by Brenda Joyce
He glanced into the fortress. Ruari was engaging the giants. He hurled a blast of energy at the closest watch tower.
Nothing happened.
It should have come down.
He turned, seized an overhead branch—and failed to tear it from the pine.
He breathed hard. Although he was physically solid, with his own self there, below, on the same temporal and physical plane, he was but an ordinary man.
He had no power now.
POWER AWOKE HER.
Her sleep had been light and fitful, determined as she was to wait for Royce to return. Allie felt his male power in an oddly gentle wave and she jerked awake, curled up in one of the two large chairs before the fire. She turned, looking over the chair’s high back.
The fire still blazed, clearly fed during the night by maids. Royce stood not far from where she was seated, his face a cold, hard mask, his gray eyes so dull they were almost lifeless. His aura was split distinctly in two, one side red and gold, the other blue, a black chasm between. It did not blaze or burn. Every color was faded and muted.
Only his pain blazed.
Allie slid to her feet, trying to hide the fact that she was concerned for him. “Are you all right?” she asked softly, knowing he was not. His torment cut into her like knives, slicing her skin, flesh and tendons into ribbons.
He did not answer, and she felt the vast resolution in him. He was not going to budge. In that moment, she sensed he embraced his anguish and would keep it hidden from her at all cost. “Ye should go up to rest. T’is late an’ we leave in a few hours.”
Allie walked over to him, her heart thudding. “What happened? Where did you go?” She tried to caress his cheek.
He jerked away. “I’m tired. If ye want to stay up all night, then do so.” His mouth twisted with unhappiness, he turned and strode from the hall.
And she sensed another woman’s presence clinging to him, the way one might scent a woman’s fragrance after she had left the room. Allie didn’t have to ask to know the identity of the woman he had just been with. She hugged herself, certain he had gone to see his dead wife.
CLAD IN JEANS and a lace-trimmed cotton tank, Allie stepped somewhat cautiously into the courtyard. She was barely awake, having been roused urgently by Ceit and told that his lordship wished to depart and she must hurry. Instantly her gaze found Royce.
His aura was whole again, fiercely blazing with his warrior power and his sexual heat. He stood with a man Allie now recognized as his estate manager, not that she knew if that term was used or not. Royce was apparently giving some instructions, his face set in serious but not severe lines. His white charger was being held for him just beyond, as was a big black mare. His mood had obviously improved from the night before. He had buried his pain.
Finally finished, he turned to her.
If only he would let her help him, she thought. Allie smiled at him. “Good morning.”
His gaze swept over her tight jeans, then up her tiny, frilly top. His expression wary, he gestured and Allie came over. “Good morn,” he said quietly, not meeting her gaze. “We go to Dunroch.”
Allie knew it was a test. She had no intention of being left behind there, but she wanted to meet Royce’s nephew and his wife. She had very personal questions about Royce, and she might find the answers at Dunroch. She smiled brightly. Besides, she was not fighting with Royce, hopefully not ever again. He needed her—last night was the proof.
“That’s fine with me. I have had the urge to see the countryside since we last spoke.”
His gaze narrowed, lifting to hers.
Allie said seriously, “Did I really hear you say that Malcolm’s wife is from the future?”
“Aye.”
Allie hid a smile, turning quickly away. She needed an ally and a friend. This was an incredible stroke of luck. Then she faced Royce. “The Masters seem to go for us strong, modern women.”
“Claire is very strong,” Royce said as if discussing the weather. Then, “Yer brother married a modern lass, too.”
Allie was very surprised. “Have other Masters met their soul mates in the future?” she asked, eyes wide.
“There are only the two.” Royce was brusque. “We have a long day ahead.” He nodded at the big mare.
Allie’s heart leapt with excitement. The mare was clearly strong and athletic, and some kind of Warmblood. “She’s for me?”
“Aye. She’s quiet. Ye’ll manage.”
Allie didn’t try to hide her smile this time. As a child, she’d spent hundreds of hours riding without stirrups or without reins, and she’d learned to take small fences with her eyes closed. She still rode frequently, and she loved jumping—the mare or any mount would be a piece of cake. “Then let’s go.”
