CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AS AbrUPTLY AS IT had begun, the rain had slowed to a mist.
Tabby didn’t notice. She stumbled outside, the ground in the bailey now muddy, clutching the plaid like a hood to her head.
A pair of dogs rushed over to her, tails wagging, but she ignored them.
A knifelike pain was going through her breast, and it felt suspiciously like heartbreak.
But that was impossible. Macleod was going to execute that boy—unless she stopped him.
He was horrible, cruel, heartless and terribly violent…and she had justified and rationalized it so she could have a torrid affair and live with herself afterward. Well, she couldn’t live with herself now.
She had to save Coinneach. It wasn’t an option; it was her priority. She had no right to this acute sense of loss. She was not suffering; Coinneach was suffering.
She paused, still unable to get enough air to adequately breathe. But it felt as if she had lost so much—her lover, and maybe the new, passionate and unbridled Tabby Rose.
Well, that was just tough luck, she told herself harshly.
She did not want to think about Macleod saving her and the children, or defending her from the ghost. She did not want to think about his rare smile, or the way he looked at her, once in a while, during lovemaking, when his eyes changed and almost softened.
Instead, she reminded herself to think about their arguments.
The truth was, she had lost a lover and a partner in war, but not a friend.
She had no right to feel upset for herself.
It was Coinneach she must focus all of her attention on now.
But Macleod was suffering, too.
Tabby tensed. She did not want to think about how he had fought as hard as he could to save his family during the massacre. She did not want to remind herself about how he had grieved and raged while burying them at sea, a boy suddenly required to become a man.
Tabby sank down onto a small wood bench.
She began to tremble, overcome with despair.
She could no more turn off her compassion for him than she could send herself back to New York.
She hated what he’d been through, the grief he kept repressed inside himself.
But so what? Coinneach was going to be murdered by his command if she didn’t do something.
Maybe she wasn’t at Blayde in 1298 to heal Macleod after all. Maybe she was there to save an Innocent. Or maybe, just maybe, she was meant to do both.
She felt the morning still.
How could the man who made love to her so passionately, who looked at her with so much concern, who was determined to risk his life for her, be one and the same with the man she’d just argued with in the hall?
How could he insist on protecting her, but intend to execute Coinneach the way he’d beheaded Angel—without blinking an eye, without a drop of remorse?
The answer was simple. That cruel, violent side was a direct result of his having survived the massacre.
She sat up even straighter. Macleod was the product of the most extreme and arbitrary injustice and violence. And that was exactly what he was meting out.
I can’t hate him, she thought grimly.
Coinneach had to be saved, but Macleod had to be saved, too.
As Tabby sat there in the mist, a soft warmth flooded her. She jerked, glancing around. “Grandma?”
Her grandmother’s reassuring and powerful presence was so strong and comforting that Tabby expected her to materialize before her. But she did not appear. It didn’t matter. Tabby knew she was smiling.
And that meant she had reached the right conclusions. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Would you mind staying around for a while? I am feeling a bit lost and lonely.”
Of course there was no answer.
“Lady, come in out of the rain,” Peigi said softly.
Tabby turned, realizing Peigi had heard her talking to her grandmother’s spirit. Her expression was one of pity. It was hard to believe that only an hour or so ago, she and Peigi had been joking about her having cast a love spell. It was surreal. The stakes had dramatically changed.
She realized she was not ready to confront Macleod again. In fact, considering she was preparing to blatantly defy him, avoiding him was a really good idea. He could read her mind, after all.
“Ye’ll catch yer death,” Peigi warned.
She glanced across the compound. “No, that boy will catch his death.”
“Aye, he’ll die, but thieves must be punished. We dinna have enough cattle to feed all o’ Blayde, lady,” Peigi tried. “The Macleod canna allow thieves to go free. He must set an example.”
Tabby stared. Peigi did not find this punishment unusual or excessive. It was a bit of a slap in the face. She was a modern woman, applying her standards to a very different world. She might be the only one at Blayde sympathetic to Coinneach, she realized.
She suddenly wished she could convince Macleod that her values were right. But she had no doubt that he could not be transformed into a man with modern sensibilities.
“Ye canna question the Macleod, lady. Besides, ye ken the boy came here to murder him.”
