The Crossing (Immortals) (10 page)

There was another spell she might use, though. One
that was much more elemental. Heat flashed through her
body; her mouth went dry.

Risky. Very risky.

Did she dare?

The car slowed as sheep pasture gave way to houses.
They were entering another village. A tourist sign pointing the way to Culloden Battlefield flashed by her window.

"Where are we going?" she asked, hoping her voice
sounded normal.

"Patience, love." A right and a left turn guided them out
of the village and onto another country lane, pasture and
moorland on either side. A tall iron fence ran along one
side of the road, punctuated by stone pillars and topped by
an electric wire. Mac braked in front of a closed, locked gate. Security cameras, mounted atop the gateposts,
swiveled in their direction.

Artemis sensed magical protection as well, a glimmer of
an incredibly complex pattern of wardings. If she wasn't
so wound up, she would have enjoyed examining it more
closely.

"We're here, love."

"Where's `here'?"

"One of my homes away from home."

He leaned out the window and pressed a button mounted
on a post. "Mac Lit," he said into what looked like a
speaker.

Immediately, the gate creaked open, its two halves swinging outward. Mac spoke a low, lyrical spell. Green lightning flashed between the gateposts. A shower of sparks
exploded, then twinkled into nothingness.

Mac put the car in gear and drove through. A second
spell restored the wardings behind them. The gate shut
with a brutal twang. Like a jail cell door. A chill ran down
Artemis's spine. Well. This certainly put a crimp in her escape plans.

The driveway was long, lined with stately oaks. After a
half mile or so, it branched right and left to frame a
ridiculous expanse of lawn, manicured to within an inch
of its life. A peacock strutted by, his harem of hens waddling in his wake. A perfect foil for the stately mansion behind them.

Built of honey-colored stone, the structure rose five
stories. Lace curtains fluttered from the windows, and
graceful eyebrow dormers peeked above the tiled roof. A
curved split stair swept from the drive to a set of gleaming
mahogany doors.

Mac cruised to a halt at the foot of the stair and turned
to face Artemis, one arm draped atop the steering wheel.
"Like it? I bought it last year. Used to be an English duke's hunting lodge or some such thing. I've installed brilliant
security, both mundane and magical." He gave her a
cheeky grin. "As you've no doubt noticed. We'll stay the
night here and sort things out."

Stay the night? Did that mean what it sounded like?
Artemis's heart tripped a double beat. Mac might be handing her the perfect opportunity to get what she needed.
She searched his sea-green eyes, trying to read his intentions. His gaze remained annoyingly inscrutable.

"All right."

He shot her a look. "No argument?"

She smiled. Provocatively, she hoped. "Would an argument get me anywhere?"

His grin widened. "No."

Her stomach did a flip. Goddess, but he was drop-dead
handsome when he smiled. He should be locked away.
Their gazes met, and lingered.

Two uniformed servants chose that moment to appear,
one man at Mac's door, the other at Artemis's.

"Welcome, sir," said the one on Mac's side. "So good to
see you."

"And you, too, Fergus." Mac's glance back at Artemis
was both amused and apologetic. "They came with the
house," he told her in a low voice. "Couldn't very well turn
them off, could I?"

"I suppose not," Artemis murmured as she gave her
hand to the servant who had opened her door. He helped
her from the car as if she were a duchess, his eyes betraying not a hint of censure at her scruffy attire.

Mac's attendant bowed. "Luggage, sir?"

"None for me. But the lady..." He sent Artemis an inquiring look.

"Um... yes. A blue duffel. In the trunk."

"I'll have it brought up immediately," Fergus said.
"To ...?„

"To my suite," Mac said promptly.

Artemis flushed, relief and anxiety doing a tap dance
duet in her belly.

Fergus didn't blink. "Very well, sir."

She jumped when Mac's large, warm hand settled at the
base of her spine.

"Relax," he said. "I don't bite. Well," he amended, "not
unless asked."

She snorted, and he chuckled. She didn't protest as he
propelled her up the stairs and into a dark-paneled entry
hall hung with large, depressing oil paintings of stiffnecked lords in red coats riding to the hounds. Overhead, the chandelier was made of antlers. She studied it
dubiously.

