by Brenda Joyce
“Nick? Can you see Sam? She seems a little…disturbed.” Jan was wry.
Nick grimaced. Sam was more than disturbed; she was ready to blow a gasket. “Send her in. And, Jan? Go easy on her, okay?”
Jan made a sound that meant never.
He was used to their deep dislike for each other, but no man could expect two of the sexiest women on the earth to get along, especially when they were intent on being rivals, although only God knew why. They might look as different as night and day, but they had more in common than not. Sam looked as tough as nails, while Jan resembled a sex kitten, Marilyn Monroe style. Sam screwed around; Jan had decided she’d mourn her deceased partner until she died. Jan had been one of his best field agents, a long time ago, and Sam was one of the best now. If they could ever stop disliking one another, he’d love to put them in the field together.
It was a fantasy.
He rubbed his temples, knowing he was overworked if his fantasy was about putting those two out in the field and not in his bed. Sam strode in, flushed.
His eyes widened as he felt her pain, most of which was emotional. “She’s gone?”
Sam breathed hard and slammed down into the chair facing him. “Not only is she gone into the past without a word—Lafarge paid me a call.” She touched her gut. “She’s a witch, Nick. A powerful one.”
“What happened?”
“She put a spell on me and I told her where to find Tabby. Oh, I forgot. She’s after my sister—and it’s some kind of payback.”
He had never seen Sam so out of control. “Cool it, kid. I don’t want to find you laid out on a slab, covered in white.”
“I am friggin’ worried!”
No kidding, he thought. Jan poked her beautiful face inside, a file in her hands. “I have something for you, Nick.”
Sam turned in the chair, her eyes shooting daggers. “Nick is busy.”
“He’ll want to see this,” Jan said, her expression going from warm to cold in less than a nanosecond.
“Can you two sheathe the claws?” Nick waved Jan over.
Sam ignored her and said, “What if Lafarge can time-travel?”
Nick took the file from Jan. “Can I assume this is about Lafarge?”
Jan smiled. “You sure can. Unfortunately, it’s generic.”
And that meant it was as authentic as a cubic zircon. Nick opened the file and said to Sam, “Your average witch can’t time-travel.” He looked up. “We’ll have that DNA comp back by this evening.” He’d ordered a comp as well as the standard test. If she was one-ten-thousandth something inhuman, he wanted to know. A small genetic dose of demon, beast or “other” wouldn’t show up on a standard DNA test.
“She isn’t average. I also think she’s really, really old,” Sam said. She stood, hands on her hips. “I need to ask you something. Can I have a moment?”
He already knew what she wanted. He said casually, “If you think I’ll let you go back in time, the answer is no.”
Sam cried out, “Why the hell not?”
With inimitable timing, Kit poked her head into the door. “Can I bother you guys for a minute? I found something on An Tùir-Tara that is really interesting.”
Nick gestured her in. “Join the party.”
Kit entered, casting a worried glance at Sam. “You’ll want to hear this. I found this quote in a first edition from Oxford University Press. The pub date was 1922. It’s only one reference to An Tùir-Tara, but I will try to back it up.” She had memorized the sentence. “The great rivalry between the ladies of Melvaig and Blayde ended that day in the fires.”
Sam stared, paling. “I knew it. I knew she was there.” She faced Nick. “Tabby is a gentle soul. She abhors violence. She is going to have a really hard time adjusting to life in the Middle Ages. I have to go back and help her through this—and I have to protect her from Lafarge. She doesn’t even know Lafarge is out to destroy her.”
She was too involved. “You’re not going back. And that is final.”
“Nick, this is really important to me.”
Nick closed the file. He stared at Sam. “Rose, we both know your sister will be just fine. We both know she had to go back sooner or later. You’re not going back—but I am.”
Sam jerked. “Without me?”
He sighed, because she was spitting fire, and turned to look at Jan. Jan started. Instantly understanding, her eyes widened. “I am not going back with you,” she said flatly. “Never again!”
“You’re taking her?” Sam cried. “Are you kidding?”
“Don’t worry,” Jan said. “I am not a field agent.” She walked out.
He was sorry she was upset, but she’d have to get over it, because his mind was made up. “I’m going after Lafarge,” he said. “But I’ll check in on your sister while I’m at it.”
“I don’t believe this.” Sam strode out.
Kit hesitated. “I’m more than happy to do the dirty and go down under.”
He gave her a scornful look. “You’re a rookie, you haven’t finished your PST, goodbye.”
Kit kept her face impassive but he saw the disappointment in her eyes, and she left his office.
He got up and went to the door. Jan was on the phone and she ignored him. He felt her distress.
He decided to remind her that they weren’t going back to the days of the Roman Empire, and that in the Middle Ages, torture did not include crucifixion.
She lifted her green eyes. “I am not going back…It’s a miracle you and Sam made it home in one piece and you know it. Forget about going back, Nick. Forget Lafarge.”
“You know I don’t give a rat’s ass about Lafarge,” he said easily. “But I can feel that she’s the lead to the real bad boys. You can start packing.”
She stared furiously, trembling.
“At least you won’t need lipstick,” he said.
