The Curse of Clan Ross (16 page)

“Come down, lass,” one of them called to her. “No need to hide from the likes o’ us.”

 Unwilling to turn her back on the two, Jilly crawled to the right end and shimmied down the rock in half-light, dividing her attention between her grip and the odd sisters. With every inch closer to them, Jilly’s anger grew.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you’d been here?” she demanded, glancing at hands so she could nail them with their names. There were no veins visible to give her any hints, however. Too young, she supposed. The poker reminding her of a certain crow bar and she took a guess. “Loretta, you could have given me a heart attack.”

The other one turned sharply to Jilly.

“She’s not Loretta, dearie.”

“Lorraine, then.”

“Neither is she Lorraine, lass,” her calf-attacker claimed. “But we’d like to ken who Loretta and Lorraine are.”

Dear Lord. More Muirs.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“I’ve no’ been across The Burn. I swear it.”

In days gone by, Montgomery would have believed Ivar without thought, without doubt. Not now.

“The assassin’s plaid was torn when he escaped.” He tossed the wee strip of MacKay plaid at Ivar’s feet.

“My plaid is whole.”

“Easily changed.”

“True.”

He eyed the MacKay man from head to foot. His clothing did not look freshly donned.

“And I suppose ye have a dozen arrows in yer quill?”

“I do.”

Ivar, ever perfect where his weapons were concerned, always kept an even dozen arrows to hand. As he used them he would count, therefore always knowing how many enemies he could still fell before needing to change weapons.

Understanding the seriousness of this meeting now, his former friend sat still while Montgomery fetched the weapons in question. He could feel Ivar’s eyes on his back as he walked away, but the man would not attack. If he were still hopeful the prophecy would come to pass, he would need The Ross’s permission to get to Morna, and as long as he breathed, Montgomery would never allow the man to cross The Burn and live.

He returned to the rock with the quiver in hand, then sat and took the arrows out, two at a time. After the fifth pair was laid across his lap, there was but a lone arrow remaining and it was hard to tell which of them was the more surprised.

If Ivar truly held faith in Isobelle’s prophecy, would he have tried to kill the woman who might bring it to pass?

“I swear—”

“Save yer oaths, MacKay,” he barked.

Thankfully the man held his wheesht so he could think. If not Jillian, then had Ivar tried to kill him?  The pain of that possible betrayal must have shown on his face, for Ivar reached out and put a hand upon Montgomery’s knee.

“Monty. I would as soon kill myself as I would ye, in spite of everything. Ye cannot believe I would harm ye to get to Morna, for that would only hurt her more. For a poor man’s sake, I could no easier kill ye than ye could kill me.”

But that was exactly why Montgomery had come.

And finally, Ivar’s eyes showed understanding.

“Good God, man. Ye would have killed me, wouldn’t ye?”

How dare he sound betrayed. There was only one traitor here.

“What in Alba has become of ye?” Ivar stood and began pacing from the log to the water and back again before coming to a stop at Monty’s feet. “Has yer year alone been any harsher than mine?  Than Morna’s?  Has it?  Has peace and quiet and the pity of the Murray widow killed the memory of the rest of us?” Ivar paced again, tearing at his dark hair. “Is that it?  Have ye worked so hard to forget what ye’ve done?”

“Forget what I’ve done?  I drive myself mad trying to forget what ye did, ye bastard.” Montgomery’s voice was raspy with the anger boiling up from his stomach.

Ivar stopped and stared at him. Good. Mayhap he finally realized what seducing his sister had done. When the other man started laughing, however, Montgomery chided himself for even considering Ivar had any conscience.

“So,” the man chuckled, “Montgomery Ross has convinced himself he had no blame in the war between Ross and MacKay. Righteous Ross remembers nothing.” The last words were spit out with bitterness. “Go home, Monty. Go back to the world the way ye’ve fashioned it. Go back to yer feigned innocence. I’ll not kill ye, or yer woman, and I’ll discover the MacKay who tried. Ye’ll have to be content with the punishment I give him.”

Montgomery allowed MacKay to leave. There was no deceit to be found in his eyes tonight. He had not tried to kill Jillian, or him. And the man had said he would discover which of his clansmen was guilty. Montgomery would be content with that, just as Ivar said he must.

