by L. L. Muir
Monty laughed. “Dinna be daft.”
Laughing was good. Well, usually, unless it sounded like it was coming through nearly-clenched teeth...like that.
“Of course I haven’t changed my mind,” the laird continued. “I was just waiting a bit for The Ru...Cinead Gordon to get over the ridge before I have ye escorted to the MacKay side of The Burn.”
Now Ivar laughed.
“’Tis good to know ye also call him The Runt. I was worried ye had lost yer sight as well as yer mind last year.”
Come on, Ivar. Don’t make things worse by pissing him off.
“Mmmm. I wonder...”
Montgomery’s teasing tone and unsteady moods reminded her of Mufasa on the Lion King. She hoped Ivar recognized the danger crouching on the Ross chair before him.
“I wonder if maybe we should now call him The Rut if the look on his face meant what I believe it meant.”
“What say ye?” Ivar hissed.
Fine, two lions then. There would be blood soon, she was sure of it. But if she tried to get between them, the blood would be hers.
Jilly’s chest heaved. Ivar’s cool confidence in their plan was her bastion of hope. His upset set off her own. What could have happened to shake him? He’d always seemed so composed, even in the face of an angry Montgomery. What she wouldn’t give to have been watching from the window when Morna’s husband came for her.
“Morna left happily enough, is what I say.”
Ross was enunciating every word, moving in for the kill while sitting perfectly still. Or so Jilly imagined; she dared not watch but pushed her back flush against the wall behind her.
“I can only imagine what the pair of ye did through the night—with poor Jillian only paces away—but Morna was fair transformed. And The Rut noticed it as well.”
The crash resounding in the hall made it impossible for Jilly to keep from taking a quick peek. She glimpsed the laird’s chair on its back with its laird still seated in it like a skybound ride at an amusement park. Montgomery even chuckled with glee in spite of the fact he rubbed his jaw while Ivar stood nearby rubbing the knuckles on his right hand.
“Aye,” the laird continued, happily speaking to the rafters, “if yer seed doesn’t take, I’m sure his will soon enough, and I’ll have no need of wedding the Gordon lass.”
Jilly’s heart was bouncing around in her chest with no sense of direction. Ivar was the one looking murderous now. He’d never bested Monty, he’d said, but had he ever been this angry? Surely he’d wanted to kill Monty last year when Morna was taken from him. Why had he not?
But Monty said he now had no need to marry the Gordon lass. Did that mean he didn’t have to marry at all? In the future, the Muirs had said this laird had never married, had never had children. The modern laird had descended from Ewan, the cousin. If Montgomery Ross married someone—like, say Jillian Rose MacKay—would that mean they would have no children? Could she live without having children of her own? And if she did have them, wouldn’t that mess up history?
A text to Michael J. Fox was what she really needed.
Jilly’s heart landed in her stomach with a splash. What did it matter if he were free to marry her, even if he wished to? There was no freedom to be had for her until Ivar and Morna were safely tucked away in the 21st century. Even if she wanted to return to him and live in such a hard place, she could just imagine lying in a dark tomb, waiting in vain for some unknown hand to push rewind on time itself.
After all, even that Superman guy died in the time travel movie, waiting for just that.
“Where is this plaid ye wish me to wear, ye bastard?”
Ivar’s words had her inching toward the stair. What if Laird Ross ran to fetch one from his room?
“Take this one. Ewan is waiting in the stables. Make sure ye keep to the West road so he doesn’t have to hurt ye. He hasn’t killed anyone for a time and he’s like as not to make a mess of ye.”
The swish of fabric nearly made Jilly take another peek. But for Morna’s sake, she didn’t. It wasn’t Ivar’s nude form she was interested in seeing, anyway.
“Either get yer mind out of the gutter, or crawl right in,” her grandmother would say. “Hot or cold. The Lord spits out the ones in-between.”
