Kitabı oku: «The Masters of Time», sayfa 6

He refilled the mug and turned, staring against his will. Instead of lusting for what he could not have, he must dwell on the hard facts. Moffat hunted her and she was out of her time. She did not know their Highland ways. She could not strut about Carrick in such clothes, with her chemise missing, inflaming all men. His men would have raped her had he not come out and made his law clear. She came from a soft time, an easy place. This time was hard and savage and she needed protection more now than ever, and not just from Moffat and the deamhanain.

He would never hand her over to another Master, because his brethren were ruthless when it came to seduction and she would wind up in another’s bed in the brief moment it took for her to become entranced. He had not meant it when he’d told Aidan to take her to Awe; he’d never let Aidan do so. MacNeil had chosen him to protect her, and he could not do so in her time, when his future self was dead. Iona would be a safe haven for her—but he’d have to convince MacNeil of that. Somehow he would do so. Until then, she would have to remain at Carrick, under his protection.

He returned to the bottle on the table. It was not his wish to hurt her. He was not a cruel man. But he was not going to feel guilt, either. He owed but one woman guilt—his wife. This was Aidan’s fault, and he would gladly blame Aidan for disobeying him and creating such a predicament. However, she was in his home now and he should treat her as he would any other valued guest.

Having a clear, determined course of action calmed him somewhat. Almost soothed, he decided to offer her wine. He poured a new mug, and walked over to her. Her eyes widened.

“Will ye have some wine?” he asked brusquely. He could not risk showing her any pleasant manner beyond politeness. Oddly, though, he wished she would smile. Her smile was like the Highland sun rising from behind Ben More. “Ye’ll feel better. A maid will show ye to a chamber.”

She took the mug and cradled it in both hands against her full, soft bosom. He stared, not bothering to hide his avid interest. Any man would look at what she displayed in such a garment and think of being pillowed there in various ways.

“Are you being nice to me now?” she asked thickly.

He dragged his gaze upward. “Ye need to rest.” Surely she knew his suggestion was a command? “Ye can eat first,” he added, realizing she might be hungry.

“I’m not hungry and I’m not tired,” she said, staring at him, her gaze terribly moist. “And I have no intention of staying here—with you, an ogre like no other.”

Her words stung. He reminded himself that he did not care—and no matter what she claimed, he never would. “Ye’ll stay here. Ye need protection. I’ll see if MacNeil will allow ye to stay at the Sanctuary. Then ye go to Iona.”

Her stare intensified. “The only place I’m going is home! Ask Aidan to take me. I don’t want—or need—your protection.”

She seemed ready to shed tears. It was time to end the conversation. “Ye have my protection, whether ye wish it or ye dinna wish it.” And he started to walk away.

“And to think I thought you were a tyrant in my time,” she whispered.

He did not pause, but he did not understand. Curious, he lurked in her mind. He inhaled, seeing her very graphic thoughts about his prowess in bed, seeing him slowly entering her, purposefully teasing her, as she wept and begged. He even heard her cries of pleasure. His pulse raged, almost blinding him. He tried to think of something else, but it was simply too late. He had given her so much pleasure. He was pleased—he was tortured. He whirled.

Their gazes clashed, hers wide, as if she knew his thoughts, too.

When he could push the erotic images aside, he spoke. “I am lord here, Lady Ailios, an’ I demand to know why ye remain so hurt. I saved ye from my men. I’m taking ye under my roof when I never wanted ye here. Ye dinna have to find shelter or food. Ye willna sleep in the rain. Ye should be pleased,” he added firmly. “Another lord would turn ye to the wolves—or force ye into bed.”

“I should be pleased?” She laughed, the sound shrill. “I came back to this barbaric time to find you…. Instead I find a ruthless stranger with no heart whatsoever! What would please me is some courtesy, some respect…and some sign that the man I made love to all night really exists.”

He wondered if this was her way of seduction—to remind him at every turn of the pleasure she’d enjoyed—pleasure and satisfaction he would not have for six centuries. Now, he refused to lurk in her thoughts. He did not dare.

“Where are you, Royce?” she cried.

Her desperation to find his future self washed over him. He stiffened. Why did she want him so? “I’m here in my time, an’ the man ye love doesna exist. I dinna believe he ever will.”

She inhaled raggedly.

“I’m sorry,” he added, meaning it, “that ye grieve so. I’m sorry ye think me cruel, but ye’ll never find yer lover here. Aidan shouldn’t have brought ye back with him.”

