CHAPTER TWENTY
An Tùir-Tara
SHE WAS ABOUT TO BE burned alive.
Tabby was terrified. She did not want to die, not now, not yet!
Her life flashed before her eyes—and it was her life with Macleod.
She hadn’t even seen him take his vows! But she knew he would, because the man who’d just been with her in the central tower had been strong and old and wise… a Master of Time.
She could not die that day.
She became impossibly still, crouching. She forced the fear aside.
And as she did, she started to realize that the fire blazed around her, but it wasn’t touching her.
She was incredulous. Several feet separated her from the flames.
And there wasn’t even any heat inside the small protective space where she crouched.
Tabby slowly straightened, amazed. Her spell was so strong now it was protecting her from the fire, or someone else was. She thought she felt her grandmother, hovering watchfully close by.
But Criosaidh was still out there.
Tabby knew she had to finish this.
Only one of them was going to make it out alive.
She put every thought and feeling aside now except for her sheer determination to win. “Come to me, witch, come to me now. Enter my fire, witch. Come to me now.”
The fire roared, as high as tall fir trees, but Tabby wasn’t afraid. She was entirely focused on her enemy. The fire was her ally, her friend and her weapon. Suddenly she felt the evil and hatred approaching.
She felt herself smile and she murmured, “It’s so cold, isn’t it, Criosaidh? You need to warm yourself in my fire.”
And through the wall of flames, she saw a wind kick up, slamming all the shutters closed in the tower room.
Tabby tensed, shocked. The shutters kept slamming, cracking the stone walls, as the energy gusted through the wall of fire, blasting her face and bare chest with frigid air. There was no mistaking Criosaidh’s ghost.
And the circle of fire seemed to hesitate. But fire did not like the cold.
“Not so smart, ghost,” Tabby murmured. “Fire arise!”
It blazed.
The shutters flew from the windows, breaking apart and shattering, wood flying everywhere, the evil viciously furious now.
“Come to me, witch, come to me now. Bring me your living form,” Tabby cried. She had to lure Criosaidh close now and get rid of that demonic spirit!
Through the flames, she saw the dark-haired woman on the landing. Her eyes were glittering with hatred—and shining oddly with the transfixed stare of the enchanted.
“Come to me, witch, escape the cold. Come to me, witch, warm in my fire,” Tabby chanted softly.
Criosaidh started to walk toward the flames.
The wind whirled violently, turning into a spiraling cyclone, and the ceiling exploded from the roof.
Tabby cringed, covering her head with her arms, ordering the fire to protect her. And as the timbers rained down around her, Criosaidh walked into her fire.
Kneeling, Tabby looked up.
The moment she did, Criosaidh was engulfed in the blaze. As her clothes and hair went on fire, she screamed in pain and terror, her gaze meeting Tabby’s.
Bitch…
Tabby came out of her trance. “Roast in hell,” she screamed back.
Criosaidh staggered away, the flames burning her arms and legs, her clothes, her body. Her screams were bloodcurdling.
She fell, and there was only the blazing fire.
For another moment, Tabby stared at the inferno outside the circle of fire where she stood, almost disbelieving. She had won. Criosaidh was dead, burned alive at An Tùir-Tara, and her ghost seemed to have been vanquished, too.
But it was June 1, 1550, not June 19.
As she had that thought, her entire body gave out. Tabby collapsed.
She cried out, barely able to brace herself as she fell to the hard stone floor.
Suddenly she was aware of her exhaustion.
She simply could not move. She was drained, depleted, sickened and shaking uncontrollably.
She couldn’t think clearly. She wasn’t even certain she had any magic left.
She only knew that it was over—and she hated what she’d had to do.
The stone floor was cool against her cheek. Her eyes drifted closed. She was so seriously drained, she wondered if she might die from using the power that she had.
She had to go home.
It was truly over now.
Macleod.
She wanted him desperately. She would find relief in his arms. But how was she going to get back to Blayde in the thirteenth century? Tabby clawed the stone, trying to get up, but her body refused to heed her now.
She fell back onto her belly, her face. She needed to rest, but only for a moment. And the fire roared around her.
Could she even get out of the circle of fire?
Tabby somehow looked at the circle of fire, shoving to her hands and knees, too weak to even sit up.
If only she could lie there for a few moments, trying to find some of her strength.
But the urge to go home to Macleod was consuming.
