Page 66 of Dark Victory

Tabby knew that he knew she was staring. He hadn’t looked her way since leaving her at the table, but she knew it. Stories seemed to be exchanged. The conversation was in Gael, so Tabby only caught the occasional word. The men gathered around him were eager for his company and attention. He was well liked, even admired, and he was certainly respected, she thought grimly.

She didn’t particularly like his arrogant attitude, but there was no denying that she admired him once in a while and she certainly respected him.

She was trying to be calm, composed and objective about him and her circumstances, but her elevated blood pressure was a dead giveaway that nothing was normal now. She didn’t want to be in the Middle Ages, but there she was. She didn’t want to be Macleod’s current meaningless affair, but she’d already been there and done that—and her hot, aching body was so insistent she was almost certain she wasn’t going to be able to send him away that night, even if he thought her chattel. She did not want to go home and find her life devoid of passion, returning to her existence as perfect, proper Tabby. But she had a terrible inkling that would be the end result of her jaunt to historic Scotland.

If she survived that hateful woman’s ghost.

It was too bad he was so good-looking. It was even worse that she knew every inch of his powerful body. Thinking about that made her flush everywhere.

He suddenly approached, his stare direct and penetrating. Tabby inhaled. She knew what he wanted. It was time to stand her ground.

There was a principle at stake. He had to understand that he was not her owner or even her boss. He did not have authority over her. Tabby got to her feet, her blood roaring. How was she going to resist him? She didn’t want to resist him, not now. Only a very foolish woman would sleep alone when her other option was a night with Macleod.

“Damn it,” she said as he came up to her. “This is still wrong. It’s frankly insane.”

His mouth curved in amusement. “Pleasure is natural, Tabitha, an’ I canna stop thinkin’ about pleasuring ye.”

Her insides vanished. Every private inch of her quivered violently. “You do that on purpose,” she accused softly, pressing her palm to his chest to hold him back. Touching him only made her light-headed.

“Aye, I do.” He had a lazy light in his eyes now, one promising all kinds of sensual delights. It was too damn sexy.

Tabby realized her mouth was watering. “I am worried about my sister,” she said, somewhat desperately.

He started.

“Macleod, I’ve been here maybe eight or nine hours. But is it eight or nine hours later in New York in 2008? Or is it days later, weeks later, months later? How does time travel work? Is it the parallel continuum that some say it is? Is Sam a wreck because I’ve been gone all day, or by now, have years passed, without her having heard a word from me? I have to go back. I can’t just vanish from her life forever.”

If she had vanished without a trace, she knew her sister would never quit searching for her. Sam would find a way to track her down—or die trying.

“Tabitha, I hardly have the answers ye seek, except I swear I will make certain ye see yer sister again.”

His words cut through the terrific sexual tension sizzling between them. Did he think she would stay in medieval Scotland forever? Because that was not even a remote possibility. “You mean that I will see Sam again because in a few days I am going home.”

He laid his large hand on the small of her back, fingers splayed low. He pressed her forward, ahead of him. “I said what I mean.”

Tabby inhaled, his touch causing her to tighten. “I am not chattel,” she said, starting for the stairs. He did not remove his hand and, dazed, she didn’t really want him to.

“Aye, ye’re nay chattel. Ye’re my guest,” he murmured.

His sexy tone washed through her. How could he set her body on fire so easily? “Guests leave when they wish to.”

“’Tisna safe fer ye to leave, so why argue?” He laid his other hand on her waist as they moved into the narrow spiral staircase.

Tabby felt her mind start to go blank. Both of his hands held her hips now. She knew how strong he was and she sensed he wasn’t going to let go of her, not anytime soon. “We will finish this discussion tomorrow,” she said thickly. Arguing now, when her body was raging, making it hard to think clearly, was ridiculous.

He suddenly halted her in her tracks and his mouth moved to her neck. He pulled her backward, toward him, and Tabby went still, her heart slamming, as his huge erection burned against her skirt, over her buttocks. They were halfway up the spiral staircase, which was too narrow to accommodate anyone else, and eerily lit with rush lights. “What are you doing?” she gasped—the stupidest question of her life.

He wrapped her hard in his arms from behind, throbbing heavily against her. “I dinna wish to wait.”

They were on a public staircase. She wanted to protest—didn’t she?

He growled and wrapped his huge arms tightly around her, holding her for one moment so she could not move. In that moment, she felt that entire solid length, escaping the tunic, pulsing urgently against her buttocks, over her skirt. She felt his thundering heartbeat, his savage excitement. She could not stand it.

He lifted her skirt and that heavy length butted hard against her bare thighs. He ripped her bikini apart, sliding his fingers over her wet, throbbing flesh. Tabby cried out, pressing her face to the stone wall. Tabby felt him coming, massive and slick, and he embedded himself in her.

She gasped, vibrating in pleasure, wrapped in his arms. He moved his mouth against her neck repeatedly, small, hard kisses, while he thrust, again and again, hard and determined. She went over the brink, pleasure becoming rapture. He laughed and then groaned loudly, joining her. He slid his hands lower. He held her there, murmuring to her. His excitement seemed to merge with hers and became unbearable. Tabby wept his name.

HE COLDLY LIFTED his sword as Alasdair cowered on the ground on all fours, begging for his life. But he didn’t hear him. Instead, he glanced at the river below. Coinneach was there, running hard toward them, screaming, “No!”