Kitabı oku: «The Masters of Time», sayfa 3

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.

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?

She walked over to the other bedside table and searched it, with no results. And the photo caught her eye.

Allie picked it up and saw her warrior and was so relieved she sank onto the bed. It was him. She felt as if she’d just found her long-lost best friend—no, her long-lost lover. He had a buzz cut in the photo, but he was still the hottest hunk she’d ever laid eyes on. And he looked as strong and capable as he was, like a commando who wouldn’t think twice about crossing enemy lines to take out a terrorist leader.

His friends were drop-dead gorgeous, too. The pretty woman was clearly with one of his friends, not that she was really worried about competition.

She stared more closely and her confusion renewed itself. He looked different. He was only in his early thirties, but in this photo looked ten years older. He seemed harder, as if he’d lived through so much and had no soul left….

Damn it, had he been in costume after all?

The warrior who’d appeared last night had been a genuine überhero, but had he been from the present, in spite of the swords, the tunic, the boots?

A knock sounded softly on the door. From the light, tentative sound, she knew it was a woman outside the door. “Come in.” She glanced at the photo a third time. That was her warrior; was he medieval or not?

A plump woman in a domestic’s uniform smiled at her, bearing a tray. Allie smelled the coffee and warm bread and realized she was starving. “His lordship didn’t leave instructions. I must say, I was surprised to realize we had a guest.” But she smiled very pleasantly. “I am Mrs. Farlane.”

His lordship, Allie thought, realizing he was titled. A nice little perk. “I’m Allie.” She smiled. “My visit wasn’t really planned. I mean, one minute we’re at a party in South Hampton, the next, here we are! Thank God for jets,” she added quickly. This woman couldn’t possibly know her employer traveled through time and fought the evil monsters of the night.

Mrs. Farlane placed the tray down on the ottoman by the bed. “Lord Royce doesn’t have a jet. I hadn’t realized he was in South Hampton. He told me he’d be in Edinburgh for a few days.” She seemed unhappy to be out of the loop.

His name was Royce! Of course it was, for the demon had called him Ruari, the Gaelic version of such a name. “My dad has an Astra.” How could Royce be in Edinburgh when they’d been at her Long Island summer home last night? Or had she been sleeping for days? “I’m sorry, what day is it?”

Mrs. Farlane gave her a queer look. “It’s the sixth, dear. I didn’t see any suitcase.”

She had only slept for half of a night. “It was very spontaneous. I’m afraid everything I have with me is on my back.” Clothes, Allie thought, her heart sinking. “Um, where exactly am I?”

Mrs. Farlane blinked.

Allie said quickly, “Royce is a tease! He said he was taking me to the Highlands, and that it was a surprise!”

“We’re at Carrick Castle, my dear, in Morvern—a bit north and west of Glasgow.”

Allie breathed hard—she had been right. “Iona is to the west.”

“Yes, and it’s a lovely island, just a few hours by car and ferry.”

Allie’s heart raced. She’d make a detour before she went home—whenever that was. “When will Royce be back?”

“In the early evening.”

She went still, except for her heart, which now thundered with unbearable excitement. He was coming back and she couldn’t wait to see him. “Are there any shops nearby? I am going to need a change of clothes.” She realized she wanted to find an outfit that would knock him senseless. She had never worried over what to wear to impress a man before.

“The best shopping in Scotland is in Glasgow. Tom can drive you. His lordship pays him a fine wage to be his chauffeur, but then he drives himself everywhere.” She shook her head. “All those cars. How can a man own so many cars? He’s got three garages down the hill!”

“My best friend is that way with shoes,” Allie said. She’d have to call Tabby. She turned to the silver pot and poured coffee and took a sip, black. It was heaven—and that night would be heaven, too.

Every inch of her quickened. She was as excited—and as nervous—as a teenager. It was absurd. It was wonderful!

But she did need a change of clothes and she didn’t have her purse. On the other hand, she was very recognizable. Designers often begged her to take their clothes and were always sending her items, like the gown she was wearing now. She refused to spend ridiculous sums on clothes and accessories, not when that money could go to charity. Maybe she could find a new designer and buy what she needed on credit. She’d figure it out, one way or another.

But there was one more problem.

Mrs. Farlane, however, solved it. “My daughter is about your size, dear. She’s fifteen, but you can borrow some jeans and a T-shirt. Tom will show you the best shops. As his lordship’s guest, our merchants will be thrilled to help you.”

Allie wanted to hug her. “Thank you so much.” Then she gave in and embraced the woman, who started and then smiled.

