze seemed to melt as he looked down at her. His huge hand stroked down her hair to the small of her back, and everything changed. His body was so strong and male, his scent was so heady and sexual that her knees buckled. Her bare thighs were molded to his equally bare ones, but his tough leather boots were a startling and not unpleasant contrast against her shins. In her cowboy boots, she was still shorter than he was, and her breasts were crushed against the solid wall of his chest.
And he was massively aroused, his erection standing hard and high against one hip.
Claire’s insides hollowed. She wanted this man and it had nothing to do with any trance.
“Have no fear, lass. The bastard’s gone.” His hand moved lower, over her denim-clad bottom, his fingers spreading firmly there. “I be wantin’ ye, lass.”
She wet her lips. “I know.” She dared, “I want you, too.”
He smiled at her and she felt his hand caress her bottom, low near the hem of her skirt. “Can ye wait an hour or so?” he murmured.
Claire was overcome with pulsating desire. Ordinarily she was hard to please, but she felt that if he touched her—really touched her, right then, between her legs—she