Page 82 of Dark Victory

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE SUN WAS SETTING. The occupants of the castle had finished dining some time ago. Tabby had been able to hear the dinner conversation from her new bedchamber. Macleod had been angry when she insisted on a separate room, but he hadn’t taken a stand and tried to force her into sharing his room. She had decided not to go downstairs to eat, not because she had no appetite but because she did not want to sit with Macleod—it was far too tense between them now. A small girl had brought her meal up to her, although she hadn’t had to ask for it. Unfortunately, she knew Macleod had sent it.

She wished he hadn’t done that. She did not want to see him as thoughtful, but the gesture had been exactly that. Of course, she’d been given a full meal—while Coinneach starved outside in the stocks.

Tabby hugged her knees to her chest. She was seated on the pallet she would sleep on. The chamber she’d found was in Blayde’s south tower, directly across the hall from the north tower where Macleod slept. It was the size of a prison cell, but it had a window, which Tabby thought was a plus. There was no furniture, just a small stool and the pallet.

Downstairs, a silence had fallen, as everyone settled down for the night.

God, she was feeling so sad now. She felt sorry for Coinneach, who was physically suffering, and she felt sorry for Macleod, who was a prisoner of his duty, his anger, his grief and, apparently, even his guilt. She was starting to realize why he wanted that boy dead. She was suspecting he wished he had died in the massacre, too. Instead, he had survived, and now he lived for revenge.

It made her feel even sadder. He was so courageous and so powerful. If he would walk away from that revenge and take his vows, he would be a hero. Wanting to help them both made her feel as if she was walking a very precarious tightrope, with no net below to break her fall.

Tabby was acutely aware that she could not stop thinking about Macleod. It was almost funny. She’d become obsessed from the first time she’d seen him at the Met, when he was hurt and burned from An Tùir-Tara—when it was obvious that he needed her. But when she’d seen him at school, she’d been so certain that the dark, dangerous warrior didn’t need her or anybody. She had been completely wrong. But the real irony was that from the moment they’d met, she’d wanted to avoid getting close to him, yet every encounter had deepened their intimacy. Their moral conflict was keeping them apart, but it was also making her see him and understand him as never before.

Why will ye nay comprehend my world?

Do ye wish to see me dead?

Ye said ye willna judge me.

She laid her face on her knees. She had to free him from his past. She felt certain he would become a changed man if she could accomplish that feat. If he gave up his revenge, he might even take his vows.

Think long an’ hard on whether ye choose the boy over me.

She had promised Coinneach she would free him that night. To do so, she would have to use her magic against Macleod. The only way she could get those keys was if she put a sleeping spell on him—and if it worked.

She was wondering if her spell to block him from reading her mind had worked. He hadn’t mentioned anything, but she had cast her spell with care. Hopefully any thoughts she had about Coinneach were now impossible for him to hear.

Tabby glanced at the chamber’s sole window. It was dusk now, the sky a dark shade of lavender, a few stars emerging in the purple sky. Right now, if they weren’t in this terrible predicament, she’d be in his bed, in his arms. She did not want to let her mind go there, but being in his embrace had felt incredibly right.

She flushed. She had ended their physical relationship, but a part of her knew it wasn’t over. How could it be, when she was so determined to help free him from his bondage? When she was so damn attracted to him? When he was the only man who had ever thoroughly and completely aroused her?

She stared at the darkening sky, sick with dread. Was he alone?

She couldn’t imagine him refraining from sex, now that she knew how virile he was. But if he had taken another woman to his bed now, she would never forgive him, not if she went home and not even if she saw him again at An Tùir-Tara after two-hundred-and-fifty years had passed.

Her heart hurt, but she refused to acknowledge it. She had to stop thinking about him. She had to mentally shut down and forget about what he was doing, and with whom. Coinneach was outside in the bailey, shackled and in stocks. It was too early to try to steal Macleod’s keys, so she had to wait.

Resolved, Tabby got up, putting one of his red-and-black brats over her shoulders. She’d eaten exactly a third of her meal, saving the rest for Coinneach. She picked up the trencher.

Think long an’ hard on whether ye choose the boy over me.

She went downstairs. Most of his men were asleep on their pallets, but a handful of men were at the table, gaming. They turned to stare at her, seemingly disapproving and suspicious. Macleod was not present; he had retired for the night.

Do not think about it.

She straightened her spine, ignoring them all while mentally daring any man to try to stop her. No one did. She crossed the hall. But at the front door, she heard someone behind her. Tabby turned to face Rob.

He shook his head. “No good will come o’ this battle, lady. Ye canna win. Ye dinna wish to turn him against ye.”

“If I win, Rob, he wins, too.” Tabby pushed her shoulder against the door, slipping outside.

It was a purple night, still cloudy, and only a few stars were illuminating it. She crossed the bailey swiftly, being as careful as she could be not to spill the ale. Coinneach had been sleeping, his position an awkward one, and Tabby realized he must be exhausted. Her heart went out to him. As she knelt, he heard her and awoke. He looked up and relief filled his eyes. Then he started.

Tabby felt Macleod’s huge, powerful presence looming behind her. Her heart skidded and she glanced up over her shoulder at him.

He reached down and hauled her to her feet, the ale spilling. Without releasing her, he took the trencher from her and flung it to the ground.