Читать книгу Dark Rival - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 9

Carrick Castle, Morvern, Scotland—1430

SHE OPENED HER EYES, the torment finally receding. Allie somehow breathed. This time had felt even worse than the previous one and she was amazed she was alive. While in the throes of bone-breaking pain, she’d thought she would actually die. Now she became aware of a pounding headache threatening to split her skull. Allie stared up at a high ceiling with timbers. High on stone walls, stunning stained glass windows radiated from the sunlight outside.

“Rest a moment more.”

She blinked and saw Aidan standing above her, arms folded, and all recollection returned. Royce had been murdered and she had gone back in time. Grief rose up, choking her, but she fought it. Instead she thought about the fact that traveling through time was hell. She hoped to never do it again, at least, not until there was no other choice in order to return home. And the gods only knew when that would be.

She sat up, still somewhat weak and very shaken. Her body felt as if it had been stretched out like elastics and pounded with hammers. But since the night before the fund-raiser, when she’d tried to bring that girl back from the dead, her body had been through hell. Making love to Royce had to have taken its toll, too. “Did we make it? What time are we in?” she managed to ask. She sounded hoarse.

He gave her a look. “T’is May 15, 1430.”

She started. “And you know that how?”

“I dinna have to look at a calendar, lass. T’is almost two weeks since I followed Royce to the future.” He added, “I decided to give Royce some time to forget ye.”

Allie got to her feet. “He isn’t going to forget me in a week or two. He waited six centuries for me, remember?” She glanced around. They were in a beautiful church or chapel. There were rows of highly polished wood pews on either side of the knave, and an altar at the far end. She stared, confused, at a beautiful, gilded, bejeweled crucifix with Jesus hanging there. “Why are we in a Catholic church?”

“We’re in Carrick’s chapel. Everyone’s Catholic, lass, even the Masters.”

Allie just looked at him. The Masters were blessed by the Ancients, not Christ; he had to be wrong. But she didn’t really care. Her heart began to accelerate and she started down the knave, toward the oversize wooden door.

She heard Aidan following.

But before she could pull the heavy door open, he laid his hand on it, keeping it closed. “Have a care, lass,” he said.

She turned. “I haven’t forgiven you, but thank you for bringing me here. Now, let go. I have to find Royce.”

Aidan said softly, “I’m very sure he willna be pleased to see ye.”

Allie dismissed his comment as absurd and pulled open the door. She stepped into Carrick’s inner ward—and she faltered.

She had asked to go back in time. But she hadn’t really had a chance to think about what to expect. Vaguely she recognized the courtyard, even though it was not cobbled. She saw the entrance to the largest building across from her and knew that inside was the great hall. The corner towers were the same. But that was it.

The courtyard was filled with people—medieval people.

The women wore simple linen dresses and had bare feet. Two women had plaids pinned to their shoulders. The men she saw crossing the ward wore the same tunics, but only to the knee, and they were barefoot, too—and armed with swords and daggers. A pair of pigs wandered about, and a milk cow was being led by a little boy. Animal droppings abounded. Huge hounds were barking from across the ward, chained to a wall. They were barking at her and Aidan.

The passing men and women turned to look at her and Aidan.

Allie tensed. They stood out like sore thumbs. He was still clad in his jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket; she was wearing her knee-length skirt and linen corset top and her platform shoes. Surprise was becoming suspicion.

“Are we in trouble?” Allie whispered to Aidan. She wasn’t afraid—not exactly—for these were people, not evil demons. On the other hand, every medieval movie she had ever seen seemed to tumble through her mind. Ignorance caused people to do really bad things to other people.

“They have seen stranger sights, lass,” Aidan said. And even as he spoke, Allie saw men and women firmly turning away. In that instant, she realized that life in the Middle Ages wasn’t very different from life at home. The average person preferred ignorance and chose not to think too hard about all the events and phenomena they saw but could not explain. She and Aidan being unusually dressed couldn’t be half as disturbing as seeing one’s friend or relative murdered in a crime of pleasure, or witnessing a battle between Masters and demons when the weapons were invisible—kinetic power.

