CHAPTER TWELVE
TABBY OPENED HER EYES. It took her an instant to comprehend why the ceiling above was dark stone and wood rafters, instead of white plaster.
Slowly she sat up in Macleod’s bed. His power wafted from the sheets and filled the bedchamber.
She tensed, hugging her knees to her chest. It had been almost impossible to fall asleep after he’d left her in that rage.
His anger was so obviously a disguise for his pain, and it went deep.
She would never forget him shouting at her that the boy was dead.
She shuddered. What a terrible and tragic thing to say.
How could she not be filled with compassion for him?
No matter how often she thought about Angel or being taken into the past against her will, she could not stop herself from wanting to soothe him and help him.
Most ordinary children would be traumatized by witnessing the murders of their family.
As extraordinary as he was, it was clear now that Macleod was no different.
She hadn’t ever suffered as he had. Although her mother had been murdered by demons in a pleasure crime, she’d been at ballet lessons when it had happened. It was Sam who had witnessed the violent murder. Like Macleod, her sister had refused to ever speak about it.
Was that why she was with him in 1298? Was she supposed to help him deal with that tragedy?
Maybe it didn’t matter, because Tabby couldn’t leave it alone.
She knew that intimacy was a terrible idea for them, and her compassion was a form of intimacy, as was the sex.
But she was here and she intended to help, no matter how he might roar and rage at her—no matter how it might connect them further. She was compelled.
When he’d stormed out of the bedchamber, he’d been furious with her.
She hoped he’d calmed down since then and decided to try to be a bit more subtle the next time she pried into his past. But there would be a next time.
Now, though, she realized it would be hard to get him to open up.
Men didn’t discuss their feelings in the thirteenth century.
She’d probably made him really uncomfortable.
A knock sounded lightly on her door. Tabby called out for the housemaid to enter. A young, pretty redhead came bustling in, crying out because the room was so cold. Immediately she knelt before the hearth, trying to start the fire.
Tabby stared out of the closest window. The shutters had been opened and it was a gray morning, heavy with clouds, indicating rain. The bedchamber had been cold last night, when Macleod had risen from the bed.
The maid jabbed the fire again, but the flames seemed ready to go out. Tabby looked at the fire, threw her mind into the task at hand, and murmured, “Fire obey me, fire return. Fire obey me, warm the room.”
The maid looked at her, her eyes wide with surprise. Behind her, the fire burst into flames, and the maid jumped to her feet.
Tabby pulled the covers chin-high. “Good morning.” There was no answer. “Do you speak English?”
“Aye, my lady…a bit.”
Tabby smiled. “Thank you for the fire. It’s so cold in here.”
The maid stared. “Are ye a witch?”
Tabby knew just about everything there was to know about the history of witches and witchcraft. The great witch hunts of Europe would not begin until the middle of the sixteenth century. No one was burned or hanged for sorcery in this time. “A little magic can be useful,” she hedged.
The maid smiled. “Can ye help me with yer magic?”
Tabby laughed. “Do you need a love spell?”
“Aye, I do. I’m Peigi,” she added. Her brows lifted. “Ye’re still in the Macleod’s bed, so ye dinna need a love spell—or maybe ye put one on him.”
Tabby tried to decipher that comment. “I have never tried to cast a love spell. Why wouldn’t I be in his bed this morning?” She slid from the bed, seizing the red-and-black plaid at the foot.
“No woman has ever stayed the entire night with the Macleod,” Peigi said.
Tabby thought she’d misheard. After all, he was over a hundred years old and he’d had lots of women. The thought was too disturbing, so Tabby said quickly, “What did you just say?”
Peigi repeated herself.
Tabby stared in surprise. “That makes no sense,” she stammered. Ridiculously, she was somewhat pleased.
“The women he takes to bed are too afraid o’ him to stay the night. ’Tis why he’s never married, I think. They would have to be dragged to the altar, kickin’ and screamin’.”
Abruptly Tabby sat down. Macleod had never married. That was highly unusual in this time period. “That’s terrible,” she said softly. “Women use him for sex and then hurry away?”
“Aye, as far as they can get and as swiftly.”
“I don’t think he’s that bad. Does he beat them?”
Peigi started. “He canna beat a dog, lady, so how could he beat a woman?”
She had laid a colorful bundle on a chair. “He told me to find ye garments.” She shook out a dark blue velvet gown.
