Dark Victory (17 page)

He actually spilled wine on the sheets as he jerked away. “War doesna bother me.”

“I can’t believe that. War is horrible. Nobody likes war.”

He faced her now. “The Highlands would be better without war.”

She smiled just a little at him. “But war doesn’t frighten you, does it?”

He almost smiled because, finally, he was somewhat amused. “I fear naught, Tabitha.”

“Everyone fears something.”

He drained the wine, feeling better, the disturbing dream receding now. “I fear women who speak too much.”

She gave him a look. “You’re afraid to share your nightmare with me.”

He tensed, dismayed. The dream he’d just had returned full force. So did the pain, the despair, the rage—and now, the guilt. “’Tis nay fear.”

“Really?” She smiled skeptically at him. “I think you cannot control your dreams—and that must be a bit frightening, to a big, bad, macho man like you.”

He twisted and writhed and the deamhan laughed, urging him to watch his own father’s death. Helpless, he screamed….

“Ye need to stop,” he shouted at her.

She sat up straighter.

He fought for composure. It eluded him. “Aye, I had a dream—a nightmare, as ye say. ’Tis done.”

She wet her lips. “I keep seeing that fourteen-year-old boy—you were dreaming about him.”

He was disbelieving. “That boy is gone, Tabitha, an’ I am sorry ye keep thinkin’ about him. Mayhap he needed yer help that day. But ye werena there—except as a spirit or an apparition. He chased the intruders away. He buried the dead. He did what he had to do.” He spoke so harshly and swiftly that he couldn’t breathe.

“I think that boy lost more than his family that day,” she said softly, sadness in her eyes. “It sounds like he lost his childhood—that overnight, he became a man.”

“Leave the boy alone!” he roared.

And he thought of Coinneach again.

He thought of Coinneach’s cowardly father, who had died begging for his life. He thought of Coinneach’s fear and bravery. He suddenly imagined the boy’s head on his pike and his face changed—he saw his own head there.

Tabitha stood up, taking a cover with her. “Maybe you’re too tough and macho for me to help, but damn it, I want to help that boy.”

He whirled, irate as never before. “Then ye’ll have to use yer magic to go back to 1201, aye?”

She shook her head, paling.

He became wary as never before. “Tabitha?”

“I think that boy is here, now, standing right in front of me.”

It took him a moment to understand her. And when he did, his rage erupted and the timbers above their heads started cracking. Stone fell from the ceiling but Tabitha stood as still as a statue. He did not move, either. “That boy isna here, Tabitha. That boy is dead!”

She cried out.

“Ye leave him buried, buried at sea with the rest o’ them. God damn ye!” He stormed from the room.

T
ABBY OPENED HER EYES
.
It took her an instant to comprehend why the ceiling above was dark stone and wood rafters, instead of white plaster.

Slowly she sat up in Macleod’s bed. His power wafted from the sheets and filled the bedchamber.

She tensed, hugging her knees to her chest. It had been almost impossible to fall asleep after he’d left her in that rage. His anger was so obviously a disguise for his pain, and it went deep. She would never forget him shouting at her that the boy was dead. She shuddered. What a terrible and tragic thing to say.

He remained a complicated and medieval stranger, but indifference toward him was impossible. He had done some things she would not condone, but he had protected her several times and made love to her as if the earth was ending. Now, she understood that he had never gotten over the massacre that had taken his family in 1201.

How could she not be filled with compassion for him? No matter how often she thought about Angel or being taken into the past against her will, she could not stop herself from wanting to soothe him and help him. Most ordinary children would be traumatized by witnessing the murders of their family. As extraordinary as he was, it was clear now that Macleod was no different.

She hadn’t ever suffered as he had. Although her mother had been murdered by demons in a pleasure crime, she’d been at ballet lessons when it had happened. It was Sam who had witnessed the violent murder. Like Macleod, her sister had refused to ever speak about it.

Was that why she was with him in 1298? Was she supposed to help him deal with that tragedy? Maybe it didn’t matter, because Tabby couldn’t leave it alone. She knew that intimacy was a terrible idea for them, and her compassion was a form of intimacy, as was the sex. But she was here and she intended to help, no matter how he might roar and rage at her—no matter how it might connect them further. She was compelled.

When he’d stormed out of the bedchamber, he’d been furious with her. She hoped he’d calmed down since then and decided to try to be a bit more subtle the next time she pried into his past. But there would be a next time. Now, though, she realized it would be hard to get him to open up. Men didn’t discuss their feelings in the thirteenth century. She’d probably made him really uncomfortable.

A knock sounded lightly on her door. Tabby called out for the housemaid to enter. A young, pretty redhead came bustling in, crying out because the room was so cold. Immediately she knelt before the hearth, trying to start the fire.

Tabby stared out of the closest window. The shutters had been opened and it was a gray morning, heavy with clouds, indicating rain. The bedchamber had been cold last night, when Macleod had risen from the bed.

The maid jabbed the fire again, but the flames seemed ready to go out. Tabby looked at the fire, threw her mind into the task at hand, and murmured,
“Fire obey me, fire return. Fire obey me, warm the room.”

