by L. L. Muir
Laughter, rich and clear bubbled up around the stone beneath her. She blinked frantically to clear her vision as a thin line lit its edge.
“Monty! Yer daughter is English!” she heard someone say before he burst into laughter once again. And even though the laughter continued, it was joined by the slide of rock against heavy rock.
Long moments later, the laughter stopped. The two-foot-diameter stone began to lift. When the edge rested to the side of the hole, Jilly pushed it with all her might to slide it out of the way.
She was taking no chances. After one peek to make sure the tunnel floor was as she had left it, she yelled, “Stand back,” and dropped through, leaving the darkness behind.
After her knees recovered from her landing, she turned to find the very welcomed sight of Quinn Ross before her. He had changed back into his kilt, which she thought odd, but it was probably daytime and the man did have a job. Other than the fact the tunnel was lit with a realistically flaming torch, everything was as she had hoped.
Talking would have to come later, Jilly decided, as she flung herself into his arms and let the Sob Fest commence. What mattered for the moment was not the how’s and why’s, but only that he was here, and she was out. If he were responsible for the prank, she’d sue him later. For now, the tartan across his shoulder was the only snot rag available and she was determined to use it liberally.
She was vaguely aware of the man pulling her legs to one side and sitting on the floor with her still in his arms. With him thusly settled in for the duration, she had no qualms about soaking the man with tears and slobber while she exorcized the nightmare. Once it was clear, however unlikely, that she had indeed soaked a good length of his sash and was still in need of a tissue, she calmed down. It wasn’t a lace-edged handkerchief like the Muirs’, but a paper napkin in her jacket pocket finished the job nicely.
“I’m so tired. And thirsty. I don’t know if I can make it back to the Bed and Breakfast.”
“If ye’re fair certain the greetin’ has past, I can see to the rest.”
Jilly assumed his brogue must be more pronounced when the man was working. She had no idea how much time had elapsed, but the strength of Quinn’s arms was all she needed.
“And a drink. I need a drink.”
“Aye,” he said.
Jilly took a deep breath and shut her eyes, confused at how exhausted she was considering all the sleeping she’d done. That, however, was just another thing to examine later.
She came awake for a moment when he removed her leather jacket. It was dark but for a night light somewhere behind her and she could barely make out Quinn’s outline as he held a tin cup of water to her lips.
“Can you turn a light on, please? And leave it on? I’m sorry to be so silly, but I just need light...and water...and air.”
As Jilly nuzzled into the soft flannel pillow, she heard that other man laughing again and she couldn’t help but smile.
“God’s blood, Monty. Yer English daughter wears trews!”
CHAPTER TEN
“Shut yer maw, Ewan.”
“Oh, I think no’, yer lairdship,” mocked his cousin. “I warned ye I’d no’ be kind to ye today.”
Damn it, so he had.
The two of them sat upon the top step of the keep with their elbows on their knees and their faces on their fists, reviewing their escapade of the last evening, assuring each other it had not been a dream.
For the life of him, Monty couldn’t think where he could send his cousin to keep him from brayin’ away like the ass he was. He needed some peace; he needed to think. If the lass was somehow his daughter, he was a sick, sick man and needed to be on his knees in the chapel, begging God to forgive him for his urges.
She couldn’t be his daughter. She couldn’t. And in truth, she hadn’t claimed to be. It was only the dream. In the dream, his wife had told him, but if the dream was correct about her being sealed inside the tomb, was it also correct about her being his child?
Was it also correct about his wife?
She’d been a comely thing, and even in his dream he had known her as his own. His heart and body had responded to her even though he’d but seen her take a few steps, had heard her speak but a few words. His mind had told him she was his, and he’d found no reason to question it. And her eyes...
His daughter had those same eyes—or what he’d seen of them between puffy eyelids when she stopped her greetin’. Perhaps his attraction was just the lingering of the dream, the memory of the mother.