“They’re wary because we’re strangers,” Aidan said to her. “In this time, yer friend or foe, an’ no man can be in the middle.” Then he raised his voice, speaking to a pair of men who had their hands on the hilts of their swords.

“I’m the Wolf of Awe an’ a great friend o’ Black Royce. Release yer swords.” He stared at them.

Instantly Allie saw their eyes glaze. She looked at Aidan and saw the glittering light coming from his gaze and realized he had great powers of enchantment.

Both men released their swords, but they glanced at Allie now.

Aidan moved so quickly Allie didn’t know what was happening until it was done. He suddenly had one of the men’s swords laid against that man’s throat. “Ye show the lady respect,” he said softly. “She’s Royce’s guest.”

Allie wet her lips. What had she been thinking? He could flirt and charm, he liked trendy clothes and was a bit arrogant for her taste, but he was as fierce and powerful as Royce, maybe even more so, for the red in his aura was almost blinding. There was something else present in his aura that she could not understand, either—a black streak, like black rain. But she had forgotten all that. She had dared to curse him and strike at him.

A horn blew.

Allie jumped in surprise and almost twisted her ankle. She whirled to look up at the tower above her. She didn’t have to ask, she knew.

Royce was returning. She could feel him, his energy huge and hard and powerful, impossibly male, impossibly indomitable. He was somewhere beyond the castle walls.

Excitement seized her and made her breathless, caused her body to ache and swell. This was not the time—but maybe it was. Because after she leapt into his arms, she could think of nothing she’d rather do than be in his bed, making love, celebrating his life, and afterward, cuddling and talking, kissing.

Joy and relief warred.

Ahead was the gatehouse with its four towers, the one that he’d driven through in his Ferrari the other day. She rushed forward.

“Ye wait for him here,” Aidan called. “Ye let him accept what we have done.”

Allie ignored him, stumbling in her tall shoes, wishing she’d had the foresight to wear her Nikes. She stepped into the dark stone corridor that formed the passageway through the gatehouse—and came face-to-face with iron bars.

Her heart slammed. She was barred by a closed portcullis, because this was the fifteenth century, not modern times. Another portcullis was closed at the other end of the passage, and beyond that, she saw an outer ward, a smaller gatehouse and a drawbridge that was slowly lowering. Instantly she realized a large group of horsemen was approaching the drawbridge, the sun glittering wildly on their armor.

She seized the cold iron bars, her heart leaping.

His aura burned hotly red, dominating the orange and gold, making any blue and green invisible. He was at the band’s forefront, and he’d come from battle. The energy given by the planet Mars and the war gods was bursting in him still.

She swallowed, uncontrollably excited now and very aroused.

She hadn’t thought about what it would be like to see him again, in this century. Although they had first met when he was from this time, they’d exchanged no more than a dozen words, fought a single battle before they’d leapt time. The memories she had of him now had nothing to do with a Highland warrior standing in mail and a plaid, his legs boot-clad but bare. She would never forget the sight of Royce getting out of his Ferrari in his black T-shirt and trousers; Royce in bed, surrounded by Ralph Lauren pillows and sheets; Royce offering her wine, his 18 karat gold Bulgari watch glinting on his wrist; Royce smiling at her from across a table covered with linen and crystal.

The man riding across the drawbridge was on a huge, wild charger and wore mail over his tunic. Both horse and man were spotted with blood.

And then the bars started lifting.

She swallowed hard, telling herself it was silly to be uneasy. She shouldn’t be surprised to see him dressed like a medieval knight, because she’d seen him dressed as strangely at the fund-raiser, yet this was different—in his time, it was strange and somehow disturbing. It was hard for her mind to reconcile this Royce and the one she’d spent twenty-four hours with. The man approaching looked almost like a stranger. But he was the same man, when push came to shove, and she needed to remember that. He was her golden warrior, her lover, the man who fought demons no matter the time, the golden Master her mother had told her to trust.

