CHAPTER TWENTY #2
It hurt terribly leaving them behind, even more than leaving her father and Alec, but nothing hurt as much as facing the final truth about Royce.
Why had Brie sent her here? Was this supposed to somehow help her move on to a life without Royce in it?
She glanced down the hill toward the two large garages, which looked like small manor homes.
Royce’s cars were housed there, unless the estate had already sold them.
She breathed hard. “I guess we can leave the rental car here. I doubt anyone will tow it.” She started toward the bridge, which spanned the ravine.
Aidan came abreast of her. “Why did yer friend send ye here? T’is cruel—but she’s nay cruel at all.”
“She’s an empath, Aidan, and she also has the Sight. I don’t know why she sent me here, but I’ve learned over the years that Brie is always right. There’s a reason, and I guess we’re about to find it.”
He was silent.
Unlike the fifteenth century, the portcullis remained raised and they started to walk through the first gatehouse.
Allie saw a gardener tending several of the potted plants in the courtyard.
She realized that the estate was being kept up, probably because it was for sale.
The gardener suddenly straightened and tipped his tweed cap at her.
Allie smiled politely back. They knocked on the front door.
Mrs. Farlane opened it. She beamed. “I thought you’d be gone for the day, Lady Maclean!” Then she glanced past her, puzzled. “Did you leave the Aston-Martin by the garage and walk all the way up?”
Allie gaped, so confused she could barely comprehend the housekeeper. Royce was a Maclean—but so was Malcolm. Had the housekeeper confused her with someone else? “The Aston-Martin? I don’t have an Aston-Martin,” she stammered.
Mrs. Farlane looked bewildered. “His Lordship gave it to you last year for your anniversary!”
Allie reeled. Aidan steadied her. “His Lordship?” he asked.
“Is Her Ladyship ill?” Mrs. Farlane became distressed. “Lady Maclean, come inside and sit down. Let me summon His Lordship!”
Allie somehow followed the housekeeper into the hall. She was being mistaken for the lady of Carrick.
Mrs. Farlane had rushed off.
Allie stumbled, facing Aidan. “Oh gods,” she whispered. “Is it possible?”
And then she heard a man’s footsteps. She whirled—and her heart sank.
A tall man who very much resembled Royce had come into the hall, his aura reeking of power. He wasn’t Royce, for his hair was dark, but those silver eyes were unmistakable. He was Royce’s son or grandson. Was this His Lordship?
His face was concerned as he approached. “Mother, are ye okay?”
Allie cried out.
“Mother?” Bewilderment crossed his face.
And Allie realized it wasn’t over.
Then Royce stepped into the hall.
Their gazes locked.
Allie took one look at him and knew he was fourteen hundred years old. The modern Royce lived. He had not been murdered on September 7. And that could only mean one thing.
Royce had vanquished Moffat as they fought through the centuries after leaping from Eoradh.
“Royce!” Allie cried, her knees buckling.
Royce’s eyes widened with disbelief. He whirled. “Thors, I need a privy word with yer mother.”
Thors said slowly, “That’s not my mother. At least, it’s not Mother now. She’s come from another time. My mother is visiting at Blayde. An’ Aidan has leapt from the past, too.” He gave Allie another serious look and left the room.
Allie ran to Royce and threw herself into his arms.
He held her for a moment. Then, “You are so young!”
“You lived—you vanquished Moffat!” She clasped his beautiful face.
“Aye! I leapt through many ages, fighting with him the entire time, an’ I was too ill to come home to ye. But I am returning to ye, Ailios. Ye canna stay here. We have children—grandchildren—great-grandchildren! Ye must go back to me in the fifteenth century so we can have this future!”
Allie nodded, overcome. “I love you.”
He smiled. “I ken—for ye have suffered my medieval ways for six centuries. Now go, darling. I willna lose this life of ours.”
Allie turned and gave Aidan her hand.
SIX DAYS HAD PASSED since she had been seized by Moffat outside of Blackwood Hall.
Allie stood on the ramparts, mindless of the drizzle, wrapped in one of Royce’s plaids.
Autumn had settled over Morvern and the leaves on the Scot oak trees were red and gold, while the grass and shrubs were turning brown and barren.
She knew Royce was coming back, but until he did, she was suspended in a state of breathless anticipation, tinged with real fear for his safety and welfare.
And then she felt his hot, hard power below.
She whirled, crying out.
Royce was leaping up the steps to the ramparts, his gaze burning and bright.
It was her Royce—Mr. Medieval—and he had clearly been in his Mad Max mode. His leine was spotted with dried blood, as if someone had dipped a paintbrush in it and then shaken it at him. Allie wasn’t sure she wanted to know what had happened. She ran toward him.
