by Brenda Joyce
“I saved ye,” he flashed. The pots and pans on the stove rattled. “I saved the children. Ye owe me that much.”
“Damn it,” Tabby whispered. “The police want you dead!”
“I dinna fear yer dark soldiers.” He gave her a dismissive look and walked away from her.
Tabby felt like collapsing. Instead, she sat down on a stool at the counter, breathing hard. He had saved her. He’d saved the children. She owed him. A gentleman wouldn’t expect anything in return, but he, of course, was not a gentleman.
And it was her spell that had brought them to this impasse. He might very well be trapped in her time—with her—for longer than either of them wanted. She was afraid to try to send him back, which meant he was staying with her for a while. And that was the bottom line. So she was going to have to deal with that. With him.
“We need a truce,” she cried, standing.
He sighed. “Do ye have hot water an’ linen, mayhap?”
Tabby’s gaze shot to his right arm, where dried blood crusted the short sleeve of his tunic and the area on his arm above his bicep. “I don’t trust you. But I’m not powerful enough to send you back, and until we figure out what to do, we need an understanding.”
He smiled without amusement but didn’t speak.
“I want your word that you will leave me alone, that you will not try to seduce me or crawl into bed with me while I’m sleeping!”
He laughed. “Tabitha, before this night is through, you’ll be in my arms an’ verra pleased about it.”
She’d come up against a macho brick wall. “My answer is no.”
“But I dinna ask a question.”
Tabby wondered if this man was capable of rape. He’d beheaded Angel, maybe force was a habit of his, too. But the moment she had the thought, she knew he would never use force. She didn’t know how she knew, she just did.
He spoke quietly. “Barbarian that I may be, I have never forced a woman and I willna force ye. I dinna need to use force. Women beg to share my bed—all of them, all the time.”
Tabby grimaced at his conceit. But she had little doubt that most medieval women lined up outside his bedroom door. She had the sudden, unhappy notion that he pleased every one of those women. They wouldn’t be uptight like she was. She was the exception, but she decided not to say so. She just hoped he was a man of his word, and oddly, she had the feeling that he was. “Okay.” She exhaled loudly. “I feel better now.” That was a vast exaggeration. She’d probably be on edge until he went back to Blayde.
“Help me with my wound.”
“You said you weren’t hurt.” She was really glad to be distracted now.
“I said I will live. One puny bullet canna kill me.” He flexed his right arm and winced.
Tabby couldn’t help but be concerned. She was going to have to get a grip on her composure. He’d promised her he’d behave, and immortal or nearly so, he had a bullet in his arm. “Sit down, Macleod, on the sofa. I’ll clean your wound for you.” She went into the kitchen and added, “You’re probably hungry. I’ll fix you something to eat, too.” Cooking always relaxed her, but she was pretty certain it would not relax her now.
Tabby began gathering up first-aid supplies, trying not to think. It wasn’t easy, because she was so acutely aware of him and the fact that he could not get back to the thirteenth century, not on his own. Her spell had really backfired. Maybe, one day, she and Sam would laugh about it, but it wasn’t funny now. What should she do with him?
And where was he going to sleep?
Maybe she should stash him in a hotel room. Carrying a tray with bandages, soap and water and bacitracin, Tabby went back into the living area. “I’m sorry.” She forced a smile. “We have gotten off to a bad start, and it’s my fault. I’ve forgotten all my manners, but the circumstances have been extenuating.”
He looked at her with skepticism.
Tabby sat down on the sofa, instinctively keeping an arm’s length between them. She wished she could trust him and stop being so nervous. “I am known for being polite. I’m teased about it. I never lose my cool or my temper!” She threw another bright smile his way.
He studied her.
She smiled again but really didn’t look at him, dipping a washcloth in warm water. She reminded herself that she would do this for any human being. The truth was, she didn’t like being this close to him. His body was too big and it felt too dominant. And in the back of her mind, that shocking vision was now engraved of the two of them in bed as lovers.
