Dark Victory (16 page)

“That was pure physics. One object cannot be in two different places at the same time.”

He said, “Take my mother’s amulet, Tabitha. I want ye to have it.”

Tabby went still. “What?”

“Elasaid was a priestess an’ a Healer. She had great white power—like ye do. She dinna cast spells, but her power an’ faith made the Innocent strong. My father used to tell her she’d be lost without the amulet. She dinna deny it.” Suddenly his face hardened and he looked away from her.

Tabby felt a surge of grief coming from him but as suddenly
as she had felt it, it was gone. She touched his bare arm. He still had pain deep within him, even ninety-seven years after the murders of his family, and that anguish had to be faced and released. Suddenly she wanted to help him, comfort him, as urgently and passionately as she had when she’d first glimpsed him at the Met. It felt like the most important thing in her life.

She was shocked by the powerful feeling.

“What happened to Elasaid, Macleod?” she asked softly.

He said, “Ye dinna ken? I have the amulet…she is lost.”

Tabby started. He pulled away from her. He spoke dispassionately now, the way a curator might recite facts to a museum audience. “She died in a fire here at Blayde, an’ her body was never found.”

“I am so sorry,” Tabby whispered. Suddenly she wondered if she’d been unfair to him from the first moment they’d met in her loft. She’d been judging him and condemning him incessantly. He was a product of his times, but he was a good man and he had suffered terribly in his life—and more suffering was to come.

“I want ye to have the pendant.”

Their gazes locked. What did such a gesture mean? She could not fathom why he’d give her a family heirloom, especially a magical one. She did not delude herself by thinking that it had anything to do with their personal relationship. “Macleod, why? Why give it to me?”

“’Twill keep ye safe. It has power, Tabitha, power ye should have. An’ with the pendant, ye’ll never be lost.”

Tabby shook her head. “I can’t take it, Macleod. It’s all you have left of her.”

His face darkened. “Tabitha, I dinna think ye ken how grave the attack was.”

She didn’t like the sound of it. “No, I do. She almost broke my back.”

He said softly, “She dinna wait fer the night.”

T
HE GREAT HALL WAS FILLED
with Macleod’s men and their women, the evening meal concluding. Voices were raised in mild debate, laughter, song and conversation. The hounds had been let in and they were scrounging for leftovers, but they were big, beautiful dogs, and they only added to the unusual warmth of the medieval scene. Tabby sat alone at the table, near its head, where Macleod had been seated while they were eating. She had been starving, but she’d eaten rapidly and mindlessly, too upset to enjoy the wild salmon.

She was exhausted. She was worried about Sam, and about what was going to happen later that night—and she was not thinking about sex, she was thinking about evil. At least it couldn’t get into the bedchamber, even if it could slam a shutter and keep the door closed.

Demons only came out to rape, murder and maim at night. But this vanquished demonic spirit had attacked her in broad daylight.

She felt sick. Okay, she was afraid. That thing could appear at any moment, at any time, in the broad light of day. She would have to be on guard now all the time—there was no respite.

Tabby was sipping red wine and staring at Macleod. She couldn’t help herself. He had turned into her anchor, in a way. If she had to be back in the past, in this kind of predicament, then she was sort of glad he was with her. It was sure better than being alone when the thing came back.

Macleod stood before the fire with several of his men, and firelight emphasized his sculpted features and impossibly muscular body. He’d changed his clothes and was dressed in his leine and his red-and-black plaid—which she had learned was called a brat—and he had come to dinner fully armed. But he was smiling and pleasantly relaxed, a mug of ale in his hand, apparently enjoying being with his friends. It was as if an evil ghost hadn’t just assaulted her inside his home—or assaulted them last night in her New York City loft.

Would any battle of any kind ever unsettle him? Tabby didn’t think so.

Tabby knew that he knew she was staring. He hadn’t looked her way since leaving her at the table, but she knew it. Stories seemed to be exchanged. The conversation was in Gael, so Tabby only caught the occasional word. The men gathered around him were eager for his company and attention. He was well liked, even admired, and he was certainly respected, she thought grimly.

