Page 78 of Dark Rival

He must thank the gods, he thought.

MacNeil smiled, revealing two deep dimples. Not looking up at Royce, he said, “Ah, Ruari, ye can thank me sometime.” He ran his blunt finger over the curve of her cheekbone and murmured, “Rest now, Allie Monroe.”

Royce became incredulous. He seized the Master’s shoulder and whirled him, the chamber suddenly a blaze of red.

MacNeil simply grinned as he stood. “Oh, come, I ken she’s yer Innocent, but she belongs to all of us, too. An’ ye canna forgive a Master for taking such an opportunity. I’d be dead if I didn’t want to touch her.”

“Ye had no call to stroke her face!” Royce said, and before he’d even finished speaking, he balled up his fist and struck MacNeil in the jaw.

MacNeil didn’t budge, as if an ancient oak. He didn’t even vibrate. But his kelly-green eyes widened with genuine shock.

Claire cried out, running between the two men. “Stop!” She looked wildly between them. “What are you doing?” she cried, first to MacNeil and then to Royce.

Royce smiled grimly, briefly satisfied, hoping MacNeil would take the bait—because he deserved a pummeling.

But MacNeil only rubbed his jaw. “What’s wrong with ye?” he finally said, puzzled. “T’is forbidden, in no uncertain terms. Masters dinna fight one another. We’re allies, not rivals.”

“Then ye should have healed her without giving in to the need to caress her,” Royce spat.

MacNeil’s eyes narrowed. It was a moment before he spoke. “Come to Iona.” He vanished.

Royce tensed, because he had just been given an unmistakable command. MacNeil had been the Abbot of Iona for as long as he could remember. No Master outranked him. If orders were to be given, he gave them. If decisions were to be made, he made them. MacNeil’s first duty was to the Brotherhood and the Ancients and he left Iona only to battle the highest deamhanain, in the gravest of crises.

“Come downstairs.” Claire laid her hand on his arm and smiled. “She’ll be fine, Royce.”

He glanced at Ailios, now sleeping peacefully in the bed, so small she was dwarfed by it like a child. But she was a lovely, seductive and sensual woman. The sight of her caused his heart to leap, lurch, overturn. “Nay. Leave us,” he said. He took a wood chair, brought it to her bedside and sat down beside her.

He heard the door closing.

He had been out of his mind with fear when he’d thought she might die.

And he wasn’t quite calm now.

He had never wanted to vanquish anyone the way he’d wanted to vanquish Moffat when he’d seen him with Ailios, taunting her, lust in his eyes.

What had he said? Royce’s gut roiled all over again. He had almost finished the task of destroying the deamhan. Had Moffat lived because it was written that he should die by Moffat’s hand in 2007?

Many decades ago, he had realized death did not matter to him very much. His life had become impossibly tiresome centuries ago—2007 was five centuries away, almost as long as he had already lived. But…his life didn’t feel tiresome now. His duty to protect and defend the little woman lying in the bed had become consuming. Every demonic conflict, chase and hunt had new and higher stakes. How could he die when she needed him?

Her recklessness terrified him!

He slumped in the chair. He was tired. He had been tired of the cycle of this life for a very long time. Moray had been the greatest deamhan to ever walk Alba, but he had been vanquished. And then Moffat, who’d existed for centuries, rose up to take his place. For all anyone knew, he might even possess the missing Book of Power, the Duisean, which would explain his ascendancy over all the other dark lords. Moray had possessed the Book before his death. Centuries ago, he’d stolen it from its holy shrine. Many Masters had since searched for it, but it had not been recovered.

When Moffat was vanquished, a new dark power would rise up to preside over all evil. It was the way of the world. The Masters could ceaselessly and tirelessly fight the shadows, but the shadows would always return. There would never be peace, and if there were, the Brotherhood would die.

Still, one thing had changed. This one had become his Innocent in the south of Hampton, and she remained his Innocent now. He could not trust her with Malcolm, and that had become clear this day. And she must live at all costs, even at the cost of his own life, which wasn’t worth all that much anymore, anyway. He could not be sure of Ailios’s Fate, but it was great. Somewhere, it had been written as such.

He looked at her and thought about taking her back to Carrick. He was a man, and his loins filled. No matter how he wanted her, he had to stay away from her, because his enemies must never think they were lovers. That day had proven that, too.

He felt himself flush. The entire castle had seen his concern for Ailios that afternoon. He had told MacNeil that she belonged to him. Claire had witnessed the absurd statement.

MacNeil and Claire could be trusted to be discreet; others could not. He had to keep a firm grasp on his virile nature and his overwhelming attraction to her. But how could he do that, when the moment she was better and they were alone, he was going to want to mount her, pleasure her and have her pleasure him?

The door burst open.

Royce leapt to his feet, his sword ringing as he drew it.

Guy Macleod looked at him and at the woman in the bed. “You willna lust after my sister,” he warned.