by Brenda Joyce
“That’s why you’re here, sweetheart.” He glanced at his GLD again. “I know you’ll take care of your old boss.”
“Don’t you dare sweetheart me. I can’t stand this.”
He became concerned. What looked like static covered the screen. What the hell? He looked up. “You went through hell, Jan, but you made it, and that last trip was a long, long time ago. Time to move on.” He glanced at the screen. “Shit. Look at this.”
Jan came to stand beside him and her eyes widened. “I’d say an energy source is nearby.”
He slid the useless GLD into his vest pocket. “Yeah, but is it friend or foe?” He looked upward. There was no way to discern where the sun was. He knew they should head down the forested ridge toward Melvaig and Blayde, which lay to the north, but without guidance from either nature or the GLD, they would probably lose their way.
Jan pointed at the towering pine behind him. He got it. They decided on a patch of black far below, and started in silence down the ridge, using both markers to keep going in a straight line. Suddenly shadows consumed the forest. Clouds had blown in, and their black object was gone.
He tried the GLD again. Nothing.
“We’re going to get lost,” Jan said, stating the obvious.
“Not if I can help it.” Nick was determined. He was going to nail Kristin, no matter what it took, and make her talk about her unholy connections.
They started in silence down the ridge, brushing branches out of their way. Above them a deep-throated owl hooted. Birds sang. It was actually a helluva pleasant day, except for the fact that they were not alone. Nick kept checking his GLD every few minutes, but the static remained. A source of energy was nearby—and it had lots of power. But Nick didn’t sense evil. Neither did Jan; she’d say so otherwise.
When he looked at the screen again, it was a frenzy of static activity. “We have company,” he began, when thunder boomed. Not from overhead, but from up the ridge, behind them. The earth moved beneath their feet.
There was power, lots of it, but it was the good kind.
Her eyes sharp with interest—Jan was rarely afraid—she touched his arm as they turned to face the slope above them. He was damned curious, too. The forest was dark now, silent, unmoving. The snow on the GLD screen continued to dance like crazy.
The trees shifted and branches parted. Nick watched a rider on a horse emerge from the shadows and his eyes widened.
A woman sat a white stallion, her reddish-gold hair falling down her back, a huge sword in one hand, her muscular arms ripped. He took one fast look at her face and his heart lurched hard. She was shockingly beautiful. He quickly looked at her bare muscular thighs, wrapped around that horse—he couldn’t help himself. She was dressed the way the Highland men dressed, which meant she was showing a helluva lot of leg, and she had frigging great legs.
Jan breathed, “Chill.”
He caught himself. The woman was a warrior and she had power—lots of it. She halted the horse a dozen feet from them, unsmiling. Her eyes were green, he realized, and un-blinking. Her demeanor could not be called friendly. In fact, it was cool and wary.
He smiled to disarm her and said in Gaelic, “We’re lost. Can you help us?” She’d know that they had power, too, so there was no point in stating the obvious, that they were all on the same side.
She did not return his smile. “Aye. Ye wish to go to Blayde,” she said flatly, in Gaelic. Her horse moved restlessly but she did not seem to care.
“Yes, we do.” Now he became a bit perturbed. He was acutely aware of her but she was as cold as ice. Not that it mattered, except that he was used to stopping women in their tracks. He lurked and was shocked when he couldn’t get into her thoughts. His gaze returned to her.
She stared, and he thought the corners of her mouth had lifted ever so slightly in triumph.
So she meant to keep him out of her mind. Two could play that game. He envisioned her stark-naked on that stallion, really liking the mental image, and then blocked his thoughts from her.
He could have sworn that a hint of a flush came to her face, but it was hard to tell, because her eyes turned to ice. “Ye’re goin’ east, Outsider. Ye need go north. There’s a trail that will take ye toward Melvaig and on to Blayde.” Her power seemed to seethe. “The witch is at Melvaig,” she added.
A new excitement began. “The witch from my time—Kristin Lafarge?”
