CHAPTER TEN #2
He shook his head. “She willna war with us. I willna allow it. I met Ruari on the hill. He told me that he happened upon Coinneach as he tried to steal three cows.” They started up the narrow staircase, Rob behind him.
“We both ken Coinneach dinna come to Blayde to steal cattle—he came to murder me.”
“I dinna think he’ll admit it,” Rob said. “But the guards have heard him swearing revenge fer Alasdair.”
Macleod pounded up the steps. “Let him try.” His entire being became calm and focused—as it should, before confronting the enemy.
“He’s brave,” Rob said, behind him.
Rob would never dare suggest mercy, even if he might think about it. “He’ll be an example to all who think to trespass on Blayde’s land with foul intent.” He reached the highest landing.
Rob joined him, his blue gaze searching. “Ye’ll do what ye must,” he finally said.
“Aye.” The boy was a fool to come to Blayde alone, seeking vengeance, but Macleod would have done the same.
One of his men was standing guard in front of the closed tower door. The guard stepped aside and Macleod pushed inside the square room, his hard eyes moving to the boy.
Coinneach MacDougall was shackled to the wall by one ankle. His eyes blazed with hatred. He spit toward Macleod’s boots.
Macleod paused, hands on his hips, unmoved by the foolish act of defiance. “Ye think yer spit will bother me?”
“My spit shows ye I think of ye as I do a small, worthless bug.”
“Do ye think it wise to taunt me?”
“Murderer!” The boy’s blue eyes were brilliant in his pale face. “Heartless murderin’ swine!”
And Macleod envisioned the boy he’d once been, kneeling on the beach, watching the funeral galleys drifting away. The memory was acute and intense. What was this?
For not only could he recall the moment in utter detail, he suddenly felt a flash of hatred, a flash of rage, of grief.
Let me help you.
He whirled, but Tabitha did not stand in the doorway.
“Are ye ill?” Rob asked.
He shook his head, turning grimly back to Coinneach now. That boy had become a man overnight. Coinneach was sixteen, and he had become the MacDougall.
Let me help you.
Was she haunting him now from his own home? He quickly found his composure. “Aye, I murdered yer father, an’ his father, an’ his father afore that. An’, Coinneach? Ye’ll be next.”
Coinneach writhed against his shackles like a wild animal, filled with fury and desperation. “Go ahead, murder me, too! Lady Criosaidh will destroy ye with her powerful magic, an’ my uncles will destroy Blayde! She has vowed it.”
Criosaidh had undoubtedly already unleashed her spells, intent upon avenging the death of her husband. Over the years, he had avoided most of her spells with the help of MacNeil and an occasional god or goddess. She was powerful, but her spells could not reach him at Blayde, they never had yet.
He spoke coldly and quietly. “Let Criosaidh do as she wishes. Let yer uncles attempt to destroy Blayde. ’Twas foolish to come to Blayde to steal my cattle.”
“I meant to put a dagger in yer black heart,” Coinneach cried, “but ye were not here!”
Macleod had wanted a confession and now he had it. But there was no satisfaction. Instead, there was an odd confusion. “Had I been here, ye’d already be dead an’ rottin’ in my moat with my blade in yer throat.”
“Had ye been here,” Coinneach said, “ye’d have the blade in yer black heart, an’ yer head would be on a pike at Melvaig.”
“Believe as ye will, fer it surely comforts ye,” Macleod said.
Coinneach spit again.
Macleod was done. He had no interest in continuing the pitiful debate. The boy would die, as soon as he commanded it. Criosaidh would cast her spells; his uncles would launch their armies. Nothing was new, nothing would change.
Let me help you.
He glanced at the doorway again but Tabitha did not stand there. Was she trying to interfere with his prisoner?
“Yer day will come soon,” Coinneach shouted, twisting against the shackles. “If not by my hand, then by another.”
“Yer father should have taught ye tact an’ diplomacy. But ye’re nay a coward like he was, I will admit to that.”
Coinneach cried out, struggling to rush forward, as if believing he could pull the shackle from the wall.
Suddenly Macleod felt a touch of regret.
Not for what he must do, but for provoking the boy as he had.
But it was the truth—Coinneach’s father had been a coward and the boy knew it—he had watched.
Suddenly Macleod realized he had something in common with the MacDougall boy.