She wet her lips. “Is that an apology?”

He was surprised, even confused. “Why would I apologize? I have done nothin’ wrong.”

Dismay twisted her mouth and she fought for her composure. “I don’t believe,” she finally said, low and slow, “that you are indifferent to me. We both know how manly you are, but there is more—I am certain.”

He tensed. She was right—and she must never know. “Think as ye will.” He shrugged. “But tonight ye willna be the wench in my bed.”

She turned starkly white and he regretted his words. “That’s right! Because I won’t be here!” She leapt away, spilling the wine. She shoved the glass at him, red wine stained his leine. “Aidan? Would you mind?” She stared at Royce, her eyes filling with tears.

Annoyance quickly rose. “Ye go nowhere, Lady Ailios, not until I give ye permission, an’ then I’ll be tellin’ ye where to go. Leave Aidan be.”

She gasped. “I beg your pardon. I decide what is in my best interest. I always have….I always will.”

He was incredulous. She was arguing with him—defying him—and not for the first time. “I am lord an’ master here,” he said, holding his anger in check.

“No one is my master,” she cried.

He felt his world still as it always did when he was poised for battle and ready to attack. Did she not understand that she would obey him? Did she wish to war with him? She was a maid! Did she not obey her father or her man, Brian, in her time? “Those are words o’ great disrespect.”

She shrugged. “Sorry! Here’s more disrespect. You are a nice, pleasant person in the future. Right now, you are a cold, cruel, uncaring, selfish ass.”

He smiled without mirth, fighting to hold his temper in check. “Another man would strike ye for such words.”

Her eyes widened in alarm.

“I dinna beat women an’ children—or dogs,” he shouted. Then he leaned close. “I must be very different in yer time, eh? Otherwise ye wouldn’t love me so greatly.”

“You are a hero, my hero,” she said, “and it’s unbelievable that you are the same person. A woman would be mad to love you right now!”

He turned away, wanting to strike something, anything. Why had she fallen so deeply in love with his future self? It enraged him, it pleased him—it terrified him. He preferred her hating him now, didn’t he? It was better for them both. “In this time, women fall in love with me after a mere moment in my bed.”

She flushed.

He slowly smiled, lurking, and his suspicions were right. “Perhaps, Ailios—” and he used his most seductive tone “—ye were nay different, even in yer time. Like all women, ye confused lust with love.”

She inhaled, but he saw more hurt rise in her eyes, and he didn’t like it—or that he’d caused the hurt again. “You fell in love with me, too,” she said thickly.

“Is that why I died?” he demanded. He had to know. “Did I die for ye apurpose—or did I die because I loved ye to distraction?”

She just stood there, stricken.

She had been the death of him. He’d given his life for her, and he was certain he had done so gladly. He saw tears tracking down her cheeks. She was grieving for him and mourning his death.

It was sobering, confusing, dismaying. It was a moment before he could speak. He didn’t mean to touch her, but he laid his hand on her tiny arm. Her warmth slipped over him. When he did speak, he softened his tone. “Ailios, enough argument. I dinna wish to war with ye. Ye canna triumph here. Ye’ll stay at Carrick, an’ here, I decide yer life. Ye’ll leave when t’is safe—an’ only when I say so.”

He released her, not wanting to break the physical contact. Warmth seemed to curl about his insides. It seemed to infuse his bones. Was her white power stealing into him somehow?

“Will you force me to stay here, against my will?” she demanded to his back.

He whirled. “At Carrick yer will bends to mine.”

“Like hell!” she cried, dismayed and furious.

“There is one will here.” How could she fail to understand this fundamental fact of life? At Carrick, he was king.

She stared at him in disbelief. Then she said, “I am not going to stay here. I am not going to stay here while you cavort with other women. You will have to make me a prisoner.”

He was incredulous again. “Yer my guest.”

“I am your prisoner!” she shouted, trembling.

“Only if ye make it so!”

“No, you are the one making it so!”

That she would outdebate him was stunning. In that moment, he did not have a clever reply. “Then consider yerself imprisoned,” he snapped. He turned away. “Black-wood,” he called. “Aidan.” He stalked to the table and slammed his fist on it.

