Dark Victory (4 page)

MacNeil seized the bridle.

“Ye were spared that day because the gods wrote yer Fate. ’Tis time to take the vows an’ serve them—or suffer their displeasure.”

That sounded like a threat! “Aye, the damned gods wrote my Fate—ye’ve told me a hundred times. But the massacre was Highland madness. The gods dinna care to save my family and I’m a mad Highlander now!”

“No god can save every man, woman or child,” MacNeil fired back. “’Tis impossible!”

“Let go of my horse.”

“I fear for ye now.”

“Dinna bother to fear fer me. An’, MacNeil? The boy will die another day.” He reached down and jerked his reins free.

“Ye had better think on yer ways,” MacNeil warned, his eyes dark and fierce now. “Because if ye dinna take yer vows soon, the gods will turn against ye.”

Macleod froze. The gods could not turn against him. His
mother had been a holy woman. While no one could worship the old gods openly—it was heresy—she had been their priestess and he had been raised in those ancient beliefs. He still worshipped the Ancients secretly, while outwardly conforming to the Catholic Church. For ninety-seven years, he had been told that the gods had spared his life so that he could serve them as a holy warrior.

How could the gods turn against him? He was one of them.

“I came here today to warn ye, Guy. Continue to displease the gods, an’ they will disown ye. Ye will live a long an’ bleak life, without friends, family, without a wife or sons an’ daughters, huntin’ yer mortal enemies, each day the same. A man of stone, without a heart, without a reason to live.” MacNeil’s eyes flashed and he vanished.

Macleod stared at the boulder-strewn river, the water frothing white now. Without a reason to live? He had a reason to live. He was living each and every day because of that reason—revenge. His life was the blood feud. It was his duty. He did not need friends, family, a wife or children. MacNeil’s threats meant nothing, not to a man like him.

H
IS HORSE KNEW
the lay of the land as well as he did, and it was eager to reach the stables at Blayde. It was easier to ride along the coastline than follow deer and game trails in the interior, even if the going was rocky at times. But when Blayde appeared high upon the cliffs ahead, Macleod abruptly halted the animal. It was dusk, the moon beginning to rise. He was breathing hard and as lathered as his horse.

He hadn’t meant to cross this beach, the very same beach where he’d sent his family and kin to their graves at sea. He hadn’t been back to this small cove since the sea burials, not once. But suddenly he was at that precise cove. He could smell the smoke…he could smell the blood, the death.

He slid from his horse and silently told it to go home. The stallion snorted, sending him an almost human glance before trotting away.

Slowly, Macleod turned.

Roiling white waves broke upon the shore and the rocks there. The surf was always rougher at night, boiling and dangerous. But as he stared, the waves gentled, softly lapping at the beach. The dark sand shimmered, becoming the color of pearls—except where it was stained with blood. The sky became lighter as dawn came and the red sun tried to rise in the gray, smoke-filled skies. A boy stood there on the beach, vowing revenge, filled with guilt and desperation and trying not to cry.

He did not want to remember. Another man might hope to go back in time—especially considering that such a power might be attainable—but not he. He’d been told that the past could not be changed, and he believed it.

He started walking toward the churning ocean. The boy knelt in the sand, watching the funeral pyres as they drifted out to sea.

Although he was observing the boy with complete detachment, he was aware of a deep, dark tension. He paused, staring out across the ocean, but not at the rising moon. He still saw the bleak dawn horizon. The galleys were rocking upon the waves, their sails limp and flaccid, eighteen in all.

He had lost everyone that day.

But he’d found his mother’s amulet in the hand of a dead enemy soldier. Elasaid had worn a small talisman, never taking it off—a small gold palm with a bright white stone in its center, a pendant with great magical powers. He hadn’t been able to send it to sea. He kept it locked in his bedchamber in a chest.

He had not been able to defend his father, his brothers or his mother, or anyone else. He had failed them all. Yet he had survived….