He’d helplessly watched his father being murdered, too.
He was uncomfortable, and he did not like it. “Ye’ll break yer leg,” he said flatly.
Panting, Coinneach subsided, sliding to his knees. “I’ll kill ye,” he cried. “I swear, I will find a way!”
He refused to compare himself to Coinneach another time. “Put him in the stocks in the bailey so all my people can see the Fate of thieves and those who think to murder me. He’ll have no food, no water…an’ we’ll see how long he lives.”
SHE TURNED TO WATCH Macleod vanish into a dark stairway.
Tabby decided she had enough to worry about without getting involved in Blayde’s business.
He’d undoubtedly taken many prisoners over the course of his long lifetime and this one had only rustled cattle.
The lady of Melvaig was a witch. She could barely adjust to that startling and ominous piece of information.
If An Tùir-Tara had resulted from a war of witches, did it mean that the current MacDougall lady would be one of the witches in the battle two hundred years from now?
There were spells for longevity, although Tabby had never found one or known anyone who had used one.
But hadn’t MacNeil said he’d known Grandma Sara?
She’d been ancient when she passed. She and Sam had assumed she was about a hundred years old, but now Tabby was uncertain.
Her head was hurting again. To survive, she needed Macleod. If she was not mistaken, she was cruising along just as Fate had planned. Tabby grimaced. She did not want to ever decipher MacNeil’s comment about souls.
The serving maid tugged on her sleeve but Tabby wanted to look around. “One moment,” she said, smiling at her.
Macleod had left, but Tabby felt him everywhere.
Now that she was resigned to having gone back in time, she could not believe how she’d shouted and vented at him, much less hit him.
She’d angered him—of that, there’d been no mistake.
She was lucky, she decided, that for some reason, he hadn’t hit her back.
It crossed her mind that maybe he wasn’t as brutal as she’d assumed. Or at least, he hadn’t been brutal with her, not yet.
She intended to keep it that way. No more un-Tabby-like temper tantrums. Tabby gave the great hall a cursory glance and nodded at the maid. “Let’s go.”
They crossed the room. It was barely furnished, with a massive fireplace, and exactly as one would imagine a medieval great room to look like. The ceilings were high and timbers crisscrossed them. There were rushes on the floor.
The history books were all wrong, she thought as they left. The chamber was clean. Dogs were not present. The rushes were fresh and smelled great.
Tabby paused before starting up another spiral staircase.
The huge room should have felt cold and uninviting, but it seemed almost welcoming.
She didn’t mind it being so spartan, not at all—frankly, it suited Macleod.
And suddenly she saw herself curling up in one of the two chairs before the hearth with the Book of Roses.
She cried out.
What on earth did that fantasy signify? She was never going to sit before that fire and work on her spells! The only place she would do that was at home. And she didn’t have the Book there, anyway.
Real dismay began. The Book was always in a Rose woman’s keeping—always. It was her responsibility, and it was at home, with Sam. If she needed a new spell, she might be screwed. But hopefully, she’d be at home before that ever happened.
She followed the maid upstairs, uneasy, thinking about the black witch of Melvaig.
A moment later she was on Blayde’s third and uppermost floor. Facing her was an open tower room. She saw stairs that went to the ramparts, where the watch were. The maid went to the only door on the landing and showed her into a large bedchamber.
It was Macleod’s. As it had in the hall, his power and presence filled the chamber.
Here, his mark was so strong it made her feel faint, stirring her body pleasantly.
Tabby looked at the fireplace briefly as the maid knelt before it.
Then she looked at the bed. It was heavily carved, the wood almost black.
A dozen embroidered pillows were piled up against the ebony headboard, and red and blue wool blankets, a fur and a red-and-black plaid were at its carved foot.
Ralph Lauren would love this bed, she thought. It could be in one of his showrooms.
Now that their terrific argument was done, her body was starting to make demands on her. She hadn’t forgiven him for treating her like baggage—and she wasn’t going to, either. So she had to rein in that sudden and intense wave of desire.
She looked past a rustic table and two carved chairs set against the wall beneath a pair of shuttered embrasures.
Because it was a beautiful summer day, the shutters were open, revealing an expanse of sparkling sapphire-blue sea.
She walked over to the narrow window. The sea below was so large she assumed she was looking at a part of the Atlantic Ocean.
It was a view no one could ever tire of.