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