He watched the boy, now on his knees. He began to vomit. Macleod almost felt sorry for him.

It was worse this year, he somehow thought. The boy was closer than ever, when he hoped to forget his very existence. He closed his eyes. Why was the boy so close, after ninety-seven long years?

He was never going to be able to make up for his failures, he thought grimly. He could murder a hundred MacDougalls, but William would remain in his sea grave, and Elasaid’s bones would still be dust.

Suddenly Macleod tensed.

He was not alone.

Let me help you.

Surprise stiffened him.
She had returned.

He began to breathe harder, afraid to move, remembering. The boy had been kneeling on the beach, watching the funeral ships as they drifted away, when he’d felt the woman’s soft, warm presence. He’d heard her, behind him. She had said, “Let me help you.” When he had turned, he’d thought he’d glimpsed a golden woman, but no one had been standing there.

In that first decade after the massacre, she’d come to him in his dreams, offering comfort, whispering, “Let me help you.” In his dreams, she had been beautiful, strangely dressed, with long golden hair, a dozen years older than he was. She had been so vivid and so real that when he had reached out in his dreams he could touch her. Even though her audacity had angered him, he had wanted her immediately, the urgency stunning. But every time he had tried to bring her into his embrace, to take her to his bed, she had vanished.

He had stopped dreaming of the massacre and the dawn burials years ago. But when he was very tired after a terrible and vicious battle, she would suddenly appear. He would feel her strong, comforting presence first. Then he would hear her.
Let me help you
. And when he turned he would see her shimmering apparition. It hadn’t taken him long to realize she was a ghost—or a goddess.

She had been haunting him now for almost a century.

Macleod was certain she was present now.

Let me help you.

Slowly, Macleod stood and turned.

For one instant, he saw a flushed face, wide, concerned eyes and golden hair—and then he saw nothing but the beach and the cliffs above.

It was dusk again. There was no smoke, and two stars had emerged in the growing darkness, along with the rising moon.

He glanced warily around, straining to see in the twilight, but he no longer felt her presence. He knew she would come back. What he did not know was why. He did not care for her haunting. He preferred a flesh-and-blood woman to an elusive ghost or goddess. But one day he would detain her. One day he would find out what she wanted from him.

He started toward the cliffs, where a path led up to Blayde. At least the boy was gone, too.

H
E COULDN’T SLEEP
.

The massacre was on his mind now. If he tried, he could relive that day. If he slept, he might dream about it. Instead, he slipped from his bed, clad only in his leine, leaving the woman sleeping there alone. Without thinking, he stepped into his boots, as the floors were icy cold, and picked up his belt and brat. As he stalked to the hearth he belted the tunic and pinned the plaid over one shoulder to ward off the chill. Outside the chamber window, an ebony sky was filled with stars and a waning moon. A wolf was howling.

The woman he’d taken to his bed suddenly awoke. He knew it without looking at her—he felt her fear and nervousness.
They all feared him, although he didn’t really know why. He never beat his dogs, much less a woman. He didn’t know her name—she was new in the household. Not looking at her, he said, “Bring wine and tend the fire.”

She leaped naked from his bed, seized her clothes and fled.

His head seemed to throb, almost hurting him. He stared grimly at the fire, wishing he hadn’t decided to hunt his enemies that day.

Let me help you.

She had returned.
He was incredulous. His eyes wide, he glanced about quickly, expecting to see her in his bedchamber. She was close by, he was certain, and she was coming closer by the moment. He wanted to end this haunting—he was determined to end it, now, and learn what she wanted from him.

But she did not manifest.

He stared into the shadows of the chamber, waiting for her to show herself. She did not.

“What do ye want?” he demanded of the empty room.

There was no answer.

He smiled without mirth. She’d never amused him, not even that first time.

For one moment, he thought she was about to appear. But as he waited for the sensation to intensify, it vanished instead.

