That was it. That was just the boost of hard emotion she needed to steel herself before looking just six feet to the right of the tomb.
Amid the ricochets of bright morning light, her eyes sought and found that face she'd left in the past, with her jacket. Although the sculpture had gone from smooth, pale gray to a mottled, pocked slate, the image stood out clearly.
To the sides of the torso, the stone had been chipped away, but the lower body of the kilted man was still held fast in time, his plaid suspended mid-flutter, and she wondered if a good blast on Highland pipes might break the spell. Hands on hips, Monty seemed to be leaning ever so slightly forward, as if his determination alone would free his lower half. A slightly irritated brow was the only hint the man was not pleased to be posing for such a statue.
Jillian laughed at him.
But the statue did not turn toward her and join her in the joke. Maybe if she laughed harder...
By the time Morna and Ivar joined her, she was hysterical. They took her away to the manor house, bathed her, choked her with enough food to get some down a throat clogged with tears, and tucked her into bed.
She watched it all with amusement, detached, like a spirit hovering in the rafters.
It was full-on night when she once again looked through her own eyes, and he was once again before her; her grey Montgomery, slightly irritated, but in good humor, the flashlight accentuating the deep grooves of his smile.
How could he be so flippant when she was in such a state—pieces of Jillian Rose...Ross, broken into small chunks, loosely contained in her borrowed nightgown?
How could he possibly be so oblivious to her presence when he'd called her back to him?
He had called her back to him, so loud and clear it had wakened her from a nap that had gone from late morning into the dark of night.
It had been easy enough to get in. The door broken by the Muir Sisters had not been completely repaired yet. And she knew the path to the Great Hall well enough once she was through the more recent additions.
"I brought you some water, and a candle, just in case,” she told Stone Monty. “Don't know if you can figure out the flashlight, even if you do get your huge hands free."
"What are ye about, Jilly?"
She turned to find Quinn standing near the dais, one boot resting upon the edge, his left hand braced against his bent knee, his right holding a flashlight trained on the floor near her feet.
"Oh, hello," she said and turned back to Monty.
"Good even," said Quinn.
"I'm leaving him some water. And some light. I don't suppose air would do him any good."
"But the other things will?"
"He'd do it for me.” That was the best she could explain. "Once I'm gone...once I'm gone, I'd appreciate it if you could make sure he has them. Light and water, that is."
"Are ye goin' home, then? To America?” His tone was cautious, like a cop trying to talk someone away from a cliff. He had no idea she’d already flung herself off the edge. “Ye might consider taking some time to...recover first."
Recover? She thought about the meaning: to get something back. "No, I don't think so."
"Lass...Jillian—"
"Don't!" Fire erupted in her belly and she bent over. "Don't ever call me that. Please," she begged her bare feet, begged the stone beneath them.
A heartbeat later, she was hoisted into the arms of Quinn and she buried her nose against his chest to keep from looking at his face. She would never look at his face. If she found some hint there of the other man, who knew what would happen.
"Don't touch me. Let me down. He doesn't want anyone to touch me!"
She heard her own words being analyzed in her head, but she didn't care. He wasn't dead. She wasn't a widow. Somewhere, stored in the airwaves, bouncing around the hall, was the image of a very much alive Montgomery Constantine Ross. If she just held very still, she may catch a glimpse. Maybe the voice that woke her up consisted of some very old sounds still vibrating through that same magical air.
Then she looked around at the cold dark hall that held not even a sparkle of dust for the beam of her powerful flashlight. There was no magic here.
"Let's get ye up to the manor, then. Ye're cold as ice, ye are."
"I was there, you know. I really was there."
"Of course ye were there, lass.” Quinn grunted. “Did ye think we suspected ye of hiring players for the parts of Ivar and Morna? They're real enough, and sure as it rains in Scotland, they didna come through by their own.”
He paused for a moment, after they’d stepped out of the Great Hall then changed directions, heading down into the depths once more. Maybe he was going to have her try the tomb again, but it wouldn't work. No sacrifice.
