Dark Victory

by Brenda Joyce

  Instinct made him seize his sword.

  She vanished.

  And he was hurled up toward the stone roof of his chamber.

  In that instant, he thought he would be crushed against the ceiling and that he was about to die.

  But the ceiling vanished and he was flung upward and there was only the ebony night sky, filled with stars, suns and moons, which he passed at dizzying speed. He gave into the pain and roared.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “MISS, WE’RE HERE,” the cabdriver said.

  Tabby was so distressed by what had happened at the Met that she’d zoned out the entire taxicab ride downtown. Now she saw the brick façade of the building where she shared a loft with Sam. As she dug into her purse to pay the cabbie, the Highlander’s dark image remained engraved on her mind. Her pulse accelerated. He was hurt and he needed help.

  She paid the driver, tipping him generously, and slid from the taxi. The Highlander had been in that fire at Melvaig. It was the only conclusion to draw. She assumed that the amulet had drawn him to the Met. If she hadn’t touched his hand, she might have thought him a ghost. But he was no ghost—she’d felt a man’s strong hand beneath her fingers and it had not been her imagination.

  She trembled. He had clearly traveled through time from the medieval world. Was he a Master, like Aidan and Royce? And why had she been chosen to see him? What did Fate want of her?

  She inhaled, still shaken. Even if he was one of the brethren, he was hurt. She was not a Healer, but that didn’t matter. No Rose would ever turn her back on anyone in need. She was beginning to think that she was meant to help him. She couldn’t think of another reason to explain what had just happened.

  He must have walked out of that fire. He’d looked as fierce and savage as a warrior who’d just left a medieval battlefield after a bloody and barbaric battle. He was so huge and so muscular, so powerful, that even hurt and anguished, he had been daunting.

  Of course, she didn’t even know if her spell had worked.

  Tabby wasn’t hopeful. She was pretty good with simple, classic spells—like sleeping spells—but inventing a powerful spell to bring someone to her across time and having it work was a whole different ball game. She might never come face-to-face with him again. That would almost be a relief. On the other hand, their brief encounter was not that of two normal strangers passing on the street. Not when she was a Rose, and he, a Master.

  The front door to the building had high-security locks. After glancing behind her to make certain no one was going to follow her inside, she unlocked the door and stepped into the front hall. Another locked door was there, which she unlocked. Inside, the lobby was spacious and modern, with green plants spilling over planters built stylishly into the travertine floors. At the elevator, she leaned her head against the burnished metal door while waiting for it.

  It crossed her mind that he had looked at her as if he knew her.

  Tabby jerked away from the elevator as the door opened. She had to have imagined that! But he had somehow seemed familiar—or was that because she’d become so obsessed with him? But almost every moment at the Met had felt like déjà vu.

  There were twelve floors in the building; their loft was on the eleventh floor, because eleven was a master number. The Roses always looked at the numerology of everything that they did, and tried to choose appropriately. It was more tradition—and superstition—than anything else.

  The moment Tabby opened the triple locks on her front door—before she could even cross the threshold—she knew that something was wrong. She didn’t know if she suddenly had a new sixth sense, one warning her of danger, or if it was mere human instinct.

  She froze, staring wide-eyed into the large spacious interior of the loft. For one moment, nothing seemed out of place. An immaculate white kitchen was to her right, while a great room with a media area, a living area and two desks faced her, done in shades of beige and chocolate. The far wall was whitewashed brick, as were two central pillars. She and Sam had chosen the furnishings together, and everything was sleek and modern, classic and timeless, right down to the pale leather sectional and the glass coffee table.

  Her gaze slammed to the iron-and-glass table in front of the sectional and she inhaled. A huge bouquet of bloodred roses was in a vase in its center. It had not been there when she had left for the Met that morning. Sam had left at dawn to work for a few hours at HCU, and Tabby knew she hadn’t been back since. No one had access to their loft, except for Kit. Tabby knew she hadn’t stopped by, either—and certainly not with red roses.

  Tabby said firmly, “Who’s there?”

  Only silence greeted her.

  She hated weapons in general, and only carried pepper spray with her, except at night, when Sam insisted she arm herself with a .38. Tabby had been using a protective spell for years; it was one of the few spells she could summon up really quickly. It didn’t afford total protection—madmen and demons could breach it if they were really determined—but most humans could not.

  “Good over me, good around me, good everywhere, barring dark intent. Circle formed, protecting me,” she murmured swiftly. Then she stepped inside, straining to hear, aware of the white cocoon she was in. She had left the door open so she could run if necessary. “Who’s there?” she said again, more loudly.

  The loft was quiet and it felt vacant. Nothing felt awry or evil. She went to the kitchen drawer, took out her gun and went to the first bedroom door. It was wide-open and she glanced inside the room, which was filled with the gray light of dusk. Sam’s bedroom had one dark, almost ebony wall, but the rest of the furnishings were beige. Still, she could see clearly and it was empty.

  She checked the closet and the hall bathroom; they were empty, too.

  Refusing to put down her guard, she checked her own blue-and-white bedroom—also empty.

