Page 72 of Dark Victory

Outside, a drizzle had begun, but Peigi handed her a plaid as she went outside. Using it like a shawl, Tabby paused, breathing in the scent of the crisp morning. It was great. Then she hid a smile and headed for the stairs that led up to the ramparts. The view would be incredible from the crenellations.

She went up slowly, the stones slick and wet, starting to think about her sister. She and Sam had always had amazing telepathy. From the time they were toddlers, she would know what Sam was thinking and what she wanted, and it had been mutual. Even after they’d begun to speak, she’d been able to hear her thoughts when she wanted to. It wasn’t unusual for Rose women, sisters or not, to be so in tune with one another.

If she focused, maybe she could let Sam know where she was and that she was all right. It was probably impossible, considering the gulf of centuries that separated them, but she intended to try.

And then she had to figure out how to gather information in medieval times. She wanted to research Melvaig and its witch. Peigi seemed in the loop, and Tabby would start with her.

She reached the ramparts. A big, handsome and young Highlander with dark hair smiled at her, but he was clearly just being friendly. Tabby felt certain that no one at Blayde would dare flirt with her, considering Macleod’s temper and power. She walked to the edge and stared over the crenellations, then gasped at the sight of the steel-gray seas, frothing against the equally gray skies. It was stark and desolate but it was magnificent. This side of the fortress was perched on the edge of the cliffs, right over the ocean. Blayde was set in an unusual position, on an atoll of land with the Atlantic Ocean sweeping in from the north, facing the Western Isles. Melvaig lay somewhere to the south.

Tabby stared in that direction, dread slowly forming. It did not help that the sky in the south was black with storm clouds. She hesitated and almost thought she felt a finger of evil, beckoning to her. She shivered.

It began to rain.

The Highlander gestured at her, indicating that she should go back to the hall. Tabby smiled at him. “You’re right.” She turned, lifting the plaid to hold it over her head like a hood. That was when she saw the prisoner below.

For one moment, she stared. Was that a man in stocks?

It began to pour.

Her concern was instantaneous. The prisoner was on the far side of the bailey, almost behind the hall. It was hard to see clearly from this distance, but it appeared that a man was on his hands and knees, restrained by stocks. That was inhumane—it violated the Geneva Convention and her own personal code of ethics. Outrage began.

Tabby lifted her skirts and started to hurry toward the stairs. The Highlander seized her arm, shaking his head, and for one moment, she thought he was warning her not to go over to the prisoner. “A’coiseachd.”

It took Tabby a moment to realize he was warning her to slow down. She tried to smile, realizing that he was right. Running would mean a certain fall. She went slowly down the stairs, which were dangerously slick. When she reached the ground, she lifted her skirts and ran.

She had been right. A man was in stocks. He was on his hands and knees, his neck locked in a vise made of wood, making it impossible for him to move. There were shackles on his wrists and ankles, as well. He looked at her, his eyes blazing with anger.

Tabby cried out, horrified. He wasn’t a man—he was a boy.

He could not be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She rushed to him and knelt. “Are you all right?”

His eyes widened. “Are ye English?”

She hesitated. “No.” Her gaze flew over him. He was soaking wet and his face was bruised, but otherwise, he did not seem hurt. “Who did this to you?”

He laughed at her, the sound hard for such a young man. “The laird o’ Blayde put me here, lady. Can ye help me? He means to leave me here until I die.”

For one moment, Tabby refused to believe it. Macleod couldn’t have done this. One of his men had done this. Then she turned off her rising dismay and the terrible comprehension she did not want to face, focusing on the boy. “Of course I’ll help you. What’s your name?”

“Coinneach MacDougall,” he said flatly.

Her mind raced. The MacDougall laird had been rustling cattle—but surely this boy was not the laird. No one would put a boy in stocks and then leave him there until he died! But she already knew the answers she was going to get as she spoke. “Are you the laird?”

“Aye,” he said, his face a mask of rage. “The day he murdered my father was the day I became laird!”

She couldn’t breathe. “He murdered your father?”

“Before my verra eyes, as God is my witness!” He began to writhe against the stocks. “My da was on the ground, askin’ fer his mercy, but he took his head and then flung it into the river!”

She was going to be violently ill, she thought, her stomach churning. “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself. I am going to help you.”

“Help me an’ ye’ll be next to die, no matter how pretty ye may be.”

Tabby choked, staring into Coinneach’s blue eyes. Coinneach stared back. Macleod had done this. He was violent and ruthless—cruel, even. She’d just been so happy and she’d just promised herself not to judge him. She understood him and wanted to help him, but this was inhumane. This was horrifying. It was unacceptable.

She had to fix this.

“Help me,” the boy said, but he wasn’t begging. He seemed determined. “Ye seem kind an’ clever. Help me escape an’ I’ll repay ye handsomely—if ye live to receive the coin.”