Going Back for Romeo

by L. L. Muir

  “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 you fell out of a sealed tomb and into my arms. I had a dream, you see, and I thought that somehow you 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 you up the steps and out of hearing before he sees you.”

  “Your concern? What mean you 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 you leave. To spare my soul, as you insist on doing, I’ll let you 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, you may climb into the tomb and test its ability to take you away from here. From me.”

  His voice broke. Dare she hope it was the loss of Jillian Rose -- a MacKay -- that broke it?

  “But I will have this one night with Jillian,” he finished, looking back at her.

  He demanded it, yet she knew he gave her the choice. He was trying to say so much in the slight lift of his eyebrows, the gentle pucker on his forehead. She just wished she knew the language. Why couldn’t he just speak?

  Of course she wanted to grasp any and all memories she could make with this sad warrior with whom she would leave her entire heart in the morning. She only hoped everything that had happened today meant he felt something genuine for her as well.

  “I’m afraid I cannot allow it, Monty.” Ivar’s voice rang like a cold bell through the dimly lit room.

  Why hadn’t they run off to hide yet? Why couldn’t he mind his own business? Ivar had already committed adultery, how dare he decide whether or not she could have sex with an equally single man? It should be her decision. Not his, not Grandma’s, not this wall of a man’s she would miss for the rest of her life.

  She wanted Monty and she was going to have him. The realization made her quite weak in the knees. Of course she’d fantasized about him since they met, but Grandma’s morality kept her from giving in. Until now.

  Now she could stand here and wonder what she really believed about Heaven or Hell, or she could grasp a bit of the former while it was still in her reach. The latter would no doubt come tomorrow.

  Knowledge washed over her like a warm shower. Montgomery Constantine Ross loved her. Not because he needed her, or wanted her, though both were probably true. He would die the same death she would when they parted in the morning because he loved her. He sent Ewan for the priest because...

  “Don’t worry, Ivar,” she said, smiling into Monty’s beautiful expectant face. “He’s going to marry me first.”

  And there it was. Relief. It was like a link opened between their minds and no more needed to be said. She’d harass him for his notion of a proposal, but she wouldn’t waste the time. They would have this night, and this night only. The fact that tomorrow she’d be as much a widow as Morna was a reality she would face when she must and not a moment sooner.

  Where the devil was that priest?

  Ever clever Ewan cleared his throat outside the door and spoke to, presumably, Father MacRae.

  When Jilly looked for them, Ivar and Morna had gone, thankfully. She could just imagine having an argument about sex in front of a priest with a man who was forbidden to be there and a woman who would soon be reported dead.

  The door opened and Ewan stuck his head in and had a long look around before backing out of the way.

  “Forgive me manners, Father. Go on inside, then.”

  A tall man in simple brown robes shuffled around the door. His hair was light and wispy above his head and looked like he’d not run a comb or even fingers through it for days. His eyes were wide, his brows high. Then Jilly remembered the clan had been sent outside because of a ghost and this was the first person allowed inside since then.

  “Is someone hurt, yer lairdship?” he asked.

  “Nay, Father. Come in.” Monty grabbed the man’s forearm and pulled him over into the torchlight. His grip and an intense stare prevented the man from having a good look around, or a close look at Jillian. The fact that Monty seemed to feel the need to hurry made her blush so profusely she was grateful for the poor lighting and the lack of attention on her.

  Except for Ewan. The man frowned her way for a moment, but must have realized what was happening when he broke into what Grandma would call ‘a shit-eating-grin.’ He rubbed his hands together and bounced on his toes, no doubt anxious to give Monty a hard time, like a typical Best Man.

  “Father, I’ll have a vow from you now, if you please,” her husband-to-be was saying.

  The father nodded dutifully.

  “I’ll not have anyone ken what happens here this night.”

  “As ye say, yer lairdship.”

  “I’ll not have it written anywhere. Not in a bible, not on a parchment buried in a tomb. No one will know. Ever. Do you understand?”

  The older man had blanched when the word “tomb” was mentioned. No doubt, if he knew Monty well, he suspected his laird was planning to put someone in the tomb and seal them away. He’d threatened to do it often enough. Maybe the holy man anticipated the request for a blessing so the new victim’s ghost wouldn’t come back to haunt them.

  “What is it, Laird Ross?” Father MacRae swallowed. “What is it you mean to do?”

  Poor man. The book in his hands was shaking and no one would have known had its enlarged shadow not been bouncing on the wall.