That had been her religion, growing up. A string of quotes, twisted around and presented sideways. You went to church and repeated what you’d been told by your elders. Heaven help kids with bad memories.
It was a wonder she still believed in God, in her own eternal soul. Even though it was her DNA, her Immediate Blood that had brought her here, something a bit less scientific had come alive in her the moment she touched down in the fifteenth century. More accurately, the moment she’d jumped into the arms of Montgomery Constantine Ross.
If there was one thing she’d learned being raised by Grandma, it was that even though God was constant, Fate was a twisted beyotch.
Hopefully, that beyotch could be twisted back by a small crew of two MacKays, a Gordon, a couple of Muirs, and Ewan—the future laird of Clan Gordon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The next three days were a wonderful mix of torture and happiness. Perhaps it was the happiness that caused the torture for Monty, but he wouldn’t give up the one to avoid the other.
He had three days to spend alone with Jillian, excepting the occasional interruption from Ewan. But in those three days, he had to keep from revealing his knowledge of her planned rendezvous with Morna and Ivar. Not an easy thing to do when all he wanted was to speak to her, listen to her voice, and of course, bed her.
The latter was not such a keen idea, for as he had learned with Widow Murray, he was wont to be a bit free with his tongue when in the throes of passion. Either that or the widow was canny enough to know just when to press him for answers. ‘Twas the worst time for declaring he had no intentions to marry the woman beneath him, to say the least.
The first day got off to a grand start.
Monty watched from his bedchamber window until Ivar and Ewan were out of sight. He admitted that had he not known where he was standing at that moment, he, too, would think he was riding out with his cousin. Ewan, they had agreed, would stay away until dark so few would notice his laird did not return with him.
That left the rest of the day to be alone with Jillian.
The problem was it left the rest of the day to be alone with Jillian.
At the moment, she was sitting at the head of his bed with her odd skin coat wrapped tightly about her. This day she wore the woolen skirt instead of her trews and struggled to keep her legs covered while eyeing him as if she knew just what he was thinking.
How dare she assume! But then again, he wished to do exactly what she assumed he wished to do, and no doubt it showed on his face.
Best he prove her wrong, then.
Walking out the door without a word was the first of many difficult tasks he saw looming before him. Trying to busy himself cleaning the ashes from the hearth, without seeming to care what Jillian did, was the next. He imagined her through the stone walls, the wooden floors, sitting on the bed wondering if he were going to return and force himself upon her, driving herself to distraction waiting for just that, then finally not being able to keep herself from seeking him out.
Just as he was finishing his task and brushing the soot from his clothes and hands, cursing himself for a fool for thinking she had any thoughts for him at all, he heard the light click and scrape of her boots in the stairwell. She was trying to be stealthy but those silly boots gave her away.
He timed it so he was just walking out the hall door, ash bucket in hand, when she stepped into the hall.
He took his time with his chore, carrying the bucket to the outer bailey, pausing to ask old Mickey Ross which part of the man’s garden could use the ashes, then pausing for a bit of tongue waggin’. The auld mon’s back was hunched from years of leaning close and cursing the weeds that threatened his food, sure the weeds understood and would flee from his ire.
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“How goes the war with the weeds, sir?” Monty squatted down to pull a few impertinent vines from between his dusty boots, but more so the man could look at him without trying to straighten his back.
And well the auld mon kenned it, if the twinkle in his eye were any indication.
“Oh, foin. Foin, yer lairdship. ‘Tis the time of season for another uprising, o’ course, so I’m takin’ a bit o’ a breather, ye ken, until the fightin’ starts.”
“O’ course. O’ course.” Monty had no idea how he had been fighting his own brogue for the last week while he tried to be more easily understood for a certain MacKay woman. “Mickey Ross kens best, I always say.”
“Just as Laird Ross kens best how to deal with the shade of his own kin, says I.”
Monty nodded appreciatively, but said nothing. What did he suppose his people were discussing while they were banned from the hall? Harvest?