“Sometimes I get so tired of people saying how nice I am! I’m always being told that I am too polite, too sweet, too kind—and oh-so-elegant.” The cloth was soaking wet now. She held it, dripping water all over the sofa, finally looking up at his face.
He waved his blood-crusted arm at her. “French ladies are elegant,” he said. “In velvet an’ jewels. What garments do ye wear?”
She realized she was in a thirteen-year-old’s sweaty, dirty track pants and T-shirt. Tabby felt herself blush. She was a wreck. When had any man ever come onto her so strongly, much less with her not impeccably attired and perfectly coiffed? She was hardly country-club ready now. “I borrowed the clothes,” she said slowly, “from a little girl. They’re dirty,” she added unnecessarily. She touched her hair. It was in a ponytail, but strands were coming down everywhere.
“Aye—they smell.”
Tabby set the cloth down, embarrassed. Her clothes did smell, like a stale locker room. He clearly did not think her very elegant, and that somehow disturbed and confused her.
Tabby soaked his sleeve, trying not to notice his arm, aware of his stare. When she could, she began peeling the linen from his skin as carefully as she could. She didn’t want to hurt him—and she didn’t want to touch him, either.
As she pried away the linen, her fingertips grazing his skin, she realized that he was right. She was aware of him as she’d never been aware of any man. She feared her desire…as she should.
Desiring a medieval stranger was insanity—and she must never act on it.
But damn it, her heart was skidding like a car on black ice. Why was he the one to stir her as no other? What could that mean?
“Ye willna hurt me, Tabitha,” he said.
Tabby looked up. “Your arm has to hurt.”
“It hurt before I removed the bullet last night…but not verra much.”
Tabby went still. He’d removed the bullet himself? Then, of course he had—he wasn’t a poster boy for Polo, he was a poster boy for 300.
His mouth curved. “Ye’re easy to play.”
Tabby stared into his unwavering eyes. He’d stirred up her compassion. She couldn’t help it. He’d probably been immune to the pain of extraction, but she hated the idea of his being alone and on the run and having to dig a bullet out of his own arm. “I am not very experienced when it comes to men. Even though I was married, I never dated a lot.”
His eyes widened. “Ye were married?”
Tabby nodded.
“Ye act like a virgin.”
Tabby flinched. “That is so unfair.”
“But true.”
Tabby put the wet rag down, affronted. “I am old-fashioned. I am morally conservative. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t, but I am.” She picked up the rag and started cleaning blood, dirt and debris from the bullet wound, a bit more callously than she should have.
He took her hand and held it to still it. “I dinna mean to insult ye, Tabitha. Explain old-fashioned. I dinna ken morally conservative,” he said, his tone demanding.
She pulled away, his touch searing. Her insides felt so hollow now. She was careful not to glance up. “I do not sleep with strangers,” she said. “Although many women in this time do.”
He was silent.
She kept cleaning the wound, trying to stay entirely focused. Talking no longer seemed like a very good idea, either.
The emerging skin seemed pink and healthy. Of course his recuperative powers would be otherworldly, too. W
hen he didn’t speak—although she could feel his watchful stare—she looked up.
“So ye fear sex with all men,” he said flatly.
She cried out. “Absolutely not!”
“Taking pleasure is natural.”
Tabby stared. “Why are we on this topic again?”
“I have never met a woman like ye before. Ye fear me but ye shout at me, debate, speak yer mind. Other women fear me, but they never speak—they run from me when we’re through.”
Tabby threw down the rag and stood. “Are you telling me that you have never had a conversation with a woman? Are you telling me that all women fear you?”
“Aye, they all fear me and I dinna care.”
Tabby didn’t believe him. It struck Tabby that this man had to be incredibly lonely. No one could survive a lifetime without intimacy from a lover and the opposite sex.
He stood and reached for her, his expression becoming indolent and sensual. “Tabitha, in my bed, there’s no need fer conversation.”
