Dark Rival

by Brenda Joyce

  Claire smiled hesitantly at her. “Come on. It’s cold and it’s about to pour.”

  Allie moved toward the closest building with her. “When did you arrive?”

  “We just got here.” Claire stepped into the meeting house, Allie behind her. It was vacant. “I heard Royce left for Carrick.”

  Allie told herself she would not grieve openly now. “MacNeil has decided he can’t protect me and that we should be apart.”

  “MacNeil is usually right. How are you feeling?”

  Allie started. “Do you know everything?”

  Claire nodded. “I’ve been there, Allie. When I first met Malcolm, he was struggling with temptation—and we fought for his soul. I’m pretty sure Royce’s soul isn’t in danger, but we all need you with all of your power. That kind of sex is really dangerous.”

  “So you’re taking their side,” Allie said, anger rising.

  “No.” Claire pushed a piece of wet hair from her cheek. “I’m on your side. I’m a hopeless romantic. I can’t believe you made Royce lose control—and his head—the way you did. That says everything to me. I thought Royce was always in control!”

  He hadn’t been in control last night, she thought. And then she smiled to herself, thinking of how easily he became jealous. “What does that mean to you?” Allie asked.

  “I think he’s pretty smitten with you. And Royce is as cold as a man can be. Or, he was that way.”

  “He cares—he told me so.” Allie went to a cane chair and sat down by the small fire, trying to warm her chilled body. It was impossible. “I feel like I am back to normal. My senses were so dull after we made love, but everything is sharp as can be now.”

  “Really? Because you didn’t feel me approaching.”

  Allie flushed, caught in her lie. “My senses have come back—mostly.”

  Claire pulled up another chair. “I know your mother was an all-time great Healer and a Priestess. Maybe your Fate is bigger than you know. Everyone was against Malcolm and me at first. But we’re so much stronger together—and every day makes us even stronger than the day before. Maybe, in the end, it will be that way for you and Royce.”

  Allie grimaced. “Royce needs to let go of his pain, his past. Until he does that, he won’t let me close enough to make him stronger.”

  Claire was surprised. “Royce is hurt? Over what? What past are you talking about?”

  Allie waved dismissively. “Forget it. Right now I need to get off this island. To hell with MacNeil. I have a bad feeling about Royce. He needs me. He may be in trouble.”

  Claire’s eyes widened.

  Allie stood, staring. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Claire flushed and stood, too. “Actually Malcolm and I don’t come to Iona without cause. We wanted to warn Royce that Joan Beaufort was on her way to Carrick.”

  Allie’s heart lurched. She did not like Claire’s cautious tone or her expression. “Are you talking about the Queen of Scotland? Because MacNeil told Royce she’s on her way there.”

  “Yes, I am,” Claire said very quietly.

  “What’s up?” Allie demanded.

  Claire bit her lip.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Allie cried.

  Claire hesitated. “Allie, we came here to warn Royce. I don’t want you to even think of going up against Joan Beaufort.”

  Something was going on. “That’s the second time you said you came here to warn him. Is the Queen a demon? Is he in danger?” But even as she spoke, her sense of dread and urgency escalated.

  Claire said, “Well, he’s only in danger if he refuses her. I know you’re not familiar with our world, but no one denies the King or the Queen. Here, a royal can decide to execute anyone without reason or cause. Here, there’s no judge or jury and very little law.”

  Allie breathed hard. “Frig! Spill it.”

  Claire said, “Royce was—and maybe still is—the Queen’s lover.”

  Allie was shocked. And then the anger began. “Like hell!”

  HE RODE INTO CARRICK’S inner ward, finally finding some distance from his heart. All day a sense of loss had sickened and saddened him. All day he had grimly fought every such sense—and too many images and recollections of Ailios to count. Now, he had other, far more urgent matters to attend—like his Queen.

