There weren’t thousands riding on her silence, but millions.

She shivered. That dismal thought could send her straight into hysterics, or at the least, a potentially terminal bout of hiccups.

Desperate for a distraction, she wriggled as far to the edge of the bed as the bonds permitted, and peered down at the stolen texts.

She sighed longingly, aching to touch. Though not originals—any originals worth having were securely tucked away in the Royal Irish Academy or Trinity College Library—they were superb late-medieval copies. One of them had fallen open, revealing a lovely page of Irish majuscule script, the capital letters gloriously embellished with the intricate interlacing knotwork for which the Celts were renowned.

There was a copy of Lebor Laignech (the Book of Leinster), Leborna hUidre (the Book of the Dun Cow), Lebor Gabála Érenn (the Book of Invasions), and several lesser texts from the Mythological Cycle.

Fascinating. All of them about the earliest days of Éire, or Ireland. Full of tales of the Partholonians, the Nemedians, the Fir Bolg, the Tuatha Dé Danaan, and the Milesians. Rich in legend and magic, and endlessly disputed by scholars.

Why did he want them? Was he selling them to fund his fabulous lifestyle? Chloe knew there were private collectors who didn’t give a damn where the item came from, so long as they could own it. There was always a market for stolen artifacts.

But, she puzzled, he had only Celtic artifacts. And she knew for a fact that most of the collections he’d raided for those texts boasted far more valuable items from many different cultures. Items he’d not taken.

Which meant, for whatever reason, that he was highly selective and not motivated solely by the value of the artifact.

She shook her head, befuddled. It didn’t make any sense. What thief wasn’t motivated by the value of the artifact? What thief stole a lesser-valued text and left dozens of more valuable items untouched once he’d gone to the trouble of breaching security? And how was he managing to breach security? The collections he’d robbed had some of the most sophisticated anti-theft systems in the world, requiring sheer genius to penetrate.

The door suddenly opened, and she scrunched hastily away from the edge of the bed, donning her most innocent expression.

“Are you hungry, lass?” he said in his deep burr, glancing around the partially opened door at her.

“Wh-what?” Chloe blinked. Not only was the dastardly man not killing her, he was going to feed her?

“Are you hungry? I was preparing food for myself and it occurred to me that mayhap you were hungry.”

Chloe puzzled over that for a moment. Was she hungry? She was completely freaked out. She was going to have to use the bathroom soon. Her nose itched furiously and her skirt was getting all bunched up again.

And in the midst of it all, yes, she was hungry.

“Uh-huh,” she said warily.

Only after he left did it occur to her that maybe that was how he was going to get rid of her—by poisoning her!

• 4 •

Poached salmon, stovies and cullen skink. A salad tossed with nuts and cranberries. A plate of Scottish cheeses, shortbread and marmalade. Sparkling wine in Baccarat goblets.

Death by scrumptious Scots cuisine and fine crystal? “I thought I’d get a peanut butter sandwich or something,” Chloe said warily.

Dageus placed the final dish on the bed and looked at her. His entire body tightened. Christ, she was fantasy come to life on his bed, sitting back against the headboard, her wrists tied to the posts. She was all soft curves, her skirt riding up her sweet thighs, teasing him with forbidden glimpses, a snug sweater hugging full, round breasts, hair tousled about her face, her eyes wide and stormy. He had no doubt that she was a maiden. Her response to his brief kiss had told him that much. He’d never had a lass like her in his bed. Not even in his own century, where proper lasses had given the Keltar brothers wide berth. Rumors about “those pagan sorcerers” had been abundant in the Highlands. Though experienced women, married women, and maids had eagerly sought their beds, even they’d eschewed more permanent ties.

They’re drawn to danger, but of no mind to live with it, Drustan had once said with a bitter smile. They like to stroke the beast’s silky pelt, feel his power and wildness, but make no mistake, brother—they’ll never, never trust the beast around children.

Well, ’twas too late. She was with the beast whether she liked it or not.

If only she’d stayed on the street, she’d have been safe from him. He’d have left her alone.

He’d have done the honorable thing and erased her from his mind. And if by chance he’d encountered her again, he’d have turned coldly about and walked the other way.