Dark Rival (26 page)

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

Her recklessness terrified him!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door burst open.

Royce leapt to his feet, his sword ringing as he drew it.

Guy Macleod looked at him and at the woman in the bed. "You willna lust after my sister,” he warned.

Royce sheathed his sword. “Dinna ye think to knock?”

The Black Macleod laughed. He was a big, muscular-man with dark hair, swarthy skin and shockingly blue eyes. Except for his eye color and size, he and his sister looked very much like siblings. He wore a red and black plaid over his leine, and thigh-high black boots with huge, spiked spins. "Yer fortunate, " Macleod said softly, "that I dinna take yer head."

Royce braced for a battle of wills and words. "She's sleeping. She needs rest. Step outside."

"Aye." Guy Macleod gave his sister one last look and whirled. Royce followed him onto the circular landing outside the chamber door.

Macleod now smiled coldly at him. "Ye sit and lust after her.”

Royce returned his look. "Yer sister is safe with me.”

Macleod laughed, mocking him. "No woman is safe with any Master, and we both know it."

"She's not any woman. She's a great Healer—yer mother's daughter."

"Aye," Macleod flashed. His brilliant blue eyes heated. "I will take her back to Blayde."

Royce laughed with no mirth whatsoever. "She stays with me."

The Black Macleod straightened. “So you can use her? I think not. She’s my sister and unless she has a husband, I have every right to bring her into my household. I am her lord and master now."

"Yer mother," Royce said, no longer smiling, “spoke to Ailios."

Macleod started.

"Elasaid came to her just days ago, telling Ailios to trust me. MacNeil chose me an’ sent me to her. An’ we ken he sees what the Ancients wish for him to see. T’is my duty— my Fate—to protect her now." He added, “I saved her this day from Moffat....not ye, not Malcolm, not MacNeil."

After a pause, Macleod said, ''Lady Elasaid is dead."

"Aye, but she came to Ailios from the other world. Ye can ask Ailios yerself."

Macleod was grim, but his eyes flickered with comprehension. "If MacNeil chose you, he must have seen something to make him do so. But I dinna like MacNeil choosing you and not me, her own brother.''

"I will tell ye this," Royce said. "I will not use yer sister. I have no wish for my enemies to think us fond o’ one another. Today I spared her Moffat. I will die to do so again. There is no one ye can trust as ye trust me."

Macleod stared for a long, assessing moment. "I have never doubted ye would give yer life for her, Royce.” He flushed. “I canna argue with MacNeil’s will or the Ancients. But if ye touch her, if ye hurt her, ye will pay—and I will be the one to make ye pay. The Code be damned."

Royce knew he meant his every word. Two hundred years ago Macleod had laid siege to a great fortress to force the lord there to release his daughter—and hand her over in marriage to him.

"Tell her I came. I'll come again when I can. Tell her she is always welcome at Blayde." Macleod vanished before Royce could respond.

Royce seized the door handle and thrust it open. He had expected a confrontation with Macleod, who was both ambitious and hotheaded. MacNeil had chosen Royce, not her half brother, to defend Ailios for the Brotherhood, and no one could argue over such a choice, as MacNeil's wisdom had been proven by time.

He stepped inside and saw that she was sleeping deeply. As he covered her with a fur, he realized he was almost smiling—and that there was a smile in his heart, as well.

He didn't like such weakness and he frowned.

His heart had no reason to feel pleasure. Resolved, he chased the lightness away.

ALLIE AWOKE to a strange chamber filled with shadows, illuminated by the fire dancing in the hearth, and Royce's steady stare.

He sat in a chair, just inches from her bedside, his gray gaze intent upon her. She smiled, thrilled to awaken to the sight of him there.

He smiled tentatively back. "Yer awake," he said unnecessarily.

Her smile faded. She thought about the terrible battle of that day, the dead and those who had almost died. She sat up. “I have to pray. I have to go to the closest shrine."

He leached out and clasped her arm. “Ailios. Ye were very sick. There’s a chapel at Dunroch, but ye need not leap out of bed as if it's on fire."

Allie sank back against the pillows, sitting up now, acutely aware of his large hand grasping her wrist. His touch sent delicious shivers through her. He let her go and she was surprised when Royce leaned forward to add a pillow behind her back. She recalled him in his battle mode, slaying demons left and right. The same man had not just rearranged her pillows for her. Someone far gentler had done that. “I have to pray for those we lost, Royce,'' she said quietly.

"I ken. The prayers can wait. How do ye feel?"

She now remembered her last waking moments. She had been healing the blond man who had been stabbed so many times, becoming so weak and ill that she had finally lost consciousness. She vaguely recalled Royce lifting her into his arms. "I fainted?"

"Ye passed out," he said quietly. ''Ye pushed yerself well past yer limit.” He turned and poured water into a mug and handed it to her. "Ye have limits, Ailios. Yer a powerful Healer, but ye’re terribly young. Mayhap yer power will grow in time."

Allie drank gratefully, thinking about his words. "Please tell me that the last man I healed survived."

"Ye still think of others." But he answered her question. "Aye, Kirkus lives."

"Thank the gods." Then, struck by an awful thought, she met his gaze. "I must look like hell."

His next smile was deeper, although brief, exposing one dimple. "Ye always look well.”

Her heart raced. Oh, did she know that look. They were having a serious conversation, but Allie knew what was in the back of his mind. She could feel his lust beginning to rise and throb in his veins.

