Dark Victory (14 page)

He folded his massive arms across his huge chest and glowered steadily at her. “Nay.”

That single word, spoken in an uncompromising tone, was like ice water. She did not speak, panting and breathless, staring at him. He had abducted her and he wasn’t going to send her back. She saw it in his eyes and in every set line of his face. It was unacceptable.

But maybe this was what she deserved for going to bed with him! She’d known all along that doing so was
wrong,
that it was like opening a Pandora’s box.

She turned to the golden Highlander. Tabby knew she should take a few deep breaths and find her inherent good manners, but she said abruptly, “In my time, men are imprisoned for what you did. It’s a felony and we call it kidnapping.”

The golden Highlander looked as guilty as a twelve-year-old boy caught red-handed with the neighbor’s pretty daughter. “I’m very sorry, lass,” he said softly. “But Macleod needs ye fer a bit. An’ no one decides their own Fate.”

Tabby really looked at him. She remained very angry, but she did notice that MacNeil was drop-dead gorgeous and massively built. Like Macleod, he had the powerful body of a warrior-knight. But she didn’t care. “Who are you? The dispenser of wisdom? An oracle, a seer—a Gypsy fortune-teller?”

“I ken ye’re very angry. I dinna blame ye, lass.” And as he sent her one of the most disarming and seductive smiles she’d ever received, Tabby became slightly less angry. His mouth curved with good humor. “Sometimes, when the gods allow it, I see a great many things.”

She became still. He meant it—he had wisdom that came from the gods. Macleod couldn’t leap, but this man could. “Are you a Master?”

“Aye.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I am very pleased to meet ye, Tabitha Rose. I knew yer grandmother, once.”

Tabby gasped. “Are you kidding?”

His beautiful smile vanished. “Sara was a powerful woman, an’ ye remind me of her greatly. I wouldna jest.”

She inhaled. Her grandmother had time-traveled. It was mind-blowing. “Do you know why I’m here? Do you know why my spell to bring Macleod to me in New York worked?”

“But ye ken the answers, Lady Tabitha. Macleod needs ye an’ ye need him.”

Tabby started and glanced at Macleod, who was grim. He’d rescued her at school and had been at her side during the ghost’s attack, but she refused to admit that she needed protection from him. But she thought about that boy again, and the older man who’d suffered in the fires of An Tùir-Tara. “I don’t think he’ll need me until 1550,” she said. “Which begs the question, am I in the right time?”

MacNeil smiled. “I dinna claim to keep all wisdom, lass, just some of it.”

Tabby looked at Macleod, who was staring at her. She felt his sharp interest. She was going to have to forget about his needing her in another two-hundred-and-fifty years. She had better stay in the here and now—which was 1298, with a super-macho, supermedieval protector she didn’t want and was mad as all hell at. And he certainly didn’t need her now—except, maybe, for sex.

Both men looked at her.

She instantly had the awful feeling they were reading her mind, and she blushed. “Don’t you dare invade my thoughts now! And I am speaking to the both of you!”

She saw on Macleod’s face that he’d been lurking. It was the slightest glint in his eyes that gave him away. “I canna comprehend a single word ye speak otherwise.”

“Great!” she cried. “How perfect is that—we don’t even share a language!”

He made a sound of disgust. “We share many languages,” he snapped. “Tonight I’ll show ye how many!”

“Do not bring up last night,” she warned. “Tonight, we are having separate bedrooms.”

For one instant, he seemed puzzled, and then he gave her an incredulous look.

He intended to continue their affair.
Tabby felt the unbelievable ache in her midsection, at once hollow and intense. “You abducted me,” she cried.

“I had but a moment to decide what to do,” he shot back. “How many times must I say that I wish to keep ye safe?”

She trembled. Then Tabby looked at MacNeil, who seemed rather entertained. Her focus moved past both men, to the stark splendor of the castle set high above them. Why was it familiar? There was a reason for everything, although just then she hated admitting that. She was at Blayde in 1298. If that was meant to be, then her spell bringing Macleod to her hadn’t backfired at all. But then why had it all begun at the Met? What was the role of An Tùir-Tara?

