by Brenda Joyce
He sobered. He had never imagined being cared about and loved this way. What kind of man would he become in the next eight hundred years, to earn such a woman? A terrible internal battle began. Could he wait so long to seduce her to his will and take her to bed? Was she speaking the truth? Did he need her in the future? Because she was right—he wanted her insanely, but he did not need her.
He thought about his vows. The day he’d made them, they had become his life. He was only just studying the Code, and it was long and complex, but one rule was clear. Changing the past or the future was forbidden. And in the future, he was being hunted by Moffat with this woman at his side.
He must not detain her. “Do ye love me even now, when we’re strangers?”
She smiled. “Yes, I do.”
His heart leapt with an excitement he could not recognize. Oddly he wanted this woman’s love and loyalty. “An’ ye’ll go to me now, in the future?” he asked. He had to make certain.
She nodded and touched his cheek. Her hand lingered; she did not speak.
She was so beautiful, her light so bright, a beacon of hope and joy. His manhood raged, hardly heeding his will. But he had no time for joy and she had her duty to his future self. “I’ll let ye go, Ailios, but with terms.”
She started, smiling. “With terms?”
“I want ye in my bed more than ye ken, but I’ll settle for a kiss.”
She went still. “Yes,” she breathed.
And it was the one word he needed. He crushed her in his arms, hard, and opened her mouth with his lips. Instantly his head swam with desire, passion and lust, but the joy tried to rise up, too. She was an angel of light and hope. He plied her mouth and used his tongue there, while rubbing her mound with his shaft, so she would be sure to know what she missed.
She kissed him back and in unison, their pulses soared.
He wasn’t sure who pulled away first.
Panting, he stared. He was senseless. He had never wanted any woman this way. And that was the best reason to send her back to her time.
“Don’t worry. I’m your destiny.”
He remained too stunned—and too inflamed—to speak.
She smiled at him, then turned and walked outside.
He went to the window to watch her. And his eyes widened.
A man was coming down the ridge. It was himself, but hardened by centuries of war.
Ailios cried out and began running to him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ALLIE SAW ROYCE striding toward her, on the other side of the fortress’s open gates. She thanked the gods that he was alive and started to run. He was hurrying toward her, his eyes ablaze with his own relief.
Moffat materialized between them.
Allie screamed in warning, but even as she did so, Royce vanished, leaping into time. Moffat vanished as if on his heels.
She halted, stunned. Moffat was hunting Royce with a vengeance.
She realized MacNeil had come to stand beside her just as she saw Aidan beyond the clearing, on the ridge. As she spoke, Aidan vanished into time, apparently following Moffat and Royce. “Go after them! He can’t survive Moffat without his powers!”
“As soon as he leaves this place, he’ll find his powers,” MacNeil said, clearly meaning to soothe her. But his words were barely spoken when he vanished, too.
Allie clasped her cheeks. She needed to be with Royce, but he could have gone anywhere!
A huge white power fell over her.
She tensed, stunned, and turned to face Elasaid.
Allie couldn’t breathe. Mom.
Her mother smiled gently at her, but not with a mother’s affection. Her expression was impersonal. “You are a Healer,” she said softly. “And you are so afraid for Ruari.”
Allie realized that she was face-to-face with her mother centuries before she had been conceived. Elasaid was dressed simply, in a long, belted gown, and Allie somehow knew she was very young, at least in immortal terms. To make sure, she whispered, “Is this your time?”
Elasaid seemed slightly bewildered. “Yes, I remain in my time. You are favored by my father,” she added. “He came to watch over you this day.”
Allie’s heart raced wildly. “I felt an Ancient nearby. Who was it?”
“Lug,” she said with a smile. “You are very blessed—and so very young.”
Allie reeled. Her grandfather was the most powerful of the gods, although some might say he was second to Dagdha. And he had been with her while she was in the pit. He had reached out to touch her and comfort her.
