Page 98 of Dark Rival

Something was going on. “That’s the second time you said you came here to warn him. Is the Queen a demon? Is he in danger?” But even as she spoke, her sense of dread and urgency escalated.

Claire said, “Well, he’s only in danger if he refuses her. I know you’re not familiar with our world, but no one denies the King or the Queen. Here, a royal can decide to execute anyone without reason or cause. Here, there’s no judge or jury and very little law.”

Allie breathed hard. “Frig! Spill it.”

Claire said, “Royce was—and maybe still is—the Queen’s lover.”

Allie was shocked. And then the anger began. “Like hell!”

HE RODE INTO CARRICK’S inner ward, finally finding some distance from his heart. All day a sense of loss had sickened and saddened him. All day he had grimly fought every such sense—and too many images and recollections of Ailios to count. Now, he had other, far more urgent matters to attend—like his Queen.

In all the years he had known Joan Beaufort and been her lover, she had never once come to Morvern. When she wished for him to service her, she summoned him to court. Sometimes he came; usually he ignored the summons. Not because he had ever been averse to bedding his liege—she had many lovers, and she was pretty and hot—but because his vows always came first and her summons were usually inconvenient. And although few men would dare to deny her, he’d never cared how irate she became. He’d been aware that she could tire of such arrogance and order his head placed on a pike—without his body beneath it. But in the past, he simply hadn’t cared.

And when they were together, it had been easy to remind her of why he was valuable to her alive. In bed, Joan was insatiable, wicked and easy to control.

Now, however, he cared about his head. He simply could not depart this world with Moffat hunting Ailios. Unfortunately his sudden lack of indifference to his Fate weakened his position immensely.

But Joan hadn’t come to Carrick because she missed his prowess in her bed. He had not a single doubt she had come to Carrick to see firsthand if the rumors of a Healer with amazing powers were true.

Had MacNeil not ordered him back to Carrick alone, he would still have chosen to leave Ailios behind. Joan must never know how powerful the Healer truly was. And he felt certain Ailios would never be able to hide her abilities for long from anyone, even someone as dangerous as the Queen.

For Joan’s cunning and ambition knew no bounds.

Donald came running up to him, a wide smile on his young face. Royce slid from the charger, handing the boy the reins. He tousled his hair in greeting, looking past him at the royal Household guards blocking his own front door.

But then, he’d already seen the royal pennants waving from his towers. Joan Beaufort had moved in.

“How are ye, lad?” he asked.

“The Queen is here!” Donald cried, his tone hushed with awe. “When I bowed before her, I was so close I could touch her skirts!”

Royce hid a smile and said sternly, “Yer liege is English, lad, dinna forget it.”

Donald sobered. “But the King is Scot.”

“Aye.” Royce nodded to his men as he strode toward the heavy, paneled door. Both guards stepped before it, barring his way with their lances.

“I am the earl of Morvern. Put yer weapons down afore I take them from ye,” he said pleasantly enough. But he was furious that she had put her guards in front of his door. That was Joan, flaunting her power over him—except that power wasn’t absolute, and in bed, she would quickly be reminded of it.

The guards hesitated.

Royce drew his dagger so swiftly no one had even breathed, and as swiftly, his shortsword. The latter he shoved beneath both locked lances, lifting them high. The dagger found the larger soldier’s throat. “I am lord here,” he said.

Lances were lowered.

“Stand aside,” he snapped, irate now. He did not care for the mere notion of bedding the Queen. Once, he had enjoyed her rather depraved passions. Now, he thought it might be an effort to amuse her—and him. The woman he wished to bed that night remained far from Carrick—and was forbidden to him now.

He strode into his hall, sheathing dagger and sword.

Joan sat in a chair by the hearth, her back to him. Her ladies surrounded her and six more guards lined the chamber. Of medium height, buxom and pale blond, renowned as a great beauty, she did not turn to greet him. “You have displeased Us vastly, Ruari.” Her tone was ice.

He shoved all regrets and apprehensions aside. He refused to think of Ailios now. “Then I beg yer pardon,” he said firmly, striding to the front of the chair to face her.

Joan had startling blue eyes and fine features. She looked angelic; she was anything but. King James had fallen in love with her at first sight, while a prisoner at the English court. He loved her still—and had no notion of her shocking faithlessness.

Royce noticed that she wore a court gown in the French style, excessively fitted across the bust and shockingly low-cut. If she took a deep breath, she might expose her nipples, and she was well aware of that.

“You may beg for Our pardon,” she said.