Cursed to Kill Page 8

  “I’m right here, Cian. What do you want? A deaf man could hear you a mile away.”

  From behind him, Miranda’s voice rang out. Venom lurked in her words, and warning buzzed in his mind. This wouldn’t go well. He should take her upstairs, where Susan and whatever clients might be browsing the taller racks, couldn’t overhear their volcanic argument.

  He didn’t smile as he swiveled around to meet her chilly stare. “We need to talk. Upstairs.”

  “No.” Miranda folded her arms beneath her breasts and shook her head. Determination glinted in her big brown eyes, along with her own flavor of anger. “Whatever you have to say, you can say here. Make it quick, I’ve got work to do.”

  If it had been just the simple matter of telling her how wrong he’d been this morning, he would have dropped to one knee and spit out words until the tightness of her mouth smoothed and the same tears of joy he’d witnessed briefly returned to her eyes. It wasn’t that easy, however. He couldn’t just dump demons and incubuses and curses in Miranda’s lap with Susan in earshot.

  Instead, he grabbed Miranda by the hand, ignored the way she dug at his fingers, and tugged her into a narrow reading alcove. There, he turned her around and set both hands on her shoulders. His gaze bore heavily into hers. “Has a man with long, white-blonde hair been here today about the Celt manuscript?”

  A frown puckered her brow before she let out a derisive snort and jerked from beneath his weighty hold. “I don’t believe your nerve! If someone else is interested in the writings, it’s none of your business. It isn’t yours. I can sell it to whomever I want.”

  Damn it. Cian clamped his teeth over an impatient oath and willed frustration aside. Another argument would only delay them further. He needed to get answers, get her out of here, before his evil desires clawed their way free. “This is important, Miranda. He would have scars on his wrists. Big ugly scars that go all the way around and span the backs of his hands.”

  “Take a piece of your own advice—go home.” She threw her hands in the air and started for the archway that led back into her bookstore.

  “Stop.” Harsher than he intended, the order came out strong, slicing through the air with the authority afforded to a five-star general. While he inwardly cringed, however, Miranda abruptly halted.

  She turned around, murder glinting in her narrowed gaze. “You have no right to tell me what to do. Now get out, before I call the cops.”

  Cian heaved a sigh and shoved a hand through his hair. “You’re right.”

  He could tell she hadn’t been prepared for him to agree. Her eyes widened. For a millisecond, her mouth formed a surprised “O.” Then she shook her head, the longer lengths of her hair dancing against her cheeks. She tucked one thick chunk of blond behind her ear. “Where do you get off? You kick me out like yesterday’s trash and waltz in here demanding to know if your competition has inquired about a book. You’re crazy.”

  “Yes.” He supposed he was a little nuts. Okay, a whole lot of nuts. He couldn’t think straight long enough to sound intelligent in his own mind, let alone to someone else. “But I need to know.”

  “Fine, if it will make you leave, yes, there was a man in here about forty-five minutes ago, asking for any first-hand accounts we had about the Celts. He talked to Susan, not me.”

  Alarm turned his pulse frantic. He reached for Miranda again, this time catching her by the fingers. Holding firmly, he took a step closer, minimizing the distance between them. “And she told him…?”

  “Nothing.” Miranda pulled on her hand.

  Cian refused to let go. His fingers locked her in place, denying her the ability to run. “Are you sure she didn’t tell him anything?”

  “She can’t. She doesn’t know I have them. Now will you please let me go?”

  Guilt sucker-punched him, the knowledge of what he was about to do more burden than he knew how to embrace. He had spent his life trying to maintain the balance of light and dark, or positive and negative. The few occasions doing so that infringed on someone else’s freedoms had never been easy to accept…or forget. Knowing he was about to strip Miranda of her choices, that he couldn’t explain the danger that awaited her, would haunt him to the end of his days.

  He gave her a sad, distracted, shake of his head and tightened his grip until his fingers pressed against bone. “You’re coming with me.”

  As he strode to the entryway, Miranda shrieked, “What? Where?”

