The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

  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.”

  “That’s not what I was asking.” Frank beat friendly any day. “I want to know if you go around murdering people for him and if you plan to murder me when his mood changes again.”

  Ewan shook his mane. “He would never harm—”

  “Leave him be, lass.”

  It must take a lot of grease to make such a huge slab of wood open silently.

  Laird Ross was well inside with the door closed before Jilly was caught red-handed trying to lead his troops to treason. She almost felt guilty enough to have forgotten about the food. Almost.

  She flew to his side and surveyed the bounty he carried and she couldn’t help but smile at him in gratitude. She tried to take the platter away from him, but he held firm.

  Please, God, don’t let him make me earn it.

  “It’s not all for ye, aye?” he said and moved to the long table that ran parallel to the hearth she’d studied in another century. It had been a little more battered, but cleaner then. Today, whatever day that was, the fireplace was soot-blackened with a variety of empty hooks lurking in its layers of shadow.

  Ewan dragged her abandoned stool, along with another, to plop down next to the table. Laird Ross took what looked to be a leg of a giant turkey and swaggered up to the throne chair. The golden one sat and indicated Jilly should do the same before inelegantly diving into the meat on the platter.

  Had she not been so hungry, she would have laughed, and she fully intended to do so—after she stuffed her own face.

  The meat was dark and moist. A bird of some sort. Large, too. Possibly a goose. A couple of Grandma’s rolls would have been lovely with it, and a couple extra to make sandwiches for later. She’d have to do without Miracle Whip; mayonnaise probably hadn’t even been invented yet. Better to just gorge while she could. Who knew how often those two ate?

  Once she caught her breath she looked across at Ewan. He was eyeing her and the last large meat-covered bone on the plate. His greasy hands were twitching and every few breaths he’d suck in his bottom lip and release it with a smack.

  Slowly, Jilly reached for the meat, then let her hand hover above it, fingers flexing. Ewan’s brows popped up, but he brought them down again when he realized she was watching.

  “I’ll let you have it on one condition,” she whispered.

  He answered with only a noncommittal scowl.

  “You make sure I get another meal today.”

  “Done,” he said, then grabbed, bit and chewed before her hand ever moved.

  She laughed aloud when he paused long enough to give her a wink and a hairy grin, and when he sucked in his bottom lip this time, his whiskers even followed. She had thought it odd the way the man’s facial hair was a bit darker under his bottom lip. Now she knew why. It probably never had a chance to dry.

  “Stop whisperin’,” commanded the other man.

  Jilly turned to find the laird of Clan Ross holding the nearly clean leg bone like a scepter, and she couldn’t help but smile.

  “My lord—er,laird—Montgomery.” She shook her head. “If you didn’t insist on sitting on your throne, you could play down here with the little people.”

  She could have sworn his bottom lip had protruded from his five o’clock shadow, if only for an instant.

  “They’ve taken the benches outside,” he explained. “There was nowhere else to sit.”

  “And why were they taken outside?”

  “Because just after my wedding was ruint, I ordered everyone out of the castle while we let our damned ghost wail herself dead again, is why.” He glared daggers at both her and Ewan.

  What was his problem? He thought they were whispering? He couldn’t be jealous. Could he? Or was he just looking for a little credit for not killing her?

  What an ass.

  “Forgive me, Laird Ross. I should be groveling at your feet, thanking you up and down for letting me live.” She hurried to kneel before his freaking throne. “Although, had you not lost your temper, I wouldn’t have been in danger.” She stood and put her hands on her hips.

  She was on a roll. She’d never been on a roll before.

  “I should be thanking you for bringing me food, but you wouldn’t have needed to if you wouldn’t have kept me from going outside.” She began to pace, barely noticing the gaping mouths of both men. “I’d thank you for letting me out of the tomb, but I wouldn’t have been in there if you hadn’t built it. If you hadn’t separated Ivar and Morna, I wouldn’t have needed to come fix your mistake—”

  “Ewan, get out.” Montgomery Ross’s mouth wasn’t gaping any more. She’d say he was smiling, but it was more like a sneer.

