The Curse of Clan Ross (11 page)

“Y...you’re not going to put me back in the tomb?”

“Nay. Never. I so swear. If I should break my oath, may God show me only misery for the rest of my days.”

Her next breaths were fair to steady.

“And you said Isobelle is a wicked lass,” she said.

“And she is.”

“You didn’t say Isobelle
was
a wicked lass.”
 

“Aye. Wherever she is, she’s up to the same. I know my sister well, ye ken?”

“Your sister.”

Her voice was sounding weak again. It was time to get her away from the hole and show the lass some light. She wanted for little more than light. And water. And air. An easy woman to please if ever he met one.

He picked her up and headed back out of the passageway. “Ye were in there. In the tomb. Ye ken Isobelle’s no’ inside, nor what would be left of her. Ye even said ye ken I helped her escape.”

She nodded, but her eyes were wide. Did she not believe she was safe enough with him?

“And who told ye my secret, lass?”

He wouldn’t have believed her eyes could open any wider, but they did. In case he was clutching her blue-clad legs and thinly clad torso too tightly, he relaxed his hold. Instead of being crushed to his chest, she had plenty of space to breathe.

It didn’t help.

She looked up at him with owl’s eyes, serious as the live long day.

“Ye won’t believe it.”

God’s blood, had she forgotten how to blink?

“Tell me, lass.” He needed to know the man who had the power to ruin his clan. “Jillian, who told the tale?”

She looked down at her belt while he carried her up the last of the steps, but her brows stayed high. She took a deep breath and puffed it out quickly.

“The same one who helped me into the tomb.”

So, he could silence a wagging tongue and kill the bastard who had buried alive his future wife, all in one swing of the blade.

“The same one who handed me Isobelle’s necklace.”

It was fortunate he had moved into the Great Hall, away from the stairway for his knees went weak as a sapling in springtime. The Almighty help him but he’d forgotten to ask about the damnable necklace. He’d sworn to his sister the thing would never be removed and now he hardly dared learn its fate.

“And where is the necklace now, Jillian?” he croaked.

“Oh, it’s still inside. In the dark.”

The Great Hall was also dark without the cooking fires and the windows shuttered, but he made his way to the Ross chair on the dais as if the stones beneath his feet had been worn to guide his steps. He collapsed in relief, holding his wee MacKay wench close to his heart.

It was safe—the necklace at least.

“And who was it put ye in there, sweet lass?”

She smiled and hunched her shoulders up around her ears in the oddest of expressions. Endearing, but odd nevertheless.

“It’s lucky you’re sitting down. His name is, or rather will be...Laird.” She cleared her throat. “Ross.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

For a moment, Jilly thought the man may just put her back in the hole after all. His head pulled back, his brows scrunched in confusion.

About time she had his attention.

A minute later, he nodded as if he had it all figured out, which more than likely meant he understood she must be out of her mind. Soon after, he frowned as if in pain.

Did it bother him so much that she was insane?  For a moment, she thought it was sweet, unless of course, he considered the proper treatment for insanity was to lock someone away in an unpadded, unlit stone cell.

“I am not insane,” she insisted, just in case she was right about the treatment. “Although this is going to sound pretty crazy. I’m here to help Ivar and Morna—”

His hand clamped gently over her mouth. He looked deep into her eyes and shook his head.

“Have a care, lass. We don’t talk of such things here.”

She lifted her chin, nudging his hand and it fell away.

“You don’t talk about Isobelle’s prophecy, or you don’t talk about the possibility of someone being insane?” Jilly whispered. His frown was nothing compared to the fire in his eyes and Jilly quickly picked up his hand and pushed it back against her mouth.

He moved his fingers over her lips for just a moment before removing his hand.

“Sweet lass. I’ll apologize again for frightening ye so badly, but that be the last. And I’ll allow time for ye to recover from yer fright. But come the morrow, ye’ll give me the mon’s name, whether he be dear to ye or no. Let him face me as a man.”