His hand burned her wrist. She tried to pull away and he let her go. “We are stuck with one another until I can figure out what to do. You have to stop coming onto me.” She was becoming angry, at last. “And you have to stop looking at me the way that you do,” she said tersely. “It’s not helping. There’s so much tension in here, no one can breathe!”
He seemed surprised by her angry outburst. “But ye dinna have to be so tense, Tabitha. Ye choose to be so tense.”
She refused to comprehend him now. “I owe you and I want to help you, if I can,” she said in a rush. “But not the way you want. I am not going to bed with you, not now, not ever.”
“Because ye fear sex with all men—or just with me?”
She flushed. He was a stranger and she did not owe him any explanations or her life story. On the other hand, maybe if she told him she was the queen of fake orgasms, he’d leave her alone.
“Tabitha? A wise word…never tell a man ‘never.’”
Did he think her a challenge now? “We have a truce.”
He just shook his head and said, “I need to bathe.”
She went still, hoping she hadn’t heard him correctly. Images of him in her shower struck her vividly, full force.
“I stink of blood and death.”
Of course he wanted to bathe—he was hardly a caveman. It occurred to her that nothing was going the way she wished, but then he was alpha, so of course everything would go his way! “I guess I can’t refuse you a bath. It’s a fair request.” She kept her tone light, as if she didn’t care, and avoided looking at him. He’d bathe; she’d cook enough food to feed an army—that would help her relax. And then she had to figure out where he was spending the night. He could not stay with her. That had suddenly become really clear.
She would call Sam while he was in the shower. It was time to populate the loft, and Sam could bring him clothes; agents kept extras in their lockers. Sam would keep her big medieval secret. Maybe she’d help get him to a hotel. Or maybe they’d call Nick and let him in on the action. Nick could actually solve her dilemma, she thought. But her heart seemed to sink.
“I willna leave.”
“Stop reading my mind!” she cried. “I am not referring to sending you back to 1298. I am referring to you walking out my door and spending the night elsewhere—alone.”
He folded his massive arms across his chest.
Her heart lurched, but this time with a frisson of alarm. “You are not spending the night here.”
“Ye dinna trust Nick.”
Tabby almost cursed. “Obviously you’re not reading my mind very carefully. Nick is a warrior and he’s on our side. He fights demons and wins.”
“Ye think he’ll interfere in the Destiny we share.”
“We do not share any Destiny!”
“Ye believe ye’re meant to help me. ’Tis why ye’ve haunted me fer ninety-seven years, offering to help me.”
Damn it, he might be right. “I’m not calling Nick. You can stay at a hotel—an inn.”
“An’ what about the dark soldiers?” He was smug, as if he knew he’d won.
In that moment, she knew he had won, too.
“Do ye wish to ken why I willna leave ye alone?”
Tabby stared at him, dismayed. “Not really.”
He ignored her. “Ye need my protection.”
She was instantly bewildered. “I don’t need protection.” Then she realized he didn’t understand. “Macleod, this loft is fortified with my grandmother’s spells. She was a very powerful witch. Evil has never been able to get in here. It’s like holy ground. What happened earlier today won’t happen again.”
He shook his head, his face set now. “Evil hunts ye.”
A chill swept down her spine. “Evil hunts everyone. Evil destroys whatever it can.”
“No. Evil hunts ye, Tabitha Rose.”
Tabby met his gaze and he stared back. He was so serious that her alarm became dread. “Why do you think that?” she asked slowly. But she was becoming uncertain. “It was a witch burning. It happens all the time, here in this city and in major cities around the country and across the world.”
“The boys wanted ye. I heard them.”
The chill churned in her gut. He could not be right. Why would evil hunt her?
Those boys had known her name—but that was on the classroom door. But the Rampage had been premeditated, because the fire alarms had been dismantled. Rampages were usually spontaneous and random acts. There had only been two subs intent on a witch burning, when they usually worked in large gangs. Except for the crime last week, when three subs had been involved. Maybe the attempted burning in her school was a part of a new trend…or maybe not.
