Page 96 of Dark Victory

A huge, dangerous-looking, very human Highlander rode out of the woods.

She finally smiled at him, coldly. “Domnhal will show ye to Melvaig so ye can vanquish the witch an’ go back to yer time. Outsiders are nay welcome here.”

Their gazes finally held. Nick smiled slowly at her; she did not smile back. He reminded himself not to alienate her. “I appreciate it,” he finally said softly. “But you should know that you are welcome in my time.”

Although her eyes were ice, her color seemed to deepen. But he wasn’t having entirely dirty thoughts. He wanted to know who she was and what she was capable of and her part in the war—and if she was somehow associated with the Masters. But she whirled the horse, galloping into the forest, before he could try to entice her into a dialogue. It thundered as her army joined her.

He became thoughtful. That woman was a warrior and she seemed fearless, but he’d had the odd notion that she just might be afraid of him.

“What is wrong with you?” Jan cried. “Do you have to come onto everything in skirts?”

“That wasn’t in a skirt,” he said thoughtfully. His blood continued to pound. She was hot. “She has a lot of power. I wonder what, exactly, she can do. She is one of us. She needs to lighten up, though.” His mind couldn’t help moving back to the medieval bedroom.

“Oh, and a few hours in your bed will do the trick?”

He had to smile. “Probably.” In fact, he had no doubt he could ease her mind, among other things. He looked at Domnhal. “Who was that?”

“The Lady of An Roinn-Mor…a daughter of the gods.”

MACLEOD REACHED the chamber’s threshold. In horror, he saw Tabitha pinned to the wall.

A huge, vicious demonic force had her imprisoned there. Her feet did not even touch the floor. That force had every item in the chamber on end. The shutters had been ripped from the window and were in bits and pieces, thrust against the ceiling; the chest, table and chairs were in broken pieces, too, and plastered to the walls. Even his bed was upside down and broken, affixed to one wall. And Tabitha was in agony.

He instantly understood that it was as if she was caught within a terrible vise. Her face was deathly white and strained, her eyes were bulging, and the sheer force that had her pinned to the wall had her clothes pasted to her skin. Her pain struck him, pierced through him.

He roared in fury, attempting to battle through Criosaidh’s energy, but it was so strong it was an invisible wall and he could not get inside the room.

Her terrified eyes met his. I love you.

It was déjà vu—he’d heard her before—her last dying words.

“Nay!” he roared, blasting the chamber with his power. The room shuddered but the cyclone only intensified and Tabitha screamed in more agony.

His power would do nothing. Macleod pushed against the wall of wind, determined to get past it and inside. Tabitha’s screams kept sounding as he fought to get into the chamber. He somehow pushed across the threshold, the effort so monumental, his own tears fell. He grunted, refusing to give up, fighting his way through the demonic force—and Tabitha’s screams abruptly stopped.

He didn’t dare look up at her. He fought his way through Criosaidh’s power, step by painful step. And suddenly the shutters that had been on the ceiling came raining down in pieces around him. The bed fell to the floor from the wall, as did the tables, chairs and chest. The wind had vanished; she had vanished.

Macleod looked up as Tabitha fell to the floor, eyes closed, as limp as a lifeless corpse.

He rushed to her and knelt, terrified now. “Tabitha!”

She was so badly beaten, so bruised, her neck at such an odd angle, that he was afraid to touch her and take her in his arms. Worse, her magic and power, her life, suddenly felt weak and fragile—and by the moment, it seemed to be ebbing. Slowly, he reached for her pulse.

She lay unmoving, as if dead. “Ye willna die,” he said fiercely. “I willna allow it!”

He thought her lashes flickered.

He tried to stay calm so he could find her pulse. And then, finally, he felt the slow, faint beating of her heart, barely fluttering in her chest. And now, below her breasts, where the velvet dress clung to her torso, he saw that her ribs were broken.

“Tabitha.” He had never been this afraid. How badly was she hurt? She was so pale but the skin around her eyes was turning black and blue. She could not die. He found his will. “MacNeil can heal ye. I need MacNeil.” He was frantic. He dared to clasp her hand. “MacNeil!” he roared.

She moaned.

He jerked. “Ye will be fine, Tabitha. MacNeil will come an’ heal ye an’ I will kill Criosaidh!”

She lay so still, so beautiful and so fragile, her power slipping further away.

“Fight to live,” he begged her. He raised his head. “MacNeil!”