The portcullis was waist high; Allie ducked through it and ran down the stone passageway. As she did, something made her look up and she saw gaps in the ceiling above. A face appeared, shocking her.

Allie ran faster, sensing hostile intent. Just before she made it to the second portcullis, this one almost the height of her head, an arrow whizzed past her. And then a dozen arrows scorched her path.

They were shooting at her.

Frantic, she ducked beneath the last portcullis, and she heard Royce shout, “Cease yer fire!”

She burst into the gray Highland daylight.

His gray eyes wide, he galloped his horse across the dirt ward, thrusting himself between her and the gatehouse. Allie halted, shaken by the attack, but so overjoyed to see him. The horse reared and Royce jerked mercilessly on its reins, making it submit to his halt. His gaze slammed to hers.

It was hard and incredulous.

Allie smiled, trembling. The moment he took her into his arms, all of her anxiety would vanish. Wouldn’t it?

But his hard eyes slammed down her rather exposed bosom to her skirt and bare legs. The sexual appraisal was raw, ruthless. Then he leapt from the horse, which reared again. Royce turned and kicked it in the ribs, hard.

The animal stood docilely, head down.

Allie tried to breathe. He didn’t look at her now, his expression strained, and she wasn’t sure she’d liked how he’d looked at her before dismounting. He was handing his helmet to a boy, then his gauntlets, his gestures forceful, almost angry.

They needed to speak. She tried to assimilate what was happening. He was the same man—she would swear it—but he was so different, too. He was so medieval. “Royce?” she asked uncertainly.

He whirled to face her, eyes blazing.

He was angry, she realized, shocked. But he couldn’t be angry with her. He might not know they were lovers, but he was in love with her. She had no doubt he’d told her he’d waited so many centuries for her.

And then he closed the short distance between them, towering over her. “I left ye in yer time,” he ground out.

What was this? As Allie stared blankly at him, her joy really faded. “Royce.” She wet her lips, terribly uncertain. Where was her warm welcome? She laid her hand on his chest. His strong heart thundered there. “I am so happy to see you. I have so much to tell you.”

His eyes widened with surprise. For one moment, he stared at her and she stared back, waiting for him to smile and erase all her doubt and confusion. Instead, slowly, he said, “Ye touch me as if we’re familiar.” His gaze had narrowed with cool speculation.

A sick feeling began. This was Royce five hundred and seventy-seven years before they’d made love. He didn’t know they were lovers, but he did love her, right? “We are very familiar,” she whispered. “In my time.”

His expression changed. A satisfied, smug and hard look settled on his gorgeous face. But then he said, “Ye need to go back to yer time.”

Allie dropped her hand. “You’re not…happy to see me?” She was shocked. It was hard to wrap her mind around the fact that she knew him intimately, but he did not know her.

Then she added silently, yet.

“Do I look pleased?” he demanded.

He did not look pleased at all. What was happening? Where was her lover—the man she had traveled through time to be with?

“Yer lover,” he said, his eyes glittering, “awaits ye in yer time, not this one.”

Allie could not react. Royce was cold and rude, terribly so. He was not welcoming, and he had put her in an uncomfortable and defensive position. She was far more than off balance, she was starting to feel rejected. But men did not reject her. They courted her, chased her, fell in love with her. Why was he being so harsh, so mean? Could he be so different from the man she’d slept with last night?

“Royce.” Aidan approached from the gatehouse.

Royce stiffened and turned. “Of course it was ye, Aidan. Ye brought her back. Are ye very amused?”

Aidan did not smile. He looked so incongruous, standing there in his jeans and leather jacket, confronting Royce in his mail and plaid. “There has been nothin’ amusin’ about this day. Ye need to be pleasant to the lady.”

Royce stared, his gaze narrowing. Allie saw the red in his aura explode. “So ye defend her?” he asked very softly.

Aidan shook his head, grimacing “Ye fool! Dinna start. I brought her to Carrick, not to Awe.”

Royce folded his arms, biceps bulging, a gold cuff glinting on one arm, a terribly dangerous expression on his face. His smile was ruthless. “Then ye be the fool. Take her with ye when ye leave.”