The buzzing in his ear was Ewan’s voice, droning on about something or other. His cousin was uneasy; Monty could tell by the speed of his speech. That day he sounded more fashed than Monty’s ever known him to be. Then realization made him smile. Ewan was worried Monty would put the lass back in the tomb to rot, as he’d vowed to do the day before.
He’d not tell Ewan his plans for the lass; he didn’t have any. His main worry was how to rid himself of his odd feelings when he watched her sleep. Which was why he was outside now, sitting on the cool stone steps, as far away from his bedchamber as he could be and still feel as if he could protect her.
Ewan took a long needed breath.
“So, ye’ve a child.” Ewan punched his arm. “And ye’ve kept it from me.”
“Don’t be daft, Ewan. She’s no’ my child.” Monty felt heat rising in his face. Ewan’s keen intuition was a flighty thing. Sometimes he kenned exactly what Monty was thinking, and other times he needed a good knock to the jaw to understand.
“Ah, likely not, I suppose, and more’s the pity. Ye’d have had to sire her at no more than ten, I would think.”
Just then, the widow Murray walked before them and gave the slightest nod toward her house. Monty gave her an equally subtle shake of his head in answer. Whether she wanted a conversation or a tumble, he had no mind for either—with her at any rate.
God’s blood but he was a sick man.
“Do ye not reckon?” ended Ewan.
“Reckon what?”
“Were ye no’ listenin’? I said ye’d have had to sire her at no more than ten summers yerself, ye ken?”
His heart lurched. She was a grown woman, to be sure. And he was all of nine and twenty.
He was so relieved he could shout, but he only stood and frowned at the world as befitting a man who had just missed his wedding night. He was becoming quite the talented player.
Ewan popped up as well, edging his way between the large door and his laird. Monty knew Ewan was itching to protect the lass and he couldn’t help but tease.
“I’m going inside. I want ye to keep watch. I want no one contradicting me orders.”
At the mention of orders, Ewan paled.
Good.
“Mont— Laird Ross.” Ewan cleared his throat. “I think it would be a mistake if ye punished that lass as ye planned to do yesterday.”
Having spoken his mind, Ewan lifted his chin and waited.
“She’ll not go back in the tomb, Ewan. I’d already decided. Did I not tell ye so?” Monty raised an innocent eyebrow.
The relief on his friend’s face did not last long.
“No, ye foosty skunner. Ye’d not told me so. I’ve been gumming my jaw all morning…”
Monty did not wait around to hear the rest but laughed and pushed his way past the grumbling fool and through the door. In truth, he couldn’t have stood still much longer; so anxious was he to return to his chamber above stairs where that lovely woman, who was definitely not his daughter, lay sleeping.
Her face flashed before his eyes as his legs made quick work of the stairway. Straight black hair tucked becomingly around her shoulders. Odd length, that, but it was charmingly odd. Her eyes were clear and bright—when they were open—and suddenly his dream came back to him.
His wife. He had assumed the daughter to whom she referred would look much the same, so when the lass dropped out of the hole looking just as expected, he’d never considered her to be the mother. He’d been too weary
last night to consider anything as more than it appeared.
His footsteps scratched and thumped clearly in the silence of the deserted hall. His quick steps echoed his mood as he flew up the stairs. As he turned toward his chamber, his fingers ran lightly over the stones of the outer wall, the rocks worn smooth by hundreds upon hundreds of similar touches. Her cheeks would be smoother still.
His wife.
He couldn’t wait to tell her—just as soon as he found out who had put her up to her shenanigans.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jilly came fully awake in an instant, but she didn’t so much as twitch. She’d already suffered from this backward plane of existence where one suffered longer the more one complained. If she were awake when she shouldn’t be, no one else would know.
Was that light coming through her eyelids, or just the hope of light? If she opened her eyes to blackness, would she go mad?
A man cleared his throat. The loveliest sound on earth; she was not alone.