Mac looked slightly embarrassed. "I've been busy the
last six months. On a world tour. Haven't had a chance to
redecorate."

A long line of staff members were already assembled to
greet them. Mac addressed the balding butler at the front
of the queue.

"Is my suite ready, Giles?"

"Of course, sir. And may I add, it is fine to see you here
at Winterlea?"

"That it is," declared the motherly looking lady at
Giles's side. "Do you and your lady require a meal?"

"Definitely, Fiona."

"Very good, sir. I'll fetch a menu of choices."

"No need. Just send up one of everything you've got
handy."

Fiona beamed. "Certainly, sir."

Mac gave a rueful shake of his head as he steered Artemis
toward a wide, forest green-carpeted stairway. The pressure of his fingers on her spine sent a tingle racing to her
nerve endings. "I've tried to get them to stop calling me
`sir.' They just won't do it."

Mac's suite was on the first floor, facing the front
lawn. In the sitting room, a delicate collection of antique furnishings fought a losing battle with an invasion of
twenty-first-century electronic paraphernalia. A huge
computer monitor dwarfed a spindle-legged desk, an array
of audio equipment had been crammed into a gilded
wardrobe, and a six-foot-wide flat-screen TV dwarfed a
marble-topped sideboard.

In one corner, furniture had been removed entirely
to accommodate an eclectic collection of musical
instruments-electric and acoustic guitars, a three-tiered
electric keyboard, an ancient Celtic harp, a modern drum
set, a flute, bagpipes, and several unusual, medievallooking instruments. Old and new clashed in dizzying
furor, achieving an odd sort of truce. Balance? Perhaps,
but it was a violent one. Like a wild seesaw. Like her emotions whenever she looked into Mac's eyes.

Especially now that she'd decided to-here she swallowed hard-seduce him.

She halted on the tiled entry floor and bent to take off
her boots, loath to track mud on the silk Persian carpet.
She untied the laces slowly, gathering her courage as the
strands unraveled. She felt grubby and exhausted, and
not the least bit alluring. Mac, damn him, looked as fresh
and sexy as if he'd just woken from a ten-hour nap. He
shucked off his leather jacket and tossed it on a wingback
chair.

Padding into the center of the carpet, she turned a slow
circle. There were at least three rooms adjoining the main
one-a bathroom, one small cubicle that looked like an
office, and a third, much larger bedroom, dominated by a
massive four-poster bed. She caught a glimpse of a dressing room and a second bath beyond.

A knock sounded. Mac opened the door to Fergus, who
entered with Artemis's sorry-looking duffel. He carried it
into the bedroom as if it were made of solid gold. It
looked pitiful perched on a carved mahogany luggage
rack.

Slow heat climbed into her cheeks. Mac hardly would've
ordered her bag brought to his bedroom if he didn't
have sex on the brain. But that was good, she told herself.
Very good. It played very nicely into her plans. Now, if
only she could stop feeling so damn guilty...

She plastered a smile on her face. "Nice place you have
here. But it's not your main home, I take it?"

"No. I've got a house in Inverness I share with two
Sidhe cousins. I picked up this place a while back when the
fangirls started getting obsessive. No one comes through
those gates, unless I bring them in." He paused. "And no
one gets out, unless I allow it."

We'll just see about that. "I'm flattered to be your guest,
then."

He snorted. "Don't be. For you, it's more like house arrest than a garden party. You'll stay here until I decide
what to do with you."

"I can think of a few things," she murmured.

He glanced up sharply, his eyes glinting with interest.
"Sounds promising. Like what, love?"

"Oh, 1 -have a few ideas," she said. "But before we discuss them... I'd like to get out of these clothes."

His gaze swept down her body, igniting a tingling trail.

"And take a shower," she added.

His eyes returned to her face.

Definitely interested.

"Have at it, then, love. There's a private bath off the
bedroom."

She sauntered past him, lightly running her fingertips
over his forearm.

Heat flared in his eyes, along with a look of speculation.
"Why so friendly all of a sudden?"

Had she overplayed her hand? "Would you prefer a
fight?"

He grinned. "Oh no, love. I like the new Artemis
Alexandria Black."

