Dark Rival

He stared at her now, as if enchanted.

This one could tempt the Pope and seduce the devil.

For not only were her face and figure so perfect, she knew her allure. She knew the gown she wore revealed her every curve and hollow; it thrust her bosom out, it cupped and caressed the plump mound of her sex, and nothing was left to the imagination. She had chosen it to increase her beauty. And he felt certain she wore nothing beneath it, not a single undergarment, to make a man insane with his desire.

His heart thundered and so did the pulse in his loins. He reminded himself that she was unconscious and ill—at least for now. But sooner, not later, she would wake up. He needed to have control and when she did awaken, he needed to be gone.

He tore his gaze away from her full, bowed mouth and for the first time saw the portrait on the table beside the bed. It was a perfect rendering.

He picked up the small framed portrait. He stood with his nephew, Malcolm, Malcolm’s wife, Claire, and Aidan. He stared at himself with some curiosity. He looked very much the same—hard, distant, bronzed from the sun—but his hair was shorn like a penitent monk’s. He wore the modern style of clothes—a black, shapeless surcote and black, equally shapeless stockings. He was not smiling.

Royce looked closer. His eyes held no light—whatever he was thinking or feeling, it was impossible to tell. Although he appeared but a human of forty or so, his stance was that of a man ready for battle. Even in the dark, somber, modern fashion, he seemed dangerous.

Apparently his life would not change.

He remained a soldier of the gods.

Then he looked at his nephew, Malcolm, and his wife and half brother. Everyone was smiling.

They were all happy, five hundred and seventy-seven years into the future. He was happy for them.

He put the portrait down, wishing he hadn’t been in it. The future felt bleak and loomed as if endless. It was all the same. Nothing would ever change. Good and evil, battle and death. For every vanquished deamhan, another would rise in its stead.

Then, slowly, he turned and gazed down at the woman. Everything had changed, hadn’t it?

He was accustomed to a hard, ready cock—but not to the wild beating of his heart. It was almost as if the floor he stood on was tilting, and wouldn’t ever be quite level again.

He looked back at the framed portrait. The man in that rendering, the man who was over fourteen hundred years old, did not appear to have a single weakness, character failing, or human flaw. The man in the portrait had been at war for so long, only the warrior remained, and that was why he looked into his eyes and saw nothing at all. In the future, he would be able to bed the woman and walk away; he would also give his life to protect her.

Oddly he felt savagely satisfied.

She would be safe here.

And in five hundred and seventy-seven years, he’d have the pleasure of taking her to bed, of pleasuring her time and again, of watching her come, feeling her come—and coming inside her, again and again.

He’d learned patience long ago. He’d wait.

Royce gave her one last look, and leapt back to the fifteenth century, where he belonged.

ALLIE AWOKE, cocooned in down, aware of being in one of the most comfortable beds she’d ever slept in. She had been so deeply asleep, she felt groggy. So many different birds were chirping outside the window, she became confused. She blinked against warm, strong sunlight, searching for the familiar sound of the ocean echoing on the beach, but she did not hear it.

She was widely awake, staring up at the unfamiliar beige silk pleats of an unfamiliar canopy over the very unfamiliar bed she lay in. Her heart lurched and she jerked to sit up. She took in the bed, with its brown paisley coverings and striped sheets, the fleur-de-lis pillow cases, the larger brown velvet pillows behind them. Her gaze lifted, bewildered, and she saw the entire sparsely furnished stone chamber—and it hit her, hard. She was not at her home in South Hampton.

She was still clad in the sea-foam evening gown; now, she saw her silver sandals on the floor.

The events of the night rushed over her—she’d been at her father’s fund-raiser and a powerful warrior had appeared, thwarting the demonic attack.

She breathed in hard. Last night had been real. A warrior from another time, blessed by the gods, had come to help her fight the demons. Her mother had told her to embrace her destiny and trust a golden Master. Tabby had seen him coming, powerful and blessed, from the past. The CDA rumors were true. She trembled with excitement. She couldn’t wait to tell Tabby, Sam and Brie.

Ye need to hold on to me tight.

Allie gasped, because the last thing she recalled was being flung across the pastures and horses, the velocity ripping her body apart.