It was urgent. He needed her—she somehow knew it.
She was confused, because the man who’d been in the tower with her had been so powerful, and he only needed her love.
Her head hurt. Macleod needed her. He was lost, suffering… .
She would have to dispel the fire. Tabby forced herself to sit up, panting from the exertion. Instinctively she touched her chest and she jerked. Utter dismay claimed her. The amulet was gone!
She didn’t know what to do. The necklace meant everything to her.
It had belonged to Elasaid and Macleod had given it to her so she wouldn’t ever get lost. She was certain it had helped her in her battle with Criosaidh.
She breathed hard, tears forming, suddenly dizzy and terribly confused.
Of course the talisman was gone—it had been lost at An Tùir-Tara and it would wind up on exhibit at the Met.
Except today was June 1, 1550, not June 19. What could that mean?
Tabby shook off her confusion. She was never going to figure it out or, at least, not now.
She had miraculously triumphed over both Criosaidh and her spirit.
Now she had to get out of the fire and go home to Macleod, because he was in trouble.
She had no idea what would happen to history and maybe she shouldn’t care.
She slowly stood and instantly reeled, almost falling over. Instead she caught herself and the fire seemed to back away from her.
Tabby closed her eyes again, fighting for strength and focus. “Fire go from me,” she said hoarsely.
The fire simply danced about her, but the flames were waist-high now.
“Fire go from me,” she cried, trying to put power into her words. The effort was simply too much and she collapsed as she spoke, but the fires vanished.
She was so dizzy and sick that she clung to the floor. For a long moment she could not move or think. She could only lie there, too exhausted to do anything else. The battle had come close to destroying her. She fought the need to pass out, to retch. She needed help, she needed Macleod.
Determined, Tabby started to crawl from the room, across the landing to the stairs. She did not know how she would make it out of Melvaig’s tower if she couldn’t even walk. She looked down the stairwell and despair welled. The journey down it might as well have been a thousand miles.
Where are you, Macleod? What has happened to you?
She had almost expected an answer. There was none.
She half crawled and half slid down the stairs. On the landing below she paused, panting and out of breath. Maybe she would close her eyes and rest….
Tabitha?
About to pass out, her eyes flew open. She was certain she’d just heard Macleod close by. But she was alone on the dark landing. She crawled to the doorway and used a door to claw herself to her feet. Then she simply stood there, clinging to it.
“Tabitha!”
Tabby jerked at the sound of Macleod’s voice—and it was real. She turned and saw him striding toward her, several strapping young Highlanders with him. Their eyes met; his gaze blazed. Tabby exulted. But even as she did, she saw his blisters and burns.
He was the same man who had just tried to fight Criosaidh with her. It was Macleod, but he was the Master who lived in the sixteenth century—the Master who had tried to reach across time to her at the Met.
He was the man she loved, just older. She loved him desperately and she needed him just then terribly. And he needed her—she saw it on his face and felt it coming from him in huge, hard waves.
But before she could cry out, she felt the world tilt and begin to spin. He ran forward and caught her as she fell.
And looking into his eyes, she inhaled. He was even more powerful now. But he was blessed. He walked in their light….
“Ye’ll be fine now,” he said, kneeling with her in his arms, his eyes fierce and searching. “I’ll always find ye an’ I’ll never lose ye, even without the pendant.”
His burns had been treated, she saw, and they were already healing.
There was a scar on his jaw that she’d never seen before.
He looked as if he was in his late thirties—not as if he was twenty-five.
But mostly, his eyes had changed. They were the eyes of someone centuries old, someone who had seen and fought everything, someone terribly wise and empowered by the gods.
“You took your vows,” she whispered, clasping his jaw.
His smile came and went. Moisture shone in his eyes. “Ah, Tabitha, I took those vows centuries ago.”
“Are you all right?” She stroked his hard jaw. It was the same.
“A few burns canna hurt me, Tabitha, not as long as ye live.”
She touched her throat, which was bare.
“Ye lost it in the fire,” he said softly.
“I’m in the sixteenth century—you’re from the sixteenth century,” she whispered. “But I belong at Blayde in 1298.”
“Aye.” His mouth shifted. “I ken…ye’re so sweet an’ so young!”
Tabby reached for his shoulders and he held her tightly, against his broad, powerful chest. His embrace was the same—powerful, consuming, impossibly safe and right. “After the fire, you found me at the Met.”