by L. L. Muir
“She called it The MacKay/Ross Burn. Only a MacKay does that.” He waited for the Muirs to make their way down to the hall. “I assume ye were sneaking around my keep, ladies, and overheard Luthias and Sorcha making plans.”
“Auch, nay, yer lairdship. We only came to warn the lass that Sorcha was on the prowl. We’d have never intruded if we didn’t believe ye’d welcome it.”
“No doubt ye often use the same reasoning.” Monty looked back and forth between the two.
Matching sets of brows rose in mock innocence.
“A pair of ne’er-do-wells, at the bidding of Luthias, were foolish enough to chase us away.” Margot grinned.
“Tell it true, sister. ‘Twas more like they followed where we led them.” Mhairi’s eyes twinkled.
Margot nodded. “True, sister. True. Though they’re paying dearly for being so bald and bold.”
“Aye. Bald as a newborn bairn.” Mhairi snorted.
“I see,” said Monty. “And they confessed while ye were...shaving...them?”
“Oh, they confessed. But we never shaved them. More like their hair just fell out.”
“Of its own desire, if ye believe it.”
“Bald and bold, they chose to be. Their doin’, not ours.”
“Sisters, please. No more. I beg ye.”
Margot and Mhairi looked at each other, then back at Monty. “That’s just what those men said.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Luthias, good God, mon, I’m happy ye’re here.”
If he weren’t so sick with worry for his wee lass, Monty would enjoy watching his old friend playing cat and mouse with Jillian’s captor. Crouching in the MacKay trees to Luthias’s back, he could see the face of Ivar, but not their prey.
“Montgomery will be here any moment. He thinks I have his new woman.” Ivar grasped his cousin’s arms and shook him, effectively shaking the man’s sword from his grasp. “She’s here somewhere near The Burn and ye’ve got to help me get to her before Monty does. The bastard has to pay for what he’s done, and she’s just the bait I need to make that happen.”
The man was brilliant. He’d scooped up Luthias’ sword and turned with it, as if he were protecting Luthias from the coming threat.
When the bastard pulled another sword from beneath the log upon which he’d been sitting, the “zing” had Ivar turning back to him in surprise.
“Bravo, Ivar. Ye should travel with players. So entertaining.”
The two squared off, and Monty headed to his friend’s aid.
“Come join us, Laird Ross.” Luthias turned his head to one side. “I do so hate to strain my voice so ye can hear me. Don’t worry. The men behind ye willna harm ye. Yet.”
Monty turned to find two men grinning at him just beyond the reach of his sword. They were armed, of course, but made no move to attack. Slowly, he seated his sword in his tabard, since they had not taken it from him, and moved to join Ivar. They were either fools, or very clever, and he worried that their appearances were deceiving. Was the filth on their faces put there a purpose to cover their expressions and make it harder to guess their next move? Or were they the pigs they appeared to be?
“Really, Monty, did ye not think I would know yer tactics?” Luthias sneered and motioned Monty closer to Ivar. “I’ve been at yer elbow for years.”
A small fire burned between them, but it was midday, and a warm day at that. There were no fowl, no rabbits on a spit, just the fire. No remnants of a meal, no smells lingering in the air other than the strong pine taste to the smoke curling around them.
“I see ye’ve noticed my fire. I’ll explain it in a moment, but first, allow my new friends to tie ye both to that tree. It is a tree ye are rather fond of, are ye not, Laird Ross? I rather expected to find ye in it, enjoying yer favorite perch, but no matter. Today ye will sit beneath it, if ye please. That is, if ye want to know where yer MacKay lass is.”
“And if we don’t care?” Monty intended to hold his ground. He couldn’t find Jillian if he were tied to a bloody tree.
“Oh, ye care.” Luthias’ laughter was sickening. “And what is more, the wee bitch cares for ye, enough to do whatever I wished.”
One blade was at Monty’s throat and another against his chest before he could reach Luthias and cut his heart out for suggesting that he’d touched Jillian.
