by Brenda Joyce
“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.
THE MOMENT TABBY 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.”
She would never admit it, but it was almost tempting to accept having a big strong man to take care of her. Almost…“Think of me as your mistress if you will. But you need a friend, of that there is no doubt. I think I’m qualified. After all, I’m the first woman to spend the night and challenge you, right? I’m the first woman to stand up to your every angry stare and all those autocratic commands?”
He crossed his massive arms. “Ye challenge me to no end. Ye annoy me, Tabitha,” he warned.
She smiled at him and it was genuine. The warmth unfurled in her chest. “Well, I guess that leaves you with one option—taking my head off.” She started to stroll past him. “I thought I’d explore the grounds.”
He was red-faced. “Ye’re my guest. Ye can walk freely about Blayde.” He turned away, then swung abruptly back. “Ye look French.”
It took her a moment to realize what he meant. As he walked back to his men, she stared in surprise, recalling how he’d said that Frenchwomen were elegant, not her. But she’d been in a kid’s dirty gym clothes. He liked her in the blue velvet dress. He thought her elegant. She’d thought herself sick and tired of that word. But she hadn’t been elegant last night—and she was warming rapidly from his praise now.
Tabby smiled to herself as she walked out of the hall.
She was elegant and passionate. The good part of Tabby Rose was back; the bad, well, it seemed vanquished. She was warm and fuzzy inside her chest. She almost felt happy. Tabby told herself to slow down. If she wasn’t very careful, she might start to care about him. She was firm with herself. Caring was not allowed. The only thing worse would be falling in love, and that would never happen. She could allow herself to feel some affection and friendship—and desire—but nothing more.
Outside, a drizzle had begun, but Peigi handed her a plaid as she went outside. Using it like a shawl, Tabby paused, breathing in the scent of the crisp morning. It was great. Then she hid a smile and headed for the stairs that led up to the ramparts. The view would be incredible from the crenellations.
She went up slowly, the stones slick and wet, starting to think about her sister. She and Sam had always had amazing telepathy. From the time they were toddlers, she would know what Sam was thinking and what she wanted, and it had been mutual. Even after they’d begun to speak, she’d been able to hear her thoughts when she wanted to. It wasn’t unusual f
or Rose women, sisters or not, to be so in tune with one another.
If she focused, maybe she could let Sam know where she was and that she was all right. It was probably impossible, considering the gulf of centuries that separated them, but she intended to try.
And then she had to figure out how to gather information in medieval times. She wanted to research Melvaig and its witch. Peigi seemed in the loop, and Tabby would start with her.
She reached the ramparts. A big, handsome and young Highlander with dark hair smiled at her, but he was clearly just being friendly. Tabby felt certain that no one at Blayde would dare flirt with her, considering Macleod’s temper and power. She walked to the edge and stared over the crenellations, then gasped at the sight of the steel-gray seas, frothing against the equally gray skies. It was stark and desolate but it was magnificent. This side of the fortress was perched on the edge of the cliffs, right over the ocean. Blayde was set in an unusual position, on an atoll of land with the Atlantic Ocean sweeping in from the north, facing the Western Isles. Melvaig lay somewhere to the south.
Tabby stared in that direction, dread slowly forming. It did not help that the sky in the south was black with storm clouds. She hesitated and almost thought she felt a finger of evil, beckoning to her. She shivered.
It began to rain.
The Highlander gestured at her, indicating that she should go back to the hall. Tabby smiled at him. “You’re right.” She turned, lifting the plaid to hold it over her head like a hood. That was when she saw the prisoner below.
For one moment, she stared. Was that a man in stocks?
It began to pour.
Her concern was instantaneous. The prisoner was on the far side of the bailey, almost behind the hall. It was hard to see clearly from this distance, but it appeared that a man was on his hands and knees, restrained by stocks. That was inhumane—it violated the Geneva Convention and her own personal code of ethics. Outrage began.
Tabby lifted her skirts and started to hurry toward the stairs. The Highlander seized her arm, shaking his head, and for one moment, she thought he was warning her not to go over to the prisoner. “A’coiseachd.”
It took Tabby a moment to realize he was warning her to slow down. She tried to smile, realizing that he was right. Running would mean a certain fall. She went slowly down the stairs, which were dangerously slick. When she reached the ground, she lifted her skirts and ran.
She had been right. A man was in stocks. He was on his hands and knees, his neck locked in a vise made of wood, making it impossible for him to move. There were shackles on his wrists and ankles, as well. He looked at her, his eyes blazing with anger.
Tabby cried out, horrified. He wasn’t a man—he was a boy.
He could not be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She rushed to him and knelt. “Are you all right?”
His eyes widened. “Are ye English?”
She hesitated. “No.” Her gaze flew over him. He was soaking wet and his face was bruised, but otherwise, he did not seem hurt. “Who did this to you?”
He laughed at her, the sound hard for such a young man. “The laird o’ Blayde put me here, lady. Can ye help me? He means to leave me here until I die.”
For one moment, Tabby refused to believe it. Macleod couldn’t have done this. One of his men had done this. Then she turned off her rising dismay and the terrible comprehension she did not want to face, focusing on the boy. “Of course I’ll help you. What’s your name?”
“Coinneach MacDougall,” he said flatly.
Her mind raced. The MacDougall laird had been rustling cattle—but surely this boy was not the laird. No one would put a boy in stocks and then leave him there until he died! But she already knew the answers she was going to get as she spoke. “Are you the laird?”