She didn’t particularly like his arrogant attitude, but there was no denying that she admired him once in a while and she certainly respected him.

She was trying to be calm, composed and objective about him and her circumstances, but her elevated blood pressure was a dead giveaway that nothing was normal now. She didn’t want to be in the Middle Ages, but there she was. She didn’t want to be Macleod’s current meaningless affair, but she’d already been there and done that—and her hot, aching body was so insistent she was almost certain she wasn’t going to be able to send him away that night, even if he thought her chattel. She did not want to go home and find her life devoid of passion, returning to her existence as perfect, proper Tabby. But she had a terrible inkling that would be the end result of her jaunt to historic Scotland.

If she survived that hateful woman’s ghost.

It was too bad he was so good-looking. It was even worse that she knew every inch of his powerful body. Thinking about that made her flush everywhere.

He suddenly approached, his stare direct and penetrating. Tabby inhaled. She knew what he wanted. It was time to stand her ground.

There was a principle at stake. He had to understand that he was not her owner or even her boss. He did not have authority
over her. Tabby got to her feet, her blood roaring. How was she going to resist him? She didn’t want to resist him, not now. Only a very foolish woman would sleep alone when her other option was a night with Macleod.

“Damn it,” she said as he came up to her. “This is still wrong. It’s frankly insane.”

His mouth curved in amusement. “Pleasure is natural, Tabitha, an’ I canna stop thinkin’ about pleasuring ye.”

Her insides vanished. Every private inch of her quivered violently. “You do that on purpose,” she accused softly, pressing her palm to his chest to hold him back. Touching him only made her light-headed.

“Aye, I do.” He had a lazy light in his eyes now, one promising all kinds of sensual delights. It was too damn sexy.

Tabby realized her mouth was watering. “I am worried about my sister,” she said, somewhat desperately.

He started.

“Macleod, I’ve been here maybe eight or nine hours. But is it eight or nine hours later in New York in 2008? Or is it days later, weeks later, months later? How does time travel work? Is it the parallel continuum that some say it is? Is Sam a wreck because I’ve been gone all day, or by now, have years passed, without her having heard a word from me? I have to go back. I can’t just vanish from her life forever.”

If she had vanished without a trace, she knew her sister would never quit searching for her. Sam would find a way to track her down—or die trying.

“Tabitha, I hardly have the answers ye seek, except I swear I will make certain ye see yer sister again.”

His words cut through the terrific sexual tension sizzling between them. Did he think she would stay in medieval Scotland forever? Because that was not even a remote possibility. “You mean that I will see Sam again because in a few days I am going home.”

He laid his large hand on the small of her back, fingers splayed low. He pressed her forward, ahead of him. “I said what I mean.”

Tabby inhaled, his touch causing her to tighten. “I am not chattel,” she said, starting for the stairs. He did not remove his hand and, dazed, she didn’t really want him to.

“Aye, ye’re nay chattel. Ye’re my guest,” he murmured.

His sexy tone washed through her. How could he set her body on fire so easily? “Guests leave when they wish to.”

“’Tisna safe fer ye to leave, so why argue?” He laid his other hand on her waist as they moved into the narrow spiral staircase.

Tabby felt her mind start to go blank. Both of his hands held her hips now. She knew how strong he was and she sensed he wasn’t going to let go of her, not anytime soon. “We will finish this discussion tomorrow,” she said thickly. Arguing now, when her body was raging, making it hard to think clearly, was ridiculous.

He suddenly halted her in her tracks and his mouth moved to her neck. He pulled her backward, toward him, and Tabby went still, her heart slamming, as his huge erection burned against her skirt, over her buttocks. They were halfway up the spiral staircase, which was too narrow to accommodate anyone else, and eerily lit with rush lights. “What are you doing?” she gasped—the stupidest question of her life.

He wrapped her hard in his arms from behind, throbbing heavily against her. “I dinna wish to wait.”

They were on a public staircase. She wanted to protest—didn’t she?

He growled and wrapped his huge arms tightly around her, holding her for one moment so she could not move. In that moment, she felt that entire solid length, escaping the tunic, pulsing urgently against her buttocks, over her skirt. She felt
his thundering heartbeat, his savage excitement.
She could not stand it.

