CHAPTER TWELVE #2
Tabby was thoughtful as she declined. He had lived through hell.
She would always despise such a brutal and violent life, and the way he lived would always frighten and repulse her.
But he belonged in the Middle Ages; he was a part of the culture, the times.
It was time to stop judging him according to her modern standards. That was simply unfair.
But he obviously needed her help. Now, she knew why she was at Blayde.
THE MOMENT TABBY WENT downstairs she knew that Macleod was still angry with her.
He stood at the trestle table with ten men, not speaking, as a debate of some kind raged.
Maps covered the table. It almost looked as if they were plotting a war.
Macleod stared at her while his men argued. He did not smile.
Tabby sighed and crossed the room. Couldn’t he let bygones be bygones?
She was ready for a truce. But of course, she had an agenda.
She had been governed by the need to help others her entire life, and realizing that she was there to help him made her feel like herself again.
It even felt good. It certainly felt right.
He strode to her, his gaze moving slowly down the blue velvet gown before lifting. “She gave ye a dress that was my mother’s.”
He hadn’t known. She’d been right, it hadn’t been a gift. “Good morning.”
“Have ye enjoyed yer mornin’ with Peigi?”
Tabby was dismayed. “Did you eavesdrop?”
“I dinna ken why I can hear ye from downstairs, across two chambers.”
Great, she thought, becoming angry herself. “I’m not allowed to ask questions?”
“’Tis the past, Tabitha, but ye’ve decided I need yer help an’ ye willna leave it alone.”
She crossed her arms. “You do need help, Macleod. You are an angry man, and it’s justifiable. But no one should have to live with so much anger or, worse, so much repressed grief and guilt.” It suddenly crossed her mind that this was why he hadn’t taken his vows—he was too scarred to do so.
“I dinna ken what ye speak of. I laid them all to rest and gave up mourning that verra day. The boy I was died that day, too.”
She reached out to touch his cheek and he jerked away, eyes dark and angry. She said, “He fought as hard as he could.” Macleod started. “He did not die. He grew up to be the man standing before me—a determined and courageous warrior.”
“He died that day,” Macleod spit. “I became the Macleod that day—but Peigi already told ye so. Ye choose to harp on it. Dinna even think to press me on the subject of my vows!”
Wow, Tabby thought. Behind him, the fire roared in the hearth. None of his men seemed to mind. While she was a bit taken aback, she wasn’t frightened. He would never hurt her, no matter how irate—she had no doubt now. “I have been judging you really unfairly.”
“Ye feel sorry fer me!”
“Yes, I do.” The fire briefly shot out of the hearth.
Tabby ignored it, as she did the jumping chairs.
“I am not giving you a pass on things you’ve done—like bringing me here against my express will—but I will never judge you again as I have been doing, Macleod.
We’re from different worlds. I understand why you live as you do. ”
His eyes shot to hers. He finally said, “Yer accusations have annoyed me. I dinna like bein’ judged, not by ye or anyone. But—” he paused for emphasis “—I have given ye a pass, all o’ the time, because I like havin’ ye in my bed.”
She flushed. “Did you have to ruin our conversation with that rude and sexist comment?”
“’Tis the truth. No woman likes an angry man.” He was sneering. His face remained dark.
He wouldn’t back down. He wanted to offend her.
“I hate to tell you, but you don’t frighten me and you can’t offend me with sexual references.
” He stared. “Macleod, I am sorry. Can we start over? We have this odd tension, but maybe we can sort of be friends. I actually don’t mind being here for a while, and we do have a common enemy which we need to dispatch. ”
His eyes widened. “We’re lovers. Ye’re my mistress.”
She bit back a retort. Slowly, she corrected him. “In my time, very few women would like being called a mistress. It’s pretty insulting.”
“Aye, because women in yer time dinna want their men strong or to take care of them.”
Tabby was going to dispute him, when she realized he was right. Women liked metro over macho and they were hell-bent on being independent. Which was positive, right?
He began to smile. “Ye’re the most independent woman I have ever met. But I’ll still take care of ye. I dinna need a friend, though I need a mistress.”
She would never admit it, but it was almost tempting to accept having a big strong man to take care of her.
