Page 60 of Dark Victory

Coinneach cried out, struggling to rush forward, as if believing he could pull the shackle from the wall.

Suddenly Macleod felt a touch of regret. Not for what he must do, but for provoking the boy as he had. But it was the truth—Coinneach’s father had been a coward and the boy knew it—he had watched. Suddenly Macleod realized he had something in common with the MacDougall boy. He’d helplessly watched his father being murdered, too.

He was uncomfortable, and he did not like it. “Ye’ll break yer leg,” he said flatly.

Panting, Coinneach subsided, sliding to his knees. “I’ll kill ye,” he cried. “I swear, I will find a way!”

He refused to compare himself to Coinneach another time. “Put him in the stocks in the bailey so all my people can see the Fate of thieves and those who think to murder me. He’ll have no food, no water…an’ we’ll see how long he lives.”

SHE TURNED TO WATCH Macleod vanish into a dark stairway. Tabby decided she had enough to worry about without getting involved in Blayde’s business. He’d undoubtedly taken many prisoners over the course of his long lifetime and this one had only rustled cattle. The lady of Melvaig was a witch. She could barely adjust to that startling and ominous piece of information. If An Tùir-Tara had resulted from a war of witches, did it mean that the current MacDougall lady would be one of the witches in the battle two hundred years from now? There were spells for longevity, although Tabby had never found one or known anyone who had used one. But hadn’t MacNeil said he’d known Grandma Sara? She’d been ancient when she passed. She and Sam had assumed she was about a hundred years old, but now Tabby was uncertain.

Her head was hurting again. To survive, she needed Macleod. If she was not mistaken, she was cruising along just as Fate had planned. Tabby grimaced. She did not want to ever decipher MacNeil’s comment about souls.

The serving maid tugged on her sleeve but Tabby wanted to look around. “One moment,” she said, smiling at her.

Macleod had left, but Tabby felt him everywhere. Now that she was resigned to having gone back in time, she could not believe how she’d shouted and vented at him, much less hit him. She’d angered him—of that, there’d been no mistake. She was lucky, she decided, that for some reason, he hadn’t hit her back.

It crossed her mind that maybe he wasn’t as brutal as she’d assumed. Or at least, he hadn’t been brutal with her, not yet.

She intended to keep it that way. No more un-Tabby-like temper tantrums. Tabby gave the great hall a cursory glance and nodded at the maid. “Let’s go.”

They crossed the room. It was barely furnished, with a massive fireplace, and exactly as one would imagine a medieval great room to look like. The ceilings were high and timbers crisscrossed them. There were rushes on the floor.

The history books were all wrong, she thought as they left. The chamber was clean. Dogs were not present. The rushes were fresh and smelled great.

Tabby paused before starting up another spiral staircase. The huge room should have felt cold and uninviting, but it seemed almost welcoming. She didn’t mind it being so spartan, not at all—frankly, it suited Macleod. And suddenly she saw herself curling up in one of the two chairs before the hearth with the Book of Roses.

She cried out.

What on earth did that fantasy signify? She was never going to sit before that fire and work on her spells! The only place she would do that was at home. And she didn’t have the Book there, anyway.

Real dismay began. The Book was always in a Rose woman’s keeping—always. It was her responsibility, and it was at home, with Sam. If she needed a new spell, she might be screwed. But hopefully, she’d be at home before that ever happened.

She followed the maid upstairs, uneasy, thinking about the black witch of Melvaig.

A moment later she was on Blayde’s third and uppermost floor. Facing her was an open tower room. She saw stairs that went to the ramparts, where the watch were. The maid went to the only door on the landing and showed her into a large bedchamber.

It was Macleod’s. As it had in the hall, his power and presence filled the chamber. Here, his mark was so strong it made her feel faint, stirring her body pleasantly. Tabby looked at the fireplace briefly as the maid knelt before it. Then she looked at the bed. It was heavily carved, the wood almost black. A dozen embroidered pillows were piled up against the ebony headboard, and red and blue wool blankets, a fur and a red-and-black plaid were at its carved foot. Ralph Lauren would love this bed, she thought. It could be in one of his showrooms.

Now that their terrific argument was done, her body was starting to make demands on her. She hadn’t forgiven him for treating her like baggage—and she wasn’t going to, either. So she had to rein in that sudden and intense wave of desire.

She looked past a rustic table and two carved chairs set against the wall beneath a pair of shuttered embrasures. Because it was a beautiful summer day, the shutters were open, revealing an expanse of sparkling sapphire-blue sea. She walked over to the narrow window. The sea below was so large she assumed she was looking at a part of the Atlantic Ocean. It was a view no one could ever tire of.

She reminded herself not to get too comfortable. Her new plan was to stay at Blayde for a few days and gather information on Melvaig and its witch.

She looked at the bed. When Macleod apologized to her—with sincerity—and made it clear that he understood the error of his ways, she’d join him there. Otherwise, it was hands off. A major principle was at stake.

The maid was having trouble lighting the fire. Tabby told herself to focus. The first order of business was to put a protective spell on the bedchamber. She could not possibly sleep there otherwise, not with a witch a few miles away at Melvaig. But it was very cold inside the room. Tabby closed her eyes and focused on the wood.

Fire obey me, fire burn. Fire obey me, warm the room.

Tabby spent a few minutes casting the spell, and she opened her eyes. The maid turned, sending Tabby a helpless look. Then she said something and left.

Not even an ember glowed, and Tabby sighed. She’d been able to stop that guard’s gun from working, but she couldn’t get the wood to burn. However, her protective spells were habitual. She walked over to the bed, sat down there and closed her eyes. “Good over this chamber, good around it. Good everywhere, barring dark intent. Circle formed, protecting us.”

Her focus sharpened. She intensified her desire, until it tingled through her flesh and bones, chanting the spell again and again. Perspiration began. When she thought it likely she’d finally succeeded, she sat back in the bed, drained.

Tabby started.