CHAPTER TEN
THE ARMY HAD HALTED. Tabby could make out the horses and their riders, as well as three banners in the front ranks, which waved in dark, dangerous colors against the bright sky.
Tabby inhaled. It appeared as if a few hundred medieval warriors were facing them.
Her heart felt overloaded with fear. Had she landed in the middle of a war?
A lone horseman left the army and thundered toward them.
She stepped even closer to Macleod’s big body, aware now that she was the only woman present among so many savage fighting men. The concept of human rights didn’t even exist in this world. “Now what?”
“Ye can rest easy, Tabitha. ’Tis Ruari Dubh—a friend.”
She was relieved, but barely. Treachery was the name of the game in medieval Scotland. “You are sure he’s a friend?”
“Aye.” Macleod put his fists on his hips and waited.
The posture was not reassuring. She was going to have to start trusting Macleod. This was his world, and he was most definitely a survivor. She intended to be a survivor, too. She had to get home to her sister and her life.
But an odd frisson swept her. She did not know why—it wasn’t really alarm or unease, and she couldn’t identify it.
A Highlander as massively built as Macleod halted his gray charger before them.
Her eyes widened. He had tawny hair, a hard face, and wore mail over his leine and a gold cuff above one huge bicep.
He was ridiculously good-looking, but he wore the same frighteningly ruthless expression she’d seen on Macleod and she knew that he was heartless.
Tabby was confused. She had the feeling that they’d met—which was impossible. Wasn’t it?
But his power, which wafted out to her, seemed so familiar. And the gods felt closer, somehow.
“Who is that?” she whispered. Even as she spoke, the thought drifted through her mind that he was not just a Master, but a soldier of the gods.
“Black Royce,” Macleod said.
Even the name was familiar, and her heart lurched with surprise.
“What happens, Ruari?” Macleod asked brusquely, stepping forward.
Ruari replied in Gaelic, his granite expression never changing. He gave her one brief dismissive glance. Clearly he was not taken aback by her modern clothes or Macleod’s sweater and jeans. As he spoke, Tabby stared at him in growing excitement.
Her best friend in the world, Allie, was at Carrick in Morvern—but in the fifteenth century. Her soul mate was a Master named Royce. Shortly before Allie had vanished, Tabby had read the tarot cards for her. Royce had been a powerful golden warrior, a soldier of the gods—so much like this man.
Their conversation stopped. “Is he from Carrick?” she asked Macleod.
He gave her a piercing look. “Aye.”
It was Allie’s soul mate, it had to be. Surely she had recognized him because of that reading. But he hadn’t even met Allie yet—and he wouldn’t, not for more than a century.
Royce was now staring at her. Tabby realized he could undoubtedly read her every thought. She prayed he hadn’t done so. Then he gave her a look which stripped away her every garment, as if appraising her body for his future use, and he whirled the gray and galloped back to his army.
“I’ll kill him if he ever looks at ye again,” Macleod said harshly.
Tabby’s excitement vanished. She hadn’t liked that utterly objective look. It had been the look of a man who only wished to use a woman’s body—there had been nothing admiring about it. Allie was going to tame that?
“Who is Allie?” Macleod demanded.
“Allie is my friend. She’s a Healer. And she’s at Carrick Castle in 1436.”
He was disbelieving. “With Ruari? I dinna think so.”
Tabby decided not to argue. “What did he want?”
“I dinna wish ye to bother yerself with Highland politics.”
“Macleod!” Her newfound temper blazed. “I am here against my will and you tell me not to bother with the lay of the land? I don’t think so! Do you want to get along with me or not? I need to know what’s going on. I have no intention of walking into the arms of your enemies by mistake.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Ye can hardly do so if ye dinna leave the safety of Blayde.”
“So I am a prisoner.”
“Ye debate like a man!”
Tabby started. “That’s a compliment.”
“To be called manly?” He shook his head and sighed. “I dinna wish fer ye to stay angry with me, Tabitha. Ye ken Melvaig belongs to my enemies. The laird of Melvaig has been caught stealin’ my cattle. But he is in my tower now.”
“That’s it?” She was incredulous. Then she said softly, “What did Royce want?”
“The lady of Melvaig seeks revenge upon me. She has vowed it. Ruari came to warn me.”
“Nice of him,” Tabby said. But she did not like the way he was regarding her now. It sent a shiver up and then down her spine. “Okay, what is it? Have I grown a third ear and warts?”
“Tabitha,” he said quietly. “She is a black witch.”