Allie bit her lip, aghast. He didn’t want her there.

Aidan flushed. “Ye dinna mean such cruel words.”

“If I’d wished to bring her back with me, I’d have done so,” he told Aidan. “I left her in her time for my reasons—I dinna like being crossed.” He glared at Allie.

Allie wanted to cry. He acted as if he hated her. He wasn’t even the same man as the Highlander who’d come to her aid at the fund-raiser.

“I dinna cross ye!” Aidan erupted, seeming as angry as Royce now. “Ye left her behind because yer afraid.”

“I left her behind at Carrick to protect her,” Royce said as furiously.

“Stop,” Allie cried. “Stop fighting like small boys.”

They ignored her. Aidan said, “There’s no one at Carrick in her time to protect her.”

Royce stiffened.

Allie looked back and forth between the two men, certain Royce had instantly understood Aidan’s inference. And he slowly faced her.

Uneasy, she tried to decipher his feelings. Most men would be shocked to learn of their death. Most men would be distressed to learn of the event, and the date. Royce’s gray gaze met hers.

And she saw the stark comprehension in his eyes. She wanted to ease any distress he might feel, to soothe any anxiety, any fear. She wanted to tell him that it was not the end, that they would fix it, change it somehow.

But a mask settled over his face. “I die in her time.” He was still looking at Allie as he spoke to Aidan. And he did not seem to care.

“Aye,” Aidan said. “Ye died in bravery for her, as any Master would.”

He nodded at that.

Allie still wanted to comfort him, not that he looked as if he needed comfort from her or anyone. He didn’t even seem upset. She laid her hand on his hard chest again, hating the feel of the sharp mail. And in spite of the vest, she felt him tense. “It was a mistake. An awful mistake. It doesn’t have to happen that way.” She tried to smile. Instead, horrified, she felt tears well. It was going to be a long time before she got over his death.

His thick, dark lashes lowered. “Yer fond of me. Ye grieved.”

Allie nodded slowly. “You’re fond of me, too, Royce.”

He made a harsh sound, and it was dismissive. Only then did he look up. Allie forgot to breathe. Everything was the same—she felt his lust, huge and bold, a presence throbbing between them, and she was overcome by it. It was as if a bond was there between them, connecting their desires, their bodies. She moved her hand lower, across the sharp mail, toward his waist. A terrific fold had appeared near the hem of the mail shirt.

“I need wine,” Aidan said. He wheeled and strode back through the gatehouse.

Allie was alone with Royce, although several knights remained at a distance. She trembled and waited for him to take her into his arms, hold her and tell her everything would be all right. Then they could go inside, upstairs. And by the dawn, everything would be back to the way it should be. She knew it. It wasn’t too late. They could get past these first few awful moments.

He took her hand and removed it. “Dinna tease me.”

Her eyes widened. “Royce, I am not teasing you.”

His smile twisted. “Yer lover is dead.”

She inhaled. “No, you are very much alive,” she cried. “And I thank the gods for it!”

“Ye mistake,” he said grimly, “two very different men.”

Allie backed up, shaking her head. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why did ye follow me to my time?” he shot back.

Allie tried to control the hurt roiling through her now. “You don’t want me here?”

“Nay, I dinna.”

His words were a blow. She could not begin to fathom what he meant, or why, and what this meant for her, for them. She had never suffered such cruelty before. “You’re not making sense,” she said thickly. “You told me you waited six hundred years for me! You are not acting like a man in love.”

His eyes widened. “I am a soldier of God,” he said sharply. He nodded at the gatehouse, a gesture that was clearly a command for her to follow, and he whirled and strode that way.

Allie didn’t move. The man striding away from her was not the man she was in love with. It had become painfully clear. What had she done, coming back to his time? And what should she do now?

Allie wiped at some moisture on her face. Her world was spinning now. And the grief came back, hot, hurtful, fresh. With it, there was so much confusion.

“I can please ye, lassie.”

