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Dark Rival
Brenda Joyce


Black Royce is a battle-hardened soldier of the gods. His vow to protect innocence throughout the ages is his life – until he’s sent to New York City to protect beautiful, feisty heiress Allie Monroe from danger. He knows she’ll be his only weakness…Allie Monroe is more than an heiress. She’s a Healer, willing to do anything to save victims of the evil that lurks in the city at night. Alone, she can do only so much – until destiny sends her Royce.Then evil strikes…Now Allie will do anything to save Royce – even if it means going back in time to a dark, dangerous world.Confronting their enemies could cost not only their lives, but their love – for all eternity.








Praise for the novels of




Brenda

Joyce


“Steeped in action and sensuality, populated by sexy warriors and strong women, graced with lush details and a captivating story…superlative.”

—Publishers Weekly on Dark Seduction (starred review)

“[A] classic Pygmalion tale with an extra soupçon of eroticism.”

—Booklist on A Lady at Last

“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last

“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight, which keeps this hefty entry absorbing, and her fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride

“There are no limits to the passion and power of a Brenda Joyce novel. With her full-blooded characters, her page-turning prose and her remarkable creativity, Brenda Joyce is a force of nature. Her books are so intensely satisfying, you never want them to end.”

—New York Times bestselling author Lisa Kleypas

“[The Masquerade] dances on slippered feet, belying its heft with spellbinding dips, spins and twists. Jane Austen aficionados will delve happily into heroine Elizabeth �Lizzie’ Fitzgerald’s family…Joyce’s tale of the dangers and delights of passion fulfilled will enchant those who like their reads long and rich.” —Publishers Weekly

“Joyce brilliantly delivers an intensely emotional and engrossing romance where love overcomes deceit, scandal and pride…An intelligent love story with smart, appealing and strong characters. Readers will savor this latest from a grand mistress of the genre.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Masquerade

“A powerhouse of emotion and sensuality, The Prize weaves a tapestry vibrantly colored with detail and balanced with strands of consuming passion and hatred. Joyce writes lush stories with larger-than-life characters and a depth of sensuality and emotion that touches chords within the reader and keeps them coming back for more.” —RT Book Reviews

“Joyce’s latest…romance is truly a pleasure to read, given its involving plot, intriguing characters, and the magic that occurs as the reader becomes immersed in another time and place.”

—Booklist on Deadly Kisses

“Another entertaining blend of danger and desire.”

—Booklist on Deadly Illusions




Dark Rival

Brenda Joyce







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Also by Brenda Joyce

The Masters of Time




DARK SEDUCTION

The de Warenne Dynasty

THE PERFECT BRIDE

A LADY AT LAST

THE STOLEN BRIDE

THE MASQUERADE

THE PRIZE

The Deadly Series

DEADLY KISSES

DEADLY ILLUSIONS

A DANGEROUS LOVE




PROLOGUE


Long ago, somewhere in the Kingdom of the Picts

TODAY HE WOULD DIE. He did not care, even though he was but three and twenty. For he would not die alone.

He stood on the ridge amidst oak and pine, panting like a hunting hound, sweat pouring down his body. He had been hunting Kael for two endless weeks, ignoring all advice, all counsel and every warning. Now Kael was within the fortress on the other side of the glen, atop the adjacent ridge. He did not have to see him to know. He felt his black power.

But he could not sense Brigdhe, his bride.

Pushing tendrils of gold hair from his face, he started down the ridge, his strides long, determined. His linen tunic stuck to his young, hard body, soaking wet, clinging there. His longsword bumped his thigh with every step. He left the security of the tree line, and saw men gathering on the wooden watchtowers, which were spaced evenly about the palisades. A horn blew. He smiled. Let them shout a warning!

He reached the barred doors of the fortified manor and did not hesitate, although he was new to his powers. He had been summoned to Iona six months ago by his father’s friend, MacNeil. He hadn’t understood then what a summons by an abbot to a monastery had to do with him. But he had quickly learned that he hadn’t been summoned by a true abbot, and that there was far more than a monastery on the island.

He’d been aware for most of his life that he was stronger, more virile and more sexual than other men. His intellect was sharper, his sense of danger far more acute. And physically, he was at least a head taller than his friends.

When he made his vows to old gods he hadn’t paid attention to until the choosing, swearing to protect Innocence through all time, suddenly his powers were released. He remained unsure of just how strong he was, but nothing would stop him now. He reached for the bolted doors, each one as tall as two men and as wide as a warhorse. He ripped them off their iron hinges.

Above him, on the towers, the men shouted in alarm.

Arrows rained down on him. One pierced his skin and stung. Another went deeper, embedding itself in his flesh. He ripped it out, feeling no pain.

He collected his mind and instinctively put his power around him like a shield, never breaking stride, heading for the largest of the buildings in the fort. The arrows fell uselessly around him now.

A dozen giants rushed him, carrying lances and leather shields. They were human, but evil possessed them.

He kept walking, drawing his sword. Metal hissed.

The giants rushed him, throwing their spears all at once.

He found more power and thrust it boldly at his assailants; the giants fell as if pushed by huge winds, their spears falling backward, past them.

He lunged up the steps and into the darkened hall.

Kael faced him.

But he saw only Brigdhe, lying naked on the rug before the fire, her long red-gold hair streaming about her slender body, her hands bound. He faltered.

She turned her head listlessly and looked at him. Her eyes widened—and then he saw the accusation on her face.

The blow took him by surprise, sending him flying backward. He landed hard on his back by the door, but did not drop his sword. As Kael’s sword descended, Brigdhe’s accusatory expression remained engraved on his mind, and with it, so much horror arose in his heart. Instead of parrying the blow, his own weapon yielded uselessly and Kael’s blade rent his shoulder, all the way through muscle and bone.

He forgot his bride. He rolled away as Kael blasted him with more energy, the second blow as stunning as the first. He was not used to men fighting this way. Pushed against the wall, he felt Kael’s sword coming, and this time, he struck upward with his blade, blindly, by sheer instinct.

Steel met steel. Metal screeched, rang. He leapt to his feet, bleeding heavily. Kael thrust more power at him.

He was hurled backward into the wall again. As he crashed into the wood as if thrown from a cliff to the glen below, he gathered his wits. He had power now, and surely he could fight this way, too.

“A Brigdhe,” he roared. And he struck at Kael with all the power he had.

Kael was flung across the entire hall, landing on his back, not far from Brigdhe. He rushed after him, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder. Kael rose and he thrust his blade savagely through his heart, the tip piercing out the other side of his back.

A human would have instantly died. Kael gasped—and then smiled. “Your suffering just begins.”

He could not understand and did not care to. He pulled his sword free, took Kael by the neck and cruelly snapped it in two. The demon’s red eyes glowed another time—and then they were sightless.

Instantly, a pain arising in his shoulder, he ran to his wife.

She sat with her back to the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. His heart now breaking for her, he knelt, reaching for her, about to enclose her in his embrace. The pain in his shoulder suddenly screamed, making him dizzy.

“Don’t touch me!”

Stunned, he jerked back, the floor becoming level once more. Somehow, he dropped his hands; somehow, he did not touch her. “T’is over now. I’ll take ye far from here,” he soothed. But in his own heart, he was sick, frantic and ashamed of his failure to protect her.

“No.”

He tensed, stunned, searching her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at him now. “I’m sorry, Brigdhe.”

“Sorry?” Her tone was scathing and hatred filled her eyes. “Get far from me. He did this to me because of ye. Stay away from me!”

Her words delivered the blow that Kael had not been able to wield. He tried to breathe and failed. She was right. Kael had used his bride against him. He had vowed to protect Innocence, and he hadn’t even been able to protect his own wife.

In that instant, he knew his marriage was over.

“Can ye stand?” he asked, his tone rough with emotions he must not yield to.

“Dinna touch me,” she cried furiously.

He stood and stepped aside, just as his brother and MacNeil arrived. Horribly grim, he watched Brogan lift her and carry her from the hall. He stared after them, refusing to feel the aching in his heart. He had been a fool to think he could keep a wife and uphold his vows as a Master. He did not blame Brigdhe for hating him now. He hated himself.

MacNeil beckoned him from the tainted hall’s threshold, his handsome countenance set in grim, severe lines. “Ye disobeyed me, Ruari. Ye were told not to hunt Kael alone.”

He was in no mood to argue. “Aye.” From where he stood, he could see the great Healer, Elasaid, tending to the woman who had so briefly been his wife. Never again, he thought.

And MacNeil had been lurking in his mind, because he said, “Aye. Yer a Master, lad. Ye’ll stand alone like the rest o’ us. A Master stands alone, fights alone, dies alone.”

“Dinna fear,” he said grimly. He had no intention of ever allowing another woman into his life, much less taking one as a wife. He would not condescend to any pain in his heart. Not now, not ever. The vows he had made would be his life.

MacNeil softened. “I dinna think ye could vanquish Kael. I’m proud of ye, lad.”

He nodded curtly. MacNeil clasped his shoulder, indicating that they should leave. The fortress would be razed, the ground consecrated. Human prisoners would be taken, demonic ones vanquished. The humans would be exorcized, if possible.

He heard a woman’s soft cry for help.

He stiffened, because the afternoon was entirely silent outside the dark hall.

“Ruari?” MacNeil asked.

The air moved around him. A woman whispered his name.

He glanced at MacNeil. “Did ye hear the woman?”

MacNeil looked aside. “There’s no one here but ye and me.”

He was wrong. A woman had called to him from the hall—he was certain. Leaving MacNeil, he stepped back into the dank chamber, glancing into every shadowed corner, but no one was present. Then he saw a trap door set in the floor.

Please.

Royce.

He had heard a woman calling for him, as clear as day. He rushed to the trap door and lifted it. And he heard the hissing of snakes. “Get me a torch!” he called.

“There’s no one down there,” MacNeil said firmly. “I’d sense life if it was here.”

“A torch,” he demanded.

A moment later MacNeil handed him a burning torch. He lowered it and saw piles of black, writhing snakes—but the pit looked empty otherwise. Still, he could not be sure. For he felt the woman now, and she was afraid.

He leapt down into the pit, waving the torch, scattering the snakes away from his bare feet. He looked around the small manmade cellar, and realized MacNeil was right. There was no one down there.

He tossed the torch to MacNeil and reached up. A moment later he was walking from the manor, but he remained uncertain and uneasy. He looked back.

The air inside the dark hall fluttered and beckoned. A woman’s fragrance suddenly enveloped him. And he heard her again. Royce…

He seized MacNeil, halting him. “Who is she? Where is she? What does she want an’ why does she call me by my English name?”

MacNeil stared. “She’s not here, lad.”

“Then where is she?” He did not, could not, understand. And he turned back, overcome. “I must find her.”

MacNeil took his arm, forestalling him. “Ye canna find her now. She’s in the future—yer future.”




CHAPTER ONE


South Hampton, New York—September 4, 2007

SHE STOOD NAKED at the window, aware of her lover’s deep, even breathing coming from the bed behind her. The Long Island night was blue-black and star-spangled, the moon full and bright, and she could hear the ocean’s rhythmic roar. A sea breeze caused the upholstered shades to knock softly against the windows. As she stood there, clouds gathered. She tensed.

The sky darkened. Shadows crossed the moon’s bright face, scarring it. The shutters began banging against the walls, almost frantically.

Allie stared at the moon, watching as it turned black.

She strained. And she felt evil intent forming.

Her pulse accelerated. She hurried across the room, about to step into her walk-in closet, when Brian stirred. He murmured, “Hey,” his tone drowsy

She smiled and swiftly returned to his side. “I’m starving. Want me to bring you some goodies from the kitchen?” She hated lying to him, but he would not understand.

He was snoring.

She waited a moment, impatience gnawing at her. One of her best friends was a whiz with spells, but Allie didn’t have any powers like that. It was unfortunate at times like these, when a sleeping spell would have been great. Reassured that he was deeply asleep, she quickly stepped into a black tank top, black cargo pants, and black Nikes, picking up a black backpack. She didn’t bother to open it; it was loaded and ready to go. As deftly as a cat burglar, the sleeping man now forgotten, she slipped out the window and climbed down the trellis, as if she’d done so a thousands times, which she had. Then she ran across the lawn to the driveway where she’d left her Mercedes SL560.