Royce turned. A boy handed him a folded white garment, and Royce handed it to Allie. “If ye please. Ye canna ride about Alba dressed as ye do.”
Allie took one look at the long linen caftan and sighed. “We have a truce. A pleasant one—I like your mood. Do you want to start a war?” Then, softly, she added, “Do you really want to look at me in such a sack?”
Royce seemed to want to smile. He did not. “T’is a shame,” he admitted. His gaze skidded away. “Ye can take it off at Dunroch.”
He still wouldn’t look her in the eye. Allie realized suddenly that he was embarrassed about what she’d seen—and what he’d revealed—last night. But of course he was uncomfortable with any kind of intimacy. He probably thought his emotional torment a sign of weakness on his part.
Allie touched his bare forearm. He flinched. She said softly, “The only way to heal from heartbreak is to work it out. Talking is highly recommended. I’m not a shrink, but—”
“Ye talk nonsense.” He cut her off, taking the mare’s reins and leading her forward.
Of course he wouldn’t talk about his pain, at least, not yet. Allie slid the huge garment on, thoughtful. His having opened up to her, even if he hadn’t wanted to, was a first step toward the cleansing and healing of his soul. He’d been afflicted with grief and guilt for eight hundred years. He could not go on this way. He had cancer—and it needed to be eradicated. “Just so you know, we are friends,” Allie said firmly. “I get that a medieval hunk like you thinks a woman is only for bedsport, but I am your friend—no matter what, through thick and thin. If you ever want to talk, I am here.”
He gave her a disbelieving look. “What man speaks o’ his dead wife with the woman he takes to his bed?”
“Ah, but we’re friends now—not lovers,” Allie reminded him.
Royce gave her the hottest, most promising, most significant look she had ever received. In one heartbeat, he told her it wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
Heat washed through her.
“Can ye ride at all?” Royce asked, changing the subject.
Instead of answering, Allie took the mare’s reins and led her to the stairs that went up to the ramparts. Climbing the stairs, she grasped the stirrup, designed for a tall man, and swung onto the mare. Then she gathered up her reins and trotted back to Royce.
Royce stared as if surprised—or impressed. “O’ course ye can ride. There were fine horses at yer father’s home.”
Allie shrugged modestly. He hadn’t seen anything yet.
Royce swung up into his saddle and waved his men on. Royce said, “Ye stay with Neill.”
Allie recognized the big redhead from the other day as Royce rode ahead to lead the small band of men. She didn’t want to violate their truce, but she was going to enjoy this ride with Royce. She urged her mare forward and cantered up to him. “Surely you’re not afraid to ride with me?” she asked innocently.
“I’m nay afraid of any woman,” he said.
“Really? Is that why you ran away from me last night?” She smiled sweetly.
His eyes popped. “I dinna run from ye, Ailios,” he warned.
“It sure looked like it to me,” she said tartly.
“Can we ride—or will ye try to ta
lk my ears off this dawn?”
“I intend to talk your ears off. Tell me about Malcolm’s wife.”
He started and his gray eyes softened—Allie knew she didn’t imagine it. “She’s the daughter of a Master,” he said, surprising her. “An’ she has been married to my nephew for nigh on three years. He found her in the new city o’York, in yer time.”
So Claire was from New York. They would get along great, Allie thought with excitement.
“Malcolm was hunting a page from the Book o’ Healing. Claire had a shop where she sold old books. The chase led him to his wife.”
Allie became alert. “The Book of Healing? You mentioned the Book before.”
Royce looked grim. “The Cladich gives the holder o’the Book its powers to heal. The Brotherhood has been left with one single page; the rest is missing. An’ I worry Moffat has some pages.”
Allie stared at his gorgeous face. “Demons destroy. They don’t heal.”
Royce made a sound. “Moffat’s armies have been growin’ these past few years.”
Allie shivered, suddenly terribly cold. “Royce, in my time, the demons are out of control. Every year there are more pleasure crimes. Every year there are more demons.”