Where was she? She was obviously in someone’s ancestral home—she had toured Europe and Britain extensively enough to know an old manor or castle when she was in one. Allie threw the covers aside, stumbling from the bed to the window. The panes were golden glazed glass. She jerked hard on the latch, and the moment she opened the window, she breathed in crisp, scented air that was unmistakable.

She was in the Highlands.

She stared out of the window, stunned. She was on a high floor, and she saw castle walls to her left, ending at a round tower. She realized she was in another, similar corner tower. The castle itself was perched on the top of a high hill, and she saw the sparkling blue waters of a loch or river far below. Across the body of water were the barren, harsh hills and higher mountains of the Highlands. Clouds shrouded the peaks.

Her mind raced with dizzying speed. She’d been to Scotland many times, but not until after her mother’s death. Her mother had been born in Kintyre, her father’s parents in Glasgow and Aberdeen, so curiosity had brought her to the land of her ancestors. She was definitely in the Highlands now; she just wasn’t sure where.

Calm down, she told herself, but it wasn’t fear which clouded her mind. It was excitement.

Her golden warrior had brought her here. But the plaid he wore marked him as a Highlander, too.

She stared out of her window, at the lake or river below, and her senses took over. Allie realized she was looking south, but slowly, she leaned out of the window and gazed to the west.

She breathed harder now.

The magnetic pull was familiar and timeless.

The Ancients were near—in the west.

Allie trembled. Every time she’d visited Scotland, she’d been drawn to the small, quaint island of Iona as if a nail to a magnet. There, she’d wandered the ruins of the late medieval abbey and the Benedictine monastery, aware that the ground below had been hallowed by the great St. Columba, who had raised the very first monastery on the island’s shores. She’d become entirely unaware of the other tourists. Beneath her feet, the ground had throbbed. And above her head, whispers from another time, another era, seemed to beckon her. She felt as though if she reached up into the sky, she might pull someone down to stand beside her; or if she reached into the ground, she might lift some past person up.

Later, lying awake in her bed at the Highland Cottage Hotel on Mull, she had laughed at herself for almost believing that she had heard people from another time. But she was certain of the power and purity of the ground itself. Iona was a holy place, even if she was one of the few people to realize it.

Now, Allie felt the same magnetic pull. She knew, beyond any doubt, that the small island lay somewhere to the west and that it was not far away.

She turned back to the room, regarding it closely again. Her warrior had been a medieval Highlander, but she was in the present—except for two antique chests, the room was a modern one. There was a cheetah-print wool rug on the floor, two impressive armchairs before the fireplace and she’d bet a small fortune the bedding was Ralph Lauren. She crossed the room and thrust the bathroom door open.

It was beige marble from floor to wall, the ceiling mirrored. This was his bathroom. Everything about it, from the sunken marble tub, surrounded by a wall of glass windows, to the plush brown towels, was masculine. She stared at the sink where an electric razor was plugged into the wall, alongside an Oral-B toothbrush.

Allie could scent him now and she felt dizzy, overcome by his power and masculinity. She opened the mirrored cabinet, beyond curiosity now—compelled. She scanned the contents, noting all the usual items, and saw that he used Boss cologne. She almost smiled at that. She closed the door and then jerked it quickly open again. She couldn’t help herself. She looked at every single item inside, but didn’t see condoms.

What are you doing? she asked herself, her mouth dry, her heart pounding. She closed the door and backed out of the bathroom, trying to get her bearings. It was impossible, because she was too consumed with her warrior now.

She forced her mind to work. Her golden warrior had not been in costume. But she was in a man’s bathroom, and that man was as contemporary as she was.

What did that mean?

A quick look into the closet confirmed that she was in a modern man’s room, and that he had impeccable taste. She riffled through Armani suits, expensive button-down shirts and elegant silk ties; she saw Gucci loafers and Polo Tees. But the jeans were no-nonsense Levi’s and he wore tighty whities…

Her heart exploded at a few very interesting, tempting and graphic mental images far too racy for any Jockey ad. She was off track again. She could not resist walking over to the bedside table and looking in the single drawer. No condoms. Did this guy live like a monk?

Stop it, she told herself, her heart accelerating impossibly. The real question was, why was she in a modernized castle? Her warrior was the real deal. He’d had supernatural powers. He’d been able to use energy the way the demons did. He could sense evil the way she did. And he’d used that sword like a medieval knight, making movie action heroes seem inept.

Had she imagined being hurled across the pastures?