Page 31 of Dark Victory

Tabby wondered if this man was capable of rape. He’d beheaded Angel, maybe force was a habit of his, too. But the moment she had the thought, she knew he would never use force. She didn’t know how she knew, she just did.

He spoke quietly. “Barbarian that I may be, I have never forced a woman and I willna force ye. I dinna need to use force. Women beg to share my bed—all of them, all the time.”

Tabby grimaced at his conceit. But she had little doubt that most medieval women lined up outside his bedroom door. She had the sudden, unhappy notion that he pleased every one of those women. They wouldn’t be uptight like she was. She was the exception, but she decided not to say so. She just hoped he was a man of his word, and oddly, she had the feeling that he was. “Okay.” She exhaled loudly. “I feel better now.” That was a vast exaggeration. She’d probably be on edge until he went back to Blayde.

“Help me with my wound.”

“You said you weren’t hurt.” She was really glad to be distracted now.

“I said I will live. One puny bullet canna kill me.” He flexed his right arm and winced.

Tabby couldn’t help but be concerned. She was going to have to get a grip on her composure. He’d promised her he’d behave, and immortal or nearly so, he had a bullet in his arm. “Sit down, Macleod, on the sofa. I’ll clean your wound for you.” She went into the kitchen and added, “You’re probably hungry. I’ll fix you something to eat, too.” Cooking always relaxed her, but she was pretty certain it would not relax her now.

Tabby began gathering up first-aid supplies, trying not to think. It wasn’t easy, because she was so acutely aware of him and the fact that he could not get back to the thirteenth century, not on his own. Her spell had really backfired. Maybe, one day, she and Sam would laugh about it, but it wasn’t funny now. What should she do with him?

And where was he going to sleep?

Maybe she should stash him in a hotel room. Carrying a tray with bandages, soap and water and bacitracin, Tabby went back into the living area. “I’m sorry.” She forced a smile. “We have gotten off to a bad start, and it’s my fault. I’ve forgotten all my manners, but the circumstances have been extenuating.”

He looked at her with skepticism.

Tabby sat down on the sofa, instinctively keeping an arm’s length between them. She wished she could trust him and stop being so nervous. “I am known for being polite. I’m teased about it. I never lose my cool or my temper!” She threw another bright smile his way.

He studied her.

She smiled again but really didn’t look at him, dipping a washcloth in warm water. She reminded herself that she would do this for any human being. The truth was, she didn’t like being this close to him. His body was too big and it felt too dominant. And in the back of her mind, that shocking vision was now engraved of the two of them in bed as lovers.

“Sometimes I get so tired of people saying how nice I am! I’m always being told that I am too polite, too sweet, too kind—and oh-so-elegant.” The cloth was soaking wet now. She held it, dripping water all over the sofa, finally looking up at his face.

He waved his blood-crusted arm at her. “French ladies are elegant,” he said. “In velvet an’ jewels. What garments do ye wear?”

She realized she was in a thirteen-year-old’s sweaty, dirty track pants and T-shirt. Tabby felt herself blush. She was a wreck. When had any man ever come onto her so strongly, much less with her not impeccably attired and perfectly coiffed? She was hardly country-club ready now. “I borrowed the clothes,” she said slowly, “from a little girl. They’re dirty,” she added unnecessarily. She touched her hair. It was in a ponytail, but strands were coming down everywhere.

“Aye—they smell.”

Tabby set the cloth down, embarrassed. Her clothes did smell, like a stale locker room. He clearly did not think her very elegant, and that somehow disturbed and confused her.

Tabby soaked his sleeve, trying not to notice his arm, aware of his stare. When she could, she began peeling the linen from his skin as carefully as she could. She didn’t want to hurt him—and she didn’t want to touch him, either.

As she pried away the linen, her fingertips grazing his skin, she realized that he was right. She was aware of him as she’d never been aware of any man. She feared her desire…as she should.

Desiring a medieval stranger was insanity—and she must never act on it.

But damn it, her heart was skidding like a car on black ice. Why was he the one to stir her as no other? What could that mean?

“Ye willna hurt me, Tabitha,” he said.

Tabby looked up. “Your arm has to hurt.”

“It hurt before I removed the bullet last night…but not verra much.”

Tabby went still. He’d removed the bullet himself? Then, of course he had—he wasn’t a poster boy for Polo, he was a poster boy for 300.

His mouth curved. “Ye’re easy to play.”

Tabby stared into his unwavering eyes. He’d stirred up her compassion. She couldn’t help it. He’d probably been immune to the pain of extraction, but she hated the idea of his being alone and on the run and having to dig a bullet out of his own arm. “I am not very experienced when it comes to men. Even though I was married, I never dated a lot.”

His eyes widened. “Ye were married?”