Dark Rival

by Brenda Joyce

  “No,” Royce said sharply.

  And although Royce didn’t look at her as he spoke, Moffat used his shortsword, dropping his hand then raising it savagely, clearly going for Royce’s jugular.

  For one horrific instant, Allie thought Moffat would slit Royce’s throat. But Royce brought his shortsword up in the nick of time, and as the blades rang, Allie leapt at Moffat.

  He turned, trying to strike his longsword at her to deflect her dagger, but he was caught on Royce’s longer blade and Allie slipped underneath.

  Instead of penetrating his chest, she stabbed him deeply in the side, burying the entire blade there up to the hilt. Moffat turned white, dropping his weapons.

  He looked at her, his eyes red with rage and hatred, a terrible promise there, and he vanished.

  “Damn it,” Royce cried in frustration.

  Allie sagged against the wall. She could barely believe what she had done—she had almost caused Royce’s death again!

  He sheathed his swords and took her by the arms.

  Instantly she became aware of his power, his rage and his heat. She stiffened with tension, her gaze shooting to his.

  His silver eyes blazed with savage bloodlust. But he said, “Are ye hurt?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “Nay.” He wet his lips, looked at her mouth and Allie felt the blood rushing through his veins. She felt the huge pounding pulse in his loins. She felt his murderous rage change, becoming pure, primitive male lust.

  He turned abruptly to assess the battle, his jaw hard and flexed. Allie followed his gaze—the giants were fleeing, although a number of Masters and giants remained engaged, both on the ramparts and below in the ward. Their master, Moffat, was undoubtedly calling them off.

  She leaned against the wall again, smelling Royce’s scent—man and sex, blood and death. He became still, but his grip on her arms didn’t ease and his breathing was rapid and shallow. With terrible clarity Allie recalled how he’d taken her on the table after the last demonic attack. Her body quivered in response to both the memory and the man holding her, but it didn’t matter. They were surrounded by so much suffering and death.

  The urge to go to those who needed healing consumed her. “Let me go,” she said quietly, tuning in now to the wounded. A man pierced with three arrows, one through the lung, was closest. He would soon die if she did not attend him.

  Royce didn’t respond. He turned his silver gaze on her with so much promise Allie swelled and spasmed. And for one more heartbeat, Allie thought he would refuse; she thought he’d pull her close and claim her. Instead, his jaw flexing, his eyes hot and bright, he released her and stepped away.

  Ignoring the last of the battles, Allie hurried to the wounded archer, refusing to think about Royce now or what had just happened. She knelt, drenching the man with her healing light. She was aware of Royce standing behind her now. He was guarding her against any sudden, even if improbable, attacks.

  She breathed hard. Yes, this was how it was meant to be. He was meant to stand behind her as she healed, vigilant and defensive, maintaining a safe perimeter for her.

  She was not meant to be the cause of his death.

  When the wounded man was sitting up and breathing well, Allie hurried to the next man, whose head was bleeding profusely. He was moaning heavily, having lost his entire right ear. She sent a soft rush of white light over him to ease the pain, then began flooding him with her power to stop the bleeding. Then she turned to Royce. “How many wounded are there?”

  “Maybe a dozen live, not more.”

  Allie tensed. Could she possibly heal everyone? “How many are dead?”

  Royce glanced upward, to where Malcolm remained on the ramparts. A moment later, he said, “Maybe three times that number. Ailios, yer nay alone. MacNeil has great healing power, an’ Claire can help.”

  Allie inwardly wept for the fallen. She didn’t know who MacNeil was, but she’d take any help she could. “If there is someone you want healed first, let me know.” She turned to the man prone before her and infused his head with her healing power.

  Time began to slow as Allie turned to the next of the wounded—and then the next. So many were burned and the projectiles had caused serious head injuries, but the stab wounds were the worst. Allie had never seen anything like the mayhem caused by this medieval battle, but then, she’d never been in any kind of military conflict before. She healed four more of the wounded when Royce touched her shoulder. “Ailios, Malcolm needs ye to heal his best man, Seamus. Claire has tried an’ failed an’ MacNeil be with a wounded Master.”

