The Curse of Clan Ross (20 page)

What the devil was wrong with her?  This was Scotland of old, laid out before her eyes, ancient but fresh air to fill her lungs. Before her was the light at the end of the tunnel. She was about to finish what she’d come to do, and all she could think about was how much she missed the inside of her prison. Had she gone over the edge?  Contracted some syndrome that made her fall in love with her captor?

Holy crap.

There went her gut again. Clenching. Unclenching. Clenching again. Adrenaline ebbed and flowed in her blood as she alternately accepted, then denied, then accepted again the probability that she could indeed be whipped on Montgomery Ross.

Holy crap. Holy crap.

She felt warm inside, like she’d slipped on fuzzy slippers that formed to her feet.

It didn’t matter, though. There was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t take him back with her. She’d screw up that Michael J. Fox rule. Montgomery Ross lived to a ripe, albeit lonely, old age. His cousin, Ewan, would be the great-twenty-some-odd-grandfather of the future version of Montgomery. The Original had improvements to make on that castle of his. If he didn’t, if he didn’t go on, handing down that tale of Morna, Ivar, and Isobelle, the town of East Burnshire, Scotland would not survive off the revenue from the telly-folk.

The image of Jock, scrubbing away at that over-polished bar, planted itself firmly in her mind and it brought with it all the weight of responsibility the modern Montgomery must feel.

Correction: would feel.

It wasn’t just Morna and Ivar, Loretta and Lorraine, or their medieval counterparts who needed Jilly to finish her task; an entire generation of East Burnshire-ites needed her to do so without messing with their lives. Jilly could not stand to let down any one person, let alone a small population.

Falling in love with Montgomery was a notion she could not entertain now. Later, maybe, after being back home for a few months, she would let herself think about him, would allow herself a good cry over him, over what might have been. But she couldn’t afford such an indulgence now.

Later, when it was safe, she would think about him all the time.

Jilly never remembered guiding her horse; the animal must have gone that way regularly, or else there were no other roads to take. North, South, East or West. How simple this life would be. Leave your home and you had only four choices. She traveled East.

#  #  #

Damn her.

How on earth had she done it?  After years of kinship and friendship, after naming the bastard his successor should anything happen to him before he had grown sons to replace him, Ewan had turned traitor—  

—in favor of an Englishwoman.

He had to give his cousin due respect for his playing, however. If he weren’t so good at it himself, he would never have guessed Ewan was lying through his whiskers.

“I’m sore sorry, Monty. I canna believe I fell to sleep while I was supposed to be a watchin’. It’s no’ too late, though. Ye can catch her by sundown, sure.” Ewan was talkin’ so fast, Monty had to ask him to repeat himself three times already. “Ye can have the whole of the Scottish sky to bed down under. With her. If’n ye catch her.”

Monty rubbed his chin thoughtfully. What could she have said to the man to get him to help her?  How could she possibly pay Ewan enough to turn colors?

“If ye’d rather I went after the lass, Monty, I’ll do it. I don’t want to risk her wee neck by bringin’ her back in the dark, ye ken, but I’ll keep my hands to meself.” Ewan turned toward the stables.

“Hold, Ewan.”
Bastard. If ye touched the lass, ye’ll be dead come morning.
“I’ll go after her.”
 

Monty’s stomach lurched. Betrayal for breakfast never sat well. He’d eaten that meal before.

“Dinna trust that she rides poorly, Monty. A lass like that is capable of anythin’. I’d bend yer head and ride hard, I would, once it’s clear she’s headed East.”

It was small comfort Ewan looked sick while he spouted his lies. Ill now; pain later.

When Monty emerged from the stable on horseback, he was surprised to find Ewan still standing where he’d left him.

“Laird Ross.” Ewan waved him over. “Monty, I want ye to keep yer eyes upon me while I’m talkin’ to ye. Ye ken?”

“I ken.” Monty’s heart lifted. He couldn’t do it. Ewan couldn’t lie to him.

“Yer sister watches us now, from the tower room. Dinna look.”

“I won’t look, Ewan.”

“The lass is waitin’ at the auld abbey for ye to pass, then she’ll be comin’ back, ye ken?”