Allie jumped in, but didn’t turn the car on. She sat very still, focusing her sixth sense.

A shadow of darkness and death was gathering in the north.

She felt malice; she felt lust.

Allie turned the ignition, adrenaline flooding her. Aware that she couldn’t peel out of the driveway, because that would wake up the entire house, she focused on the gathering storm of violence, needing to pinpoint the location. She slowly cruised down the drive, the lust in the night intensifying. Allie felt its heart thudding, thick and strong, hot blood pulsing with evil carnal intent.

She turned onto the two-lane road and hit the gas. Rubber burned and screamed. She was going to save this vic. She drove by instinct, feeling the monster’s evil energy. She ran two stop signs. The damned monster had found its prey. She could feel it watching, about to pounce, to take, to kill. She was guessing both the predator and his or her victim were outside of one of the bars or restaurants on Highway 27. It was the weekend, and the nightspots were hopping.

A wave of pleasure began.

Allie cried out, because she could actually feel their sexual pleasure. It quickly began to escalate. Murder was always the outcome of these crimes of pleasure. The car ahead of her was obeying the speed limit and doing fortyfive. Allie stomped on the gas and veered dangerously past the car ahead of her—and narrowly by an oncoming truck. The truck driver blared his horn at her.

The pleasure became ecstasy, rapture. It flowed over Allie in waves—both victim and criminal were having orgasmic sex. It didn’t turn her on—it couldn’t. Her rage knew no bounds. It was going to be too late….

Allie sped into a parking lot adjacent a popular bar and restaurant overlooking the bay. Although the lot was full, she knew exactly where to drive.

In the back, far from the restaurant’s entrance, she saw them. A couple was in the throes of sex on the ground. And it wasn’t rape….

As she stared, the man turned his head in her direction, sensing her white power.

Allie jammed on the brakes and leapt from the car. As she did, she felt dark power exploding in the night. It was too damned late!

For it was blinding and briefly, her senses were diminished. It was hard to see and she could not feel the victim; all she could feel was the triumph of evil and death.

She stumbled as she reached for her backpack, pulling out a gun with a silencer. Then she turned, bracing herself as she aimed.

The man stood, smiling, blond and beautiful, his features perfect, like a movie star’s. In fact, for all she knew, he was a movie star. Dressed like a model in expensive trousers and a beautiful shirt, he hurled his black power at her.

Allie cocooned herself in her white light, but it was a healing light, so it didn’t do a lot. Instead she was slammed against the car so hard it felt as if he’d broken her back. She somehow lifted the gun and fired.

She was a good shot, but not after that kind of blow; still, she got him in the shoulder. Bad news was, he had so much power after taking the life from a victim that a shot wasn’t going to do much except cause a bit of inhuman bloodshed. He laughed at her and vanished into the stars.

She hoped his shoulder hurt like hell!

Allie reeled, still in pain from the blow. Then she flung the gun into the convertible’s backseat and staggered to the prone victim.

Her senses began to work. The night was still and dead—lifeless.

Allie knelt, knowing it was too late. Had the woman still been alive, she would feel a flicker of her life.

The vic lay unmoving on her back, clad in a pretty halter top and skirt, eyes sightless. Allie cried out, because she couldn’t be more than fifteen years old. It was not fair.

She was so tired of the malicious murders. For every human being she healed, there were hundreds of victims like this one, their lives stolen by the monsters who stalked the innocent in the night and then used that power to cause even more mayhem and death.

But there was no end in sight. Social commentators kept talking about the breakdown of modern society, how the murder rate was sky high—and ninety percent of all murders now were pleasure crimes. That is, the victims did not struggle. Somehow, they were seduced by complete strangers, and bodily fluids showed numerous orgasms. But the victims all died. As if old and feeble, their hearts simply stopped during intercourse.

But the victims were always young and beautiful and in perfect health. There was no reasonable medical explanation for heart failure.

Of course there wasn’t.

Because science could not explain evil and it never would.

The far right wanted the death penalty for these perverts. The far right blamed law enforcement and the state and federal governments for the failure to apprehend these perps and for the rising crime rate. The far left wanted more studies and more research; they wanted better inner-city education, health care, hospitals, dear God, as if the inner cities bred the perps. They did not.

The left and the right and the general public thought the criminals rapists, even though there wasn’t rape. They thought the perpetrators were human. But they were wrong.

It was a huge government cover-up. These sexual criminals did not have human DNA and Allie knew it for a fact. Not only did she know it because her mother had taught her to sense, feel and understand evil the moment she was toddling, but Brianna worked in CDA—the Center for Demonic Activities.

CDA was secret, too.

The perps looked human, but they were a race of evil, preying on mankind, sent by Satan himself centuries ago. Crimes of pleasure existed in every century; what was new was the growing numbers of the demonic hordes. Their population was expanding at a terrifying rate. Something was wrong.

And she, Brie, Tabby and Sam couldn’t do this alone, nor could the handfuls of healers and slayers around the world. Why, why didn’t the good guys have extraordinary powers, too?

There were some in the Center who believed that a race of men existed who did fight the demons with superpowers, some of the agents swearing they had seen these warriors. The stories all varied—they were pagans, they were Christian knights, they were modern soldiers—but one thread ran through every rumor: they could travel through time and they had sworn before God to fight evil. Allie grimaced. If such a race of überheroes existed, why didn’t one of these pagan or medieval or modern warriors appear to help her out?

She needed someone to hold the line while she healed victims like this one.

As badly as she wanted to fight, it was hard to do so when a simple energy blow could send her across half of a football field.

Allie felt tears rising. She took the girl’s hands and showered her with a healing light. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wanting to soothe her soul before it went to the next world.

And as she looked at the beautiful girl’s face, her outrage knew no bounds. She showered her with more light, because she foolishly wanted to bring her back to life.

Of course, she couldn’t do so. She could not resurrect the dead. She had begun healing insects and fish as a toddler, with her mother’s encouragement. Every year her abilities had become stronger. By the time Elizabeth Monroe had suddenly died, when Allie was ten, she’d been easily healing the flu and the common cold. At fifteen, she could heal broken bones. At sixteen, she could heal an older person with severe pneumonia. At eighteen, she had given a boy run over by a car the use of his legs back. At twenty, she had healed a case of critical skin cancer.

She had to be careful—she had to be anonymous or she’d wind up being studied like a lab rat. Her mother often warned her to keep her powers secret.

There was so much she couldn’t do—she couldn’t give the blind their sight back, and she couldn’t raise the dead. But Allie wanted to try.

She threw all the white power she had into the girl. She sat with her, tears streaking her face, straining to give her more and more white healing light. The girl remained still; her eyes remained sightless. Her heart did not beat. Allie screwed her eyes shut, refusing to quit. If only she could resurrect this girl, and save one of the demon’s innocent victims! But it was hard to grasp her power now and bring it forth and send it to the girl. Still, Allie somehow sent another shower of healing power through the girl. It hurt to do so and she moaned. Allie realized she was at her limits; she felt depleted, drained, exhausted, and she knew she had no more power to give.

She hadn’t realized she was lying down, on her belly, until she clawed the dirt, seeking her healing power. But it was finally gone…

The ground began to spin.

Allie closed her eyes, dizzy and faint. She heard voices coming from the bar but she was too weak to even tense. They were coming her way and she couldn’t move—she was utterly defenseless. She strained her senses—there was no evil. Allie moaned and collapsed.

Her last conscious thought was that she had tried, but she hadn’t resurrected the dead.

ALLIE AWOKE, feeling heavy and drugged.

She opened her eyes, feeling as if they’d been glued shut, and tested her fingers and toes, her hands and feet, relieved that, although weak, everything was in working order. She’d been asleep, but not in her own bed, and she felt nauseous, too. She started, suddenly realizing that she was in a hospital room, hooked up to various monitors and an IV. What the hell?

And instantly, she remembered trying to bring the dead girl back to life and finally passing out. Someone must have found her and called 911.

She sat up. She was seriously exhausted from the effort she’d made, but not so much that she couldn’t get up and leave. She grimaced, imagining the questions she’d be asked when she summoned a nurse. Questions were to be avoided.

Allie tore the tape off the IV and was removing the needle as gently as possible when she felt warmth filling the room. She tensed, recognizing the white power, and looked up.

Her mother appeared by her bedside. Allie gasped in shock. Although her mother had died fifteen years ago, Allie had never forgotten her. Her legacy—and her compassion—had been far too great. There was no question that her mother had come to visit her from the dead, for the first time. She was as fair and blond as Allie was dark, with an oddly ageless appearance. Now she smiled at her, but her eyes shimmered with urgency.

It is time now, darling. Embrace your destiny.

Stunned, Allie reached out—but her mother was already fading. “Don’t go!” she cried, sliding from the bed to stand.

But her mother kept fading, becoming a vague shadow. Golden.

Her mother was speaking again! Allie could hear her, but her voice was weaker, nearly inaudible, as she drifted away.

But of course she was fading—it would be almost impossible for her to come back to this realm after being dead for so many years. “Mom! Don’t go! What is it?” She was shocked, thrilled, but she was also alarmed. If her mother was trying to communicate with her from the dead, after so many years of absence, something had to be terribly wrong.

Trust….

Her mother’s image was gone, and she was alone in the small, curtained cubicle. “Who do you want me to trust? I trust you!” she cried.

The golden Master.

Allie stiffened, confused and doubtful she had heard correctly—until a stunningly clear image formed in her mind.

One of the most gorgeous and masculine men she had ever seen took over her mind. Allie saw a bronzed hunk with disheveled, dark gold, sun-streaked hair—and he was stark naked. Her interest escalated. He was a mass of bulging muscles, interesting slabs and amazingly defined planes. The man was built like the mythological Hercules—and he was packed. He was drop-dead gorgeous, with nearly perfect but oh-so-masculine features set in a very strong face. His expression was terse and hard, with stunning silver eyes that were piercing.

His body belonged on a knight from another time. In fact, she could envision him with a sword in hand. At the same time, he looked ready to rock and roll.

She swallowed, terribly breathless.

What was she doing? She was hearing her mother, speaking from the dead, and fantasizing about the kind of man she’d never meet, except maybe in a romance novel. But his expression wasn’t one she could ever make up, not in a million years. What did that mean? And did it matter? She had to get the hell out of the hospital before someone tried to question her.

“Allie?”

Allie tensed as one of her best friends stepped through the curtains. Brianna Rose was a dead ringer for Jennifer Garner, but it was almost impossible to realize that, because she wore shapeless suits and black eyeglasses, and pulled her hair severely back. She was the shyest person Allie knew. She was also the smartest, a true techno-geek. Their gazes locked as Brianna hurried to her.

“Why did you cruise alone?” Brie whispered, her pretty green eyes clearly visible in spite of the serious spectacles she wore, which only enhanced her nerdy appearance. “I saw what happened!”

“I’m okay,” Allie whispered. Brie had the Sight. She was also highly empathic. Of course she’d have rushed to Allie’s side after she’d made herself so sick. “Aren’t you late for work?”

“It’s six in the morning,” Brie returned. “They brought you in at 3:00 a.m. I’m sorry! I was at HCU all night—I was so engrossed in a case—or I’d have known sooner. Sam and Tabby are outside. C’mon. Let’s get you out of here before CDA gets wind of this.”

Allie seized her hands. “Brie. I just saw my mom.”

Brianna hesitated. “We’ll talk later,” she said after a significant pause.

ALLIE STUDIED HERSELF critically in the mirror. Her father was holding a political fund-raiser and she had to be downstairs in a few moments. Concealer hid the dark circles that remained under her eyes. While she was feeling better, she was not herself and she knew it. She had gone too far, trying to raise the dead.

The sea-foam chiffon evening gown floated sensually down her body and made her olive complexion and dark eyes glow. Allie had used some serious teal eye shadow, dark liner and now she added pale gloss to her lips. For someone who’d awoken in the hospital that morning, she looked okay.

