Dark Rival

She swallowed. “I’ll die trying.” But her temples throbbed. It almost hurt to heal Brian. Releasing her white light felt like pulling out her own teeth, one by one.

He was silent, but not for long. “Are ye hurt?”

She panted and took a short break. “Last night…I got hurt.” She glanced up at him.

He did not seem happy to hear that.

She breathed deeply and turned back to Brian, flooding him with her light. Brian’s life flickered and blazed.

Allie was swept by an intense wave of dizziness. She felt the land tilt wildly and she was dismayed. The huge warrior knelt, embracing her from behind and holding her steady against his chest.

She gasped. His scent was overwhelming. Man, sex, power, the clean Highland mist and more sex. His body could have been honed from steel, and the thighs beneath her ass were even better than a soccer player’s. This man rode horses and ran hills.

Allie opened her eyes and shifted to meet his gaze. The night had changed. It was charged. She was weak but she needed this man—and she wasn’t thinking about a partner to combat crime. Oh, no. In fact, suddenly, strangely, he was all she could think about, and she sensed he was using his powers of enchantment again.

His eyes hot, he moved away from her, standing. “Who are you?” she whispered, forcing her gaze to his eyes.

But Brian sat up. “Allie?” He was alarmed. “What happened?”

Allie jerked with dismay. She’d been so mesmerized by the warrior she’d forgotten about Brian.

The Highlander stared at Brian. “Go to the house. I’ll bring her soon enough.”

Brian stood and left without a word.

Allie met his gray gaze and this time, she knew her eyes were wide. “It’s all true, right? You’re one of them…a warrior who can travel through time…with superpowers…defending mankind.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and it slid lower, to her breasts, which were barely covered by the corset-style, pushup bodice of the evening gown. “I dinna ken,” he said softly. But his silver eyes were hot and an arrogant smile played on that incredible, chiseled face.

And a shadow fell over the night.

Allie glanced up in alarm; the moon was gone again, covered by black clouds. She tensed, glancing at the pool, but it remained brightly lit. It didn’t matter. Huge and heavy, blackness swiftly approached them again.

Incredulous, she looked up at the warrior. She was too weak to fight more demons now! She scrambled to her feet, not as steadily as she’d have liked, as an arctic chill fell.

Fear and anger warred in her heart. Allie looked at the warrior. He looked at her and she knew something bad—really bad—was about to happen. “I’m okay,” she lied. “Where’s my knife?”

He shook his head, jaw flexed. “Ye canna fight again,” he said firmly. His grasp tightened. “Ye need to hold me tight.”

Allie was about to say that was fine by her, when they were flung across the pastures, over the horses, into space. If she could have, Allie would have screamed. Instead she gasped as her body was ripped apart, into shreds of hair, tissue and skin.

CHAPTER TWO

Carrick Castle, Morvern, Scotland—September 5, 2007

HE WOULD NEVER GET used to the pain.

Leaping through time was like being tortured on the rack, and even though he’d leapt a thousand times, he still fought not to give in to the urge to cry out like a woman would. It was like having the skin flayed from muscle and bone, like having one’s organs ripped outward by a human hand. Fire burned inside him. Landing, there was a final explosion of pain, and then there was a stunning darkness.

He held her tightly in his arms, briefly left powerless by the leap through time. His ability to sense evil was so well honed, however, that he knew they were not in danger. He focused on recovering his powers, given to him centuries ago by the Ancients, when the old gods despaired for mankind’s Fate and decided to create a race of warriors to defend them. From experience, he knew that in a moment or two he would recoup.

But the Healer was small, soft, warm and womanly in his arms.

He’d never leapt with a woman before—much less one like this.

Although she was unconscious, he could not forget her stunning white light, the purest power he had ever sensed or seen. And to make matters far worse, she was as stunningly beautiful as she was powerful, with a tiny but lush body; that dark, silken hair, and dark eyes that seemed to look into his most secret thoughts. Her buttocks were soft and full, spooned into him, and he rapidly swelled.

It was usual to want a woman in every possible way after the leap. Every Master had many godlike powers; the greatest power of all was the ability to take life at any time, from anyone and anything, like a god. Taking some of the force of life from her would instantly restore his powers. And taking power was also pleasurable. In fact, there was no rapture like that which came from power.

He looked at the woman and knew that her white power, swelling his veins, his body, would be like no other.

But he was a master at self-control. Except in war or when facing mortal death, “taking” was forbidden. The young Masters were always tempted to test the Ancients, to taste power and to experience the sublime rapture of La Puissance. He had been upholding his sacred vows for over eight centuries and he would not touch this one’s healing essence, ever.