He passed the workroom and went deeper still, two flashlight beams gliding across uneven rocks lit the way, swinging to the rhythm of his gait. When they were both standing in the dungeon, it looked eerily like it had before, without the doors of course.
"Wait here."
She watched his back as he fumbled around at the rear of what was once her own cell. When he returned the handle of his light was in his mouth, his arms gripping both sides of a large chunk of stone, which he lowered to her feet.
He took the light from between his teeth.
"This is why ye looked so familiar to me that first day on the tour, aye?"
He illuminated the bust of a woman whose head was the only thing protruding a few inches from the rock. It looked eerily like her.
"This was the green fairy. The old Montgomery couldn't tempt the original artist to come back from the warmth of Italy, so he hired another to do this. It didn't hold up nearly as well as the one in the hall. Different stone and all that.”
Quinn shifted his light to her face for a moment and then back at the stone.
"Sometimes folks tell of the green fairy, or the fairy with the green feet. Down at the pub, ye can buy a drink called the Green-Toed Faery. Most tourists think it was named after a frog, not a faery with green toes. I should have suspected something when ye were wearing those ridiculously colored boots. I should have remembered this stone."
Tears were rolling down her cheeks now. She had been there. She hadn’t lost her mind. Now, if she could only convince herself she was here.
“So aye, I ken ye were there lass. I ken just what it is like to live without yer heart.”
“Without your soul,” she whispered. Perhaps she wasn’t as alone in her pain as she felt.
“Aye, lass. Without yer soul.” He set the rock against the wall and came back to her. “Carry the torch, Jilly. And ye and I will help each other up out of this tomb we find ourselves wanting to remain in, aye?”
Jilly forced herself to look up into his face and was both relieved and disappointed to find little of her husband there. She had to admit, however, that he was a handsome bugger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
That was it. She was all packed.
As she sat at the end of the far-too-comfortable bed in her far-too-lovely bedchamber in Quinn Ross’s manor, she remembered the morning she left for Scotland with the Muirs.
If she'd fallen asleep the night before, she hadn't been able to tell, she'd been so excited. Her thoughts had been a whirlwind from imagining what might happen to her here, from her foot bursting into flames as it touched upon Scottish asphalt, to being arrested when her passport was closely examined, all thanks to her grandmother's warnings about the country.
She'd had her own fantasies, of course, of finding a young man who thought her a-line haircut anything but Wyoming-ish. He would take a vacation from his medical schooling to trail her and the Muirs around the countryside, trying to win her affection. When it was time for her to leave, he would profess his undying love and beg her to stay in spite of the inheritance she would forfeit by doing so.
The reality of what happened had been a mixture of the two. She hadn't been arrested, but she had been locked in a tomb and later, a dungeon. The young man
had been closer to 30 than 20. Not a medical student, but from a prominent family, who owned a castle, no less. He had hardly followed her about like a puppy, but had professed his undying love in a mute kind of way. The anguished cry she'd heard at the end would certainly qualify for ‘begging her to stay.’ And finally, it hadn't been her foot, but her heart that had burst into flame...and now was little more than a Christmas lump of coal making itself a nuisance in her chest.
She now knew two things—Grandma had been right, and she wouldn't have missed it. Even with as devastated as she would be for the rest of her life, she wouldn't have missed seeing that face in the flesh, wrapping her arms around the non-stone version of her husband.
This morning was the first time she had started to feel like a widow, waking alone, knowing she would always wake alone.
She glanced at the carved clock on the mantle. She'd have to wait a whole hour before it was time to leave. Jilly considered spending 60 more minutes with the statue over in the Great Hall, but she'd said goodbye to those gray unmoving features the night before. If she had to do it again, she'd probably have to be committed.
There was a small apartment with 1980's blue carpet waiting for her at the end of the day. The landlady, Mrs. Martin, would have taken the boxes to the Salvation Army, revealing more of the teal-ish blue floor that she had very recently wished would be physically impossible for her to ever see again.