The maid looked at her, her eyes wide with surprise. Behind her, the fire burst into flames, and the maid jumped to her feet.

Tabby pulled the covers chin-high. “Good morning.” There was no answer. “Do you speak English?”

“Aye, my lady…a bit.”

Tabby smiled. “Thank you for the fire. It’s so cold in here.”

The maid stared. “Are ye a witch?”

Tabby knew just about everything there was to know about the history of witches and witchcraft. The great witch hunts of Europe would not begin until the middle of the sixteenth century. No one was burned or hanged for sorcery in this time. “A little magic can be useful,” she hedged.

The maid smiled. “Can ye help me with yer magic?”

Tabby laughed. “Do you need a love spell?”

“Aye, I do. I’m Peigi,” she added. Her brows lifted. “Ye’re still in the Macleod’s bed, so ye dinna need a love spell—or maybe ye put one on him.”

Tabby tried to decipher that comment. “I have never tried to cast a love spell. Why wouldn’t I be in his bed this morning?” She slid from the bed, seizing the red-and-black plaid at the foot.

“No woman has ever stayed the entire night with the Macleod,” Peigi said.

Tabby thought she’d misheard. After all, he was over a hundred years old and he’d had lots of women. The thought was too disturbing, so Tabby said quickly, “What did you just say?”

Peigi repeated herself.

Tabby stared in surprise. “That makes no sense,” she stammered. Ridiculously, she was somewhat pleased.

“The women he takes to bed are too afraid o’ him to stay the night. ’Tis why he’s never married, I think. They would have to be dragged to the altar, kickin’ and screamin’.”

Abruptly Tabby sat down. Macleod had never married. That was highly unusual in this time period. “That’s terrible,” she said softly. “Women use him for sex and then hurry away?”

“Aye, as far as they can get and as swiftly.”

“I don’t think he’s that bad. Does he beat them?”

Peigi started. “He canna beat a dog, lady, so how could he beat a woman?”

She had laid a colorful bundle on a chair. “He told me to find ye garments.” She shook out a dark blue velvet gown.

Tabby blinked at the beautiful velvet dress. Clothing her was a necessity, she reminded herself. But his sending her a gown felt terribly intimate, as if they were really lovers.

“’Twas his mother’s.” Peigi gave her a sly look. “Ye’re the first woman to stay in his bed till sunrise, an’ now he gives ye such a costly gift. Bein’ as ye did not cast a love spell, ye must have truly pleased him.”

Tabby was incredulous. “I don’t think that’s a gift.”

“He willna want it back. I ken his lordship well. He’s pleased with ye, but he’ll never say so.”

Tabby swallowed. She didn’t want Macleod to be pleased with her—to start feeling some form of medieval macho affection for her. Did she? He might never let her go home if he cared for her. But he wasn’t capable of that kind of relationship, was he?

And she didn’t want to become fond of him, not in any way—she simply wanted to help him out. Disaster and Destiny had brought them together, not rational choice. Her choice of lover would be an intellectual from the twenty-first century.

She fingered the dress, certain it was a necessity, not a gift. But this was costly medieval finery, not the clothes worn by every other woman she’d thus far seen. The sleeves were long, bell-shaped and would trail to the floor, a sign of great wealth, and the cuffs, hem and neckline were embroidered in gold thread. It was a truly beautiful dress, and incredibly refined for the period.

Tabby fought her soft spot for well-made, elegant and beautiful clothes. She didn’t want to like the dress.

“This might be getting too complicated,” she muttered.

“I beg yer pardon?”

First desire, then compassion, and now a really nice dress. “Nothing. The gown is lovely.”

Peigi smiled. “Mayhap he put a love spell on ye, lady.”

She was surprised, but she felt her cheeks warm. “Peigi, I am not in love. I do not go for big brutes who wear swords to dinner—and they’re not even dress swords! However, I owe Macleod for his protection, and I am a bit worried about him. Do you know about the massacre that took his family?”

Peigi sat beside her. “O’ course I do. Everyone knows. His father was a great man who had made peace with the MacDougalls after a hundred years of war. There was a great day and night of celebration. But when the Macleod clan was asleep, they opened Blayde’s doors to mercenaries. The family was murdered afore his very eyes. Fifty-eight kin died that day. He fought wildly, they say, but what could a single boy do? He was only fourteen years old when he became the Macleod.”

Tabby closed her eyes, and the instant she did so, she saw that boy wildly heaving a huge sword at violently fighting men, hacking at their legs and hips, tears and blood mingling on his face. He was screaming incoherently, a combination of rage and grief—she could hear him! She could hear the ringing swords, the shouts.

She shivered. Had she just seen into the window of time? Had she just seen Macleod as a boy, in the midst of the massacre?

In the previous incidents, she hadn’t heard a single sound. But each time she’d seen him as a boy, his image had become clearer, his emotions had felt stronger and more tangible. And now, she’d heard all of those terrible battle sounds.

“Lady, are ye ill? Ye’re as white as a sheet.”

Tabby trembled, suddenly sickened, perhaps from his grief
and despair. But maybe it was because she had just seen unbelievable violence and brutality. Blood had been running across the floor like a high tide. She was filled with anguish for that boy. It had been even worse than he’d let on—or than she had imagined.

