by L. L. Muir
But she’d seen Monty fight. She’d seen all of them fight. And the one to worry about was Gaspar. Even if he were hiding some impressive dragon scales beneath his tunic, he was in trouble. And if Monty ordered him back into the tomb? She had to decide just how far she’d go to stop him. After all, they each owed Isobelle a debt for starting it all. If she’d never tried to help Ivar and Morna, none of them would be together.
None of them.
There was movement, and Jillian watched as Gaspar kissed Isobelle on the forehead and then turned her, to hand her off to Morna. Then he headed for the archway that led to the kitchens. Juliet frowned at her—Quinn had her locked in his arms and it didn’t look like she would be getting out any time soon. The guy had nearly lost her too many times to count, and he still wasn’t quite confident enough to let her get beyond arm’s length from him. Most of the time, they had to kidnap her and leave a note if they wanted to go shopping, and Quinn would still come looking for her. Poor guy.
Jillian found Gaspar standing at the head of the stairs that led to the cellars, but he wasn’t looking down, he was staring at the kitchens. There was an addition there that he wouldn’t have seen in the 15th century version.
He glanced at her, then back into the kitchen where empty pizza boxes covered every inch of an old table.
“She will love it here, will she not?” he said. They both knew which “she” he was talking about.
“Yes. Actually, no one cares if you’re a witch nowadays—not that Isobelle’s a witch, because she isn’t.”
He nodded. “I know she is not.”
“And no one bats an eye when a woman speaks her mind.”
That got his attention. “Truly?”
She nodded and smiled. “Truly.” Then she realized what he was saying. “Uh. You know, you’re going to be very happy here too.”
He smiled politely. “We both know that is not true. Your husband seems quite capable of spilling as much of my blood as he wishes to spill. But I believe I can avoid causing Isobelle too much shame.”
“So you plan to fight?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the bottom of the stairs. “I thought maybe you were looking for the tomb.”
He shook his head. “No. Just wishing for a quiet moment to prepare for battle.”
“Ah. Well. Maybe I can help you there.”
His brows rose. “You would aid your husband’s opponent?”
She grinned. “I would, if that enemy promised not to hurt my husband too much.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jillian thought it was ridiculous, really, how stoic all the women were as they stood on the sidelines. If most of them weren’t dressed in jeans and t-shirts, you’d think it was a medieval reenactment or festival of some kind. There was a simple stock fence that edged the field that ran between the manor house and the castle, mostly to keep tourists from parking their cars there. The four of them leaned on the top rail and waited for the men to come to their senses, or to need an ambulance, whichever came first. Poor Isobelle didn’t even know about ambulances.
What worried Jillian more than a little spilled blood, however, was the danger of Montgomery Ross starting a new nightmare. If he did force Gaspar out of Isobelle’s life, his sister might do more than just haunt his dreams.
Swords in hand, the men gave a slight bow, then to Gaspar’s credit, he advanced first. It just wasn’t fair that he was weighed down by his heavy tunic. In fact…
Jillian looked at her sister and shared an idea. Then together, they put their hands around their mouths and chanted, “Take it off! Take it off,” over and over again.
Monty stood in the middle of the field and waited for Gaspar to come to him. But the yelling distracted them both until finally, Monty demanded to know what they meant.
“Tell Gaspar he can take off the tunic,” she yelled. But she wasn’t about to tell him it was the kind of thing you shouted at strippers.
Monty nodded at Gaspar. The man handed his sword to Ivar and pulled off the gray tunic, leaving him wearing a strange shirt with sleeves actually tied onto the arm holes. But that didn’t keep her attention long because the only other thing the man was wearing was an incredibly revealing pair of hose. There was no codpiece. Just a lot of…stuff…where that codpiece should be.
As one, Jillian, Juliet, and Morna turned to look at Isobelle.
Isobelle frowned. “Why do ye look at me?” But it didn’t take long for her eyes to stray back to Gaspar’s body. Her eyes widened, and she bit her lips together.