Sadness dogged every step of his short but solitary ride home. If he had held out any hope of ever ending this war with the MacKays, that hope was now gone. His friend refused to believe that his actions with Morna had caused all grief since then.

Of course Ivar’s hell would pale compared to his own. The man had lost his woman. In but an hour he could find another to take her place. Perhaps she wouldn’t be clever and lively like Morna, but Ivar could find something to love about someone else.

Monty had lost so much more.

Those twelve days, waiting to see if Isobelle lived or died, were a hell Ivar had obviously not imagined. So wrapped up in his own woes, the man had never once considered putting the feud aside and coming to stand by his former friend.

If the tables were turned, Monty wouldn’t have let a wee nuisance like banishment stop him from being at Ivar’s side.

For twelve horrifying days, Monty had kept watch. Morna had but come each morning to see if her sister was yet out of her misery, only to retire once more to cry on the shoulders of her friends. It was Montgomery who had held vigil, counting each moment, each breath, each beat of the heart on the other side of the wall.

No matter that he had pushed Morna away one morning, fearful she would hear Ewan’s and Ossian’s pounding. She fled before he could reconsider. If she had truly desired to stand beside him, he would have relented. He’d have allowed her to discern what was happening beneath their feet. But she had only put up a token resistance.

Monty realized he was still angry with Morna, hurt that she’d left him to suffer those days alone. Was that why he had never seriously considered letting her know that Isobelle lived?  Was he such a petulant child, then?

Monty’s grunt surprised his horse and he patted the beast’s neck to console them both.

He had enforced Morna’s betrothal to the Gordon Runt, keeping her from Ivar’s arms. Of course she wouldn’t have wanted to stand beside him through the nightmare that resulted from his actions. He was a right bastard. The only fault that lay at Morna’s feet was her denial that the betrothal came before she and Ivar turned their eyes on each other.

The urge to vomit overwhelmed him.

The image of that last night, guarding the tomb alone, came back clearly with little to see before him but a moonlit glen.

"Dear God, don't let her be dead.” Montgomery's whisper dissolved in the air as he flew down the stairs to the dungeons below the keep, his kilt flapping against thighs that could not move fast enough, thighs that had weakened from a fortnight without much food. A stomach alternately filling with worry and hope had little time to grumble.

When had the steps multiplied in number?

"Idiot, idiot, idiot," he spat at each step.

He'd only been buying time when he'd bargained with the priests to allow Isobelle another means of execution. Surely, if he'd given it a bit more thought, he could have come up with something better than burying her alive. But The Judges had jumped on the idea, no doubt thrilled to have a witch tortured thusly.

Unfortunately, digging a tunnel to rescue his sister had also occurred to The Kirk men, for they ordered the tomb to be placed upon stone. His insistence that the tomb be erected in the Great Hall led them all to believe Montgomery Ross was mad—including Montgomery Ross.

Invincible fool, to think picking through solid rock would be quick work. How he loathed his arrogance now.

Slower then, with no light to guide him, he slid himself along through the tunnels, hands spread wide before him to feel the gaps in the walls, his eyes straining for the hint of light around a door.

Nearly an hour had passed since the last bit of pounding had ceased. They had to have her out by now, but no one had come. He had stood, hands pressed to the tomb wall, waiting for the vibrations to begin again, torn between going below and keeping the guards away lest the sounds resume and their deed be discovered. How easy it was to hold them at bay while he gave voice to frustrations.

A foul stench reached out and stung his nose. Vomit.

If it was Isobelle’s, she lived. If it was from Ewan or Ossian...

“Dear God, strike me now if I’ve killed our Isobelle.”

Tears poured down his face in thick trails, stinging the cheeks still smeared with the mud from the tomb. Morna would not recognize him. Would to God he would never have to face her again if Isobelle’s blood was on his hands as Morna believed it already to be.

Lost in fear, he nearly passed the lit doorway before realizing it. Then suddenly, his arms were too heavy to lift. Pushing the door open was the last thing he could bring himself to do.

Two voices murmured beyond the door, both male. The light broadened around the edge as it slowly swung open to reveal Isobelle’s form draped over the arms of Ossian. Her arms dangled limp and pale, her neck a slender stretch of white as her head hung back. Her red hair brushed the dirt without even a pulse to stir it.

