CHAPTER SIX #4
She was recalling the taste of his manhood. She was recalling how very close they’d come to “making love” that morning.
He took another calming breath. “An’ the rest o’ them?”
She was reluctant. “I don’t know how this happened. They’ve been coming to see me all day. Toothaches, the common cold, cuts, bruises, aching backs!” And now, the joy that had lit up her eyes was gone. She was filled with apprehension.
He counted to three. He gestured at the three waiting villagers. “Is anyone severely ill?”
“No.”
He turned. “Lady Ailios willna see ye today. G’day.”
The two men inclined their heads and the girl curtsied. They all seemed disappointed, but they left immediately. Royce folded his arms across his chest and slowly turned to face her.
He tried not to think about how beautiful she was in the bright skirt and the small white bodice with the daring chemise beneath. He tried not to think about the fact that he’d bet his life she wore the tiny pink thong, too. “Ye heard the boy calling ye a witch this morning.”
She breathed deeply. “You know I did. If you are angry—and I know you are…your aura is flaming red—you are doing a great job holding your temper.”
He was angrier about this morning. His priorities were not straight. Let her try to play him. He had to swiftly quell any gossip about witchcraft and sorcery. He did not want the rumor of her healing power.
Moffat would realize she was there, in this time.
The royals might take an interest in her, too. The King was fervently devout, and he could see Ailios as either an omen or a dangerous sign of the devil; the Queen was ambitious and she would think only to use power for royal ends. He did not care to have Joan Beaufort ever interested in Ailios.
“I dinna wish to argue,” he said to Ailios. “T’is clear ye obey no one.” He gave her a look. “If ye disobey yer own father, I’d be a fool to think ye’d be obedient to me, even if I am lord here. I’m no longer insulted by yer defiance.” He meant his every word.
He walked over to the hearth and stared at it. How was he going to get through this evening—and every subsequent one—when his lust was raging like an inferno?
He could smell her scent. Something floral, something crisp and pure, like the Highland water, but mostly, it was woman and sex.
She was wet and full beneath that surprising skirt and that tiny, shocking garment.
He rubbed his temples.
“Okay,” she said cautiously behind him. “You were really pissed this morning. You should be pissed now. What’s going on?”
He didn’t want to face her. “I ken ye canna help yerself. If someone is ill, ye’ll heal him.”
“Yes.”
He did turn. “Yer like yer mother that way. She never turned her back on anyone, as long as he was a Master or an Innocent.”
Her eyes widened.
“You know—knew—my mother?” she gasped.
He became cautious. “Aye, I did.”
Her mind whirled in shock; it raced incoherently. “How…you mean—wait! You haven’t become the twenty-first-century Royce yet! You couldn’t have known my mother!”
His instinct was to soothe her. Her anxiety was profound, and dread was beginning. She didn’t know anything.
He lurked but her thoughts were still not coherent. He hesitated and touched her arm. “Ailios. Let us sit.”
“I don’t want to sit!” she cried. She was pale, except for two bright pink splotches on her cheeks. She opened her mouth—and no words came out.
He took her hand firmly. “I’m sorry that ye dinna ken the truth about Elasaid.”
She pulled away. “Her name was Elizabeth! Elizabeth Monroe!”
“Aye, Elizabeth is the English translation.” He smiled at her. “Come an’ sit with me, lass.” He increased the seductive note in his tone.
“Oh gods,” she whispered instead, oblivious to his male allure now. “When? When did you know my mother? What time was it in?”
He took her hand and pulled her close to his side.
His body screamed in pleasure at him; he ignored it.
When she learned who and what she was, she was going to be shocked.
He recalled, too well, his own shock upon discovering that his Fate was the Brotherhood, and that his grandmother was a goddess.
“I first met Elasaid in the sixth century.”
Ailios cried out.
“Yer mother was a great Healer, an’ yer so much like her,” he offered softly.
She looked at him, tears rising. “Why didn’t she tell me? What does this mean? Was she the granddaughter of a god, too?”
“Nay, her father was the greatest o’the gods.”
Ailios stared at him, her eyes huge. And abruptly, she sat down on the bench. “My grandfather,” she said slowly, “was a god.”
“Aye.” He wondered if he should tell her the rest of the truth now, or later.
She whirled. “What else is there? I can hear you—debating what to tell me, what to hide! All this time, I thought my mother was a Healer and a pagan. I even thought she might, possibly, be a good, powerful witch. I thought that explained our religion—the prayers, the healing, our sense of evil!”
“Elasaid was not a witch. Yer nay a witch, Ailios.”
She stared breathlessly at him.
“She was our Priestess, in the days when we still had one.”