She gave him a look of pure disdain. “I dinna ken her name. I dinna care fer yer future time. She’s evil—an’ great evil is with her.”
“I need a guide. I’m sure there’s something I can offer you in return.” He did not want his thoughts to zip into the bedroom, but they did.
Jan jabbed her elbow into his ribs. “Cut it out,” she said.
“You have nothing to offer, Outsider.” She tightened her reins, flushing. “Domnhal!”
A huge, dangerous-looking, very human Highlander rode out of the woods.
She finally smiled at him, coldly. “Domnhal will show ye to Melvaig so ye can vanquish the witch an’ go back to yer time. Outsiders are nay welcome here.”
Their gazes finally held. Nick smiled slowly at her; she did not smile back. He reminded himself not to alienate her. “I appreciate it,” he finally said softly. “But you should know that you are welcome in my time.”
Although her eyes were ice, her color seemed to deepen. But he wasn’t having entirely dirty thoughts. He wanted to know who she was and what she was capable of and her part in the war—and if she was somehow associated with the Masters. But she whirled the horse, galloping into the forest, before he could try to entice her into a dialogue. It thundered as her army joined her.
He became thoughtful. That woman was a warrior and she seemed fearless, but he’d had the odd notion that she just might be afraid of him.
“What is wrong with you?” Jan cried. “Do you have to come onto everything in skirts?”
“That wasn’t in a skirt,” he said thoughtfully. His blood continued to pound. She was hot. “She has a lot of power. I wonder what, exactly, she can do. She is one of us. She needs to lighten up, though.” His mind couldn’t help moving back to the medieval bedroom.
“Oh, and a few hours in your bed will do the trick?”
He had to smile. “Probably.” In fact, he had no doubt he could ease her mind, among other things. He looked at Domnhal. “Who was that?”
“The Lady of An Roinn-Mor…a daughter of the gods.”
MACLEOD REACHED the chamber’s threshold. In horror, he saw Tabitha pinned to the wall.
A huge, vicious demonic force had her imprisoned there. Her feet did not even touch the floor. That force had every item in the chamber on end. The shutters had been ripped from the window and were in bits and pieces, thrust against the ceiling; the chest, table and chairs were in broken pieces, too, and plastered to the walls. Even his bed was upside down and broken, affixed to one wall. And Tabitha was in agony.
He instantly understood that it was as if she was caught within a terrible vise. Her face was deathly white and strained, her eyes were bulging, and the sheer force that had her pinned to the wall had her clothes pasted to her skin. Her pain struck him, pierced through him.
He roared in fury, attempting to battle through Criosaidh’s energy, but it was so strong it was an invisible wall and he could not get inside the room.
Her terrified eyes met his. I love you.
It was déjà vu—he’d heard her before—her last dying words.
“Nay!” he roared, blasting the chamber with his power. The room shuddered but the cyclone only intensified and Tabitha screamed in more agony.
His power would do nothing. Macleod pushed against the wall of wind, determined to get past it and inside. Tabitha’s screams kept sounding as he fought to get into the chamber. He somehow pushed across the threshold, the effort so monumental, his own tears fell. He grunted, refusing to give up, fighting his way through the demonic force—and Tabitha’s screams abruptly stopp
ed.
He didn’t dare look up at her. He fought his way through Criosaidh’s power, step by painful step. And suddenly the shutters that had been on the ceiling came raining down in pieces around him. The bed fell to the floor from the wall, as did the tables, chairs and chest. The wind had vanished; she had vanished.
Macleod looked up as Tabitha fell to the floor, eyes closed, as limp as a lifeless corpse.
He rushed to her and knelt, terrified now. “Tabitha!”
She was so badly beaten, so bruised, her neck at such an odd angle, that he was afraid to touch her and take her in his arms. Worse, her magic and power, her life, suddenly felt weak and fragile—and by the moment, it seemed to be ebbing. Slowly, he reached for her pulse.