Monty actually blushed and raised his sword to point at Gaspar, but lowered it quickly. “Quinn,” he shouted. “Ye’re of a size with the man. Lend him some clothing. And for pity’s sake, show him the loo.”
Jillian couldn’t help snorting because there wasn’t a chance in hell what they’d just seen was the man’s full bladder. Juliet suppressed her laughter, but just barely. She moved next to Isobelle and put her arm around the worried and still-innocent young woman.
Morna scooted closer to Jillian.
“Poor Monty,” she said.
“I know, right?”
“‘Tis just as it was that day he found me with Ivar at The Burn, aye?”
Jillian gave her sister-in-law a wink. “He’s going to catch on any minute now. Surely.”
“I pray so.”
Jillian gave the worried woman a grin.
Morna’s eyes widened and she leaned even closer. “Ye ken something. Tell me.”
“Let’s just say he’s about to have his memory refreshed.”
“Ooh. I like the sound o’ that, aye?” Then she frowned. “We canna allow him to send the Englishman back, Jilly. No matter what happens here.”
“Anything for Isobelle.”
Morna nodded and put her arm through Jillian’s. “And if the man turns out to be a monster, we send him back at the first show of fang or claw.”
While they waited for Quinn and Gaspar to return, she watched Monty as he looked the rest of them over like so many children—and he was the babysitter. He spent an especially long time frowning at Ivar while his friend smiled lovingly at Morna. And Jillian suspected the man was refreshing his memory all on his own.
~ ~ ~
Gaspar walked from the manor back to the field trying to block from his mind the things he’d just seen. The loo was impressive, as he’d been promised. But the carriage he’d seen rolling down the hillside had moved along without the aid of horses, as if it floated along some unseen waterway that remained constant no matter the angle. But the carriage that floated up the same hill?
He wished he might have been able to stay in this place long enough to discover the mechanism for that. Of course, he also would have liked to linger long enough to kiss Isobelle until she never had need of kissing again.
But that was not likely, and he prepared himself for the truth—that Isobelle would need more than just kissing and he wouldn’t be there to satisfy that need. She needed, and deserved, to be loved and cherished. To have a worthy man at her side and a hand to hold all her waking hours. To be appreciated for her wit, and to be unspeakably happy. And it was highly likely he would not be the man to supply any of it. After all, the chance was remote that Lady Ross’ instruction might aid him, even if he used it. But it was hardly honorable, and therefore, unlikely that he would employ the tactic.
The one called Quinn had been quite hospitable. The manor house was his, as it happened, returned to him when his sister and her family had moved to Edinburgh. He had a nearly-grown son, although he was wed to the young woman, Juliet, the lass with the strange hair. Quinn had confided that his marriage to Juliet had taken place in that very loo, only months ago, but it was never to be discussed.
Would that he might have lingered long enough to understand how two men so similar, but not brothers, had come to marry sisters that also mirrored one another. For all their lives, their children would likely mistake the wrong people to be their parents.
&nbs
p; What brought his attention back to the battle at hand was his disgust with these people who took Isobelle’s wishes so lightly. Did Morna and Ivar not owe their happiness to Isobelle’s attempts to reunite them? For shame. On them all. And it grieved him to think of leaving her in their hands, especially with the brother who worried more about his pride than the truth. Montgomery Ross didn’t wish to believe his sister loved an Englishman, or that the Englishman loved her. He simply excused his actions with whatever of Gaspar’s sins he could find.
Albeit imprisoning Isobelle was a dreadful sin, it was a sin for which he’d been forgiven.
He should have known better than to remain when the barbarian greeted him with his fist. He should have fought his way back into the travelling tomb and pulled Isobelle up with him. They would have found another home, one they could have shared. Together.
