Dark Rival by Brenda Joyce

him.
    Damn it all! He did not care if her feelings were hurt because he hadn't welcomed her with warmth and smiles into his home—and into his bed. When would she understand that he was not her lover? Her lover was dead. And if she spoke the truth, if he had somehow come to love her, then there was the proof that he must avoid her seduction at all costs. His recollection of her these past two weeks was proof he must avoid her or find an entanglement that would endanger her—and him. Ho must never take a mistress, much less care for one. She must never be another Brigdhe. Although his wife's features were faded beyond recognition now, he would never forget how she had suffered because of him: nor did he want to.
    At least he’d had her before dying.
    That knowledge gave him a savage exhilaration. But he didn't know the details of their time of passion. He didn't know what had happened, what it had been life. He didn't know how she sounded when she was coming, or how she felt, climaxing around him. Could he really wait five hundred and seventy-seven years to find out?
    He cursed and drained his wine. His frustration knew no hounds. He would have enjoyed ripping Me Kale apart and hanging his balls out to dry. He felt like doing so now. She was the reason he was as frustrated as a twenty-year-old. It was inexplicable.
    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 firsts,” 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