The shiver became chills.
HE MUST NOT LET Tabitha war with the witch of Melvaig.
He entered his great hall, with Tabitha at his side. She was also grim, but for more reasons than what he’d just told her.
She hadn’t liked the human bones she’d seen in the dry moat, bones left on purpose as a warning to his enemies not to dare try to breach Blayde’s walls.
She had skipped quickly over the trapdoors beneath the floors of the entry hall, as if afraid they might open, and he knew that she was aware that lethal objects lay below in the cellars, objects that would impale her if she fell.
She had not liked how heavily armed his men were, neither the watch on the ramparts nor those coming and going in the barbican.
She was very familiar with his time—apparently she had read many books on the subject of Scotland.
He understood her interest. Her ancestors had come from Narne.
At least her anger had vanished. Now, she was anxious, thinking mostly about the black witch and the war of witches that would come in two-and-a-half centuries at An Tùir-Tara, but also worrying about just how violent his time was.
She would never find out. She was the gentlest woman he had ever met, in spite of her temper and inclination to hit him, and he would keep her from all harm.
His most trusted warrior had met him before he and Tabitha were halfway across the inner ward. He gave Rob a look which told him to pause. He turned to Tabitha. “Do ye think ye can take a moment or so to rest?”
Her attention was on the hall, not him. It flew back to his face. “I doubt it.”
“Ye’re safe within Blayde’s walls, Tabitha,” he said. “My enemies willna attempt treachery here.”
“Except that the lady of Melvaig has sworn revenge and the threat is serious enough that Royce thought he should warn you of it.”
She was so clever. “Revenge is our daily bread,” he said flatly.
“She’s a witch. And either she’s still around in 1550, or her progeny is. In any case, Macleod, if she’s the witch we read about at the Met, then that means she wins all your wars now.”
He stiffened. “If she decides to cast her black magic at me, I will go to Melvaig an’ vanquish her.”
“Maybe you’d better take your vows so you can count on your powers.”
Now he was annoyed. She was becoming as opinionated as MacNeil on the subject of his vows. “I can choke her with my two hands—or take her head with my sword.”
She paled.
He nodded at a serving maid and walked away from her, Rob hurrying to catch up.
She called after him. “What will you do now? Interrogate the cattle rustler?”
He did not look back. “My prisoner doesna concern ye.”
“Tonight we’re going to discuss the Geneva Convention,” she said.
Tonight he was going to pleasure her as never before, and there would be no time for talk. He smiled slightly at the notion.
Let me help you.
He tensed, whirling, but she was walking away from him and she hadn’t spoken.
Why had he just recalled her soft, garbled tone, the voice he’d heard that day so long ago when he’d buried his family at sea, the voice he’d heard numerous times, in his dreams or after a long and difficult battle?
It was strange. She hadn’t known him—and he wasn’t even sure she’d been alive when he was fourteen years old—but somehow, she had reached out to him, from wherever she was, trying to comfort him.
He reminded himself to tell her that he did not need comfort, not from her or anyone. He never had, and he never would. He would also tell her to stop pitying that boy. In fact, she should stop thinking about him entirely.
“Guy, what manner of fashion do ye wear?”
Macleod looked at him. Very few men called him by his first name—he’d been named after his father’s best French ally in a time of war—but Rob did so and he did not mind.
They were too close, having fought side by side too often.
More than once, Macleod had refused to let him die in a bloody battle and had summoned MacNeil to heal him.
They had never spoken of Macleod’s Destiny or lineage, but Macleod knew Rob had guessed who and what he truly was.
Many at Blayde feared him because they did not know the entire truth, but had heard of or seen his powers.
He was aware that the gossip about him was fierce.
Some even suspected that he belonged to the Brotherhood, but the existence of such holy warriors was also mere rumor.
No one knew for certain, other than those like himself. But Rob suspected the truth.
“’Tis a fashion from a faraway land,” he said. He could not tell Rob that he had been to the future.
“Those garments look uncomfortable, but the woman is very beautiful.” Rob gave him an odd look. “She speaks back to you.”
She certainly did. “She is verra brave.”
“What land does she come from?”
“A city called New York. ’Tis across the ocean. Their women are different, Rob—they try to live like men.”
Rob laughed. “No woman can live like a man.”
He happened to agree. “She is clever, though, an’ she is a witch.”
Rob started. “Then ’tis a stroke of good fortune ye have her here, to use her in yer war with Melvaig.”