Dark Victory. Brenda Joyce

into his boots, as the floors were icy cold, and picked up his belt and brat. As he stalked to the hearth he belted the tunic and pinned the plaid over one shoulder to ward off the chill. Outside the chamber window, an ebony sky was filled with stars and a waning moon. A wolf was howling.

      The woman he’d taken to his bed suddenly awoke. He knew it without looking at her—he felt her fear and nervousness. They all feared him, although he didn’t really know why. He never beat his dogs, much less a woman. He didn’t know her name—she was new in the household. Not looking at her, he said, “Bring wine and tend the fire.”

      She leaped naked from his bed, seized her clothes and fled.

      His head seemed to throb, almost hurting him. He stared grimly at the fire, wishing he hadn’t decided to hunt his enemies that day.

      Let me help you.

      She had returned. He was incredulous. His eyes wide, he glanced about quickly, expecting to see her in his bedchamber. She was close by, he was certain, and she was coming closer by the moment. He wanted to end this haunting—he was determined to end it, now, and learn what she wanted from him.

      But she did not manifest.

      He stared into the shadows of the chamber, waiting for her to show herself. She did not.

      “What do ye want?” he demanded of the empty room.

      There was no answer.

      He smiled without mirth. She’d never amused him, not even that first time.

      For one moment, he thought she was about to appear. But as he waited for the sensation to intensify, it vanished instead.

      She was toying with him. He did not like that. But suddenly he looked at the chest that was locked at the foot of his bed.

      He thought about Elasaid’s amulet. Uncertain why he wanted to suddenly look at it, he took a key from his belt and unlocked the chest at the foot of the bed. He took out the gold talisman and stared thoughtfully at it. The pendant had always had great magic for his mother. He almost felt expectant or uncertain—and he was never uncertain.

      The moonstone in the gold palm’s center winked brightly at him.

      The room seemed to shift.

      He knew he had not imagined the slight movement of the floor and bed. The sense of expectation intensified. It was as if a gale was about to blow in, but no storm was coming. The necklace burned in his palm.

      The maid skittered into the chamber, carefully avoiding looking at him as she set the tray with wine down on the chamber’s only table. Macleod waited while she lit the rushes in the room before hurrying out.

      He put the pendant back in the chest and was locking it when he felt her presence filling the bedchamber.

      This time, he was not mistaken.

      This time, he felt the holy power with her.

      Startled and wary, almost certain now that she was a goddess and not a ghost, he scanned every shadowy corner. He could feel her power, strong and white and so terribly bright, but he could not see her yet. “Show yourself,” he ordered. “I am tired of this haunting. What do ye want?”

      In answer, he felt the entire room shift.

      Come to me.

      Her soft words washed over him, through him. He was incredulous now and even more wary. Her message had changed.

      She was summoning him.

      “Show yourself,” he said again. Could he enchant a goddess with his powers of persuasion? “Tell me what ye want. Why are ye botherin’ me so much today?”

      Come to me.

      His blood surged. Not only had he heard her speaking, her voice was becoming clearer, even if her English remained strange. She sounded closer. Maybe he would finally discover what she wanted from him.

      Come to me.

      He looked around the chamber again, and the sense of her presence intensified. The woman was very powerful and he prepared for battle with her.

      By the fire, the air shimmered, as if gold dust danced on the air.

      He stared, certain the flames were causing the air to sparkle. But the shimmering intensified; the gold dust began to congeal. Almost disbelieving, his heart thundered as the gold dust began to shape itself and form, so transparently he could see the hearth and fire through it.

      Come to me.

      He stood absolutely still. Her words were even louder now, but they still echoed oddly. He waited as the dust finally formed into a woman’s tall, lush, truly perfect figure and strikingly beautiful face. He inhaled. In that moment, he wanted her to be real because he desired her so greatly.

      If she were a flesh-and-blood woman, he’d end this soon enough with her immediate seduction. But he could see through her to the other side of the chamber. She wasn’t mortal. He was disappointed but not daunted. Even if she was a goddess, he intended to triumph over her.

      She stood before him, shifting and swaying, as if on a breeze, and her eyes were golden and mesmerizing. He could not look away. Their gazes had locked. “What do ye want?” He was careful now. He did not want her to vanish.

      “Come to me.”

      Before he could ask her where she wished for him to go, the air between them visibly sizzled. Macleod tensed and felt the space around him lurch, putting him off balance. The chamber seemed to sigh—or was it a breeze from the sea? And then such a profound stillness came, with such an absolute silence, that he knew it was the lull before the storm, the interlude before the cataclysm.

      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