She was toying with him.
He did not like that. But suddenly he looked at the chest that was locked at the foot of his bed.

He thought about Elasaid’s amulet. Uncertain why he wanted to suddenly look at it, he took a key from his belt and unlocked the chest at the foot of the bed. He took out the gold talisman and stared thoughtfully at it. The pendant had always had great magic for his mother. He almost felt expectant or uncertain—and he was never uncertain.

The moonstone in the gold palm’s center winked brightly at him.

The room seemed to shift.

He knew he had not imagined the slight movement of the floor and bed. The sense of expectation intensified. It was as if a gale was about to blow in, but no storm was coming. The necklace burned in his palm.

The maid skittered into the chamber, carefully avoiding looking at him as she set the tray with wine down on the chamber’s only table. Macleod waited while she lit the rushes in the room before hurrying out.

He put the pendant back in the chest and was locking it when he felt her presence filling the bedchamber.

This time, he was not mistaken.

This time, he felt the holy power with her.

Startled and wary, almost certain now that she was a goddess and not a ghost, he scanned every shadowy corner. He could feel her power, strong and white and so terribly bright, but he could not see her yet. “Show yourself,” he ordered. “I am tired of this haunting. What do ye want?”

In answer, he felt the entire room shift.

Come to me.

Her soft words washed over him, through him. He was incredulous now and even more wary. Her message had changed.

She was summoning him.

“Show yourself,” he said again. Could he enchant a goddess with his powers of persuasion? “Tell me what ye want. Why are ye botherin’ me so much today?”

Come to me.

His blood surged. Not only had he heard her speaking, her voice was becoming clearer, even if her English remained strange. She sounded closer. Maybe he would finally discover what she wanted from him.

Come to me.

He looked around the chamber again, and the sense of her
presence intensified. The woman was very powerful and he prepared for battle with her.

By the fire, the air shimmered, as if gold dust danced on the air.

He stared, certain the flames were causing the air to sparkle. But the shimmering intensified; the gold dust began to congeal. Almost disbelieving, his heart thundered as the gold dust began to shape itself and form, so transparently he could see the hearth and fire through it.

Come to me.

He stood absolutely still. Her words were even louder now, but they still echoed oddly. He waited as the dust finally formed into a woman’s tall, lush, truly perfect figure and strikingly beautiful face. He inhaled. In that moment, he wanted her to be real because he desired her so greatly.

If she were a flesh-and-blood woman, he’d end this soon enough with her immediate seduction. But he could see through her to the other side of the chamber. She wasn’t mortal. He was disappointed but not daunted. Even if she was a goddess, he intended to triumph over her.

She stood before him, shifting and swaying, as if on a breeze, and her eyes were golden and mesmerizing. He could not look away. Their gazes had locked. “What do ye want?” He was careful now. He did not want her to vanish.

“Come to me.”

Before he could ask her where she wished for him to go, the air between them visibly sizzled. Macleod tensed and felt the space around him lurch, putting him off balance. The chamber seemed to sigh—or was it a breeze from the sea? And then such a profound stillness came, with such an absolute silence, that he knew it was the lull before the storm, the interlude before the cataclysm.

Instinct made him seize his sword.

She vanished.

And he was hurled up toward the stone roof of his chamber.

In that instant, he thought he would be crushed against the ceiling and that he was about to die.

But the ceiling vanished and he was flung upward and there was only the ebony night sky, filled with stars, suns and moons, which he passed at dizzying speed. He gave into the pain and roared.

“M
ISS, WE’RE HERE
,”
the cabdriver said.

Tabby was so distressed by what had happened at the Met that she’d zoned out the entire taxicab ride downtown. Now she saw the brick façade of the building where she shared a loft with Sam. As she dug into her purse to pay the cabbie, the Highlander’s dark image remained engraved on her mind. Her pulse accelerated. He was hurt and he needed help.

