Dark Lover (32 page)

“A woman after my own heart, one I will truly enjoy,” the monk murmured in her ear.

Sam turned, stiffening.

The monk of Carlisle smiled at her. “My only regret is that you weren't born a boy.”

She spat in his face. “I am going to take his pulse,” she told him, trembling. “And if he's dead, so are you.”

The monk grinned, delighted.

She turned her back on him and stumbled over the dead
giants, kneeling beside Ian. She didn't have to take his pulse. She could see that he was breathing.

“Kennar,” the monk said, and it was an order.

Sam glanced up. Six giants had scaled the walls, and two approached her and Ian. She slowly stood, raising her blade.

“I wonder if you'll ever defend me that way,” the monk asked. “Seize her. Impale him.”

Sam felt her heart stop in shock—and then she was fighting for her life and for Ian's. She thrust, Kennar parried and easily. She needed her weapons, not a heavy sword which she wasn't adept with! Brie had been grabbed, and Tabby was unconscious now. She struck again, was blocked and struck again. From the corner of her eye, she saw a whirl of movement. Brie screamed.

Sam turned, and her sword was knocked from her hands. “Brie!”

Brie stood by the stairs, clutching her breast so badly that Sam expected to see blood pouring from her chest, through her hands. She reeled backward, as if she'd been stabbed. But there was no blood…

Brie was an Empath
. It was Aidan, she thought, turning away. Then she saw Ian and cried out.

He was impaled on a pike.

It had been driven through his chest and out of the other side of his body by the other giant, who was grinning.

He was conscious now. He held the pike in his hands and his eyes met hers, stunned. Then they glazed over with pain.

Brie was feeling his pain, not Aidan's.

Sam looked at the monk furiously. “You sonuvabitch. He was unconscious!”

“And now I believe he's fairly helpless…don't you?” Carlisle mocked.

Sam turned back to Ian, who was as white as a corpse,
but trying to get to his feet. Four giants were circling him. “Don't move,” Sam said harshly. He needed medical attention.

He shook his head, as pale as death, getting to his knees. The sight was obscene. No sight had ever sickened her as much. His power blazed weakly at the four possessed men. The Highland giants seemed to feel the blow, just a bit, but then they realized how weak he was. They grinned and advanced, confident.

“Don't use your power,” Sam gasped, sliding her arm around him. “Save your strength, please!”

Ian reeled, in spite of her body stabilizing him. Ignoring her, his power sparked weakly. One of the giants leapt toward him, sword raised.

Sam jumped, attacking the giant with her dagger. Shouting furiously, she cut his throat, but it didn't matter. The other three giants were on Ian. For one heartrending moment, she thought they were going to hack him to death with their swords while she helplessly watched.

Instead, they seized him by three of his four limbs. He screamed.

“Stop,” Sam screamed up at Carlisle. “We'll do what you want!”

The monk smiled cruelly and nodded at his giants. They pulled on Ian's arms and lifted him by the pike. He fainted, hanging between them.

“What a shame,” the monk said, laughing.

Sam felt a giant wrestle her backward, shackling her as he did so. She never took her eyes off the monk. She was going to kill him. She couldn't wait. Maybe she'd impale him first…

His smile was triumphant now. He came down from the tower and murmured, “And how will you accomplish that,
mon amour?
”

“Wait and see,” she hissed.

“I wonder if he will survive the leap.”

Sam inhaled. “Don't. I'll get you the page. In fact, I'll give you whatever you want. He needs healing.”

He caught her by her arm. “Say goodbye, Sam.”

“No!” Sam shouted, but it was too late. She was flung upward, into the sky, at the sun. And she was speeding so swiftly into another time that she couldn't even look back.

 

S
AM FELT
a rough surface beneath her cheek, almost like gravel. There were shackles on her wrists, which were bound behind her back. She recalled Ian on that pike and everything that had happened at Awe in 1527. Her body was on fire from the leap, and she felt as if she'd been ripped apart on a rack, but she opened her eyes and somehow pushed herself up to sit, a feat that required the exclusive use of her abdominal muscles. Gray walls greeted her. She blinked, swimming in pain, and saw high, glass-paned windows. Her eyes widened. The windows were industrial and modern. Daylight colored the chamber a pale gray, illuminating it, but there was nothing beneath those windows, against those walls. And then she heard him breathing.

She jerked around, using her feet and fanny to swivel herself. And she saw Ian, lying in the center of the empty room, about twenty feet from her. The pike remained in his chest, with the spiked metal tip protruding out of his back.

“Ian,” she cried. On her knees, she hurried toward him.

He lay on his side. There was so much blood. She was so afraid. “Ian, it's me, Sam,” she cried, reaching him. Furious now that she was bound, she fought the shackles. But she was never going to be able to break them and free herself.

He moaned.

“Ian.” She couldn't use her hands, obviously. Sam sat
down to get better balance and pressed her knee into his hip, so he could feel her presence. “Ian?”

He moaned again.

She cursed. What had happened to Tabby's magic? Where was Aidan, Macleod? And where, exactly, were they? The room was so plain—concrete floors and walls beneath a steel roof. They could be in 1950, for all she knew.

“Cursing…won't…help.”

She met his gaze, which was feverishly gray and blinded with pain. “I'm going to promise you something. I will kill the monk, and if I don't, Tabby will. But he's not getting away with this.” To her horror, tears filled her eyes. “And don't you dare die!”

His eyes flickered. “He won't let me…die.”