Blackwood came over, his eyes filled with amusement. Royce had not a doubt he’d spied on their entire conversation. He was a tall, dark Lowlander, and his rakish ways were well-known—but he was a Master, and it was to be expected. His father had been a great English nobleman, his mother a Highlander, and he dressed in the English court style, his estates close to the borders there but half a day from the great cathedral at Moffat. His dark blue gaze now went to Allie. “Such a clever wench. A bit outspoken, don’t you agree? Do you really wish to converse now?” He snickered, enjoying himself immensely. “Mayhap she needs a lesson in the ways of masters an’ mistresses.”

Royce was not in the mood for his taunts. But he was right. If he took Ailios to bed, he’d subdue her in seconds. He’d put her defiance to a quick death—replacing it with her lust and her love instead. “Our dear friend Moffat hunts the woman.”

Blackwood’s smile faded, but it was a moment before he tore his gaze from Ailios. “She is a Healer. I can see her white light. How great is her power?”

“Great.” Royce turned to look at her. “She is Elasaid’s daughter.”

She had climbed into one of the two thronelike chairs, the arms and back carved ebony wood, the seat red velvet. The chair dwarfed her. She was heartbreaking in her beauty and if he did not know better, he’d think her fragile. But she wasn’t fragile; she was fierce, with enough courage for ten men.

She glared at him.

He realized that Blackwood was staring at her, and so was Aidan. Both men had admiring and speculative looks in their eyes. He lurked, even though it was the height of rudeness to do so to another Master, and he saw both men thinking about her naked and in their beds. His temper exploded; he saw red. “The woman is mine,” he said softly. And he could not regret his words, no matter how he knew he must somehow do so.

“T’is obvious.” Blackwood shrugged, as if indifferent. “She’s too bold an’ conversant for my tastes. Of course, if you change your mind, I’ll change mine.”

“The lass is in love with Royce,” Aidan said firmly.

“She loves the future Royce,” Blackwood corrected. “I don’t think she cares very much for Royce now.” He smiled with vast amusement. “Don’t you wish to take back your cold, heartless words?” He laughed again. “Most men would greatly wish for such a woman’s love.”

Royce happened to know he was speaking to one of the most conscienceless Masters when it came to seduction and women. “Yearn for her love, go ahead,” he said dangerously. “But go near her an’ suffer my will—an’ my blade.”

Blackwood chuckled. “I won’t steal your woman, Royce, upon my vows. But I will happily escort her to Iona.”

“She stays here until I say otherwise,” Royce snapped, aware that Blackwood was playing him. “Moffat hunts Ailios, but whether to hurt me or have her, I dinna ken.”

“The bishop,” Aidan said softly, referring to Moffat, “was the one who attacked us at Carrick in her time. He killed ye, Royce. He put his dagger right through yer heart when ye were tryin’ to keep Lady Allie safe.” He added, “He seemed to be from the future, too, for he was dressed in that fashion.”

Royce stared, refusing to have any feelings about his own death. But was it possible that his enemy had vanquished him—six centuries from now? Was it possible they would war this way for what felt like a near eternity?

Blackwood’s amusement had vanished. “I’ll send for my spies—an’ place new ones in the cathedral an’ town. I’ll learn what Moffat intends.”

“If he thinks to use her,” Royce said quietly, the idea enraging and terrifying, “she must never fall into his hands.”

Both men became silent and he knew they were both thinking of the rumor that long ago, he’d had a wife who’d been destroyed by the deamhanain. He would not discuss Brigdhe with them or anyone else, and he would not confirm that the rumor was partly right. His stomach sickened with dread. Ailios must never be put in such a position. Ever. He dearly hoped Moffat still sought revenge for Kaz’s death and that it was nothing more.

Blackwood knew Moffat well, considering the proximity of their lands, and he said, “The deamhan is clever. T’is rumored he has discovered pages of the holy Book of Healing. If so, he would want to capture a great Healer an’ have her use her powers with the Book.”

Royce had heard the whispers that Moffat had procured parts of the Cladich, the Book of Healing, stolen long ago from its shrine. That might explain why his armies kept growing. A deamhan with some healing ability would be a terrible thing. “Find out if he has parts of the Book. If so, he must die now.”

Aidan spoke grimly. “An’ how will he die now, if he lives to hunt an’ fight in the twenty-first century?” He was referring to the part of the Code that specified no Master could change what was written in the past or the future.

“I’ll see what I can discover,” Blackwood said, standing. Then he grinned, his severe expression gone. “So you will protect the innocent Healer until this war passes?”

Royce scowled as Aidan also stood, speaking. “MacNeil asked Royce to protect her for his great reasons, which I dinna ken. But he sees the future, when the Ancients allow it. This is written.” His face was oddly bland and he shrugged.