She lay unmoving, as if dead. “Ye willna die,” he said fiercely. “I willna allow it!”
He thought her lashes flickered.
He tried to stay calm so he could find her pulse. And then, finally, he felt the slow, faint beating of her heart, barely fluttering in her chest. And now, below her breasts, where the velvet dress clung to her torso, he saw that her ribs were broken.
“Tabitha.” He had never been this afraid. How badly was she hurt? She was so pale but the skin around her eyes was turning black and blue. She could not die. He found his will. “MacNeil can heal ye. I need MacNeil.” He was frantic. He dared to clasp her hand. “MacNeil!” he roared.
She moaned.
He jerked. “Ye will be fine, Tabitha. MacNeil will come an’ heal ye an’ I will kill Criosaidh!”
She lay so still, so beautiful and so fragile, her power slipping further away.
“Fight to live,” he begged her. He raised his head. “MacNeil!”
And then, suddenly, he felt her weak grasp on his hand as he held her palm, and the shockingly brutal waves of her pain. She was becoming conscious. MacNeil should be on Iona. He needed the power to leap to him because he could not simply stay there and watch her die. He did not know if MacNeil had heard him. It crossed his frantic mind that MacNeil journeyed often and he might be in the past or the future. Macleod did not know if he was even in this time, or if he was able to hear him and come to them. But MacNeil was the only healer he knew of!
And then he recalled something Tabitha had said to him. Her best friend was a Healer, and she was at Carrick Castle with Ruari—but in the fifteenth century.
The gods had denied him the power to leap for his entire life. Damn it, he must have it now! But should he try to find that woman or find MacNeil?
“Help us,” he gritted, looking up. “Help her. Tabitha is good an’ she deserves to live!”
There was no answer. Not only that, he did not feel a single god or goddess anywhere close by. Damn them—they did not care!
If ye dinna take yer vows soon, the gods will turn against ye.
Continue to displease the gods an’ they will take from ye what ye cherish most…
Nay, he thought, trembling in fear. MacNeil could not have foreseen this moment. The gods could not be so angered with him that they would destroy Tabitha, who was kind and gentle and good.
He jerked. The fourteen-year-old boy knelt beside him, eyes wide and filled with tears. Why?
I dinna ken.
He had never felt so helpless.
Rob ran into the room. He took one look at her and said, “Her neck looks broken. Is she alive?”
He hadn’t wanted to think it. Was her neck broken? The angle did not look right. “She’s alive, but barely.” She could not die—he could not live without her.
He had done this to her.
“Can ye use yer power to summon MacNeil?” Rob asked. But now, he was looking wide-eyed at the utter destruction in the chamber.
She was in so much pain. “Ye will live, Tabitha. Ye have some broken bones an’ they will heal.” He meant to reassure her. “I ken ye can hear me. So fight, Tabitha, fight to get well.” Where was MacNeil?
He felt the slightest pressure on his hand and then he heard her.
Allie…
She wanted him to get the Healer.
I love you.
“Ye willna say goodbye!” he cried, aghast.
Take your vows…be my hero…
And the pressure on his hand disappeared.
“Nay!” He realized his tears were falling. “Tabitha, dinna give up, damn it!” But she was still now. Her life felt distant, as if it was getting farther and farther away by the second.
“MacNeil!” he shouted, and for the first time in his life, he felt powerless and lost. But MacNeil was not coming. Because if he’d heard Macleod, he would have already come to them.
He wanted to hold on to her tightly, forcing her to stay with him. “Ye will live. I will make certain,” he whispered to her. Getting to his feet and leaving her was one of the hardest moments of his life. “Rob, ye willna move from her side.”
Rob nodded. “An’ how will ye do what ye’ve never been able to do?”
Macleod stood, ignoring him. He pushed his fear aside. He was the grandson of a great god and the power of the leap was his right. He pushed his awareness of Tabitha aside. He could not think of her now. He had to find the power, before it was too late and she died.
