Page 69 of Dark Victory

CHAPTER TWELVE

TABBY OPENED HER EYES. It took her an instant to comprehend why the ceiling above was dark stone and wood rafters, instead of white plaster.

Slowly she sat up in Macleod’s bed. His power wafted from the sheets and filled the bedchamber.

She tensed, hugging her knees to her chest. It had been almost impossible to fall asleep after he’d left her in that rage. His anger was so obviously a disguise for his pain, and it went deep. She would never forget him shouting at her that the boy was dead. She shuddered. What a terrible and tragic thing to say.

He remained a complicated and medieval stranger, but indifference toward him was impossible. He had done some things she would not condone, but he had protected her several times and made love to her as if the earth was ending. Now, she understood that he had never gotten over the massacre that had taken his family in 1201.

How could she not be filled with compassion for him? No matter how often she thought about Angel or being taken into the past against her will, she could not stop herself from wanting to soothe him and help him. Most ordinary children would be traumatized by witnessing the murders of their family. As extraordinary as he was, it was clear now that Macleod was no different.

She hadn’t ever suffered as he had. Although her mother had been murdered by demons in a pleasure crime, she’d been at ballet lessons when it had happened. It was Sam who had witnessed the violent murder. Like Macleod, her sister had refused to ever speak about it.

Was that why she was with him in 1298? Was she supposed to help him deal with that tragedy? Maybe it didn’t matter, because Tabby couldn’t leave it alone. She knew that intimacy was a terrible idea for them, and her compassion was a form of intimacy, as was the sex. But she was here and she intended to help, no matter how he might roar and rage at her—no matter how it might connect them further. She was compelled.

When he’d stormed out of the bedchamber, he’d been furious with her. She hoped he’d calmed down since then and decided to try to be a bit more subtle the next time she pried into his past. But there would be a next time. Now, though, she realized it would be hard to get him to open up. Men didn’t discuss their feelings in the thirteenth century. She’d probably made him really uncomfortable.

A knock sounded lightly on her door. Tabby called out for the housemaid to enter. A young, pretty redhead came bustling in, crying out because the room was so cold. Immediately she knelt before the hearth, trying to start the fire.

Tabby stared out of the closest window. The shutters had been opened and it was a gray morning, heavy with clouds, indicating rain. The bedchamber had been cold last night, when Macleod had risen from the bed.

The maid jabbed the fire again, but the flames seemed ready to go out. Tabby looked at the fire, threw her mind into the task at hand, and murmured, “Fire obey me, fire return. Fire obey me, warm the room.”

The maid looked at her, her eyes wide with surprise. Behind her, the fire burst into flames, and the maid jumped to her feet.

Tabby pulled the covers chin-high. “Good morning.” There was no answer. “Do you speak English?”

“Aye, my lady…a bit.”

Tabby smiled. “Thank you for the fire. It’s so cold in here.”

The maid stared. “Are ye a witch?”

Tabby knew just about everything there was to know about the history of witches and witchcraft. The great witch hunts of Europe would not begin until the middle of the sixteenth century. No one was burned or hanged for sorcery in this time. “A little magic can be useful,” she hedged.

The maid smiled. “Can ye help me with yer magic?”

Tabby laughed. “Do you need a love spell?”

“Aye, I do. I’m Peigi,” she added. Her brows lifted. “Ye’re still in the Macleod’s bed, so ye dinna need a love spell—or maybe ye put one on him.”

Tabby tried to decipher that comment. “I have never tried to cast a love spell. Why wouldn’t I be in his bed this morning?” She slid from the bed, seizing the red-and-black plaid at the foot.

“No woman has ever stayed the entire night with the Macleod,” Peigi said.

Tabby thought she’d misheard. After all, he was over a hundred years old and he’d had lots of women. The thought was too disturbing, so Tabby said quickly, “What did you just say?”

Peigi repeated herself.

Tabby stared in surprise. “That makes no sense,” she stammered. Ridiculously, she was somewhat pleased.

“The women he takes to bed are too afraid o’ him to stay the night. ’Tis why he’s never married, I think. They would have to be dragged to the altar, kickin’ and screamin’.”

Abruptly Tabby sat down. Macleod had never married. That was highly unusual in this time period. “That’s terrible,” she said softly. “Women use him for sex and then hurry away?”

“Aye, as far as they can get and as swiftly.”

“I don’t think he’s that bad. Does he beat them?”