She paid the driver, tipping him generously, and slid from the taxi. The Highlander had been in that fire at Melvaig. It was the only conclusion to draw. She assumed that the amulet had drawn him to the Met. If she hadn’t touched his hand, she might have thought him a ghost. But he was no ghost—she’d felt a man’s strong hand beneath her fingers and it had not been her imagination.

She trembled. He had clearly traveled through time from the medieval world. Was he a Master, like Aidan and Royce? And why had she been chosen to see him? What did Fate want of her?

She inhaled, still shaken. Even if he was one of the brethren, he was hurt. She was not a Healer, but that didn’t matter. No Rose would ever turn her back on anyone in need. She was beginning to think that she was meant to help him. She couldn’t think of another reason to explain what had just happened.

He must have walked out of that fire. He’d looked as fierce
and savage as a warrior who’d just left a medieval battlefield after a bloody and barbaric battle. He was so huge and so muscular, so powerful, that even hurt and anguished, he had been daunting.

Of course, she didn’t even know if her spell had worked.

Tabby wasn’t hopeful. She was pretty good with simple, classic spells—like sleeping spells—but inventing a powerful spell to bring someone to her across time and having it work was a whole different ball game. She might never come face-to-face with him again. That would almost be a relief. On the other hand, their brief encounter was not that of two normal strangers passing on the street. Not when she was a Rose, and he, a Master.

The front door to the building had high-security locks. After glancing behind her to make certain no one was going to follow her inside, she unlocked the door and stepped into the front hall. Another locked door was there, which she unlocked. Inside, the lobby was spacious and modern, with green plants spilling over planters built stylishly into the travertine floors. At the elevator, she leaned her head against the burnished metal door while waiting for it.

It crossed her mind that he had looked at her as if he knew her.

Tabby jerked away from the elevator as the door opened. She had to have imagined that! But he had somehow seemed familiar—or was that because she’d become so obsessed with him? But almost every moment at the Met had felt like déjà vu.

There were twelve floors in the building; their loft was on the eleventh floor, because eleven was a master number. The Roses always looked at the numerology of everything that they did, and tried to choose appropriately. It was more tradition—and superstition—than anything else.

The moment Tabby opened the triple locks on her front
door—before she could even cross the threshold—she knew that something was wrong. She didn’t know if she suddenly had a new sixth sense, one warning her of danger, or if it was mere human instinct.

She froze, staring wide-eyed into the large spacious interior of the loft. For one moment, nothing seemed out of place. An immaculate white kitchen was to her right, while a great room with a media area, a living area and two desks faced her, done in shades of beige and chocolate. The far wall was whitewashed brick, as were two central pillars. She and Sam had chosen the furnishings together, and everything was sleek and modern, classic and timeless, right down to the pale leather sectional and the glass coffee table.

Her gaze slammed to the iron-and-glass table in front of the sectional and she inhaled. A huge bouquet of bloodred roses was in a vase in its center. It had not been there when she had left for the Met that morning. Sam had left at dawn to work for a few hours at HCU, and Tabby knew she hadn’t been back since. No one had access to their loft, except for Kit. Tabby knew she hadn’t stopped by, either—and certainly not with red roses.

Tabby said firmly, “Who’s there?”

Only silence greeted her.

She hated weapons in general, and only carried pepper spray with her, except at night, when Sam insisted she arm herself with a .38. Tabby had been using a protective spell for years; it was one of the few spells she could summon up really quickly. It didn’t afford total protection—madmen and demons could breach it if they were really determined—but most humans could not.

“Good over me, good around me, good everywhere, barring dark intent. Circle formed, protecting me,”
she murmured swiftly. Then she stepped inside, straining to hear, aware of the
white cocoon she was in. She had left the door open so she could run if necessary. “Who’s there?” she said again, more loudly.