“If ye let yer anger go, ye might find yerself pleased to be here,” MacNeil chided softly.

Tabby tore her attention from the castle. First Allie, then Brie and now her. “Why am I here?” she demanded.

“I told ye already. Ye need him and he needs ye.”

She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Have I been here before?”

“Never,” MacNeil said.

Tabby was shocked. She’d expected him to say yes, and to possibly tell her she’d had a past life at Blayde in the thirteenth century. “Are you sure? Because everything is so familiar.”

“I am very certain,” MacNeil said. “The soul is a strange
entity. It moves an’ feels in mysterious ways. I wouldna question yer feelings, Lady Tabitha.”

Tabby was aghast. “If I haven’t had a past life here, then my soul knows
nothing,
damn it.” Was he suggesting her soul knew this place? That it knew Macleod?

MacNeil said softly, “Ye must play this out, Tabitha. I would never bring ye back if I dinna think it wise to do so.”

You’ll have to play this out, Tabby.
First Sam, now MacNeil. Tabby stared grimly at MacNeil, whose eyes were kind, and then at Macleod, who was filled with tension. Too late, she thought about the fact that she’d promised her sister she wouldn’t leave her. Not only had she done that, she hadn’t said goodbye. Her heart sank. “MacNeil, is there any way I can convince you to send me back to New York?”

Macleod darkened. The wind caused the firs to whip about and the earth rumbled. “He’ll do no such thing.”

Tabby ignored him.

“Macleod isna as dark an’ dangerous as ye think, lass, an’ it will serve ye well to remember that,” MacNeil said simply.

And Tabby knew he was about to vanish into time. “No, wait,” she cried frantically.

MacNeil disappeared into the golden sunlight.

Tabby cried out in frustration, “You’re both outlaws!”

“When will ye finish yer insults?”

Total comprehension began. They were alone. Not only that, she’d been hurling insults at him—not to mention that she’d hit him a second time. She was in thirteenth-century Scotland. Every medieval woman needed a man in order to survive in the Middle Ages. She knew that much.

She was stuck, really stuck. “I’m sorry.”

His brows lifted. “Ye’re nay sorry at
all.
”

“I want to go back and you can’t take me and your partner in crime won’t. I am pretty much a prisoner.”

“Ye’re my guest.” He was harsh. “Let’s go up to Blayde.”

Suddenly Tabby balked. Tears came to her eyes. She swiped at them. She was not going to feel sorry for herself now and she was not going to become a weak, cowardly woman. She was a Rose. If Allie and Brie could survive a leap back in time, then she could manage this predicament.

Besides, if her Fate was helping Macleod, she was not going to be able to resist it or fight it. “You win.”

Before he could respond to her sarcastic quip, she felt the ground move under her feet.

Tabby jerked, because she couldn’t imagine how she’d set off Macleod’s temper now, but he was listening to the afternoon. The ground continued to vibrate. Her mind slammed into gear. They were about to experience a landslide or an earthquake.

He took her arm. “Riders.”

Tabby’s alarm crested. A few riders could not make the ground shake. It was at least a fifteen-minute hike up to the safety of Blayde’s stone walls.

Thunder filled the day.

Blayde’s bells began ringing.

A shapeless mass appeared on the top of the ridge that was closest to them. Tabby squinted and saw the mass rippling, undoubtedly the movement of restless warhorses. Like a pale landslide, it began descending.

“Damn it,” Tabby said. “That’s an army, right? A medieval army?”

Macleod nodded.

T
HE ARMY HAD HALTED
.
Tabby could make out the horses and their riders, as well as three banners in the front ranks, which waved in dark, dangerous colors against the bright sky. Tabby inhaled. It appeared as if a few hundred medieval warriors were facing them. Her heart felt overloaded with fear. Had she landed in the middle of a war?

A lone horseman left the army and thundered toward them.

She stepped even closer to Macleod’s big body, aware now that she was the only woman present among so many savage fighting men. The concept of human rights didn’t even exist in this world. “Now what?”

