by Brenda Joyce
She jumped to her feet. He’d been reading her mind well before she’d arrived at his home on Loch Awe and that set her off balance, when she was almost never surprised. “I am not asking for a favor, Maclean.”
He laughed at her, approaching, his gait slow and unrushed. “Of course not. Ye think I’m Santa Claus.”
Sam tensed as he touched her bare shoulder, and his touch went through her entire body, causing a thousand tiny pulse points to explode in delight. “Santa wears a red suit and he’s fat and gray. Have no fear, I know you helped Brie only to save your father.”
“Take off the dress.”
She started.
His eyes smoldered now. “Ye don’t have to share my bed tonight. ’Tis yer loss, not mine. But I want to see the goods.”
Sam seethed. He hadn’t even given her the chance to make a deal. “You are an unbelievable bastard.”
He laughed. “I’ve heard it a thousand times. Can’t ye come up with something a bit more original? What’s wrong? Are ye afraid of the bright lights?”
She didn’t have a drop of cellulite on her body. Furious, Sam said, “I never refuse a challenge.”
“Good.”
Sam lifted her spaghetti straps and slid the dress down her otherwise naked and very flushed body. His gaze narrowed and his smile vanished. There was no laughter now. “Take a good long look, because it’s your last one.”
His thick lashes lifted. His stare was gray and sizzling. “’Tis my first one, Samantha, an’ not the last.”
“Delusions are always so sweet.”
His gaze moved down every inch of her body then lifted. “Do ye really wish to prolong the agony?”
Unfortunately, every inch of her body seemed to be expanding and hurting. Sam stepped out of the pile of silk, leaving it at her stiletto-clad feet. “Send me back in time and I’ll think about playing nice with you when I get back.”
His mouth curled. It was a moment before he spoke. “I don’t want ye to play nice,” he said softly. “I want ye to play bad.”
She inhaled. Desire dripped, pooled. It was a huge blow to her gut. “What’s wrong? Miss Goody Two-shoes bore you? Oh, wait, let me guess. She only knows three positions.”
He slid his hand over her breast. “She only knows two positions.”
Sam bit off a gasp, refusing to make a sound of pleasure. Then, with the speed of a striking snake, she reached down, popped a four-inch stiletto from her heel, and pressed it against his jugular. “I so want to spill your blood.”
He smiled. “Go ahead an’ cut me. I don’t care. I like blood. But we both know ye want me deep an’ hard inside ye.”
She was furious. “Drop your hand.”
He did, only to stroke the curve of her cheekbone. “Good luck to yer sister,” he said, turning away from her.
Sam was disbelieving.
Ian Maclean walked out of the room, leaving her standing there naked.
And he left the doors open, too.
MACLEOD DID NOT KNOW if he would ever become accustomed to the leap through time. He straightened, breathing hard, his head still exploding with pain.
“Ye fuckin’ bastard,” Coinneach gasped, moaning as he rolled in pain on the ground. “What kind…o’ torture…have ye devised?”
Macleod breathed hard, not certain he could speak coherently yet. They had landed within Melvaig’s central courtyard, the huge tower soaring almost directly above them—the tower from which Criosaidh practiced her magic, or so it was said. It was the tower that would be destroyed in the fires of 1550. If he had leaped correctly, it was but minutes later in the day.
He was going to kill Criosaidh. And while he was at it, if the other witch was there, he’d kill her, too. Tabitha would be safe from her enemies—unless the damned deamhan-ghost somehow survived.
His gut clenched so tightly it hurt. Tabitha had almost died that day. He would never forgive himself for what had happened to her. He would never forget how she had suffered. And it was his fault—he knew that now.
He would end this today. He would destroy Criosaidh, and then use his powers to go to An Tùir-Tara, if necessary, to save Tabitha from death. And when he was done, when she was safe, she could go back to her time, if that was what she still wished to do. He had brought her to Blayde against her will and he was sorry he had done so. Tabitha hadn’t deserved such treatment. He would never force her to his will again. Now, he wished to atone for his behavior and for all that he had done, even if it meant sending her back to her time.