  In all the years he had known Joan Beaufort and been her lover, she had never once come to Morvern. When she wished for him to service her, she summoned him to court. Sometimes he came; usually he ignored the summons. Not because he had ever been averse to bedding his liege—she had many lovers, and she was pretty and hot—but because his vows always came first and her summons were usually inconvenient. And although few men would dare to deny her, he’d never cared how irate she became. He’d been aware that she could tire of such arrogance and order his head placed on a pike—without his body beneath it. But in the past, he simply hadn’t cared.

  And when they were together, it had been easy to remind her of why he was valuable to her alive. In bed, Joan was insatiable, wicked and easy to control.

  Now, however, he cared about his head. He simply could not depart this world with Moffat hunting Ailios. Unfortunately his sudden lack of indifference to his Fate weakened his position immensely.

  But Joan hadn’t come to Carrick because she missed his prowess in her bed. He had not a single doubt she had come to Carrick to see firsthand if the rumors of a Healer with amazing powers were true.

  Had MacNeil not ordered him back to Carrick alone, he would still have chosen to leave Ailios behind. Joan must never know how powerful the Healer truly was. And he felt certain Ailios would never be able to hide her abilities for long from anyone, even someone as dangerous as the Queen.

  For Joan’s cunning and ambition knew no bounds.

  Donald came running up to him, a wide smile on his young face. Royce slid from the charger, handing the boy the reins. He tousled his hair in greeting, looking past him at the royal Household guards blocking his own front door.

  But then, he’d already seen the royal pennants waving from his towers. Joan Beaufort had moved in.

  “How are ye, lad?” he asked.

  “The Queen is here!” Donald cried, his tone hushed with awe. “When I bowed before her, I was so close I could touch her skirts!”

  Royce hid a smile and said sternly, “Yer liege is English, lad, dinna forget it.”

  Donald sobered. “But the King is Scot.”

  “Aye.” Royce nodded to his men as he strode toward the heavy, paneled door. Both guards stepped before it, barring his way with their lances.

  “I am the earl of Morvern. Put yer weapons down afore I take them from ye,” he said pleasantly enough. But he was furious that she had put her guards in front of his door. That was Joan, flaunting her power over him—except that power wasn’t absolute, and in bed, she would quickly be reminded of it.

  The guards hesitated.

  Royce drew his dagger so swiftly no one had even breathed, and as swiftly, his shortsword. The latter he shoved beneath both locked lances, lifting them high. The dagger found the larger soldier’s throat. “I am lord here,” he said.

  Lances were lowered.

  “Stand aside,” he snapped, irate now. He did not care for the mere notion of bedding the Queen. Once, he had enjoyed her rather depraved passions. Now, he thought it might be an effort to amuse her—and him. The woman he wished to bed that night remained far from Carrick—and was forbidden to him now.

  He strode into his hall, sheathing dagger and sword.

  Joan sat in a chair by the hearth, her back to him. Her ladies surrounded her and six more guards lined the chamber. Of medium height, buxom and pale blond, renowned as a great beauty, she did not turn to greet him. “You have displeased Us vastly, Ruari.” Her tone was ice.

  He shoved all regrets and apprehensions aside. He refused to think of Ailios now. “Then I beg yer pardon,” he said firmly, striding to the front of the chair to face her.

  Joan had
startling blue eyes and fine features. She looked angelic; she was anything but. King James had fallen in love with her at first sight, while a prisoner at the English court. He loved her still—and had no notion of her shocking faithlessness.

  Royce noticed that she wore a court gown in the French style, excessively fitted across the bust and shockingly low-cut. If she took a deep breath, she might expose her nipples, and she was well aware of that.

  “You may beg for Our pardon,” she said.

  His temper flared and he struggled with it. He got down on one knee and stared at the floor. “If it pleases Yer Majesty, I beg now.”

  “It pleases Us greatly,” she snapped.

  He did not look up, as she had not given him permission to do so. His temper took over at last. Outside of bed, Joan was a tyrant. If he did not take her to bed, how could he recover his power over her? But Ailios, he was certain, would be furious if he bedded his Queen.

  Joan said, “Everyone leave Us, now.”