Allie tensed. She hadn’t paid any attention to his men. Several stood in a half circle around her now.

The giant who had just spoken to her smiled, revealing mostly missing teeth. He was huge and unshaven, and blood stained his tunic. He had no mail and he wore a longsword, a dagger and carried a spiked club. He was dirty and reeked of body odor.

Five other men stood with him, each as gross and primitive and dirty, and they were all leering.

Alarm began.

She was used to being admired. Men looked at her lush boobs all the time. Suddenly Allie wished she was not wearing a supersexy corset top a size too small, much less such a feminine skirt and high heels. For the first time in her life, she was not the center of admiration; she was the center of savage, primitive lust. She felt as if the men were rabid wolves about to fight over her carcass before ripping it apart while devouring it. And she felt a flicker of fear, when she was never afraid.

Suddenly Royce was striding past her, his face livid.

Allie was so relieved, although instinct made her jump out of his way. He didn’t stop to ask her if she was fine or look at her. Enraged, determined, he went to the first giant, who backed up quickly.

Royce suddenly had a dagger in his hand—and he pressed it between the giant’s thighs, beneath his tunic.

Allie clapped her hand over her mouth, not daring to cry out.

“Take another look,” Royce taunted softly. “Dare.”

The giant was white. “I be sorry, my lord. I’ll nay look again.”

“Ye look at her one more time, ye ever speak to her again, ye’ll be looking at yer balls, hanging from my walls, drying in the sun.” He straightened, sheathing the dagger.

The giant got on his knees. He bowed his head. “Aye, my lord.”

“Lady Ailios is my guest, under my protection,” Royce said harshly. “Ye tell every man in the keep.” He turned and his heated gaze locked with Allie’s.

Allie was frozen. He meant it. She was no stranger to evil, but she was a stranger to this kind of violence. Royce was a holy warrior, but she had not a doubt he would emasculate the man who had dared to look at her with lustful intent without thinking twice. And as gross as that man was, he wasn’t evil, he was just a savage.

This was a primitive, savage world.

And this man was not her twenty-first-century lover.

There was nothing civilized about him. He was utterly ruthless, terribly chauvinistic, a barbarian. A product of his primitive, savage time.

What had she done?

His jaw flexed. An odd light came to his eyes. “T’is late for regrets.”

She swallowed hard. “I have made a mistake.”

His face hardened. He gestured for her to precede him through the gatehouse, even more displeased than before.

Allie did.

THERE HAD BEEN a huge battle with a rival clan, and his body was still hot and hard from the fight. Like most men, he always enjoyed fucking after fighting, and he had returned to Carrick intending to do just that. Instead he had discovered Ailios in his home, waiting for him, her eyes filled with love.

He was furious! He had left her in the future for a clear purpose! He did not need such temptation now—or ever.

There would be such a respite when buried in her warm, quivering flesh, from this life….

She shined with that pure, holy, healing white light. He could bathe in it….

He was so tired of the fight….

He steeled himself against such weakness, against her. He stole a glance at her now. The light around her was stunning and bright, as if the air surrounding her was infused with moisture after a Highland rain. His pulse drummed harder and he looked away. Even with the entire hall separating them, he could almost taste her purity and power; he could almost feel its warmth seeping into his sore, aching flesh.

Except he was hardly sore, anywhere, and he did not need healing. He had never beheld such power, and that must be the reason for his fascination. For he had never spent even an entire day, much less two weeks, thinking about a woman—not even Brigdhe in the days when he had just taken her as a bride and they were still exploring their passion. He was a Master. He dwelled on great matters of good and evil, life and death. Lust belonged in the bedchamber, the stables, or the wood on a quiet afternoon.

But ever since he’d left her in modern times at Carrick, he had been restless, annoyed, short of temper and irascible. In general, everyone and everything had displeased him. He had thought about her frequently, in spite of his better intentions. His interest hadn’t waned—it had increased. He had thought about her even while in bed with other women. But this was worse, oh, yes, to find her here, in his home, in his time, a temptation that would lead him astray from the life he had so carefully forged.

