Dark Victory (10 page)

Macleod’s mouth curved and he seized Randall by the shoulder. “Tabitha isna foolish enough to marry ye a second time. She wants ye gone. I want ye gone. Leave afore I cut yer throat an’ give yer carcass to the dogs.”

Tabby cried out. “Randall, you had better go.”

“Holy shit,” Randall cried. “He’s a psycho! He means it!”

Tabby nodded desperately. “I think he does mean it.”

“Then you’re crazy, too!” Randall cried. “A crazy, lying whore!”

Macleod reddened. It took Tabby one moment to realize he
was furious, and by then, lightbulbs were popping, pots and pans were rattling and her curtains were flying around the windows. Macleod pushed Randall toward the door so violently that he fell to the floor again, face-first. Tabby cried out. “Macleod, stop!”

“I can manage insults from such a womanly man,” Macleod spit. “I dinna think ye deserve his insults, Tabitha.”

“They don’t bother me,” Tabby cried, lying.

“He’s insane,” Randall cried, getting up, his face pale. Blood trickled from his nose as he ran to the front door. “He’s got damned ’roid rage!”

“What is ’roid rage?” Macleod demanded.

This was going to escalate, Tabby thought, panicked. She seized Macleod’s arm with both hands and held on for Randall’s life. “It doesn’t matter! He is leaving, Macleod. Just let him go.”

“It means that shit you take to make all that brawn is melting down your brain,” Randall spit. “Tabby might like going to bed with you, but intelligence is what really turns her on. I mean, can you even read?”

“Please don’t,” Tabby cried.

Macleod pulled away from her and started to cross the room, slowly, like a big cat lazily and confidently stalking its prey. “Only Latin,” he said. “An’, Randall? With me, she dinna fake it.”

It took Randall a moment. “What?” he said, turning to look at her, disbelieving.

Tabby felt her cheeks flame and she didn’t respond.

Randall choked, realizing she hadn’t been all that honest with him while in his bed.

Macleod was almost at the door. Randall seized it, flung it open and rushed out. He didn’t even go to the elevator, where he’d have to wait for it to arrive at the eleventh floor. He ran desperately for the stairs and vanished into the stairwell.

Macleod actually laughed. “What a puny man! What a coward!”

Tabby backed away, sinking down on a chair by the couch. She covered her face with her hands. She actually felt sorry for Randall. But he had called her a lying whore.

She heard her front door close. She felt Macleod approach, although she didn’t hear him—he was too skilled and his steps were soundless. Through her hands, she saw him holding out her keys. “Go away,” she whispered. Her mind was blank now, and she wanted it to stay that way. She was pretty certain that in a moment, she was going to think about every damned minute that had transpired in the past quarter of an hour or so.

He didn’t move. “Ye wanted him to leave.”

Her head ached terribly now. Don’t think, she begged herself. Just go to sleep and deal with this—with him—tomorrow!

“Ye despise him. He treated ye horribly when ye were his wife. Ye wanted him gone,” Macleod said flatly.

Tabby looked up. “Okay. I wanted him gone. But not that way.”

“Then what way?”

“I was going to ask him to leave politely!” Tabby screamed at him.

Macleod’s eyes widened.

Tabby covered her mouth with her hands.
What had happened in that bathroom?

He had touched her and she had gone insane. One touch, the feel of him beneath her hands, and she’d been frantic and desperate and sexually crazed. She’d had a violent orgasm, right off the bat.

It always took her hours to climax, usually during gentle, thoughtful sex, with a good and very private fantasy thrown in.

What was she going to do?

He said, “He doesna respect ye and he wouldna leave if ye asked nicely.”

Tabby stood up and her knees buckled. Macleod reached out and steadied her. She struck his hand away, so hard it hurt her own wrist. His eyes were wide, wary, and he kept his hands to himself. “You treated him terribly! Rudely—violently. You acted like a…a thug!”

He was silent, but his eyes flashed with displeasure. Then he said, “I dinna like him verra much. He called ye a whore.”

She was close to tears. Now, images from their very brief encounter in her bathroom were replaying wildly in her mind. She’d tried to climb up his body! She’d clawed his shoulders—literally! His skin had to be under her fingernails. And had she begged him to do it? What was wrong with her?

“It doesn’t matter what he called me. You are violent, savage…bestial!”

He crossed his arms, his face hard and tight. “But ye liked it a moment ago.”

Tabby struck him across the face as hard as she could.

He didn’t flinch, when her blow would have made another man reel. His eyes widened—and then narrowed.