  Only somewhat relieved, Tabby put down the gun and locked the front door. Someone had left the roses. She walked over to the sofa and sat down, looking for a card. There wasn’t one.

  She pulled off her knee-high, medium-heeled brown boots and stared grimly at the roses, wondering what kind of threat they were. Had they been a romantic gesture, they would have been delivered to the front door. The roses were an omen—and not a good one. She’d call a locksmith tomorrow and have the locks changed.

  The dark Highlander’s image returned to her mind. Tabby hesitated, and then went to the locked chest at the loft’s far end, set against the brick wall. She unlocked it with the key she wore on the chain beneath her pearls and took out the Book of Roses.

  She was pretty sure that the spell she’d made up on the spot at the Met wouldn’t work. The Book of Roses contained just about every spell ever invented. But the Book was almost two thousand pages long. Some of the passages needed translation—they were in a very unusual and ancient form of Gaelic. Although Tabby had been studying the Book for seventeen years, she did not know it thoroughly—only a very ancient Rose ever could. Her grandmother Sara had studied the Book for generations, and had been able to find spells in a heartbeat—assuming she didn’t already know the spell by heart. But Grandma Sara had been an amazingly powerful and wise witch. She had died of old age in her sleep a few years ago, and Tabby still missed her—she always would. But she often felt as if Grandma was with her still, smiling with approval and encouragement. Just then, she desperately needed her guidance.

  Because finding the right spell could be a huge challenge. Once in a while, Tabby could find a spell in a few hours, but usually it took days or even weeks to locate the exact spell she needed. She was almost certain she had neither days nor weeks to find the Highlander.

  She prayed for some otherworldly help and began thumbing through the book, pausing to read bits and pieces and key words. As she did, his powerful image remained firmly implanted, front and center, in her mind.

  The words began to jumble. Tabby stared at them, realizing she was exhausted from the events of that day, but she did not intend to quit. �
�Who are you?” she murmured, staring at the pages before her.

  Of course there was no answer. She sighed, curling her legs up under her, telling herself she wasn’t going to take a nap, not now, not when she needed to find him. But she could close her eyes just for a minute, she thought.

  Her lids drifted closed. She cradled the Book to her chest. She refused to fall asleep; instead, she relived their brief encounter at the Met, hoping for a clue as to who and what he was. But nothing in her memory changed and she was so tired…

  Suddenly he was looking at her—and the burns and blisters were gone from his face and body. He was gorgeous. She sat up, wide-awake.

  Sheer disappointment claimed her. The Highlander was not standing there in her loft; she had been dreaming.

  She tightened her hold on the Book. Her heart was thundering. At the Met, it had been impossible to make out most of his features. She had surely invented such masculine beauty. Real men did not look like poster boys for a romance channel version of Braveheart.

  Someone knocked on her front door.

  Tabby tensed. It was impossible for a visitor to get into the lobby and upstairs to her door without buzzing from the downstairs front hall first. But someone was knocking loudly and insistently on her front door. Someone had gotten through the building’s locked doors. She became really alarmed, glancing at the red roses, her concern for the dark Highlander now taking a backseat to the intruder at her door.

  “Tabby, are you home?” her ex-husband demanded.

  Tabby jumped to her feet. Randall was banging on her front door? She hadn’t seen him since the divorce, twenty-one months ago, except by chance one night, when he’d been out on the town with a nineteen-year-old Russian model—one of the many models he’d cheated on her with.

  Her gaze slammed to the roses. No, it was impossible. He’d never start things up again—not that she would let him.

  “One moment,” she cried loudly, flustered and uncertain. Even though she had no wish to ever see him again, she felt a moment of distress. She had loved him. They’d been intimate, a couple; they’d been husband and wife. She’d given him two years of her life—and she’d thought it would be forever.

  But their marriage had been a lie—one big, fat, long lie. Randall was ambitious and successful, on a fast track to the top, making millions of dollars for his clients and himself. He’d been smooth, charming, macho and charismatic, and she’d truly thought he loved her wildly, with all of his heart. While she’d thought that, he’d been out on the town with the city’s most beautiful women—the kind of women he could brag to his cronies about.

  As she went to the front door, she could not imagine what he wanted. “Hello, Randall. This is truly a surprise.”

  His gaze slid over her from head to toe, in a very familiar way. He smiled and shook his head. “Even barefoot, you’re as elegant as ever!”

  She felt herself bristle, but she contained the surge of anger. She did not want any flattery from him.

  Now he said, dropping his tone, “You could walk out of a steam room in a towel, Tabby, and you’d never have a hair out of place.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “Aw, come on. You could be First Lady, another Jackie O.”

  “I hardly have that kind of ambition.” She trembled. “What are you doing here, Randall?”

  His brown gaze was warm as it met hers. “I’ve been missing you and I decided to do something about it.”

  She had stopped trusting him a long time ago. “We haven’t seen each other in almost two years. How did you get in?”

  “Do you like the roses?”

  She inhaled, very taken aback. Suddenly she was angry. “Randall, what are you doing?”

  “I wanted to let you know that I’ve been thinking about you. I’m glad you like them.” His focus moved to the roses. “They’re gorgeous. I paid top dollar. When I ordered them, I told the florist only the best will do.”