“Aye,” he said, his face a mask of rage. “The day he murdered my father was the day I became laird!”
She couldn’t breathe. “He murdered your father?”
“Before my verra eyes, as God is my witness!” He began to writhe against the stocks. “My da was on the ground, askin’ fer his mercy, but he took his head and then flung it into the river!”
She was going to be violently ill, she thought, her stomach churning. “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself. I am going to help you.”
“Help me an’ ye’ll be next to die, no matter how pretty ye may be.”
Tabby choked, staring into Coinneach’s blue eyes. Coinneach stared back. Macleod had done this. He was violent and ruthless—cruel, even. She’d just been so happy and she’d just promised herself not to judge him. She understood him and wanted to help him, but this was inhumane. This was horrifying. It was unacceptable.
She had to fix this.
“Help me,” the boy said, but he wasn’t begging. He seemed determined. “Ye seem kind an’ clever. Help me escape an’ I’ll repay ye handsomely—if ye live to receive the coin.”
She fought for composure. The one thing she did know was that Macleod wouldn’t murder her or put her in stocks. “Of course I will help you. You will be freed or I will die trying.” She had never meant anything more. She was a Rose, and this was what Rose women did—they gave selflessly to others.
Tabby stood. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.
The hall was warm, the fire blazing, a truly obscene contrast to the wet cold outside. The men remained, still arguing over the maps on the table. Macleod turned and stared, unsmiling and wary.
He knew. He was in her mind, reading her thoughts, as he always did.
She halted, holding her head high.
He approached her, his face set. “Ye said ye willna judge me anymore.”
She wet her lips. “There’s a boy in stocks. One of your men must have put him there. He needs to be released before he catches pneumonia and dies.” She prayed he would be surprised.
A moment passed, but it felt unendurable, until he spoke. “I put him there.”
“He’s a boy!”
“He’s my enemy.”
She trembled, disbelieving. “What has he done to you? And do not tell me that this is how you punish a cattle thief!”
Macleod hesitated, grim, eyes ablaze. The hall was absolutely still. “He lives…He breathes…”
Tabby cried out, the reality too much to bear. “Did you murder his father while he watched? Did you behead him and toss his head away?”
Macleod darkened.
She choked, sick at heart. She had spent last night in this man’s arms. She had decided to heal him, save him from himself, but it was the rest of the world that needed to be saved—from him.
But hadn’t she known that they were worlds apart? Hadn’t she known that he was ruthless, a barbarian—and that she should not sleep with him? Her life was about giving. His was about taking. He was selfish. He had no interest in serving the gods or the Innocent. He served Blayde. And this was how he did so, by mercilessly sentencing a young boy to death.
“Cease yer judgments,” he warned.
Tabby closed her eyes for a second. She had promised herself she wouldn’t judge him. But she had never been so outraged. She was going to have to break that promise. “He’s a boy. You’re supposed to serve the gods and save the Innocent. Instead, you murder his father in the name of some stupid clan war? And I don’t care that his last name is MacDougall!”
“But I care, Tabitha. He is my enemy,” Macleod said harshly. “’Tis my duty to destroy him.”
“No, he is Innocent. It’s your duty to protect him!” she shouted.
“Dinna dare interfere,” he warned. He whirled away, effectively dismissing her.
In the back of her mind, Tabby knew that she should be really careful now, because his temper was still in check—nothing was shaking or falling down. She sensed that meant something, but she could not stop. She ran after him and seized his arm, causing him to face her. “If you care for me at all, if you are really the grandson of a god, if your mother was truly a priestess and a Healer, you will let him go. I
am begging you to let him go.”
He stiffened, incredulous. “Dinna dare mention Elasaid!”
She inhaled. “She would tell you what I’m telling you!”
He shook visibly. The floor seemed to tilt. Then the absolute stillness came again. “No mistress tells a laird what to do.” With that, he walked away from her.
His condescension actually hurt. Tabby began to shake uncontrollably. She had deluded herself into thinking that they had more of a relationship other than a sexual one. She had deluded herself into thinking that he needed her in any way, outside the bedroom. And he didn’t care about her, not at all. “He is Innocent.” He did not look back at her. “No Innocent should die and especially not by your hand.”
Tabby became aware now of the silence in the hall. Every pair of eyes was upon her except for Macleod, who had his back to her and had joined his men at the table. It was hard to think. She wasn’t just horrified and appalled, she was so hurt, too. “I don’t know you at all.”
Macleod pointed at a map and Rob said something. Macleod responded with a brief shake of his head.
The interfering mistress had been dismissed. Macleod was going to let the boy die. Clearly, he had no heart. She had to stop this, no matter what it took. “Macleod!” she cried sharply.
He didn’t even look at her. He said something to Rob in Gaelic.
“If you do this, we are done,” Tabby said loudly. As she spoke she heard her pulse roaring in her ears. It was deafening.
He slowly turned, a chilling smile beginning. “Ye threaten me?”
Her heart began to break, and too late, she wondered if she’d already fallen for him. “No.” She could barely get the words out. “I am telling you.”
His eyes widened and the men at the table shifted uneasily. “I decide, Tabitha, when we are done.”
A frisson of fear went through her. “I can’t let you do this,” she heard herself say. She whirled, heading for the front doors.
“Stay away from him,” Macleod ordered.
Tabby stiffened her spine and went out into the rain.
HE KNEW WHAT JAN wanted even before his intercom buzzed. He could feel Sam outside his office, seething with anger, with impatience.