Tabby could barely believe she’d hit him. She’d never hit anyone or anything in her life. She did not retreat, however. “Violence is the way you live. I get it. But here, in my time, in my home, we don’t abuse guests!”

He made a harsh, disparaging sound. “So ye wish to treat him as a guest when he insults ye?”

“That’s right!” she screamed again. Her stomach was churning. Why didn’t he get it? He had rescued her, but they could never be friends, much less lovers. Their values were too different. He lived by the sword, when she used magic to help others. But she had just had raw frantic sex with him on her bathroom floor. And now, damn it, she could not forget it. She would never forget it!

But it wasn’t shame or guilt that was foremost on her mind. It was shock.

She’d been uninhibited and passionate. She’d taken, instead of given. The more she kept recalling it, the more dismayed she was—and the more her body was quickening with the memory. It was so hard to breathe!

“If ye were a man, ye’d die fer that.”

Tabby hugged herself, just looking at him. “Then I’m lucky, aren’t I? Go away. I need to be by myself.”

“Ye dinna care fer Randall. Ye dinna even like him now.”

“Go away—far away!” she shouted.

“He has no respect fer ye. He thinks to use ye fer his own gain.”

He was right on that last point. “Like you respect me?” she cried. “Because I do believe that you were using me a few minutes ago!”

She heard him exhale harshly. He said, “We used each other. Ye wanted me, I wanted ye. ’Tis natural. And I gave ye pleasure.” He added, “I enjoyed yer pleasure.”

She so wanted to hit him again. But he was right—it had been mutual. She stared at him furiously and he stared back impassively. The memory of their brief encounter made it hard to think clearly.

But she did know one thing. “This will never work.”

His brows slashed upward. Then his expression changed, becoming cold and speculative, at once.

“It will never work!” she repeated, pointing at him. Did men die for that rather rude gesture, too? Of course they did!

His hands had fisted. “Ye said,” he said low and carefully, “that many women in yer time take their pleasure when they wish. Now ye’re like most others.”

“I am not like other women. I am a prude, and if you don’t know what I mean, look it up!”

A bewildered expression crossed his face and Tabby simply didn’t care. She pointed at him again. “I am sorry I cast that spell to bring you here. It backfired. You were supposed to come from An Tùir-Tara, all bloody and burned and grief-stricken, so I could help you! Instead, I get this murdering warrior without a soul or a conscience!” She could not control her tone. She was probably hysterical and she didn’t care. “I don’t know why I had to be the one to see you at the museum, damn it! I don’t know why you think you’ve seen me haunting you for a hundred years!
And I don’t care.
” She stopped, panting.

“Ye care.”

“No, I do not! In fact, tomorrow I am sending you back to Blayde, and we can both say a little prayer and hope you wind up where you belong!”

He folded his arms and stared coldly at her. “Like hell.”

Tabby finally became silent. Their gazes locked.

“Someone has to protect ye.”

“Not you. My sister can do that.”

He scoffed at her. “A woman? I dinna think so.”

“Sam is a warrior. You cannot stay here. You do not belong here. That is really obvious.”

“I will stay until I vanquish the evil behind the boys.”

“Shit!” Tabby cried. He wasn’t going to budge. She didn’t even know if she could send him away. If he refused to go, she had a terrible suspicion that he might be able to resist any spell she might cast. “You haven’t taken vows, but now, suddenly, you’re a protector?”

“Ye’re the woman sharin’ my bed.”

She inhaled so sharply it hurt her ribs. She saw his strained face as he loomed over her, his hand in her hair, holding her still, so he could kiss her the way she’d never been kissed before.

He intended to continue this.

What was she going to do?

Image after image came, brutally and erotically now. His huge body, driving up into hers. Her back against the door, on the hard floor. And the incredible ecstasy…

Her blood was so hot she thought her skin might start smoking. She swallowed. “We’re from different worlds,” she said slowly. “Your world is violent and savage—too violent and savage for me. Being together makes no sense. Surely you can see that?”

“I live by my word…an’ my sword, Tabitha. If I dinna destroy my enemies, they will destroy me.” His gaze was hard, but it was also searching.

“I know. And that’s the bottom line—our worlds are too different.” She turned abruptly, her back to him, and reached for her bedroom door, tears finally forming. They burned her eyes. She didn’t know why she was upset. She didn’t know why she wanted to curl up and cry. She prayed he wouldn’t come after her. If he did, she was really afraid of what would happen next.

“Our worlds are nay as different as ye’d like to believe.”