He shrugged the blades away and stepped back, unsheathing his sword. Ivar stepped back with him and lifted his own blade.
“Luthias, ye are a fool. We’ve already been to the cottage and the woman has escaped.” He’d been waiting for just the right moment to say those words, to watch Luthias lose his composure and strike out.
But he didn’t. He laughed an annoyingly satisfied laugh.
“Did ye really think I would trust the widow to keep her mouth shut? She adored ye, aye? I’m sure a bit of tenderness is all it took to break her. She does melt for a word of kindness, does she not?”
Luthias merely knew how to make him doubt himself, that was all. They’d practiced the tactic on their foes, but Ivar’s cousin had studied a bit on his own, it seemed.
Monty hoped that would be the last time he underestimated the man.
“Now, ye’ll be submittin’ to the tether or ye’ll never know where she is—what danger she is in—and I assure ye, she is in danger, me dear auld comrades.”
There was still one last bit of leverage to try. He risked everything in the telling of it, but Jillian’s life meant more than his honor.
“Luthias,” he said in a low voice. “Isobelle lives.”
The man before them transformed into a rabid, snarling animal baring its teeth and screaming in rage.
“How dare ye speak of her to me! Ye try to appease me with such a tale?” He seemed to double in size with the strength of his fury. “Murderer!” Then he whispered it. “Murderer.”
“Listen to him, Luthias. He tells the truth.” Ivar lowered his blade, inviting the other to believe him, but was ignored. “They carved away the stone beneath the tomb and got yer lass out in time. Ossian took her far away, where she’ll be safe. Ye can go and prove it with yer very eyes, mon.”
“Tie them to the tree. If they resist, make them bleed, but don’t kill them yet.”
Monty was so surprised by Luthias’ distrust he was caught up in ropes before he could think to fight. The realization that this former fellow in arms had been trying to kill him was still settling into his mind. But in an instant, he understood.
“Ye loved her as I love Jillian. I understand that now. I take full blame for yer torture.” Confessions had cleared Monty’s path of late. Mayhap it would work again. “Had I known ye loved her, I would have sent ye with her instead of—”
One side of his face slammed into the rough bark of the tree while the opposite side stung from Luthias’s blow.
“Does yer woman know Isobelle is alive?” his tormentor demanded.
“Yes. She knows,” Monty said. “She has seen inside the tomb, from the hole we dug to get Isobelle out.”
“Liar!”
The stinging side of his face now crashed into the bark from an even more powerful blow. If Luthias hit him again, he may just wake up dead.
“If yer woman believed Isobelle was alive, why would she not have said as much, to save herself?”
Monty froze. He no longer felt his face. No longer felt the ropes that bit into his arms. No longer heard anything but those words, why would she not have said so, to save herself?
“Is she dead?” he whispered, unable to demand the answer he dreaded hearing, but needing to know so he could tell his heart to stop its beating.
“Ah, already I am enjoying myself.” Luthias rubbed his hands together. “Did I kill her? Or how did I kill her?”
“Bastard.”
“Auch, now. Be a good laird and ask the right question and I just may answer ye.”
It was going to be a pleasure to rip this man’s limbs from him before he lost consciousness.
“
Did ye kill her?” he growled, preparing himself for the answer, but the answer never came.
Luthias started humming, walking around the tree at a safe distance from Monty and Ivar’s legs.
“How did ye kill her?” Ivar demanded.
Monty didn’t know if he could have asked that.
Still Luthias hummed but moved to circle his fire.
Uneasy with their leader’s ever-changing moods, Luthias’s three filthy friends moved apart, likely to avoid the humming man’s nasty notice.
“Are ye going to kill her?” An easier question, Monty thought, because if he answered yes, Jillian was still alive.
“Yes, yes. Go on,” Luthias invited.
The fire. He was hinting about the fire. He was going to kill Jillian with fire. But would it be better to let the madman tell them, or send him into another rage? Mayhap if he came close to strike him again, Monty could pull him down with his legs.
