Dark Rival. Brenda Joyce

      “You are a hero, my hero,” she said, “and it’s unbelievable that you are the same person. A woman would be mad to love you right now!”

      He turned away, wanting to strike something, anything. Why had she fallen so deeply in love with his future self? It enraged him, it pleased him—it terrified him. He preferred her hating him now, didn’t he? It was better for them both. “In this time, women fall in love with me after a mere moment in my bed.”

      She flushed.

      He slowly smiled, lurking, and his suspicions were right. “Perhaps, Ailios—” and he used his most seductive tone “—ye were nay different, even in yer time. Like all women, ye confused lust with love.”

      She inhaled, but he saw more hurt rise in her eyes, and he didn’t like it—or that he’d caused the hurt again. “You fell in love with me, too,” she said thickly.

      “Is that why I died?” he demanded. He had to know. “Did I die for ye apurpose—or did I die because I loved ye to distraction?”

      She just stood there, stricken.

      She had been the death of him. He’d given his life for her, and he was certain he had done so gladly. He saw tears tracking down her cheeks. She was grieving for him and mourning his death.

      It was sobering, confusing, dismaying. It was a moment before he could speak. He didn’t mean to touch her, but he laid his hand on her tiny arm. Her warmth slipped over him. When he did speak, he softened his tone. “Ailios, enough argument. I dinna wish to war with ye. Ye canna triumph here. Ye’ll stay at Carrick, an’ here, I decide yer life. Ye’ll leave when t’is safe—an’ only when I say so.”

      He released her, not wanting to break the physical contact. Warmth seemed to curl about his insides. It seemed to infuse his bones. Was her white power stealing into him somehow?

      “Will you force me to stay here, against my will?” she demanded to his back.

      He whirled. “At Carrick yer will bends to mine.”

      “Like hell!” she cried, dismayed and furious.

      “There is one will here.” How could she fail to understand this fundamental fact of life? At Carrick, he was king.

      She stared at him in disbelief. Then she said, “I am not going to stay here. I am not going to stay here while you cavort with other women. You will have to make me a prisoner.”

      He was incredulous again. “Yer my guest.”

      “I am your prisoner!” she shouted, trembling.

      “Only if ye make it so!”

      “No, you are the one making it so!”

      That she would outdebate him was stunning. In that moment, he did not have a clever reply. “Then consider yerself imprisoned,” he snapped. He turned away. “Black-wood,” he called. “Aidan.” He stalked to the table and slammed his fist on it.

      Blackwood came over, his eyes filled with amusement. Royce had not a doubt he’d spied on their entire conversation. He was a tall, dark Lowlander, and his rakish ways were well-known—but he was a Master, and it was to be expected. His father had been a great English nobleman, his mother a Highlander, and he dressed in the English court style, his estates close to the borders there but half a day from the great cathedral at Moffat. His dark blue gaze now went to Allie. “Such a clever wench. A bit outspoken, don’t you agree? Do you really wish to converse now?” He snickered, enjoying himself immensely. “Mayhap she needs a lesson in the ways of masters an’ mistresses.”

      Royce was not in the mood for his taunts. But he was right. If he took Ailios to bed, he’d subdue her in seconds. He’d put her defiance to a quick death—replacing it with her lust and her love instead. “Our dear friend Moffat hunts the woman.”

      Blackwood’s smile faded, but it was a moment before he tore his gaze from Ailios. “She is a Healer. I can see her white light. How great is her power?”

      “Great.” Royce turned to look at her. “She is Elasaid’s daughter.”

      She had climbed into one of the two thronelike chairs, the arms and back carved ebony wood, the seat red velvet. The chair dwarfed her. She was heartbreaking in her beauty and if he did not know better, he’d think her fragile. But she wasn’t fragile; she was fierce, with enough courage for ten men.

      She glared at him.

      He realized that Blackwood was staring at her, and so was Aidan. Both men had admiring and speculative looks in their eyes. He lurked, even though it was the height of rudeness to do so to another Master, and he saw both men thinking about her naked and in their beds. His temper exploded; he saw red. “The woman is mine,” he said softly. And he could not regret his words, no matter how he knew he must somehow do so.