Beyond the Highland Myst(473)

It was getting dangerous, he was growing more detached. Perched at the edge of the abyss, and the abyss was looking back, with feral, crimson eyes.

He needed. A woman's body, a woman's tender touch. A woman's desire to make him feel like a man not a beast.

He could go to Katherine; it wouldn't matter the hour. She would welcome him with open arms and he could lose himself in her, shove her ankles above her head, and drive himself into her until he felt human again.

He didn't want Katherine. He wanted the woman upstairs in his bed.

He could all too easily see himself taking the stairs three at a time, stripping as he went, stretching atop her helpless, tied form, teasing her until she was animal with need, until she begged him to take her. He knew he could make her give herself to him. Och, mayhap she'd not be willing at first, but he knew ways of touching that could drive a woman wild.

His breathing was ragged.

He was headed for the stairs, tugging his sweater over his head when he caught himself.

Deep breaths. Focus, Keltar.

If he went to her now, he would hurt her. He was too raw, too hungry. Gritting his teeth, he yanked his sweater back on and whirled about, stared sightlessly out the window for a time.

Two more times he caught himself heading up the stairs. Two more times he forced himself back down. He dropped to the floor and did push-ups until his body ran with sweat. Then crunches, and more push-ups. He recited bits of history, counted backward in Latin, then Greek, then in the more obscure, difficult languages.

Eventually, he regained control. Or as much control as he was going to get without sex.

She was going to shower today, he decided, suddenly chafed by her lack of faith in him, if he had to lock her in the bathroom all day.

As if he might break in on her when she was in the shower.

He'd just proved that he was in control. Verily, he was all about control where she was concerned. Had she any idea what he was battling, and how difficult it had been thus far—yet he'd prevailed—then she'd shower.

Ha. Then she'd, like as not, fling herself from my terrace forty-three floors up merely to escape me, he thought, getting up and propping one of the terrace doors slightly ajar.

He stared out over the quiet city—as quiet as Manhattan ever got, still humming, even at four in the morning. Fickle March weather, the clime had been fluctuating for days, rising and dropping as much as thirty degrees in a few hours. Now it was temperate again, but the light rain could well turn to snow by midmorn. Spring was trying to beat back winter and fading, rather mirroring his bleak internal landscape.

Blowing out a gusty breath, he sat down to immerse himself in the third Book of Manannan. This final tome, then he would go. Not on the morrow, but the next day. He'd done all he could here. He doubted what he wanted was in the tome anyway. There'd once been five Books of Manannan, but only three were extant. He'd already read the first two; they'd dealt with the legends of Ireland's gods before the arrival of the Tuatha Dé Danaan. This third volume continued the tales of the gods, and their encounters with the first wave of settlers to invade Ireland. As slowly as the historical timeline was moving, Dageus suspected the arrival of the race of creatures he was interested in would not be addressed until the fifth volume. Which no longer existed except mayhap in one place: the Keltar library.

Whether he liked it or not, he was going to have to go home. Face his brother so he could search the Keltar collection. He'd wasted many months trying to find a solution on his own, and time was running out. If he waited much longer… well, he dare not wait longer.

And what of the lass? his honor roused.

He was too weary to bother lying to himself.

Mine.

He would endeavor to seduce her with her own desires first, make it easier for her, but should she resist, one way or another, she was going with him.

Chloe stood in the hot spray of seven jetting shower heads—three on each side, one above—sighing with pleasure. She'd been feeling like the poster child for grunge. The door was locked and the chair Dageus had brought her to prop beneath the handle was propped snugly beneath the handle.

After dreaming about him and waking in the middle of the night to find him watching her with virtually the same look he'd worn in her dream, she'd hardly been able to meet his gaze when he'd untied her this morning. Just thinking about the dream made her feel flushed and shaky.

I'm no' a good man, he'd said. He was right. He wasn't. He was a man who lived by his own rules. He stole other people's personal property—though he insisted he was "borrowing" and, oddly, left more valuable items. He held her captive—though he cooked scrumptious meals and, frankly, she'd agreed to cooperate for a bribe. Criminal at worst, at best he existed on the fringes of civilized society.