Blackwood shook his head. “Aidan, the woman is wasted on Royce. He won’t find comfort in his black soul with any woman—even this one. The only comfort he’ll have is in a bed.” He gave Royce a slanted glance and languidly strolled from the hall, pausing only to nod at Ailios with an engaging smile.

She nodded back at Blackwood, smiling just a little, and then glanced hesitantly in Royce’s direction.

He thought about the fact that it would soon be dark and that he was sitting there, as hot as a man could be, because of her. But that could be changed. He rose.

Aidan clasped his shoulder. “Dinna play the fool.”

Royce shook him off. “Ceit, a chamber for Lady Ailios,” he told a passing maid as he started across the hall. As he passed Ailios, she jumped to her feet, wide-eyed.

“Where are you going?” Ailios asked, appearing stricken.

He didn’t answer. She wouldn’t be pleased if she knew.

CHAPTER FIVE

“WHAT CAN I BE OFFERIN’ YE, my lady?” the pretty blond housemaid asked.

Allie looked grimly around the stone chamber. A plain bed with four thick posts, covered with wool blankets and a thick fur, was against the wall. Two rustic wood and wicker chairs faced a hearth, where a fire burned. A small wolf skin was on the floor near the bed; the rest of the stone floor was bare. The only attractive piece of furniture in the room was a handsome carved chest by the bed, with brass studs in an interesting design, a pitcher and mugs set on it. The windows were small and narrow and the light outside was dull, indicating that the sun was finally setting. She shivered, already cold in her heart as well as her bones.

“My lady?”

Allie turned. A plaid in Royce’s colors—hunter-green, black and silver—was folded over the back of one chair. She took it and wrapped it around her trembling body. She thought about how dirty she was. “Is a hot bath at all possible?”

The blond smiled, as if relieved. “Aye, ye’ll have yer bath an’ a good supper, too.” And shyly, she curtsied. “My name be Ceit, if ye need anything else.”

Allie raced after her as she went to the door. “Wait.”

Ceit paused, surprised.

Allie had to take a breath. All of her composure was in shreds and worse, she felt despair. “Which of you is his mistress?” Every maid she’d passed on her way upstairs had been young and pretty. It was quite the coincidence.

Ceit’s eyes widened; she blushed. “He doesna keep a mistress, my lady.”

Allie didn’t believe it. “Are you going to tell me he lives like a monk?”

Ceit’s color increased. “He be a man, lady, an’ our lord. He has whomever he wishes.”

Allie hugged herself. She should not care. The medieval Royce was not even remotely like Royce in the twenty-first century. A gulf of six hundred years separated them, and in that time, a man could and would change, becoming entirely different. The Royce she had left a moment ago was barbaric to the bone. He gave new meaning to the word heartless.

When he had left the hall she had known, with all of her being, that he had gone out to get laid. And she was in disbelief.

He didn’t want her. He emanated hot, sexy lust every time he came close. Virility dripped from his body like sweat dripped from other men. But he didn’t want her, otherwise, a barbarian like that would have come on strong. It was the final straw.

Ceit hesitated and left.

Now what?

She stumbled to the chair and curled up there. The fire could not warm her. She had never had such heartache. But she had never been in love before. Was this how her boyfriends and lovers had felt, when she had eventually ended things? She hoped not! She had always tried to be kind when saying goodbye. She had always cared. And Tabby had put a few of her exes under a new love spell.

No one should have to feel this way.

She started to cry.

She tried to remind herself that the man who was downstairs somewhere, undoubtedly with another woman, in the heat of really amazing sex, was not the man she loved. The man she loved was dead. She had watched him die before her very eyes, fighting the evil Satan had sent to hunt them all everywhere, in every time. The only problem was, she knew with her heart that they were one and the same.

What was she going to do?

She had spent less than twenty-four hours with the modern Royce, but she had fallen in love with him. He was the love of her life; she loved him even now and she would never get over him—nor did she want to.

There wasn’t ever going to be anyone else. No one else could possibly compare to her golden warrior. She’d remain faithful to him and his memory until she died.

Except, she wasn’t dead yet and this wasn’t over. Time travel opened up all kinds of possibilities. Her tears ceased and she sat up straighter. That love was worth fighting for. Why was she wallowing in hurt?

What had Tabby said again—exactly?

Allie breathed deeply, trying to think, her determination returning. Tabby had said her life would be turned upside down—and she had been right. She had said someone would die—and Royce had been murdered shortly thereafter. But the Sun had lain beneath Death on the table. From the ashes, there will be a new day.