“I do.”

“I ask that ye not kill Ivar MacKay, nor punish Morna. After all, ‘tis not their faults the faery has come, is it now?” Ewan waved his hands like he was encouraging Monty to ride fast and hard. “’Twas not their faults they fell in love, or that they cling to any hope of happiness. Mind that.”

“I’ll mind it, my friend.” Monty turned toward the gates.

“Mind also that I’m yer friend first and last.” Ewan whispered the last, but Monty heard it.

Thank God someone is
.
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Jilly made one last sweep of her temporary bedroom and came running down the steps, pointed boots flying. Grandma would have made her go back upstairs and calmly come down again, to prove some restraint.

She’d pulled her jeans and boots back on for the “ride” home, but had left the plaid dress on for a bit of a souvenir. She looked ridiculous, but she didn’t care.

“I think they’re here.” She skidded into the hall and the stone dais stopped the slide of her boots with a nice clean ‘thwack!’
  Better than breaks on skates.
 

Standing in the center of the Great Hall Morna laughed at the sound, but then dropped the smile and stood stock-still. To an uninformed observer, she looked calm, patiently waiting, and in that moment, Jilly realized that Morna never cried. Even while sharing all her feelings about Ivar, Montgomery, and Isobelle during their late night tete-a-tete, Morna hadn’t given up a tear. Juliet, it seemed, was one tough broad.

How many times had Montgomery mentioned how much Morna “greeted” over her separation from Ivar?  Just what constituted Montgomery Ross’s version of crying, anyway?  Good thing she’d be going back to the 21
st
century before PMS had a chance to strike. The man probably couldn’t have handled what the moon did to Jillian MacKay.
 

Ewan had told how Morna had swooned into his arms when Jilly’s voice came from the tomb, and in the 21
st
century, women just didn’t swoon over anything. In Jilly’s eyes, that had made Morna a wuss. However, Jilly conceded, she herself had never been faced with what she truly believed was a ghost. Yet. Who knew what this modern day Wyoming gal would do then?
 

Probably pee my lucky jeans and squeal like a pig.

The woman standing before her now was no wuss, leading Jilly to believe Morna had been just as regal while in her Gordon home. She could not imagine the woman whining—or whingin’, as Montgomery called it—day in and day out. Nor crying so much the Gordons would welcome a break from her. More likely, they needed a break from having a goddess among them who could do nothing but make them feel unworthy.

Yes. Here stood the woman Quinn Ross had described. “
Juliet knew her duty, and did it
.” Her own happiness be damned for the good of the clan.
 

A cloaked and hooded man walked out of the arched doorway beside the dais, followed by Ewan.

Jilly’s heart lurched. It couldn’t be Montgomery. It couldn’t!

She hadn’t dared imagine what might happen to her if he were to catch her elbow-deep in the cookie jar. If she were truly in danger, could she sprint to the dungeon and get up into the tomb before he could catch her?

Not a chance.

The towering man quickly disposed of both hood and cloak, flinging the dark covering onto the Ross chair. His mane was as black and straight as Jilly’s, his arms perversely swollen with muscles, his build as intimidating as that of the man she had mistaken him for.

Both laughter and tears bubbled up from her chest, but she forced them back down. She was relieved, yes. But she also felt a blast of guilt for imagining Montgomery might harm her. No matter what she’d done, or had to do, he would never pose a true danger to her.

What she really feared now was seeing the look on his face when he discovered her betrayal.

They had to get moving.

Ivar MacKay’s face beamed while at the same time tears streamed across cheeks and sparkled as they dangled from his slightly whiskered chin. He held out his arms and walked forward, not waiting for Morna to come to him, not giving her time to decide whether or not she wanted to. His strides were long, measured, confident.

How could the man know Morna’s feelings would not have changed after an entire year and that year spent married to another man?  How could he possibly know?  If he had merely been out of the country, or away at college, he should not have been able to count on a woman’s feelings to remain constant, especially when they hadn’t even spoken or written each other in all that time.

How did he know she hadn’t fallen in love with her own husband?  He shouldn’t know, but he did.

And he was right.