He could not bear the idea of life without her.
If he was truly fortunate, she would forgive him and wish to stay with him in his world.
The boy was afraid to be alone.
Cries began sounding from the watchtowers.
Coinneach sat up, his eyes widening as he realized where they were. “We’re at Melvaig?” His befuddled glance blazed at Macleod. “’Tis true. Ye’re one of them.”
Macleod reached down and lifted him to his feet. “Bring yer witch mother to me.”
Coinneach snarled, “I dinna think to obey ye, Macleod. An’ if ye think I’ll show ye mercy, think again. Ye’ll die here, today, by my blade, at my hand!”
Macleod stared at Coinneach. Suddenly he pitied him. His life would be one of bloody revenge and it would never change—unless he found a great lady like Tabitha.
Let me help you.
He flinched. Now he understood what she had been trying to do for the past century.
And Coinneach jerked, as if he sensed a change in Macleod. He tightened his grasp on him anyway, as dozens of soldiers began rushing toward them from the ramparts and the hall. He would use Coinneach against the witch if he could. There was no other choice, even if Coinneach was an Innocent. He felt her evil approach.
He tensed. Thunder rumbled—but it wasn’t Criosaidh, it was the gods. Surely they were not displeased now?
And as the evil intensified, as the hatred welled, as the fury rushed toward him, he slowly looked up.
Criosaidh stood in a tower embrasure, staring down at him and her son. Even from this distance, her black eyes blazed.
Then he felt a frisson of surprise trickle through him. Sensing an unfamiliar white power, he glanced at the soldiers surrounding them. Either a Master was present or someone very close to the gods. Whoever it was, he did not know him.
Behind several soldiers he saw a tall, dark-haired man, whom he instantly recognized. They had never been introduced, but he had observed Nick from his hiding place outside the school after the hostage crisis, during the hours Tabitha had been forced to remain there, answering his questions. He had learned his name and determined that he toiled to fight evil. He was clad as a Highlander, as was the beautiful blond woman with him. His ambition seethed.
Their gazes locked.
Nick sent him his thoughts. I am hunting Kristin.
Mayhap I will leave her fer ye.
I want her alive!
Macleod didn’t care what Nick wanted. A big MacDougall man stepped forward. “Coinneach, are ye all right?”
Coinneach smiled coldly. “I’ve been starved an’ beaten like a dog, but Macleod willna live to see the night fall. We’ll have our revenge, Douglas.”
Douglas’s eyes hardened. “Ye’re a fool, Macleod. Ye come alone? Ye think we will accept Coinneach’s return an’ feast with ye? Thank ye? Release him now. Ye’re outnumbered here. Yer day is done.”
“Bring me Criosaidh,” Macleod said.
And suddenly the wind blasted through the courtyard, stirring up leaves and dirt, tunics and skirts lifting. “Release my son.”
Macleod looked up at the tower window where Criosaidh stood, haloed in a dark mist on a bright sunny day. “Come down an’ ask me nicely.”
He felt her rage. The wind blasted him this time, causing dirt to strike him in the eyes. But even though briefly blinded, he did not release Coinneach. Instead, he sent his power at the tower, intending to strike stones from it.
But his powers failed him entirely.
He was furious and disbelieving.
The gods would dare to interfere now?
He had sworn off his vengeance against the MacDougalls, and his revenge now was against the evil hunting Tabitha!
But he was trying to change history, and it was not allowed.
Criosaidh laughed and this time, her black magic brought hail upon him. He withstood the onslaught somehow, refusing to cower, refusing to release Coinneach, who remained untouched by the debris. When it was over, he was bleeding and breathless and furious.
“You dare to fight me?” she called down to him. “I am the most powerful here!”
He looked up, wiping blood from his eyes. And then he saw the other witch at her side, pale, blond and diminutive in size.
Furious and aware of being weakened, he flung his power at them both—with no results.
Criosaidh roared and lightning cut across the bright blue skies. Macleod tensed. If she could strike him with the lightning, he would become very mortal, he had not a doubt.
Leap away.
