Page 71 of Dark Victory

He strode to her, his gaze moving slowly down the blue velvet gown before lifting. “She gave ye a dress that was my mother’s.”

He hadn’t known. She’d been right, it hadn’t been a gift. “Good morning.”

“Have ye enjoyed yer mornin’ with Peigi?”

Tabby was dismayed. “Did you eavesdrop?”

“I dinna ken why I can hear ye from downstairs, across two chambers.”

Great, she thought, becoming angry herself. “I’m not allowed to ask questions?”

“’Tis the past, Tabitha, but ye’ve decided I need yer help an’ ye willna leave it alone.”

She crossed her arms. “You do need help, Macleod. You are an angry man, and it’s justifiable. But no one should have to live with so much anger or, worse, so much repressed grief and guilt.” It suddenly crossed her mind that this was why he hadn’t taken his vows—he was too scarred to do so.

“I dinna ken what ye speak of. I laid them all to rest and gave up mourning that verra day. The boy I was died that day, too.”

She reached out to touch his cheek and he jerked away, eyes dark and angry. She said, “He fought as hard as he could.” Macleod started. “He did not die. He grew up to be the man standing before me—a determined and courageous warrior.”

“He died that day,” Macleod spit. “I became the Macleod that day—but Peigi already told ye so. Ye choose to harp on it. Dinna even think to press me on the subject of my vows!”

Wow, Tabby thought. Behind him, the fire roared in the hearth. None of his men seemed to mind. While she was a bit taken aback, she wasn’t frightened. He would never hurt her, no matter how irate—she had no doubt now. “I have been judging you really unfairly.”

“Ye feel sorry fer me!”

“Yes, I do.” The fire briefly shot out of the hearth. Tabby ignored it, as she did the jumping chairs. “I am not giving you a pass on things you’ve done—like bringing me here against my express will—but I will never judge you again as I have been doing, Macleod. We’re from different worlds. I understand why you live as you do.”

His eyes shot to hers. He finally said, “Yer accusations have annoyed me. I dinna like bein’ judged, not by ye or anyone. But—” he paused for emphasis “—I have given ye a pass, all o’ the time, because I like havin’ ye in my bed.”

She flushed. “Did you have to ruin our conversation with that rude and sexist comment?”

“’Tis the truth. No woman likes an angry man.” He was sneering. His face remained dark.

He wouldn’t back down. He wanted to offend her. “I hate to tell you, but you don’t frighten me and you can’t offend me with sexual references.” He stared. “Macleod, I am sorry. Can we start over? We have this odd tension, but maybe we can sort of be friends. I actually don’t mind being here for a while, and we do have a common enemy which we need to dispatch.”

His eyes widened. “We’re lovers. Ye’re my mistress.”

She bit back a retort. Slowly, she corrected him. “In my time, very few women would like being called a mistress. It’s pretty insulting.”

“Aye, because women in yer time dinna want their men strong or to take care of them.”

Tabby was going to dispute him, when she realized he was right. Women liked metro over macho and they were hell-bent on being independent. Which was positive, right?

He began to smile. “Ye’re the most independent woman I have ever met. But I’ll still take care of ye. I dinna need a friend, though I need a mistress.”

She would never admit it, but it was almost tempting to accept having a big strong man to take care of her. Almost…“Think of me as your mistress if you will. But you need a friend, of that there is no doubt. I think I’m qualified. After all, I’m the first woman to spend the night and challenge you, right? I’m the first woman to stand up to your every angry stare and all those autocratic commands?”

He crossed his massive arms. “Ye challenge me to no end. Ye annoy me, Tabitha,” he warned.

She smiled at him and it was genuine. The warmth unfurled in her chest. “Well, I guess that leaves you with one option—taking my head off.” She started to stroll past him. “I thought I’d explore the grounds.”

He was red-faced. “Ye’re my guest. Ye can walk freely about Blayde.” He turned away, then swung abruptly back. “Ye look French.”

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. As he walked back to his men, she stared in surprise, recalling how he’d said that Frenchwomen were elegant, not her. But she’d been in a kid’s dirty gym clothes. He liked her in the blue velvet dress. He thought her elegant. She’d thought herself sick and tired of that word. But she hadn’t been elegant last night—and she was warming rapidly from his praise now.

Tabby smiled to herself as she walked out of the hall.

She was elegant and passionate. The good part of Tabby Rose was back; the bad, well, it seemed vanquished. She was warm and fuzzy inside her chest. She almost felt happy. Tabby told herself to slow down. If she wasn’t very careful, she might start to care about him. She was firm with herself. Caring was not allowed. The only thing worse would be falling in love, and that would never happen. She could allow herself to feel some affection and friendship—and desire—but nothing more.