His tone was bedroom soft. Tabby rushed into her bedroom and slammed the door closed, shaking. He was wrong; she was right! Then she covered her face with her hands, giving into utter despair and utter exhaustion, her head feeling explosive.

They did not share any Destiny. It was a mistake, or one big fat celestial joke; it had to be.

The sooner he went back to 1298, the better.

They had nothing in common except for the war on evil.

But what about the desire that raged between them?

Maybe, just maybe, it had been a shocking abnormality—one single instance in her life that would never be repeated, an event that had come out of the terrible trauma of that day.

Tabby felt her tears start to fall. She wanted to be that wildly
passionate woman—just not with a medieval man who callously beheaded his enemies at whim! She stumbled over to her bed and collapsed on top of the comforter there. She was so tired she couldn’t move, not even to get under the covers. But she knew she’d never sleep.

Because now, instead of seeing him roughing Randall up or beheading Angel, she saw him in the bathroom, stripping down, naked, absolutely immodest and too physically perfect for words.

Tabby wanted to moan. Her attraction to him hadn’t changed, and she didn’t know what to do about it. She suddenly wondered if she simply thought about him and what he could do to her, she might find that rapture again. She blushed.

Her bedroom door opened abruptly.

He’d been listening to her.
Tabby lay very still, her body suddenly inflamed. He was going to come onto her—and she was probably going to let him.

But he knelt beside her bed, and his large, strong hand covered her mouth.

Tabby tensed, alarmed.

“Dinna move,” Macleod whispered. “Evil,” he said.

T
ABBY MET HIS
gaze, alarmed.

He removed his hand and leaned over her. “Evil is close by, an’ tryin’ to get inside.”

His breath feathered her. She sat up, shocked. “Here?” It was impossible. The loft was fortified with her grandmother’s powerful spells. Evil had never gotten inside. Slowly, with growing dread, she looked past him and into the living room.

He’d left the lights on. Tabby stared into the living area, only able to partially glimpse her kitchen. If she’d been developing a sixth sense for evil, she did not have it now, because her loft looked exactly as it should have. Nothing felt awry.

She glanced at him. “Are you sure?”

He was crouched by the bed, one hand on the mattress by her hip. He nodded. Their arms touched, bare skin against bare skin. Her body began to vibrate in response to his. Just as she was about to ask him how he could tell that evil was close by, someone rapped on the living-room window.

The loft was on the eleventh floor, but the fire escape was outside.

A new tension began. Tabby looked at him and he nodded. She understood him completely. She slipped from the bed and went to the threshold of the bedroom, Macleod behind her, his hand on her waist.

Outside, the city night was bright and illuminated. The rapping continued on the same window she’d opened earlier to let him in. There was no one standing on the fire escape.

The rapping ceased.

Tabby looked at him, a sick feeling beginning. “What is that?”

He kept his focus on the window. “A ghost, I think.”

“Ghosts can be seen—even if only partially. They haunt us in their human form,” Tabby said. The words weren’t even out of her mouth when whatever was out there began rapping on the other living-room window, this time more insistently.

A chill went down her spine as the knocking intensified, as if the thing was angry. She saw the windowpane shudder.

Tabby tensed. Macleod was right. An entity of some kind was trying to get into her loft. But surely it would not be able to get past her grandmother’s spells.

Glass shattered, exploding into the room.

Tabby cried out, Macleod shoving her behind him. The other window exploded, as well, and Macleod flung a blast of energy at whatever was out there. Power sizzled from his hand, but it was a weak blast, nothing like what she’d seen at school. The glass seemed to hang in the air. He blasted the perimeter of the room again. This time, silver danced along his fingertips, but nothing else happened and the suspended shards of glass finally fell.

Macleod cursed. He spoke in Gaelic, and Tabby did not have to know the words to comprehend them. “What happened to your power?” she cried as the last window began rattling so vibrantly it was almost visibly moving.

“The gods,” he said flatly. He blasted the window again. This time, not even silver shone from his fingertips.

For some reason, he was without his power. A veil of calm slipped over her as a furious knocking on the remaining glass window began. Tabby closed her eyes and concen
trated with all of her power on the evil being trying to get into her loft.

“Evil get out, evil be gone. Grandma’s spells grow stronger, evil is here no longer.”

Sweat poured down her body. She tried to feel the “thing.” But Macleod was standing in front of her, his power like a shield, interfering with her senses. She felt Grandma Sara’s concern and presence so strongly that she smelled her rosewater scent. But she was a distraction, too. Tabby focused as hard as she could—harder than she ever had. The evil was vicious in its hatred, she thought. Its malice began to entrap her, as if an invisible web was twisting around her and drawing her in. It became frightening in its intensity. She strained for the entity, for its evil lust. Tabby began to feel lost in a cycle of hatred, and feel that she was spinning in it, but she repeated the spell again and again. She did not dare stop.