“Your destiny is written,” Elasaid said. “It is decided by the Ancients.”
“Can you see it?” Allie asked.
She hesitated. “Yes, I can.”
Allie tried to think. Did her mother know that one day she would give birth to her? “Your Fate is written, too, isn’t it?” Allie finally asked.
“Of course. I am here to heal, as you are. And one day, I will bequeath the world another Healer.” Her gaze searched Allie’s and then she smiled. “You are my daughter, aren’t you?”
Allie’s heart leapt. Tears arose. She managed to nod.
“I can’t see my own future,” Elasaid said, “but Lug is your grandfather and he is my father. You have the power I had at your age. You are from the future—my future.”
Allie started to cry. “You taught me everything I know.”
Elasaid slipped her hand into Allie’s. “You are so beautiful—your light shines like a holy beacon. I look forward to the day I hold you in my arms. Now, may I send you back to your time?”
Allie held her mother’s hand tightly, knowing that when she let go, it was probably forever. “I have to find Royce,” Allie said hoarsely, and she let go. “I will not let evil kill him.”
“I don’t know where he has gone, but, my darling, his Fate is also written, and what is written cannot be changed.”
Tears fell. “I’ll never give up. Can you send me back to October 5, 1430?”
Elasaid nodded. “Go with the gods,” she said.
HE CHOSE TO LAND a hundred years later, in the French city of Paris, a place he had never visited once in his entire life—a place he could not be—a place where he was sure to have his powers. Pain exploded in his skull as he hit the ground, and he heard Moffat cry out, while feeling his evil nearby.
He needed all of his powers now, but he was powerless for a moment and acutely aware of it. In those first minutes, had a living being come by, man or woman, he would have ruthlessly taken all of his or her power to replenish his own. Fortunately, the deamhan suffered the same loss of power in the first few moments after a landing and Moffat was as helpless as he was.
He felt the power flooding into him as the pain in his skull dulled. Royce sat up, reaching for his sword.
Moffat, who had followed him, lay still.
Royce leapt up to kill his enemy.
He raised his sword; Moffat’s eyes went wide. Their gazes locked as they blasted one another with energy. Royce brought the blade down on Moffat’s neck. But the deamhan vanished just as his sword met corded tendon and taut flesh before slicing through.
He screamed in rage and followed.
HE FOUGHT THE PAIN of the landing, blinking at the stars exploding in the sky, reaching out to feel Moffat. Instantly, as the purple blackness lightened and became gray, he felt his evil presence. A moment later he stared up at a terribly familiar wall. Dread arose—he was at Carrick.
His mind blazed and he decided he had followed Moffat to the early eighteenth century. He managed to sit up, aware that his powers were beginning to return, and knowing he must flee this place immediately. Surely, somewhere on the grounds, he would find his older self.
He had landed in the southern outer ward, which was now cobbled stone. Potted flowers were near the interior gatehouse walls. He was astounded, because he saw so few men on the ramparts, as if this was not a time of incessant war. And then he saw that the drawbridge was down, the portcullis open in the f
irst gatehouse. A fine gilded carriage drawn by six black horses was entering the castle.
Where was Moffat? He stood, searching for him, but instead of sensing evil, Ailios’s great white power flowed over him, through him.
Royce jerked, stunned. His gaze and senses were drawn to the carriage, for she was within the vehicle. As he stood, the carriage crossed the drawbridge and he heard her laughter—and the squeal of a child, followed by more childish voices.
Amazement stunned him senseless.
The carriage was passing him now.
He strained to see within—and saw himself seated beside Ailios, three small children with them.
What did this mean?
But he knew. Ailios had given him those children. Ailios was his wife.
Remaining stunned, he turned to stare after the carriage as it vanished into the next gatehouse. And so much intense yearning consumed him.
Moffat materialized beside him, sword in hand. He grinned.
Royce didn’t think, he leapt—and so did Moffat.