Sam wet her lips to tell him that he didn't know that. But then she recalled that during his years of captivity, they kept him alive. Her stomach churned. Ian could not suffer again, that way. “You're bleeding,” she said stupidly.

“I'm almost…immortal. I can lose a little…blood.”

She decided not to contradict him. He was losing
pints
of blood.

“Are ye hurt?” he rasped, meeting her gaze.

“You're worried about me?”

“Why would I…worry? Yer a tough…girl.”

Sam felt tears roll down her cheek.

He stared at her. “Yer crying.”

“Shit,” she said. She couldn't wipe the tears away. “My eyes are burning,” she lied. “Maybe from whatever chemicals are in the air here.”

His stare became oddly intense. “Are ye crying…because of me?”

“You're a selfish jerk. Why would I cry over you? Besides, I don't cry. Not ever.”

He seemed to accept that. His lashes fanned out on his deathly white cheeks as his eyes closed.

“What are you doing?” Sam cried, alarmed. He was so weak!

It was a moment before he answered. “I'm not…dying. Be quiet.”

She watched him and saw the strain on his face increase. She couldn't stand it. She thought she was starting to feel his pain, but then, her heart was in unbearable anguish. If they weren't rescued, he was going to die. She did not have to be a genius to know it.

“Ian,” she whispered, carefully wiggling down so she was lying on her side. She spooned against him. As most of her body made contact with his—she was careful to avoid the head of the pike—she started to cry again.

What was wrong with her?

Images flashed, of the monk on that tower laughing down at them, of Ian impaled against the wall.

More images came, of her mother. As clearly as if it were happening in the moment, she saw her being raped. When she began to strike the demon with a stick of wood, he had thrown her aside, getting up and laughing at her before walking away.

She had seen her mother raped.
She was stunned, paralyzed.

Ian cried out.

She returned to the present. “What is it? Am I hurting you?” Had she pushed on him too hard by mistake? Even brushing that pike would cause acute pain.

Breathing hard, he said, “Try the cuffs.”

She understood. Sam moved her arms and the cuffs fell free. Instantly she knelt over him, removing her T-shirt and ripping it in two. The wound at his back wasn't bleeding, and she pressed half of her shirt to his chest.

He gasped and said, “Remove the pike.”

Now was not a good time for a debate, but she said, “I don't know if that's a good idea.”

“My father is a Master. I heal quickly. Remove it.”

Sam hesitated, whipped off her belt and said, “The moment I do, do not move. I'm going to use my belt to keep pressure on both wounds.”

“Give me the belt,” he said.

And she knew why he wanted it. She pressed the tip to his lips and he bit down hard on the leather. Sam repositioned herself behind him and pulled.

Because she was exceptionally strong, she tore the pike free in one motion. Two horrible seconds felt like a hundred. Ian choked on the leather but didn't scream.

She threw the pike aside, wadded up each piece of her shirt against both wounds, and wrapped her belt around his chest to keep the pads in place. “You need to lie on your back so I can put more pressure on your chest,” she said harshly.

He instantly did so, eyes closed. He wasn't white now. He was green.

“This would be a good time to pass out,” she said, using both her hands to press down on the compress.

He didn't answer her. She hadn't expected him to.

Sam looked down at his beautiful face, now etched in pain and strain. More tears came. No one deserved the kind of life he'd been destined for, and no one deserved what he was going through now. The pain, the torment, it had to stop. Ian needed—deserved—peace. Not death, but a life with happiness. “You deserve a break, damn it,” she whispered. “I will always have your back, Ian.”

His lashes fluttered.

She blinked rapidly as the tears dripped. She couldn't lose him. It was too soon. They were just getting to know each other. God, this wasn't fair. She loved him.

She went still, shocked.

Then she looked at him and he was looking up at her intently.

She prayed this wasn't one of those few times when he could read minds. She looked at her T-shirt, which had been light blue, and was relieved to see that it wasn't soaked with his blood. “I think the bleeding is slowing. Don't move. I'm going to keep the pressure on.”

His mouth curved. “That's a nice bra…I like what's inside it…even better.”

“A Maclean comeback. You must be on the mend.” She looked at him carefully. Was his color better? He certainly wasn't green now. She looked at the T-shirt between her hands. The bleeding had stopped, she was almost certain, but she kept the pressure on.

“Where are we?”

Sam glanced around. “I don't know. But we're not in medieval times. I'd say we were in the twentieth century, or even our time.” Then she looked down at him. “Rather, my time.”

“I guess ye won't let me off…that hook.”

“Why should I?”

His smile was odd. “Yer mascara's run all over yer face.”

She made a sound. “So much for waterproof. I told you, the chemicals in here are problematic.”

“Let me up.” He started to sit.

“Like hell!” She was actually alarmed.

“I can sit. I can also get us out of here, if the door has locks.”

Sam went still. “Yeah, I guess you can.” She would never let him leap in his condition.

Sam released the pressure on his chest and he sat up. To her relief, he grunted but did not pale. They both looked at his chest and the wadded T-shirt there, under her belt. There was blood, but half her shirt remained blue. Sam went behind him. The exit point was even better.

She started to stand. He seized her hand, pulling her
back down to her knees. They were eye to eye, mouth to mouth. His gaze was steady and unwavering. “Thank ye.”

She wet her lips. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him, hard. Of course, she'd never do such a thing. “For what?”

His gaze became searching. A moment passed. In the silence, Sam became aware of the sound of cars outside. She thought she heard a horn, distantly. She thought she could barely hear a subway rumbling, too. “For having my back.”