Suddenly there was only her and the evil’s vicious desire to destroy her.

And Tabby was shocked out of her trance by the extent of its hatred.

As her eyes opened, she saw the third and last window shatter. Macleod turned to embrace her, pushing her down to the floor and shielding her from the flying projectiles of glass with his huge body.

She could not lose her focus now.
She tried to slip back into the evil. She felt the web of sticky clawing tentacles grasping at her. She felt the terrible, hellish pull. There was only her and “it” now. And “it” wanted to destroy her—or them.

“Evil get out, evil be gone,”
she chanted, as the evil pushed at her, battering her. And suddenly she was blown back against the wall by a huge wind, in spite of Macleod’s grasp as he cradled her.
“Evil get out, evil be gone. Grandma’s spells grow stronger, evil no longer. The Rose will triumph here!”

Lamps crashed to the floor, chairs were blown over, pots flew from the stove, dishes from the sink, and papers whirled everywhere from her and Sam’s desks. She kept chanting the spell, the hatred of the thing filling her, trapping her. And then the hatred began to fade and suddenly the web that felt like a prison was gone.

An absolute stillness filled the room.

Tabby felt her body give way and she collapsed in exhaustion in Macleod’s arms. Instantly she was acutely aware of being in his powerful and protective embrace. She recalled how he’d held her and tried to shield her during the attack. She began to tremble, fully lucid now. He had refused to take his vows, but this was the second time he had protected her fiercely, giving no thought to himself.

And they were on the floor. His body was huge, inherently and blatantly male. Her pulse was already high; it soared. She couldn’t move away—she didn’t want to move away. Now, no matter what had already happened between them, his body had become an incredibly safe harbor. Stunningly, his embrace felt powerful and right.

Slowly she raised her face. The danger gone, his blue eyes were glittering with heat. She tried to ignore the way that look affected her. It sent a fist through her belly, causing an aching need. She looked over his shoulder at the devastated loft. Had a hurricane swept through, it could not have been worse.

His large hand closed around her arm. “’Tis gone, Tabitha.”

She shivered, aware now of the frigid cold blasting through the loft. The cold went right through her. She met Macleod’s steady and reassuring eyes.

She wasn’t going to even try to deny that she was really glad he’d been with her just then. He had enough courage for an entire army, she thought.

Tabby rose to her feet, still shaken. Macleod let her go and he stood, too. She looked at him grimly. “What just happened?”

He didn’t answer, but she hadn’t expected him to. She left Macleod and walked over to her laptop, which lay on the floor, at least ten feet from the coffee table where she’d left it. She picked it up and held it tightly to her chest. Macleod touched her shoulder.

She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. “Is it broken?”

“I don’t know.” What had tried to get into her loft? She shivered. “If it’s broken, I have a desktop over there.” She pointed at the desk at the other end of the loft, where her Mac was, and stiffened. The computer lay on its side, and the monitor that had been on her desk was on the floor. “I can buy a new laptop first thing tomorrow, if I have to. All my files are backed up.”

“Ye’re brave.”

She went still. In that instant, she knew how important courage was to him and she had the inkling that he did not toss praise about lightly. She smiled grimly. She wasn’t brave, not really, but she wasn’t about to reveal how scared she’d been. She was a Rose, and she’d done what she’d had to do. She thought of how unflappable he’d just been—even without his powers. She couldn’t help but respect and admire his courage, too. But clearly Macleod would never panic, especially not in battle.

She put the laptop on the coffee table. She powered it on, and then went to the kitchen for a garbage bag. “My sister is a warrior—she likes nothing more than to slay demons. She’s the really brave one. You’ll probably meet her in the morning.” She was not going to think about the rest of the night, she decided.

He took the garbage bag from her and their hands brushed. Fire felt as if it sparked between them. Tabby dared to meet his gaze. A long night lay ahead. Evil had tried to get into her loft, and she was glad he’d been with her. So where did that leave them? “Ye need servants to clean this up,” he said.

A very safe topic, she thought in relief. “Our cleaning lady comes once a week. She would die if she saw the loft like this—and she’d quit.”

“I’ll see that she cleans the loft.”