Gaspar finally set his regrets aside and watched the line of women standing along the side of the field with their backs to the sun. Why then did they have need to shade their eyes while he walked past them? Did he look as foolish as he felt with his legs wrapped so tightly? And the tunic he’d been given was little more than a second skin. He felt decidedly naked, but he could not worry over such things with his last chance to impress Isobelle looming before him.
Ivar held his sword out to him, but he hesitated. He turned and held out a hand to the woman who inhabited every fathomable inch of his heart and unfathomable inch of his soul, and he thanked God when she hurried to his side.
“Dinna fight him,” she pled. “We will refuse to obey him. We leave here, run away. My sister will aid us, I know she will.”
He smiled down into her eyes. “I will not run away, Isobelle. And neither will you. You’ve wanted so long to be back with your family, I will not take that from you.”
“I doona care, my love. If they send you back, I go as well. I go where you go.”
She twisted the thin cloth at his neck and pulled him down to meet her embrace. Her lips tasted like the most precious of nectars and he willed himself to remember it always.
“Swear it to me, Gaspar. Tell it back to me. I go where you go.”
He smiled again. “I vow…that as long as you live…I go where you go.” And he sealed it with a kiss.
She nodded and stepped back, but the tears on her cheeks told him the truth, that she knew he’d just lied to her. Did she also know that it broke his heart to do it?
“Enough of this bletherin’!” Monty bellowed. “Ivar, restrain Isobelle if ye must,” he pointed his sword at Gaspar, “but it is time to defend her honor.”
Isobelle raised her chin and walked back to the fence without an escort. Gaspar took the offered sword from Ivar, then faced the Scotsman. “Yes. It is time. But it is I who defend her honor. En guard.”
And with that, he attacked. The jolt of first engagement seemed to come just a hair’s breath before the sound of it. His bones shuddered as each blow was met with equal force, and he reveled in it. Occasions for concentrated battle had been rare of late.
If Ross was surprised by his strength, he hid it well. The man’s attention to his swordplay was frightening. Since he’d met the man, a storm of emotions had ever been at play across his features. But as soon he lifted his sword, all expression fell away. Gaspar did his best to do the same.
“I see ye ken yer debole from yer hilt,” Ross said, beating Gaspar’s blade sideways, trying to knock it from his hand.
“I spent a good deal of time fighting pirates, my lord.” He spun on his heel and came around to strike the back of Ross’s blade, but the man’s fingering was as sure as his own. He retreated a step when the man answered in kind.
A few blows later, they had their just distance. Gaspar was surprised to find his reach was slightly longer than his opponent, but he took no false hope in the knowledge. The man could easily pound him into the ground like a troublesome spike if he chose to, he was that powerful. And yet, his blows were restrained.
Gaspar could not afford to pace himself. His best chance to draw Ross’ blood would be to do so while his strength was fresh. So he attacked again. But the big man met his tempo with ease, never feinting, never retreating. And Gaspar realized with a certain amount of dread that the man was toying with him as a cat toyed with a mouse until it was bored.
The least he could do was to keep the man entertained.
He waited for the right opportunity and tossed his blade into his left hand, then attempted a falso filo, slipping his blade beneath Ross’s and flicking the tip of the blade to cut the man’s hand. For the first time, Ross stepped backward and corrected the angle of his sword, pointing it at Gaspar’s neck so, if he attempted the same again, he’d impale his neck on the tip of Ross’ blade.
They both broke the line and breathed deeply while they circled each other, taking half-hearted thrusts every few steps. Ross watched for Gaspar to reverse hands again, so he might take advantage. But he was soon to learn that the dragon was skilled with his left hand as well, and he attacked with force to test the strength of that arm.
“I have lived twelve years in Venice, my lord. We row a great many boats with heavy oars. I believe you will find me equal to the task.” He wasn’t going to divulge the fact that his servant rowed most of the time.
“Ye must have pitifully small boats, aye? Because ye seem to be flaggin’. Would ye like me to step back and give ye the chance to change hands? Seems yer right arm was a wee bit stronger.”
