Dark Embrace. Brenda Joyce

there was no impact. Briefly there was an odd, sickening sensation, and then he was staring at Moray and Moray was staring back at him. He was no longer a spectator to the terrible drama. He had gone back in time to prevent this moment—to change it—but now he was facing Moray. He had come full circle to the precise moment when he had leapt.

      He could not destroy an entire village of men, women and children.

      Moray took the dagger and laid it against Ian’s throat. Blood oozed, and Ian cried out, blanching.

      Aidan’s mind raced and he shielded his thoughts so Moray could not lurk. He did not have the power to change this moment.

      He was sick now, sick in his soul. “Release my son and I will destroy the village,” he said tersely.

      “Papa, no!” Ian cried.

      Aidan didn’t look at him.

      Moray grinned. “You will have the boy when you have proven you are my son.”

      “Papa,” Ian panted in protest.

      Aidan looked at him and wanted to cry. “I willna be long.”

      “I’ll die for them!” Ian cried, struggling furiously now.

      Moray jerked him, his expression one of anger and disgust. “He will be useless to me,” he spat.

      “You won’t need him. You will have me,” Aidan said, meaning it. He left the tower, feeling as if his soul had already left his body. His movements felt mechanical, except for the wild pounding of his heart and the lurching of his stomach. For the first time in his life, he felt raw fear.

      He went swiftly downstairs, awaking the five armed men who slept in the hall. They fell silently into step beside him.

      Outside, the moon was full, the sky a deathly black, stars glittering obscenely. He roused another two dozen men. As their mounts were saddled, the men gathered torches. One of the men came up to him, his face set and grim. “What passes, Aidan?”

      He looked at Angus, refusing to answer. A steed was brought forward and he vaulted into the saddle, signaling his men to follow.

      The troops rode through the gatehouse and over the icy bridge that spanned gleaming waters. When they reached the village on the loch’s shores, Aidan pulled up. He did not look at Angus as he spoke. “Burn it. Leave no one—not even a dog—alive.”

      He did not have to look at Angus to feel the man’s absolute shock.

      He stared ahead at the village, not bothering to repeat himself.

      A moment later, his men were galloping through the thatched cottages, torching the straw roofs, which instantly became infernos. Men, women and children fled their burning homes, crying in fright, and his men chased them down, one after one, swiftly ending each life with one thrust of a blade. Screams of terror filled the night. Aidan sat his restless mount, not allowing it to move. He knew his face was wet, but he refused to wipe the tears. He kept Ian’s image close in his mind until the night was silent, except for the hissing of flames and a single woman’s sobs.

      Her weeping abruptly ended.

      His men filed past him, no one looking at him now.

      When he was alone, he choked and slid from the mount. He began vomiting helplessly and uncontrollably in the snow.

      When he was done, he stayed there, breathing hard. The screams echoed in his mind. He kept reminding himself that at least he had saved Ian. And he knew he would never forget what he had just witnessed, what he had just done.

      He heard a movement behind him.

      Aidan slowly got up and turned.

      A woman stood by some trees, weeping soundlessly, clutching the hand of a small, terrified child. She was staring at him. His heart lurched in absolute dread. He unsheathed his sword and started toward them.

      She didn’t run. She hugged her child and shrank against the huge fir tree, eyes wide. “Why, my lord? Why?”

      The hilt of his sword was sticky in his hand. He meant to raise it. He said hoarsely, “Run. Run now.”

      She and the child fled into the woods.

      He tossed the sword at the ground and leaned his face on his arms, against the tree. Ian…he had to free Ian from Moray.

      And then he felt the shocking, evil presence behind him. Tensing, Aidan whirled. Moray stood there, Ian in his grasp. He saw the blade Moray held flash silver.

      “Give me my son!”

      Ian made an odd, strangled sound.

      Horrified, Aidan saw the dagger embedded in Ian’s chest. “No!”

      Moray smiled—and Ian’s eyes rolled back in his head lifelessly. Aidan screamed, rushing forward as Ian became limp. But when he reached them, they were gone.

      For one instant, Aidan stood in shock and disbelief. Moray had murdered Ian.

      Anguish began, and with it, more rage than he had ever felt. He howled, holding his head, and furiously, he leapt back in time. He would not let Ian die.

      He returned to that moment at Awe when he had found Ian in the great hall with his steward, but once again he had no power, and no one could see or hear him. He tried to assault Moray, but an invisible wall came between them and the past repeated itself, exactly. This time, he was a sick spectator as his younger self sat on his steed and watched his men destroying an entire innocent village.

      And this time, when he saw himself discover the woman and child, he rushed forward. “Do it,” he shouted at his younger self. “You must do it!’

      But the man he had been a moment ago did not lift his sword. “Run. Run now!”

      The woman and child fled into the forest. He watched as his younger self turned to face Moray, who held Ian tightly to his chest.

      And that huge, unnatural force began pulling him inexorably toward the trio. Aidan screamed in warning at Ian, at himself, but no one heard him. He saw the silver dagger flash.

      The anguish was even greater now, but so was the rage.

      He fell to his knees, howling and maddened, and then he leapt back in time again.

      And again.

      And again.

      And each and every time, it was the same. An entire village destroyed by his command, one small woman and child fleeing and Moray still murdering Ian before his very eyes, only to vanish with his dead child.

      And finally he gave up.

      He roared and roared, blinded by the grief. He cursed evil; he cursed the gods. He was below Awe’s curtain walls, although he did not recall returning from the village. And then, finally, the tower roof above his head collapsed. The entire wing of the castle started to crumble. He wept, openly and brokenly, as the stone walls rained down upon him. And when he was buried beneath his own castle walls, he became still and silent.

      Aidan waited to die.

       CHAPTER ONE

       The Present September 2008, New York City

      THE ROAR OF HUMAN PAIN AWOKE HER.

      Brianna Rose sat bolt upright, awoken from a deep sleep, horrified by the sound. It was filled with rage and anguish and disbelief. And then the pain cut through her.

      She doubled over in her bed, clutching herself as if someone had actually slid a butcher’s knife through her chest. For one moment, she could not breathe. She had never experienced that kind of anguish in her twenty-six years. Panting hard, she prayed for the pain to end. Then, suddenly, it did.

      But as the torment vanished abruptly, a man’s