  “I mean to marry this lass, Father. She’s leaving in morning to return to the English and she will leave here my wife.”

  “The English? But surely the English would not take just her word -- ”

  “Nay, father. No one will know. Ewan can be the only witness and that’s the end of it. We will still be marrit in the eyes of God, will we no’? Even without you writin’ it down?”

  “Aye. Of course in the eyes of God -- ”

  “Good enough for us, then. Let’s get it done and you can heigh home.” Monty swung the priest to face her.

  The man’s smile was genuine as he watched his laird walk over and take her hand. “I suppose this is one
way to get a lass to marry you and not worry about Isobelle’s spirit chasing her away,” the priest said, still in Gaelic. “It may prove a wee bit difficult to have children.”

  Montgomery cleared his throat.

  Her wedding ceremony was a soup of Gaelic, English and Latin. At least she understood when he asked Jilly her name.

  “Jillian Rose MacKay.”

  Ewan seemed to be expecting a violent reaction to her pronouncement because when the priest collapsed on his right side, the Best Man was there to pull him up level again.

  “Yes, Father. MacKay,” said their shaggy friend. “It will be fine, Father, go on.”

  The ring Montgomery produced from his sporran was likely intended for a Gordon woman, but Jillian tried not to care. Her thoughts however, must have shown on her face.

  “It was my mother’s, Jillian.”

  Oh, much better. But she wondered if it traveled well through time.

  Dear God, they didn’t have much time. Hours only.

  Montgomery laughed and she realized she was gripping his hands so he couldn’t put the ring on her finger.

  “It’s all right, lass. We’ll take all the time we need. I never said what time tomorrow, did I, then?”

  Was she so easy to read? If so, perhaps he could see it on her face that she was a virgin and just a wee bit petrified, although determined, to move on to the next item on the agenda.

  Maybe he had already read it. Maybe that was what he was talking about when he said they’d take their time.

  He slid the ring on her finger and she wondered if the tip of it was as bright pink as the rest of her must be.

  Kiss the bride? Oh, please do.

  But he didn’t. He let go of her hand and moved away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Thank you, Father MacRae. You can go now.”

  There was an edge to her new husband’s voice that Jilly didn’t like at all. In fact, she instantly doubted everything she’d seen and heard since she jumped down out of that damned tomb. Whatever was going on here, she suspected she was about to find out. She just hoped that when he’d sent Ivar out of hearing range, her ancient kinsmen had not gone so far he wouldn’t hear her scream.

  “But yer lairship, will you no’ kiss yer bride?”

  Observant priest. Could he also observe she was mortified? If someone were playing a joke, at least she could take comfort that not everyone was in on it.

  “Ewan, see the father home safe, if you will.”

  “Oh, aye, Monty. I will.” There was a spark in Ewan’s eye and the grin was still stretching his whiskers until they bunched around what must be dimples. “Just as soon as I get a kiss from Lady Ross.”

  A growl announced the return of the old Montgomery.

  “No one will be kissing Lady Ross but for me, you blackheart.”

  “Oh? Why don’t ye then? She’s about to lose her pucker waitin’ on ye?”

  Jilly pulled her lips between her teeth. She had not been puckering -- not that Monty deigned to even look. Damn the lot of them. She’d just collect her friends upstairs and be on her way.

  She had only slightly lifted her foot to take a step when Monty’s hand shot out and grabbed her forearm, just as he had the priest’s, but he still did not turn to look at her. Did she look that bad?

  “Father MacRae, I am trying to spare you, man. Go. Drag Ewan’s pathetic, witless arse out of that door with you, because,” he dragged in a ragged breath, “when I start kissin’ this woman I will not be stopping for quite some time. If I should happen to consummate my own marriage on this very floor I would assume a man of the cloth would not care to witness it.”

  The last was said to the back of two men’s heads as they bounced off each other, fumbling for the door.

  Jilly could not help but laugh, more than a little relieved she had not stepped into some Twilight Zone when she’d said, “I do.”

  The look he turned on her snuffed out her laughter like a candle submerged.

  * * *

  Monty led his new bride up the stairs, toward his chamber. When new steps had been added to this part of his home, he had no notion, but he was sure there were at least twice as many as ever before.

  Jillian’s hand was warm in his, despite their late night ride from The Burn, and despite the horror she’d been through that day. He only prayed that when she looked upon her wedding day she had better memories to mark it. He’d do his best to make sure of it.

