Page 41 of Dark Rival

“T’is mead,” he said. He turned to the three maids who’d run breathlessly into the hall. “Warm water, soap, bandages.”

Allie now crossed her legs so she could inspect her feet. She had a few cuts and blisters that were no big deal. “I’ll be fine. I bet I’ll be as good as new in the morning.” She’d be better than new if this moment led to where they both wanted it to go.

Royce gave her a look that said she was not off his hook, and he walked away. She had been right—his tunic had that terrific fold in it. Most importantly, he wasn’t acting like an enraged medieval beast.

Allie watched him pour mead into a mug, pleased. He could act like an ass, but he was really concerned about her being accused of witchcraft. He was even concerned because she had slightly bruised feet. He could act like he didn’t care, but he did. In poker, it was a called a “tell.” Actions were everything.

Amazingly she had been in the fifteenth century less than twenty-four hours, and they were on the verge of friendship. It might be an unusual friendship, but his anger of yesterday had been diffused. What they had just shared in the village had somehow changed everything—for her, anyway.

Aidan walked in. “Ye have a powerful white light,” he said.

She grinned. “I’m glad you approve.”

He smiled back. “How could a man nay approve, lass?”

“Pour it on,” Allie said happily.

Royce returned, handing her the mug of mead. He gave Aidan an intense, cool stare.

Allie had the feeling he felt left out. And he was still jealous. She took a sip and reached for his hand. “Aidan is gorgeous, but we both know it’s you I want.”

He just shook his head. “So you admit ye lust after him, too.”

“No, that’s not what I said. I said I lust after you.”

Royce met her gaze and she felt his sexual tension rocket, sky high. So did his temper. “This is a game for ye!”

Aidan laughed and left the room.

Her smile faded. “No, Royce, this isn’t a game. I wouldn’t have traveled back in time five entire centuries if this was a game.”

Royce stared at her, unsmiling. Allie stared back. He hadn’t moved his hand. She said softly, “Doesn’t it feel right to hold hands—to touch?”

He pulled away. “I need to save ye—from yerself.”

Allie started. “What does that mean?”

“Yer the most reckless woman I have ever seen. Yer more reckless than Aidan.” He gestured at the open doors leading to the corridor and staircase.

Allie saw Aidan returning—with two large Saks bags. She cried out in delight. “You did it!”

“Aye.” He handed her the bags.

Allie forgot about her feet. She dug in and gasped in more delight. A green print jersey dress. Matching shoes. A long floral print skirt in white and rainbow hues. A tiny white tank to go with it. A denim mini. Cute tops. Skinny jeans. Jeweled low-heeled sandals by Giuseppe Zanotti. A white halter dress—summery, sexy, innocent, perfect. Oh, yeah, and a red drop-dead number by Escada, floor length, with red satin evening sandals.

She looked at Aidan. “I love you.”

He beamed.

Royce turned red.

“Not meant literally,” she told him, now standing, sore feet be damned. She reached deeper and pulled out a pink lace bra. She looked at Aidan in amazement. “I am not going to ask how you knew the right size.”

“Lots of experience.” His eyes gleamed.

Royce seized the bra. “Ye’ll not wear this chemise—a gift from him!” He threw it furiously aside.

Allie grinned. “I need to wear something!” She grabbed the bra and returned it to the bag and produced a handful of Hanky Panky lace thongs in assorted jewel tones instead. “Perfect.”