  Ewan looked like he was praying as he trotted to the big door and escaped.

  She should thank him for the prayers...but he was probably praying he wouldn’t have a big mess to clean up after his laird was done with her.

  She faced His Majesty.

  “I’m sorry. I was just tired of being reminded how close I’ve come to dying. For just a little while, I’d like to forget where I am and how I got here.”

  Montgomery looked at her for a moment, stroking whiskers that seemed to grow by the minute. His eyes were half closed, dreamy, and then the look was gone.

  “I ken just how ye feel, lass.” He stood and followed Ewan’s footsteps to the door, where he paused and turned his head to the side. “I meant what I said. Stay indoors. Don’t be seen. Obey me or ye will be made to regret more than ye already do.”

  He was gone before she could argue. Probably before she could get any further down the list of things he’d screwed up. Before she could rip his head off and spit in the hole.

  He’d said something before. What was it?

  Something about his wedding being ruined...someone in the tomb had ruined his wedding...

  She had ruined his wedding!

  Holy crap. She’d ruined his wedding. Where was the bride? Was babysitting Jilly keeping him away from his honeymoon? Had sparing her pissed off his wife?

  At the thought of Montgomery being married, a pang went off in Jilly’s chest like a cannon’s boom. The idea seemed so incredibly wrong. Then she remembered; he’d never married, hadn’t they said? No children. That’s why his cousin Ewan became laird here.

  Was she to blame? If she hadn’t come, would he have lived happily ever after?

  It shouldn’t matter—at least she hadn’t messed with history—but it did. It mattered a great deal. From the moment she’d laid eyes on his statue, she’d wished he could have been happy. Now she was here, in his life, and if it was the second to last thing she did, she’d find him some happiness.

  It was only fair, since the very last thing she would do was really going to piss him off.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Montgomery stomped for the outer bailey and as expected, Ewan fell into step beside him.

  “Where do ye go, Monty?”

  “Armory.” He noticed Ewan’s inspection of the grand blade in his hand. No doubt he was looking for traces of MacKay blood.

  “Should we be leavin’ the lass alone, do ye suppose?” Ewan moved ahead of him and turned to watch his face while walking quickly backward.

  Ewan was in dire need of being put in his place, and Montgomery was more than happy to see the duty done.

  “The lass will no longer require watchin’, Cousin.”

  Dinna smile.
Dinna smile.

  Ewan stopped dead, but Monty was prepared and walked smoothly around the suddenly pale man. A moment later, Ewan was at his side again, peering even closer at the blade.

  “What do ye mean, Monty? I don’t mean to question ye, but I do have questions, aye?” Ewan fell silent as they ducked, one after the other, under the eaves of the blacksmith’s roof.

  Caught unawares, like a rabbit, the smithy’s son shivered in the corner, his wide eyes darting about for an escape. Monty’s gut clenched, not because this was the lad whose confession to a priest had led to Isobelle’s trial, but because the lad feared him so. He was sure others still considered him a monster, but were better at hiding their disdain.

  “Yer name is Orie?” He tried to soften his voice a wee bit, but the boy would better appreciate being treated like a man. At least he would have at that age.

  The boy’s shaking chin bobbed up and down. “Aye, laird.”

  “Orie, I have a dull blade, can ye fetch me a good stone?”

  “Aye, laird.” Orie straighted away from the wall and skirted around Ewan.

  “And Orie?” Monty stopped the lad with a frown.

  “Aye, laird?”

  “Ye were not to blame for any of that business with me sisters. Do we understand one another?”

  “Aye, laird,” was all he said, and Montgomery wondered if he had the right lad. Did the smithy have other sons?

  A moment later, the smithy strode past his forge and over to his visitors. He was of a size with them both, his arms bulging through torn cloth, his face dark, not from the sun, but from the heat of a lifetime of stoking fires. Those same fires had left the man with white stubble for eyebrows and very little hair on his sweating head. Those sparse brows lowered as he looked over at the corner where Orie had stood a moment before, then back to Monty.

  “What can I do fer ye, yer lairdship?”