Page 112 of Dark Rival

“What happened? Does leaping always make you so horny?”

He almost smiled. “A leap makes any Master randy, Ailios. It’s weakenin’. My body sought yers afore I could think clearly. My body wanted yer body, an’ it wanted yer power.”

Allie understood. The desire after a leap was reflex, and taking power was sexual. “But the first time we leapt, you didn’t touch me. And when I leapt with Aidan, he didn’t touch me.”

“Ah, well, I’d have killed Aidan had he given in to his urges.” Royce smiled grimly at her. “Ye were weak the first time. Ye passed out. An’ ye dinna belong to me then.”

Allie went still. Did Royce know what he had just said? She felt certain it had been a slip, because he suddenly flushed, glancing away.

“Can ye stand?” he asked more quietly. “We’re at Blackwood Hall. I can carry ye.” He nodded toward the rising sun.

“Can I rest a bit more?” She did not want to be carried down the hill like an invalid, but she was really exhausted and felt certain her legs were not up to the task of even a minor stroll. How much power had she given Royce? His aura had never been as brilliant.

She finally glanced around. They were in a lightly wooded grove on a rolling hill. Through the birch trees, she saw a walled castle below, the stones striking red. A village lay below its curtain walls, which were surrounded by a moat where swans floated. It was beautiful. She wondered where, exactly, Blackwood Hall was.

“We’re north o’ Dumfries,” Royce told her.

He bent and swept her into his arms. Allie sighed, giving in. They had to find Elasaid and she was too beat to do anything physical now…even walk. She clung, enjoying being in his arms, as he walked down the hill, leaving the woods behind. His heart beat steadily, powerfully, beneath her cheek. She became aware of the extent of her love. Impossibly it had grown.

She looked up at him. “You never answered me. Do you feel better?”

He hesitated. “Yer light takes the chill out o’ my heart,” he finally said.

Tears came to her eyes.

The sun was just rising and the morning was cold. Villagers were leaving their huts. Cattle and sheep grazed on the commons. As they walked past the first shelters and a common well, the peasants turned to glance curiously at them. Everyone looked at her short skirt and legs, mostly with pity.

Royce growled, “They think ye too impoverished to wear a long garment.”

Allie had to laugh. “I’d rather be thought of as poor than wear what the maids at Carrick wear.”

He gave her a look. “Ye need English an’ French gowns.”

Allie’s heart leapt. “You mean, like the Queen was wearing?”

“Aye.” He glanced ahead, his strides lengthening.

“You want to clothe me in velvet and jewels?” She was amazed.

“I dinna say any such thing.”

“Admit it!” She didn’t need to hear a confession, because she knew that he wished her outfitted like royalty. In spite of the circumstance, her heart filled with joy. She kissed his throat.

“Ye’ll catch an ague the way ye dress. Mayhap Blackwood can find ye a gown.”

Let him make excuses. She was happy—until Allie saw the drawbridge lowering and thought about why they were there. “Blackwood knows we’re here.”

“Aye. I sent him my thoughts last night.”

A few minutes later, they were crossing that bridge in a serious silence. Blackwood Hall was smaller than Carrick and Dunroch, and the main building looked like a manor house, with a single tower above. Blackwood was standing on the landing above the stairs leading up to the hall’s great door as they approached.

She hadn’t paid much attention to him the first time they’d met, when she had been so stunned by Royce’s rejection. Now, she saw a tall, powerful man, too handsome for his own good, his hair as dark as midnight. He seemed to be amused, although what he found amusing, she had no idea. He was dressed in black boots that covered his knees, dark hose and a black wool jacket with a narrow, nipped-in waist, puffed skirt and full sleeves. The skirt did not cover his hips; instead, it exposed his loins. A very large pouch had been sewn into the hose, over his manhood, as if he wore a jockstrap below. Allie had never seen such a sight and she stared. Royce’s manner of dress, in a leine and plaid with no underwear, was sexy as all hell. But this was almost, and maybe even more, revealing.

Royce took her arm. “Dinna ogle.”

“Is that the fashion?” she managed to ask, ignoring him.

“T’is called a codpiece, an’ aye…the English are pleased to strut their manliness with their frivolous surcotes and hose.”