HE BECAME AWARE of fires raging, an inferno. He had leapt forward another one hundred and seventy years into a place called St. Petersburg. This time, the knives in his skull remained even as his powers returned, and in the back of his mind, he knew his body was beginning to suffer from so many leaps. He realized a huge palace was in flames. A mob was besieging the walls, which were guarded by a very few frightened soldiers. The mob wielded pikes and logs, and had destroyed every carriage and vehicle in their path, while the soldiers wielded strange weapons with swords sticking from them. Loud bangs sounded. Men screamed in fury, in agony. As he stood, he saw the palace gates had been breached.
“You will die today,” Moffat panted.
Royce still gripped his sword as he whirled to face the deamhan. “So ye lust for me, not Ailios,” he hissed. He hurled his energy at him, but Moffat blocked it.
Moffat laughed, thrusting. “I will kill you for taking Kaz from me. Then Ailios will bend to me—in my bed—and she will heal for me as I choose.”
Royce met the thrust, enraged. Moffat wanted revenge on him after all. Their blades rang. Did he have the holy Book of Healing?
“I have many pages from it,” Moffat replied. “How else would I keep so many giants alive in these wars?”
Royce roared his answer and thrust many times, so swiftly that Moffat was driven backward, able only to defend himself. Royce laughed, feeling triumph at hand.
Moffat laughed back—and leapt.
Royce roared and followed.
HE CRASHED, no longer caring about the pain in his racked body. The knives had gone entirely though his brain, or so it seemed, and he howled from the pain. As he struggled to see past the shooting stars in his mind, searching for Moffat, he was dismayed—for he was at Carrick once more. Horseless carriages filled the courtyard. Laughter drifted from the open doors of the hall. He recognized Ailios’s voice and he had one coherent thought. She was still his wife.
He heard himself speaking, for a strong breeze was carrying sound that day.
“Die,” Moffat panted.
Royce felt the blade caress his jugular, a whisper of razor-sharp steel. He leapt.
HE LEAPT FAR into the future, centuries farther than the date of his death. And this time, even before crashing, he searched for Moffat and felt him on his heels. He grunted as he landed again on his back. Somehow, he had kept a grasp of his sword. This time he wept from the torment of the leap. He wanted to faint from the agony and knew he must not. He was certain he could not withstand time travel many more times.
He heard Moffat gasping beside him. His head exploding, he managed to see a strange, starless sky. He tightened his grasp on his sword.
Above him were a thousand huge towers, all brilliantly lit from within. He was lying on a smooth, gleaming, ebony road, one that seemed to be made of seamless and endless black stone. There were no stars, no moon, just the light from the towers. He sat up. Silver horseless vehicles moved on the road, hovering just above it, filled with people whose faces he could see through the windows. Others flew high in the sky, like birds without any wings.
But he could not think about this strange world. Power had returned to his muscles, flowed in his veins. He stood. “A Ailios!”
Moffat sat; Royce seized him, so he could not leap. In that moment, he felt the deamhan’s black power returning. He struck, intending to behead him this time.
And Moffat leapt anyway.
But Royce was ready. Anticipating the leap, he went with him, his blade cutting into his throat and jugular artery as they were hurled past the huge towers and into the void of timeless space.
Moffat howled in rage and pain.
Flying through the stars and moons, through meteors and rock, past suns, the force now threatening to tear him limb from limb, Royce finished the thrust, slicing through Moffat’s neck.
For one more instant, their gazes remained locked.
Royce felt savage triumph. He released his sword and watched it spin away into infinity.
Moffat’s gaze became incredulous, and then his head and body separated and were hurled away toward other galaxies.
Royce gave over to the leap with his body, and, suddenly exhausted, he willed a landing, any landing, anywhere…in any time.
WHERE WAS ROYCE?
Allie huddled in one of the two large chairs in Carrick’s hall, sick with fear and despair. She’d arrived home in the late afternoon of the exact day she’d been seized by Moffat at Blackwood Hall. It was almost midnight. Royce had vanished into time, pursued by Moffat, over twelve hours ago, if she dared count the hours in a normal way.
