Page 55 of Dark Victory

Both men looked at her.

She instantly had the awful feeling they were reading her mind, and she blushed. “Don’t you dare invade my thoughts now! And I am speaking to the both of you!”

She saw on Macleod’s face that he’d been lurking. It was the slightest glint in his eyes that gave him away. “I canna comprehend a single word ye speak otherwise.”

“Great!” she cried. “How perfect is that—we don’t even share a language!”

He made a sound of disgust. “We share many languages,” he snapped. “Tonight I’ll show ye how many!”

“Do not bring up last night,” she warned. “Tonight, we are having separate bedrooms.”

For one instant, he seemed puzzled, and then he gave her an incredulous look.

He intended to continue their affair. Tabby felt the unbelievable ache in her midsection, at once hollow and intense. “You abducted me,” she cried.

“I had but a moment to decide what to do,” he shot back. “How many times must I say that I wish to keep ye safe?”

She trembled. Then Tabby looked at MacNeil, who seemed rather entertained. Her focus moved past both men, to the stark splendor of the castle set high above them. Why was it familiar? There was a reason for everything, although just then she hated admitting that. She was at Blayde in 1298. If that was meant to be, then her spell bringing Macleod to her hadn’t backfired at all. But then why had it all begun at the Met? What was the role of An Tùir-Tara?

“If ye let yer anger go, ye might find yerself pleased to be here,” MacNeil chided softly.

Tabby tore her attention from the castle. First Allie, then Brie and now her. “Why am I here?” she demanded.

“I told ye already. Ye need him and he needs ye.”

She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Have I been here before?”

“Never,” MacNeil said.

Tabby was shocked. She’d expected him to say yes, and to possibly tell her she’d had a past life at Blayde in the thirteenth century. “Are you sure? Because everything is so familiar.”

“I am very certain,” MacNeil said. “The soul is a strange entity. It moves an’ feels in mysterious ways. I wouldna question yer feelings, Lady Tabitha.”

Tabby was aghast. “If I haven’t had a past life here, then my soul knows nothing, damn it.” Was he suggesting her soul knew this place? That it knew Macleod?

MacNeil said softly, “Ye must play this out, Tabitha. I would never bring ye back if I dinna think it wise to do so.”

You’ll have to play this out, Tabby. First Sam, now MacNeil. Tabby stared grimly at MacNeil, whose eyes were kind, and then at Macleod, who was filled with tension. Too late, she thought about the fact that she’d promised her sister she wouldn’t leave her. Not only had she done that, she hadn’t said goodbye. Her heart sank. “MacNeil, is there any way I can convince you to send me back to New York?”

Macleod darkened. The wind caused the firs to whip about and the earth rumbled. “He’ll do no such thing.”

Tabby ignored him.

“Macleod isna as dark an’ dangerous as ye think, lass, an’ it will serve ye well to remember that,” MacNeil said simply.

And Tabby knew he was about to vanish into time. “No, wait,” she cried frantically.

MacNeil disappeared into the golden sunlight.

Tabby cried out in frustration, “You’re both outlaws!”

“When will ye finish yer insults?”

Total comprehension began. They were alone. Not only that, she’d been hurling insults at him—not to mention that she’d hit him a second time. She was in thirteenth-century Scotland. Every medieval woman needed a man in order to survive in the Middle Ages. She knew that much.

She was stuck, really stuck. “I’m sorry.”

His brows lifted. “Ye’re nay sorry at all.”