“There’s a bonny lass,” he said, lifting her head with a palm and slipping a plump pillow beneath it.

Then, in one swift, graceful move, he pushed away from the bed and stalked from the bedroom, closing the door behind him, leaving her alone, tied by silken scarves to the sinful bed of the Gaulish Ghost.

She was the kind a man kept.

Dageus cursed softly in five languages, recalling his earlier thought, palming himself roughly through his trews. It didn’t help. Indeed, made it worse. Happy for any attention.

Scowling, he went to stand before the wall of windows, gazing sightlessly out over the city.

He’d handled that badly. He’d frightened her. But he’d not been able to offer her soothing words, for he’d had to get away from her, quickly, lest he give his blood what it had been howling for. Though he told himself he’d pressed his lips to hers only to distract her while he bound her, he’d kissed her because he’d needed to, because he’d quite simply not been able not to. It had been a brief, sweet taste without tongue, for had he crossed that barrier, he’d have been lost. Lying atop her had been sheer agony, feeling the darkness rustle and flex within him, knowing tooping her would drive it back. Feeling cold and hungry, trying desperately to be human and kind.

He’d gone to The Cloisters, pleased with how firmly he’d put all thoughts of the Scots lass from his mind. There, he’d discovered the parcel was en route to him, while he was en route to it. The cocurator had, with much fawning and gushing, assured him Chloe Zanders would be waiting for him, as someone named Bill had already returned, having left her at his address.

But the lass hadn’t been downstairs and Security had, with much winking and grinning, told him that his “delivery” awaited him upstairs.

Not finding the woman from the museum in the anteroom, he’d glanced about the living room, then heard noises upstairs.

He’d loped swiftly up the stairs and walked into his bedroom, only to discover the loveliest pair of legs he’d ever seen, poking out from beneath his bed. Succulent thighs he wanted to nip with his teeth, slender ankles, pretty little feet clad in delicate high heels.

Beautiful feminine legs. Bed.

Those two things in close proximity had a tendency to divert all the blood from his brain.

The legs had looked alarmingly familiar and he’d assured himself he was imagining things.

Then he’d plucked her out by an ankle and confirmed the identity of the lass attached to those heavenly legs, and his blood had simmered to a boil.

Staring down at her shapely backside as she’d lain unmoving on her tummy, a legion of fantasies riding him hard, it had taken him several moments to realize what she was lying amid.

The “borrowed” books.

The last thing he needed was the twenty-first century’s law enforcers hunting him down. He had much to do, and too little time in which to do it. He couldn’t afford complications.

He wasn’t ready to leave Manhattan just yet. There were two final texts he needed to check.

By Amergin—he’d nearly been done! A few days at most. He didn’t need this! Why now?

He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. Repeated it several times.

He’d had no choice, he assured himself. He had been wise to immediately restrain her. For the next few days, until he finished, he was simply going to have to hold her captive.

Though he could use magic, a memory spell to make her forget what she’d seen, he wasn’t willing to risk it. Not only were memory spells tricky and oft damaging things, taking more memory than intended, he used magic only if there was no human way to handle the situation. He knew what it cost him each time. Tiny spells to obtain the texts he needed were one thing.

Nay. No magic. The lass would have to endure a short time of comfortable captivity while he finished translating the final tomes, then he would leave, and release her somewhere along the way.

Along the way to where? his conscience demanded. Do you finally accept that you’re going to have to return?

He sighed. The past few months had confirmed what he’d suspected; there were only two places he might find the information he needed: in Ireland’s and Scotland’s museums, or in the MacKeltar library.

And the MacKeltar library was by far the best bet.

He’d been avoiding it at all cost, for it was fraught with myriad and varied perils. Not only did the land of his ancestors make the darkness inside him stronger, he dreaded facing his twin brother. Admitting that he’d lied. Admitting what he was.

Arguing bitterly with his da, Silvan, seeing the anger and disappointment in his eyes had been bad enough, Dageus wasn’t certain he’d ever be ready to face his twin brother—the brother who’d never broken a vow in his life.