  Allie simply sat still for a moment. The battle was finally over, the last of the invaders having fled. But the keep was filled with female sobs, quieter, subdued male conversation, as well as the moans of the wounded. A terrible pall hung over the castle grounds. The day had turned dark, as if the Ancients grieved, and death and misery had become tangible, casting a heavy weight upon the grounds, one Allie could actually feel upon her shoulders.

  Allie rubbed her temples and blinked. She was feeling weak and just a bit faint, and she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her if she stood. She needed a moment of respite, when no real interlude was to be had. The dying could not wait. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that there were more wounded. She hoped MacNeil could heal half of them. She was pretty certain her reserves were dwindling.

  “Ye dinna have enough power, do ye?” Royce demanded, his gaze searching.

  “I can’t argue with you now. Where’s Seamus?”

  Royce led her through the ward, stepping carefully to avoid the corpses, the wounded calling out to her as she passed. She smiled at each and every man. “I’ll be right back,” she promised them all, meaning it.

  “I can feel that yer tired!” Royce exclaimed. “Ye can’t heal all the rest! MacNeil doesna have infinite power, either! Ye’ll have to pick an’ choose.”

  “I am not a god, to decide who lives and who dies,” Allie said grimly.

  “Aye, today ye are,” Royce flashed.

  Allie faltered. That wasn’t fair. She could never dispense life in such a manner. “Don’t try to stop me from doing what I have to do,” she warned softly. She did not want to waste her time or her strength arguing. Then she saw an ashen Claire, gesturing to her.

  Allie hurried over to a big, middle-aged man with iron-gray hair. He was unconscious and he had been bleeding from the abdomen. From the amount of blood staining the ground, she was afraid he’d slip away at any time.

  “I stopped the bleeding, that’s all,” Claire cried. “I can’t do more. He’s dying, I can feel it!”

  Allie knelt, felt his life flickering weakly and drew her white power from within and cast it over Seamus. Then she pushed it into him, through him, seeking his life first, nourishing it with her power, feeding it. When it blazed strongly, she focused on his wound, sweating now. It had become a distinct physical effort to find the power and cast it, much less sustain it. She felt faint again and her stomach was so upset she was nauseous.

  Allie found the strength to sustain her power. Eventually Seamus looked at her, blinking.

  Allie couldn’t smile. The ground was tilting. She sat down in the dirt, gasping for air. She told herself that she could do this—and she would.

  Royce knelt, putting his arm around her. “Ye’ve done enough this day.”

  “Give me a moment,” she said, hoping her tone sounded soft, not weak.

  Royce stared at her. When she didn’t look at him, he tilted up her chin, forcing her gaze to his. “Ye’ve never healed like this, have ye?”

  “I’m not a war veteran.”

  He grimaced, clearly not comprehending her. “Can ye hurt yerself? Kill yerself?”

  Allie had no idea. “Of course not.”

  She knelt over another wounded man, ignoring Royce’s expletive. He clasped her shoulder. She said quickly, “Please don’t interfere. I can do this.”

  “I dinna think so.” But he released her, his fac
e tight and grim.

  Allie tried to find her power. It seemed weak and far away and almost nonexistent, like the illusion of an oasis in the desert.

  Shit, she thought. The man lying prone in the dirt was conscious and he was regarding her with wide, hopeful but pain-filled eyes. She sucked up all her determination, all her strength. She found the white light flickering inside her and seized it, somehow. It felt so elusive now.

  She pushed it at the man, who had been stabbed many times. He gasped as her warm healing power washed over him.

  But bathing him in her light wasn’t going to heal him. She needed to flood those wounds, Allie thought grimly. She trembled and on all fours, reached deeper than she would have ever believed possible. The white light was there. She pulled it out, hurting physically now, as if someone was pulling her organs out of her body while she lived and breathed and watched. Sweat blinded her. She wanted to moan—she did. Then she summoned up all her strength and flooded the man with healing light.

  The ground spun. The day turned ominously gray. She felt Royce’s hands on her as she fell forward into the dirt.