Royce closed his eyes tightly, more aroused than before, but determined to ignore it. And then any internal battle was over. He felt all of his extraordinary strength settle over him, in him, through him, in one vast wave. Breathing naturally again, he could look at her face.

He stared, his heart lurching anew at the sight of her beauty. She was so beautiful, so pure that he felt the Ancients near her—and she was so terribly brave. She had tried to fight the deamhanain as if a warrior. She would never be a warrior—it was a physical impossibility, for she was so small. Yet she had intended to attack Moffat with a knife!

Too well, he could recall his horror in that moment.

And now the question loomed—had Moffat leapt to the future to hunt him, or did he hunt Elasaid’s daughter, a powerful Healer and great prize in her own right?

Moffat had been an annoyance for centuries. Whenever Royce had an interest at stake, whether in land, finance or politics, Moffat took the opposing side. Periodically Moffat’s soldiers attacked his lands, his men, and once, an innocent village. Royce’s retribution was always swift and severe—he’d besieged the Cathedral where Moffat held reign as bishop with bombards and battering rams, and had destroyed three of its four walls. That had been decades ago. The Regent Albany had ordered him to cease before he’d beaten down the Cathedral itself.

Three months ago, in the darkest winter days of late January, the stakes had increased. Royce had encountered a deamhan in the throes of taking life from an Innocent—Moffat’s new and favorite lover. He’d vanquished Kaz with little effort, but too late to save the Innocent’s life. And ever since, Moffat had been enraged, harassing his people at every turn, bringing death and destruction as he could, without arousing the King’s complete ire. That is, he did not dare openly declare war.

It was too soon to know Moffat’s intent. The answer would eventually become clear.

She stirred in his arms. His body remained hot and hard, but he ignored it easily enough. Slowly, he looked around.

He had leapt forward a single day into the future, to his own home in Scotland. Although she was a powerful Healer, he’d felt her weakness and pain the moment she’d begun to heal her lover. Aware of her being somehow hurt and compromised, he’d made certain to only leap forward slightly, hoping to lessen the torment for her.

He had never been to the future before, as there had been no need, and a Master wasn’t allowed to leap for his own pleasure or gain. He was in the Great Hall at Carrick Castle, but he barely recognized his home. Everything had changed. There were so many fine furnishings, many of which he did not understand, such as the posts with cloth heads on the small tables. Even the rugs and paintings were different. The room was beautiful—the kind of home his friend Aidan would enjoy. Who was lord of Carrick now? He would not bother to furnish this room so luxuriously. Or would he? For there was a collection of swords on one wall, and he recognized every one. They belonged to him. If there was a new lord and master now, why did that man own his weapons?

He considered the possibility that he was still lord of Carrick and earl of Morvern. If so, it would mean he had lived another five hundred and seventy-seven years. He didn’t know how he felt about the prospect. But the Code was clear. It forbade in the most certain terms a Master leaping forward or back in time to a place where he could encounter his younger or older self. He felt certain no good would come if he walked into the corridor and encountered his future self there. If he remained the lord of Carrick, he must exercise caution.

He glanced at the woman, Ailios, again. Her thick, almost black hair was covering her cheek and without thinking, he slid his hand beneath it and pushed it back over her shoulder. Instantly more lust began. It was impossible not to keep thinking about sex and pleasure with such a woman in his arms. So much desire was almost inexplicable—and he sensed it could even threaten his vows.

No man would bed this woman once and walk away. Yet that was how he lived. A Master must refuse all attachments, and he had learned that lesson the hard way, when the deamhanain had captured and tortured his wife.

He should leave this one alone.

He lifted her and stood, then glanced into the corridor and saw that it was empty. He started down it, intending to go up to the North Tower, where he had his rooms in the fifteenth century. A housemaid appeared, coming down the stairs. Royce tensed, awaiting her scream of alarm, but she smiled at him, pausing to curtsy. “My lord.”

He smiled grimly back. He was still the lord of Carrick. Had he somehow sensed he would be alive on this day in the future? Had he thought to take her to his future self?

Satisfaction began, hard, primitive and male.

He strode into the bedchamber, laying her in the center of a large canopied bed with no hangings, which pleased him. His chamber had hardly changed. The bed was new—larger, and more convenient, as sometimes he enjoyed several women at once—but two chests had survived the centuries, as had the shield on the wall. The thronelike chairs in front of the hearth were new but their fashion was not, and he approved of the severe beige-and-brown-striped fabric covering them. He liked the brown and black rug on the floor. It looked like an animal skin, but it was wool.