But Aidan had made the decision to bring her there because he had died in the future last night.

His heart drummed hard. He would live for almost six more centuries, and he did not know whether to rejoice or despair. He strode across the hall to the long trestle table, his mind grappling with the fact of his future death. He did not know the details, although he soon would. All men had to die eventually, even Masters. But that left the gaping question of how to best protect Ailios now.

Filled with tension and heat, he ignored his friend Black-wood at the hearth, talking in a low voice with Aidan. He poured claret into a mug, his hand trembling. His mind could spin and race, but he felt the woman at the far end of the hall as if the air was a bridge of desire and emotion between them.

She was so small and so beautiful. He felt the waves of hurt emanating from her, washing over him.

Damn it all! He did not care if her feelings were hurt because he hadn’t welcomed her with warmth and smiles into his home—and into his bed. When would she understand that he was not her lover? Her lover was dead. And if she spoke the truth, if he had somehow come to love her, then there was the proof that he must avoid her seduction at all costs. His recollection of her these past two weeks was proof he must avoid her or find an entanglement that would endanger her—and him. He must never take a mistress, much less care for one. She must never be another Brigdhe. Although his wife’s features were faded beyond recognition now, he would never forget how she had suffered because of him; nor did he want to.

At least he’d had her before dying.

That knowledge gave him a savage exhilaration. But he didn’t know the details of their time of passion. He didn’t know what had happened, what it had been like. He didn’t know how she sounded when she was coming, or how she felt, climaxing around him. Could he really wait five hundred and seventy-seven years to find out?

He cursed and drained his wine. His frustration knew no bounds. He would have enjoyed ripping McKale apart and hanging his balls out to dry. He felt like doing so now. She was the reason he was as frustrated as a twenty-year-old. It was inexplicable.

He refilled the mug and turned, staring against his will. Instead of lusting for what he could not have, he must dwell on the hard facts. Moffat hunted her and she was out of her time. She did not know their Highland ways. She could not strut about Carrick in such clothes, with her chemise missing, inflaming all men. His men would have raped her had he not come out and made his law clear. She came from a soft time, an easy place. This time was hard and savage and she needed protection more now than ever, and not just from Moffat and the deamhanain.

He would never hand her over to another Master, because his brethren were ruthless when it came to seduction and she would wind up in another’s bed in the brief moment it took for her to become entranced. He had not meant it when he’d told Aidan to take her to Awe; he’d never let Aidan do so. MacNeil had chosen him to protect her, and he could not do so in her time, when his future self was dead. Iona would be a safe haven for her—but he’d have to convince MacNeil of that. Somehow he would do so. Until then, she would have to remain at Carrick, under his protection.

He returned to the bottle on the table. It was not his wish to hurt her. He was not a cruel man. But he was not going to feel guilt, either. He owed but one woman guilt—his wife. This was Aidan’s fault, and he would gladly blame Aidan for disobeying him and creating such a predicament. However, she was in his home now and he should treat her as he would any other valued guest.

Having a clear, determined course of action calmed him somewhat. Almost soothed, he decided to offer her wine. He poured a new mug, and walked over to her. Her eyes widened.

“Will ye have some wine?” he asked brusquely. He could not risk showing her any pleasant manner beyond politeness. Oddly, though, he wished she would smile. Her smile was like the Highland sun rising from behind Ben More. “Ye’ll feel better. A maid will show ye to a chamber.”

She took the mug and cradled it in both hands against her full, soft bosom. He stared, not bothering to hide his avid interest. Any man would look at what she displayed in such a garment and think of being pillowed there in various ways.

“Are you being nice to me now?” she asked thickly.

He dragged his gaze upward. “Ye need to rest.” Surely she knew his suggestion was a command? “Ye can eat first,” he added, realizing she might be hungry.

“I’m not hungry and I’m not tired,” she said, staring at him, her gaze terribly moist. “And I have no intention of staying here—with you, an ogre like no other.”