“I see it mustn’t have been ye that rode out o’ here with Ewan but a wee while ago,” Mickey said casually.
Monty froze, silently cursed himself, then laughed. Of course the whole clan would know by now that it was Ivar with Ewan. They’d watched the man grow up. They knew how he moved. They likely knew the slight differences between Ivar and himself. There had been no need for him to put a Ross plaid on the man. It only gave his people more gossip with which to flavor their suppers.
Mayhap it was the ruse of keeping Ewan away that had given him the idea.
“Ewan’s takin’ him back to his clan, Mickey Ross. He spent the night in my dungeon, lest anyone worry after my sister. She is the Gordon’s woman and well she kens it. I’d like the rest to understand that.”
“I’ll take care they know it, yer lairdship.”
“I’m beholden to ye.”
“Nay, yer lairdship. Ye hold nothing on any of us. And so ye ken it, none thinks less o’ ye, young Ross, for pullin’ those two apart and givin’ her o’er to the Gordon Ru...the Gordon’s son. ‘Twas best for the clan.” Mickey picked at his teeth, or rather where a pair of teeth used to be, then took a deep breath. “She’s a wonderous woman, yer sister, to give up true love for us. ‘Tis we who are beholden to her. No matter that it was a quickly arranged marriage, and there being no get from it as yet.” The man squinted off into the distance, as far, at least, as he was able to raise his head to see. “Don’t think on’t, Laird. The Gordons are a foin ally to have, whatever the price.”
Monty’s tongue formed the answer he’d given for a year now, that the alliance and betrothal were arranged before Ivar and Morna ever set their minds on each other, but he said nothing.
He’d listened to Ivar and Morna tell Jillian their very different version of last year’s events from just outside the dungeon the night before, and it disturbed him to hear how the pair truly seemed to believe the lies.
He didn’t feel like arguing today. Apparently, what his clan believed had never been in his control.
Good Lord, did they also know about Isobelle?
Not wanting to know the answer to that, he rose and nodded to Mickey, who smiled innocently and bobbed his head.
“Do ye expect to re-open the hall in six days’ time, young Ross?” Mickey called out. “Or do ye think the lass’s ghostie will be gone afore then?”
Without turning around, Monty answered the entire crowd who no doubt had their ears cocked to hear him.
“Six days, Mickey Ross. My orders stand. I’ll open the hall in six days.”
When he opened the great door, a lovely aroma met his nose and an even lovelier one met his gaze.
Jillian was fussing over the table. Lord knew how she’d moved that heavy Ross chair by her wee self, but it had been placed at the head of the table with a stool to its right. Two silver platters had been removed from the mantle and dusted, and a platter piled with food sat between them. The lass took one look at him and blushed before gesturing for him to take a seat.
It was a fairly long walk with his sporran knocking against that part of him that always responded to a blushing woman, but he wondered if any other lass would ever affect him so again. Letting this one get away from him seemed like a ridiculous idea, so he chose not to think about it at all.
He took his seat.
“Wait just a minute,” she blurted as she fled to the hearth.
He dared not move.
When she returned, she held up a small bit of cloth in her hands, water dripping around her wrists and under her arms, disappearing into her odd shift, partially hidden by the wool.
His own face heated while she scrubbed at his brow and cheeks, remembering his mother doing the same when he was a wee lad. He’d been thinking of the woman more than a wee bit lately. How he wished he could lay his head upon his mother’s lap and work out his problems, as he used to do when a boy. She would always listen patiently then ask him questions that led him to his own answers.
Wise woman.
He wondered what she’d say about keeping Jillian. What would be the cost to keep her? What does yer heart push ye to do?
Damn, but the answers to those questions led him in two different directions.
Jillian giggled as she scrubbed at the side of his nose. He must have worn half the ashes on his face for all the rubbing it took to get them off. When she began washing his hands, it was the most arousing thing ever done to him and he pulled away and finished the job himself.