  “To Scotland. Call it a vacation. Call it celebrating my birthday. Call it whatever you want, but we’re leaving tonight. Susan has a key, right?”

  Miranda’s nails dug into the flesh on the back of his hand. “Let me go, Cian. I swear to God I’ll scream.”

  Pain pricked his skin. The biting stings aroused the dangerous part of his being. For one terrifying moment, all he knew was the swift, and potent, need to kill. He whirled on Miranda, striding into her space so purposefully she scrambled backward until her back hit the wall. Eyes wide, she stared. He knew then she saw what he wanted so desperately to keep from her. That she witnessed the dark hunger eating away at his soul.

  And to Cian’s surprise, Miranda didn’t shrink away in fear. Surprise etched into wide round pupils, but she didn’t yelp. Didn’t catch her breath. She stared, that startled light slowly assuming overtones of compassion.

  Beneath the pity he didn’t want, nor did he deserve, understanding sifted into her delicate features. Her voice lowered to a faint whisper. “You meant it didn’t you? The bit about protecting me—you’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

  The question smacked into him, zapping through his hateful thoughts and pulling him back to the reality of their circumstances. With a wary glance around the shop, he gave her a clipped nod.

  “That’s why you wanted me to leave. Why you couldn’t promise you’d come back.”

  He couldn’t lie to her, and her assumptions were so close to the truth it shamed him. Again, he nodded, tugging on her hand once more. They needed to leave this place. Drandar had been here once. If he’d heard much more than the tail end of Cian’s conversation with Rhiannon, Miranda was in real danger. Not just the possibility. Actual moments between life and death. He sighed. “So are you, Miranda. Now get the manuscript and come with me.”

  “Let me tell Susan—”

  “Get the damned manuscript,” he growled.

  She shot him a defiant glare, but stopped fighting against his tight hold on her wrist. “It’s under the cash register.”

  He released her hand and slid his palm to the small of her back, guiding her across the open floor to the center island and the antique brass register. Her hips swayed beneath his fingertips, the slide of her skin an enticement to his libido. He loved touching her. Loved the power and strength in her muscles that her petite body disguised. Treasured the absolute trust she gave so willingly when he least deserved it.

  He also felt the anger that lurked just beneath her composed exterior. For whatever reason, she had conceded, but he didn’t fool himself into believing her acceptance went beneath the surface. Miranda wouldn’t be satisfied with empty explanations once they crossed the threshold to the bright sunlight outside.

  Cian prepared for the inevitable confrontation. It would come. It was only a matter of how soon.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’m still waiting.” Miranda glanced out her peripheral vision at Cian’s tight profile. The muscles in his jaw worked, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel, and begrudgingly dipped his head in a slow nod.

  Twenty miles, and he’d done nothing to explain why he’d dragged her out of the shop, or just what kind of danger he was in. Let alone what she faced. She’d chewed on the inside of her cheek so long she tasted the faint tang of blood.

  “I know.”

  “Then maybe you better get to talking,” she ground out tightly. “If I’m in danger, I have a right to understand the threat.”

  Again, he nodded long and slow. His heavy sigh filled the quiet car. �
��We have eight minutes till we get to my house. We’ll talk about it there.”

  Eight more minutes of torture. She dug her fingers into the passenger door’s handgrip. Worry tempered her initial fury, but it also compounded the headache that had set in once she’d managed to curb her morning tears. Things like this only ever happened in movies. Someone found an old book, a hidden gospel, notes on buried treasure, and suddenly the world turned into chaos. Her life, until Cian had entered it and turned it topsy-turvy, was calm and quiet. She ran an antique bookstore, for God’s sake. It wasn’t as if she had rowdy clientele or guarded State secrets.

  As if he understood her agitation, Cian reached across the center console and placed his hand over hers. Strong fingers gave her smaller ones an affectionate squeeze. “I need you to trust me.” His voice was a low murmur, more a plaintive request than any firm declaration.

  Completely unlike the Cian she understood.