She crossed into the bedroom. For a single terrifying
moment, she thought he was going to follow right away.
That would be disastrous. But thankfully, he hesitated ever
so slightly, long enough for her to smile and shut the door.

She backed up against it, heart pounding. So far, so
good, but time was quickly running out. She glanced at
the mantel clock, trapped under a glass bell jar. Six hours,
three minutes until sunset. She had a shower to take,
preparations to make. And one sexy immortal demigod to
seduce.

Her gaze fell on the bed.

How fast could she get Mac into it?

Twenty-two minutes later, Artemis wiped a damp palm on
her jeans and grimaced. She'd've looked more alluring in a
skirt, but she hadn't come to Scotland on vacation, after
all, and jeans were the sexiest apparel in her duffel. At least
the pants were clean, and the snug scoop-necked black tee
she'd paired them with did nice things for her modest
bustline.

Her pendant was gone, hidden in her pack with her pictures of Zander and her special knife. She'd take just that
one small bag with her when she ran.

She'd tried to tame her hair, still damp from her quick
shower. Hopeless, she knew, because her short curls had
been nothing but frizz ever since she'd stepped off the
plane in Glasgow. She hoped it looked wild and sexy,
rather than wild and hideous. Too bad she didn't have any
makeup; mascara would have boosted her confidence.
Artemis knew she wasn't ugly, but she wasn't pretty, either. Sometimes, perfect balance manifested in perfect
boredom.

It had never bothered her too much-her neutral looks
had been an asset during her short-lived military career.
Now she stared at her reflection in the fogged bathroom mirror and grimaced. The dark circles under her eyes and
the tightness at the corners of her mouth were not at all
appealing. She looked every one of her thirty-three years.
And from the neck down? No major flaws, but no real assets, either.

If she'd been any good at casting a glamour, she would
have considered a subtle, appearance-enhancing spell. But
glamour was one area in which her talents were weak. No
doubt Mac would've detected a glamour, anyway. How
humiliating that would be.

She paced into the bedroom. Like a soldier preparing
for battle, she inspected the big four-poster bed one last
time. It'd taken longer than she'd anticipated to set the
stage for the spell she intended to spring on Mac, and
there was no room for error. She'd finally gotten everything just right.

Fear spurred her to the sitting room door. Opening it,
she located Mac by the aroma of coffee wafting from a
bay window alcove. Lounging in a chair next to a small
dining table, he cradled a mug in both hands, his long legs
stretched out before him. His hair was wet-he'd just
emerged from his own shower. Freshly shaven, he looked
even younger than he had before. It was hard to fathom he
was-what had he said? Seven hundred years old?

He'd replaced his jeans and tee with a green silk
bathrobe that deepened the color of his eyes. His feet
were bare. Most likely, the rest of him was, too, under that
robe. Artemis swallowed hard, telling herself it was all
good. If Mac was already thinking sex, everything would
be that much easier.

She became aware of music playing softly, stereo lights
pulsing in time with the beat. An instrumental piece,
Celtic harp and bagpipes electronically blended with the
natural rush of a waterfall. It had to be one of Mac's own
compositions.

She'd been vaguely aware of the growing international
fervor regarding Mac. The music of Manannan had always been popular in Europe, but the musician himself
had been elusive, never appearing in concert. No one had
suspected the composer was a demigod. But after last
year's battle with the Immortals, both Mac's music and his
identity had gone global. He'd become a phenomenon
and had embarked on a world tour. Artemis hadn't paid
much attention.

She should have. Even though it was only a recording, the
life magic emanating from the speakers was breathtaking.
Tendrils of sound and emotion curled around her heart. For
a moment she stood motionless, drinking it in. The sound
was so... Mac. Now that she'd met him in person, that was
really the only way to describe it.

During her brief absence from the sitting room, someone had brought the promised food. Mac's table was spread
with an immaculate white cloth and laden with eggs, bacon,
sausage, stewed tomatoes, sauteed mushrooms, toast, and
beans.

From the looks of Mac's plate, he'd started eating without her. He sent an apologetic glance. "Wicked poor manners, I know, love, but I was a bit peckish. There's plenty
left."