She didn’t need to read his mind to know what he was thinking. Either the true demons had found a way to radically increase their reproduction rate, or they weren’t being vanquished in the same numbers as before. If the latter were true, was it because a very high demon, even Satan himself, had found a way to heal the evil hordes?
“No demon can be allowed to have such power,” Allie finally said.
“Aye.”
And that meant that if Moffat or another powerful demon had any holy pages, the Masters would have to regain them. “Royce, did my mother use the Book?”
“O’ course she did. Centuries ago, when it was enshrined on Iona, she used it all the time.” He smiled briefly. “T’was a different world, Ailios. The Ancients had great power an’ we could worship openly. Now an’ then, the gods would even walk amongst us—or help us in our battles with the deamhanain.”
Allie smiled, imagining a near paradise on Iona. “I wish the gods would walk among us now.”
“Our scholars claim they have been forsaken by man—an’ have lost their great powers because of it. T’is why, they say, they do not come to earth now. But Claire an’ Malcolm believe Faola helped them vanquish a great deamhan, the greatest Alba has ever seen.”
Allie pulled her horse to a halt, facing Royce, so he halted, too. Everyone pulled up. “They fought together? They vanquished a great demon together?”
“Aye, they did.” He stared unwaveringly at her. “I feared for Malcolm when he met her. The Code frowns on marriage. A Master must stand alone. But Claire has her own power—an’ he’s stronger with her than alone.”
“Of course they’re stronger together,” Allie cried.
He gave her an odd look, spurring his charger forward. Allie followed and trotted to come abreast of him. “Wait a minute. Masters aren’t supposed to marry?”
“Aye.”
“But Malcolm married—and so did you! You said my brother is married, too!”
“Malcolm is an exception to the rule. As for the Black Macleod, I dinna ken him well.” His jaw flexed. “My marriage was a great mistake. I was young an’ foolish. I married Brigdhe before I was chosen. She paid the price for it.” With that, suddenly impatient, he raised his arm. “Ye wish to talk, do so at Dunroch. Otherwise we’ll nay be there by nightfall.” He spurred his mount into a canter, his men following.
Allie sat still, thinking about everything she had just learned. His wife’s name was Brigdhe. Pain filled her as she thought about the woman. In that instant, she knew something terrible had happened to her.
“Ailios!” Royce’s voice cut through the forest, razor sharp.
Allie jerked back into the present. Royce was dead-set against her, and finally, she was beginning to understand why.
AFTER LEAVING THE HORSES on Morvern soil, they were rowed by six of the men across the sound and to the island of Mull’s south shores. As they trekked up a steep, rocky path, Allie saw Dunroch above them, as gray as the rocks it sat upon, shrouded in a thick, swirling Atlantic mist.
A short while later, Royce extended his hand to help her up the last part of the treacherous ascent. They passed through the narrow, high walls of a barbican over a lowered drawbridge and through a large, circular gate tower. Allie found herself inside an inner bailey, the walls of the castle to her left, the walls to her right containing a lower ward. The inner ward was busy and Allie was now used to the sight of Highland men and women coming and going, often accompanied by livestock, the men usually well armed. As they approached another gatehouse, a tall, dark man stepped out.
Royce smiled. “Hallo a Chalium.”
The man grinned, striding forward, impossibly more muscular than Royce, and even an inch or two taller. Allie did a double-take because he was so utterly gorgeous. “Ruari.” He embraced Royce briefly.
Allie watched Royce and his nephew, gladdened by their obvious bond of affection and caring. He was not entirely alone in this world, even without her, and that pleased her immensely.
“I see yer watch is on their toes,” Royce said.
“Aye. Ye wouldn’t be happy waitin’ for my bridge to go down.”
Malcolm turned his dark, interested gaze upon her. “An’ who’s yer guest?”
Allie was surprised when Royce took her arm, almost possessively, guiding her forward. “Meet Lady Ailios, Malcolm. Ailios, my nephew.”
Allie extended her hand. “Hi. It’s Allie. Allie Monroe.”
