CHAPTER EIGHT #4
She had haunted him for decades, but he was the victor.
It almost felt as if he owned her now, body and soul, and that somehow gave him greater pleasure.
But there was more. He could not get enough of her bright power.
Her rapture seemed to fill him with that stunning white light. It made him insatiable.
And then he heard the intruder. He jumped from the bed, reaching instinctively for his sword.
It was in the other room.
Simultaneously he felt the intruder’s white warrior power. He jumped into her mind and knew she was the sister and he dismissed her as irrelevant. He did not care about her warrior sister.
He slowly turned to look at her. Tabitha gasped, breathing wildly, clutching the covers high.
She had plenty of passion, for him and him alone.
He was very pleased. But he’d never had any doubt about the outcome of any sexual encounter with her.
He couldn’t ever recall feeling as satisfied.
His smile faded. She was different from the others.
Her eyes turned lucid. “It’s my sister.”
“Aye.” He folded his arms and became thoughtful. He had been very angry to be brought to her time without his permission, as if a hostage or a prisoner of war, but he was no longer angry with her. Yet he was a Highlander; forgiveness was rare. Grudges were usually kept to the death.
He decided that he could forgive her for the terrible trespass of abducting him across time, because she desperately needed his protection. He might have never met her in the flesh otherwise—or had her in his bed, either. No, he did not mind forgiving her.
But one astounding fact remained. She had struck him. It was unbelievable. As unbelievable was the fact that he hadn’t struck her back.
He did not beat women or dogs or any other creatures. But he did not know any man who would let that slap pass without retribution, and he hadn’t had even the slightest urge to hit her back. In fact, he did not like the mere idea of hurting her.
There were very few subjects he brooded upon, and they were usually related to war and the MacDougalls, but he’d thought about her almost constantly since meeting her. He wondered if she’d cast a spell upon him. That would raise his ire as nothing else. Macleod became uneasy.
Tabitha sat up, hugging herself, her eyes wide upon him. “It wasn’t a hallucination, that first time,” she said hoarsely.
He understood. She’d been afraid that the passion he’d stirred in that first brief encounter had been a mistake and would never occur again. “Ye’ll always weep with pleasure in my bed.”
She grimaced. “You look really smug.”
“Do I? Ye look verra well pleased also.”
She flushed. “Not to get into semantics, but that word always is bothering me.”
He sighed. God, she thought so much! She was debating what would happen between them, if they would have sex again. He felt like laughing out loud. Of course they would share his bed. Why would they not do so?
“Yer sister wants to speak with ye. She doesna want ye with me,” he said sharply, now noticing the sister’s unhappy thoughts for the first time.
Tabitha began to worry about her sister’s reaction to the devastation in the loft—and to Macleod.
He wrapped the plaid around his waist, deciding to ignore her thoughts. Tabitha had been haunting him for a century and she hadn’t even known it. He had lurked, and he knew she told the truth. He wanted to know what that signified.
She’d meant to bring him to her from Melvaig in 1550, after a great fire.
The evil that had attacked them last night had come from that fire, or so she thought.
He was concerned. His enemies were at Melvaig now, and undoubtedly they remained there well into the sixteenth century.
But he’d felt the evil, too, and its hatred had not been directed at him.
Like the possessed boys, it had wanted to harm and destroy Tabitha.
She wasn’t safe in this time, he thought. And that meant that when he left, he’d take her with him. The prospect was rather pleasing. She would probably object. Come the night, he’d end her objections.
He looked at her. She’d left the bed, dragging the covers with her, as if he didn’t know every single inch of her body. “I need clothes,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “I can wash that tunic, but you’re right.
We don’t know how long you’ll be here, and we’d better get you in clothes that don’t stick out.
” She opened a closet door and began jerking clothes from the rack.
She was still nervous and distressed. She couldn’t decide what to do next with him or what to really think about him.
She was worried about the kind of woman she was becoming.
He did not mind the words savage, violent or ruthless, because every warrior should be those things. He was starting to dislike the word medieval, and he was becoming tired of being called a barbarian.
“When will ye get the clothes?”
She faced him. “Is there a rush?”
She knew what he wanted—and he always got what he wanted. He had told her last night, and she was very clever, so he knew she hadn’t forgotten. “I will go to the museum, Tabitha, to see the display ye keep thinking about. An Tùir-Tara.”
Tabitha paled.