Everything in the chamber faded, blurring. He closed his eyes. He strained. There was only the struggle to go inside himself and grasp the power that had eluded him his entire life.
And as he delved, the crux of his life became crystal clear. It was all meaningless without her. It was his need for vengeance which had done this to her. In the end, the vengeance he was sworn to was going to destroy her.
And he hated the vengeance.
It served no one now.
The chamber became stunningly still and he felt their presence.
Light was pouring through the chamber’s single window: white, bright, shimmering light. He inhaled. The figures in the light were vague and indistinct, like ghosts. The power was so bright, so holy, so fierce, so majestic, power he had never encountered this closely before, that he was mesmerized. He could not look away, even as the light intensified, hurting his eyes. “She canna die,” he cried.
There was no answer.
His life flashed before his eyes. The massacre at Blayde in 1201—the day that he had lost everyone he loved, the day that had changed his life. The first time he had seen Tabitha, when she had come to him through her spell, an apparition summoning him with her magic to her time. And then he saw the face of every MacDougall he had ever murdered in the name of vengeance.
There was so much regret.
The brilliant white light became blinding.
He could not find the power because the gods were furious with him.
And he was furious with himself. Why had he fought this war for so long? Yes, his father had been betrayed and murdered, and it had been his duty, but he had had more than enough revenge. Had he given up the clan war against the MacDougalls long ago, she would not be dying now. He was certain that Criosaidh’s ghost would not be stalking her so obsessively.
Tabitha was more important than his damned war of vengeance.
“Fine,” he screamed at them. “I will give up my vengeance. Ye have my word. But give me the power to leap!”
And the gods briefly became visible—a handful of powerful immortals, male and female, in long, flowing gowns, all striking in power and beauty. And then they vanished.
The white light faded.
Silence fell.
He jerked his gaze to Tabitha, who remained still and silent on the floor. He could not feel her life now.
Horror consumed him anew. This was how he would feel at An Tùir-Tara….
The floor tilted.
The air moved.
Macleod cried out as he was hurled through the stone ceiling, through the clouds, and past this sun and too many other ones to count.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TABBY SLOWLY BECAME conscious, swimming in pain. Criosaidh had hurt her this time, she managed to think. She had almost died.
But as she opened her eyes, warmth began seeping through her entire body. With the warmth, there was so much relief.
“Don’t move, don’t speak, just let me heal you.”
Tabby blinked and saw Allie Monroe kneeling beside her. Her surprise vanished. She was so happy to see her best friend in the entire world. She wanted to hug her and hold her, hard.
“Do not move yet,” Allie murmured. She was a tiny, beautiful dark-haired woman, who was now radiating intense white light. Tabby smiled at her, but Allie was entirely focused.
She had never been this powerful when she had lived in New York. Tabby was stunned by the intensity of her healing power, her pain already easing. As it receded, her recall of the recent attack returned. As excited as she was to see Allie, she instantly thought of Macleod. As Allie hovered over her, pouring her white healing power into her, Tabby started to sit up. But Macleod wasn’t in the room with her. Instead, she saw Royce standing behind them, watching them carefully, his massive arms folded across his powerful chest, that gold cuff glinting.
“Hey, I’m good, but not that good,” Allie said with a cocky smile. “Can you relax and give me another moment?”
Tabby looked at Allie. She realized she was worried, but couldn’t quite pinpoint why. And now she saw that Allie was wearing tight jeans, high-heeled boots and a tiny leather jacket. But of course she was. “Are you a medieval fashionista now?”
Allie grinned. “That would be you—no longer the country-club hostess but lady of the manor! I hate medieval clothes. I refuse to dress like a medieval woman and that is that.”
Tabby was hardly surprised. She glanced at the velvet gown she was wearing, thinking of Macleod. “I love this dress.”
“You would.”
They smiled at each other.
But the prickling of worry came back. “Where’s Macleod?”
Allie sat back, apparently finished, the radiant light diminishing. “He brought us here and then he left. He was very upset.”