by Brenda Joyce
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 bri
ng 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 Blackwood 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.
