Page 53 of Dark Victory

Had her spell worked? “Macleod, we have to run,” she said, trying to shake herself free of her trance.

Macleod lifted his arm and, this time, his energy blazed, hurling the guard backward. As Macleod strode back to her, a man materialized between them in a whoosh of golden dust that formed into a huge, towering golden Highlander. Otherworldly power filled the hall.

“Ye took yer time,” Macleod said.

“Aye, I wondered how ye might manage this crisis,” the golden Highlander said calmly. He nodded at Tabby as if he knew her.

“I willna go back without Tabitha,” Macleod warned.

Tabby tensed, coming fully out of her trance now. Only two things were clear—Macleod was leaving and she could not go with him. “No, wait. I am not going back to Blayde with you.” He was leaving. She forced her dismay aside. She could not go back in time with him!

He reached her, seizing her hand and pulling her hard to his side. His gaze locked with hers. “Hold on verra tight.”

Panic overcame her. “Macleod, no!” She had never meant “no” more.

But he nodded at the golden Highlander and suddenly Tabby was crushed to his chest and they were hurling toward the high ceiling above. She screamed.

Blayde, Scotland

June 10, 1298

TABBY COULDN’T BELIEVE she would survive the pain. She had gone through the universe, probably at the speed of light. Maybe she wouldn’t survive—maybe she was dying, even though she lay on the damp ground in Macleod’s arms, moaning. Every bone in her body had been shattered into a zillion pieces, or that was what it felt like. If the pain didn’t stop, she would explode and die.

He spoke against her ear. “’Twill pass soon, Tabitha.”

Tabby didn’t think the torment would ever pass. She wept against what felt like wet grass, grateful that his arms were around her.

“Will she survive?” Macleod asked, sounding worried. He didn’t release her.

“Aye. If ye let me touch her, I can heal her quickly enough.”

The golden Highlander could heal her. Tabby somehow moaned.

Tabby felt strong but gentle hands on her and great warmth began seeping into her, through her. She continued to cry, but started to realize that the pain had become tolerable. In fact, her broken body began to throb with the force of a headache. She was no longer crying. She dared to try to take a breath and it felt like a miracle when she could breathe deeply.

More warmth filled her, a powerful healing light. “Take yer time, lass,” the golden Highlander said softly.

“Ye can take yer hands off her now,” Macleod said.

The pain vanished. Tabby opened her eyes and saw the brightest, bluest wildflower she had ever seen, inches from her nose. She inhaled and the most amazing, freshest scent of earth, grass, flowers and pine filled her nostrils, so strong it could have been a perfume. Then she identified the tang of the sea. Her mind clicked into high gear. She was in the Highlands.

No, she was in the medieval Highlands…because Macleod had brought her back with him.

Tabby slowly sat up. Macleod steadied her, but she didn’t look at him. The tall golden Highlander stood behind them, and her gaze veered past him, too. She was in medieval Scotland. Oh, my God.

As dark as ebony, Blayde was situated above them on a stark hill, its walls and towers butting up against the sky and the sea.

And it was familiar. She knew Blayde.

The headache began. The fortress changed, flames shooting from the parapets, the towers, the ramparts. Men, women and children were shouting, screaming, crying. An inferno blazed and she saw Macleod as that skinny fourteen-year-old boy, stumbling down the hill, away from it.

Tabby inhaled and blinked. Blayde became a dark shadow on the hilltop again, silhouetted against the Highland skies. Nothing should be familiar, not Blayde as it was just then or as it had been in 1201, when it had been razed to the ground, but it was.

She inhaled again, shocked at the fragrance of the summer afternoon. She could smell every blade of grass, every petal of gorse, every pine needle and cone, every wildflower. But then, there was no pollution in 1298.

And the afternoon was filled with birdsong. Dozens of different types of birds were chirping, and she heard the buzzing of insects, too.

A rasping sound made her turn her head and she saw a magnificent young buck, rubbing his immature antlers on a tree. There was no noise pollution here, either, she thought. Being in historic Scotland would be incredible—under other circumstances.