“Alison Monroe, you are late!” Her other best friend, Tabby, sailed into the room, looking drop-dead gorgeous in a bronze evening gown. She’d recently divorced and Allie knew the smile was fake—she’d been dumped for a younger woman and her heart was badly broken.

“You look awesome.” Allie smiled.

“Thanks. I almost feel pretty again,” Tabby said, closing the door. Tabby was of medium height, slim and blond; when she wasn’t practicing spells and scrying for evil, she was practicing yoga. She was a first-grade teacher and her ex was a Wall Street high roller. It had been a Cinderella story—or so they’d both thought. “I’m giving you a headsup. Brian wants to know why you walked out on him last night.”

Allie grimaced. “I guess I got caught.”

“Not for the first time,” Tabby said softly. “I hate it when you cruise alone! You could get hurt! You did get hurt. Thank the gods Brie felt it so we could rescue you from the clutches of the police.”

Tabby no longer smiled. Tabby, Sam and Brianna knew her secret—they’d known she could heal since they’d become friends as children. But Allie knew their secrets, too. As Rose women, they all had powers, which they used to fight evil. Tabby and Sam were sisters, and Brie was their cousin. Although Brie worked in CDA, no one knew her ability to see the future, and they all kept the lowest profile imaginable. “I guess another one bites the dust,” Tabby remarked.

Allie glanced away. Brian had started to act like he was really interested in her, and that was not a good thing. Men had always swarmed to her like bees to honey. Yet she’d never been able to do more than go through the motions of being in love. She was twenty-five and she’d never been in love, not even a schoolgirl crush.

And she was always getting caught sneaking out in the middle of the night—and it was still just as hard trying to make up excuses. That behavior ended every relationship, sooner or later. Allie knew she didn’t have time for love. In fact, love would probably interfere with her destiny as a Healer.

“I’m so tired of lying—and hiding who I really am,” Allie said, sitting down on the bed. “But of course I’ll tell him you called with a broken heart and I had to come right over.”

“At least you’re not in love,” Tabby said significantly, referring to her own broken heart.

Before Allie could answer, Sam came in without knocking. While Tabby was as elegant as a woman could be, Sam had really short, choppy blond hair and favored distressed denim and biker boots. She had slipped on a very tiny, very immodest black dress for the affair, revealing the fact that she was as buff as a personal trainer, with a lot of black eye shadow and really pale lips. She was so beautiful that no amount of Rocker-Meets-Biker attitude could change that. “I heard that. Some of us are liberated women who need a guy for one thing only.” She winked at Allie.

Sam understood her—she always had. Sam was really tough—the kind of tough that happens when tragedy strikes in front of your face when you’re young, but old enough not to forget and move on. Unlike her sister, she was not romantic at all. Allie got it. She was on her own quest—hunting demons—and love would never get in the way.

“I wish I could be like you and Sam,” Tabby said very seriously. “I wish I could date and have a good time and walk away whole.”

“No one can change who they are,” Allie said softly. “You’re perfect the way you are.” She wasn’t going to reveal that sometimes she wondered what love felt like, that sometimes she was tired of being so damned alone.

Tabby snorted inelegantly. “Well, as I’m swearing off men forever, I guess that will be our secret.”

“Just swear off Mr. Right—because he’s always Mr. Wrong,” Sam said, sitting on a chair and crossing her long, chiseled legs.

Allie said, “You’ll meet someone who is as perfect for you as you are for him.” She smiled and went to the mirror, pretending that she wanted to touch up her makeup. She didn’t want to keep talking about love.

Tabby said softly, “Hey, are you forgetting I’m pretty telepathic?”

Allie glanced at Tabby’s reflection in the mirror. She wouldn’t trade her gift for anything or anyone, but her life was hard and isolating. She didn’t know what she would do without such incredible friends. She said firmly, “My life is helping others, not falling in love. I have never been in love—and I doubt I ever will.”

Allie turned and silently warned Tabby not to reveal her secrets. Tabby squeezed her hand. “On a more sober note, Brian’s pretty upset about last night, Allie. He asked me if you’re cheating on him.”

Allie bit her lip. “Can you send him into the arms of a really hot babe? By dawn he won’t remember me.”

Tabby gave her a look, but Allie knew she’d cave. No one was as kind or caring as Tabby and she’d never let Brian walk around heartbroken. Tabby finally smiled, just a little. “It’s against the rules to send him his soul mate, but I’ll try to set Brian up.”

Sam stood. “Duty calls, ladies.”

Allie didn’t move away from the bureau. “Any chance Brie’s here?” Allie asked.

Sam gave her an incredulous look. “Brie wouldn’t come to a party if her life depended on it. If she’s not at work, I guarantee you she’s at home, by her lonesome, with a glass of wine, buried in classified HCU files.”

HCU was the Historical Crimes Unit of CDA. “I need a favor from her,” Allie said.

Tabby stared, reading her thoughts. Allie had mentioned her mother’s visit that morning when they were in Sam’s SUV, on their way home from South Hampton Hospital. Now she thought about her mother’s strange words and the warrior-hard muscleman with a suntan. She tensed, actually feeling the stirrings of desire. “I need to know what she meant.”

Sam snickered. “No, you want to know if a golden sex machine is in your future. Man, I can always use one of those—although I prefer my men dark.”

Allie had to smile. “He’s mine, girl.”

Sam shrugged.

But Tabby was serious. “How many times have you wished for a warrior to help you while you healed? I do recall that being your exact word—warrior. I have this sense that your mother is sending you someone.” Her eyes were bright with excitement.

Allie’s heart raced. “Maybe she’s sending me a CDA agent.”

“Those guys are ex–Special Ops. That’d do the trick,” Sam said.

Tabby whispered, “I’m not Brie, not by a long shot, but should I get my cards?”

Allie tensed. Tabby was gifted with the Tarot. She didn’t have Brie’s incredible Sight, but the cards usually spoke to her. “Use mine.”

A moment later, Tabby had laid out a simple seven-card spread. While Allie was familiar with the cards, she never read them like Tabby, but she saw the Knight of Swords. “Is that him?” she asked quietly, the hairs rising on her neck as she looked at the knight on his white charger, sword in hand.

Tabby looked up. “No. That’s him.” She pointed to the Emperor. He had been dealt upside down.

Allie’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“This spread is about him, Allie—and it is Fate.” She pointed. “Five of these cards are from the Major Arcana.”

Allie trembled. “I see that.”

“Someone is coming from the past—not your past. There is another woman here, and she’s hurt. The man is older, with great authority. He has power and faith, and his quest is Justice.” She added, “Allie, he is blessed.”

Allie breathed. It was hard to believe that her golden warrior would be an older man. “Is the other woman my mother? Is my mother hurt?” Had her mother become trapped between worlds? She’d heard it was possible and that might explain her odd visit.

“I don’t know who this other woman is, but like the Knight of Swords, she is a bridge between you and this man. She is very important to you both. She’s come up as the Queen of Cups. Allie? Your life is about to be turned upside down.” Tabby pointed at a card showing the Tower, which was being struck by lightning, people jumping from it. It was next to the Death card.

Every interpretation claimed the Death card did not symbolize death. Most readers refused to read literal death in the cards, but not Tabby. In her world, the Death card was just that, if juxtaposed correctly to other cards. “Does someone die?” Allie wasn’t chilled—the innocent died every day. Death was a fact of life.

“Someone dies,” Tabby whispered seriously. She pointed at the Sun, lying beneath Death. “But from the ashes, comes a new day.”

Their gazes locked.

Brianna stepped into the room, clad in a shapeless black pantsuit.

Allie started.

Brianna didn’t smile. She walked over to them and stared at the reversed Emperor. “He is here.”

IT WAS MIDNIGHT when Allie stepped outside onto the flagstone patio by the pool. She’d had enough of the fund-raiser. She didn’t give a damn about politics except when the politicians fucked up and the little guy suffered because of it.

She’d stolen out, leaving Brian at the bar with Tabby and a few other guests, not having had a chance to really talk with him. She had a rare headache, and knew she was still off from last night.

She wanted to get past the guests who were lingering at the brilliantly lit-up pool without being waylaid. She crossed the lawns, leaving the pool and her father’s guests behind, thinking about her mother, the golden warrior and Brie’s stunning statement. She paused by the split-rail fence so she could watch their Thoroughbreds grazing under the moonlight. Was her golden warrior really present?

Was her mother sending someone to her, someone to help her in her ambition to heal those in suffering?

Allie smiled almost sadly. On the day of her death, as if she’d known she was going to pass, Elizabeth Monroe had asked Allie to make vows. She’d sworn to keep her powers secret and worship as she’d been raised, in her mother’s ancient religion. And she had sworn to never turn her back on any suffering creature, great or small, human or beast, if it was Innocent.

Her father hadn’t ever gotten over his wife’s death. Her father was a Fortune 500 entrepreneur, as different from Elizabeth as anyone could be, and maybe that was why he’d loved her so. Unlike his friend Trump, he paid people to keep his name—and her and her stepbrother’s—out of the news. William Monroe hadn’t remarried, although he had many model girlfriends.

Allie loved her mogul father, but didn’t understand him very well. She had learned long ago not to let her father see her spiritual side, just as Elizabeth had hidden it from him when she was alive. He didn’t have a clue that she was a Healer. He expected her to serve on various boards and marry Brian or someone just like him. Allie didn’t mind being on the Board of Directors of the Elizabeth Foundation, which gave away huge sums of money to philanthropies and charities with her direction. She’d barely made it through high school, and while healing could easily be a full-time job, she didn’t dare do so openly. She was the Monroe heiress, and the media watched her pretty closely. She had to be careful, always.

She had to pretend to fit in with everybody in his world when she didn’t really fit in at all, except with Sam, Tabby and Brie—and the evil monsters who wanted to murder them all. Allie sighed, staring at the grazing horses. Even in bed with a great guy like Brian, she had to pretend to be something she was not. Allie was certain her father suspected that his wife had been far more than your average socialite; she was determined he’d never guess the truth about his daughter. But hiding out most of the time was hard.

And then she felt Brian, even before he called her name.

She shoved her brooding aside. Brian was approaching and she smiled at him, hoping Tabby would put a love spell on him really soon. He was going to be hurt and that went against her very nature. Unfortunately her sex drive was too high for her to avoid men and be celibate.

“Hey. Are you okay? First you split on me last night and tonight you’ve been quiet. You’re never quiet.”

Allie hesitated. “I have a headache. Are you still mad about last night?”

“You cut and ran, Allie,” he said quietly, but not with accusation.

“I couldn’t sleep so I went out for a drive.” That was, she thought, a part of the truth.

His gaze was searching. “You’re an amazing woman, Allie.” He hesitated. “It’s not happening, is it?”

He knows, she thought, saddened but relieved. She touched his arm. “I am awful at relationships, Brian. They never last. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not like other women. I’ve never been in love.”

He shook his head. “That makes you even more desirable.”

It was time to tell him it was over, she thought. But then Allie tensed. A huge power had settled around them, hot and male.

She was stunned. She had never felt such power in her life. The power wasn’t dark or demonic. It was pure and white—but it was not a healing power, for it was charged with testosterone. It was aggressive.

Stunned, she tried to see across the pasture, past the horses, into the night. The power was holy. It came from her gods. But hadn’t Tabby said he had faith—that he was blessed? A terrible excitement consumed her.

And then she saw his aura.

Orange and crimson burned, powerful and bright, and she saw the man at last. The world around them vanished. Brian was gone, the horses disappeared, it was only her and him and the night. She had found her golden warrior.

And that was exactly what he was—the golden warrior she’d envisioned earlier, except he wasn’t naked. He wore a pale tunic and boots, his thighs bare, along with two swords and a plaid, which was pinned over one shoulder. He was a Highlander. He could have stepped out of Braveheart.

His gaze unwavering on her, he started to approach.

No, he had stepped out of time, she somehow thought. Allie trembled, her heart accelerating so wildly she felt faint. There was so much power emanating from him, and finally he was bathed in moonlight. Allie breathed hard. He was even better than she had dreamed. Big, bronzed, beautiful.

Their gazes met and locked.

“That guy’s a loon. Let’s go.” Brian took her arm.

