Dark Rival

by Brenda Joyce

  Aidan was silent.

  So was Royce.

  Allie looked up. Aidan had a very sexual look in his eyes—he knew what a thong was for. He’d probably seen it on a mannequin—or he’d seduced a pretty salesgirl and had her model it. But Royce was bewildered. His gaze kept going back and forth between the very tiny pink thong she held to her face. His expression was comical. He didn’t know what it was or where it was supposed to go.

  She bit back a laugh.

  He finally said, “Is that a garment?”

  Aidan choked and walked out of the room.

  Allie said, “Oh yeah.” And she heard the sexy note in her tone.

  Royce looked at her face again, frustration covering his features. “Where, pray tell, do ye wear it?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see,” she murmured.

  His eyes widened. He stared at the scrap of spandex lace as if waiting for it to speak up and identify itself. “Is that for yer hair?” he finally asked.

  Allie choked on her own laughter now. “Not exactly.” She turned away. She owed Aidan, big-time.

  He seized her shoulder—and the thong. “Ye owe him nothing. I dinna like yer laughin’ at me.”

  Allie tried to stop smiling. “I’m not laughing at you—not really. But in my time, many women wear the garment—and everyone knows where.”

  He was red. “I’m from this time.”

  “Do you want me to show you where it goes?”

  He became wary instantly. “Aye.”

  “Now?”

  Very wary, he said, “This is a trap, aye? That little scrap of lace is an undergarment—it has two holes—for yer breasts.”

  She kept her face straight. “Sorry. But if you come upstairs with me, I’ll show you. I’d show you here, but you will be really pissed if I do, especially if Aidan walks in.”

  His expression was bewildered again, but he nodded at the staircase just beyond the hall.

  Allie shoved her Saks bags at him and, thong in hand, hurried out. Behind her, she could feel how intense Royce was. He did not like being out of the loop. Her amusement quickly faded.

  Maybe this wasn’t fair. He wanted to know what the dumb thong was—and she was certain he’d take one look at her wearing it and cave.

  Men were visual. And Royce had enough testosterone for a dozen men. He would cave—she had not a single doubt. The thong was a trap.

  Allie became somber. They walked into her chamber and Allie hesitated for a reason she could not comprehend. The most macho man she had ever met was determined to stay out of her bed. But she was about to wave a red flag—no, a pink thong—at him.

  Making it about her, and what she wanted, and not about him, and what he wanted.

  An hour ago, he’d stood behind her back while she healed an Innocent, and it had been beyond right.

  Royce had dropped the bags, staring grimly at her. “Show me.”

  Her doubt escalated, intensified. She didn’t want to trap him into her bed. She wanted him to take her there because he cared and could admit it.

  Allie turned slowly. “I’m sorry. Maybe another time. You’re right. It is a trap.”

  His face was chiseled hard and tight. “Show me.”

  She tensed, swallowing, desire hollowing her, at war with her morals, her mind. Did her sudden hesitation mean that she cared for the medieval Royce, too?

  Allie was afraid to answer her own question. But she didn’t want to railroad him now. It didn’t feel right.

  “Royce, you’ll be angry when I do. And…you’ll take me to bed.”

  He smirked. “Ye canna seduce me with a scrap of lace.” His eyes burned. “Aidan has seen the garment.”

  “Not on me,” she said quickly.

  “Show me.”

  Her mind drummed. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and she sensed a part of it was that Aidan knew the joke. But damn it, if he didn’t resist her in that thong, she was forcing him to her will—and her bed—and he’d be really angry when they were done.

  “I’m losin’ patience,” he said harshly.

  And Allie realized some degree of pride, for God’s sake, was at stake. This was all her fault. Filled with uncertainty, she reached under her skirt and slipped her lace boy shorts down. As swiftly, she slipped on the thong. She unzipped the skirt and dropped it.

  His stare was wide and surprised. He hadn’t had a clue.

  So much tension filled the room she felt the blast of his sex and heat and she staggered.