Macleod looked past the Highlanders at Nick and the woman. Nick was telling him to flee like a coward. He wasn’t a coward but he needed his power to vanquish Criosaidh. There was no other possible way.
“Macleod!” Tabitha screamed.
Stunned, he turned. In doing so he accidentally released Coinneach, who ran into the safety of the MacDougall soldiers. And he saw her standing with Royce and Allie, her face pale with fear, her expression imploring him to run and hide.
“Get her gone!” he shouted in alarm. He was afraid Criosaidh would try to destroy her again and, this time, succeed.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the lightning bolt came.
He saw it come from above, veering toward him. And as its fork sizzled toward his heart, he knew he was going to be struck and that he would die.
Tabitha screamed in horror.
The lightning blazed into him, fire meeting flesh, searing it, and going through tendon, muscle and bone.
Macleod fell.
Blue flashed before his eyes—the bright blue Highland sky—and then there was only darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TABBY SAW THE LIGHTNING bolt go through Macleod’s chest and she screamed again as he collapsed. It was Royce who reacted first; he flung his power at Criosaidh. As the tower where she stood began to collapse, he rushed forward, heaving Macleod onto his shoulder, a feat impossible for a normal man. He shouted at Allie, already running for a sally port. Allie seized Tabby’s hand and as they started for the exit, a man standing there slammed the small door closed.
“Dinna let them escape,” Coinneach screamed. “Seize them!”
More power blazed and the man fell over, but two other Highlanders had reached the sally port. Tabby had never cast a spell while on the run, but as the man seized the door, she did so now. “Highlander stand aside,” she gasped, “mindless and let us pass!”
He whirled and Tabby cried out when she met Nick’s blazing blue eyes. He flung the small door open as a hail of arrows began. Tabby cried out but Nick seized her, jerking her past him and into the small doorway, Allie on her heels. A moment later they were all outside Melvaig, and Allie was kneeling over Macleod. Royce flung his power back at the men on the ramparts, and Tabby saw a dozen men fall from them.
She rushed to kneel by Macleod. He didn’t appear to be breathing. He was white as a ghost when he was normally a swarthy man. He could not be dead.
A strong hand clasped her shoulder, pulling her to her feet. “Stand back an’ let Ailios heal him.”
Tabby looked up at Royce, terrified. How could he die? He was larger than life, and he meant everything to her! “He won’t die, will he? Allie can save him, can’t she?”
“I dinna ken.”
That was not reassuring. Tabby trembled wildly, sick with fear, as Royce went to stand behind Allie, guarding her so she could heal Macleod. He lay unmoving, his pallor deathly. Tabby could not control her fear now; it was consuming. And she wondered if she’d ever told him that she loved him.
But he had to have known. He was always invading her thoughts—and she’d give anything for him to be doing so now.
Suddenly Tabby felt an intense and vicious hatred aimed at her. She glanced up warily at the ramparts. Coinneach stood there.
She tensed, dismayed. He’d been released and returned to Melvaig but the feud had drastically escalated, she thought uneasily. And she recalled Allie’s insights. In the Highlands, grudges were held for life.
Then two women appeared on either side of Coinneach.
They were some distance away, but one was dark, the other petite and fair. There was no mistaking Criosaidh and Kristin. The sense of their hatred and rage escalated impossibly.
“Damn it to unholy hell.”
Tabby turned as Nick paused to stand beside her. What on earth was he doing in the thirteenth century?
He flashed a brief, chilling smile and stared at the witches silhouetted above them. “I want that bitch,” he said.
“You’re hunting Kristin?” She glanced back at Allie and Macleod and cried out. Macleod was visibly breathing now and the color was rapidly returning to his face. He was going to make it!
Nick seized her arm before she could rush to him. “Mr. Tabitha is fine. How are you holding up?”
Tabby was trembling, tears flooding her eyes. She needed to go to Macleod and tell him that she loved him. She had never been so relieved. But even as her heart exploded with the power of her emotions for him, his lashes lifted slowly and their gazes met. When he saw her, he seemed relieved, too.
“I’m okay,” she whispered, instantly understanding his concern for her.
