CHAPTER TWELVE #3
She had been right. A man was in stocks. He was on his hands and knees, his neck locked in a vise made of wood, making it impossible for him to move. There were shackles on his wrists and ankles, as well. He looked at her, his eyes blazing with anger.
Tabby cried out, horrified. He wasn’t a man—he was a boy.
He could not be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She rushed to him and knelt. “Are you all right?”
His eyes widened. “Are ye English?”
She hesitated. “No.” Her gaze flew over him. He was soaking wet and his face was bruised, but otherwise, he did not seem hurt. “Who did this to you?”
He laughed at her, the sound hard for such a young man. “The laird o’ Blayde put me here, lady. Can ye help me? He means to leave me here until I die.”
For one moment, Tabby refused to believe it. Macleod couldn’t have done this. One of his men had done this. Then she turned off her rising dismay and the terrible comprehension she did not want to face, focusing on the boy. “Of course I’ll help you. What’s your name?”
“Coinneach MacDougall,” he said flatly.
Her mind raced. The MacDougall laird had been rustling cattle—but surely this boy was not the laird. No one would put a boy in stocks and then leave him there until he died! But she already knew the answers she was going to get as she spoke. “Are you the laird?”
“Aye,” he said, his face a mask of rage. “The day he murdered my father was the day I became laird!”
She couldn’t breathe. “He murdered your father?”
“Before my verra eyes, as God is my witness!” He began to writhe against the stocks. “My da was on the ground, askin’ fer his mercy, but he took his head and then flung it into the river!”
She was going to be violently ill, she thought, her stomach churning. “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself. I am going to help you.”
“Help me an’ ye’ll be next to die, no matter how pretty ye may be.”
Tabby choked, staring into Coinneach’s blue eyes.
Coinneach stared back. Macleod had done this.
He was violent and ruthless—cruel, even.
She’d just been so happy and she’d just promised herself not to judge him.
She understood him and wanted to help him, but this was inhumane.
This was horrifying. It was unacceptable.
She had to fix this.
“Help me,” the boy said, but he wasn’t begging. He seemed determined. “Ye seem kind an’ clever. Help me escape an’ I’ll repay ye handsomely—if ye live to receive the coin.”
She fought for composure. The one thing she did know was that Macleod wouldn’t murder her or put her in stocks. “Of course I will help you. You will be freed or I will die trying.” She had never meant anything more. She was a Rose, and this was what Rose women did—they gave selflessly to others.
Tabby stood. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.
The hall was warm, the fire blazing, a truly obscene contrast to the wet cold outside. The men remained, still arguing over the maps on the table. Macleod turned and stared, unsmiling and wary.
He knew. He was in her mind, reading her thoughts, as he always did.
She halted, holding her head high.
He approached her, his face set. “Ye said ye willna judge me anymore.”
She wet her lips. “There’s a boy in stocks. One of your men must have put him there. He needs to be released before he catches pneumonia and dies.” She prayed he would be surprised.
A moment passed, but it felt unendurable, until he spoke. “I put him there.”
“He’s a boy!”
“He’s my enemy.”
She trembled, disbelieving. “What has he done to you? And do not tell me that this is how you punish a cattle thief!”
Macleod hesitated, grim, eyes ablaze. The hall was absolutely still. “He lives…He breathes…”
Tabby cried out, the reality too much to bear. “Did you murder his father while he watched? Did you behead him and toss his head away?”
Macleod darkened.
She choked, sick at heart. She had spent last night in this man’s arms. She had decided to heal him, save him from himself, but it was the rest of the world that needed to be saved—from him.
But hadn’t she known that they were worlds apart?
Hadn’t she known that he was ruthless, a barbarian—and that she should not sleep with him?
Her life was about giving. His was about taking.
He was selfish. He had no interest in serving the gods or the Innocent.
He served Blayde. And this was how he did so, by mercilessly sentencing a young boy to death.
“Cease yer judgments,” he warned.
Tabby closed her eyes for a second. She had promised herself she wouldn’t judge him.
But she had never been so outraged. She was going to have to break that promise.
“He’s a boy. You’re supposed to serve the gods and save the Innocent.
Instead, you murder his father in the name of some stupid clan war?
And I don’t care that his last name is MacDougall! ”
“But I care, Tabitha. He is my enemy,” Macleod said harshly. “’Tis my duty to destroy him.”
“No, he is Innocent. It’s your duty to protect him!” she shouted.
“Dinna dare interfere,” he warned. He whirled away, effectively dismissing her.
In the back of her mind, Tabby knew that she should be really careful now, because his temper was still in check—nothing was shaking or falling down.
She sensed that meant something, but she could not stop.
She ran after him and seized his arm, causing him to face her.
“If you care for me at all, if you are really the grandson of a god, if your mother was truly a priestess and a Healer, you will let him go. I am begging you to let him go.”
He stiffened, incredulous. “Dinna dare mention Elasaid!”
She inhaled. “She would tell you what I’m telling you!”
He shook visibly. The floor seemed to tilt. Then the absolute stillness came again. “No mistress tells a laird what to do.” With that, he walked away from her.
His condescension actually hurt. Tabby began to shake uncontrollably.
She had deluded herself into thinking that they had more of a relationship other than a sexual one.
She had deluded herself into thinking that he needed her in any way, outside the bedroom.
And he didn’t care about her, not at all.
“He is Innocent.” He did not look back at her.
“No Innocent should die and especially not by your hand.”
Tabby became aware now of the silence in the hall. Every pair of eyes was upon her except for Macleod, who had his back to her and had joined his men at the table. It was hard to think. She wasn’t just horrified and appalled, she was so hurt, too. “I don’t know you at all.”
Macleod pointed at a map and Rob said something. Macleod responded with a brief shake of his head.
The interfering mistress had been dismissed. Macleod was going to let the boy die. Clearly, he had no heart. She had to stop this, no matter what it took. “Macleod!” she cried sharply.
He didn’t even look at her. He said something to Rob in Gaelic.
“If you do this, we are done,” Tabby said loudly. As she spoke she heard her pulse roaring in her ears. It was deafening.
He slowly turned, a chilling smile beginning. “Ye threaten me?”
Her heart began to break, and too late, she wondered if she’d already fallen for him. “No.” She could barely get the words out. “I am telling you.”
His eyes widened and the men at the table shifted uneasily. “I decide, Tabitha, when we are done.”
A frisson of fear went through her. “I can’t let you do this,” she heard herself say. She whirled, heading for the front doors.
“Stay away from him,” Macleod ordered.
Tabby stiffened her spine and went out into the rain.
HE KNEW WHAT JAN wanted even before his intercom buzzed. He could feel Sam outside his office, seething with anger, with impatience.
“Nick? Can you see Sam? She seems a little…disturbed.” Jan was wry.
Nick grimaced. Sam was more than disturbed; she was ready to blow a gasket. “Send her in. And, Jan? Go easy on her, okay?”
Jan made a sound that meant never.