  Candles were lit on the mantle. A fire had been laid and lit, but its light and heat were nothing compared to the burn in his chest. White-hot pain overlaid a warm knowledge that this, at least, was the right thing to do. It had been so long since he’d been this sure of his actions.

  The shutters were already secured against the night and for once in nearly two weeks of wanting it, he would have Jillian in his arms without a soul to disturb them.

  He turned to face her, grateful to find a happy smile, and he tried to return the same.

  There was nothing to say, and everything. He took her face in both hands and looked into the depths of her eyes, willing her to know how completely he loved her, only to find she was willing him to know the same.

  He lowered his mouth to hers, gently, then not so gently when the need came to meld her mouth to his own.

  Perfection. The taste, the plump resistance. Dear Lord, the taste!

  And he had to break away, choking on a sob. To know her taste would be to torture himself with the memory of it and he knew with a certainty he would not survive more torture.

  Fearing what she must be thinking, he turned back to find tears streaming down her cheeks. Were they of such a similar mind then?

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she covered his lips with her fingers and shook her head once. He had no idea what he might have said but he kissed her fingers and sighed. He could still taste her, but it was not so painful. All was not lost.

  Silently, they helped each other out of their clothing and stood warm flesh to unashamed warm flesh until Monty felt the passing of time was getting away from them.

  He carried her to the bed.

  The sound of her breathing was a reminder that he must not smother her, otherwise he would have pulled her completely into his chest until she was trapped inside his own ribs, his arms wrapped about himself, never to let her go.

  Flesh matched flesh and they melded into one body, one soul. Their hearts touched, then buried themselves into one another. Surely they would die from the perfection. Surely the world could not contain the love of Laird Montgomery Ross and his bride.

  He showed her a heaven that would cease to be without her and together they brought a drop of it home to pulse through their veins for the rest of their days. When their souls shattered into fragments around them, there was no longer a way to identify and separate them. They would both need be content to share. It was possible, if they held tight until morning, someone would find a single body tangled and lifeless in the sheets that vaguely resembled them both.

  He was loath for the night to end, to let it cross the line and become a memory.

  The shame was this memory could not include long kisses or looking into each other’s eyes. Such indulgences were sharp as new blades in clumsy hands. Neither could survive them. None of their kisses would ever be repeated, practiced, or perfected, and they were far too poignant to be borne.

  After all sense of time had fled, Monty lovingly dressed his wife in the near darkness. While he dressed himself, she looked on like a lost puppy and he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to hear her whimper.

  He couldn’t help himself; he kissed her again, hoping against hope that it would be easier now, but it was not. Every kiss said fare thee well, and with but one tender press of his lips he pushed them both back to tears.

  Jillian, his Jillian, cried in his embrace while a heavy-hearted moon mourned across the sky, pulling time behind it with leaden, but steady steps, until the sobbing subsided.

  He sus
pected Jilly had not noticed the tremors that wracked his body in unison with hers. If they could barely survive coupling, how would they ever survive parting?

  He lied down upon the bed once more, pulling her back against him, wrapping his arms securely around her to wait for the coming of the dawn. But like a bucket of cold water, the truth jolted him. And he realized he truly would survive the morrow, knowing now what he must do.

  When he was sure she slumbered, he tucked a plaid under her chin. “I’m sorry wife,” he whispered, “but an army could not take you from me now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Slipping out of her husband’s arms was the most painful experience Jillian could ever imagine living through, not that she cared to live through it.

  She’d heard him the night before, when he mistakenly thought she’d fallen asleep. How could he think she would snooze away the few hours she’d have in his arms? And how could he expect her to react any way other than cutting and running before she had a fight on her hands?

  Did he not think it was hard enough to leave him behind?

  Her leather jacket was half-buried beneath his shoulder and leaving it was just as essential as leaving the man lying on it.

  The day before, after Ivar and Montgomery had decided Luthias was far too dangerous to allow to live -- let alone turn loose to go looking for Isobelle -- Monty had executed the man before Jillian realized they were serious. Mercifully, they’d thought to block her view.

  And God bless movie violence that made it possible for her to pretend the man would miraculously recover. She told herself it wouldn’t be long before she’d see him playing a similar role in the next medieval epic, in a theater near her.

  The king’s justice, they’d called it. As the head of Clan Ross, it had been within Monty’s right to sentence the man for the crimes he’d committed, and with a MacKay there as witness, it had apparently been legal.

  “Executing a friend is hard business,” Ivar said after tying Luthias across his horse. “I thank ye, Monty, for doin’ the deed.”