The Curse of Clan Ross (26 page)

“What?  Cousin?  What?” She backed away from him with her eyes drying rapidly. “You know why I’m here, Laird Ross—”

“I thought ye were going to call me Monty.”

“—and as soon as I’m done, I’ll be gone.”

“Oh, that.” He casually walked over to his chair and sat. “I’ve already sent Morna and Ivar to their very separate lives, Jillian. It’s over.”

She was bursting to tell him, the way she was dancing about, waving her hands while her lips held in her secrets, her frustrations.

She stopped suddenly to look at him, a look that promised some form of pain, for them both.

“When my task is finished here, whether I succeed or fail, I will be going home. I will not be around to be introduced to your clan as your cousin or anything else.” She crossed her arms covered in a pale yellow bliaut and cocked a hip, thankfully concealed by a long full tunic. “Now, do you still want to go?  Or do you want to stick around for what may be our last day together?”

She’d hate herself when she realized how much she’d given away. But ever the talented player, Monty pretended a slow wit.

“Marry me, Jillian. Marry me and stay. I no longer care if ye’re daft, I daresay I saw no faery’s wings on yer near-to-bare back, I have enough of an alliance with the Gordons to ease my mind, and we won’t have to tell anyone ye’re a MacKay, and—”

“And?”

“—and I want ye to stay away from the witch’s hole while I’m gone.”

She looked away as the tide rose and spilled down her cheeks in waves. His work here was finished. She’d defy him, of course, but she’d be miserable doing so. And once it was finished, they’d have a good laugh.

“I’ll be leaving in the wee hours, love, so let us make the most of what is left to us. I’ll return to open the hall three days from now.”

The rest of the day raced by even though Jilly tried to slow it with long drawn out silences. They spoke of his grandfather and father and the table Monty had watched them build together. She told him of some of the renovations he would do and he admitted the ideas had never occurred to him. The garderobe improvements spun his mind.

Ewan brought food, but never ate with them. Monty told him his plans to leave in the morning and Ewan agreed that it was best that Monty attend the gathering in person. The shaggy man was somber and said very little, likely due to his concession to defy his laird to help her with Ivar and Morna. The last time she saw him he was helping Monty cover the high windows when darkness fell, then her reluctant conspirator disappeared into the shadows.

“Jillian, stop.” Monty shook his head when she tried to add more wood to the dying fire. “I must at least sleep a wee while before I go, else I’ll fall from me horse.”

She could only nod. This daft man had no idea this was the last time they would be together, even though she’d nearly told him her entire plan that morning. What part of “I won’t be here when you get back” didn’t he understand?

He pulled her along behind him all the way to her bedroom; she dragged her feet as she had when the Muir sisters were escorting her out of the pub.

When she realized he didn’t even plan to kiss her goodnight, she threw herself into his arms and took control, sincerely wishing she hadn’t stopped kissing him since the day she’d arrived. Maybe by now they would have moved on to other things.

He wrapped an arm about her waist and snaked that wonderful hand up through her hair to hold her in place, then he did some controlling of his own. He kissed her eyes, her nose, and kissed a trail down her cheek to her chin, as if trying to memorize her face.

As if he were thinking, “Just in case.”

And suddenly, when his lips met hers again, she began to sob. How could a kiss break her heart?

That was it. It had to be. There was no apt explanation for the crush she felt in her chest. Her heart was breaking, truly.

So unfair. So ripped off. The thrill of being in love should come with a minimum time allotment, with a clear expiration date stamped on the bugger’s forehead so she knew how long she had.

He turned her head then and pressed her ear to his heart, holding her as completely as she’d ever wished to be held in her life. And then it was over. She was the wall, blank but for the flickering light of her pathetic candle.

She brought her arms down and looked at the open doorway, but that kilt had long since disappeared around the corner.

Silly man. They’d be finished when she said they were finished.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Montgomery lay
on his side and wept. He was a stupid, stupid man for frittering away that last few days. As he’d kissed Jillian’s face, he had a horrifying image of himself, sitting alone in his hall, with no wife and no bairns, not caring that his kinfolk were calling Ewan “yer lairdship.”
 