“I’m just a bit dizzy,” she said.

What fourteen-year-old boy could survive that massacre and ever have a normal life? He’d become laird that day. “Peigi, did he really become chief of this clan after the massacre, or did someone else run things? Was he laird in name only?” She heard the tremor in her voice.

Peigi was surprised. “He was laird, lady, in every possible way. The Macleod went to war against the MacDougalls that very spring. He led his armies even though he was a boy—an’ he led them to victory.” She was proud. “Our bards still sing of his revenge.”

No wonder he was so cold and ruthless. Then she regarded Peigi, who didn’t seem to think anything of the fact that her laird looked all of twenty-five years old although he had to be one hundred years and counting. “I feel very sorry for him.”

Peigi stood, surprised. “Why would ye feel sorry fer the Macleod? He’s a powerful man, with land and titles, an’ he’s not the first to lose family here in the Highlands.” Peigi shrugged. “’Twas a long time ago. In the Highlands, ye must never trust yer friend—or yer foes. Can I help you dress?”

Tabby was thoughtful as she declined. He had lived through hell. She would always despise such a brutal and violent life, and the way he lived would always frighten and repulse her. But he belonged in the Middle Ages; he was a part of the culture, the times. It was time to stop judging him according to her modern standards. That was simply unfair.

But he obviously needed her help. Now, she knew why she was at Blayde.

T
HE MOMENT
T
ABBY WENT
downstairs she knew that Macleod was still angry with her. He stood at the trestle table with ten men, not speaking, as a debate of some kind raged. Maps covered the table. It almost looked as if they were plotting a war. Macleod stared at her while his men argued. He did not smile.

Tabby sighed and crossed the room. Couldn’t he let bygones be bygones? She was ready for a truce. But of course, she had an agenda. She had been governed by the need to help others her entire life, and realizing that she was there to help him made her feel like herself again. It even felt good. It certainly felt right.

He strode to her, his gaze moving slowly down the blue velvet gown before lifting. “She gave ye a dress that was my mother’s.”

He hadn’t known. She’d been right, it hadn’t been a gift. “Good morning.”

“Have ye enjoyed yer mornin’ with Peigi?”

Tabby was dismayed. “Did you eavesdrop?”

“I dinna ken why I can hear ye from downstairs, across two chambers.”

Great, she thought, becoming angry herself. “I’m not allowed to ask questions?”

“’Tis the past, Tabitha, but ye’ve decided I need yer help an’ ye willna leave it alone.”

She crossed her arms. “You do need help, Macleod. You are an angry man, and it’s justifiable. But no one should have to live with so much anger or, worse, so much repressed grief and guilt.” It suddenly crossed her mind that this was why he hadn’t taken his vows—he was too scarred to do so.

“I dinna ken what ye speak of. I laid them all to rest and gave up mourning that verra day. The boy I was died that day, too.”

She reached out to touch his cheek and he jerked away, eyes dark and angry. She said, “He fought as hard as he could.”
Macleod started. “He did not die. He grew up to be the man standing before me—a determined and courageous warrior.”

“He died that day,” Macleod spit. “I became the Macleod that day—but Peigi already told ye so. Ye choose to harp on it. Dinna even think to press me on the subject of my vows!”

Wow, Tabby thought. Behind him, the fire roared in the hearth. None of his men seemed to mind. While she was a bit taken aback, she wasn’t frightened. He would never hurt her, no matter how irate—she had no doubt now. “I have been judging you really unfairly.”

“Ye feel sorry fer me!”

“Yes, I do.” The fire briefly shot out of the hearth. Tabby ignored it, as she did the jumping chairs. “I am not giving you a pass on things you’ve done—like bringing me here against my express will—but I will never judge you again as I have been doing, Macleod. We’re from different worlds. I understand why you live as you do.”

His eyes shot to hers. He finally said, “Yer accusations have annoyed me. I dinna like bein’ judged, not by ye or anyone. But—” he paused for emphasis “—I have given ye a pass, all o’ the time, because I like havin’ ye in my bed.”

She flushed. “Did you have to ruin our conversation with that rude and sexist comment?”

“’Tis the truth. No woman likes an angry man.” He was sneering. His face remained dark.

He wouldn’t back down. He wanted to offend her. “I hate to tell you, but you don’t frighten me and you can’t offend me with sexual references.” He stared. “Macleod, I am sorry. Can we start over? We have this odd tension, but maybe we can sort of be friends. I actually don’t mind being here for a while, and we do have a common enemy which we need to dispatch.”

His eyes widened. “We’re lovers. Ye’re my mistress.”

She bit back a retort. Slowly, she corrected him. “In my time,
very few women would like being called a mistress. It’s pretty insulting.”

“Aye, because women in yer time dinna want their men strong or to take care of them.”

Tabby was going to dispute him, when she realized he was right. Women liked metro over macho and they were hell-bent on being independent. Which was positive, right?

He began to smile. “Ye’re the most independent woman I have ever met. But I’ll still take care of ye. I dinna need a friend, though I need a mistress.”