CHAPTER SIX #2
Allie forgot about her feet. She dug in and gasped in more delight.
A green print jersey dress. Matching shoes.
A long floral print skirt in white and rainbow hues.
A tiny white tank to go with it. A denim mini.
Cute tops. Skinny jeans. Jeweled low-heeled sandals by Giuseppe Zanotti.
A white halter dress—summery, sexy, innocent, perfect.
Oh, yeah, and a red drop-dead number by Escada, floor length, with red satin evening sandals.
She looked at Aidan. “I love you.”
He beamed.
Royce turned red.
“Not meant literally,” she told him, now standing, sore feet be damned. She reached deeper and pulled out a pink lace bra. She looked at Aidan in amazement. “I am not going to ask how you knew the right size.”
“Lots of experience.” His eyes gleamed.
Royce seized the bra. “Ye’ll not wear this chemise—a gift from him!” He threw it furiously aside.
Allie grinned. “I need to wear something!” She grabbed the bra and returned it to the bag and produced a handful of Hanky Panky lace thongs in assorted jewel tones instead. “Perfect.”
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 going 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.