The loft was quiet and it felt vacant. Nothing felt awry or evil. She went to the kitchen drawer, took out her gun and went to the first bedroom door. It was wide-open and she glanced inside the room, which was filled with the gray light of dusk. Sam’s bedroom had one dark, almost ebony wall, but the rest of the furnishings were beige. Still, she could see clearly and it was empty.

She checked the closet and the hall bathroom; they were empty, too.

Refusing to put down her guard, she checked her own blue-and-white bedroom—also empty.

Only somewhat relieved, Tabby put down the gun and locked the front door. Someone had left the roses. She walked over to the sofa and sat down, looking for a card. There wasn’t one.

She pulled off her knee-high, medium-heeled brown boots and stared grimly at the roses, wondering what kind of threat they were. Had they been a romantic gesture, they would have been delivered to the front door. The roses were an omen—and not a good one. She’d call a locksmith tomorrow and have the locks changed.

The dark Highlander’s image returned to her mind. Tabby hesitated, and then went to the locked chest at the loft’s far end, set against the brick wall. She unlocked it with the key she wore on the chain beneath her pearls and took out the Book of Roses.

She was pretty sure that the spell she’d made up on the spot at the Met wouldn’t work. The Book of Roses contained just about every spell ever invented. But the Book was almost two thousand pages long. Some of the passages needed translation—they were in a very unusual and ancient form of Gaelic. Although Tabby had been studying the Book for seventeen
years, she did not know it thoroughly—only a very ancient Rose ever could. Her grandmother Sara had studied the Book for generations, and had been able to find spells in a heartbeat—assuming she didn’t already know the spell by heart. But Grandma Sara had been an amazingly powerful and wise witch. She had died of old age in her sleep a few years ago, and Tabby still missed her—she always would. But she often felt as if Grandma was with her still, smiling with approval and encouragement. Just then, she desperately needed her guidance.

Because finding the right spell could be a huge challenge. Once in a while, Tabby could find a spell in a few hours, but usually it took days or even weeks to locate the exact spell she needed. She was almost certain she had neither days nor weeks to find the Highlander.

She prayed for some otherworldly help and began thumbing through the book, pausing to read bits and pieces and key words. As she did, his powerful image remained firmly implanted, front and center, in her mind.

The words began to jumble. Tabby stared at them, realizing she was exhausted from the events of that day, but she did not intend to quit. “Who are you?” she murmured, staring at the pages before her.

Of course there was no answer. She sighed, curling her legs up under her, telling herself she wasn’t going to take a nap, not now, not when she needed to find him. But she could close her eyes just for a minute, she thought.

Her lids drifted closed. She cradled the Book to her chest. She refused to fall asleep; instead, she relived their brief encounter at the Met, hoping for a clue as to who and what he was. But nothing in her memory changed and she was so tired…

Suddenly he was looking at her—and the burns and blisters were gone from his face and body. He was gorgeous. She sat up, wide-awake.

Sheer disappointment claimed her. The Highlander was not standing there in her loft; she had been dreaming.

She tightened her hold on the Book. Her heart was thundering. At the Met, it had been impossible to make out most of his features. She had surely invented such masculine beauty. Real men did not look like poster boys for a romance channel version of
Braveheart.

Someone knocked on her front door.

Tabby tensed. It was impossible for a visitor to get into the lobby and upstairs to her door without buzzing from the downstairs front hall first. But someone was knocking loudly and insistently on her front door. Someone had gotten through the building’s locked doors. She became really alarmed, glancing at the red roses, her concern for the dark Highlander now taking a backseat to the intruder at her door.

“Tabby, are you home?” her ex-husband demanded.

Tabby jumped to her feet.
Randall was banging on her front door?
She hadn’t seen him since the divorce, twenty-one months ago, except by chance one night, when he’d been out on the town with a nineteen-year-old Russian model—one of the many models he’d cheated on her with.

Her gaze slammed to the roses. No, it was impossible. He’d never start things up again—not that she would let him.