  As he lifted her into his arms there was so much relief and even more exhaustion—and then blackness claimed her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ROYCE GAZED DOWN at the tiny woman in his arms and felt his fear escalate wildly. She had become as pale as linen before it was dyed. She didn’t even appear to be breathing. “MacNeil!” he cried and he heard the desperation in his tone.

  The Abbot remained kneeling over the last of the wounded. “Take her in. I’ll be up shortly,” the Master said, not looking up.

  Claire touched his arm, commiseration in her eyes. “Follow me.”

  Royce nodded, his stomach twisted into painful knots. Ailios was the bravest person he had ever seen, man or woman, and she could not die now. She could not have given her own life to save the others. Terrified, he followed Claire into the hall and up the stairs of Malcolm’s tower, Ailios as light as a small child in his arms—and as still as a corpse. Claire shoved open a door to a small, pleasant bedchamber and he laid Ailios on the bed. She didn’t stir.

  He sat beside her, seizing her hands. He was horrified because they were so cold, and he placed his cheek close to her nose, aware of his racing heartbeat, his rampant fear. At first, he felt nothing, and his fear became terror. Ailios could not be dead.

  And then he felt her faint, shallow breath on his face. Relief made it impossible to speak clearly. “She’s barely breathing,” he said thickly. How could this be happening? He had brought her to Dunroch to protect her. It had been his best judgment that Dunroch would be a safe haven for her, with Malcolm to defend her. Instead the deamhanain had followed them there. Moffat had dared to violate Dunroch and he had almost seized her.

  He should have never brought her to Dunroch; he should have never thought to hand her over to Malcolm. MacNeil had chosen him for a reason.

  “She is selfless,” Claire said, interrupting his panicked, racing thoughts.

  “Aye, she never thinks o’ herself.” She had tried to heal too many of the wounded, but that was what Ailios would do, for he knew her now. If another battle came, she would act no differently. But only a true goddess could heal so many of the sick and dying. She wasn’t a goddess. If she could not control her need to heal, someone had to do it for her. This was the fifteenth century, where battles were common, a weekly event.

  Surely it wasn’t written that she would die now, this way.

  She was going to be his lover in the future!

  “How ill is she?” he asked Claire without turning to look at her. He kept Ailios’s hands clasped tightly against his chest. They remained as cold as the water in the ocean below Dunroch.

  “I can feel her life.”

  Did Claire take him for a fool? Furious, he looked at her. “Aye, what’s left of it! How much life is left? Or has she killed herself?” he demanded. His heart raced in agitation. What could he do to help her? He had never felt so powerless.

  “I don’t know,” Claire whispered, ashen. “She’s so weak.”

  MacNeil strode in, his bold red and black plaid swinging against his muscular thighs. “I dinna think to meet Elasaid’s daughter this way,” he said grimly.

  In common circumstance, MacNeil was a man of smiles, wisdom and wit. He was only deadly serious when the situation was dire. He was deadly serious now.

  Royce stood so the Master could sit beside Ailios. “She would die to save even the most common life,” he said harshly.

  MacNeil stroked Ailios’s thick dark hair away from her cheeks. “Such a small woman for such a great Healer,” he murmured. “Aye, like her mother, she will give to others until the death.”

  Royce felt like striking the other man. “She willna die. She is small—an’ mine.”

  MacNeil did not bother to glance at him, his gaze remaining on Ailios. He cupped her cheek. Royce fell silent, because he could actually see the Master sending her a white light. A moment later he saw her chest rise and fall visibly; two small spots of pink color appeared on her cheeks. Her lashes fluttered but her eyes didn’t open. And for the first time in his life, Royce felt faint. Relief overwhelmed him.

  He must thank the gods, he thought.

  MacNeil smiled, revealing two deep dimples. Not looking up at Royce, he said, “Ah, Ruari, ye can thank me sometime.” He ran his blunt finger over the curve of her cheekbone and murmured, “Rest now, Allie Monroe.”

  Royce became incredulous. He seized the Master’s shoulder and whirled him, the chamber suddenly a blaze of red.

  MacNeil simply grinned as he stood. “Oh, come, I ken she’s yer Innocent, but she belongs to all of us, too. An’ ye canna forgive a Master for taking such an opportunity. I’d be dead if I didn’t want to touch her.”