Her words stung. He reminded himself that he did not care—and no matter what she claimed, he never would. “Ye’ll stay here. Ye need protection. I’ll see if MacNeil will allow ye to stay at the Sanctuary. Then ye go to Iona.”

Her stare intensified. “The only place I’m going is home! Ask Aidan to take me. I don’t want—or need—your protection.”

She seemed ready to shed tears. It was time to end the conversation. “Ye have my protection, whether ye wish it or ye dinna wish it.” And he started to walk away.

“And to think I thought you were a tyrant in my time,” she whispered.

He did not pause, but he did not understand. Curious, he lurked in her mind. He inhaled, seeing her very graphic thoughts about his prowess in bed, seeing him slowly entering her, purposefully teasing her, as she wept and begged. He even heard her cries of pleasure. His pulse raged, almost blinding him. He tried to think of something else, but it was simply too late. He had given her so much pleasure. He was pleased—he was tortured. He whirled.

Their gazes clashed, hers wide, as if she knew his thoughts, too.

When he could push the erotic images aside, he spoke. “I am lord here, Lady Ailios, an’ I demand to know why ye remain so hurt. I saved ye from my men. I’m taking ye under my roof when I never wanted ye here. Ye dinna have to find shelter or food. Ye willna sleep in the rain. Ye should be pleased,” he added firmly. “Another lord would turn ye to the wolves—or force ye into bed.”

“I should be pleased?” She laughed, the sound shrill. “I came back to this barbaric time to find you…. Instead I find a ruthless stranger with no heart whatsoever! What would please me is some courtesy, some respect…and some sign that the man I made love to all night really exists.”

He wondered if this was her way of seduction—to remind him at every turn of the pleasure she’d enjoyed—pleasure and satisfaction he would not have for six centuries. Now, he refused to lurk in her thoughts. He did not dare.

“Where are you, Royce?” she cried.

Her desperation to find his future self washed over him. He stiffened. Why did she want him so? “I’m here in my time, an’ the man ye love doesna exist. I dinna believe he ever will.”

She inhaled raggedly.

“I’m sorry,” he added, meaning it, “that ye grieve so. I’m sorry ye think me cruel, but ye’ll never find yer lover here. Aidan shouldn’t have brought ye back with him.”

She wet her lips. “Is that an apology?”

He was surprised, even confused. “Why would I apologize? I have done nothin’ wrong.”

Dismay twisted her mouth and she fought for her composure. “I don’t believe,” she finally said, low and slow, “that you are indifferent to me. We both know how manly you are, but there is more—I am certain.”

He tensed. She was right—and she must never know. “Think as ye will.” He shrugged. “But tonight ye willna be the wench in my bed.”

She turned starkly white and he regretted his words. “That’s right! Because I won’t be here!” She leapt away, spilling the wine. She shoved the glass at him, red wine stained his leine. “Aidan? Would you mind?” She stared at Royce, her eyes filling with tears.

Annoyance quickly rose. “Ye go nowhere, Lady Ailios, not until I give ye permission, an’ then I’ll be tellin’ ye where to go. Leave Aidan be.”

She gasped. “I beg your pardon. I decide what is in my best interest. I always have….I always will.”

He was incredulous. She was arguing with him—defying him—and not for the first time. “I am lord an’ master here,” he said, holding his anger in check.

“No one is my master,” she cried.

He felt his world still as it always did when he was poised for battle and ready to attack. Did she not understand that she would obey him? Did she wish to war with him? She was a maid! Did she not obey her father or her man, Brian, in her time? “Those are words o’ great disrespect.”

She shrugged. “Sorry! Here’s more disrespect. You are a nice, pleasant person in the future. Right now, you are a cold, cruel, uncaring, selfish ass.”

He smiled without mirth, fighting to hold his temper in check. “Another man would strike ye for such words.”

Her eyes widened in alarm.

“I dinna beat women an’ children—or dogs,” he shouted. Then he leaned close. “I must be very different in yer time, eh? Otherwise ye wouldn’t love me so greatly.”