“So, ye’re going to burn her as a witch, as Isobelle would have died.”
The true monster whipped around, but did not strike. He took a deep breath, then another, then smiled.
Not enough?
“As Isobelle would have died had I not suggested the tomb so I could dig her out and get her out of Scotland?”
Luthias laughed. “Ye will have a bit of time contemplating yer sins, Ross. Ye will be buried alive as Isobelle was. But that is not all ye’ll be thinking about.” Again, he circled the fire and reached for a bow Monty had not noticed before. He pulled an arrow from his boot, the tip of which was covered in a black cloth.
“Ye already checked the cottage, did ye?” he asked.
“Aye, we did,” Ivar said.
“Did ye notice the bed in the corner?”
“Aye.”
Monty was grateful Ivar could answer. Dread stole up Monty’s chest, wrapped its fingers around his heart like a fast-growing vine, then reached up to choke him.
“After the two of ye left the cottage, my other friends would have brought—Jillian, was it—would have brought Jillian out of the trees and tied her to that bed.” Luthias leaned down and touched the bandaged tip of the arrow to the fire and the flamed leapt free from the wood to land upon it. “If ye watch between the sections of that split tree, ye can just see the thatched roof of that very cottage. It’s a very dry roof this year. Here, let me show ye.”
“No!” Monty heard himself shout. “Isobelle is alive, but I’ll not tell ye where unless Jillian is alive and well and standing before me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m a fine marksman, if ye remember. Ye’ll be able to see just fine. Perhaps ye’ll be able to hear her as well.”
And true to his word and his aim, the fiery arrow landed in the center of a distant roof that welcomed the flame into its dry arms.
Monty felt a tugging on the ropes, but he knew Ivar was struggling in vain. All he could do was watch the fire spread, knowing the rains would not appear to save the love of his life, hoping she had been mercifully strangled as Isobelle would have been had they insisted on burning her.
He was grateful for each second he heard no screaming, hoping she lost consciousness before the flames reached her.
But then it came.
Sharp and desperate, the wailing cut through the smoke like the angry cry of a mountain cat before it ricocheted off the trees, making it sound like two women were screaming, not one.
He blinked the tears from his eyes in time to see the cottage door fly open and two figures—two masculine figures—stumble out of the blackness billowing behind them.
“Would you mind getting off your arse?” The mocking voice of Jillian Rose MacKay tickled his ear. “I’d like to get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Although impatient to have Jillian tucked safely inside his home, Monty calmly led the troupe the long way around the keep to the back entrance. Thankfully, darkness had fallen, but one never knew who might be watching the front steps for a bit of entertainment those days.
He blessed the grandmother, far in the future, who would insist Jillian take Way Chee lessons, whatever they were. From fragments of conversation not stolen by the whipping wind as they pushed their horses home, he had understood these lessons to have spared the life of the woman he loved. Well, lessons and a wee knife.
Jillian tripped in the uneven turf, bringing his mind home and his heart to a sharp stop. The poor organ couldn’t have been more abused if Luthias, having somehow recovered his head, jumped up before them for another go.
When had he ever felt so desperate? Either time had mellowed his memory, or losing his best friend and two sisters had been a minor disappointment compared to how he now felt. Every bit of his flesh ached, both with joy that Jillian had been returned to him and the agony of what he was about to allow to happen. He had to breathe carefully through his nose; if he opened his mouth for any reason, he could well envision himself screaming for the entire clan to take up arms and man the walls in defense against the invisible army he felt was now gathering on the hillside.
He longed to clutch the lass to his side as they walked but dared not give anyone reason to wonder who might be beneath the hooded cloaks making their way through the bailey. The bright green toes of her odd boots popped out from hiding as she walked and he pictured them flung into the corner of his chamber, a fire’s light painting the walls a charming orange, and Jillian warming his linens.
Dear Lord, her boots.