But the man’s gaze held hers and Allie didn’t even feel Brian’s grasp; instead, she felt desire fist in her gut. His silver gaze widened as if he was startled by her somehow, too.

Then his face hardened. “Lady Ailios,” he stated, using an old Gaelic version of her name, speaking with a heavy brogue. “Dinna fear. MacNeil has sent me. T’is time.”

His words washed through her with such warmth she realized he was attempting to enchant her. But she didn’t mind. She smiled at him. “Okay.”

His gaze narrowed with suspicion.

“I am not afraid of you,” Allie whispered.

And she felt the dark coming. She froze—and he halfturned, stiffening. She knew he was sensing them, too.

A cloud turned the moon bloodred.

The warrior said firmly, in a tone of command, “Ailios. Go into the house with yer man.” And as he spoke, she saw his aura erupt in a blast of more intense red and gold light. It was savage determination, explosive and hot; it was the battle readiness of a warrior.

But Allie wasn’t going anywhere. “Are you kidding?” Allie cried. Real concern for Brian began. He’d get hurt if he stayed to fight. She whirled. “Hey.” She smiled and pressed close. “I know this guy from high school. Yes, he’s weird, but he’s harmless.” She could barely believe such a lie. “I know we have to finish our conversation. Let me get his number and I’ll meet you in my room. Bring a bottle of Dom,” she added with another smile.

Brian’s eyes widened. “I don’t like leaving you with him, Allie. But we do need to talk.”

Allie wanted him to rush off and she almost hopped up and down. “He’s on his way to a costume party at the Grussmans’ in Bridge Hampton.”

He stared suspiciously at her.

“Go to her room an’ take her with ye. Go now,” Mr. To-Die-For said.

And a terrible chill fell.

“Allie, let’s go.” Brian took her arm, clearly enchanted.

Allie tried to pull free but failed, for she was too small to succeed. “I am not going,” she told the golden warrior, their gazes locked. “I will fight, too. I’ll help!”

His eyes widened incredulously. “Ye think to fight?”

And black clouds filled the space between them.

The chill became arctic.

The warrior seized her, pulling her behind his huge body as if he meant to be her human shield. The demons formed, all blond and perfect. They were the highest level of diabolical power. Allie took a stiletto from her garter as one demon was flung backward by the Scot’s energy blast. Allie was jubilant—he had the kind of power the demons had! She tried to step past him as Brian was thrown to his back by a demon. But more energy was being hurled at them and she was flung back herself, landing hard on the grass. For one moment, pain exploded in her back, and she was stunned. Then she rallied and looked up and saw the golden warrior, sword in hand, behead two demons almost simultaneously. Only one demon remained—somehow, while she’d been flung backward, he’d vanquished the third.

Allie got up. He was like a frigging superhero, and just what the world needed. She wanted to jump and cheer but she saw Brian, lying facedown in the grass.

The single remaining demon was almost as tall and muscular as the warrior, but he wore long, dark robes—like a friar or a monk. Allie was certain he’d come from a past era, too. He murmured, “Ruari Dubh, ciamar a tha thu?” He grinned. Black Royce, how are you?

Allie crept closer, grasping the knife, understanding every word of the Gaelic the demon spoke, although she had only ever translated the prayers bequeathed her by Elizabeth. Brian wasn’t dead, but he was hurt, bleeding internally, and his life was compromised. Rage engulfed her. She was not going to let him die, too.

The demon looked at her. “Hallo, a Ailios. Latha math dhulbh.”

“Fuck you,” Allie cried, and she lunged past the warrior, intending to stab the demon in the eye if she could. It would not be the first time she had blinded a demon, at least partially.

But the golden warrior seized her arm, pulling her back into his embrace where she writhed furiously, wanting a chance to murder the demon. “Stay still,” he roared at her. “Or do ye wish to die?”

The blond demon laughed at Allie. “Latha math andrasda.” He vanished.

Allie stopped struggling and began shaking wildly instead. Goodbye for now. What did that mean?

As sick with fear as she was for Brian, she was shockingly aware of being in the warrior’s thick, impossibly strong arms. His body was huge and hard and powerfully male—and she felt a very large package stirring beneath her. She closed her eyes—she had to heal Brian. It was hard, because her body began screaming at her, delicious sensation rushing across her skin, inflaming every fiber of her being. “Let me go so I can help Brian,” she said hoarsely.

He released her.

She met his hot, glittering gaze and that fist slammed her again, hollowing her more acutely than ever before. And he knew. A slight, smug smile tilted the otherwise still line of his mouth.

He wouldn’t be so smug in another hour, she thought. Because he was going to have the time of his life.

She turned and ran to Brian and dropped down beside him, reaching for him, flooding him with her white healing light. Even as intensely focused as she was, she was acutely aware of the warrior as she felt him as he came to stand behind her. Instantly she knew he was standing guard over her so she could heal.

Her heart thundered. When this night was over, she was going to thank all the gods for answering her prayers.

“Can ye heal him?”

She swallowed. “I’ll die trying.” But her temples throbbed. It almost hurt to heal Brian. Releasing her white light felt like pulling out her own teeth, one by one.

He was silent, but not for long. “Are ye hurt?”

She panted and took a short break. “Last night…I got hurt.” She glanced up at him.

He did not seem happy to hear that.

She breathed deeply and turned back to Brian, flooding him with her light. Brian’s life flickered and blazed.

Allie was swept by an intense wave of dizziness. She felt the land tilt wildly and she was dismayed. The huge warrior knelt, embracing her from behind and holding her steady against his chest.

She gasped. His scent was overwhelming. Man, sex, power, the clean Highland mist and more sex. His body could have been honed from steel, and the thighs beneath her ass were even better than a soccer player’s. This man rode horses and ran hills.

Allie opened her eyes and shifted to meet his gaze. The night had changed. It was charged. She was weak but she needed this man—and she wasn’t thinking about a partner to combat crime. Oh, no. In fact, suddenly, strangely, he was all she could think about, and she sensed he was using his powers of enchantment again.

His eyes hot, he moved away from her, standing. “Who are you?” she whispered, forcing her gaze to his eyes.

But Brian sat up. “Allie?” He was alarmed. “What happened?”

Allie jerked with dismay. She’d been so mesmerized by the warrior she’d forgotten about Brian.

The Highlander stared at Brian. “Go to the house. I’ll bring her soon enough.”

Brian stood and left without a word.

Allie met his gray gaze and this time, she knew her eyes were wide. “It’s all true, right? You’re one of them…a warrior who can travel through time…with superpowers…defending mankind.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and it slid lower, to her breasts, which were barely covered by the corset-style, pushup bodice of the evening gown. “I dinna ken,” he said softly. But his silver eyes were hot and an arrogant smile played on that incredible, chiseled face.

And a shadow fell over the night.

Allie glanced up in alarm; the moon was gone again, covered by black clouds. She tensed, glancing at the pool, but it remained brightly lit. It didn’t matter. Huge and heavy, blackness swiftly approached them again.

Incredulous, she looked up at the warrior. She was too weak to fight more demons now! She scrambled to her feet, not as steadily as she’d have liked, as an arctic chill fell.

Fear and anger warred in her heart. Allie looked at the warrior. He looked at her and she knew something bad—really bad—was about to happen. “I’m okay,” she lied. “Where’s my knife?”

He shook his head, jaw flexed. “Ye canna fight again,” he said firmly. His grasp tightened. “Ye need to hold me tight.”

Allie was about to say that was fine by her, when they were flung across the pastures, over the horses, into space. If she could have, Allie would have screamed. Instead she gasped as her body was ripped apart, into shreds of hair, tissue and skin.




CHAPTER TWO


Carrick Castle, Morvern, Scotland—September 5, 2007

HE WOULD NEVER GET used to the pain.

Leaping through time was like being tortured on the rack, and even though he’d leapt a thousand times, he still fought not to give in to the urge to cry out like a woman would. It was like having the skin flayed from muscle and bone, like having one’s organs ripped outward by a human hand. Fire burned inside him. Landing, there was a final explosion of pain, and then there was a stunning darkness.

He held her tightly in his arms, briefly left powerless by the leap through time. His ability to sense evil was so well honed, however, that he knew they were not in danger. He focused on recovering his powers, given to him centuries ago by the Ancients, when the old gods despaired for mankind’s Fate and decided to create a race of warriors to defend them. From experience, he knew that in a moment or two he would recoup.

But the Healer was small, soft, warm and womanly in his arms.

He’d never leapt with a woman before—much less one like this.

Although she was unconscious, he could not forget her stunning white light, the purest power he had ever sensed or seen. And to make matters far worse, she was as stunningly beautiful as she was powerful, with a tiny but lush body; that dark, silken hair, and dark eyes that seemed to look into his most secret thoughts. Her buttocks were soft and full, spooned into him, and he rapidly swelled.

It was usual to want a woman in every possible way after the leap. Every Master had many godlike powers; the greatest power of all was the ability to take life at any time, from anyone and anything, like a god. Taking some of the force of life from her would instantly restore his powers. And taking power was also pleasurable. In fact, there was no rapture like that which came from power.

He looked at the woman and knew that her white power, swelling his veins, his body, would be like no other.

But he was a master at self-control. Except in war or when facing mortal death, “taking” was forbidden. The young Masters were always tempted to test the Ancients, to taste power and to experience the sublime rapture of La Puissance. He had been upholding his sacred vows for over eight centuries and he would not touch this one’s healing essence, ever.

Royce closed his eyes tightly, more aroused than before, but determined to ignore it. And then any internal battle was over. He felt all of his extraordinary strength settle over him, in him, through him, in one vast wave. Breathing naturally again, he could look at her face.

He stared, his heart lurching anew at the sight of her beauty. She was so beautiful, so pure that he felt the Ancients near her—and she was so terribly brave. She had tried to fight the deamhanain as if a warrior. She would never be a warrior—it was a physical impossibility, for she was so small. Yet she had intended to attack Moffat with a knife!

Too well, he could recall his horror in that moment.

And now the question loomed—had Moffat leapt to the future to hunt him, or did he hunt Elasaid’s daughter, a powerful Healer and great prize in her own right?

Moffat had been an annoyance for centuries. Whenever Royce had an interest at stake, whether in land, finance or politics, Moffat took the opposing side. Periodically Moffat’s soldiers attacked his lands, his men, and once, an innocent village. Royce’s retribution was always swift and severe—he’d besieged the Cathedral where Moffat held reign as bishop with bombards and battering rams, and had destroyed three of its four walls. That had been decades ago. The Regent Albany had ordered him to cease before he’d beaten down the Cathedral itself.

Three months ago, in the darkest winter days of late January, the stakes had increased. Royce had encountered a deamhan in the throes of taking life from an Innocent—Moffat’s new and favorite lover. He’d vanquished Kaz with little effort, but too late to save the Innocent’s life. And ever since, Moffat had been enraged, harassing his people at every turn, bringing death and destruction as he could, without arousing the King’s complete ire. That is, he did not dare openly declare war.

It was too soon to know Moffat’s intent. The answer would eventually become clear.

She stirred in his arms. His body remained hot and hard, but he ignored it easily enough. Slowly, he looked around.

He had leapt forward a single day into the future, to his own home in Scotland. Although she was a powerful Healer, he’d felt her weakness and pain the moment she’d begun to heal her lover. Aware of her being somehow hurt and compromised, he’d made certain to only leap forward slightly, hoping to lessen the torment for her.

He had never been to the future before, as there had been no need, and a Master wasn’t allowed to leap for his own pleasure or gain. He was in the Great Hall at Carrick Castle, but he barely recognized his home. Everything had changed. There were so many fine furnishings, many of which he did not understand, such as the posts with cloth heads on the small tables. Even the rugs and paintings were different. The room was beautiful—the kind of home his friend Aidan would enjoy. Who was lord of Carrick now? He would not bother to furnish this room so luxuriously. Or would he? For there was a collection of swords on one wall, and he recognized every one. They belonged to him. If there was a new lord and master now, why did that man own his weapons?