  Uncertain how to respond, she turned her hand over and laced her fingers through his. He glanced her way for the briefest of seconds, a soft smile upturning the corners of his sensual mouth. He hadn’t shaved. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, changing her clean-cut professor into a man who carried an air of dangerous strength. Maybe it was the hardness that had settled into his eyes, the complete lack of his jovial nature—she couldn’t say. Whatever it was, she became aware of Cian on a whole new level as he maneuvered the pickup around a busy corner. Brief glimpses of a rough childhood, combative teenage years, and skirmishes with the law crept into her mind. That hard edge came from somewhere, and though he hid it well day to day, he wore it almost too easily.

  A misplaced thrill of delight trickled down to her toes. He’d always made her feel safe, always gave off a protective air. Right now, he looked like a man capable of killing. She shouldn’t find that attractive at all. Strangely, the touch of darkness seduced the all-too-feminine part of her soul that yearned for a man’s protection.

  He nosed into his driveway and shut the engine off. For several drawn out seconds he sat unmoving, his hand firmly gripping hers, his gaze riveted on the unopened garage door. Then, with another weighty sigh, he turned to look at her. “I’ve been an ass, Miranda, but I need you to believe I never meant to hurt you.”

  Her brow puckered with a confused frown. Yes, true, he had been. She was more concerned with explanations about the danger part than why he’d walked out twice and forced her to leave after making love to her until she couldn’t see straight.

  Before she could comment, he gave her hand a tug, released her fingers, and opened his door. “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”

  Miranda slid out of the truck, feeling very much like she didn’t want to walk through Cian’s front door. Instinct warned her whatever she was about to hear, she wouldn’t like. Dread weighed down her legs. Her heart tolled an ominous, heavy beat.

  He waited at the landing, front door braced open, one foot inside. When she stepped through the doorway, he fitted his hand into the small of her back and guided her all the way in. The beautiful redhead sat on the couch, and as Cian shut the door, she turned to give Miranda a warm smile.

  “Miranda, my sister, Rhiannon.”

  She returned Rhiannon’s welcoming smile with one of her own, albeit Miranda’s was more hesitant. Shaky, as the fierce jealousy she’d experienced brought uncomfortable heat to her cheeks. She’d wanted to strangle that woman. Had envied her beyond all rationality.

  “Please to meet you, Miranda.”

  “Nice to meet you too.”

  Good thing she was Cian’s sister, because her voice held just as much beauty as the rest of her. A man would have to be dead to not appreciate every stunning nuance. No way could any woman compete.

  At the intimate brush of Cian’s thumb against the base of her spine, Miranda’s smile took on genuine strength. She glanced up at him to find his eyes on her, his look possessively appreciative. Tingles skittered through her, soothing her apprehensions by several degrees.

  “We’re going to go talk for a little bit,” he explained as the pressure in his hand steered Miranda toward his bedroom.

  Rhiannon’s knowing gaze settled on Miranda. “I locked Drandar out. The plane is on standby. If we’re going, we have to be on it by nine tomorrow morning.”

  Cian stopped at his doorway, his expression thoughtful. He glanced over his shoulder, his response slow, as if he chewed it over while it tumbled free. “Thank you.”

  With that, he ushered Miranda into his room and shut the door behind them. For a moment, he stood in front of the thick barrier, looking lost. A frown settled into his handsome features, shadowing his gaze. “I don’t really know where to begin.”

  Miranda eased onto the edge of the bed and offered him the Celt writings. “Start with these. They’re what’s causing the problem, aren’t they?”

  ****

  Yes, and no. Cian took the folder and tossed it lightly on the table by the window. “They are part of the problem, but not all.”

  He kicked the chair toward the bed with his toe. Dropping into it, he bent forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. He studied her face, the creases on her forehead that begged for explanations. What to say? Blurting out the truth would make him sound insane, and Miranda didn’t need any more reasons to question why she’d ever gotten involved with him.

  “There are…people…who would kill for those writings.” People—yes, leave the demons out. No need to send her running for the door with his first sentence.