Tabby blinked at the beautiful velvet dress. Clothing her was a necessity, she reminded herself. But his sending her a gown felt terribly intimate, as if they were really lovers.
“’Twas his mother’s.” Peigi gave her a sly look. “Ye’re the first woman to stay in his bed till sunrise, an’ now he gives ye such a costly gift. Bein’ as ye did not cast a love spell, ye must have truly pleased him.”
Tabby was incredulous. “I don’t think that’s a gift.”
“He willna want it back. I ken his lordship well. He’s pleased with ye, but he’ll never say so.”
Tabby swallowed. She didn’t want Macleod to be pleased with her—to start feeling some form of medieval macho affection for her. Did she? He might never let her go home if he cared for her. But he wasn’t capable of that kind of relationship, was he?
And she didn’t want to become fond of him, not in any way—she simply wanted to help him out. Disaster and Destiny had brought them together, not rational choice. Her choice of lover would be an intellectual from the twenty-first century.
She fingered the dress, certain it was a necessity, not a gift.
But this was costly medieval finery, not the clothes worn by every other woman she’d thus far seen.
The sleeves were long, bell-shaped and would trail to the floor, a sign of great wealth, and the cuffs, hem and neckline were embroidered in gold thread.
It was a truly beautiful dress, and incredibly refined for the period.
Tabby fought her soft spot for well-made, elegant and beautiful clothes. She didn’t want to like the dress.
“This might be getting too complicated,” she muttered.
“I beg yer pardon?”
First desire, then compassion, and now a really nice dress. “Nothing. The gown is lovely.”
Peigi smiled. “Mayhap he put a love spell on ye, lady.”
She was surprised, but she felt her cheeks warm. “Peigi, I am not in love. I do not go for big brutes who wear swords to dinner—and they’re not even dress swords! However, I owe Macleod for his protection, and I am a bit worried about him. Do you know about the massacre that took his family?”
Peigi sat beside her. “O’ course I do. Everyone knows.
His father was a great man who had made peace with the MacDougalls after a hundred years of war.
There was a great day and night of celebration.
But when the Macleod clan was asleep, they opened Blayde’s doors to mercenaries.
The family was murdered afore his very eyes.
Fifty-eight kin died that day. He fought wildly, they say, but what could a single boy do?
He was only fourteen years old when he became the Macleod. ”
Tabby closed her eyes, and the instant she did so, she saw that boy wildly heaving a huge sword at violently fighting men, hacking at their legs and hips, tears and blood mingling on his face.
He was screaming incoherently, a combination of rage and grief—she could hear him!
She could hear the ringing swords, the shouts.
She shivered. Had she just seen into the window of time? Had she just seen Macleod as a boy, in the midst of the massacre?
In the previous incidents, she hadn’t heard a single sound. But each time she’d seen him as a boy, his image had become clearer, his emotions had felt stronger and more tangible. And now, she’d heard all of those terrible battle sounds.
“Lady, are ye ill? Ye’re as white as a sheet.”
Tabby trembled, suddenly sickened, perhaps from his grief and despair.
But maybe it was because she had just seen unbelievable violence and brutality.
Blood had been running across the floor like a high tide.
She was filled with anguish for that boy.
It had been even worse than he’d let on—or than she had imagined.
“I’m just a bit dizzy,” she said.
What fourteen-year-old boy could survive that massacre and ever have a normal life? He’d become laird that day. “Peigi, did he really become chief of this clan after the massacre, or did someone else run things? Was he laird in name only?” She heard the tremor in her voice.
Peigi was surprised. “He was laird, lady, in every possible way. The Macleod went to war against the MacDougalls that very spring. He led his armies even though he was a boy—an’ he led them to victory.” She was proud. “Our bards still sing of his revenge.”
No wonder he was so cold and ruthless. Then she regarded Peigi, who didn’t seem to think anything of the fact that her laird looked all of twenty-five years old although he had to be one hundred years and counting. “I feel very sorry for him.”
Peigi stood, surprised. “Why would ye feel sorry fer the Macleod? He’s a powerful man, with land and titles, an’ he’s not the first to lose family here in the Highlands.” Peigi shrugged. “’Twas a long time ago. In the Highlands, ye must never trust yer friend—or yer foes. Can I help you dress?”