Page 70 of Dark Victory

Peigi started. “He canna beat a dog, lady, so how could he beat a woman?”

She had laid a colorful bundle on a chair. “He told me to find ye garments.” She shook out a dark blue velvet gown.

Tabby blinked at the beautiful velvet dress. Clothing her was a necessity, she reminded herself. But his sending her a gown felt terribly intimate, as if they were really lovers.

“’Twas his mother’s.” Peigi gave her a sly look. “Ye’re the first woman to stay in his bed till sunrise, an’ now he gives ye such a costly gift. Bein’ as ye did not cast a love spell, ye must have truly pleased him.”

Tabby was incredulous. “I don’t think that’s a gift.”

“He willna want it back. I ken his lordship well. He’s pleased with ye, but he’ll never say so.”

Tabby swallowed. She didn’t want Macleod to be pleased with her—to start feeling some form of medieval macho affection for her. Did she? He might never let her go home if he cared for her. But he wasn’t capable of that kind of relationship, was he?

And she didn’t want to become fond of him, not in any way—she simply wanted to help him out. Disaster and Destiny had brought them together, not rational choice. Her choice of lover would be an intellectual from the twenty-first century.

She fingered the dress, certain it was a necessity, not a gift. But this was costly medieval finery, not the clothes worn by every other woman she’d thus far seen. The sleeves were long, bell-shaped and would trail to the floor, a sign of great wealth, and the cuffs, hem and neckline were embroidered in gold thread. It was a truly beautiful dress, and incredibly refined for the period.

Tabby fought her soft spot for well-made, elegant and beautiful clothes. She didn’t want to like the dress.

“This might be getting too complicated,” she muttered.

“I beg yer pardon?”

First desire, then compassion, and now a really nice dress. “Nothing. The gown is lovely.”

Peigi smiled. “Mayhap he put a love spell on ye, lady.”

She was surprised, but she felt her cheeks warm. “Peigi, I am not in love. I do not go for big brutes who wear swords to dinner—and they’re not even dress swords! However, I owe Macleod for his protection, and I am a bit worried about him. Do you know about the massacre that took his family?”

Peigi sat beside her. “O’ course I do. Everyone knows. His father was a great man who had made peace with the MacDougalls after a hundred years of war. There was a great day and night of celebration. But when the Macleod clan was asleep, they opened Blayde’s doors to mercenaries. The family was murdered afore his very eyes. Fifty-eight kin died that day. He fought wildly, they say, but what could a single boy do? He was only fourteen years old when he became the Macleod.”

Tabby closed her eyes, and the instant she did so, she saw that boy wildly heaving a huge sword at violently fighting men, hacking at their legs and hips, tears and blood mingling on his face. He was screaming incoherently, a combination of rage and grief—she could hear him! She could hear the ringing swords, the shouts.

She shivered. Had she just seen into the window of time? Had she just seen Macleod as a boy, in the midst of the massacre?

In the previous incidents, she hadn’t heard a single sound. But each time she’d seen him as a boy, his image had become clearer, his emotions had felt stronger and more tangible. And now, she’d heard all of those terrible battle sounds.

“Lady, are ye ill? Ye’re as white as a sheet.”

Tabby trembled, suddenly sickened, perhaps from his grief and despair. But maybe it was because she had just seen unbelievable violence and brutality. Blood had been running across the floor like a high tide. She was filled with anguish for that boy. It had been even worse than he’d let on—or than she had imagined.

“I’m just a bit dizzy,” she said.

What fourteen-year-old boy could survive that massacre and ever have a normal life? He’d become laird that day. “Peigi, did he really become chief of this clan after the massacre, or did someone else run things? Was he laird in name only?” She heard the tremor in her voice.

Peigi was surprised. “He was laird, lady, in every possible way. The Macleod went to war against the MacDougalls that very spring. He led his armies even though he was a boy—an’ he led them to victory.” She was proud. “Our bards still sing of his revenge.”

No wonder he was so cold and ruthless. Then she regarded Peigi, who didn’t seem to think anything of the fact that her laird looked all of twenty-five years old although he had to be one hundred years and counting. “I feel very sorry for him.”

Peigi stood, surprised. “Why would ye feel sorry fer the Macleod? He’s a powerful man, with land and titles, an’ he’s not the first to lose family here in the Highlands.” Peigi shrugged. “’Twas a long time ago. In the Highlands, ye must never trust yer friend—or yer foes. Can I help you dress?”

Tabby was thoughtful as she declined. He had lived through hell. She would always despise such a brutal and violent life, and the way he lived would always frighten and repulse her. But he belonged in the Middle Ages; he was a part of the culture, the times. It was time to stop judging him according to her modern standards. That was simply unfair.

But he obviously needed her help. Now, she knew why she was at Blayde.

THE MOMENT TABBY WENT downstairs she knew that Macleod was still angry with her. He stood at the trestle table with ten men, not speaking, as a debate of some kind raged. Maps covered the table. It almost looked as if they were plotting a war. Macleod stared at her while his men argued. He did not smile.

Tabby sighed and crossed the room. Couldn’t he let bygones be bygones? She was ready for a truce. But of course, she had an agenda. She had been governed by the need to help others her entire life, and realizing that she was there to help him made her feel like herself again. It even felt good. It certainly felt right.