The tension in the room changed. Allie thought about his needs and hers—it felt like eons since they'd been together. She ran her fingers through her hair, finally glancing up at Royce as she did so. "Liar," she said softly. Her top was spotted with dried blood. Her jeans were probably in the same condition.

His eyes were as fierce and intent as his expression. "Ye always look well," he repeated, this time in a bedroom tone.

Was he flirting with her? Would he act on his lust? Oh, Allie did like this. "If you want to think so, I won't argue,” she said softly. She reached out for his hand.

He just looked at it.

"I don’t bite," she whispered. "Not unless you ask me to."

His eyes blazed.

Allie sat up and leaned forward, boldly taking his hand. It was large and strong, just like the man, a hand that could wield a huge longs word with fatal effect—or stroke her body in a silken, cunning caress. From it, she received so much heat—and an incredible sense of security, of masculinity, of power. "Thank you.”

He looked away, staring at the bed. “For allowing ye to bold my hand as if I’m a small boy?"

She laughed. His gaze whipped to hers. "For protecting me from Moffat. For standing by me while I healed " she said.

For a long moment, they stared at one another. Allie said even more softly. "You've been here with me the whole time I’ve been passed out, haven’t you?"

He tugged his hand free. "Ye were ill. Ye needed rest MacNeil healed ye by giving ye his great power. Ye canna ever heal so many at one time again."

Allie smiled, pleased, even though he clearly wasn't going to answer her, Mr. Medieval cared. “You know what? You're really not such an ogre, after all. The Terminator, maybe, but not an ogre."

He shook his head. His face was taut.

"That was a backhanded compliment. What is it, Royce? What's wrong?"

"Ye sit there smiling, and jest when ye could have died. Canna ye not see how serious this is? Ailios, ye canna walk the world as if yer immortal."

"Like you don't?" she asked.

"No one cares if I live or die," he said firmly, standing. "Everyone cares about ye."

"I care if you live or die!" she flashed. Then she softened. "And you know it."

"Aye, but I dinna ken why." He stared directly at her. "There are many men to please ye in bed."

It took Allie a moment. "You think I’m in love with you because of great sex?" And her incredulity faded she laughed.

He flushed. "Aye, I do." His hands found his hips.

And Allie went still. She focused and saw the uncertainty in his aura—it was a pale, milky, sky-blue. She felt the same uncertainty corning from him in fragile, broken pulses. "Hey." She threw off the fur and slung her legs over the bed. "You are definitely gorgeous and hot. But I admire you, Royce, immensely, more than I have ever admired anyone."

He seemed bewildered. “What do ye see to admire so much?"

"Strength, power, integrity, honesty, loyalty...should I continue?"

He now folded his arms across his chest, causing his biceps to bulge. "Aye," he said.

Allie took a pillow and threw it at him, laughing. "Conceit, arrogance and an utterly tyrannical nature!" she cried.

He caught the pillow, feathers flying, then gently tossed it back at her. "Ye admire my conceit?"

"Take a good guess," Allie said, on her feet and hugging the pillow now. As it was the only tiling between them, she dropped it. "I forgot heroic," she whispered, laying her hands on his chest. And she felt his body tense and his heart thunder.

His silver gaze slammed to hers.

"You are a hero she said, meaning it. She took his hand and placed it on her chest.

His warm palm covered her pale skin. She looked into his sizzling eyes and saw his gaze drop to her mouth. Love consumed her. Desire, already heady, crested. In spite of the day's ordeal, her flesh began an urgent throbbing. She felt like telling him just how much she loved him—better yet, showing him in that bed—but it wasn't necessarily the smartest idea, considering he had rejected her yesterday in no uncertain terms. Besides, she was holding out for three very specific words.

“I’m nay hero," Royce removed his hand and turned, slowly pacing the room like a caged-up lion.

Allie was about to tell him he was not just her hero, but everyone's hero, when he said. "Yer brother was here.”

Allie jerked, stunned. "He was here? While I slept?" she cried.

"Aye. Ye may have seen him fighting on the ramparts. He’s dark, an’ he wore red an’ black," Royce paused, facing her.

Allie suddenly recalled seeing two Masters on the ramparts. "That was my brother?" she gasped, utterly distracted now.

"Aye."

That had been her half brother.

“I want to meet him," she managed.

"Ye will. He came to take ye to his home, but we discussed it an’ he agreed to leave ye with me. He's since left."

A huge disappointment began. Allie sat down on the edge of the bed. "Why didn't he stay until I woke up?"

Royce shook his head. "He's young an' hot," he said. "He's a bold, impatient man. He waits for no one. But he'll come again an’ yer welcome at Blayde, his home, anytime."

Allie felt her brows rise. Her brother sounded like another entirely medieval man, very much like Royce. An alarm bell went off. “Guy doesn't sound like he'd discuss very much with anyone, ever."

"He doesna discuss much, yer right. He fights first an’ talks later, in spite of having a good wife to rein him in. If yer asking if we fought, wed dinna. I wouldn't fight yer brother." He added wryly. "But if ye think me a tyrant, well, he makes me look like a milkmaid. His household wouldn't please ye much."

"Great." She thought about it. "Thank you, I wasn't about to leave you now, anyway.” Royce stared at her. Allie tensed, sliding to her feet. “You need me-and I need you. I think that's become very clear."