  His heart accelerated. He had no wish to think of Ailios now. They were not lovers, or even sworn to one another. And in spite of his ambivalence toward Joan and the coming night, hot blood began gathering in his loins as if realizing what must transpire. But then, anger was so easily confused with lust.

  “We arrived here yesterday with no proper greeting,” Joan said. “Your housemaids are fools—but We are certain that is not their real task in this household. Have you fucked them all? You may look up.”

  He lifted his head and met her bright, angry gaze. “Aye, I have.”

  She flushed. The stain spread from her cheeks to her neck and breasts. “Where have you been, Ruari?” she demanded. “What is more important than Us?”

  “I have been at Dunroch. Nothing, Joan, is as important as ye.” He always knew when to strike and calling her by her familiar name was just that.

  “I spent the night alone,” she whispered in heat and hurt.

  He found that impossible to believe as he stood. “Then I am truly sorry,” he murmured, taking her hands. “Let me show ye, Joan, how sorry I am.” Images flashed of Ailios in his arms, riding him into the eternity of La Puissance. Somehow he shoved them aside.

  “You are not sorry—you are never sorry. You do as you will, never mind I am your liege!” She stood, her gaze moving to the fluttering skirt of his leine. She licked her lips and said, “I summoned you to court six months ago and you did not even reply.”

  He stepped very close to her, purposefully becoming entangled with her skirts. Her breath caught. Amused, aware that her need for him was reducing her to the beggarly status he desired, he murmured, “Ye must have been enraged, waiting for me to come.”

  Slowly she dragged her gaze away from what rose between them. “I was enraged last night—waiting for you to make me come.”

  He smiled. “Maybe yer tired o’ giving so many commands. Maybe ye need a man to command ye. An’ maybe waiting is good fer ye, eh?” He clasped her waist, turning her away from him.

  She cried out in excitement. “Never,” she whispered hoarsely. “I will give the commands.”

  He laughed. “I dinna think ye can command much now, Joan. But that’s why ye have come back to me. I’m the man ye canna control, ever. Ye’ll do as I say, when I say.” He spoke softly, his breath against her ear, but he pulled her firmly against his heavy loins.

  She breathed hard, and it was a moment before she succumbed. “Fine, yes. Fine!” Then she said, “Ruari,” and it was a woman’s plea.

  Royce tensed. He had no plan except to survive the Queen’s stay. He hesitated, so aware of his ambivalence now—and the cause for it. It was almost as if Ailios were present and filled with hurt over his behavior.

  But by damn, this was politics.

  He seized her wrists, restraining her with one hand, and rubbed his lips against the side of her neck. “Ye need patience, Joan,” he whispered, his mouth moving against her ear. She trembled. He splayed his other hand low on her belly and she gasped. “I think tonight I’ll teach ye patience.” And he let her go abruptly.

  She gasped in surprise, turning to face him, but he walked away. “What was that?” Joan cried.

  Because he was a virile man, his body was more than ready, and he was aware that she knew it. Worse, his failure to acquiesce was uncharacteristic. He collected his wits. Joan liked his arrogance and tyranny, and he turned. “I’ll be the one to decide when we fuck,” he said coldly. “I said I’d teach ye patience. I meant it. Ye can start the lesson now.”

  Her eyes went wide. Her color rose.

  “That’s a taste,” he said, “o’ what I may decide to give ye later.”

  Her eyes glazed with lust. “Damn you.”

  “And, Joan? Ye may summon me to court, but Carrick is for Maclean affairs. I dinna like ye calling on me—ever.”

  Her flush became mottled, anger and lust becoming one. “Sometimes, Ruari, I hate you.”

  He laughed at that. As if he cared.

  “And maybe, this time, you go too far.”

  “Ye like it. If I served ye like the others, ye wouldn’t be here.”

  “One day you will go too far,” she panted furiously. “And, Ruari? Tonight the lesson continues.”

  He smiled tightly. “Tonight, I’ll be the one to decide if ye have learned any lesson at all.”

  She flushed all over again.