“She lives, Monty.” Ewan grasped his arm and led him inside before pushing the panel of wood closed once more. “She willna be dancin’ a jig for a wee while, mind ye. But she does live.”

Monty plopped down on a barrel, still not convinced, still staring at his sister as if it were his last chance to do so. And perhaps it was.

“She was sick?”

“As would ye be, if ye poured that much whisky down yer gullet.”

The second man’s head came up, his smile stretched an unnatural distance across his face.

“Oh, hello Monty. When’d ye get here?” The man’s eyes blinked ever so slowly.

“Ossian?  Ye’re drunk!”

Ewan laughed quietly and slapped his laird’s shoulder, upsetting Monty’s balance on the barrel momentarily.

“As are we all, yer lairdship.” Ewan slid down the wall and landed with a thump. “It’s always been the quickest way to silence yer sister, aye?”

Drunk, not dead. He’d jump for joy if he thought his legs were anywhere in the room. They felt as if they still wobbled through the tunnels, not yet caught up to him.

He’d not killed his sister. Put her through Hell?  Certainly. Made her wish she were dead?  Probably. But he’d never hear about it; she would be gone before she’d have a chance to berate him. He’d have no last smile from her, but he’d hear no further curses. A fair bargain, then.

“But how are going to get her out of here with the two of ye drunk?  I can let none else ken what goes on here and she must go tonight.” Monty caught his fingers in his tangled hair and gave up trying to tame it, dropping his arm in defeat. “I’m sorry to see ye go, Ossian, but I’ll rest easy knowing ye’ll stay at her side until she’s settled.”

“Aye, Laird. I’m happy to do it.”

“Monty?”

“What is it, Ewan?” He turned to his friend, who was fast becoming one with the dirt floor.

“Are ye no goin’ to have Morna wish her own sister to fare well, then?” With his head sinking to the side, his big blond cousin was picking clods of dirt and rock from his hair, missing the largest pieces every time he felt for more.

“Nay, Ewan. Morna must never know. No one must ever hear how I’ve betrayed my own clan. Let them think I’ve failed my sisters instead.” He stood and reached for his rather pungent sister, kissing her dusty forehead before hoisting her onto his own lap. “The clan will see it all as doin’ me duty, and it will make me fearsome to my enemies, will it no?”

“Aye, Laird.” Ossian tried to get to his feet, but gave up and started crawling to the door. “Until the faery comes.”

Damn the man.

“Be wary the drink does not make ye lose yer tongue, Ossian Ross.” Monty’s temper allowed him just enough control to keep his voice down. “There will be no faery, because my sister was not a witch to summon one. And any man to utter the word “faery” on Ross lands will no longer be a Ross.”

As he waited for his friends to sober and complete Isobelle’s midnight escape, he murmured a thanks to God and then once more vowed to the devil that if a faery was sent to ruin his alliance, it would die before it took one breath of heathered air.

Montgomery reined in his horse on the opposite side of the glen from Castle Ross. Few cottages held the glow of firelight at this late hour, and the long high windows of his hall were hardly discernable. His horse shifted restlessly, reminding him how close they were to home. But Montgomery knew all too well. His home had become his prison where none but a lonely widow would ever visit again.

Excepting a faery he had vowed to kill.

It was hard to imagine Castle Ross as the same home in which he’d been raised. There were ever and always messengers hurrying to his father with news of visitors. Monty was pressed to remember a day in his youth when the great hearth was not packed full of roasting meat and fire sizzling with the drippings, all in preparation for a visitor or two. Surely Scottish Hospitality was born of this place.

Now he offered hospitality to his first guest in the past year, a faery or a madwoman wandering his empty hall like the ghost his clan imagined her to be. If she were to be his only visitor, however, he’d see she stayed as long as he could keep her.

He’d unwittingly given himself a fortnight of relative privacy with her; a delicious way to torture himself. But when that time ended, what would he do?  He’d vowed to kill her before she took her first breath-this faery of a woman with strange green boots and the blood of his enemy running treacherously through the same veins as that of his kin.

But it was too late now. If he’d ignored that dream, that vow would have been fulfilled without his ken.