He considered the possibility that he was still lord of Carrick and earl of Morvern. If so, it would mean he had lived another five hundred and seventy-seven years. He didn’t know how he felt about the prospect. But the Code was clear. It forbade in the most certain terms a Master leaping forward or back in time to a place where he could encounter his younger or older self. He felt certain no good would come if he walked into the corridor and encountered his future self there. If he remained the lord of Carrick, he must exercise caution.

He glanced at the woman, Ailios, again. Her thick, almost black hair was covering her cheek and without thinking, he slid his hand beneath it and pushed it back over her shoulder. Instantly more lust began. It was impossible not to keep thinking about sex and pleasure with such a woman in his arms. So much desire was almost inexplicable—and he sensed it could even threaten his vows.

No man would bed this woman once and walk away. Yet that was how he lived. A Master must refuse all attachments, and he had learned that lesson the hard way, when the deamhanain had captured and tortured his wife.

He should leave this one alone.

He lifted her and stood, then glanced into the corridor and saw that it was empty. He started down it, intending to go up to the North Tower, where he had his rooms in the fifteenth century. A housemaid appeared, coming down the stairs. Royce tensed, awaiting her scream of alarm, but she smiled at him, pausing to curtsy. “My lord.”

He smiled grimly back. He was still the lord of Carrick. Had he somehow sensed he would be alive on this day in the future? Had he thought to take her to his future self?

Satisfaction began, hard, primitive and male.

He strode into the bedchamber, laying her in the center of a large canopied bed with no hangings, which pleased him. His chamber had hardly changed. The bed was new—larger, and more convenient, as sometimes he enjoyed several women at once—but two chests had survived the centuries, as had the shield on the wall. The thronelike chairs in front of the hearth were new but their fashion was not, and he approved of the severe beige-and-brown-striped fabric covering them. He liked the brown and black rug on the floor. It looked like an animal skin, but it was wool.

He stared at her now, as if enchanted.

This one could tempt the Pope and seduce the devil.

For not only were her face and figure so perfect, she knew her allure. She knew the gown she wore revealed her every curve and hollow; it thrust her bosom out, it cupped and caressed the plump mound of her sex, and nothing was left to the imagination. She had chosen it to increase her beauty. And he felt certain she wore nothing beneath it, not a single undergarment, to make a man insane with his desire.

His heart thundered and so did the pulse in his loins. He reminded himself that she was unconscious and ill—at least for now. But sooner, not later, she would wake up. He needed to have control and when she did awaken, he needed to be gone.

He tore his gaze away from her full, bowed mouth and for the first time saw the portrait on the table beside the bed. It was a perfect rendering.

He picked up the small framed portrait. He stood with his nephew, Malcolm, Malcolm’s wife, Claire, and Aidan. He stared at himself with some curiosity. He looked very much the same—hard, distant, bronzed from the sun—but his hair was shorn like a penitent monk’s. He wore the modern style of clothes—a black, shapeless surcote and black, equally shapeless stockings. He was not smiling.

Royce looked closer. His eyes held no light—whatever he was thinking or feeling, it was impossible to tell. Although he appeared but a human of forty or so, his stance was that of a man ready for battle. Even in the dark, somber, modern fashion, he seemed dangerous.

Apparently his life would not change.

He remained a soldier of the gods.

Then he looked at his nephew, Malcolm, and his wife and half brother. Everyone was smiling.

They were all happy, five hundred and seventy-seven years into the future. He was happy for them.

He put the portrait down, wishing he hadn’t been in it. The future felt bleak and loomed as if endless. It was all the same. Nothing would ever change. Good and evil, battle and death. For every vanquished deamhan, another would rise in its stead.

Then, slowly, he turned and gazed down at the woman. Everything had changed, hadn’t it?

He was accustomed to a hard, ready cock—but not to the wild beating of his heart. It was almost as if the floor he stood on was tilting, and wouldn’t ever be quite level again.

He looked back at the framed portrait. The man in that rendering, the man who was over fourteen hundred years old, did not appear to have a single weakness, character failing, or human flaw. The man in the portrait had been at war for so long, only the warrior remained, and that was why he looked into his eyes and saw nothing at all. In the future, he would be able to bed the woman and walk away; he would also give his life to protect her.

Oddly he felt savagely satisfied.

She would be safe here.

And in five hundred and seventy-seven years, he’d have the pleasure of taking her to bed, of pleasuring her time and again, of watching her come, feeling her come—and coming inside her, again and again.

He’d learned patience long ago. He’d wait.

Royce gave her one last look, and leapt back to the fifteenth century, where he belonged.

ALLIE AWOKE, cocooned in down, aware of being in one of the most comfortable beds she’d ever slept in. She had been so deeply asleep, she felt groggy. So many different birds were chirping outside the window, she became confused. She blinked against warm, strong sunlight, searching for the familiar sound of the ocean echoing on the beach, but she did not hear it.

She was widely awake, staring up at the unfamiliar beige silk pleats of an unfamiliar canopy over the very unfamiliar bed she lay in. Her heart lurched and she jerked to sit up. She took in the bed, with its brown paisley coverings and striped sheets, the fleur-de-lis pillow cases, the larger brown velvet pillows behind them. Her gaze lifted, bewildered, and she saw the entire sparsely furnished stone chamber—and it hit her, hard. She was not at her home in South Hampton.

She was still clad in the sea-foam evening gown; now, she saw her silver sandals on the floor.

The events of the night rushed over her—she’d been at her father’s fund-raiser and a powerful warrior had appeared, thwarting the demonic attack.

She breathed in hard. Last night had been real. A warrior from another time, blessed by the gods, had come to help her fight the demons. Her mother had told her to embrace her destiny and trust a golden Master. Tabby had seen him coming, powerful and blessed, from the past. The CDA rumors were true. She trembled with excitement. She couldn’t wait to tell Tabby, Sam and Brie.

Ye need to hold on to me tight.

Allie gasped, because the last thing she recalled was being flung across the pastures and horses, the velocity ripping her body apart.

Where was she? She was obviously in someone’s ancestral home—she had toured Europe and Britain extensively enough to know an old manor or castle when she was in one. Allie threw the covers aside, stumbling from the bed to the window. The panes were golden glazed glass. She jerked hard on the latch, and the moment she opened the window, she breathed in crisp, scented air that was unmistakable.

She was in the Highlands.

She stared out of the window, stunned. She was on a high floor, and she saw castle walls to her left, ending at a round tower. She realized she was in another, similar corner tower. The castle itself was perched on the top of a high hill, and she saw the sparkling blue waters of a loch or river far below. Across the body of water were the barren, harsh hills and higher mountains of the Highlands. Clouds shrouded the peaks.

Her mind raced with dizzying speed. She’d been to Scotland many times, but not until after her mother’s death. Her mother had been born in Kintyre, her father’s parents in Glasgow and Aberdeen, so curiosity had brought her to the land of her ancestors. She was definitely in the Highlands now; she just wasn’t sure where.

Calm down, she told herself, but it wasn’t fear which clouded her mind. It was excitement.

Her golden warrior had brought her here. But the plaid he wore marked him as a Highlander, too.

She stared out of her window, at the lake or river below, and her senses took over. Allie realized she was looking south, but slowly, she leaned out of the window and gazed to the west.

She breathed harder now.

The magnetic pull was familiar and timeless.

The Ancients were near—in the west.

Allie trembled. Every time she’d visited Scotland, she’d been drawn to the small, quaint island of Iona as if a nail to a magnet. There, she’d wandered the ruins of the late medieval abbey and the Benedictine monastery, aware that the ground below had been hallowed by the great St. Columba, who had raised the very first monastery on the island’s shores. She’d become entirely unaware of the other tourists. Beneath her feet, the ground had throbbed. And above her head, whispers from another time, another era, seemed to beckon her. She felt as though if she reached up into the sky, she might pull someone down to stand beside her; or if she reached into the ground, she might lift some past person up.

Later, lying awake in her bed at the Highland Cottage Hotel on Mull, she had laughed at herself for almost believing that she had heard people from another time. But she was certain of the power and purity of the ground itself. Iona was a holy place, even if she was one of the few people to realize it.

Now, Allie felt the same magnetic pull. She knew, beyond any doubt, that the small island lay somewhere to the west and that it was not far away.

She turned back to the room, regarding it closely again. Her warrior had been a medieval Highlander, but she was in the present—except for two antique chests, the room was a modern one. There was a cheetah-print wool rug on the floor, two impressive armchairs before the fireplace and she’d bet a small fortune the bedding was Ralph Lauren. She crossed the room and thrust the bathroom door open.

It was beige marble from floor to wall, the ceiling mirrored. This was his bathroom. Everything about it, from the sunken marble tub, surrounded by a wall of glass windows, to the plush brown towels, was masculine. She stared at the sink where an electric razor was plugged into the wall, alongside an Oral-B toothbrush.

Allie could scent him now and she felt dizzy, overcome by his power and masculinity. She opened the mirrored cabinet, beyond curiosity now—compelled. She scanned the contents, noting all the usual items, and saw that he used Boss cologne. She almost smiled at that. She closed the door and then jerked it quickly open again. She couldn’t help herself. She looked at every single item inside, but didn’t see condoms.

What are you doing? she asked herself, her mouth dry, her heart pounding. She closed the door and backed out of the bathroom, trying to get her bearings. It was impossible, because she was too consumed with her warrior now.

She forced her mind to work. Her golden warrior had not been in costume. But she was in a man’s bathroom, and that man was as contemporary as she was.

What did that mean?

A quick look into the closet confirmed that she was in a modern man’s room, and that he had impeccable taste. She riffled through Armani suits, expensive button-down shirts and elegant silk ties; she saw Gucci loafers and Polo Tees. But the jeans were no-nonsense Levi’s and he wore tighty whities…

Her heart exploded at a few very interesting, tempting and graphic mental images far too racy for any Jockey ad. She was off track again. She could not resist walking over to the bedside table and looking in the single drawer. No condoms. Did this guy live like a monk?

Stop it, she told herself, her heart accelerating impossibly. The real question was, why was she in a modernized castle? Her warrior was the real deal. He’d had supernatural powers. He’d been able to use energy the way the demons did. He could sense evil the way she did. And he’d used that sword like a medieval knight, making movie action heroes seem inept.

Had she imagined being hurled across the pastures?

She walked over to the other bedside table and searched it, with no results. And the photo caught her eye.

Allie picked it up and saw her warrior and was so relieved she sank onto the bed. It was him. She felt as if she’d just found her long-lost best friend—no, her long-lost lover. He had a buzz cut in the photo, but he was still the hottest hunk she’d ever laid eyes on. And he looked as strong and capable as he was, like a commando who wouldn’t think twice about crossing enemy lines to take out a terrorist leader.

His friends were drop-dead gorgeous, too. The pretty woman was clearly with one of his friends, not that she was really worried about competition.

She stared more closely and her confusion renewed itself. He looked different. He was only in his early thirties, but in this photo looked ten years older. He seemed harder, as if he’d lived through so much and had no soul left….

Damn it, had he been in costume after all?

The warrior who’d appeared last night had been a genuine überhero, but had he been from the present, in spite of the swords, the tunic, the boots?

A knock sounded softly on the door. From the light, tentative sound, she knew it was a woman outside the door. “Come in.” She glanced at the photo a third time. That was her warrior; was he medieval or not?

A plump woman in a domestic’s uniform smiled at her, bearing a tray. Allie smelled the coffee and warm bread and realized she was starving. “His lordship didn’t leave instructions. I must say, I was surprised to realize we had a guest.” But she smiled very pleasantly. “I am Mrs. Farlane.”

His lordship, Allie thought, realizing he was titled. A nice little perk. “I’m Allie.” She smiled. “My visit wasn’t really planned. I mean, one minute we’re at a party in South Hampton, the next, here we are! Thank God for jets,” she added quickly. This woman couldn’t possibly know her employer traveled through time and fought the evil monsters of the night.

Mrs. Farlane placed the tray down on the ottoman by the bed. “Lord Royce doesn’t have a jet. I hadn’t realized he was in South Hampton. He told me he’d be in Edinburgh for a few days.” She seemed unhappy to be out of the loop.

His name was Royce! Of course it was, for the demon had called him Ruari, the Gaelic version of such a name. “My dad has an Astra.” How could Royce be in Edinburgh when they’d been at her Long Island summer home last night? Or had she been sleeping for days? “I’m sorry, what day is it?”