“Damn you to hell!”
He thought about the flashbacks and didn’t bother to tell her he might already be there.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AS ABRUPTLY AS IT had begun, the rain had slowed to a mist.
Tabby didn’t notice. She stumbled outside, the ground in the bailey now muddy, clutching the plaid like a hood to her head. A pair of dogs rushed over to her, tails wagging, but she ignored them. A knifelike pain was going through her breast, and it felt suspiciously like heartbreak. But that was impossible. Macleod was going to execute that boy—unless she stopped him.
He was horrible, cruel, heartless and terribly violent…and she had justified and rationalized it so she could have a torrid affair and live with herself afterward. Well, she couldn’t live with herself now.
She had to save Coinneach. It wasn’t an option; it was her priority. She had no right to this acute sense of loss. She was not suffering; Coinneach was suffering.
She paused, still unable to get enough air to adequately breathe. But it felt as if she had lost so much—her lover, and maybe the new, passionate and unbridled Tabby Rose.
Well, that was just tough luck, she told herself harshly.
She did not want to think about Macleod saving her and the children, or defending her from the ghost. She did not want to think about his rare smile, or the way he looked at her, once in a while, during lovemaking, when his eyes changed and almost softened. Instead, she reminded herself to think about their arguments. The truth was, she had lost a lover and a partner in war, but not a friend. She had no right to feel upset for herself. It was Coinneach she must focus all of her attention on now.
But Macleod was suffering, too.
Tabby tensed. She did not want to think about how he had fought as hard as he could to save his family during the massacre. She did not want to remind herself about how he had grieved and raged while burying them at sea, a boy suddenly required to become a man.
Tabby sank down onto a small wood bench. She began to tremble, overcome with despair. She could no more turn off her compassion for him than she could send herself back to New York. She hated
what he’d been through, the grief he kept repressed inside himself. But so what? Coinneach was going to be murdered by his command if she didn’t do something.
Maybe she wasn’t at Blayde in 1298 to heal Macleod after all. Maybe she was there to save an Innocent. Or maybe, just maybe, she was meant to do both.
She felt the morning still.
How could the man who made love to her so passionately, who looked at her with so much concern, who was determined to risk his life for her, be one and the same with the man she’d just argued with in the hall?
How could he insist on protecting her, but intend to execute Coinneach the way he’d beheaded Angel—without blinking an eye, without a drop of remorse?
The answer was simple. That cruel, violent side was a direct result of his having survived the massacre.
She sat up even straighter. Macleod was the product of the most extreme and arbitrary injustice and violence. And that was exactly what he was meting out.
I can’t hate him, she thought grimly.
Coinneach had to be saved, but Macleod had to be saved, too.
As Tabby sat there in the mist, a soft warmth flooded her. She jerked, glancing around. “Grandma?”
Her grandmother’s reassuring and powerful presence was so strong and comforting that Tabby expected her to materialize before her. But she did not appear. It didn’t matter. Tabby knew she was smiling.
And that meant she had reached the right conclusions. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Would you mind staying around for a while? I am feeling a bit lost and lonely.”
Of course there was no answer.
“Lady, come in out of the rain,” Peigi said softly.
Tabby turned, realizing Peigi had heard her talking to her grandmother’s spirit. Her expression was one of pity. It was hard to believe that only an hour or so ago, she and Peigi had been joking about her having cast a love spell. It was surreal. The stakes had dramatically changed.
She realized she was not ready to confront Macleod again. In fact, considering she was preparing to blatantly defy him, avoiding him was a really good idea. He could read her mind, after all.
“Ye’ll catch yer death,” Peigi warned.
She glanced across the compound. “No, that boy will catch his death.”
“Aye, he’ll die, but thieves must be punished. We dinna have enough cattle to feed all o’ Blayde, lady,” Peigi tried. “The Macleod canna allow thieves to go free. He must set an example.”
Tabby stared. Peigi did not find this punishment unusual or excessive. It was a bit of a slap in the face. She was a modern woman, applying her standards to a very different world. She might be the only one at Blayde sympathetic to Coinneach, she realized.
She suddenly wished she could convince Macleod that her values were right. But she had no doubt that he could not be transformed into a man with modern sensibilities.
“Ye canna question the Macleod, lady. Besides, ye ken the boy came here to murder him.”
“Oh, I can question Macleod, and I will.” Tabby stood up. She was back to her earlier position, she realized. “That boy will die because his ancestors betrayed Macleod’s father. Do you really think that’s right, Peigi?”
“’Tis our way. Here, yer brat’s soakin’.” Peigi handed her another wool plaid, her expression grim. “Please come inside.”
“I think it best to avoid Macleod. He’s angry, and I am determined to stop him from executing Coinneach.”
Peigi paled. “I’d prefer the blood feud to be put to rest, lady, but I would never cross the Macleod. Ye shouldna do so, either.”
Tabby simply looked at her.
“He’ll never forgive ye if ye go against him,” Peigi warned.
In that instant, she knew that Peigi was right. Macleod was not the kind of man to forgive betrayal. He would see her defection as sheer treachery.
Peigi left.