Tabby started. “She’s not a servant, Macleod, or a serf. I pay her with coin for her services and she can leave my employ at any time.” Tabby realized she was blabbering and her composure was starting to crumble. An attack on her loft, after that interlude in her bathroom, was more than she wanted to think about. Abruptly she sat down on the sofa.

What had that thing been?

When had she ever faced such hatred?

Did it hate
her?

“Ye’re tired. Ye used up too much power chasing the ghost away. Can ye rest?”

“I was tired before that ghost appeared,” she said carefully. He wasn’t really concerned about her, was he? He was a ruthless barbarian who used women, right? He had one interest when it came to her—getting her back into his bed.

Except, he kept saving her life. Or trying to do so.

His eyes changed, taking on the indolent and sensual look that choked up her breathing and made her feel dizzy. “I’ll find wood to cover the windows while ye sleep.”

Her insides vanished completely. No matter how cold it got inside, if she let him sleep with her, they wouldn’t be cold at all. Unable to move, she stared at him, her mind treacherously thinking about having that big body beside hers in her bed. She flushed everywhere, became acutely aware of how late it was and what they had just gone through together. Most of all, she knew what would happen if she let him sleep with her.

She’d shout and weep in pleasure while he filled her.

Tabby Rose would vanish, leaving a wildly passionate stranger in her place.

And if that ghost came back, she would rather be in his bed than alone in hers.

She had to rein in her feelings. He was a powerful warrior, but she had to remind herself of their differences and not allow herself to be seduced by his courage, heroism or power. He was ruthless and savage, and she had to remember that. If she decided to sleep with him again, she had better keep her head on straight. It would be a one-night stand.

Tabby almost choked on her thoughts. In the span of twenty-four hours, she was thinking like a stranger—no, her sister. “You’re a helluva partner in a demonic crisis,” she said carefully.

His eyes flickered. “Yer magic was strong. Ye’re a warrior like yer sister.”

She wasn’t certain her magic had helped. “What happened to your power, Macleod?”

“The gods are angry with me because I have refused to take vows to serve them. They aggravate me whenever they can.” A cold smile arose and vanished as quickly.

“Please tell me you are not in a battle with the deities?” Could he be that arrogant?

He was amused. “I dinna fear such a challenge, Tabitha. I am one of them.”

“It would be stupid to go up against the gods—even if you’re related to them.”

He simply smiled at her and she knew he was doing just that.

This was not her affair, she reminded herself. If he wanted to aggravate and anger the Ancients, he would eventually pay. Suddenly she wondered if he’d paid the price of such arrogance at An Tùir-Tara. “Why won’t you take your vows? You were born to defend the world from evil, weren’t you?”

“My duty is to Blayde.”

What did that mean, really? “You can serve your people and take care of your lands while serving the gods, can’t you?”

“I fight evil every day,” he said flatly. “But my word is sacred. If I took vows, those vows would have to come first—always. I canna turn my back on Blayde.”

She could not figure him out. He’d been so heroic a moment ago, but now, his mind-set was incredibly narrow and medieval. Did it have something to do with having lost his entire family in the massacre? That might make him determined to cling to all that was left—Blayde. Maybe he wasn’t even destined for the Brotherhood. For all she knew, guys with überpower were running around the world in every century—guys like Sam’s boss, Nick. Maybe that kind of power was a genetic glitch. But then, why would the gods be angry with him, enough so to interfere with him? The old gods never bothered with mankind anymore. Or, they didn’t bother with humanity in the twenty-first century. It was probably really different in 1298.

“Where can I find wood? I dinna wish to break yer fine furnishings to cover the embrasures.”

She stood up. “No, we are not hacking up the furniture. We’ll use garbage bags…plastic.” She walked across the room, suddenly thinking about his age. He’d been fourteen years old in 1201, and in his time, it was ninety-seven years later. He looked a few years younger than she did—like a young man of twenty-five—but he was over a hundred. He’d lived an entire lifetime. He was a very experienced and worldly man for his time. He’d been in hundreds of battles. He’d slept with hundreds of women—at least.

She shouldn’t care, not about anything other than the fact that he could have taken his vows since coming into manhood, and he’d refused to do so for decades. His mind was obviously made up.

It was a waste.

“Why do ye care about those vows? Why do ye care how old I am or what women I keep?”

She took a box of garbage bags out from under the sink. “Rose women have been helping the Innocent survive evil for generations. It’s our Destiny. We’ve met a few Masters and we’ve thanked the gods they exist. You’d probably make a great one.”

He made a disparaging sound. “Ye’re worried about how many women I’ve had.”

Tabby knew she turned red. “I hate this one-sided invasion of privacy!”