Page 104 of Dark Victory

Macleod breathed hard, not certain he could speak coherently yet. They had landed within Melvaig’s central courtyard, the huge tower soaring almost directly above them—the tower from which Criosaidh practiced her magic, or so it was said. It was the tower that would be destroyed in the fires of 1550. If he had leaped correctly, it was but minutes later in the day.

He was going to kill Criosaidh. And while he was at it, if the other witch was there, he’d kill her, too. Tabitha would be safe from her enemies—unless the damned deamhan-ghost somehow survived.

His gut clenched so tightly it hurt. Tabitha had almost died that day. He would never forgive himself for what had happened to her. He would never forget how she had suffered. And it was his fault—he knew that now.

He would end this today. He would destroy Criosaidh, and then use his powers to go to An Tùir-Tara, if necessary, to save Tabitha from death. And when he was done, when she was safe, she could go back to her time, if that was what she still wished to do. He had brought her to Blayde against her will and he was sorry he had done so. Tabitha hadn’t deserved such treatment. He would never force her to his will again. Now, he wished to atone for his behavior and for all that he had done, even if it meant sending her back to her time.

He could not bear the idea of life without her.

If he was truly fortunate, she would forgive him and wish to stay with him in his world.

The boy was afraid to be alone.

Cries began sounding from the watchtowers.

Coinneach sat up, his eyes widening as he realized where they were. “We’re at Melvaig?” His befuddled glance blazed at Macleod. “’Tis true. Ye’re one of them.”

Macleod reached down and lifted him to his feet. “Bring yer witch mother to me.”

Coinneach snarled, “I dinna think to obey ye, Macleod. An’ if ye think I’ll show ye mercy, think again. Ye’ll die here, today, by my blade, at my hand!”

Macleod stared at Coinneach. Suddenly he pitied him. His life would be one of bloody revenge and it would never change—unless he found a great lady like Tabitha.

Let me help you.

He flinched. Now he understood what she had been trying to do for the past century.

And Coinneach jerked, as if he sensed a change in Macleod. He tightened his grasp on him anyway, as dozens of soldiers began rushing toward them from the ramparts and the hall. He would use Coinneach against the witch if he could. There was no other choice, even if Coinneach was an Innocent. He felt her evil approach.

He tensed. Thunder rumbled—but it wasn’t Criosaidh, it was the gods. Surely they were not displeased now?

And as the evil intensified, as the hatred welled, as the fury rushed toward him, he slowly looked up.

Criosaidh stood in a tower embrasure, staring down at him and her son. Even from this distance, her black eyes blazed.

Then he felt a frisson of surprise trickle through him. Sensing an unfamiliar white power, he glanced at the soldiers surrounding them. Either a Master was present or someone very close to the gods. Whoever it was, he did not know him.

Behind several soldiers he saw a tall, dark-haired man, whom he instantly recognized. They had never been introduced, but he had observed Nick from his hiding place outside the school after the hostage crisis, during the hours Tabitha had been forced to remain there, answering his questions. He had learned his name and determined that he toiled to fight evil. He was clad as a Highlander, as was the beautiful blond woman with him. His ambition seethed.

Their gazes locked.

Nick sent him his thoughts. I am hunting Kristin.

Mayhap I will leave her fer ye.

I want her alive!

Macleod didn’t care what Nick wanted. A big MacDougall man stepped forward. “Coinneach, are ye all right?”

Coinneach smiled coldly. “I’ve been starved an’ beaten like a dog, but Macleod willna live to see the night fall. We’ll have our revenge, Douglas.”

Douglas’s eyes hardened. “Ye’re a fool, Macleod. Ye come alone? Ye think we will accept Coinneach’s return an’ feast with ye? Thank ye? Release him now. Ye’re outnumbered here. Yer day is done.”

“Bring me Criosaidh,” Macleod said.

And suddenly the wind blasted through the courtyard, stirring up leaves and dirt, tunics and skirts lifting. “Release my son.”

Macleod looked up at the tower window where Criosaidh stood, haloed in a dark mist on a bright sunny day. “Come down an’ ask me nicely.”