Allie groaned and stood. Of all the times for Tabby to be cryptic! What the hell had that meant, exactly? She was one hundred percent certain she was knee-deep in ashes right now.

She looked at the fire burning in the stone hearth. She was in a small, cold chamber in a fifteenth-century castle. Time travel was a fact.

She had not expected such a cold, even hostile welcome, or that Royce would be a chauvinistic and heartless pig. Currently he was the jerk of all time, but one day, he would be her lover—and the love of her life. She corrected herself. He was the love of her life, he just didn’t know it yet.

There was hope.

She was a Healer before anything else, but she was a fighter, too. She’d been fighting demons since she was thirteen, and she’d managed to survive evil, in spite of her small size and her lack of warrior power. Fighting was instinctive for her. She was going to fight for a future with Royce. She was going to figure out how to prevent his murder in September 2007. And somehow, she’d survive his current and very unpleasant self.

Allie breathed hard. Her composure had returned, and so had her optimism. But then, she was an optimist by nature. Every time she failed to save a vic, it hurt and she cried. But the next night, she was out cruising again, trying to save the next Innocent. Giving up was not in her nature, not now, not ever.

She just couldn’t help wishing she’d see a glimmer of her Royce somewhere behind that tunic and plaid. She loved the modern Royce, but she didn’t like his antiquated self at all. Did Mr. Medieval even know how to smile?

And why wasn’t she the one in his bed? Not that she’d let him touch her, after he’d been such a complete jerk!

She groaned. He was with another woman, she was still in love with his future self, and obsessed with his present self. Not good, but considering the high stakes, she’d have to deal.

Her door opened. As two lanky boys lugged in a wooden tub, keeping their eyes firmly on the stone floor, Allie smiled, her attention turning to her imminent bath—which she desperately needed. Their shyness amused her. Two men carrying buckets of steaming water followed. They kept their gazes averted, too, and Allie became suspicious. Surely these men hadn’t heard about Royce almost emasculating that giant outside of the gatehouse?

“Thank you.” She smiled at them. “Thanks so much.”

They nodded but didn’t look at her or even speak as they left.

Allie decided she should not be surprised—Royce probably instilled the fear of the gods in everyone at Carrick. Then she looked at the steaming bath and realized she’d have to put on her dirty clothes when she was done. Either that, or dress like the Highland women in those long, shapeless linen dresses.

She had a moment of doubt. Would Royce even look twice at her in such clothing?

She told herself that she was pretty no matter what she wore—and a good, decent person with a big heart. But Mr. Macho Man didn’t give a damn about any woman’s heart—he was interested in their bodies. She was sure of that! And she was shocked because she was suddenly uncertain and insecure. She had never worried about appearing attractive before, or about attracting anyone.

If at all possible, clothes from the future would be a big help. Instantly she thought of Aidan, who liked to shop. He hadn’t seemed bothered by her anger toward him. Maybe she could convince him to help her out. She was pretty certain he was the Knight of Swords in Tabby’s reading. In fact, he was truly decent—it was too bad the medieval Royce didn’t have any of his charm or consideration.

A knock sounded on her door. Allie sensed male power, but not Royce’s. She wasn’t surprised to find Aidan standing there, smiling. There was a slight, mischievous gleam in his very blue eyes. He was still wearing jeans and his beloved jacket.

Allie grinned. “Telepathy? You knew I want to talk to you?”

“I heard ye thinking my name—quite a few times.” He shrugged but his bright gaze veered to the hot tub. “I do hope ye need someone to scrub yer back?”

Allie laughed. “When have you ever scrubbed a woman’s back—without doing anything else?”

He grinned back at her. “Did I say I’d only wash ye?” But his gaze was direct.

This man could seduce a nun, Allie thought. “I’m taken, otherwise I’d share the bath with you.”

His smile flashed. “Aye, I ken. Royce is a fool in this time, eh?”

Allie tensed, imagining him with another woman.

Aidan touched her arm lightly. “I warned ye.”

“Yes, you did.” She couldn’t smile now. “What is his problem?”

“Ye ken, he has no heart. Not yet.”

“I can’t even imagine how that is possible. You have a heart.”

Aidan’s dimples deepened. “I like women, lass. I canna help but be nice to ye. Otherwise my bed would be cold.”

Allie hoped Royce did not become charming when he was intent on seduction. She hated the idea of even his medieval self charming anyone but her.