“Ye can rest easy, Tabitha. ’Tis Ruari Dubh—a friend.”

She was relieved, but barely. Treachery was the name of the game in medieval Scotland. “You are sure he’s a friend?”

“Aye.” Macleod put his fists on his hips and waited.

The posture was not reassuring. She was going to have to start trusting Macleod. This was his world, and he was most definitely a survivor. She intended to be a survivor, too. She had to get home to her sister and her life.

But an odd frisson swept her. She did not know why—it wasn’t really alarm or unease, and she couldn’t identify it.

A Highlander as massively built as Macleod halted his gray charger before them. Her eyes widened. He had tawny hair, a hard face, and wore mail over his leine and a gold cuff above
one huge bicep. He was ridiculously good-looking, but he wore the same frighteningly ruthless expression she’d seen on Macleod and she knew that he was heartless.

Tabby was confused. She had the feeling that they’d met—which was impossible. Wasn’t it?

But his power, which wafted out to her, seemed so familiar. And the gods felt closer, somehow.

“Who is that?” she whispered. Even as she spoke, the thought drifted through her mind that he was not just a Master, but a soldier of the gods.

“Black Royce,” Macleod said.

Even the name was familiar, and her heart lurched with surprise.

“What happens, Ruari?” Macleod asked brusquely, stepping forward.

Ruari replied in Gaelic, his granite expression never changing. He gave her one brief dismissive glance. Clearly he was not taken aback by her modern clothes or Macleod’s sweater and jeans. As he spoke, Tabby stared at him in growing excitement.

Her best friend in the world, Allie, was at Carrick in Morvern—but in the fifteenth century. Her soul mate was a Master named Royce. Shortly before Allie had vanished, Tabby had read the tarot cards for her. Royce had been a powerful golden warrior, a soldier of the gods—so much like this man.

Their conversation stopped. “Is he from Carrick?” she asked Macleod.

He gave her a piercing look. “Aye.”

It was Allie’s soul mate, it had to be. Surely she had recognized him because of that reading. But he hadn’t even met Allie yet—and he wouldn’t, not for more than a century.

Royce was now staring at her. Tabby realized he could undoubtedly read her every thought. She prayed he hadn’t done
so. Then he gave her a look which stripped away her every garment, as if appraising her body for his future use, and he whirled the gray and galloped back to his army.

“I’ll kill him if he ever looks at ye again,” Macleod said harshly.

Tabby’s excitement vanished. She hadn’t liked that utterly objective look. It had been the look of a man who only wished to use a woman’s body—there had been nothing admiring about it. Allie was going to tame
that?

“Who is Allie?” Macleod demanded.

“Allie is my friend. She’s a Healer. And she’s at Carrick Castle in 1436.”

He was disbelieving. “With Ruari? I dinna think so.”

Tabby decided not to argue. “What did he want?”

“I dinna wish ye to bother yerself with Highland politics.”

“Macleod!” Her newfound temper blazed. “I am here against my will and you tell me not to bother with the lay of the land? I don’t think so! Do you want to get along with me or not? I need to know what’s going on. I have no intention of walking into the arms of your enemies by mistake.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Ye can hardly do so if ye dinna leave the safety of Blayde.”

“So I am a prisoner.”

“Ye debate like a man!”

Tabby started. “That’s a compliment.”

“To be called manly?” He shook his head and sighed. “I dinna wish fer ye to stay angry with me, Tabitha. Ye ken Melvaig belongs to my enemies. The laird of Melvaig has been caught stealin’ my cattle. But he is in my tower now.”

“That’s it?” She was incredulous. Then she said softly, “What did Royce want?”

“The lady of Melvaig seeks revenge upon me. She has vowed it. Ruari came to warn me.”

“Nice of him,” Tabby said. But she did not like the way he was regarding her now. It sent a shiver up and then down her spine. “Okay, what is it? Have I grown a third ear
and
warts?”

“Tabitha,” he said quietly. “She is a black witch.”

The shiver became chills.

H
E MUST NOT LET
Tabitha war with the witch of Melvaig.

He entered his great hall, with Tabitha at his side. She was also grim, but for more reasons than what he’d just told her.