In the first display of weakness Jilly had seen from her, Morna drew the side of her wrist up to her mouth in a useless attempt to stifle a sob. A heartbeat later, she was in Ivar’s arms, wordlessly verifying the trust he had placed in her.

He turned her head and pressed her ear against his chest, gently, but powerfully crushing her to him, and Jilly yearned to be held so completely.

Ivar kissed the top of Morna’s head as if he’d been dreaming of doing so, closing his eyes as if savoring even the smell of her hair.

Morna nuzzled against his chest, but she could get no closer. Her arms wrapped and then rewrapped around his ribs, seeking a better hold, her grasp only to be shaken loose by her intermittent, but silent, sobbing.

Finally, he pushed her shoulders from him, his eyes roving every inch of her equally tear-drenched face. Her worshipping hand raised to trace his features as if he were made of the most fragile material.

Jilly felt shame wash over her, urging her to look away, not because the moment was so private, but that she was unworthy to observe such love, let alone wish for it.

Absently, she wondered why her shirt was wet, then felt a breeze cool her own soaked cheeks. Still she did not look away. She caught a hint of concern on Morna’s brow while the woman ran a delicate finger beneath one of Ivar’s shadowed eyes, but her smile remained.

Ivar looked down at Morna’s stomach, then back to her face, asking a silent question to which she shook her head in answer.

And just like that, he’d asked if she were pregnant, she’d told him she was not, and Jilly wondered just how much was being said between the two without a sound from either of them.

She felt better. One couldn’t be accused of eavesdropping when one couldn’t hear the conversation.

After a bit, they must have run out of things to say, or the sign language with which to say them. Their mouths came together for a different kind of communication, which this time, Jilly could not bear to watch.

This chat was definitely more brief than expected and Ivar’s chuckle brought Jilly’s attention back from the floor.

“Alright, Faery. What must we do?”

“Ye must get your MacKay hands off Cinead Gordon’s woman,” Montgomery growled as he emerged from the passageway. “Then find a blade to hand.”

No!

Jillian’s blood raced back and forth, between her spinning thoughts and her bursting heart. Perhaps this was the way a woman felt right before swooning—overwhelmed, desperate, hopeless, stupid, and heartbroken all in one breath. But stress was no mystery to a woman like her.

Then the idea struck.

Before Monty’s blade ever cleared its sheath, she did what any intelligent wuss would do when she couldn’t bear to see disappointment in the eyes of the man she loved.

She swooned.

She was reasonably sure she was just pretending, but she felt terribly relaxed in spite of the thumping her head had taken in her first attempt at method acting.

Be the swooning damsel. I am the swooning damsel.

Perhaps it was not unlike the time the bald hypnotist had come to her high school. One eye had been shaded bright blue and the other green. His smoking jacket had glittered where sequins still clung to old-fashioned polyester. The man had been daring indeed to wear such shocking fashion—complete with one gypsy-sized earring—in a small town in Wyoming.

But the performer had known his stuff. In spite of considering herself too intelligent to ever be hypnotized, Jilly had crumpled like the rest of the audience into complete relaxation. There had even been proof: a photo of her sprawled out across the gorgeous knees of one Gavin Bowden, high school super jock. The picture had only made it into the yearbook because Gavin had been in it, and his smile had been breathtaking as he laughed his head off at the pile of bones on his lap.

That was how Jilly felt, lying there memorized by the pounding in her head that matched the beating of her heart. If she’d hypnotized herself into swooning, there would be no one to give her the magic words to bring her alert once again.

“Jillian. Mavournin’, I’ll not leave this spot until ye open those beautiful, irritating eyes of yers,” Monty’s voice grumbled far above her. “Stand up and face the consequences.”

Well, it wasn’t a simple ‘popcorn’ or ‘peanuts,’ but those words were magic enough.

She blinked her eyes open and tried to look confused.

Her acting sucked.

He laughed.

She shot up to a seated position and tipped her head back, only to be slammed by an invisible shovel where the stone floor had hit the back of her head. She groaned and delicately pressed a hand to her skull.

“Serves ye justice, woman. Ye don’t swoon.”

“I’m not so sure I didn’t,” she grumbled.

“Next time fall forward if ye wish to be believed.”