“One moment,” she cried loudly, flustered and uncertain. Even though she had no wish to ever see him again, she felt a moment of distress. She had loved him. They’d been intimate, a couple; they’d been husband and wife. She’d given him two years of her life—and she’d thought it would be forever.

But their marriage had been a lie—one big, fat, long lie. Randall was ambitious and successful, on a fast track to the top, making millions of dollars for his clients and himself. He’d been smooth, charming, macho and charismatic, and she’d truly thought he loved her wildly, with all of his heart. While
she’d thought that, he’d been out on the town with the city’s most beautiful women—the kind of women he could brag to his cronies about.

As she went to the front door, she could not imagine what he wanted. “Hello, Randall. This is truly a surprise.”

His gaze slid over her from head to toe, in a very familiar way. He smiled and shook his head. “Even barefoot, you’re as elegant as ever!”

She felt herself bristle, but she contained the surge of anger. She did not want any flattery from him.

Now he said, dropping his tone, “You could walk out of a steam room in a towel, Tabby, and you’d never have a hair out of place.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Aw, come on. You could be First Lady, another Jackie O.”

“I hardly have that kind of ambition.” She trembled. “What are you doing here, Randall?”

His brown gaze was warm as it met hers. “I’ve been missing you and I decided to do something about it.”

She had stopped trusting him a long time ago. “We haven’t seen each other in almost two years. How did you get in?”

“Do you like the roses?”

She inhaled, very taken aback. Suddenly she was angry. “Randall, what are you doing?”

“I wanted to let you know that I’ve been thinking about you. I’m glad you like them.” His focus moved to the roses. “They’re gorgeous. I paid top dollar. When I ordered them, I told the florist only the best will do.”

“They’re inappropriate, Randall.”

He grinned. “I think they’re really appropriate—gorgeous, yet classic.”

It was hard to breathe. Randall had always admired her style, her sense of fashion and her grace. He had been so proud of how
“elegant” she was. By the divorce, she’d come to hate that word. She vividly recalled a party on a humid day in the Hamptons. As they’d pulled into the driveway, Randall had told her again how elegant she was. It had suddenly bothered her. She’d wanted him to pull over, grab her and make love to her as if she was a sexpot. Sex was usually the last thing on her mind.

Tabby stared at him in dismay. “What happened to your Russian girlfriend?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’ve grown up.”

She was beginning to have an idea of why he had come.

“I can see the skepticism on your face. Tabby, how many dumb models can a guy go out with before he gets it?”

“I have no idea,” she said truthfully.

“You’re still angry with me. I don’t blame you. But I have great news and I want to share it with you!”

“Whatever it is, I’m happy for—” she began to say, but he cut her off.

“I meant what I said, Tabby. I have grown up. The truth is that we shouldn’t have married three years ago—I wasn’t ready. But things have changed.” Excitement flared in his eyes. “I’ve been offered a top position at Odyssey, Tab. I mean top—as in my salary is doubling. With the clients I’ll have, I could be making eight or nine mil a year! Not only that, in a couple of years I’ll be in position to make CEO, if not there, at another major firm. This is it, everything we’ve always wanted!”

She’d never doubted he would make it to the very top of New York’s financial world, so his news was hardly a surprise. But CEOs at firms like the Odyssey Group needed suitable wives—wives who knew how to charm the city’s elite and their husband’s clients, wives who knew how to graciously hold fund-raisers and dinner parties, trophy wives who were
fashionable, attractive, charming and
elegant.
She felt ill, realizing what he wanted. “I am very happy for you. But it’s late.”

He approached, his eyes blazing with excitement, and he seized her hand. “We can go to the top together, Tabby, I know we can!”

She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her go. “I can’t do this again.”

“I will never cheat on you again,” he said seriously.

Randall had never taken no for an answer, she thought, dismayed.

“Beyond the impeccable manners, you are still the kindest woman I know. Everyone makes mistakes, even you. Won’t you give me another shot? Because I am being sincere, Tab.”