Almost…“Think of me as your mistress if you will. But you need a friend, of that there is no doubt. I think I’m qualified.
After all, I’m the first woman to spend the night and challenge you, right?
I’m the first woman to stand up to your every angry stare and all those autocratic commands? ”
He crossed his massive arms. “Ye challenge me to no end. Ye annoy me, Tabitha,” he warned.
She smiled at him and it was genuine. The warmth unfurled in her chest. “Well, I guess that leaves you with one option—taking my head off.” She started to stroll past him. “I thought I’d explore the grounds.”
He was red-faced. “Ye’re my guest. Ye can walk freely about Blayde.” He turned away, then swung abruptly back. “Ye look French.”
It took her a moment to realize what he meant.
As he walked back to his men, she stared in surprise, recalling how he’d said that Frenchwomen were elegant, not her.
But she’d been in a kid’s dirty gym clothes.
He liked her in the blue velvet dress. He thought her elegant.
She’d thought herself sick and tired of that word.
But she hadn’t been elegant last night—and she was warming rapidly from his praise now.
Tabby smiled to herself as she walked out of the hall.
She was elegant and passionate. The good part of Tabby Rose was back; the bad, well, it seemed vanquished.
She was warm and fuzzy inside her chest. She almost felt happy.
Tabby told herself to slow down. If she wasn’t very careful, she might start to care about him.
She was firm with herself. Caring was not allowed.
The only thing worse would be falling in love, and that would never happen.
She could allow herself to feel some affection and friendship—and desire—but nothing more.
Outside, a drizzle had begun, but Peigi handed her a plaid as she went outside.
Using it like a shawl, Tabby paused, breathing in the scent of the crisp morning.
It was great. Then she hid a smile and headed for the stairs that led up to the ramparts.
The view would be incredible from the crenellations.
She went up slowly, the stones slick and wet, starting to think about her sister.
She and Sam had always had amazing telepathy.
From the time they were toddlers, she would know what Sam was thinking and what she wanted, and it had been mutual.
Even after they’d begun to speak, she’d been able to hear her thoughts when she wanted to.
It wasn’t unusual for Rose women, sisters or not, to be so in tune with one another.
If she focused, maybe she could let Sam know where she was and that she was all right. It was probably impossible, considering the gulf of centuries that separated them, but she intended to try.
And then she had to figure out how to gather information in medieval times. She wanted to research Melvaig and its witch. Peigi seemed in the loop, and Tabby would start with her.
She reached the ramparts. A big, handsome and young Highlander with dark hair smiled at her, but he was clearly just being friendly.
Tabby felt certain that no one at Blayde would dare flirt with her, considering Macleod’s temper and power.
She walked to the edge and stared over the crenellations, then gasped at the sight of the steel-gray seas, frothing against the equally gray skies.
It was stark and desolate but it was magnificent.
This side of the fortress was perched on the edge of the cliffs, right over the ocean.
Blayde was set in an unusual position, on an atoll of land with the Atlantic Ocean sweeping in from the north, facing the Western Isles. Melvaig lay somewhere to the south.
Tabby stared in that direction, dread slowly forming. It did not help that the sky in the south was black with storm clouds. She hesitated and almost thought she felt a finger of evil, beckoning to her. She shivered.
It began to rain.
The Highlander gestured at her, indicating that she should go back to the hall. Tabby smiled at him. “You’re right.” She turned, lifting the plaid to hold it over her head like a hood. That was when she saw the prisoner below.
For one moment, she stared. Was that a man in stocks?
It began to pour.
Her concern was instantaneous. The prisoner was on the far side of the bailey, almost behind the hall.
It was hard to see clearly from this distance, but it appeared that a man was on his hands and knees, restrained by stocks.
That was inhumane—it violated the Geneva Convention and her own personal code of ethics. Outrage began.
Tabby lifted her skirts and started to hurry toward the stairs. The Highlander seized her arm, shaking his head, and for one moment, she thought he was warning her not to go over to the prisoner. “A’coiseachd.”
It took Tabby a moment to realize he was warning her to slow down. She tried to smile, realizing that he was right. Running would mean a certain fall. She went slowly down the stairs, which were dangerously slick. When she reached the ground, she lifted her skirts and ran.