But why would evil target her?
He was wrong, she managed to think. Evil hadn’t targeted her. And damn it, now he meant to stay the night.
“Show me where to bathe.”
They could argue about the intention of the subs all day and all night, and never figure it out, she thought. He was clearly determined to stay and protect her. “All right. You win. But I’ll bet you always win, don’t you?”
His expression never changed.
Tabby clenched her fists. “You can stay, but only for one night, and you sleep there, on the sofa.” She pointed, her hand trembling. “And you will sleep there alone.”
He murmured, “Then stop thinkin’ about me without my clothes.”
Tabby couldn’t think of a suitable response to that. She marched to the linen closet and returned, placing a pile of towels in his arms. Her mind skidded back and forth between his theory that she was a target and the shower he was about to take—and the night about to come. It promised to be endless. “The bathroom is down the hall.”
He walked away. She felt her body explode and it was inexplicable. She prided herself on her intellect. A Ph.D. turned her on more than a six-pack ever could. Her friends had crushes on actors like Brad Pitt and Colin Farrell; she had crushes on intellectuals like Tony Blair and Mark Steyn. She’d rather spend an evening at an exhibit like the Wisdom of the Celts, discussing the various finds, than in bed with a boyfriend, pretending to be something she was not.
But this man made her nervous and upset. Worse, this man made her body come alive in ways it never had—in ways she didn’t even want to recognize. But Macleod was a walking advertisement for sex. Maybe all women went nuts around him. That was probably it.
Tabby opened the refrigerator, then closed it. What was he doing in there? How on earth would he know how to turn on the water faucets or even adjust the water temperature?
She groaned, then cursed. She stared at the chopped onion, waiting for her eyes to burn. Had he taken off his clothes?
Her knees felt weak. All those new pulse points were firing up. She must not go back there to help him!
She strained to listen, but did not hear the sound of the shower.
Her heart was thundering so hard now, she thought it might come out of her breast. Tabby
realized she was already halfway to the bathroom. She gave up. Apparently she was incapable of self-control. But she was only going to help him. She repeated those instructions to herself.
The bathroom door was wide-open.
Tabby halted. He stood inside, still fully dressed…and she was incredibly disappointed. His back was to her and he was regarding his reflection in the mirror over the sink. In that mirror, she met his eyes.
They were lazy and indolent, sensual and hot, promising all kinds of unearthly delight.
She managed to say, “I came to turn the water on—not for anything else.”
From the corner of her eyes, she saw his hands moving. He was unpinning the plaid he wore. He smiled knowingly.
She knew she should back away—no, run away. No decent woman would stand there while he undressed. She did not move.
The plaid fell from his huge shoulders and he folded it and laid it beside the swords he’d placed on the vanity before she’d gotten there. His hands moved to the heavy leather belt he wore, over the tunic. Tabby couldn’t look up. Her eyes were riveted to the reflection of his strong, scarred hands. Heat suffused every inch of her face and body. Beneath his hands, that skirt was tented. She couldn’t really breathe.
He made a soft sound and the leather belt joined the plaid and swords on her vanity.
She stared at the items, then stared at him. A huge silence fell. Tabby knew it was time to leave, now.
“I never drag women to my bed. They come gladly.”
Of course they did.
His navy-blue eyes were so dark with desire they were the color of a Highland night sky—purple and black. He slowly turned to face her.
She breathed hard, aware of heat dripping down her inner thighs, and refused to take another look at the tented tunic. Her tension had spiraled to an impossible level. She could hardly think.
How could she go? How could she stay?
Why did she have to be so aware of him?
“Men like me because I’m elegant,” Tabby said harshly. “I am not elegant now. I just don’t get this.”
His stare intensified. “In my bed, ye willna have to be someone ye’re not.”