She hadn’t liked the human bones she’d seen in the dry moat, bones left on purpose as a warning to his enemies not to dare try to breach Blayde’s walls. She had skipped quickly over the trapdoors beneath the floors of the entry hall, as if afraid they might open, and he knew that she was aware that lethal objects lay below in the cellars, objects that would impale her if she fell. She had not liked how heavily armed his men were, neither the watch on the ramparts nor those coming and going in the barbican. She was very familiar with his time—apparently she had read many books on the subject of Scotland. He understood her interest. Her ancestors had come from Narne.

At least her anger had vanished. Now, she was anxious, thinking mostly about the black witch and the war of witches that would come in two-and-a-half centuries at An Tùir-Tara, but also worrying about just how violent his time was. She would never find out. She was the gentlest woman he had ever met, in spite of her temper and inclination to hit him, and he would keep her from all harm.

His most trusted warrior had met him before he and Tabitha were halfway across the inner ward. He gave Rob a look which told him to pause. He turned to Tabitha. “Do ye think ye can take a moment or so to rest?”

Her attention was on the hall, not him. It flew back to his face. “I doubt it.”

“Ye’re safe within Blayde’s walls, Tabitha,” he said. “My enemies willna attempt treachery here.”

“Except that the lady of Melvaig has sworn revenge and the threat is serious enough that Royce thought he should warn you of it.”

She was so clever. “Revenge is our daily bread,” he said flatly.

“She’s a witch. And either she’s still around in 1550, or her progeny is. In any case, Macleod, if she’s the witch we read about at the Met, then that means she wins all your wars now.”

He stiffened. “If she decides to cast her black magic at me, I will go to Melvaig an’ vanquish her.”

“Maybe you’d better take your vows so you can count on your powers.”

Now he was annoyed. She was becoming as opinionated as MacNeil on the subject of his vows. “I can choke her with my two hands—or take her head with my sword.”

She paled.

He nodded at a serving maid and walked away from her, Rob hurrying to catch up.

She called after him. “What will you do now? Interrogate the cattle rustler?”

He did not look back. “My prisoner doesna concern ye.”

“Tonight we’re going to discuss the Geneva Convention,” she said.

Tonight he was going to pleasure her as never before, and there would be no time for talk. He smiled slightly at the notion.

Let me help you.

He tensed, whirling, but she was walking away from him and she hadn’t spoken. Why had he just recalled her soft, garbled tone, the voice he’d heard that day so long ago when he’d buried his family at sea, the voice he’d heard numerous times, in his dreams or after a long and difficult battle? It was strange.
She hadn’t known him—and he wasn’t even sure she’d been alive when he was fourteen years old—but somehow, she had reached out to him, from wherever she was, trying to comfort him.

He reminded himself to tell her that he did not need comfort, not from her or anyone. He never had, and he never would. He would also tell her to stop pitying that boy. In fact, she should stop thinking about him entirely.

“Guy, what manner of fashion do ye wear?”

Macleod looked at him. Very few men called him by his first name—he’d been named after his father’s best French ally in a time of war—but Rob did so and he did not mind. They were too close, having fought side by side too often. More than once, Macleod had refused to let him die in a bloody battle and had summoned MacNeil to heal him. They had never spoken of Macleod’s Destiny or lineage, but Macleod knew Rob had guessed who and what he truly was.

Many at Blayde feared him because they did not know the entire truth, but had heard of or seen his powers. He was aware that the gossip about him was fierce. Some even suspected that he belonged to the Brotherhood, but the existence of such holy warriors was also mere rumor. No one knew for certain, other than those like himself. But Rob suspected the truth.

“’Tis a fashion from a faraway land,” he said. He could not tell Rob that he had been to the future.

“Those garments look uncomfortable, but the woman is very beautiful.” Rob gave him an odd look. “She speaks back to you.”

She certainly did. “She is verra brave.”

“What land does she come from?”

“A city called New York. ’Tis across the ocean. Their women are different, Rob—they try to live like men.”

Rob laughed. “No woman can live like a man.”