Mrs. Farlane gave her a queer look. “It’s the sixth, dear. I didn’t see any suitcase.”

She had only slept for half of a night. “It was very spontaneous. I’m afraid everything I have with me is on my back.” Clothes, Allie thought, her heart sinking. “Um, where exactly am I?”

Mrs. Farlane blinked.

Allie said quickly, “Royce is a tease! He said he was taking me to the Highlands, and that it was a surprise!”

“We’re at Carrick Castle, my dear, in Morvern—a bit north and west of Glasgow.”

Allie breathed hard—she had been right. “Iona is to the west.”

“Yes, and it’s a lovely island, just a few hours by car and ferry.”

Allie’s heart raced. She’d make a detour before she went home—whenever that was. “When will Royce be back?”

“In the early evening.”

She went still, except for her heart, which now thundered with unbearable excitement. He was coming back and she couldn’t wait to see him. “Are there any shops nearby? I am going to need a change of clothes.” She realized she wanted to find an outfit that would knock him senseless. She had never worried over what to wear to impress a man before.

“The best shopping in Scotland is in Glasgow. Tom can drive you. His lordship pays him a fine wage to be his chauffeur, but then he drives himself everywhere.” She shook her head. “All those cars. How can a man own so many cars? He’s got three garages down the hill!”

“My best friend is that way with shoes,” Allie said. She’d have to call Tabby. She turned to the silver pot and poured coffee and took a sip, black. It was heaven—and that night would be heaven, too.

Every inch of her quickened. She was as excited—and as nervous—as a teenager. It was absurd. It was wonderful!

But she did need a change of clothes and she didn’t have her purse. On the other hand, she was very recognizable. Designers often begged her to take their clothes and were always sending her items, like the gown she was wearing now. She refused to spend ridiculous sums on clothes and accessories, not when that money could go to charity. Maybe she could find a new designer and buy what she needed on credit. She’d figure it out, one way or another.

But there was one more problem.

Mrs. Farlane, however, solved it. “My daughter is about your size, dear. She’s fifteen, but you can borrow some jeans and a T-shirt. Tom will show you the best shops. As his lordship’s guest, our merchants will be thrilled to help you.”

Allie wanted to hug her. “Thank you so much.” Then she gave in and embraced the woman, who started and then smiled.

IT WAS ALMOST seven o’clock, and Allie’s stomach was in knots. She was sipping a glass of white wine in the great room, clad in a beautiful shamrock-green jersey dress that skimmed her body, one she hoped Royce would really appreciate. She hadn’t had any trouble making her purchases. Her driver was well-known, and a few merchants had eagerly charged items to Royce’s account, while others had given her what she wanted. She had been recognized by everyone and when she got home, she would send thank-you notes and checks. She’d also called Tabby, but she hadn’t been home, and Allie had left a message that she hoped was coherent.

She felt like she was fifteen and about to go on her first date.

But considering she had never felt this way about anyone, maybe that was normal.

Barely able to stand the anticipation, she stared across the large room and out the windows, into the cobbled courtyard outside. As she did, a small, dark sports car appeared from the gatehouse, clearly having just entered the castle walls. Allie stood, her heart turning over hard.

He was driving a Ferrari; of course he was.

He probably had A Lamborghini, too.

She couldn’t breathe.

The car stopped and the door opened; she saw her warrior get out.

Desire hollowed her. She felt faint.

His unmistakable aura blazed, red and gold, with some blue and green, the aura of a powerful warrior blessed by the Ancients. This time, it was bursting with sexual heat.

He was clad all in black, in a fitted tee and easy trousers. As he closed the car door, he glanced at the window—and Allie knew he was looking into the room and right at her.

Allie didn’t move. She felt his excitement—or was she feeling hers? Hurry, she thought.

He started around the car and vanished from her view. A moment later, he appeared on the threshold of the hall and his desire made her feel weak and faint. It was explosive. And there was no doubt. It was him.

His silver eyes locked with hers, blazing.

She wet her lips to say hello, but then said nothing at all.

“My lord, when will you be sitting down to supper with Miss Monroe?”

Allie couldn’t look away from him. He was as big and hunky as she recalled, maybe six foot three, the featherweight tee clinging to his broad shoulders and sculpted chest and to his hard, tight torso. Beneath the short sleeves, his biceps bulged. His hips were small, but what was encased below was not. Fabric bulged and rippled. Allie swallowed.

He kept his gaze on her. “Are ye hungry?”

Allie shook her head.

His gaze glittering, never looking away, he said to the housekeeper, “Ye may retire for the night.”

His hot gaze moved over her dress and her legs, lingering on her brightly painted pink toes and the pair of retro platforms she had bought. The shoes added five inches to her diminutive height. Then it lifted. “Hallo a Ailios,” he murmured.

No tone could be more arousing. She felt her heart trying to push its way out of her chest. She felt heat and liquid slipping down her bare thighs. “Hi…Royce.”

He strode forward, into the brighter light of the great room.

She now realized he had the same buzz cut as in the photo. Some confusion began. “I…charged a few things….I hope you don’t mind.”

He smiled seductively. “I hope ye charged that dress.” She nodded. “You cut your hair.”

His eyes flickered.

But now, she looked from the marine-style cut to his eyes—and the lines emanating from them. She tensed. He was the same man who had helped her fight off a demonic attack last night, but he looked older—or had she imagined him looking younger in the dark of the night? And he was modern after all. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Last night, I thought you were a medieval man.”

He paused before her. “It dinna matter. I’m the lord o’ Carrick, Ailios. And tonight, yer mine.”

It was hard to think after such a confident statement, not when he stood an inch from her, not when she knew she could shift her body oh so slightly and be in his arms. But he was not, exactly, responding to her question.

She searched his gaze and he stared back, with a promise that told her she was going to heaven really soon. “You helped me last night in South Hampton, didn’t you?”

He took her wineglass from her and set it down on the table behind him. “Ye talk too much.”

She wet her lips. “I almost thought…I’d wake up in an earlier time.”

He didn’t laugh. Staring into her eyes, he said softly, “Aye. I helped ye, but not last night.” And he clasped both of her shoulders, his hands large, strong and unyielding, like the man she somehow knew he was. Every fiber in her tightened. She could barely stand it.

“I helped ye…six centuries ago.”

Allie tried to understand him. How could he mean what he had said? But his grasp had tightened and he pulled her close, so her breasts were crushed by his rock-hard chest. His body was aroused and strained for hers. She began to blank mentally as his massive erection brushed her abdomen. “Oh.”

“I have waited a long time for this moment,” he said bluntly.

Her gaze lifted to his.

“I have waited five hundred an’ seventy-seven years for ye, lass.”




CHAPTER THREE


HE COULD NOT BELIEVE she was finally there with him, in his home, in his arms. Her memory had haunted him for the past five centuries, a confirmation that he had been correct to leave her in the future and return to the fifteenth century alone. She was the sexiest woman he’d ever beheld, but there was so much more. Her pure white power brought forth an intense desperation; even now, he felt her shining light warming him when he had been cold inside for so long.

He moved his hands to her face, held her head steady and finally, after so many years, he kissed her.

He was already swollen and hot. His body clamored to move inside hers and it needed release. But just then he was stunned. All he could think about was the taste of her lips, the caress of her tongue and the warmth seeping from her to him. His heart beating almost frantically, he drank from her mouth. Ailios. And the deep, wet kiss just wasn’t enough.

His body shrieked at him, but so did a part of him he never listened to. He wasn’t sure if it was his heart or his soul. In another moment, he was going to take her to the heights of ecstasy, joining her there in orgasmic release after orgasmic release. But he almost wanted more. Her power already seemed to touch him, and it almost felt like a relief….

It was forbidden, of course. He wasn’t going to touch her power, even if his bones felt old and in need of her healing. Nothing in him was broken. He was old, but powerful and strong. He had never broken the Code. He would not start now.

Her small hands on his waist, she trembled in his arms, kissing him back as frantically, as deeply, her mouth and teeth tearing at his. He felt how swollen and wet she was.

Her lust matched his and he was hardly surprised by the enormity of it for them both. He had known it would be this way. He could control her desire, if he wanted to—he’d learned that skill long ago—but he wasn’t feeding her passion now. It belonged to her and her alone. He was savagely pleased.

Expanding even more, hugely aware of an impending release for them both, he slid his hands down her narrow, slim back and clasped her buttocks, lifting her high. He could feel her pleasure cresting and couldn’t wait. He turned her against the nearest wall and with his thigh, pushed her right leg high.

She hooked her leg high up on his hip.

The wool of his trousers ripped.

He reached and jerked the zipper down, jerked the briefs apart. Her glazed gaze met his. “Ailios, I wish to show ye real pleasure.”

“Hurry,” she whispered, dazed, her palm on his cheek. Then she slid it under his T-shirt, caressing the slab of one of his large pectoral muscles.

As he gasped with desire, it crossed his mind that she deserved to be pleasured in bed. But he had her jersey skirt in his hand and he lifted it out of their way, all patience gone. He smiled at the sight of peach lace straining over wet, waxed flesh and he slipped his fingers past the G-string.

She cried out as he thumbed her soaking, throbbing lips. And he shifted, pushing the huge head of his penis against her, rubbing sensually back and forth. She clawed his back, panting, “Yes. Please!”

He was throbbing dangerously, on the precipice of release. He could make her come this way. He knew it—he felt it with his body, his mind. But it was too soon—and he controlled the cresting wave of her pleasure with his mind and refused to let it break.

She started to weep. Eyes wide, a plea formed there. Why?

He wanted to tell her that they had all night and she would have more pleasure than she’d ever known—so much she’d never think of any other man again. Instead, slowly, he pushed deep. Her pleasure doubled, intensified, roiled over them both. His pleasure surged. One more moment, he thought, and savagely satisfied, moving very deliberately, he controlled the cresting wave in her, allowing it to soar a bit higher, and then higher, bit by agonizing bit.

She called his name, panting, clawing his chest.

Sweat poured down his face and chest. And then he gave in.

“Ailios.”

She met his gaze, panting and writhing, trying to ride him when he was the one riding her, satisfying her.

When he had her attention, he poured his power into her. She cried out—stunned—and he let the dam break.

She sobbed in ecstasy. He closed his eyes and drove hard over and over again, coming with her, encouraging her to come again. She did. He did. She shouted as he roared. He had waited so long…he would pleasure her like this, all night.

ALLIE LAY LIMP and exhausted in Royce’s bed, acutely aware of her wildly pounding heart and the man who lay on his back beside her. Finally her mind started to work.

Was it really dawn? For pale gray light was slipping into the bedchamber.

Her heart refused to slow. She covered it with her hand. They had made love for hours—since early last evening—and for the first time in her life she was sated, oh, yes.

Royce hadn’t tired, flagged, or even softened, not a single time.

She was a Healer but she was very human; clearly he was not. Because he’d climaxed as many times as she had, and she wasn’t sure if she’d had dozens of orgasms or one single, endless one.

And she was pretty certain he’d had some kind of control over her orgasms, too.

She turned her head. “Tyrant,” she whispered, smiling.

He lay on his back, too, but his breathing was slow and even, and he was staring at her. Their gazes locked.

And he smiled at her. It was a surprisingly soft look from such a hard man, and it changed his entire face. He became too beautiful for words. “Are ye pleased?”

She beamed and turned onto her side, aware of his gaze instantly moving to her breasts and belly and legs, before lifting. She laid her hand on his magnificent chest. She traced a frightening scar. “Very pleased. How can you even ask?”

Was he relieved? Surely he knew he was supersexed. He simply shrugged, as if indifferent, but his gaze was intense and searching. “Are ye pleased enough to break off with yer man?”

Allie was confused.

“Brian,” he said softly.

Her eyes widened. She felt as if an entire lifetime had passed since the fund-raiser the other night. “He’s not my man.”

He absorbed that. Then, “Since when? Tonight?”

She grinned and rubbed his rock-hard pectoral muscle, then scraped her nails over his nipple. “I was going to break it off with him the night of the party.”