He lifted her skirt and that heavy length butted hard against her bare thighs. He ripped her bikini apart, sliding his fingers over her wet, throbbing flesh. Tabby cried out, pressing her face to the stone wall. Tabby felt him coming, massive and slick, and he embedded himself in her.

She gasped, vibrating in pleasure, wrapped in his arms. He moved his mouth against her neck repeatedly, small, hard kisses, while he thrust, again and again, hard and determined. She went over the brink, pleasure becoming rapture. He laughed and then groaned loudly, joining her. He slid his hands lower. He held her there, murmuring to her. His excitement seemed to merge with hers and became unbearable. Tabby wept his name.

H
E COLDLY LIFTED
his sword as Alasdair cowered on the ground on all fours, begging for his life. But he didn’t hear him. Instead, he glanced at the river below. Coinneach was there, running hard toward them, screaming, “No!”

He started, as Coinneach came rushing up the hill, filled with fury, desperate to save his father. But he could not stop what must be. Macleod sent his power blazing at him and Coinneach fell.

He lifted his sword, glancing at Alasdair, who was trembling at his feet.

“No!” Coinneach screamed, struggling to get to his feet. Macleod blasted him lightly again. This time he was annoyed.

The MacDougall boy went down, writhing wildly. Macleod almost felt sorry for him. Then he froze, incredulous, because the tall, blond boy writhing on the ground changed. Suddenly he was dark-haired and twisting in absolute futility against a deamhan’s embrace. He fought furiously, desperately, as
Blayde’s halls rang with screams and sabers, as wood dropped away from the ceilings, falling to the ground, ablaze.

“Nay! Father!”

Macleod wanted to step back, away…Where was Alasdair?

But he couldn’t move, he could only watch himself—an impotent struggling boy. And William looked up as the two Frenchmen began stabbing him repeatedly in the back….

The boy screamed and screamed and screamed.

Macleod awoke abruptly. He was breathing hard, and for one moment, he smelled the fires consuming Blayde’s great room. He was in shock. He had been dreaming of the boy prisoner, Coinneach—and the boy had turned into him.

Coinneach had been helpless to prevent his father’s murder.

He had been helpless to prevent William’s murder, too.

The rage took him by surprise. It suffused him and the entire bedchamber shuddered. And with it came so much hatred, not for his enemies but for that damned fourteen-year-old boy!

That boy had failed everyone!

Her hand covered his clenched fist.

He jerked, aware of Tabitha for the first time, as she lay in bed beside him, their bodies touching. Her golden eyes were wide, warm and concerned.

Let me help you.

He knew he was recalling that long-ago voice. He jerked free of her, sliding from the bed.

“Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” he lied, too late realizing that he was covered with sweat and trembling.
Damn that stupid boy. He had failed….

Tabitha sat up, holding the covers over her chest. “That must have been a nightmare.”

The room was still shuddering. He took a deep breath. “I dinna ken. I dinna recall.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

He paced to the fire.
Let me help you.
He whirled. “Are ye usin’ yer magic on me now, Tabitha?”

She tensed with alarm. “No, I’m not.”

Perhaps her soul was familiar with his. Too much was strange in this world, and he did not dismiss the idea. “I dinna need help.”

Her eyes widened. “Okay,” she said carefully, pulling her knees up to her chest. “But you do seem upset. Are you sure you don’t remember that dream?”

“Women dream,” he snapped. “Men dinna bother to do so!”

“That is such bull,” she said as softly.

He whipped his brat from the chair and wrapped it around his waist. Coinneach was bothering him, he decided. Maybe he should be hanged tonight to end this insanity instantly.

“Why are you angry?”

He trembled. The shutters rattled. “I said I dinna need yer help.”

She was silent for a while, and he was relieved. He poured two goblets of wine. When he handed hers to her, her golden gaze played over his features, lingering on his eyes, searching there. “I can imagine you’re dreaming of war and death,” she said. “This is such a violent time. You’ve probably lived through hell, many, many times.”