Dark Rival (31 page)

Allie leaned against him and he embraced her. “This is not the ending. This is the beginning."

Against her hair, he said, "MacNeil is the wisest of men. And he must think of the gods, the Brotherhood an' Alba. I'm no ordinary mortal man—an’ yer nay an ordinary woman. Ye belong to Alba, Ailios." His tone had become strange and thick.

She looked up at him and saw that his gaze glistened. "Will you admit now that this saddens you? Will you admit now how much you care?"

He took her face in his hands. “I care."

She inhaled and began trembling wildly.

Royce let her go. A moment later, she was staring at him as he walked through the buildings and out the monastery gates, upon the road that would take him away from her.

ALLIE SAT BENEATH a towering fir tree, her knees clasped to her chest. She had been left alone for the morning, which was just as well. No matter how many times she told herself that she and Royce would be together—for a lifetime—and that, they would get past this dreadful dilemma, just then, her optimism refused to arise. Her heart hurt. She wanted to cry. She was uncertain and hope eluded her. She just didn't want anyone witnessing her grief and sorrow.

It began, finally, to rain.

She was wearing a plaid over her jeans and T-shirt and she pulled it closer. Worse, she was worried about Royce, and it was more than fear over his hunting Moffat, the man who would one day kill him if they did not change the future. She had a strong sense of unease, even of dread. Something was wrong—she could feel it—and whatever was happening, it was about Royce.

She was never going to forget the look in his eyes when they'd said goodbye, or the sound of his voice when he’d told her he cared.

"Allie?"

At the sound of Claire's voice, Allie leapt to her feet, whirling. Her senses were still dulled, she realized with some panic. She should have sensed Claire's power as she approached.

Claire smiled hesitantly at her. "Come on. It's cold and it's about to pour."

Allie moved toward the closest building with her. "When did you arrive?”

"We just got here." Claire stepped into the meeting house, Allie behind her. It was vacant. "I heard Royce left for Carrick."

Allie told herself she would not grieve openly now. "MacNeil has decided he can't protect me and that we should be apart"

"MacNeil is usually right. How are you feeling?"

Allie started, "Do you know everything?"

Claire nodded. "I've been there, Allie. When I first met Malcolm, he was struggling with temptation—and we fought for his soul, I'm pretty sure Royce’s soul isn't in danger, but we all need you with all of your power. That kind of sex is really dangerous."

"So you’re taking their side.” Allie said, anger rising.

"No." Claire pushed a piece of wet hair from her cheek. "I’m on your side. I'm a hopeless romantic, I can't believe you made Royce lose control—and his head—the way you did. That says everything to me. I thought Royce was always in control.”

He hadn't been in control last night, she thought. And then she smiled to herself, thinking of how easily he became jealous. "What does that mean to you?" Allie asked.

"I think he’s pretty smitten with you. And Royce is as cold as a man can be. Or, he was that way.”

"He cares—he told me so." Allie went to a cane chair and sat down by the small fire, trying to warm her chilled body. It was impossible. "I feel like I am back to normal. My senses were so dull after we made love, but everything is sharp as can be now.”

"Really? Because you didn't feel me approaching."

Allie flushed, caught in her lie. "My senses have come back—mostly."

Claire pulled up another chair. "I know your mother was an all-time great Healer and a Priestess. Maybe your Fate is bigger than you know. Everyone was against Malcolm and me at first. But we’re so much stronger together—and every day makes us even stronger than the day before. Maybe, in the end, it will be that way for you and Royce."

Allie grimaced. "Royce needs to let go of his pain, his past. Until he does that, he won't let me close enough to make him stronger."

Claire was surprised. "Royce is hurt? Over what? What past are you talking about?"

Allie waved dismissively. "Forget it. Right now I need to get off this island. To hell with MacNeil. I have a bad feeling about Royce. He needs me. He may be in trouble,"

Claire's eyes widened.

Allie stood, staring. "What aren't you telling me?"

Claire flushed and stood, too. “Actually Malcolm and I don't come to Iona without cause. We wanted to warn Royce that Joan Beaufort was on her way to Carrick."