“You are a hero, my hero,” she said, “and it’s unbelievable that you are the same person. A woman would be mad to love you right now!”

He turned away, wanting to strike something, anything. Why had she fallen so deeply in love with his future self? It enraged him, it pleased him—it terrified him. He preferred her hating him now, didn’t he? It was better for them both. “In this time, women fall in love with me after a mere moment in my bed.”

She flushed.

He slowly smiled, lurking, and his suspicions were right. “Perhaps, Ailios—” and he used his most seductive tone “—ye were nay different, even in yer time. Like all women, ye confused lust with love.”

She inhaled, but he saw more hurt rise in her eyes, and he didn’t like it—or that he’d caused the hurt again. “You fell in love with me, too,” she said thickly.

“Is that why I died?” he demanded. He had to know. “Did I die for ye apurpose—or did I die because I loved ye to distraction?”

She just stood there, stricken.

She had been the death of him. He’d given his life for her, and he was certain he had done so gladly. He saw tears tracking down her cheeks. She was grieving for him and mourning his death.

It was sobering, confusing, dismaying. It was a moment before he could speak. He didn’t mean to touch her, but he laid his hand on her tiny arm. Her warmth slipped over him. When he did speak, he softened his tone. “Ailios, enough argument. I dinna wish to war with ye. Ye canna triumph here. Ye’ll stay at Carrick, an’ here, I decide yer life. Ye’ll leave when t’is safe—an’ only when I say so.”

He released her, not wanting to break the physical contact. Warmth seemed to curl about his insides. It seemed to infuse his bones. Was her white power stealing into him somehow?

“Will you force me to stay here, against my will?” she demanded to his back.

He whirled. “At Carrick yer will bends to mine.”

“Like hell!” she cried, dismayed and furious.

“There is one will here.” How could she fail to understand this fundamental fact of life? At Carrick, he was king.

She stared at him in disbelief. Then she said, “I am not going to stay here. I am not going to stay here while you cavort with other women. You will have to make me a prisoner.”

He was incredulous again. “Yer my guest.”

“I am your prisoner!” she shouted, trembling.

“Only if ye make it so!”

“No, you are the one making it so!”

That she would outdebate him was stunning. In that moment, he did not have a clever reply. “Then consider yerself imprisoned,” he snapped. He turned away. “Black-wood,” he called. “Aidan.” He stalked to the table and slammed his fist on it.

Blackwood came over, his eyes filled with amusement. Royce had not a doubt he’d spied on their entire conversation. He was a tall, dark Lowlander, and his rakish ways were well-known—but he was a Master, and it was to be expected. His father had been a great English nobleman, his mother a Highlander, and he dressed in the English court style, his estates close to the borders there but half a day from the great cathedral at Moffat. His dark blue gaze now went to Allie. “Such a clever wench. A bit outspoken, don’t you agree? Do you really wish to converse now?” He snickered, enjoying himself immensely. “Mayhap she needs a lesson in the ways of masters an’ mistresses.”

Royce was not in the mood for his taunts. But he was right. If he took Ailios to bed, he’d subdue her in seconds. He’d put her defiance to a quick death—replacing it with her lust and her love instead. “Our dear friend Moffat hunts the woman.”

Blackwood’s smile faded, but it was a moment before he tore his gaze from Ailios. “She is a Healer. I can see her white light. How great is her power?”

“Great.” Royce turned to look at her. “She is Elasaid’s daughter.”

She had climbed into one of the two thronelike chairs, the arms and back carved ebony wood, the seat red velvet. The chair dwarfed her. She was heartbreaking in her beauty and if he did not know better, he’d think her fragile. But she wasn’t fragile; she was fierce, with enough courage for ten men.

She glared at him.

He realized that Blackwood was staring at her, and so was Aidan. Both men had admiring and speculative looks in their eyes. He lurked, even though it was the height of rudeness to do so to another Master, and he saw both men thinking about her naked and in their beds. His temper exploded; he saw red. “The woman is mine,” he said softly. And he could not regret his words, no matter how he knew he must somehow do so.