Page 125 of Dark Victory

But he smiled at her, his eyes shining with moisture and love. “Tabitha,” he murmured. “I’m afraid ye’re a dream.”

Tabby hesitated, frantic to comprehend what had happened, and in that single moment, she felt something else, too. Macleod’s power had always been tinged with a dark weight. Now, his presence was buoyant and light—like the look in his eyes.

The burden of guilt and grief was gone.

“I’m not a dream. Thank God you’re home!” She looked into his eyes and saw so much light—she saw joy and love. “You’ve healed,” she managed, shocked.

His mouth curved and even his smile was different. “I’ve forgiven myself, Tabitha,” he said simply.

She clasped his face. “I’m so happy for you.”

“An’ I learned I canna live without ye—but I have lived without ye fer many months now,” he said hoarsely. “So let me kiss ye, woman.”

He pulled her close and kissed her. Tabby gave in, clinging, crying with sheer joy. He was home and nothing else mattered.

When he tightened his grasp on her, his body telling her he was about to heave her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs, Tabby finally pushed away, wiping her damp face. “What happened?” She reached for his face and held it in her hands again. He was still beautiful. He was her hero, more so now than ever, no matter what they had done to him.

“The gods dinna want me now, Tabitha. I went too far—I defied them one time too many. I’ve been banished from the brethren. There’ll be no vows.” He was grim. “But I will fight fer mankind anyway.”

She realized he had been banished from the Brotherhood by the gods for what he’d done at An Tùir-Tara, and with that punishment, he had been stripped of all his powers, every single one. He was a mortal now, unlike the Master she’d met in the sixteenth century. He was frustrated but resigned. “I don’t care that you’re mortal. I love you just the way you are. But it is wrong, Macleod, wrong that you are denied your Destiny.”

“Can ye read my mind now?” he asked.

It was such a terrible irony. Tabby slipped into his mind and she saw that he had walked across the Highlands, fighting evil with his sword and his bare hands, in order to get back to her. She realized the extent of his ordeal—how he’d been hunted by evil daily, how he’d had to hide in order to survive. His companion had been his memories of the time spent with her and his tragic childhood. And he had worked through his repressed grief and guilt.

She stroked his jaw. “I can read your mind now.” She started—he believed she would die at An Tùir-Tara!

MacNeil had made him watch her go up in flames four times! And she had thought the stocks a cruel punishment! She started to cry. “I thought MacNeil was your friend!”

He cradled her in his arms. “Dinna cry fer me. I am home now, with ye, Tabitha, where I will always be. An’ I am happy.”

“I hate what they did to you,” she cried, her face wet with tears. “And I don’t die in the fire, Macleod! I hide in the fire! It’s Criosaidh who dies there.”

He gasped, and it was the first time she had ever seen him shocked. Then he tilted up her chin and his eyes blazed. “MacNeil was furious with me because I dinna trust in Fate. Now I ken why. O’ course the gods would let ye live. Ye’re everythin’ fine an’ good in this world, Tabitha. An’ what of her deamhan ghost? Has it come back?”

She tried to stop crying and trembled, breathing hard. “I vanquished Criosaidh on June first, not June nineteenth, in 1550. And I destroyed the ghost when I destroyed Criosaidh. It imploded, Macleod.”

He was thoughtful. “But what if her deamhan ghost was born another time?”

Tabby nodded. “I think it likely her ghost is a part of history. One was destroyed, the other created, on June first. And if Criosaidh’s ghost was just born, I believe it will still go to early December 2008, seeking revenge on me there, before you take me into the past.”

“So she’ll hunt you in New York an’ then follow ye to Blayde, till ye go to 1550 to destroy both the ghost an’ the witch, a few days later.” He smiled, satisfied.

“I think the ghost is trapped in that triangle of time,” Tabby whispered, chilled. “She is created in June of 1550, she goes to December 2008 and follows me to June of 1298. Then I go to An Tùir-Tara and the cycle starts all over again. The dates might change a little, but it’s all really the same—it’s the history the Ancients wrote.”

“Good.” He was fierce. “Let the puny ghost suffer eternally in that triangle of time! I am proud of ye, Tabitha.”

She was surprised. “Really?”

His smile revealed one small dimple. “Ye dinna ken how much I admire ye—even with yer independent nature?”

Tabby bit her lip, but she was thrilled. “It’s mutual, Macleod. I admire you, too, more than you can possibly know!”

“But I’m medieval…barbarian…a savage,” he murmured, pulling her back into his arms.

She laughed. “You are so medieval, and you know what? I think I like it.”

He was pressing with some urgency against her now, and he said softly, his eyes gleaming, “Ye think ye like it?”