CHAPTER FOUR #3
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 Blackwood 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.