“Oh, I can question Macleod, and I will.” Tabby stood up. She was back to her earlier position, she realized. “That boy will die because his ancestors betrayed Macleod’s father. Do you really think that’s right, Peigi?”
“’Tis our way. Here, yer brat’s soakin’.” Peigi handed her another wool plaid, her expression grim. “Please come inside.”
“I think it best to avoid Macleod. He’s angry, and I am determined to stop him from executing Coinneach.”
Peigi paled. “I’d prefer the blood feud to be put to rest, lady, but I would never cross the Macleod. Ye shouldna do so, either.”
Tabby simply looked at her.
“He’ll never forgive ye if ye go against him,” Peigi warned.
In that instant, she knew that Peigi was right. Macleod was not the kind of man to forgive betrayal. He would see her defection as sheer treachery.
Peigi left.
But that was okay, because they weren’t friends—she was his ex-mistress.
Tabby felt a new tension arise. She hoped Macleod would remain so angry with her that he would not even think about trying to entice her to bed.
She was not up to that battle. Worse, she didn’t want to recall being in his arms. It was a dangerous idea.
Shaken all over again with the enormity of what was at stake, Tabby hurried across the bailey. Coinneach remained in the stocks, soaking wet now. His face was riveted on her as she approached. She took off the dry brat, wrapping it over his thin body. “We have to keep you warm.”
“I told ye he wouldna free me.” He was bitter.
He was so young to hate. “This isn’t over yet,” she said. “I will help you. I won’t let you die.”
Coinneach appeared satisfied. “Then ye’ll have to be very clever. Otherwise Macleod will discover ye and put ye in the stocks next to mine.”
Her first thought was that he would never do such a thing. But how on earth could she know what he would do to her? As far as she was concerned, their affair was over. He might be ruthless toward her now, as well.
“Who has the keys to the stocks?” she finally asked.
“Macleod.”
She would have to steal the keys, somehow. “Does he wear them on his belt with his other keys?”
Coinneach nodded. “Afore his men see ye here, can ye bring me water?”
Tabby started, dismayed. “When did you last drink or eat?”
“It’s been a full day, lady. The well is over there.”
Of course he hadn’t been fed or given water, she thought. Macleod meant for him to suffer and die.
Tabby went to the well, managed to lower a pail, and when it was full, she lugged it back to him.
As he drank, she stared at the hall, the mist becoming so fine now that the air was damp.
Blayde loomed, glistening darkly against the heavy gray skies.
Macleod wore the keys on his belt, and he only took off his belt when he undressed before sleep—or rather, he only undressed to make love to her.
She was almost certain he slept in his clothes otherwise.
A lover could so easily retrieve those keys after he was satiated from lovemaking and had fallen asleep.
But that was out of the question. She didn’t know how she was going to get those keys off Macleod’s belt, but she would. “I am going to free you,” she said.
“How will ye get the keys?”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”
She tried to imagine herself sneaking into his bedchamber while he slept, and removing the keys from his belt.
Her sleeping spell was a good one; she had used it a lot with Randall, before their divorce, to keep him away from her.
But Macleod was very powerful and she did not know how susceptible he would be to any of her spells, even one she was adept at casting.
On the other hand, she’d cast a spell on him across centuries, and it had worked.
She was going to have to take a chance and try it on him. There was no other choice.
She was also going to have to find a way to block him from her mind. Otherwise, her efforts to free Coinneach would be in vain—he would know her every move.
She was resigned. Her shock over finding a boy in stocks, left there to slowly die, had dissipated. Resolve had arisen instead. But she did not like going up against such a powerful opponent. And that was what he was.
It all sank in. She was very much alone in the thirteenth century, and the man who had brought her there was her adversary now.
SHE HAD SAID SHE wouldn’t judge him anymore. But she was judging him now.
And she meant to free Coinneach.
He was furious and disbelieving.
He did not know of any Highlander who would ever let a woman betray him. Even a disloyal mistress must suffer the consequences of her actions. Such a mistress would be summarily punished and then exiled—or worse. Neither man nor woman could be allowed to set the precedent of unpunished betrayal.
Listening to her plot and plan against him, Macleod paced his great hall, having sent all of his men away. He remained incredulous.