Where was he? What was happening? Why hadn’t he returned to her?
Allie was so afraid, and no matter how Ceit and Peigi hovered, how kind they were, how attentive, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach would not subside.
She felt power approaching and cried out but it was Aidan who strode into the hall, his face hard and grim.
Allie gasped, “Where is Royce?”
“I dinna ken,” he said.
Allie shivered, a terrible cold stealing over her already chilled body. “What does that mean?”
He paused by her chair. “I followed them to a French city in the seventh century, but they leapt so quickly, I landed after them. I managed to chase them to the eighteenth century but they were long gone by then—an’ I could not find their trail.”
Allie choked on more fear. Moffat was hunting Royce through the centuries. “Try again!”
“I canna,” Aidan said fiercely. “Ye dinna think I wish to find the man I love as a friend, a brother and a father, all at once? They’re gone, Allie, long gone, an’ they could be anywhere, in any time.”
She felt her tears finally falling. “It’s been hours and hours. Oh God. What could be happening?”
Aidan did not answer, laying his large hand on her back. “Have ye eaten? Have ye taken some wine? Ye need to do so an’ get rest.”
“I am not resting,” she flashed furiously. “I am sitting right here, waiting for Royce to come home!”
His expression grave, he left her to go to the table, where he poured a mug of wine and began sipping it. Allie stared. She had never seen him so somber. In that moment, she knew he thought Royce dead.
She would never believe it.
But when midnight came and went, she curled up in her chair and wept.
FIVE DAYS LATER, Allie was standing on the ramparts of the southern walls, staring listlessly across the ravine and adjoining lands, wishing Royce would miraculously appear before her very eyes. She was so afraid he would not. As she stood there, one of his heavy plaids wrapped around her green velvet dress, she saw three riders approaching. Not a one was Royce, although they were Masters all, and she let the tears freely fall.
She wasn’t going to believe he was dead. She would never believe it. But why didn’t he come home?
She didn’t move as the riders galloped closer, finally cros
sing the drawbridge. A moment later she turned and saw MacNeil, Seoc and another Master whom she did not know dismounting in the bailey below. MacNeil glanced up and raised his hand. Allie could not wave back.
She turned away, her back to the men. She prayed to her grandfather that MacNeil brought good news, but his expression had been severe.
Power approached. It was a power she had yet to feel, hot and impatient, battle ready. She turned and stared at a dark, blue-eyed man clad in thigh-high boots, a red and black plaid worn over his leine. In spite of his intense presence, his searching blue gaze was soft with sympathy.
Allie tensed.
He was reading her mind, because he smiled. “Aye, lady, I’m yer brother, Guy Macleod.”
Allie breathed hard. She looked at him, thinking about the fact that he was a powerful man she could depend on—her only family in this time. Aidan had stayed at Carrick, but she knew he was ready to go home to his small son. Guy was a stranger, but she needed him. “Thank you,” she managed to say, realizing she might break down at any moment. “Thank you for coming.”
He studied her for a moment. “Do ye wish for me to call ye Ailios or Allie?”
“Allie,” she said, because there was only one person whom she wished to hear the name Ailios from. “I need Royce,” she heard herself say brokenly.
His slight smile vanished. “It has been five days since he was last seen outside Eoradh in the sixth century. T’is time to grieve.”
“No! Is that why you came? To tell me to give up hope?”
“Yer my sister. I came to invite ye to Blayde. I have a wife an’ she can comfort ye.”
“I am not leaving Carrick,” Allie cried. Tears fell. “I appreciate your offer. I can’t leave…not yet.”
He said carefully, “If Royce could return, he would.”
Allie began to cry.
Guy Macleod laid his large hand clumsily on her shoulder. “Ye need to come with me to Blayde,” he said. “Yer my sister. T’is my duty to care for ye now.”