  He made a harsh sound. His leine swelled and lifted high up his thighs. “Turn around.” His gray eyes didn’t turn silver—they turned lightning white.

  In spite of having misgivings, she was taut and breathless. It was almost impossible to think now. She turned slowly.

  He was breathing hard when she faced him again. “Ye win.”

  She inhaled.

  “Ye wanted to seduce me. Yer the victor here. Yer weapon is the scrap of lace.” He strode to her and seized her waist; Allie cried out. Not with fear—she wasn’t afraid—but he was furiously angry and furiously aroused. He jerked the tunic out of his way.

  Allie looked at his huge, gleaming manhood and she was faint. She knew what he felt like; she knew every detail of being in his bed, of riding him for hours and hours. But this wasn’t what she intended. Everything was spiraling out of control. “Royce,” she tried, “I didn’t mean this.”

  His eyes blazed. “Aye, ye did. Ye meant to seduce me. An’ yer seduction will destroy us both.” Suddenly her back was against the wall.

  He caught her face in his hands and it was déjà vu. Allie was trying to decipher what he meant, but when she met his blazing gaze, she gave up. He kissed her.

  Hot, hard, hungry, deep—and anger filled his kiss.

  His thigh lifted hers high. She seized his arms. “No, wait!”

  He pushed against her, slick and hot, huge, and her body spasmed uncontrollably.

  But she clawed his arms. “I can’t do this—this way!”

  He tensed, panting against her mouth.

  Allie slid her hands to his linen-clad chest and his heart thundered there. Suddenly she was ill. “Not this way. Not with anger.”

  He lifted his face and stared at her, his expression taut and angry. “Now ye tell me to wait? When I am ready to come inside ye?” He was incredulous. “I dinna like yer games.”

  She was ready to faint and come, too. It would be so easy to give in. They’d both find pleasure, rapture, ecstasy—and then he’d be furious with her for her seduction.

  Something had begun that morning—in spite of his death yesterday—in spite of his medieval macho chauvinism. Something wonderful had begun between them in the village. He’d stood behind her, defending her so she could heal. It had been so right.

  “Royce, I’m sorry.”

  He stared at her and his grip tightened; Allie thought he wasn’t going to listen. Instead he pushed her back and released her, stepping away. “Dinna ever play me again.”

  “Royce!”

  “Ye amused yerself—ye and Aidan, with the fucking lace.” He was furious now. He wheeled, striding for the door.

  “I thought we could become close this way!” she cried, aghast.

  He paused, his face livid. “Ye thought wrong!”

  Allie cried out. He stormed from the chamber and she started to run after him, then stopped herself. She had done the right thing.

  Trapping him was wrong.

  Sex in the heat of lust and anger was wrong.

  Because she was falling in love with the medieval Royce, too.

  ALLIE SAT ALONE at the trestle table in the great room, having eaten a midday meal. Royce was gone. He’d left Carrick with a band of armed men, but no one had been in armor, which was somewhat comforting. Ceit said he had clan matters to attend.

  She owed him a huge apology. And she didn’t have to know him well to guess that he wasn’t going to be inclined to accept it, either.

  But she wasn’t go
ing backward. They’d formed a bond, a partnership of sorts. One step at a time, one day at a time, and no more rash seduction. Too much was at stake.

  She hated herself for hurting his pride with the stupid thong.

  Allie took a sip of wine. Then she tensed, aware of discomfort. Somewhere at Carrick a young child was feeling ill and running a low fever. In fact, the child was close by.

  She stood. There were probably a few ill people on the castle grounds. Suddenly she was serious and intent. Like a doctor, she’d make rounds.

  “Lady?” Ceit hesitated on the threshold of the room.

  Allie smiled. “Yes?”

  Ceit seemed nervous. “A woman from the village wishes to see ye.”

  Allie was alarmed. “Is it Garret’s mother? The mother of the boy who was caught in the rockslide?” But the sick child was even closer now.

  Ceit shook her head. “Nay, t’is Magaidh an’ her bairn.”