She sat up and drank in the sunshine, throwing her arms wide, exalting when her fingers brushed against nothing at all. The cup of water was there. Light, water, and air...
...and Laird Quinn Ross, dressed in a less formal kilt for today’s tourists. She beamed a smile at him for lack of something appropriate to say, but the grin he answered her with was a bit unsettling. Her chest expanded and felt tight in the same instant. Please God, don’t let him have any further games to play with her.
As she felt her smile fall away, so did his.
“Laird Ross,” she greeted tentatively.
“Lass,” he answered, but nothing more. He only stared at her as if he waited for some sort of apology. She’d spent who knows how long buried alive in his bloody tomb, could very well have died while he was taking the time to change his clothes and who knows what else, and she had done something wrong? Not likely.
“Well?” she prodded. Surely he would be falling on his knees begging her not to go to the authorities.
“Well, what, English?”
Surely he had meant to call her “American” in that less than flattering tone, but he didn’t look like he was in the mood to be corrected. In fact, the scowl brewing on his face was so fierce she would even waive her need for his apology.
For now.
Jilly opted for casual conversation—anything that might end the tension in the room.
“Where are the Muir sisters?” she asked.
His scowl turned to surprise, then back to a scowl. “So, the Muir twins. Why I should be surprised I dinna ken, but at least it was no’ a Gordon.”
“What are you talking about? What have those two done now?”
He crossed to the small window and looked out. Wondering if he was looking down at Lorraine and Loretta, she tossed the covers off and joined him. Her shoulder bumped his arm as she sought what had caught his attention, and he turned to give her more room.
“Sorry,” she said, then froze. He stood so near, his chin only inches away since his attention had turned to her. Jilly’s shoulder was pressed against the center of his enormous chest. It felt like a wall of rock beneath folds of flannel, and heaven help her, it was bare beneath.
The sisters were forgotten as she became mesmerized by his right hand slowly snaking up in front of her, sliding around her neck and burying itself in her hair. She had no power to resist the turning and tilting of her head, and although there was no pause in his movements it was surely an entire minute before his mouth pressed against hers.
Never before had Jilly experienced such a romantic kiss, nor been held so gently, yet intensely. Her toes curled inside her cowboy boots as she resisted the urge to pull herself against him, and she savored the seconds until the kiss would end.
But it didn’t end.
He took a step into her, pressing his body forward, causing her to turn to face him. A second later her attention rested again on their unbreakable kiss. After a deep breath, he moved again and she felt like they were dancing; his lips held hers, his right hand remained on the back of her head, his left was at her waist. Her hands rested on his chest and her feet had a mind of their own. She opened her eyes to find his closed and she wondered, as she allowed her lids to fall, who was going to watch where they were going?
He led. She followed beautifully...until they reached the bed.
Jilly was finally able and willing to stop his momentum and pushed back long enough to get her boots beneath her. Reluctantly, she eased her mouth from his, but for the life of her, she couldn’t think of the right thing to say. She only knew that she had no intention of lying down with the half-dressed Scotsman since before this morning he had never shown much romantic interest in her. Jilly was probably little more than the tourist on today’s menu and it was that insult which gave her the energy to fight her racing hormones. She wanted to set aside today’s chemistry lesson to examine later, along with everything else she wasn’t ready to know.
Reality, however, was ready now, nudging its way into her misty mind; he was probably trying any means possible to keep her from suing his ass.
“Are ye married?” he whispered, bending to press his warm, soft mouth against her neck.
“No,” she said clearly, answering more than his marriage question and trying to banish the chills that made her want to curl up like a cat. At least he should have understood her meaning when she put all her muscle into shoving at his knotted shoulders.
He was as immoveable as the statue in the Great Hall, but she did manage to get her carotid out of reach of his teeth.
“Then I claim ye.”
If it weren’t for the authority in his voice, she would have laughed. He sounded dead serious and she would have to make a dead serious effort to get out of his arms.