Gaspar laughed and shook his head. Then he dropped his smile to concentrate on defending a forceful attack. He was honestly surprised his blade hadn’t shattered, so powerful were Ross’s blows. And Gaspar’s arms felt as if he’d already rowed out to his island, that he may not have the fortitude to row back.
The other man’s jaw clenched and he lunged forward, his blade aiming low toward Gaspar’s legs. He parried and jumped just beyond the man’s reach, but he doubted he could react so quickly a second time.
Without daggers, he felt safe to move close and stepped forward, his blade sliding against Ross’ blade until their crosses caught. He spoke in a low voice so the others would not hear him.
“Laird Ross, we both know how this will end, but I would beg a favor, before the coup de grace.”
For the first time since they began, the man frowned. “Aye?”
They separated with a hard push, then Ross attacked again. Gaspar deflected a blow and the swords slid together again.
Ross growled. “Speak.”
“Vow to me you will not allow Isobelle to follow me back. She will never be safe there.”
The man nodded once. “Aye. With or without a vow, I would never have allowed it.”
“I thank you just the same.”
They parted again and Gaspar fought against the pain of his breaking heart by attacking with all his might. As he was pulling away, he twirled the end of his blade, attempting to cut the man again. All he needed was to mark the man! But Ross’ size did nothing to slow him. His arms and feet moved as deftly as a thin lad being chased by chickens.
Four times he thought his blade would connect with flesh. Four times, he’d been wrong.
He growled in frustration. There was nothing for it. He was about to lose Isobelle. A dozen blows more. He could defend a dozen blows more, that was all.
Was this God’s punishment? Was he truly unworthy of her?
He shook his head. No. That could not be. He well be the only man who could love her as she deserved to be loved. He understood her like no other man could. What other man would understand the heart that beat inside Isobelle Ross—the woman who would sacrifice all for the sake of love alone, even if it was simply the love between two strangers?
No. He would not leave her. To love Isobelle was to stay at her side, no matter what the cost.
Gaspar had no choice but to use the weapon Lady Ross had placed in his hands. He thought himself above trickery, but he would sacrifice even his honor if he must. He couldn’t leave Isobelle. He couldn�
�t take her with him. So he simply would not go.
Gaspar found the strength to attack again—three blows, clang clang clang, then retreat, leaving Monty room to recover.
“Tell me, Laird Ross. Does yer wife have a brother?”
Ross delivered two powerful blows. Clang, clang. The second, Gaspar deflected.
“Nay,” the man growled. “Why do ye ask?”
Three more. Clang. Clang. Clang! Gaspar nearly dropped his weapon. He took a few deeps breaths, then was able to speak again.
“I wondered, if she’d had a brother…”
Two more blows. Clang, clang. He could defend two more, surely.
Ross frowned and lunged. Gaspar deflected and spun, but his foot caught and he fell to one knee. Clang.
One more. He had to stand and face just one more. But he couldn’t. He was barely able to raise his sword and point it at Ross. The big man slapped the blade away with his own.
Clang.
Gaspar could lift it no more.
“I wondered,” he panted, “what you might have told such a brother, once he learned you’d been holding Jillian prisoner in your castle?”
Monty’s sword hovered in the air, drawn halfway back to his shoulder. His frown made Gaspar wonder if, in his current state of fatigue, he might have slipped into the Italian language. He watched the long-sword, waiting for it to change direction and come for his head. But the tip of it drooped to the ground and Ross straightened. Then he sent a frown in Lady Ross’ direction, and Gaspar recognized the opening for what it was.
Hope alone lifted his own sword and he made a molinetto, a small circular cut, on Ross’s forearm. In reaction, the man’s sword jerked up and caught Gaspar on the chin. He stepped back quickly and offered a small bow of apology even while he was seething.
A small red spot bloomed on the big man’s flesh and he frowned at it for a moment before looking severely at his wife again.