  Allie’s eyes went wide. Instantly she realized that the boy was the sick child she had been sensing. “Send them in,” she said quickly.

  A moment later Ceit showed a thin woman Allie’s age into the great room. The woman was carrying a sick toddler. Recalling Royce’s orders not to heal publicly, she firmly asked Ceit to leave them alone, and when she had stepped out, Allie closed the doors. Then she turned to Magaidh, who was gaunt and worried.

  Allie smiled reassuringly at her.

  Magaidh bit her lip. “Lady, thank ye for seein’ me.” She trembled and Allie felt how nervous she was.

  “It’s all right,” Allie said, taking her hand. “Your son is sick. But he won’t die.”

  Magaidh’s eyes shot to Allie’s. “Can ye heal him? He’s been poorly fer days,” she whispered.

  “Can you keep this a secret?” Allie asked, thinking about Royce again. She owed him. If he thought she should be discreet, she would try.

  Magaidh nodded.

  Allie took the toddler in her arms. He started crying. He did have a fever, but it wasn’t terribly high. He had a sore throat, though, and Allie knew it could be strep—which could be fatal without the proper care. Allie stroked his brow and smiled at him, sending a white healing light through him. As he wasn’t very sick, he was easy to heal. The little boy started smiling and playing with her hair.

  Magaidh’s eyes were popping. She touched her son’s brow. Her eyes went impossibly wide.

  Allie looked at her. “I am not a witch. I am a Healer.”

  “Thank ye,” she cried. She kissed Allie’s hand, took her son and hurried from the room.

  Allie followed her to the open door. Magaidh paused before Ceit. “She healed him.” Then she ran down the corridor and outside.

  Ceit turned and looked at Allie, her eyes wide with fear.

  Allie sensed so much suspicion and wariness. She walked determinedly over to her. “I haven’t thanked you for helping me get out of Carrick this morning.”

  Ceit shook her head, backed up, turned and ran.

  “Great,” Allie muttered. She folded her arms and stood there grimly. Making rounds was not a good idea. Not right away, anyway. Besides, no one was seriously ill. If someone was suffering and in danger of losing his or her life, she would feel it.

  She really hoped Ceit or Magaidh did not start a nasty rumor.

  HE WAS EAGER, too eager, to return to his home.

  He had been anticipating the moment for the entire day. Now, his foolish heart sped and raced, for he was riding across the drawbridge.

  Images of the little Healer were suspended in his mind, and no matter the issue at hand, even as he settled a dispute with a rival chief, she remained there, hovering, like a tiny, sultry, tempting fairy. He was beginning to think himself enchanted.

  He could not cease recalling her in the low-cut, linen bodice and that tiny scrap of pink lace.

  And he recalled her kneeling at the rockslide, too, straining to heal the stranger buried below.

  He had been stiff with lust for most of the day. Now, uncomfortable and more displeased than he could ever recall being, Royce leapt from his steed and handed the hotheaded white charger to a young lad. “Cool him well,” he said. He smiled at the boy, Donald, even though he barely saw him.

  “Aye, milord,” young Donald said eagerly.

  His displeasure was double-edged. Aidan had joined her in the jest, and the jest had been on him. He flushed. No man from his time would have ever dreamed she wore it as she did.

  And she had ruthlessly played him. He had broken his resolve and had been able to think of nothing other than getting her into bed and beneath his body. He had been about to finally experience her very warm depths. She had then refused him. Women did not refuse him. They fought for his attention. Then they begged for more.

  But she had broken him and then turned him away.

  The warmth in his cheeks increased. Hadn’t he known, from the very start, that she could seduce the Pope? She was the victor here. She was lord and master, not he!

  He did not like being made a fool of and he did not like being played. He could have had his way with her because she had been as hot as he was. With another woman, he would have stroked and caressed her and had her crying out in a climax before they’d ever gone to bed. He had walked away from this one, but he was still the defeated party.

  He’d walked away, but not because he’d wanted to. That morning, in her chamber, he’d wanted to fuck her a hundred times—and watch her take her pleasure a hundred times, too.