Macleod sat up, rubbing his chest, Allie still kneeling by his side. His focus was on the ramparts, where Coinneach stood with the witches.
“Tabby?” Nick drawled, sounding impatient. “We need to talk about your little adventure.”
She jerked to meet his very direct and intense blue gaze. “Do you want the short version or the unabridged one?”
His mouth tilted up at the corners. “Got some sass at last, Tabby?”
“Kristin followed me here from New York. And that demonic ghost is after me, too. As it turns out, it’s Criosaidh.” She nodded at the women on the ramparts, but glanced at Macleod, still thrilled he was all right. “She came from An Tùir-Tara and she’s gone back in time to haunt me. We’re trying to figure out how to get rid of her.”
Nick’s gaze moved from Criosaidh and Kristin and then back to Tabby. “It looks like the Middle Ages have done you some good. Got you out of that straitjacket you were so fond of.”
Tabby gave in to the urge to let him have it, once and for all. “I have always respected you, Nick, and I have no idea how you got back here, but I don’t like you.”
“I know—I’m too macho and controlling for sweet little you.” He actually chuckled and glanced at Macleod, who was standing and having a rushed conversation with Royce. “What an amazing match, huh? The gentle schoolteacher and the big bad barbarian.”
Tabby flushed. “Macleod is difficult, but he’s a product of his time…and he’s evolving.”
He leaned close. “Not that anything I say matters, but never think you can change a man. You’re stuck with him.” His grin vanished. “I need a debrief, kiddo.”
Tabby was annoyed. Her relationship with Macleod was none of his business, but even Allie had said that Macleod would be a challenge for a while. It didn’t matter. She didn’t mind. Challenges were great! He was alive and that was what mattered. “Later, Nick.”
She started to walk away from him, but he said, “Sam has been worried.”
Tabby stopped in her tracks and turned. Thinking about her sister, whom she might never see again, hurt. “When you see her, tell her I’m fine and that I miss her. Is she okay?”
“She’s a winner, Tabby, and a survivor, but you know that.” Nick nodded at t
he two women standing on the ramparts. “Ten minutes, Tabby. That’s all I need.”
She sighed.
“WE HAVE TO GO,” Allie said.
They had leaped back to Blayde. Allie and Royce stood with Tabby by the front doors of the hall. Tabby couldn’t look at her, and not because Nick and his agent, Jan, were wandering around Macleod’s hall with great interest. Or rather, Nick was roaming the hall with interest—Jan seemed really uptight. But MacNeil had appeared on their heels, and he and Macleod seemed to be having a very intense and mostly one-sided argument. In fact, MacNeil was doing most of the speaking. It was obvious that he was deeply angry with Macleod.
Tabby thought she knew why. He had gone to Melvaig for the wrong reasons. He hadn’t gone simply to hunt evil and protect Innocence. He’d gone to destroy Criosaidh, in the hopes that she wouldn’t be Tabby’s adversary at An Tùir-Tara. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t care about history or Fate.
If only he could be more cautious, more circumspect!
Tabby realized she was still staring at Macleod, who was poker-faced, and MacNeil, who was furious. Allie plucked her sleeve. “It’s a really bad idea to mess with time. He knows better—but he doesn’t care.”
Tabby gave her best friend her full attention. “You’re so right. I thought his giving up mortal vengeance would change him, but I don’t know, Allie. I’m worried.”
“You should worry. Fate is written by the gods for a reason—their reason—and we’re not allowed to interfere.”
She inhaled. She knew where Allie was going with this tangent.
“Which of the witches belongs to the ghost?”
Very defensively, Tabby folded her arms across her chest. “Criosaidh. If I had known what Macleod intended, I would have stopped him.”
“Really? Tabby, I am going to take a chance and tell you something but I hope I don’t pay for it. In my time, you and Criosaidh are arch enemies.”
Tabby stared, surprised but not shocked. The fact that she would be around in the fifteenth century made her exult, but she understood the point her friend was making. Criosaidh wasn’t meant to die in 1298. But she already knew that, because she knew her ghost came from An Tùir-Tara. And Macleod had known it, too.