Page 59 of Dark Rival

“We had an incredible night, and you want someone else?” she asked.

He said, “I dinna ken if Moffat is behind the attack. He’s one o’the greatest deamhanain in Alba, an’ has been so since the earl of Moray was vanquished three years ago, by Malcolm an’ his wife. Some say he has the Duisean but I dinna think so.”

“Have I totally misunderstood? Have I completely confused you with the man I fell in love with in my time?” Allie cried, feeling like a pathetic fool.

Royce stared. Then he turned and walked to the fire. “Even if Moffat wasna behind the attack, that only means other deamhanain want ye—alive. Yer nay safe here. Malcolm will defend ye with his life, an’ ye will like Claire. She’s like ye. She’s from the future.”

Allie cried, “Last night was about love!”

Royce whirled. “Last night we fucked.” His eyes were finally ablaze. “I ken yer in love with me. Do ye wish to share my bed tonight—knowing that on the morrow ye’ll go to Dunroch an’ that I’ll leave ye there?”

She gasped again. He was ditching her. She could barely think. “You’re supposed to protect me.”

“Aye, protect ye—not take ye to bed.”

“Are you purposefully trying to hurt me? All I have ever done for anyone, everyone, including you, is to be kind and caring. I healed you last night! But you are throwing these words at me—and you might as well be throwing knives! Do you want to see me broken? Is that what you want?”

His face was taut. “I want to see ye alive. I want to see ye home, to yer time, where ye belong—when yer nay in danger.”

Allie stood there, trembling convulsively, as Peigi dashed in with a clean tunic. She had made a terrible mistake. Mr. Medieval wasn’t at all like the modern-day Royce, and from what she now saw, he never would be that man. He was the cruelest man she had ever met—and the most indifferent. In that second, it seemed impossible that he would ever become the man she had fallen for.

Royce stripped off the tunic, revealing his hard and muscular, scarred body, and the fact that, in spite of his words, he was ready to take her upstairs as he had suggested. Handing him the tunic, Peigi blushed.

Allie turned away. She was ill, really ill—heartsick. How could this be happening? Had she imagined him being kind last night? She stumbled from the hall.

“We leave an hour after dawn,” Royce called after her.

She almost whirled and strode back to him to tell him she wasn’t going anywhere with him. But she hurt too much now to fight.

Outside, she sat down on the steps and curled up, her heart shattered and broken. How could this be happening? She had been ruthlessly used. The medieval Royce didn’t love her at all. He didn’t care at all. She had never realized heartbreak could be so painful. How could she have confused the two men with one another? How could she have been so drawn to, and have fallen for, the heartless barbarian? It didn’t make sense, because the cold bastard who was currently inside the hall had held her last night as if he cared—as if he had a heart. But he didn’t—and he had just made that clear.

Allie let the tears fall. And the worst part was, now that she’d given her heart to this Royce, she suspected there was no taking it back.

ROYCE GAVE IN TO HIS RAGE and swept his arm across the table, sending every trencher, the wine and mugs crashing to the floor. Peigi cried out and fled.

Then he grasped his throbbing temples and sat down. He leaned his arms on the table and held his head in his hands, his appetite gone.

Was she crying? Would he ever erase that look of hurt from his mind? He was doing what was best. She was not going to become another Brigdhe. And he had an odd ache in his chest now, for having caused her so much anguish. She was one he never wished to hurt. She had said it herself—she was kind and good and she did not deserve such cruelty.

Why did she have to love him? Had he asked for love or any affection? He’d only wanted sex! He hadn’t made a single promise! He was a man of his word and when he made a vow, it was forever.

That morning, as he slipped from their bed, he’d had the oddest urge to slide back in beside her and hold her, watch her while she slept. It had made him pause.

He had never met such a selfless woman. He had never seen such courage—all of it reckless, but well-meant. She emanated not just her white light, the power of all that was good, but her happiness. When he looked at her he saw more than her beauty, he saw so much purity and joy. He saw hope.

She looked at the gray world as if it were a brave white dawn.

She was everything he was not.

No good could come of the confusion he felt. He’d never held another human being except for the woman who was in his bed and then only during fornication. Holding her last night—and wanting to hold her now and tell her he was sorry—was unacceptable. He had made vows. His duty was to God and Innocence. There was no room in his life for affection for a woman. It would make him weak and she would become a terrible target the moment his enemies knew.

He had to remind himself of that fact now.

He had been fond of Brigdhe. When his father had died, leaving him the great responsibility for Morvern, he’d decided to marry and beget sons. His older brother, Brogan, had suggested he consider Brigdhe. She was pretty, her lineage ancient, her dowry pleasing. He was a dutiful man and she had been a good woman. But he had learned his lesson well. Brigdhe had been captured, imprisoned, tortured and raped because of his love. He had failed to protect her. And when he’d freed her, she’d hated him for his failures. He was not going to repeat the mistake.

He reminded himself of Brigdhe’s terrible ordeal and his equally shameful failure once a year on the anniversary of her death. She had died in old age, well loved by her sons from her second marriage and their grandchildren. Before her death, her presence in his time had been enough to make him remember the lesson he must never forget.

She had died in the spring, and it was autumn now, but it was time to remember. It was time to remember her and never forget. He let his mind open and, with the memories, the guilt began, crushing him.