by L. L. Muir
The hangman dropped from the tree, landing but two paces from the condemned, and before any could react, the latter hugged the former to him and pounded his old friend on the back.
“Thank God. Or thank Isobelle, I should say.” Ivar stepped back, grinning and looking about. “Where is she, old man? Where is Morna?”
Montgomery had never suffered a loss of speech before then, but he’d be damned if he could guess what the other man was thinking.
“Monty, where is Morna?” Ivar’s smile had faded and he now looked about the clearing, noting the number of Ross men now circling the camp. “I don’t understand.” His face and his voice fell. “The prophecy, man. Is it not time?”
Montgomery’s head ached. While he rode toward The Burn he had played out Ivar’s death in various ways; the only thing left to decide was in which manner the MacKay man would die, how much he would suffer. If the whole of the MacKay clan had been waiting on the rise it would not have surprised him more than finding the man lounging beneath a tree waiting for a faery to bring Morna back to him.
The man was daft...as were many folks these days. Surely it was not Montgomery whose mind rattled about in his head, although the whole of Scotland believed it was so.
“Where is Luthias?” Montgomery asked, finally noting Ivar’s shadow was not among this lot.
“He has no patience for sitting about, hoping for miracles.” Ivar’s voice had completely lost the joy of those first few words. “And where is Ossian?”
Was there suspicion there? Perhaps not. It was a natural question to follow his own.
“Dead.”
Ivar’s eyes stretched wide for a moment, searching his face. Surely he saw nothing.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” the man said. “I was not told.”
Montgomery’s stomach pitched. Of course Ivar was sincere in his regret. Until only a year ago, the five of them spent much time together; Luthias dogging Ivar, Ewan and Ossian shadowing himself. As the future Laird of his clan, he had need of two protectors. As the third in line for the MacKay lairdship, Ivar needed no such special treatment. The sure start to a good fight had always been for one to say the other was weaker, or himself more important. His knuckles itched now for such a scratching.
“Have ye replaced the man with this dozen, then? Are ye so afraid for yer health?”
Oh, his knuckles would be satisfied, and soon, but he wanted answers first. Either Ivar was taunting him into fulfilling the purpose for his visit, or the knuckles on the other man itched as well. The forced smile on the MacKay’s face told him the man was merely frustrated that his miracle had not come to pass and he wished for Montgomery to join him in his misery.
“Are ye growing soft, as well as frightened, Monty?”
It was the familiar name that slapped him. Ewan was the only one who called him Monty now.
“Leave us. All of ye,” he barked.
The MacKays never moved until Ivar nodded. At least all training had not been forgotten by his enemy.
When even Ewan and his lads had departed, Montgomery stepped forward and gripped Ivar’s shoulders, forcing his former friend to look in his eyes.
“Tell me ye had no hand in sealing the woman in the tomb,” he demanded.
Ivar frowned, then his brows rose.
“Morna,” he choked out, clutching Montgomery’s forearms before his knees gave way. Montgomery’s grasp kept the man upright. “Is she—”
“Nay. Not Morna. The MacKay woman. Did ye have no hand in it, then? Ye did not send Jillian MacKay to stop my wedding?”
“I did not. The Jillian I ken is only five or six summers. Someone sealed her in a tomb? Isobelle’s tomb?”
Montgomery nodded, satisfied the man had never used Jillian so, but disappointed she was no kin of Ivar’s. The other two alternatives left him sick.
His enemy waited for more.
“Truth to tell, this Jillian is a woman grown, not a bairn. I have yet to find her family, or discover if she is who she claims to be.”
“Have ye considered the Gordon bastards?”
“Aye, I have.”
A moment later, they were sitting on the MacKay side of The Burn as they had for years; Ivar on the ground with his back against a giant felled tree and Montgomery on a large grey boulder with a seat naturally hollowed out, as if by an ancient puddle of water. But now the boulder looked half the size it had when they had first discovered it, and the noble trunk was rotting in pockets of crumbled rusty bark.
Montgomery pushed aside the pain of the last year, and its sources, to enjoy the familiar feeling of not being alone in the world, to remember what it was like before women and responsibilities changed the size and significance of things. For just a wee while, he was Monty, sitting with Ivar, hiding from the world and planning its conquest. They were going to rise together against The Cock o’ the North and show The Gordon their bare backsides.
No one could take away knowledge, however, and pretending the last year had never happened was a game Monty was too old to accomplish.
“Tell me about the weddin’.” Ivar tossed a pebble over his shoulder and smiled when it made a splash.
Monty shot Ivar a frown. The man held up his hands.
“Aye, everyone has heard. But I’d like to know what really happened. By the time the tale reached my ears, Isobelle had come back, the faery from the prophecy was well on her way, and they only waited for ye to come and fetch me.”
“Ah, so that is why ye were here. Waitin’ for me to take ye to a faery and bring about a war with the Gordons.”
