Page 78 of Dark Victory

Listening to her plot and plan against him, Macleod paced his great hall, having sent all of his men away. He remained incredulous.

He did not want to go to war against her. He had brought her back in time to protect her—and of course, to share his bed.

What was he supposed to do now?

Macleod paused before the hearth, staring into the flames but not seeing them. He could not believe he had asked himself such a question. He was a decisive man, and he had two choices. Stop her or punish her.

He recalled her striking him, not once, but twice. Not only had he not hit her back, it hadn’t even crossed his mind to do so. He did not want to ever put his hands upon her in an act of violence. He had no desire to hurt her.

If she crossed him this way, he would have no choice but to punish her. It did not matter that Tabitha was no ordinary mistress. She was from a future time, one so very different from his own time that he could barely comprehend it. And he was not thinking of horseless automobiles and underground tunnels and subways; he was not thinking of museums filled with history. He was thinking about women who lived alone, without men to protect them. These modern women provided for themselves, thought for themselves, obeyed no one but their government, and were proud of it.

Tabitha was just such a woman. She was soft and gentle, kind and caring, more so than almost any woman he knew—but these were traits a woman was expected to have. He liked that womanly side of her. But he also liked her courage, determination and independence. In fact, he admired her greatly.

But he still hated her judgments, accusations and condemnations.

His head began to ache, an unfamiliar sensation. His mind was going round and round uselessly. If she became his enemy, he would have to deal with her as he did all of his enemies—ruthlessly, without mercy. But how could he do that to the woman he wanted in his bed?

He already knew he cared about her Fate; otherwise, he would have left her behind in New York City, an easy prey for the evil hunting her. Now, he started to wonder if he cared about her. He had never had any concern for a woman before, not in any way. They had come and gone quickly, a parade of nameless women sharing his bed. But Tabitha had a name, her own thoughts and feelings, and she had grave concerns for him as well as for others. He wasn’t sure what to make of this newfound discovery that he might be fond of her.

But she wasn’t fond of him. Women did not betray the men they cared for.

Could she really betray him?

It almost hurt to think that she could.

Someone touched his shoulder. He was so deeply in thought, he hadn’t heard his approach. He flinched and met Rob’s intent gaze. “Ye let her speak against ye.”

He stiffened. “’Tis her way.”

“The men are whisperin’ she has ye bewitched.”

His tension soared. “They dinna ken the truth about her.”

“They ken ye want her so badly, ye let her rant an’ rave without respect or discipline.”

Rob was right.

“Will ye let her betray ye, as well?”

“Of course not,” he snapped. But he felt uncertain—and he was never uncertain.

“A woman should make a man strong, not weak.” Rob walked away.

He was incredulous again. Rob thought him weak? But if he let her plot against him, if he did not punish her, then he was very weak, indeed—and Blayde would eventually fall victim to his enemies.

He had to end this before she did the unthinkable.

His mind was made up. He strode to the front doors and flung them open. She was still trying to put her magic on him. She hoped to block him from her thoughts. Every time he felt her magic pressing on him, pulling him into its vortex, he willed it far away. He intended to be the victor in that contest.

He saw her on the ramparts, silhouetted against the clearing skies. If she cared about him, even a small bit, she would not be doing this.

He glanced at his prisoner. The MacDougall boy was cloaked in his red-and-black colors. He choked. Then he turned and shouted, “Rob, get my brat from the boy.”

“I wouldna wish to be her now,” Rob muttered, hurrying past him.

Macleod strode across the ward. He started swiftly up the stairs. As he came up to the ramparts, he saw that she was in a deep trance, her eyes closed, her face lifted to the emerging sun. Sweat shone on her skin, making it almost translucent. Her arms were extended, palms up and oddly limp. She did not notice him.

For one moment he stared, aware of her beauty, her power and her grace. In that moment, he thought about how she had wanted to offer him comfort, which he’d refused. Her desire to somehow heal him and erase the past had annoyed him dangerously. Now, he would dearly love to have her harping on him that way. Then he glanced into the bailey. Rob had stripped the boy of the wool.