No one had ever dumped her on her rump and walked away before. It was the medieval equivalent of having someone hang up on her, and she was miffed she couldn’t call him back and hang up on
him
, or even knock him on his fanny in return. He had disappeared into one shadow or another and she was glad he hadn’t hung around to laugh.
 

Jilly scrambled to her feet, brushed the dust off her Lucky jeans—which she should never again refer to as lucky—and stalked off in search of her leather jacket. Castles, surprisingly enough, were cold even in the summer, and she couldn’t just pretend it was air conditioning.

She had tried that mind-over-matter trick far too often during the bitter winter months in Wyoming. It never worked. Leather, she had found, was the only sure thing. It had taken years of staking out the second-hand store in Cody to get her hands on one, and she wouldn’t give it up now, even if it would have had “witch” spray-painted across the back.

It suddenly occurred to Jilly that she didn’t actually know what season it was.

Dear Lord, she’d actually traveled through time. However, she was well aware of her mental stress levels. After watching her grandmother’s lucidity teeter around like a drunk on a rooftop, she recognized mental fatigue when she saw it, even if it was from the inside looking out. She was not strong enough to question time travel at the moment. In the last few days she’d been through enough trauma to justify years of therapy already, there was no sense adding more.

At least not until after she’d procured food, more sleep, and a day or two of staying alive.

She found some stairs that ascended, thank heavens, and started hiking. If it took some time to find the jacket, the exercise would at least warm her. The going, however, was slow. She had no idea fear could be so draining. If she could just get some food into her stomach, she was sure she would be able to stand and fight if necessary.

Please God, don’t let it be necessary
.
 

As she passed a long slit window, the smell of roasting meat assailed her and she nearly vomited from hunger pangs. Once she located her precious possession, she would follow her nose and beg like a dog if need be, but she had to have some of that.

She’d gotten only a glimpse out the window this morning, just before that unforgettable kiss, and they had to have been standing at least on the third floor. Or perhaps it was the kiss that had made her feel so high.

Thankfully, with that bearing alone, she quickly found the room in which she’d awakened, slid into the softened brown leather, and was on her way. With hands braced on both sides of the narrow stairwell, her cowboy boots flew down the stairs in a blur of green toward the Great Hall doors, which would lead to her pre-cooked prey.

Jilly raised both palms to push the gigantic door open, but her flesh met flesh, not wood. And the flesh wouldn’t budge.

Laird Montgomery Ross, the honest to goodness laird of Clan Ross, in the Highlands of Scotland in the year fourteen hundred and ninety something, or so she believed, had barely beaten her to the door and now stood as yet another barrier between her and a very important meal. Reluctantly, she let her hands fall away from his chest.

Jilly did not behave well when hungry and unfortunately for him, she didn’t care if he thought her the biggest beyotch in the county. If they hadn’t recognized PMS in the fourteenth century, historians would look back on this day and say, “Ah, of course.”

“Move, you medieval oaf. There is food out there and if you don’t let me by you, I’ll eat your arm. Got it?”

He smiled, frowned, and smiled again, obviously having a difficult time playing the angry laird when being threatened by an “Englishwoman” whom he doubled in size. Standing that close to his full-faced grin, she couldn’t stay in character either.

She wanted him to believe Jilly MacKay was a harping shrew he should avoid at all costs. Really, she did. But his smile was brilliant; a masterpiece of white teeth, dimpled cheeks, and tiny creases shooting out from the side of his eyes like sunbeams. Laughter was no stranger to this face, which was surprising indeed since history would remember him as a sober, melancholy man.

What sad events were destined to change him?

Perhaps it was pity on her face that wiped his good humor away.

“I will bring ye food.”

“Good food?” she pressed. “Some of that meat they are cooking out there?”

He nodded, the kind of solemn nod that was some dramatic “do or die” promise. Was she supposed to tap him on the shoulder with a sword, or something?  She reached up and patted his massive pectoral muscle instead, which made them both uneasy. He could have been insulted at being treated as an appreciated puppy, but she couldn’t seem to stop. He was rock hard, as in, “someone-forgot-to-add-the-flesh-to-the-Stepford-Warrior-and-went-straight-to-paint” rock hard. And if she didn’t stop patting him, the paint would rub off.