  “They’re inappropriate, Randall.”

  He grinned. “I think they’re really appropriate—gorgeous, yet classic.”

  It was hard to breathe. Randall had always admired her style, her sense of fashion and her grace. He had been so proud of how “elegant” she was. By the divorce, she’d come to hate that word. She vividly recalled a party on a humid day in the Hamptons. As they’d pulled into the driveway, Randall had told her again how elegant she was. It had suddenly bothered her. She’d wanted him to pull over, grab her and make love to her as if she was a sexpot. Sex was usually the last thing on her mind.

  Tabby stared at him in dismay. “What happened to your Russian girlfriend?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “I’ve grown up.”

  She was beginning to have an idea of why he had come.

  “I can see the skepticism on your face. Tabby, how many dumb models can a guy go out with before he gets it?”

  “I have no idea,” she said truthfully.

  “You’re still angry with me. I don’t blame you. But I have great news and I want to share it with you!”

  “Whatever it is, I’m happy for—” she began to say, but he cut her off.

  “I meant what I said, Tabby. I have grown up. The truth is that we shouldn’t have married three years ago—I wasn’t ready. But things have changed.” Excitement flared in his eyes. “I’ve been offered a top position at Odyssey, Tab. I mean top—as in my salary is doubling. With the clients I’ll have, I could be making eight or nine mil a year! Not only that, in a couple of years I’ll be in position to make CEO, if not there, at another major firm. This is it, everything we’ve always wanted!”

  She’d never doubted he would make it to the very top of New York’s financial world, so his news was hardly a surprise. But CEOs at firms like the Odyssey Group needed suitable wives—wives who knew how to charm the city’s elite and their husband’s clients, wives who knew how to graciously hold fund-raisers and dinner parties, trophy wives who were fashionable, attractive, charming and elegant. She felt ill, realizing what he wanted. “I am very happy for you. But it’s late.”

  He approached, his eyes blazing with excitement, and he seized her hand. “We can go to the top together, Tabby, I know we can!”

  She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her go. “I can’t do this again.”

  “I will never cheat on you again,” he said seriously.

  Randall had never taken no for an answer, she thought, dismayed.

  “Beyond the impeccable manners, you are still the kindest woman I know. Everyone makes mistakes, even you. Won’t you give me another shot? Because I am being sincere, Tab.”

  She knew she must not give him another chance, and she had meant it when she said they were done. But the truth was, everyone did make mistakes and everyone deserved a second chance.

  The dark Highlander loomed in her mind, as he’d been at the Met, bloody and burned.

  Randall suddenly let her go. He was smiling. “Just think about it. You’re also the fairest person I know. Take your time. I’ll call you.”

  Because she was proud of her manners, she walked him to the door, although she balked at allowing him a kiss on the cheek. When he was gone, she poured a huge glass of red wine and carried it to the sofa. She sipped, in absolute disbelief, her temples pounding.

  She was angry. She hated being angry—anger had never worked for her. Anger made her uncomfortable. As far as she was concerned, it didn’t work for anyone. Civility and compromise were always the best path.

  But no matter how polite she intended to be, how gracious, how fair, Randall’s return was unacceptable.

  Besides, she had another man in her life, didn’t she? The joke was a bad one, but Tabby smiled anyway.

  Her telephone rang.

  She hesitated, certain it was Randall, then saw Sam’s number pop up on the ID screen. She seized the receiver. “Sam, we have to talk.”

  Sam hesitated. “Yeah, we do.”

  Tabby felt herself still. “What did you find out about A
n Tùir-Tara?”

  “I got in touch with the foremost authority on the subject, a historian at Oxford in Britain.”

  Dread began. “What happened?”

  “Well, he’s the one historian who says the clan war between the Macleods and MacDougalls was not the real reason for the fire in 1550. There’s nothing written down to support the theory, but there is another oral tradition.”

  Tabby had a bad feeling.

  “Folklore has it the fire was a result of a war of witches.”

  Tabby cried out.

  WHAT HAD HAPPENED? Where was he?

  Had he just journeyed through the universe?

  Macleod lay very still, afraid to attempt to move. Having landed on stone, there was pain, although he was aware of it lessening as he lay there. And there was so much noise, most of it unfamiliar. People had been screaming, although their screams were ceasing now. He bit back a moan, and realized that he could move his fingers and toes. He had been hurled across the sky, past stars and suns. Was this the leap that MacNeil and the brothers spoke of?

  The torment was fading swiftly now and he became aware that the people standing around him were speaking the same strangely accented English as the golden woman. He opened his eyes. Some of the women wore the same fashion of clothes that the goddess had, their skirts knee-length. His thoughts sharpened. She had summoned him. But now, he wondered if she was a mortal like the other people crowding over him. Or perhaps she was a near immortal like him? She certainly seemed to be from this time.

  Was she there? He certainly wanted a word with her now.

  Somebody call 911…Is that a costume…?

  He could not comprehend their words very well, but he clearly heard and understood their thoughts. Slowly, Macleod looked past the excited crowd.