“Thank ye.” His voice wavered and he cleared his throat. “And what do we have here?”
Suddenly reminded of her favorite activity—eating—she hurried onto her seat and began piling food onto his platter. “Do you say Grace here?” she asked.
“What? Who is Grace?”
She laughed. Lord how he loved her laugh.
“No, silly. Do you give a blessing on the food before you eat it?”
His father used to. He now wished he’d followed that tradition.
“I haven’t done so for a long time, lass. Would ye like me to give it a go?”
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
She proceeded to give gratitude for the food and ask a blessing for the hands that had prepared it—
“Wait a moment.” Interrupting a prayer was ill-mannered, but he couldn’t help it. His chest throbbed with foreboding and he grabbed Jillian’s forearm. “Where did ye get the food, lass? Ye’ve not had time to prepare it, and none of this was here to prepare.”
“Someone brought it for us...well, for you anyway. The hall door cracked open and the large platter slid inside. Then the door closed. I assumed Ewan arranged to have someone bring you lunch since he wouldn’t be around to get it.”
They both looked at the food.
“Two loaves of bread. Two hens.”
“Maybe they thought you were a big eater?” Jillian’s teeth worried at her bottom lip.
“Eating more than one’s share leaves less for someone else.” It was common understanding amongst his kin. None would have given two portions unless he or she knew there were two mouths to feed, and even Mickey Ross, with his eyes on the ground, kenned well enough that Ewan was not to home.
Jilly looked longingly at the food, as if she suspected she would not be allowed to eat it. She was right.
Monty stood and pushed meat and bread back onto the platter between them.
“Wait. Maybe they brought enough for you and Ewan.”
“When Ewan would have told them he wouldna be here? Think lass. Someone kens ye are here. Mayhap the whole clan kens it. But we both know well enough that someone is trying to kill one or the pair of us. Are ye really so hungry to risk yer life for a meal?”
She hung her head and then shook it.
“There’s a good lass. I’ll go get ye more than enough to fill yer gullet.”
If there weren’t the end of the table between them, he was sure she would have kissed him, so happy was she for not needing to miss a meal. She silently clapped her wee fingers together as if saying many prayers rapidly.
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br /> She was an odd lass, but he loved her.
The warmth from that realization pushed aside the feeling of foreboding he’d had, until she filled her mug with wine from an unfamiliar skin.
“Where did ye get the wine, Jillian?”
She huffed, corked the skin and set it aside.
“It came with the food,” she mumbled.
He picked up her mug and swirled the contents before smelling it, and even though he suspected poison, he winced when he smelled hemlock. His assassin must have been hoping the flavor of the food would hide the odor, but he’d been to the Muir’s cottage enough, chasing his sister to ground, that he was sure he could smell it from across the room.
“Hemlock.” He looked at Jillian. Did she understand? All he could manage was to repeat it. “Hemlock.”
Jillian understood. Her eyes flew wide and she stumbled to her feet, backing away from the table.
“Hemlock hemlock? Or some other kind of hemlock? Shakespeare’s Hemlock? Poison?” She looked at her hands like they were on fire and ran to the hearth once more. “Come here!” she demanded.
She used hot water near to boiling to wash her own hands, then his, and then hers again. Like a wild woman she scurried to the table, snatched up the food and flung it into the fire.
“It was likely just in the wine, lass. The food was probably untainted.”
She turned on him.
“You want to take that chance? Are you out of your mind?” She dropped both mugs in the pot of hot water, then tilted the pot to pour some on the now empty platters. “Don’t you understand? Someone is trying to kill you!”
Not me, not us. She’d said you. This wonderful starving woman loved him, whether she realized it or not, and he’d be sure to spend the next two days making sure she kenned it, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
That night, Jillian watched over him while he slept, as much as he was able to sleep with her tucking the blankets around him on a warm summer’s night mumbling her conviction that had she not come into his life, he’d live to the impossible age of seventy and four.