Allie’s heart lurched. She did not like Claire's cautious tone or her expression. ''Are you talking about the Queen of Scotland? Because MacNeil told Royce she's on her way there."

"Yes, I am," Claire said very quietly.

"What's up?" Allie demanded.

Claire bit her lip.

"What aren't you telling me?” Allie cried.

Claire hesitated. “Allie, we came here to warn Royce. I don't want you to even think of going up against Joan Beaufort."

Something was going on. “That's the second time you said you came here to warn him. Is the Queen a demon? Is he in danger?" But even as she spoke, her sense of dread and urgency escalated.

Claire said, "Well he's only in danger if he refuses her. I know you're not familiar with our world, but no one denies the King or the Queen. Here, a royal can decide to execute anyone without reason or cause. Here, there's no judge or jury and very little law."

Allie breathed hard. "Frig! Spill it."

Claire said, "Royce was—and maybe still is—the Queen's lover.”

Allie was shocked. And then the anger began. “Like hell!"

HE RODE INTO CARRICK’S inner ward, finally finding some distance from his heart. All day a sense of loss had sickened and saddened him. All day he had grimly fought every such sense—and too many images and recollections of Ailios to count. Now, he had other, far more urgent matters to attend—like his Queen.

In all the years he had known Joan Beaufort and been her lover, she had never once come to Morvern. When she wished for him to service her, she summoned him to court. Sometimes he came, usually he ignored the summons. Not because he had ever been averse to bedding his liege—she had many lovers, and she was pretty and hot—but because his vows always came first and her summons were usually inconvenient. And although few men would dare to deny her, he'd never cared how irate she became. He'd been aware that she could tire of such arrogance and order his head placed on a pike—without his body beneath it. But in the past, he simply hadn't cared.

And when they were together, it had been easy to remind her of why he was valuable to her alive. In bed Joan was Insatiable, wicked and easy to control.

Now, however, he cared about his head. He simply could not depart this world with Moffat hunting Ailios. Unfortunately his sudden lack of indifference to his Fate weakened his position immensely.

But Joan hadn't come to Carrick because she missed his prowess in her bed. He had not a single doubt she had come to Carrick to see firsthand if the rumors of a Healer with amazing powers were true.

Had MacNeil not ordered him back to Carrick alone, he would still have chosen to leave Ailios behind. Joan must never know how powerful the Healer truly was. And he felt certain Ailios would never be able to hide her abilities for long from anyone, even someone as dangerous as the Queen.

For Joan’s cunning and ambition knew no bounds.

Donald came running up to him a wide smile on his young face. Royce slid from the charger, handing the boy the reins. He tousled his hair in greeting, looking past him at the royal Household guards blocking his own front door.

But then, he'd already seen the royal pennants waving from his towers. Joan Beaufort had moved in.

"How are ye, lad?" he asked.

"The Queen is here!" Donald cried, his tone hushed with awe. "When I bowed before her, I was so close I could touch her skirts.”

Royce hid a smile and said sternly. "Yer liege is English, lad, dinna forget it."

Donald sobered. “But the King is Scot."

"Aye." Royce nodded to his men as he strode toward the heavy, paneled door. Both guards stepped before it, barring his way with their lances.

"I am the earl of Morvern. Put yer weapons down afore I take them from ye,” he said pleasantly enough. But he was furious that she had put her guards in front of his door. Thus was Joan, flaunting her power over him—except that power wasn't absolute, and in bed, she would quickly be reminded of it.

The guards hesitated.

Royce drew his dagger so swiftly no one had even breathed, and as swiftly, his short sword. The latter he shoved beneath both locked lances, lifting them high. The dagger found the larger soldier's throat. “I am lord here," he said.

Lances were lowered.

"Stand aside," he snapped, irate now. He did not care for the mere notion of bedding the Queen. Once, he had enjoyed her rather depraved passions. Now, he thought it might be an effort to amuse her—and him. The woman he wished to bed that night remained far from Carrick—and was forbidden to him now.

He strode into his hall, sheathing dagger and sword.

Joan sat in a chair by the hearth, her back to him. Her ladies surrounded her and six more guards lined the chamber. Of medium height, buxom and pale blond, renowned as a great beauty, she did not turn to greet him. "You have displeased Us vastly, Ruari." Her tone was ice.