A few long strides brought him in front of Jillian and he signaled for the others to surround her before proceeding. Dark or not, her toes fairly glowed in the dark and the last thing he needed this night was for someone to cry witchcraft. Of course no one would dare. Not after last year. But a whisper would go just as far.
Finally, they rounded the corner and made for the door. Only steps away now. Don’t run.
Once inside, Monty’s heart stopped and refused to resume its beating until Ewan casually closed the door and placed a beam across it. When he heard the others sigh around him, he realized he had not been alone in his trepidation.
Suddenly he was pushed roughly against the wall and a body slammed into him.
Jillian wrapped her arms around his middle and held firm.
He laughed.
She sobbed, although silently.
Ewan fumbled about and was able to strike flint to a torch and the three of them found Ivar laughing over the head of an equally emotional Morna.
Ewan strode to a bench and sat, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin resting on his fists.
For a moment, everyone was content to merely breathe.
“Ewan,” Monty said softly.
His friend jumped back to his feet. Such a friend he did not deserve. Neither did he deserve Jillian, but he could not help himself.
“Fetch Father MacRae.”
Morna turned out of Ivar’s arms, but did not let go of him.
“I canna marry Ivar, Monty, and well ye know.” She straightened and took a deep breath. “Not until—”
“—not until ye are away from here. Where ye will go, ye will be a widow. I understand.” And oh, how he understood everything.
Jillian stiffened and pulled away but he could not meet her gaze. Not yet.
“Ewan, go.”
A curious but obedient Ewan hurried back out into the night. Thank goodness the priest stayed close to hand; if Ewan fetched him quickly, they wouldn’t return to find his laird sobbing like a child on the floor.
“When?” Jillian shook her head. “When did you finally believe I was from the future?”
“Perhaps it was when I realized there is not a soul even in Normandy who would fashion such hideous boots.”
Not even a smile.
“Try again.” She looked too upset yet to be teased.
Dear Lord, a rainstorm was still brewing in her liquid green eyes. No doubt he’d be flooding his own face before she left off.
“Or perhaps it was when ye fell out of a sealed to
mb and into my arms. I had a dream, ye see, and I thought that somehow ye were my daughter—”
“Your daughter?”
“Aye.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“Thanks to God.”
“And the priest?” Ivar interrupted.
Ivar and Morna had to get out of there before Father MacRae arrived. They’d gone to a bit of trouble to lead the Gordon’s astray, but it would be for naught if the priest saw his sister now.
“He’s my concern. Get the two of ye up the steps and out of hearing before he sees ye.”
“Yer concern? What mean ye to do, brother?”
Monty took a deep breath. By not admitting the true depth of his love for Jillian he thought perhaps he could avoid what the fates had in store for him, the pain that would come when she ripped out his heart and disappeared with it. In his mind, the invisible army was now poised for attack, but oddly it was awaiting a signal from him. How he wished he could somehow not give it, but there he was, on the wall, raising his arm...
And bidding them come.
Jillian watched the many faces of Montgomery parade across his features while they all stood waiting for his answer. She saw his fierceness of the first day when he was willing to fight her for the sake of her last name. She saw the sly smile of a boy who thought he could have everything he wished if he played his cards right, as he had when flirting with the widow. Then she was privy to his sorrow, as if his heart, like hers, were on the verge of shattering beyond the repair of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
And when he finally turned and looked into her soul, she felt the first tremors and the scream of glass as pressure etched the lines where it would divide and conquer.
“I’ll let ye leave. To spare my soul, as ye insist on doing, I’ll let ye go. To spare the souls of the other two, I’ll let them go as well. I had no ken what a religious man I was, aye?” He took her hands. “Only God would have known the perfect woman to drive the monster away.” He turned his face to the fire. “In the morning, ye may climb into the tomb and test its ability to take ye away from here. From me.”
His voice broke. Dare she hope it was the loss of Jillian Rose—a MacKay—that broke it?