Was this akin to the nightmares he had visited upon Ivar, Morna, and likely Isobelle as well?  If so, it was a good thing he’d already decided to remedy it.

The night before had been long in coming. He’d forced his mind back to the day when he’d found Ivar and Morna at the burn. Considering the two were in the throes of passion when he’d found them, he’d tried to push the images from his mind, but he’d pushed away other details as well.

He remembered climbing up into his usual tree, planning on surprising Ivar by arriving early. The man had promised Monty a bit of news if he’d meet him at the nooning hour, and Monty had not been able to hold his curiosity in check.

He’d heard their noisy lovemaking before he saw them, but his amusement died when he caught sight of Morna’s face. Realizing they’d been keeping secrets from him, wondering how long they’d been doing so, drove him mad. How could they both betray him?  

Pain. The memory brought so much pain, and not just because of the betrayal.

He’d attacked his friend, wounding him badly without even giving him the chance to dress or defend himself. More pain.

He’d called his sister horrible things while binding her to her horse, things he knew weren’t true, to hurt her as he was hurting. More and more pain.

He forbid his bleeding friend from ever crossing The Burn again. The pain turned his heart inside out when he saw the horror on Morna’s face, when he declared she’d be given in marriage to the Gordon’s runt-of-a-son if it were the last thing he accomplished in this life.

And the meanness overtook him, growing over his wounds like a rough, ugly scar. And he began to forget that day, remembering only that he was betrayed, that Ivar MacKay was to blame.

Even when his sister was being led inside her tomb, he blamed his old friend. When Ossian took her from his life, it was Ivar’s doing. How, then, had Ivar survived so long?

Was it because somewhere around those scars there was some hint at the truth beneath?  And when Jillian came and threatened to expose him he hadn’t been able to silence her as he had vowed to do. Was it because he wanted her to find the truth and exonerate his friend? Or was it just because he wanted to prove to the wife of his dreams that he could discard the monster and be a man again?

Perhaps both.

And as Jillian’s arms snaked around him in his bed and soothed him toward sleep, he hoped that in two days’ time, she’d see him as that man again.

#  #  #

Near the massive bulk of the Gordon keep, the North Sea slammed itself against rocks raised by God himself to keep the sea from eating at Scotland. The surf was loud and angry, like the rantings of a fanatic priest at a wicked man’s door. The receding waves dragged any lose debris hungrily into the deadly blue water of a hellish maw.

At the headland, a fair walk away from the keep, Morna stripped off her Gordon plaid, took down her hair, and used the strip of leather to tie her Gordon’s ring to the tartan. The slippers from her feet went sailing over the edge to land on the rocks below, one of them landing just out of the reach of the waves that clawed and climbed over each other to get at it.

Shading her eyes, she looked back at the shadow that had been her home for nearly a year, then turned fearlessly to the ledge and jumped over.

At least that is what it would look like to the man watching her.

Ewan was just about to cast off his skiff when a heavy boot landed on the bow. He would know the boot, but the blond man refused to look up at the wearer, likely sick unto death at what he would suppose Monty was thinking.

“Hold on, now.” Monty shoved the boat off the sand and hopped inside. “Do ye mind, cousin, if I come along?  ‘Tis a mean sea this day and ye may need another pair o’ hands, aye?”

Ewan clutched at both sides of the vessel which moved at the will of the water until the man was able to clap shut his own maw and take up the oars.

“What plan ye to do?” Ewan’s long oars dug deep into the waters of the only cove for miles. “Banish me?”

Monty smiled. There was no need to make the man suffer; he had obviously been torturing himself for days.

“Nay, cousin. Let us merely say that I have come to put the monster out to sea.” He met the other man’s eyes. “For good, let’s say.”

“Aye, let’s say.” Ewan grinned. “But ye’ll be stayin’ in the boat?”

“Aye, if ye doona push me over.”

Ewan frowned. “I’ll not be pushin ye, but I canna speak for Morna, aye?  There she be.” Ewan pointed to the woman clad only in her bliaut, clutching rocks that hung over a temporarily tame surge.

A moment later, the boat held steady beneath her.