IT WAS ALMOST seven o’clock, and Allie’s stomach was in knots. She was sipping a glass of white wine in the great room, clad in a beautiful shamrock-green jersey dress that skimmed her body, one she hoped Royce would really appreciate. She hadn’t had any trouble making her purchases. Her driver was well-known, and a few merchants had eagerly charged items to Royce’s account, while others had given her what she wanted. She had been recognized by everyone and when she got home, she would send thank-you notes and checks. She’d also called Tabby, but she hadn’t been home, and Allie had left a message that she hoped was coherent.

She felt like she was fifteen and about to go on her first date.

But considering she had never felt this way about anyone, maybe that was normal.

Barely able to stand the anticipation, she stared across the large room and out the windows, into the cobbled courtyard outside. As she did, a small, dark sports car appeared from the gatehouse, clearly having just entered the castle walls. Allie stood, her heart turning over hard.

He was driving a Ferrari; of course he was.

He probably had A Lamborghini, too.

She couldn’t breathe.

The car stopped and the door opened; she saw her warrior get out.

Desire hollowed her. She felt faint.

His unmistakable aura blazed, red and gold, with some blue and green, the aura of a powerful warrior blessed by the Ancients. This time, it was bursting with sexual heat.

He was clad all in black, in a fitted tee and easy trousers. As he closed the car door, he glanced at the window—and Allie knew he was looking into the room and right at her.

Allie didn’t move. She felt his excitement—or was she feeling hers? Hurry, she thought.

He started around the car and vanished from her view. A moment later, he appeared on the threshold of the hall and his desire made her feel weak and faint. It was explosive. And there was no doubt. It was him.

His silver eyes locked with hers, blazing.

She wet her lips to say hello, but then said nothing at all.

“My lord, when will you be sitting down to supper with Miss Monroe?”

Allie couldn’t look away from him. He was as big and hunky as she recalled, maybe six foot three, the featherweight tee clinging to his broad shoulders and sculpted chest and to his hard, tight torso. Beneath the short sleeves, his biceps bulged. His hips were small, but what was encased below was not. Fabric bulged and rippled. Allie swallowed.

He kept his gaze on her. “Are ye hungry?”

Allie shook her head.

His gaze glittering, never looking away, he said to the housekeeper, “Ye may retire for the night.”

His hot gaze moved over her dress and her legs, lingering on her brightly painted pink toes and the pair of retro platforms she had bought. The shoes added five inches to her diminutive height. Then it lifted. “Hallo a Ailios,” he murmured.

No tone could be more arousing. She felt her heart trying to push its way out of her chest. She felt heat and liquid slipping down her bare thighs. “Hi…Royce.”

He strode forward, into the brighter light of the great room.

She now realized he had the same buzz cut as in the photo. Some confusion began. “I…charged a few things….I hope you don’t mind.”

He smiled seductively. “I hope ye charged that dress.” She nodded. “You cut your hair.”

His eyes flickered.

But now, she looked from the marine-style cut to his eyes—and the lines emanating from them. She tensed. He was the same man who had helped her fight off a demonic attack last night, but he looked older—or had she imagined him looking younger in the dark of the night? And he was modern after all. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Last night, I thought you were a medieval man.”

He paused before her. “It dinna matter. I’m the lord o’ Carrick, Ailios. And tonight, yer mine.”

It was hard to think after such a confident statement, not when he stood an inch from her, not when she knew she could shift her body oh so slightly and be in his arms. But he was not, exactly, responding to her question.

She searched his gaze and he stared back, with a promise that told her she was going to heaven really soon. “You helped me last night in South Hampton, didn’t you?”

He took her wineglass from her and set it down on the table behind him. “Ye talk too much.”

She wet her lips. “I almost thought…I’d wake up in an earlier time.”

He didn’t laugh. Staring into her eyes, he said softly, “Aye. I helped ye, but not last night.” And he clasped both of her shoulders, his hands large, strong and unyielding, like the man she somehow knew he was. Every fiber in her tightened. She could barely stand it.

“I helped ye…six centuries ago.”

Allie tried to understand him. How could he mean what he had said? But his grasp had tightened and he pulled her close, so her breasts were crushed by his rock-hard chest. His body was aroused and strained for hers. She began to blank mentally as his massive erection brushed her abdomen. “Oh.”

“I have waited a long time for this moment,” he said bluntly.

Her gaze lifted to his.

“I have waited five hundred an’ seventy-seven years for ye, lass.”