He shoved all regrets and apprehensions aside. He refused to think of Ailios now. "Then I beg yer pardon,” he said firmly, striding to the front of the chair to face her.

Joan had startling blue eyes and fine features. She looked angelic, she was anything but. King James had fallen in low with her at first sight, while a prisoner at the English court. He loved her still—and had no notion of her shocking faithlessness.

Royce noticed that she wore a court gown in the French style, excessively fitted across the bust and shockingly low-cut. If she took a deep breath, she might expose her nipples, and she was well aware of that.

“You may beg for Our pardon," she said.

His temper flared and he struggled with it. He got down on one knee and stared at the floor. "If it pleases Yer Majesty, I beg now.”

"It pleases Us greatly," she snapped.

He did not look up. as she had not given him permission to do so. His temper took over at last. Outside of bed Joan was a tyrant. If he did not take her to bed, how could he recover his power over her? But Ailios, he was certain, would be furious if he bedded his Queen.

Joan said, "Everyone leave Us, now."

His heart accelerated. He had no wish to think of Ailios now. They were not lovers, or even sworn to one another. And in spite of his ambivalence toward Joan and the coming night hot blood began gathering in his loins as if realizing what must transpire. But then, anger was so easily confused with lust.

"We arrived here yesterday with no proper greeting," Joan said. "Your housemaids are fools—but We are certain that is not their real task in this household. Have you fucked them all? You may look up."

He lifted his head and met her bright, angry gaze. "Aye, I have."

She flushed. The stain spread from her cheeks to her neck and breasts. "Where have you been, Ruari?" she demanded. "What is more important than Us?"

"I have been at Dunroch. Nothing, Joan, is as important as ye." He always knew when to strike and calling her by her familiar name was just that.

"I spent the night alone,” she whispered in heat and hurt.

He found that impossible to believe as he stood. "Then I am very sorry," he murmured, taking her hands. “Let me show ye, Joan, how sorry I am." Images flashed of Ailios in his arms, riding him into the eternity of La Puissance. Somehow he shoved them aside.

"You are not sorry—you are never sorry. You do as you will, never mind I am your liege!" She stood, her gaze moving to the fluttering skirt of his leine. She licked her lips and said, “I summoned you to court six months ago and you did not even reply.”

He stepped very close to her, purposefully becoming entangled with her skirts. Her breath caught. Amused, aware that her need for him was reducing her to the beggarly status he desired, he murmured. "Ye must have been enraged, waiting for me to come.” Slowly she dragged her gaze away from what rose between them. "I was enraged last night—waiting for you to make me come.”

He smiled "Maybe yer tired o’ giving so many commands. Maybe ye need a man to command ye. An’ maybe waiting is good fer ye, eh?" He clasped her waist, turning her away from him.

She cried out in excitement. “Never,” she whispered hoarsely. "I will give the commands."

He laughed, “I dinna think ye can command much now, Joan. But that's why ye have come back home. I'm the man ye canna control ever. Ye’ll do as I say, when I say." He spoke softly, his breath against her ear, but he pulled her firmly against his heavy loins.

She breathed hard, and it was a moment before she succumbed. "Fine, yes, Fine!” Then she said, "Ruari," and it was a woman's plea.

Royce tensed. He had no plan except to survive the Queen’s stay. He hesitated, so aware of his ambivalence now—and the cause for it. It was almost as if Ailios were present and filled with hurt over his behavior.

But by damn, this was politics.

He seized her wrists, restraining her with one hand, and rubbed his lips against the side of her neck. “Ye need patience, Joan," he whispered, his mouth moving against her ear. She trembled. He splayed his other hand low on her belly and she gasped. “I think tonight I’ll teach ye patience." And he let her go abruptly.

She gasped in surprise, turning to face him, but he walked away. "What was that?" Joan cried.

Because he was a virile man. his body was more than ready, and he was aware that she knew it. Worse, his failure to acquiesce was uncharacteristic. He collected his wits. Joan liked his arrogance and tyranny, and he turned. "I'll be the one to decide when we fuck," he said coldly. "I said I’d teach ye patience. I meant it. Ye can start the lesson now."