  He was aware that his triumph was momentary, and he wondered how he was going to manage her that night. Sooner or later he’d have to play the stud. But she enjoyed other women as well as men—he might orchestrate an orgy for her, making certain she was so preoccupied that he was the one left out of her bed.

  And then he saw Ailios.

  Not in his mind, but standing in the corridor behind the hall, as pale as a ghost, except for the two bright spots of crimson on her cheeks.

  She was furious and in that moment, he knew she had been spying on him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SHE TURNED AND VANISHED into the corridor.

  He glanced at Joan, but she had paced to the other side of the hall, calling for her maids. She hadn’t seen Ailios. Ailios had seen him with the Queen. But it had been a matter of politics…. He composed himself and it was not an easy task.

  “I have matters to attend,” he said flatly. He wanted to explain his actions to Ailios, although he could barely comprehend the overwhelming need. He never explained himself to anyone. “But we also have grave matters to discuss.” And he was thinking about Moffat’s attack on Dunroch.

  She looked at him. “We have very grave matters to discuss.”

  He stilled, focused and intent, and lurked. As he had suspected, Joan was thinking about a powerful Healer—and how she could best use such power for her and King James. “Yer Majesty, yesterday Dunroch was attacked by Moffat.”

  Joan widened her eyes, feigning surprise. “Surely you jest!”

  Royce wasn’t surprised to realize Joan not only knew of the attack, but she had supported the bishop secretly. His tension rose but he spoke casually. “Moffat be yer cousin, but we have been at odds for many years. I believe he attacked Dunroch because o’ me, not my nephew. He has no conflict with Malcolm.”

  “I will see into this. I will have the Chamberlain of the Realm investigate the matter. As dear as Moffat is to me, he cannot attack my vassals at will.” Her gaze narrowed. “Is it possible that you provoked my dear cousin, Ruari? After all, you and Moffat have been warring for years over land and cattle. I almost regret his having lands in the north, bordering yours.”

  He decided to retreat and he shrugged. “Perhaps some o’ my men raided one of his villages. I dinna ken. I will look into the matter, as well.”

  “Good.” She stared at him. “Rumors have reached the court. Have you a powerful Healer at Carrick?”

  “I have a guest from the south. Lady Monroe be kind an’ caring. She takes it upon herself to nurse those who are ill.”

  Joan made a sound. “So you claim she is not a pow
erful Healer, one who can give life back to a boy crushed by dirt and stone?”

  “Yer Majesty, she attended the boy, as did I. He wasna crushed to death. When we dug him from the rockslide, he was alive. T’was a miracle—God’s work.”

  “Where is Lady Monroe?”

  “I dinna ken,” he said, and finally, there was some truth in his words. But he suspected Ailios had gone to her chamber. She must have found someone, perhaps Aidan, to leap with from Iona to Carrick. There was no other way she could have arrived at his home so swiftly, when he had left the island before her. He had ridden hard and fast to make Carrick as soon as possible.

  “Find her and bring her to Us,” Joan said imperiously. “Do so now.” She turned her back on him.

  Royce strode from the hall, very displeased.

  He tried to sense where Ailios was. The moment he came close to the narrow spiraling stairs leading to her chamber in the north tower, he felt her pure, light power. Something soft and warm, as bright as she was, seemed to wash through his heart. It felt more than good; it felt like a huge relief.

  He bounded up the stairs, dismissing such absurd feelings.

  Her chamber door was open. He saw Claire with her and he started.

  Claire looked at him, her regard cool and accusing.

  Both women condemned him for the interlude with the Queen, he thought grimly. And he hadn’t done anything except make empty promises and play her. “She was to stay on the island,” he told Malcolm’s wife.

  Claire shrugged. “If Joan had come to see—and use—Malcolm, I would stop it.”

  “Yer husband would do what he had to do to save his head—an’ yers,” Royce said coolly.

  Claire smiled grimly. “Good luck. You need it.” She walked out.

  He finally looked at Ailios. She threw a mug at his head.

  He ducked and it clattered on the floor. “So ye disobey even MacNeil?”

  “Were you going to tell me that you and the Queen are lovers?” she cried, flushed.