  She blinked, then stared with wide eyes. “Who?”

  He shook his head. “People who believe in the power of the runes. The ritual it describes.”

  “Zealots?”

  “That’s one way to put it. Another is those who believe in magic. Dark magic. People like—”

  “Drandar, who she locked out?”

  Thank the sacred trees Miranda possessed a quick mind. Rhiannon had given him an out he hadn’t even expected. He didn’t have to explain Drandar was his father. That Miranda knew the name, associated it with the situation, was enough. “Yes.” Leaning back, he ran a hand down the whiskers he’d neglected to shave.

  “Why’s he after you then? I mean, you just found out I had that. How could he know?”

  Damn. She wasn’t going to make this easy, and for the life of him, he had no idea how to put it all into words. He shifted his weight in the chair. “Drandar is my father, Miranda. One of my siblings told him when I raved about what you’d discovered.”

  There. Enough of the truth without sounding like a nut job. He gave himself a mental pat on the back and let out a relieved breath.

  “Your father?” she cried in disbelief. “Your father would hurt you over ten pages of ancient runes?”

  He let out a snort. “Suffice to say we don’t have a very amicable relationship.”

  “No, shit.” The frown that hovered on her brow pulled tighter. “That’s crazy.”

  Nowhere near. He stood, restless energy infusing his veins with the uncomfortable mixed desires Miranda’s presence stoked. Pacing, he kept his thumbs tucked into his belt loops to curb the fierce urge to touch her, to hold onto her neck until her lips turned blue and her breath ceased its gentle fall.

  “Can’t you call the police or something?”

  “And tell them what? That my father believes this document holds ancient power and he would murder for it? That I don’t know where my father is? That I have no proof he’s done anything to threaten me directly?”

  She concurred with a soft grunt.

  He pivoted when he reached the door and started back across the room. “It’s no lie though. Fanatical as it sounds, Drandar would do anything to get his hands on this document. And you aren’t safe as long as it’s not locked up.” Rather, as long as the magic it contained lay dormant. Once expelled, the manuscript would mean nothing to Drandar. The mortals the writing freed, however—Cian wished he could guarantee Miranda would never face harm. Truth was, as long
as Drandar existed, the threat remained he could retaliate against any one of them for enacting the magic.

  The only thing that performing the ritual would change, was the danger she faced from Cian.

  He turned to her, his gaze connecting with her big brown eyes. “You aren’t safe with me. You aren’t safe away from me. The only way I can protect you, Miranda, is if you come with me to Scotland and put this manuscript in the library it belongs in.”

  She drew back, her expression one of surprised disbelief. “Why do I have to go?”

  With an inward curse, Cian moved to the table near the window, braced his hands on the scarred surface, and stared out at the fountain in his back yard. He couldn’t look her in the eye and lie. “If you’re with me, I can keep you safe.”

  “I don’t understand, Cian.” Exasperation turned her voice harsh. “Six months ago you left me in the middle of the night. You did the same thing last night. You want me to believe you walked out last night because I’m in danger, yet what about the last time?”

  A fist wound around his gut as the walls around him closed in. He bowed his head, exhausted by everything. Nothing made sense anymore, and yet it did. His head felt like Swiss cheese, and lack of sleep made the rest of his body feel like he was walking through quicksand.

  Gentle fingertips slid down his back as Miranda stepped up behind him. Quietly, she asked, “Are you okay, Cian? Really…okay?”

  Great. She already thought he’d lost it. Shaking his head, he confessed quietly, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired.” Of evading her questions, dodging her rightful answers, and fighting both halves of his being. Right now, he would trade his eternal soul for a few hours of complete peace. Just to be a simple, mortal man.

  Her arms wound around his waist, and she pressed her cheek into his back. “You want me to go to Scotland with you.”

  “Yeah,” he murmured. The whys didn’t matter—he couldn’t find the right words.

  She glided one hand soothingly up and down the length of his back. “I have one question right now. The rest can wait a little while. This morning…Did you mean what you said about loving me?”