“I kenned not what to think, but I was going to be here on the chance I might have my reason to live given back to me. And I was not about to cross the MacKay/Ross Burn and give ye leave to run me through.”
“Speakin’ of runnin’ a mon through, and blood channels—”
“Were we speakin’ o’ blood channels, then?”
“Aye. ‘Tis why I’ve come. I mean to see ye hang for yer attempted murder o’ the MacKay lass.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jilly had not hidden in the tunnel as she’d been instructed, but had slipped into the shadowed space between the tomb and the back wall. If the hall filled with people, there was little chance of her being seen if she stayed quiet. And even if Medieval Montgomery didn’t like her interpretation of his order, he should be grateful she’d hidden at all.
He’d used that nonsense about burning her to gain her cooperation, that’s all. They only burned witches, didn’t they?
Hope flashed.
He already believed she was from another time, or a fairy. Why else would he worry she might be hung as a witch? And hadn’t Ewan told her he and the laird already believed her?
“We don’t discuss such things here,” he’d said.
Bullcrap. He didn’t want to admit such things here.
Neither had she, back in the states, when the Muirs had told their romantic tale. It didn’t seem like hundreds of years away, but it felt like a modest lifetime.
No. Montgomery Ross was pretending he didn’t believe her, but why?
While Jilly racked her brain for possibilities, she was content to remain in her small space, with escape available to either side, or above her. Although The Ross had gone outside and left the hall empty, she’d take no chances. Besides, she wanted to show him she had obeyed, albeit to a point.
Jilly had just determined to confront Montgomery to discover the reason for his pretense, when the great door opened and quickly closed. She was about to call out when the shuffle of far more delicate feet than Montgomery’s or Ewan’s padded through the hall.
Who would chance being caught disobeying the laird? Well, besides her, of course.
“Isobelle?” a woman called, tentatively. “Are ye here, Isobelle?”
Jilly smiled. Widow Murray was a fifteenth century shade sniffer.
As quiet as a mouse, one tiny movement at a time, Jillian began climbing the back of the tomb. She just had to see what th
e woman was going to do next, and who knew when she’d have a real life opportunity to use her rock climbing talents.
“Isobelle,” the widow began again, her voice bouncing eerily around the nearly empty cavern, “I wanted to thank ye for chasin’ away the Gordon woman.”
Bless you, Grandma, for the Gaelic lessons.
Movement off to her right side had Jillian freeze as she was reaching for her next handhold. The widow’s voice had sounded as before, like the woman had stopped mid-hall in all likelihood to keep warm in front of the hearth. If there was someone at this end of the hall, it was someone else.
With the top of the tomb but a foot from reach, Jilly scrambled as quickly as possible to get out of sight. Blood rushing in her ears made it impossible to say how much noise she had made, but the lack of reaction from the widow was reassuring.
The roof of the tomb was a solid slab of stone, into the center of which Jilly crawled and flattened herself as much as she could. As she pulled her leg away from the edge, the slightest shifting of air raised goose bumps on her calf.
Someone had slipped behind the tomb. Jilly could feel them there. It was Ewan. Lord, let it be Ewan.
“Ye’ve done yer work well, Isobelle.” The widow was apparently not finished. If she was looking for some kind of contact, Jilly was tempted to oblige her, but Ewan would rat on her if she gave the older woman a heart attack. “No lass, from any clan, will want to fight the likes o’ ye. But now,” the woman continued, “if ye’d be kind enough to move along, I’d like to have Montgomery back. He willna come to me as long as he believes ye’re here. He’s said as much.”
“Nay yers,” came a whisper from the high ceiling.
Holy crap.
Isobelle really was here.
“Nay yers,” the same voice whispered before the first echo had died, only this time from the right end of the tomb. “He’s nay yers,” it said, now more viciously from the left end. “Montgomery Ross belongs to a MacKay or to none at all.”
The last was sung clearly from the ceiling, followed by overlapping cackling from all directions. And just as Jilly was about to leap from the tomb and race Widow Murray to the door, her leg was anchored to the rock lid by a firm bony hand. Her scream mingled with the widow’s and every stone of the castle rang like a bell.
The great door was left ajar for only a minute, and while Jilly struggled to free her leg, the wood slammed shut of its own accord.
The cackling continued, in a less menacing tone, but still in stereo.
“Ye nearly had me wetting meself, dearie,” complained the ghost who still held Jilly’s leg. The hearth fire was dying from lack of attention and it was impossible for Jilly to see any form in the shadows behind her.
Suddenly the hand released her, patted her calf then disappeared. Light flared and Jilly looked back to the hearth where a woman with graying red hair stirred it to life. Though the blue-clad woman struggled to keep her lips shut, she was still laughing. A second version of the same woman came into view from the end of the tomb and joined the first at the fire. When their gazes met, they both bent in half, laughing themselves silly.
Muirs.
Jillian had the distinct urge to run for her life.
“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.