“Jump, lass.” Monty held out his arms, to catch her like a babe. “I’ll catch ye.”

Morna looked doubtful.

“Aye, but after ye’ve caught me, Montgomery Ross, what will ye do with me?”

“What I should have done a year past, sister. I’ll take ye to Ivar MacKay and pity him the rest of his days.”

“Holdin’ this skiff in one place is not the easiest task for a landman, Morna.” Ewan cursed and turned the boat around. “Now get yer arse in here before we all end up in Norway.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Gone.

He was still gone. He hadn’t reconsidered and returned. Jilly would never see Montgomery Constantine Ross again—at least not in human form—there was still that statue.

She’d stalled long enough. Her knee-jerk reaction had been to wait, postpone, but when would this chance come again? Where would they hide Morna from the Gordons? Certainly not there—the clan would be allowed back in the castle soon.

It all seemed meant to be. There would be no other chance for Ivar and Morna. This was it. Besides, they'd waited long enough, hadn't they? And it wasn't like those two had only known each other for a couple of weeks. It wasn’t as if Jilly’s fresh feelings for Monty could trump a love affair like that.

Romeo and Juliet, together again. That's why she'd come. Meeting Monty and realizing her heart worked just as well as everyone else's was the bonus—the payoff—for coming.

Jilly slapped the wood of the pathetic door, welcoming the sting in her hand, a change from the sting in her chest.

Who was she kidding? She was going to die. She'd never love again. And she couldn't blame the Muirs or anyone else. Her fault. She should have stayed away from him.

Actually, she could share the blame with a certain writer back in her time—Mayhue—the one who made those Highlanders so romantic, so magical.

Mr. Magic was gone now, off somewhere, shopping for groceries for a few hundred people. A year's supply.

When he returned, what would he think?

Would he be saddened not to see her again? Glad she was off his hands? Pissed she'd taken her sister away? Or relieved he would no longer have to watch for the fairy?

Please, God. Let him be a little sad.

What she needed was a few hours in the sun, but that couldn’t happen there, in spite of the rare sunny day outside. She’d have to wait until she was home. That was the ticket. If she was a good girl and finished her chore, she’d reward herself with a nice bright dose of Vitamin D when she got back to real time.

She took the stairs one by one, dragging her fingers along stones that would be missing the next time she saw them. Everything she needed was in her pockets. A small knife was hidden in her sock, in case she needed to chisel her way out of the tomb once they were home. Of course she wasn't stylish, but one didn't dress up to climb back into the dark. She had her boots, the long plaid jumper over her Swagger tee, and her leather jacket. Who really cared if she mixed centuries?

At the bottom of the chiseled steps, her heart jumped. Mhairi and Margot grabbed her. A hand slapped over her mouth.

"Wheesht!"

"Sorcha's inside."

"Find yer way to the workroom, beneath the hole. We'll distract her and then come for ye. Whatever ye do, stay out of the tomb!"

The combined shove from both sisters had Jilly running to get her feet back beneath her. Adrenaline kept her from thinking at all. She just fled. But as she rounded the corner leading to the lower stairs, she ran nose-first into a man. She recognized the kilt.

"Ivar!" she whispered and raised her eyes.

He wasn't Ivar.

The dude now holding her upper arms in a painful grip could have qualified for a very handsome bugger if not for the sneer on his face and the chill in his blue eyes. His long hair was dark and greasy. He smelled like pine and sweat, but it was a sour sweat, like he'd been wearing his lucky underwear and was near the end of a very successful season.

She turned her head to gasp less potent air.

He glared. "Sorry to offend yer delicate nose."

His Gaelic was just as easy to understand as Monty's.

"Who are you?'

"I’m Luthias, a cousin to Ivar. He's sent me to get ye."

That didn’t make sense. Ivar was coming there.

His grip on her arms slackened. Was he trying to win her trust?

An alarm screeched in her head—Grandma's warnings and her self-defense instructor's voice combined into one loud siren.

She took a deep breath. She'd been in this situation before, when she'd first tried to get away from Monty. This time she would not be the cop without back-up, giving the perp an ultimatum.

"Where are we going?"