Finally Jilly snatched her hand back and found him staring at her with a fire in his eyes that had nothing to do with his earlier fury.

“Is that all ye desire?” he asked, his voice low and raspy.

“I...I don’t know what you mean.” Indignant was not her strong suit. She was much better at grumpy.

“Food. Or did ye want to taste my arm before ye decide?”

Oh, she wanted to, all right. And he knew it, damn him.

“No, thank you. Just regular old food.” Oh, that could be dangerous. “Not
old
food, mind you. Just fresh—cooked food.”
 

He nodded again and watched her hand for a moment. Were men so easily trained?  He looked disappointed when she didn’t pat him again and she cleared her throat to cover her short laugh.

“Stay inside. No one can lay eyes upon ye. Ye’ve led them all to believe a ghost now inhabits the keep, and that is all they will know.” In a gentler voice he added, “When it is dark, I will walk with ye along the battlements, if ye wish.”

He leaned toward her and breathed deeply, like he was daring her to touch him, or to raise her face for a kiss, but she kept her gaze on his chest. The covered part. And just as she caved in and looked up, her stomach screeched for food.

Surely it was for food.

He smiled and pulled the door open, muttering something about air and light.

“And water,” she whispered loudly through the opening as it narrowed. Hopefully he had heard. Grandmother was always a stickler for hydrating and it sounded like something the woman would have suggested for the treatment of shock.

Jilly had just turned away when the door cracked open and Laird Ross whispered back, “I know.”

And Lord help her, she giggled.

What was wrong with her?  She felt like she had just met a cute boy at the mall, or made goo-goo eyes at a young man in the campus library and she was giddy with the prospects of seeing him again.

“Get a hold of yourself. He digs you out of an early grave, then threatens to bury you alive again—or kill you himself—and you forgive him because he has dimples?  Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Jilly eyed her would-be tomb and chose a perch in the shadows as far away from the structure as possible. She would be ready to pounce on her lunch as soon as it cleared the door.

Minutes wore on without so much as a mantle clock to tick them away.

“Back in time. I’ve gone back in time. He’ll never believe me.”

“I believe ye, lassie.”

Ewan emerged from the shadowed doorway and grabbed a long pole from the shadows. Looking up, he hooked a panel of wood and removed it from a high narrow window to hang it on a hook beside the opening. He did the same with the other three windows, then moved to stand in the warm sunlight.

With that kilt he could have been just another actor from the Castle Ross Tour, only his pleats were not so neat, nor was the wool, she suspected, lately laundered. His plaid had the look of a dog’s rumpled bed, comfortable only to the dog.

“He’s gone to get me some food,” she explained, poised on the edge of her stool, ready to run. Of course she had no reason to be nervous; this man had blithely carried her to her possible death not an hour ago, but he’d had no new instructions to do so again.

As far as she knew.

His head tilted to one side while he peered at her through narrowed eyelids, and she remembered what he’d said. He believed her.

“How long had you been listening?”

“Baah.” He waved a hand, indicating his eavesdropping was not important. “’T’is me job to watch the laird’s back, lass. And guard it from even the likes o’ ye. But what ye really wish to ken is if I heard ye spoutin’ madness. And I did.”

Oh, great. Why didn’t someone rummage around and find her a sturdy broom and a pointy hat?  If she were lucky, the firewood would be nice and dry, too.

“I was wondering if you knew the time,” she queried. It was worth a shot. “With all my traveling I seemed to have lost track.” Oh, brother.

“Ye’re the faery Isobelle told us would come, lass. I ken it. And what’s more, Monty...Laird Ross kens it as weel.”

It could be the lack of food, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out if he was trying to give her hope, or threatening her. How wonderful would it be if this golden, shaggy man were on her side?  Was the universe watching out for her after all?   It only needed testing.

“So, Ewan.” She thought a friendly manner best. “Do you always do whatever your laird tells you to?”

He looked none too pleased. Angry in fact.

“I’m no simpleton, lass. I’ll not be teased into disobeyin’ me laird. Ye’re not to go out of doors.”