He happened to agree. “She is clever, though, an’ she is a witch.”

Rob started. “Then ’tis a stroke of good fortune ye have her here, to use her in yer war with Melvaig.”

He shook his head. “She willna war with us. I willna allow it. I met Ruari on the hill. He told me that he happened upon Coinneach as he tried to steal three cows.” They started up the narrow staircase, Rob behind him. “We both ken Coinneach dinna come to Blayde to steal cattle—he came to murder me.”

“I dinna think he’ll admit it,” Rob said. “But the guards have heard him swearing revenge fer Alasdair.”

Macleod pounded up the steps. “Let him try.” His entire being became calm and focused—as it should, before confronting the enemy.

“He’s brave,” Rob said, behind him.

Rob would never dare suggest mercy, even if he might think about it. “He’ll be an example to all who think to trespass on Blayde’s land with foul intent.” He reached the highest landing.

Rob joined him, his blue gaze searching. “Ye’ll do what ye must,” he finally said.

“Aye.” The boy was a fool to come to Blayde alone, seeking vengeance, but Macleod would have done the same.

One of his men was standing guard in front of the closed tower door. The guard stepped aside and Macleod pushed inside the square room, his hard eyes moving to the boy.

Coinneach MacDougall was shackled to the wall by one ankle. His eyes blazed with hatred. He spit toward Macleod’s boots.

Macleod paused, hands on his hips, unmoved by the foolish act of defiance. “Ye think yer spit will bother me?”

“My spit shows ye I think of ye as I do a small, worthless bug.”

“Do ye think it wise to taunt me?”

“Murderer!” The boy’s blue eyes were brilliant in his pale face. “Heartless murderin’ swine!”

And Macleod envisioned the boy he’d once been, kneeling on the beach, watching the funeral galleys drifting away. The memory was acute and intense. What was this?

For not only could he recall the moment in utter detail, he suddenly felt a flash of hatred, a flash of rage, of grief.

Let me help you.

He whirled, but Tabitha did not stand in the doorway.

“Are ye ill?” Rob asked.

He shook his head, turning grimly back to Coinneach now. That boy had become a man overnight. Coinneach was sixteen, and he had become the MacDougall.

Let me help you.

Was she haunting him now from his own home? He quickly found his composure. “Aye, I murdered yer father, an’ his father, an’ his father afore that. An’, Coinneach? Ye’ll be next.”

Coinneach writhed against his shackles like a wild animal, filled with fury and desperation. “Go ahead, murder me, too! Lady Criosaidh will destroy ye with her powerful magic, an’ my uncles will destroy Blayde! She has vowed it.”

Criosaidh had undoubtedly already unleashed her spells, intent upon avenging the death of her husband. Over the years, he had avoided most of her spells with the help of MacNeil and an occasional god or goddess. She was powerful, but her spells could not reach him at Blayde, they never had yet.

He spoke coldly and quietly. “Let Criosaidh do as she wishes. Let yer uncles attempt to destroy Blayde. ’Twas foolish to come to Blayde to steal my cattle.”

“I meant to put a dagger in yer black heart,” Coinneach cried, “but ye were not here!”

Macleod had wanted a confession and now he had it. But there was no satisfaction. Instead, there was an odd confusion.
“Had I been here, ye’d already be dead an’ rottin’ in my moat with my blade in yer throat.”

“Had ye been here,” Coinneach said, “ye’d have the blade in yer black heart, an’ yer head would be on a pike at Melvaig.”

“Believe as ye will, fer it surely comforts ye,” Macleod said.

Coinneach spit again.

Macleod was done. He had no interest in continuing the pitiful debate. The boy would die, as soon as he commanded it. Criosaidh would cast her spells; his uncles would launch their armies. Nothing was new, nothing would change.

Let me help you.

He glanced at the doorway again but Tabitha did not stand there. Was she trying to interfere with his prisoner?

“Yer day will come soon,” Coinneach shouted, twisting against the shackles. “If not by my hand, then by another.”

“Yer father should have taught ye tact an’ diplomacy. But ye’re nay a coward like he was, I will admit to that.”