Now, being raised in Wyoming did not mean she had lived a backward life, but Jilly had to admit she had, on more than one occasion, chased a greased pig and ridden an uncooperative animal or two. Little did she see them as life skills, but the agility from such experiences came to her aid now, only this time she played the part of the greased pig.
When Laird Ross lifted his left arm to get a better hold, she swung on it like a trapeze bar and escaped to his side. Then, making the most of her momentum, she spun and pushed him face first on the bed.
He bounced once before flipping onto his back. Fortunately he stayed there, propped on his elbows. Apparently his laughter sapped all his strength.
Warily, Jilly shuffled backward, waiting for the next attack.
“I fear ye’re opposed to me claim, English,” he said, “but ye’d best get comfortable with it. I’ve set me mind, aye?” He waved a hand impatiently between them. “Just what is yer name, lass? The word “English” does no’ sit lightly on me tongue.”
“Very funny, Mr. Ross.”
“Laird,” he growled.
“Oh, really? Are you truly the laird of the Ross Clan, or do you just use the title for the tourists?”
Amazing how fast a man could cover a ten-foot distance. He had her back against the wall without even touching her.
“I dinna ken ‘tourists’, but I know an insult when I hear it.” His voice was deceptively quiet, and for the first time since meeting the man she believed him capable of violence.
Touchy subject. Got it.
But she was a bit touchy too. Had she no right to be? Had she not gone through Hell, and all because of her name? Her blood?
“Well, the old man can’t remember my name. Imagine that,” she jeered. In truth, he looked much younger than when they’d first met. She had guessed him to be nearing forty. Up close and personal, and in the light of day instead of the light of a flashlight, he looked maybe thirty.
A grudgingly given smile tugged up one corner of his mouth before he took the smallest step back.
“I’m sore pressed to remember meetin’ ye afore, English. So I beg ye take pity on yer elder and tell me.”
A chill ran up her spine, chasing the path of some imaginary, but very cold,
fingers. Something wasn’t right. Her hand remembered the feel of a penny in the dark. Had she relocated to the nineties? He did look awfully young. But then again, he knew Lorraine and Loretta, so maybe not.
“How long?” she choked out. “How long was I in there?”
Thankfully he did not pretend to not know what she was talking about.
“In the tomb, aye? It will be sext, the nooning hour, in a wee while. I would say yer wailin’ began this same time yesterday. Only ye know how long ye were there afore ye cried out, “Away, away,” and ruined my perfectly fine weddin’.”
Yesterday. Good. It had seemed more like a week. To punish truly evil criminals they should lock them in a room with no light. Maybe she’d send an email to the senator when she got home.
Home. Even if her apartment were only full of boxes, the thought of the worn blue 1980’s carpet nearly made her cry with longing. Perhaps it was only because she’d decided not to go back. In the light of day, Wyoming didn’t look so bad.
“Laird Ross. Could you please take me back to the Muirs? I’d like to go home. Better yet, call me a cab and I’ll fly home without them. No offense, but I’ve had enough of Scotland.”
“Acab? Ye’re called Acab?”
“Funny. But seriously—”
“So ye are not called Acab?”
Jilly huffed out a breath of frustration, hopefully her last for the day. “Look. My name is Jillian Rose MacKay and I’d like to go home. I don’t want to try on any more necklaces or hear any more secrets or prophecies about the Ross Clan or anyone else.”
His eyes had grown bigger with every word out of her mouth so she thought she’d better stop talking before the things exploded. Maybe an apology would get her out of here.
“I don’t mean to be—”
“MacKay,” he whispered. But he’d pronounced it ‘McEye’.
“No. MacKay,” she corrected.
Once again he was in her face, but instead of bending to kiss her, he ran his fingers through her hair like it was made of tinsel. When he stopped that, he stared into her eyes for a moment and growled. The sound intensified as he leaped and slid to the window.