Malcolm’s gaze flickered and he glanced down at her feet. Allie suspected he knew she was from the future, but wasn’t sure why he was looking at her toes.
Royce murmured, “He’s looking for some sign—like yer bejeweled shoes.”
She was wearing her jeweled Giuseppe Zanotti sandals, as they were the only low-heeled shoes Aidan had brought her. Allie smiled and lifted her skirt, and Malcolm chuckled at the sight of her sandals and jeans. “Welcome to Dunroch. Ye must meet my wife.” He turned to Royce, his gaze filled with speculation. “Do ye wish a word with me alone?”
“Aye. I have a great favor to ask ye.”
Allie knew what that favor would be and she tensed. He was going to ask Malcolm to protect her from Moffat, so he could return to his dark, solitary, tormented life.
“Ask. Ye ken I willna deny ye.” Malcolm gestured at Allie and she walked with both men through the gatehouse and into a small courtyard filled with flowers and shrubs. Instantly she knew the gardens were Malcolm’s wife’s work.
And the moment she stepped into Dunroch’s large great room, Allie saw a tall, auburn-haired woman in jeans. She was thrilled—and relieved.
The woman was at the table—with a laptop computer! The moment they entered, she slammed the lid down, flushing, as if caught in a grave transgression. “Malcolm! You didn’t tell me we had guests,” she cried, standing.
“Dinna fear,” Malcolm said softly.
The striking woman looked at him and Allie knew they were silently communicating. Then her eyes widened and she looked at Allie in surprise.
Allie smiled, her heart racing. “Hey. I’m Allie. You must be Malcolm’s wife, Claire.” She strode forward and held out her hand.
The woman took it, towering over her—she had to be five foot ten or so—and smiled warmly. “Hello! This is such a surprise.” She looked at Royce with some confusion, and then back at Allie, this time dissecting her features. Then she turned back to Royce, her gaze wide with speculation and interest.
“Hallo a Chlaire,” Royce said with a genuine smile.
Claire smiled back. “Hallo a Ruari.”
“We’ll be outside,” Malcolm said, and both men left.
Allie stared after Royce and was rewarded with a single, backward glance. She hoped she saw regret in his eyes, but he only nodded.
; Then she turned, pulling the god-awful caftan over her head and laying it on the table. Claire made a sound. Allie saw her staring at her skinny jeans and tiny top and trying to hide a smile. “Well…this is interesting. How is Royce, er, doing, these days?”
“Mr. Medieval? Oh, same old, same old—bossy, arrogant, a jerk and a tyrant.” Allie smiled at her. “I so hope you and I will get along because I need a friend!”
Claire laughed. “Royce must sweat bullets every time you walk into the room.”
Allie blushed. “He’s pretty attracted.”
Claire just looked at her. “And you’re in love?”
Allie felt her smile fade. “Is it that obvious?”
“No, it’s not, but Royce is a handsome, powerful man. Men like him and Malcolm do not exist in the twenty-first century, at least, not openly.” Claire took her hand. “Come and sit…tell me everything.”
Allie sat down with her and Claire called for wine. “I was hoping,” Allie said, suddenly nervous, “that you could tell me everything.”
Claire looked at her, puzzled.
Allie gave in to a moment of doubt and despair. “What is wrong with him?” she exclaimed. “One minute he can be kind, the next cold and even cruel! But I love him—even though no sane woman should love a medieval man, ever!”
Claire sat up. “When I met Malcolm, I was insanely attracted to him. But I’ve studied medieval history, and I knew—I knew—it would never work. It was like he was from Mars, while I’m from New York City.”
Allie smiled just a little.
“Even so, it did work. Malcolm and I fell in love and we’ve worked out our differences—we still do.” But then Claire said, “Royce is one of the hardest men I know.”
Allie felt a pang of fear.
“I’m not sure,” Claire said slowly, “that it’s a good idea to fall too deeply for him.”
“Too late,” Allie said.
Claire took a breath. “Want to start from the beginning? I’ll help if I can.”
“I fell in love with him in 2007—in the span of twenty-four hours. And then a demon murdered him.”