He nodded at that.

Allie realized, in shock, that his large but flaccid member was stiffening. How was it possible?

“Yer touching me,” he said softly, as if reading her mind.

“I want to touch you,” she said, staring and stroking the tight skin over his ribs. “Who are you? What just happened isn’t humanly possible.”

He sat up against a number of pillows, another beautiful smile playing. “Aye. No man can bed a woman in such a way. Ye should remember that.”

“As if any woman would ever forget!” Becoming serious, she sat up, too. She wanted to snuggle, but she didn’t—this was too important. “You vanquished three demons the other night as if it were a piece of cake. But you used a sword as well as your energy, not a gun.” Her mind began to really get into the game. “You said you waited five hundred–odd years for me.” But hadn’t Tabby said he was an older man?

He shrugged casually again. “Well, I’m a patient man.”

“How old are you?”

“It doesna matter, Ailios.”

But she was sorting it out. “Last night, in South Hampton, that was you, but younger, way younger—five hundred and seventy-seven years younger.”

“Aye.”

“Wow.” Allie sat back against her pillows, stunned and uncertain as to the significance of having met him a day ago, when he had been almost six hundred years younger—when he had come from the fifteenth century—and their being together now, a day later for her, but five centuries later for him. She’d been apart from him for a day; he’d lived through almost six centuries. She had a million questions. “How many of you are there? Is the sex always like that? Are you immortal? Why do you guys keep such a low profile?”

His smile flickered brightly again. “Yer so young, so pretty, so passionate.” He reached out and touched her cheek, then let his hand drift across her breast. Then he dropped it. “I am mortal. I will die one day.”

Allie thought about that. “I worship the Ancients. And when I see your aura, I can feel their presence—they are with you. You are blessed. They favor you.”

“Aye. Long ago, the gods wanted to save mankind from evil. They feared for their creation. They sent a great warrior goddess to the kings, an’ men like me were born.” He spoke as if it was an everyday occurrence and not a huge deal.

Allie laughed. “You don’t mean that your mother is a goddess, do you?”

He gave her a look. “My grandmother is the great warrior goddess, Faola,” he said softly.

But of course, Allie thought. He looked like a grandson of the gods. And how else could he screw all night like that? How else could he have the kind of energy to throw around that the demons had? “The demons are descended from Satan, aren’t they?”

“Some, an’ some are fallen Masters.”

Her mother had told her to trust a golden Master. “Is that what you call yourself? A Master?”

“We’re the Masters of Time, Ailios. I made my vows before the Brotherhood and God on Iona long ago. We exist to keep mankind safe an’ to serve the Ancients.”

Allie was intensely interested. “I have always been drawn to Iona. Even today, the ground there is holy. Wow. I felt you—the Masters—every time I was there!”

“Ye have great powers. They’ll become greater with time.”

Allie barely heard. She shivered with excitement. “Sworn before God—meaning, sworn before the gods, plural?”

“Aye. T’is one an’ the same.” He smiled a little at her again, this time sliding his hand down her arm. “Defend God, Keep Faith, Protect Innocence—our vows are simple but strong. A Master serves God and Innocence, first an’ last, always.”

She snuggled up to his hard chest and lean torso now. “That almost sounds like a warning,” she said, thinking about where she wanted to put her tongue.

His gaze blazed as if he sensed her intentions. He moved his large hand into her hair and grasped it.

Her heart went wild at the forceful gesture. But she was still and their gazes locked. “I’m not done,” she said softly. He’d teased—even tortured—her all night. A little payback was in order.

He almost smiled. “Ye talk too much.”

“Admit it—you love it.”

“I’m nay fond of great conversation.”

She slid herself halfway over his body. “Why are you guys so top-secret?”

He pulsed against her quad and sighed. “There’s a Code. T’is vast an’ even today, our scholars debate its many rules an’ meanings. But some rules are clear. The Masters are secret, Ailios, the Brotherhood is secret, an’ that is our law.” He slid his hand down her back, cupped her buttock and hiked her into a very appropriate position. She gasped with pleasure; he grinned. “Do ye still wish to talk?”

It had become really difficult to think, but she whispered, “Did you control my orgasms last night?”

His eyes widened with innocence. “How can a man do that?” He grasped her waist and gave her a lazy, sensual look.

“Hmm…someone needs a comeuppance.”

He gave in to a chuckle. “It’s up, lass, and ye ken.”

She sat on his hips and his eyes turned even lighter and brighter. “Why did the Ancients forbid your telling the world about who you are and what you do?”

He was now annoyed. Instead of answering her, he nuzzled her breasts and caught her nipple with his teeth. He tugged.

“Be good and I won’t tease,” Allie breathed.

He sighed. “The Code was written afore St. Columba, lass, an’ I dinna ken the reasons behind it. But in past ages, t’was a grave heresy to consort with the old gods—an’ to have godly powers. In that time, men were outlawed, excommunicated, hanged or burned for such sins. No Master then would walk openly. Today, we dinna walk openly, either.”

Allie slid off of him, ignoring his surprise. This was too damned important. “We need you guys, desperately!” she cried, startling him anew. “Damn it, Royce, more of you guys need to be here, in the twenty-first century, helping us, helping Healers like me, even helping CDA! Forget the antiquated rules. It is so hard healing when I have to worry about another demonic attack behind my back. It’s so hard watching so many innocent people die.” She added grimly, “I can’t save everyone by myself.”

He was sitting, too, a magnificent sight. “Evil preys on the Innocent in every age, Ailios. Pleasure crimes have been sung about by the ancient bards an’ there’s a need for Masters in the past, too. There are Masters in every time.” He added softly, his gaze locked with hers, “I’m sorry ye have been alone so long.”

Allie looked up at him and saw his intense, searching stare and couldn’t decide what it all meant. But there was so much hope. The good guys had superheroes on their side, too. Battles had been lost, but the war wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

And she wasn’t alone anymore.

Her heart seemed to be singing a very happy song.

A seductive smile began. He said softly, “Ye may be holy an’ ye have the gift of white power, but yer Innocent, too.” And he reached for her.

Allie went into his arms, astride his hips. As he pushed slowly against her buttocks, she felt faint with impending pleasure. “What does that mean, exactly?” she whispered. She shifted and began rubbing herself over his massive length.

“I’m sworn to protect Innocence. I’m sworn to protect ye.” He grasped her hips and held her still.

She seized his wrists. “I like your idea of protection.”

“I thought ye might,” he said, holding her so she could not move. Very slowly, he began to penetrate upward.

So much pleasure crested, hollowing her. “It’s my turn,” she gasped, “to be the tyrant.”

He laughed and flipped her onto her stomach, pushing even deeper as he did so. “I dinna think so,” he said.

Allie couldn’t protest. There was too much rapture trying to explode. “Let me come!”

“Aye,” he gasped.

WHEN ALLIE AWOKE the second time that day, his side of the bed was empty and she was alone. The sun was high beyond her window. She grinned and wiggled her toes. She was a very feminine and sensual woman, but she had never felt so sexy and so desirable.

And she had never felt so happy, so light. But why not? She had the hunk of all ages, literally, as a lover—and he was also an überhero. In fact, they could go cruising together tonight. He’d fight the demons while she healed their victims. It was going to be perfect.

And her silly heart was grinning, too, swollen with happiness.

It felt suspiciously like love.

She slid from the bed, realizing this delirious high was just that. She was falling in love with her golden, not-so-medieval hero. She had thought herself immune to love, and had even wondered if her heart was somehow defective. She had rationalized that love was not a part of her very definite Fate, but apparently she had been wrong.

She laughed and as she showered and dressed, she hummed her favorite country songs, off-key and uncaring of how awful she sounded. She’d had the best sex of her life. Royce was to die for, and she couldn’t wait to see him, exchange smiles and ask him to cruise with her that night. She couldn’t wait to be in his arms and tell him how she felt—and that this was so new for her.

A tray had been set outside the bedroom door with coffee and scones and several newspapers. As it was half past four in the afternoon, the coffee was ice cold. She retrieved the papers, then headed downstairs for hot coffee and a gargantuan breakfast. She was famished.

She did not know the house, and she wandered from the great room past several salons before stumbling across the dining room. Royce was seated at a long wood table, reading a newspaper, apparently waiting for her. Her heart tried to burst from her chest and she felt happy enough to float to the ceiling. He looked up and smiled at her, then shot to his feet.

She walked up to him, thinking about his body, his kisses and how damned great he looked in a dark polo shirt and Italian trousers; he took her hands in his and pressed them to his chest. “Hi,” she breathed.

“Hallo,” he murmured back, his gaze terribly warm.

Absurdly it made her think about lots of great sex—not that she’d ever really stopped thinking about last night. “Wanna cruise with me tonight?”

He didn’t seem to understand.

“I need to heal—you can fight the demons,” she said softly.

“I can think o’ better things to do tonight,” he murmured.

She flushed. “I’ll bet you can.”

He guided her toward a chair. “Come have lunch with me. Then we’ll plan our day. If ye like, I’ll take ye on a tour of the country.”

Our day. Allie sat, realizing eating would be impossible, because all she wanted to do was stare at him, drown in his masculine beauty and pinch herself to see if she was dreaming. He grinned, as if he guessed her thoughts. “Mrs. Farlane? Miss Monroe has come down to dine,” he called. Then he poured her coffee.

IT WAS LATE when they returned to Carrick, having spent the entire day touring the Highlands in his silver Lamborghini. He drove well but fast and they hadn’t talked very much—there was no need. Allie had been so happy just to be with him. They had stopped for lunch at the magnificent Dunain Park Hotel in Inverness, where the proprietors had fawned over them both—she had been recognized. And they had wandered about the ruins of Urquhart, where they’d also made love behind a ruined stone wall. Now, as Royce parked the car in one of his garages, Allie wandered back into the castle. Supper would be a late affair, but she didn’t care.

She was about to go upstairs to freshen up and call home when she caught a flash of brilliant color from the corner of her eye. Posed to go upstairs, her heart leapt and she turned around to face the aura that had caught her attention. A strange man stood in the great room. He emanated the same warrior power as Royce: holy strength vibrated from him in red and gold waves of light. Testosterone charged his aura, too. But he also radiated a white, healing light, even if faintly. Most importantly, the blue and purple in his aura told her that his Karma was huge—but far from mastered. In fact, he would pay a high price for it.

Allie knew she was meeting another Master, and excitement began. He stared at her, as well, smiling. She came forward curiously. Taller than Royce, he had fair skin, dark hair and he was Hollywood-leading-man handsome. He was wearing a slick black leather jacket with distressed jeans and he was young—maybe her own age.

He grinned more widely at her, revealing two dimples, while his gaze slid over the ivory corset top she wore with a print circle skirt. “Hallo.”

Her interest peaked. He appeared modern, but she had a sudden sense that he was not from the present, in spite of his clothes. “Hi. You’re a Master, too.”

His eyes widened. “Royce has talked very freely in yer bed.”

“I can see your aura and it reeks of a few pretty specific traits. I’m Allie.” She came forward and held out her hand.

He took it and, instead of shaking it, lifted it to his lips. “I’m the lord of Awe, the earl of Lismore. But ye may address me as Aidan.” A grin followed his rather arrogant tone.

Allie wasn’t all that surprised by the gallant, Old World kiss. Definitely for Tabby, she thought. “How old are you?”

He dropped her hand, amused. “I’m old enough for ye, lass.”

“I’m with Royce.”

“T’is evident. I’m pleased for him. But I willna mind much if ye decide Royce is too old for ye.” His smile flashed. “I’m only thirty an’ two years of age.”

This man was wearing modern clothes, but he was not a modern man. “What year did you come from?”

He stared, his smile fading. “That’s an odd question.” Then, “I followed Royce from 1430.”

Before she could decipher that bit of startling information, Royce strode into the great room. And it was her Royce, the modern, insatiable, supersexed lover she had spent the past twenty-four hours with. Even though they’d spent the night and day together, her heart raced madly as he approached.

But Royce was grim and unsmiling. “What are ye doing here, Aidan?” he asked.

The dark Highlander came forward, unperturbed by the cool greeting. “Have ye lost yer mind? Ye canna recall that I followed ye to help ye if ye needed me?”