But that was okay, because they weren’t friends—she was his ex-mistress. Tabby felt a new tension arise. She hoped Macleod would remain so angry with her that he would not even think about trying to entice her to bed. She was not up to that battle. Worse, she didn’t want to recall being in his arms. It was a dangerous idea.
Shaken all over again with the enormity of what was at stake, Tabby hurried across the bailey. Coinneach remained in the stocks, soaking wet now. His face was riveted on her as she approached. She took off the dry brat, wrapping it over his thin body. “We have to keep you warm.”
“I told ye he wouldna free me.” He was bitter.
He was so young to hate. “This isn’t over yet,” she said. “I will help you. I won’t let you die.”
Coinneach appeared satisfied. “Then ye’ll have to be very clever. Otherwise Macleod will discover ye and put ye in the stocks next to mine.”
Her first thought was that he would never do such a thing. But how on earth could she know what he would do to her? As far as she was concerned, their affair was over. He might be ruthless toward her now, as well.
“Who has the keys to the stocks?” she finally asked.
“Macleod.”
She would have to steal the keys, somehow. “Does he wear them on his belt with his other keys?”
Coinneach nodded. “Afore his men see ye here, can ye bring me water?”
Tabby started, dismayed. “When did you last drink or eat?”
“It’s been a full day, lady. The well is over there.”
Of course he hadn’t been fed or given water, she thought. Macleod meant for him to suffer and die.
Tabby went to the well, managed to lower a pail, and when it was full, she lugged it back to him.
As he drank, she stared at the hall, the mist becoming so fine now that the air was damp. Blayde loomed, glistening darkly against the heavy gray skies. Macleod wore the keys on his belt, and he only took off his belt when he undressed before sleep—or rather, he only undressed to make love to her. She was almost certain he slept in his clothes otherwise. A lover could so easily retrieve those keys after he was satiated from lovemaking and had fallen asleep. But that was out of the question. She didn’t know how she was going to get those keys off Macleod’s belt, but she would. “I am going to free you,” she said.
“How will ye get the keys?”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”
She tried to imagine herself sneaking into his bedchamber while he slept, and removing the keys from his belt. Her sleeping spell was a good one; she had used it a lot with Randall, before their divorce, to keep him away from her. But Macleod was very powerful and she did not know how susceptible he would be to any of her spells, even one she was adept at casting. On the other hand, she’d cast a spell on him across centuries, and it had worked. She was going to have to take a chance and try it on him. There was no other choice.
She was also going to have to find a way to block him from her mind. Otherwise, her efforts to free Coinneach would be in vain—he would know her every move.
She was resigned. Her shock over finding a boy in stocks, left there to slowly die, had dissipated. Resolve had arisen instead. But she did not like going up against such a powerful opponent. And that was what he was.
It all sank in. She was very much alone in the thirteenth century, and the man who had brought her there was her adversary now.
SHE HAD SAID SHE wouldn’t judge him anymore. But she was judging him now.
And she meant to free Coinneach.
He was furious and disbelieving.
He did not know of any Highlander who would ever let a woman betray him. Even a disloyal mistress must suffer the consequences of her actions. Such a mistress would be summarily punished and then exiled—or worse. Neither man nor woman could be allowed to set the precedent of unpunished betrayal.
Listening to her plot and plan against him, Macleod paced his great hall, having sent all of his men away. He remained incredulous.
He did not want to go to war against her. He had brought her back in time to protect
her—and of course, to share his bed.
What was he supposed to do now?
Macleod paused before the hearth, staring into the flames but not seeing them. He could not believe he had asked himself such a question. He was a decisive man, and he had two choices. Stop her or punish her.
He recalled her striking him, not once, but twice. Not only had he not hit her back, it hadn’t even crossed his mind to do so. He did not want to ever put his hands upon her in an act of violence. He had no desire to hurt her.
If she crossed him this way, he would have no choice but to punish her. It did not matter that Tabitha was no ordinary mistress. She was from a future time, one so very different from his own time that he could barely comprehend it. And he was not thinking of horseless automobiles and underground tunnels and subways; he was not thinking of museums filled with history. He was thinking about women who lived alone, without men to protect them. These modern women provided for themselves, thought for themselves, obeyed no one but their government, and were proud of it.
Tabitha was just such a woman. She was soft and gentle, kind and caring, more so than almost any woman he knew—but these were traits a woman was expected to have. He liked that womanly side of her. But he also liked her courage, determination and independence. In fact, he admired her greatly.
But he still hated her judgments, accusations and condemnations.
His head began to ache, an unfamiliar sensation. His mind was going round and round uselessly. If she became his enemy, he would have to deal with her as he did all of his enemies—ruthlessly, without mercy. But how could he do that to the woman he wanted in his bed?
He already knew he cared about her Fate; otherwise, he would have left her behind in New York City, an easy prey for the evil hunting her. Now, he started to wonder if he cared about her. He had never had any concern for a woman before, not in any way. They had come and gone quickly, a parade of nameless women sharing his bed. But Tabitha had a name, her own thoughts and feelings, and she had grave concerns for him as well as for others. He wasn’t sure what to make of this newfound discovery that he might be fond of her.