  Not this way. Not with anger….

  He had walked away because of the torment, doubt and regret in her eyes. Was he now twice the fool? Had he really seen such emotions? And why, the gods damn it, did he care?

  He strode through the gatehouse and into the inner ward. If he cared, it was because she was a Healer and she was a part of the Ancients’ plan. If he cared, it was because she was an Innocent under his protection, and he felt her pure white power every time she was near. All Innocents were good. She was far more than good; she was angelic in her motives. He had never met anyone who wanted to help and heal more than she did. Not even Elasaid.

  She deserved more than his protection; she deserved his respect. Especially because his accusations of her being ruthless were a complete and selfish lie.

  She was in love with him. He had lurked shamelessly in her mind, wanting to know her every thought and care and did not even try to respect her privacy. Nor would he. She had loved him in the future, and she was starting to love him now.

  The gods could only know why.

  He should not be savagely satisfied, but he wanted her foolish, romantic emotions! He cursed. He had to keep the greatest distance possible now.

  Royce slammed open the door to the hall. And he halted in his tracks.

  Ailios stood in the center of the great room with one of his peasants, an older man who, when younger, had been a great soldier. She had cocooned Coinneach’s face with her white light and it pulsed there.

  And three more villagers stood in a line, as if awaiting their turn to be healed.

  He was deafened by the roar of his heart. Her pure white aura pulled at him, entrancing him, the way her hot sex and stunning beauty did.

  She wore a long skirt in a bold, bright pattern of black, red and blue flowers on white, and the smallest bodice once again, although this one covered her shoulders, barely. And he knew she wore the chemise Aidan had brought for her, the pink lace garment that would only cover her breasts, the one he was going to burn, for the beaded and lace straps stuck out from the tunic.

  His blood rushed to his loins; it heated his mind. He knew she felt him but she did not look his way. She was completely focused on healing Coinneach.

  He fought the blinding urge to stride to her, gather her up in his arms, and end this mad mating ritual of pursuit and flight, seduction and denial. Why not?

  He could not go on much longer this way. He had needs—and only she could relieve them, he was certain. All he had to do was put a stone wal
l around his heart.

  They could share rapture—and nothing else.

  His mind felt peculiar and dizzy now. He focused, fighting past the blinding red lust.

  She was healing a toothache?

  He breathed hard a final time and strode forward, in some small degree of control. “Ailios.”

  She now clasped old Coinneach’s face in her hands and smiled at the aged warrior. “It will never bother you again,” she said softly.

  Coinneach’s face burst into an expression of amazement. “My lady! T’is been over a year and now, there’s no pain!”

  Ailios smiled sweetly at the old man. As if she’d smiled at him that way, Royce’s heart turned over, hard.

  “It was quite the infection. It will not come back. Go home and enjoy your evening,” she said.

  Highlanders were proud and hard, every last one of them, high or low, but he dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of her skirt. “Thank ye. Bless ye. Yer a saint.”

  Ailios laughed, the sound like shallow spring water rippling over moss-strewn stones. “I am not a saint.” Her smiled faded. She touched his shoulder, encouraging Coinneach to rise, and finally, she turned her large, dark eyes on Royce.

  He stared back. He had asked her not to display her powers. Three villagers had just watched her heal old Coinneach. And he was certain they were waiting their turn to have their particular ailments relieved.

  She bit her lip. But something eager and bright flickered in her eyes, a beautiful light, like joy, and he lurked and saw how happy she was to see him, even after only a few hours. “Hallo, a Ruari.”

  He tensed impossibly. They had been speaking English together. He knew, however, that she understood every word of Gaelic he or anyone else spoke. His heart lurched at the sound of the old tongue flowing like honey from her lips, just as it thundered in pleasure that she was joyous to see him.

  He looked more closely at her. Her lips were painted with something pink and shiny. He wondered what it tasted like.

  He wondered what she tasted like, and didn’t feel like waiting another five hundred and seventy-seven years to find out. “Yer healin’ a tooth.”