Royce looked him up and down, disapproval on his face. “That was six centuries ago. I see that you’ve broken the rules again.”

“Ye ken I hate rules. They cage my poor soul.”

“Ye followed me five centuries ago when I was a younger man—but ye dinna help me fight Moffat in South Hampton. My memory hardly fails me.” Royce was sharp and cold.

“Ye dinna need my help. Ye battled Moffat alone easily enough. I decided to go to Rome.” He shrugged. “I thought to come to Carrick and see what ye decided to do with the Healer.” He grinned. “Finally ye come to yer senses, eh, Royce?”

Royce seemed annoyed.

Allie said, “What does that mean?”

Aidan looked at her. “It only took him hundreds o’ years to find some pleasure outside o’ bed with a woman.”

Royce’s stern expression did not ease. He turned away, walking over to the sideboard as Allie deciphered the conversation. In South Hampton, Royce had appeared from 1430 to help her fight the demons. Aidan had followed him from that time, but had not helped them in the battle. Instead he had gone to Rome. Then he had stopped by Carrick to check on her, which did not make sense. But Royce was clearly not amused. “Ye need to go back to yer time as the Code requires—without the jacket an’ jeans.”

“I spent hours shopping in Rome!” Aidan exclaimed. “But I see ye have barely changed—ye remain far too grim. I’ll go.” Aidan turned to her. “At least ye make him smile. T’is a vast improvement.”

Allie wondered at that and said, “FYI, there’s better shopping in Milan.”

“Dinna encourage him,” Royce told her. “The Code is clear. He travels for his own pleasure…t’is strictly forbidden.”

“But he looks so cute in black leather,” Allie said, smiling at Aidan.

He winked at her. Then he turned to Royce. “Ye have done well, Royce.” Aidan’s smile was male and knowing. “I never thought I’d see the day when ye’d take a mistress.”

“Keep yer eyes in yer head,” Royce warned softly.

“A man must look, if he lives an’ breathes.”

“You’ll never change,” Royce retorted, and then he clasped Aidan’s shoulder hard, with great affection. He turned to Allie, who was highly interested in the somewhat avuncular exchange. “He’s the rogue of all rogues, Ailios…dinna fall for his pretty smile an’ prettier words.”

“Don’t worry,” Allie said. “I’ve already fallen—for the first time in my life.”

Royce started, and he wasn’t smiling.

Allie was surprised she’d said such a thing so openly, but she meant it. She never led guys on, but this was different. She was falling in love, even if it wasn’t a part of her game plan. And she was certain he reciprocated her feelings, and not because every guy she’d ever dated became serious with her sooner or later. She thought she could feel Royce’s emotions.

Then he touched her hair. “I like ye, too.”

Allie was briefly dismayed, but his eyes were so warm that the confusion vanished. Lots of men could not say the L word.

Aidan cleared his throat. “Mayhap a glass of wine before I leave? To celebrate matters o’ the bed—an’ the heart?” He was amused.

Allie didn’t quite get it, but Royce seemed a bit annoyed again. However, he started to turn back to the massive sideboard where a wine rack was placed in one of the glass cabinets. He faltered.

Aidan’s shoulders stiffened.

Darkness descended at lightning speed—and so did an arctic cold.

Aidan rushed to the wall display of swords, lifting one from its sheath. He took one look at the dull blade and flung it aside. As he lifted another, Royce opened a chest and withdrew a semiautomatic. “Aidan.” He tossed an unsheathed sword at him.

And Aidan caught it easily by the hilt. Allie ran to Royce as the demons formed in their midst.

“Stay back,” he said.

She was about to argue when the blow came, taking her by surprise, before she could even try to shield herself. She cried out, hurled across the entire great room, slamming into the stone of the fireplace.

Royce roared in fury, firing.

Allie got to her hands and knees, watching Aidan beheading a half a dozen demons with so much skill and speed it might have been the final cut from a Hollywood movie. Royce was firing at the same demon that had attacked them in South Hampton, but the demon had put up his energy and the bullets were deflected, scattering everywhere.

She took up a poker but remained where she was. Aidan was doing a good job with the remaining demons, and Royce and the blonde from South Hampton seemed to be intent only on each other. This time, though, if he came close, she’d get more than his eyeball; she was going for his unfeeling heart.

Royce now threw the useless semi aside. He blasted his energy at the demon, who blocked it and grinned, revealing white, gleaming teeth.

Allie tensed in alarm, thinking, No, Royce!

A dagger had appeared in his hand, but as if he’d heard her cry out silently, as if he knew she was desperate to go to his side and help him, Royce turned to look at her. “Ye stay back.”

The demon threw a knife at Royce. Allie saw it; he did not. She screamed in warning.

Royce whirled back but the blade impaled him in his chest as he moved.

Allie froze in horror.

For one moment, Royce stood upright, unmoving—and he threw the dagger. He threw it with unbelievable accuracy and Allie realized he would nail the sonuvabitch. But the blond demon vanished the instant the blade seemed to pierce his chest, and it fell to the floor. The two remaining demons also disappeared, leaving behind the dozen dead on the great room floor—and Royce.

He reeled and fell over onto his back.

The hilt of the knife protruded from his heart.

Allie rushed to his side and fell onto her knees, pouring her white light over him. He was not going to die, no matter how bad it looked! He couldn’t die—he was a hero, a Master, the savior of mankind and the love of her life!

She hadn’t raised the dead girl, but surely she could save Royce!

Panic began.

Royce took her hand. He was deathly white. But he smiled. “Nay, lass. Let me go.”

He was dying. She felt his life spinning away. But she could heal him—she would heal him. In panic, she poured all the white light she could muster on him, trying to hold her terror at bay.

“Ailios!” Royce’s grasp tightened, his gaze on hers. “Let me die.”

Allie looked at him in horror. “Don’t talk. You don’t mean it. I won’t let you die! I love you!”

“Please,” Royce said softly. And his grasp loosened.

And she felt his life soaring away from him. She saw a white-gold light lifting from him. “No!” Frantic, she poured white power over him, through him, but everything was happening too fast now.

Royce looked up at Aidan. Let me go. T’is time.

And strong hands seized Allie from behind.

But she had heard Royce, and she screamed, furious at Aidan, terrified, struggling, but Aidan wouldn’t release her. Panicking, she flung white light at Royce, but Aidan was interfering with her powers—and Royce was leaving rapidly now.

Aidan, take her away, protect her.

“No!”

Royce smiled at her—and the white-gold light swirled upward, into the ceiling—his gray eyes becoming sightless.

Allie screamed. “Nooo!” And she fought to go to him, the white-gold light hovering above them, but Aidan pulled her away.

ALLIE WEPT AND WEPT.

The paramedics had Royce’s body on the stretcher, covered with a cloth, and were wheeling him from the room. Two local police cars were parked inside the courtyard, the officers in the hall with Aidan and Mrs. Farlane. The housekeeper, who was crying, clearly knew about her employer’s secrets. The dead demons, of course, were gone. Their bodies had started disintegrating immediately, and unless there was a crime scene investigation, no traces of them would be found. But from the murmur of voices, and the snippets of conversation she’d heard, Allie knew the police knew the truth. One officer was already talking about the Highland gangs run amok these past few years, a favorite cover-up for these kinds of battles. The other had already called Scotland Yard. The British government probably had their version of CDA, too.

How could he be gone?

Allie doubled over from the sheer pain of her grief. Too late, she understood Tabby’s reading. Then she heard footsteps.

She looked up. Aidan stood there, his face ravaged, a single tear tracking down his cheek. She didn’t hesitate. She jumped up and ran at him, fists balled. He caught her arm as she swung; she lifted her knee, wanting to emasculate him, but he twisted and easily avoided that assault, then caught her in a viselike embrace.

She fought him, wanting to rip his handsome face apart. She wanted blood. He had prevented her from healing Royce—she could have saved him. “I hate you!” she screamed. “Let me go! I will never forgive you—you bastard!”

He released her and she pounded his chest, hurting her fists because he was a wall of muscle. He caught her wrists. “Lass, cease. I love him, too.” His voice broke.

Allie collapsed against the solid wall of his body, weeping again. This could not be happening. Royce was a great man, a great hero, a Master. He deserved to live! Aidan held her loosely now and she needed the comfort he could offer, when there was no real comfort to be had.

Let me go.

Why had he wanted to die?

How old are you?

It doesna matter, Ailios.

So much grief and pain, such a beautiful man…

I have waited a long time for this night.

Allie trembled, but stopped crying. He had waited five hundred and seventy-seven years for her.

Aidan released her and walked away.

Allie wiped her eyes, her heart slamming, turning to gaze after him. He was pouring two huge glasses of whiskey. He drained most of his, then started toward her with the other tall glass. “You’re a Master, too.”

He faltered before offering her the glass.

Allie shook her head. “You can travel through time, don’t even try to deny it. You said you followed Royce here from 1430.”

His eyes were wary now. “Does it matter?”

“Oh, yes, it does.”

He stared, then murmured, “MacNeil asked me to follow Royce. When he left ye here, I should have gone home to Awe, to the time where I belong, but I went to Rome. I need to go back to my time.”

She stared, her mind scrambling.

Sympathy had filled his blue eyes. “Lass, I will take ye home. I just need to think a moment because ye need a Master to aid ye now, here, in yer time.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about. “Take me back in time!” she cried, trembling wildly. “I am not going home! I need to go back in time, to earlier today or even to last night. I’ll tell him what will happen—we’ll stop it this time! I’ll go back in time to stop his murder!” This was the answer; of course it was. To go back in time—and prevent his death.

Aidan paled. “Ye canna go back in time an’ change the future…t’is forbidden.”

“Who cares?” she cried. “I must stop Royce from being murdered! You must help me!”

“I canna break such a rule.”

“What?” She was shocked. And then she was furious. “You hate rules. They’re a cage for your soul!” He would refuse her now? What was wrong with him?

“Lass, the rules I break are the petty ones. MacNeil will take my head if I take ye back so ye can change this day.” He was dark and grim now. “Besides, Royce wished to leave this life. I have heard him say, many times, that he’s tired o’ the fight. Ye’ll nay change his mind, not in a single day.”

Allie stared at him, incredulous, disbelieving. Her mind spun and raced. He wasn’t going to take her back to earlier that day or yesterday; she could see it in his eyes. Royce had wanted to die. She had to accept that, even if she couldn’t understand it. And he wasn’t going to change in a single day.

She breathed hard. Her senses told her that Aidan knew Royce well and he was telling her the truth. Instantly Allie changed her plans. To undo his death she needed time with him—time to convince him he had a future worth fighting for.

And she wanted time with him—a lifetime—even if it was in the primitive past.

He must have sensed what she intended, because his eyes went wide. “Nay.”

“I haven’t asked you yet!”

He shook his head and then drained half of her drink.

“Take me back with you.” A wild determination hardened.

He stared back. “To 1430? Royce will have my head.”

“No, you don’t understand. When we met the other night, he came to me from the fifteenth century. He left me here—but waited for me for almost six hundred years. Don’t you get it? There’s a reason we met that way. He loves me. I love him. You’re going back—take me to him. Take me to him in your time!” she begged fiercely.

He inhaled. “Lass, lust an’ love are hardly the same.”

She seized his hand. “I am going with you!”

And Aidan hesitated.

Allie knew an opening when she saw one. “Please. I will do anything, anything, to go back with you to Royce.’

“Ye offer me yer bed?” He was incredulous.

“Anything…but that!”

He shook his head, still ready to refuse. “Ye willna like my time. Ye willna like Royce very well in my time, either.”

“You can’t deny me. Please.” Her grip tightened. Panic began. He had to do this for her.

He looked into her eyes. “Are ye certain, Lady Allie? Are ye truly certain? What if yer wrong? What if Royce doesna love ye as ye love him?”

“I am certain!” she cried, clinging now to his large hand with both of hers.

He drained the drink, murmured, “Royce left ye here fer a reason. I dinna ken,” and pulled her into his embrace. Allie held on tight. And they were flung across the room, through the walls and into the universe—back to 1430.




CHAPTER FOUR


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.




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