  “Ye had no call to stroke her face!” Royce said, and before he’d even finished speaking, he balled up his fist and struck MacNeil in the jaw.

  MacNeil didn’t budge, as if an ancient oak. He didn’t even vibrate. But his kelly-green eyes widened with genuine shock.

  Claire cried out, running between the two men. “Stop!” She looked wildly between them. “What are you doing?” she cried, first to MacNeil and then to Royce.

  Royce smiled grimly, briefly satisfied, hoping MacNeil would take the bait—because he deserved a pummeling.

  But MacNeil only rubbed his jaw. “What’s wrong with ye?” he finally said, puzzled. “T’is forbidden, in no uncertain terms. Masters dinna fight one another. We’re allies, not rivals.”

  “Then ye should have healed her without giving in to the need to caress her,” Royce spat.

  MacNeil’s eyes narrowed. It was a moment before he spoke. “Come to Iona.” He vanished.

  Royce tensed, because he had just been given an unmistakable command. MacNeil had been the Abbot of Iona for as long as he could remember. No Master outranked him. If orders were to be given, he gave them. If decisions were to be made, he made them. MacNeil’s first duty was to the Brotherhood and the Ancients and he left Iona only to battle the highest deamhanain, in the gravest of crises.

  “Come downstairs.” Claire laid her hand on his arm and smiled. “She’ll be fine, Royce.”

  He glanced at Ailios, now sleeping peacefully in the bed, so small she was dwarfed by it like a child. But she was a lovely, seductive and sensual woman. The sight of her caused his heart to leap, lurch, overturn. “Nay. Leave us,” he said. He took a wood chair, brought it to her bedside and sat down beside her.

  He heard the door closing.

  He had been out of his mind with fear when he’d thought she might die.

  And he wasn’t quite calm now.

  He had never wanted to vanquish anyone the way he’d wanted to vanquish Moffat when he’d seen him with Ailios, taunting her, lust in his eyes.

  What had he said? Royce’s gut roiled all over again. He had almost finished the task of destroying the deamhan. Had Moffat lived because it was written that he should die
by Moffat’s hand in 2007?

  Many decades ago, he had realized death did not matter to him very much. His life had become impossibly tiresome centuries ago—2007 was five centuries away, almost as long as he had already lived. But…his life didn’t feel tiresome now. His duty to protect and defend the little woman lying in the bed had become consuming. Every demonic conflict, chase and hunt had new and higher stakes. How could he die when she needed him?

  Her recklessness terrified him!

  He slumped in the chair. He was tired. He had been tired of the cycle of this life for a very long time. Moray had been the greatest deamhan to ever walk Alba, but he had been vanquished. And then Moffat, who’d existed for centuries, rose up to take his place. For all anyone knew, he might even possess the missing Book of Power, the Duisean, which would explain his ascendancy over all the other dark lords. Moray had possessed the Book before his death. Centuries ago, he’d stolen it from its holy shrine. Many Masters had since searched for it, but it had not been recovered.

  When Moffat was vanquished, a new dark power would rise up to preside over all evil. It was the way of the world. The Masters could ceaselessly and tirelessly fight the shadows, but the shadows would always return. There would never be peace, and if there were, the Brotherhood would die.

  Still, one thing had changed. This one had become his Innocent in the south of Hampton, and she remained his Innocent now. He could not trust her with Malcolm, and that had become clear this day. And she must live at all costs, even at the cost of his own life, which wasn’t worth all that much anymore, anyway. He could not be sure of Ailios’s Fate, but it was great. Somewhere, it had been written as such.

  He looked at her and thought about taking her back to Carrick. He was a man, and his loins filled. No matter how he wanted her, he had to stay away from her, because his enemies must never think they were lovers. That day had proven that, too.

  He felt himself flush. The entire castle had seen his concern for Ailios that afternoon. He had told MacNeil that she belonged to him. Claire had witnessed the absurd statement.

  MacNeil and Claire could be trusted to be discreet; others could not. He had to keep a firm grasp on his virile nature and his overwhelming attraction to her. But how could he do that, when the moment she was better and they were alone, he was going to want to mount her, pleasure her and have her pleasure him?