And Aidan seemed to read her thoughts. He said quickly, “He’s cold in his soul, lass. He doesna speak warmly to anyone.”

“Why?”

Aidan shrugged. “Ye’ll be stayin’ on a bit, then?”

She became serious. “I won’t let Moffat kill him in the future.”

Aidan sobered. “That be six hundred years from now—a very long time.”

“So you won’t help me?”

“I dinna believe ye can change the future. When the Ancients write a man’s Fate, t’is in stone.” His smile appeared. “So ye love him even if he is an ass?”

She flushed. “I do not love the jerko that just left the great room. But, one day, he will be the man I do love.” She hesitated and added, “Hopefully sooner rather than later.”

Aidan folded his arms. “And if ye dinna wish fer me to wash yer back, ye want what from me?”

“Don’t you want me to apologize first for attacking you?” she asked softly.

His smile faded. “Lass, ye watched yer man die. I dinna need an apology.”

“You are so reasonable!” she exclaimed. She wished Royce had an ounce of Aidan’s compassion. Then she smiled at Aidan again. “You do know that you’re my Knight of Swords?”

Aidan looked mildly at her, amused. “I dinna think Royce would care to hear ye say so.”

She took his hand. “I have a huge favor to ask of you.”

He looked at their clasped hands. Allie felt his male interest escalate and she released his palm. “Could you please bring me some clothes from my time? I am not giving up on Royce and I need a few secret weapons.” She thought about Brian. He had really liked her. All of her boyfriends had adored her—and wanted her. Why should a medieval warrior be any different? Maybe a few sexy things would tame the beast.

Aidan’s mouth curved. “He’s a Master, lass. He doesna care what garments ye wear.”

She smiled grimly. “Actually you’re wrong. All men respond to the right red flags—just like bulls.”

Aidan laughed. “I’ll do as ye wish. I dinna mind seeing Royce acting like a bull.”

Allie sobered. “Why is he so angry? Why is he so set against me? Why is he with another woman, when I know he still wants me?”

“I dinna comprehend Royce at all. If I were him, I’d be in that bath with ye, now. But, lass, he has made it clear he willna allow another man near ye. And he dinna have to speak so boldly. I’d lose more than my head if I did share yer bath.”

Allie didn’t hesitate; she touched his cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for being so generous of nature, so kind and for helping me through this really hard time. I can’t thank you enough.”

Aidan’s eyes gleamed. But he stepped away from her. Softly he murmured, “If ye decide to give up on Royce…”

“I will never give up on Royce.”

Their gazes locked. “Ah, well, a man must try.” He saluted her. “I’ll find yer clothes.”

Allie watched him walk out.

ROYCE LAY IN BED, on his back, naked, hands beneath his head. He was more irate and frustrated than earlier, and the maid creeping out of his room did not help matters.

He sighed. “Peigi. I’m sorry…another time I’ll be more pleasing.”

She blushed, facing him, and curtsied. “Ye be pleasin’ all the time.” That was a lie and she fled.

He hadn’t been pleasing—he had been selfish and crude. He had spent ten minutes with her, no more, unable to stop thinking about Ailios. And he had the terrible suspicion that if he hadn’t been thinking of the Healer, he might not have become aroused enough to climax.

That was unbelievable. It was all unbelievable. Bedsport was meant to last for hours—or an entire night. And he was always aroused. What the hell was this failure?

He was immune to witchcraft, otherwise, he’d think Ailios had put a spell on him.

He wasn’t even sated; how could he be? He felt even hotter than before.

But now, he had to make amends to the wench, who was a good maid. She worked hard and never complained. She was lusty in bed. He’d find her a husband with a small farm. She had to be eighteen, maybe twenty. She was ready for bairns.

As he sat up, the door opened. Only one man would enter without knocking. He considered Aidan the son he’d never had, as he did Malcolm, so he merely frowned.

Aidan glanced at him and grinned. “I wanted to thank ye for yer hospitality,” he said, clearly about to depart Carrick.

Royce stood, stalking to a huge chair and shrugging his leine on. His heavy leather belt followed. He never went unarmed, so his shortsword and a dagger were added to the ensemble. “Since when do ye ever bother to say goodbye—or to thank me for anything, much less my hospitality?” He was annoyed and suspicious as he sat and yanked on his boots. And he did not like the amused look on his friend’s face. It was as if Aidan knew he’d just had the one and only single failure of his life in bed with a woman.