Page 58 of Dark Victory

“Except that the lady of Melvaig has sworn revenge and the threat is serious enough that Royce thought he should warn you of it.”

She was so clever. “Revenge is our daily bread,” he said flatly.

“She’s a witch. And either she’s still around in 1550, or her progeny is. In any case, Macleod, if she’s the witch we read about at the Met, then that means she wins all your wars now.”

He stiffened. “If she decides to cast her black magic at me, I will go to Melvaig an’ vanquish her.”

“Maybe you’d better take your vows so you can count on your powers.”

Now he was annoyed. She was becoming as opinionated as MacNeil on the subject of his vows. “I can choke her with my two hands—or take her head with my sword.”

She paled.

He nodded at a serving maid and walked away from her, Rob hurrying to catch up.

She called after him. “What will you do now? Interrogate the cattle rustler?”

He did not look back. “My prisoner doesna concern ye.”

“Tonight we’re going to discuss the Geneva Convention,” she said.

Tonight he was going to pleasure her as never before, and there would be no time for talk. He smiled slightly at the notion.

Let me help you.

He tensed, whirling, but she was walking away from him and she hadn’t spoken. Why had he just recalled her soft, garbled tone, the voice he’d heard that day so long ago when he’d buried his family at sea, the voice he’d heard numerous times, in his dreams or after a long and difficult battle? It was strange. She hadn’t known him—and he wasn’t even sure she’d been alive when he was fourteen years old—but somehow, she had reached out to him, from wherever she was, trying to comfort him.

He reminded himself to tell her that he did not need comfort, not from her or anyone. He never had, and he never would. He would also tell her to stop pitying that boy. In fact, she should stop thinking about him entirely.

“Guy, what manner of fashion do ye wear?”

Macleod looked at him. Very few men called him by his first name—he’d been named after his father’s best French ally in a time of war—but Rob did so and he did not mind. They were too close, having fought side by side too often. More than once, Macleod had refused to let him die in a bloody battle and had summoned MacNeil to heal him. They had never spoken of Macleod’s Destiny or lineage, but Macleod knew Rob had guessed who and what he truly was.

Many at Blayde feared him because they did not know the entire truth, but had heard of or seen his powers. He was aware that the gossip about him was fierce. Some even suspected that he belonged to the Brotherhood, but the existence of such holy warriors was also mere rumor. No one knew for certain, other than those like himself. But Rob suspected the truth.

“’Tis a fashion from a faraway land,” he said. He could not tell Rob that he had been to the future.

“Those garments look uncomfortable, but the woman is very beautiful.” Rob gave him an odd look. “She speaks back to you.”

She certainly did. “She is verra brave.”

“What land does she come from?”

“A city called New York. ’Tis across the ocean. Their women are different, Rob—they try to live like men.”

Rob laughed. “No woman can live like a man.”

He happened to agree. “She is clever, though, an’ she is a witch.”

Rob started. “Then ’tis a stroke of good fortune ye have her here, to use her in yer war with Melvaig.”

He shook his head. “She willna war with us. I willna allow it. I met Ruari on the hill. He told me that he happened upon Coinneach as he tried to steal three cows.” They started up the narrow staircase, Rob behind him. “We both ken Coinneach dinna come to Blayde to steal cattle—he came to murder me.”

“I dinna think he’ll admit it,” Rob said. “But the guards have heard him swearing revenge fer Alasdair.”

Macleod pounded up the steps. “Let him try.” His entire being became calm and focused—as it should, before confronting the enemy.

“He’s brave,” Rob said, behind him.