Royce ran, too, and on the top step, he swept her into his embrace and held her, hard.
She breathed in his scent—Highland pine, rain, sex, man. She sensed for his injuries, but there were none. In fact, his power was as great as it had ever been.
“Aye, I was hurt, but I’m fine now.” He took her face in his hands and smiled warmly at her. “Hallo a Ailios,” he said softly.
She touched his cheek. “Hallo a Ruari.”
He clasped her hand to his cheek. “Moffat’s dead.”
“I know.”
He started.
“I saw our future, Royce. I saw our wonderful future!”
His puzzled gaze softened. “I saw it, too. We will have many fine children, Ailios.”
She nodded and realized she was crying.
“I’m sorry I scared ye so. I was so weakened from the leaping. I landed in a distant time and I dinna have the power to come back to ye for days.”
She somehow nodded.
“I could never leave ye,” he whispered, his tone suddenly rough. “I love ye too much.”
Allie went still. His words reverberated through her body, her heart, her soul.
“Ye win,” he added with a smile that revealed his single dimple. “Don’t I get to take ye to bed now?” he added, his gaze gleaming.
Somehow she said, “Damn right.”
He swept her into his arms and started down the stairs, his strides rapid and determined.
She felt his pulse roaring, gathering in his loins. “I have missed you so much!”
“Aye, I ken. Ye were scared an’ ye went to yer time, to find ye dinna exist there anymore.”
They entered the hall. He was lurking—she loved it! “The gods want me with you, Royce.”
“Ah, well.” He ran up the stairs to his tower. “That’s a very hopeful statement.” His grin flashed, wicked, and he laid her on the bed. “I’ll fight the gods to be with ye, Ailios,” he said seriously, but he looked at her legs.
She had dressed for his return every day. She leaned back against the pillows in the green jersey dress. The slit fell open. Royce sat and slid his hand up her thigh, high. “I like the pink thong best,” he said roughly.
She looked at his fiercely tented leine. “I know. Take that off.”
He smiled and stood, dropping his belt and pulling off his boots. He tossed the plaid aside—and then the leine.
Allie breathed hard. He was the most magnificent man, and her heart soared. I am the luckiest woman on this earth, she thought. “I’m going to pleasure you, Royce,” she managed.
“I dinna think so,” he said roughly and tugged the thong off, pushed her dress up to her waist, then reached for the wrap top. Then he looked at her. “I love yer body, yer face, but I love yer kind heart the most,” he said.
Allie felt more tears gathering. “Royce.”
“I love ye, Ailios.”
She laid her hand on his thundering heart. She wanted to fly to the stars and then back again—a hundred times—but she fought to sense his guilt, his pain. And he knew, because as ready as he was, he waited for her now.
It took a long moment and she felt only a faint echo of the guilt that had consumed him for the past eight hundred years. She had at least five hundred and seventy-seven years to finish healing his heart.
He was lurking, because he smiled roughly and said, “Aye, I may not be called Black Royce for much longer.”
“Come to me, love,” Allie whispered.
He did.
TWO DAYS LATER, Allie stepped out of a steaming bath and wrapped herself in her favorite plaid, which she’d claimed possession of from Royce.
She and Royce had definitely had a honeymoon.
He’d barred the door, only opening it for food and drink.
She was exhausted from the several days they’d just spent together, filled with passion that had been at times mindless and at other times amazingly gentle, peppered with conversation, cuddling, affection and intimacy.
She was deliriously, ecstatically, joyfully in love.
She dried her hair with a linen towel and stepped into her jeans and a cashmere sweater she’d been given by Sam.
She went to the mirror—no, looking glass—over the chest, thinking about how she’d have a servant nail it to the wall in a more convenient position.
She’d taken a dozen lipsticks from Sam and Tabby before leaving, too.
But before she could decide on a shade for her lips, Elasaid appeared in the mirror.
Allie tensed, stunned. She was afraid her mother would vanish the moment she turned. But she did turn, cautiously murmuring, “Mom?”
Her mother stood smiling at her, her eyes soft with love. Allie could see the bed through her figure and knew she was a spirit from the afterlife. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again!” she cried.
Elasaid whispered, “I am so happy for you, darling.”
This was goodbye, Allie thought. But before she could begin to barrage her mother with questions, a dark man appeared beside her—and he was the spitting image of her brother, Guy, except that he was in his forties and silver streaked his temples.
And she knew she was looking at Guy’s father, William the Lion, the fifth baron of Blayde.
Her heart thundered. “William Monroe isn’t my father,” she whispered.