If she'd stayed behind...
Someone knocked softly on her door, then swung it open. It was Maggie, Quinn’s sister. She'd been silently pampering Jilly since she'd returned.
"Looks to be a grand day, it does.” She looked around the door as if worried Jilly might throw something at her and she'd need the door as a shield.
"Good morning."
"And ye're all packed and at the ready, I see. I'll have one of the lads come and fetch yer things. Will ye come down for a bit of eggs and kippers?"
The ends of the woman's sentences still rose at the end, like questions. It was good to know some things didn't change.
"I don't think so, Maggie.” She looked around the room, for some reason not to leave it, but could find nothing. She could only shrug her shoulders.
Maggie frowned at her for a moment, then stepped inside and closed the door. As if the woman didn't own the bed, she raised an eyebrow and glanced at the coverlet.
"Sure, sit down," Jilly said.
"Got a bit of a spoon at the back of yer throat with Morna and her man about?"
At least she thought it was a question.
"I don't understand.” Dear Lord, surely the Scotswoman couldn't read minds.
"Gagging, don't ye know? Watching those two mooning over one another, as if they invented love and don't think the rest of us would understand."
"Ah, so I'm not the only one, thank goodness." Having Quinn empathize with her was uncomfortable. Having another woman understand her feelings was a relief.
It was impossible not to resent Ivar and Morna now. If they'd been so in love, why had they allowed someone to part them? If they'd just run off together—
If they'd have run off together, Jilly wouldn't have ever been needed here.
Even admitting that, she would not go downstairs and watch them staring into each other's eyes for the next hour. Every sly glance, every brush of flesh between them raked on her nerves. She should be grateful, though; it made it easier to get the hell out of here.
"Never alone, Miss MacKay.” Maggie's hand flew to her mouth. "I meant to say, Mrs. Ross. Oh dear, I didna wish to step my foot in the muck here."
Jillian smiled and patted the woman's shoulder, grateful to not be the one patted for a change. Her shoulders should be bruised now after ten days of "there, there’s.”
"I'm afraid my husband and I do the same thing to my cousin, Quinn. He lost his wife just after the two of us married, and it was near impossible for him to remain in the same room with the pair of us. If it weren't for his love of Castle Ross, he'd have moved away, I reckon, just to keep from—”
"From always finding a spoon at the back of his throat?” Jilly was pleased to be catching on to the odd phrases that colored the speech of the Scots. "I'm probably guilty of gagging him a little myself. I've been acting like the only person in the world who's ever lost someone. I need to apologize before I go."
"Ye need do no such thing, lass. He's done the same, ye ken. Only he's carried on for years now. It has probably been good for him to see what mournin' looks like from the outside, don't ye know. He seems to be a different man this morning, a bit of excitement in him. Perhaps that's what's done it, then."
Jilly suspected that once you had Christmas coal in your chest, it could never beat again, but she was glad for Maggie. She seemed relieved for Quinn’s sake.
After a moment of silent smiling, Maggie cleared her throat.
"So, do ye think ye might come back, then, when yer next year is up?"
"Maybe.” Though she now believed she'd never step foot out of the United States again. "Did the Muirs tell you about it?"
"Aye, they did. We had them about for two weeks, so we did a fair amount of visitin'.” Maggie frowned. "Do ye mind them tellin'?"
"No, I don't mind."
"Well 'tis fair strange, if ye don't mind me saying, tellin' a lass she can only have her inheritance if she never comes to Scotland."
"But she worded it all wrong, didn't she?" Jilly laughed. "For all the money she spent on lawyers, they should have warned her about the wording.”
"Giving ye a sum for every year ye didn't go to Scotland."
"So, since I hadn't gone to Scotland for my first 21 years, I got 21 years' worth right off."
"And when ye need more, all ye need to do is spend 365 days between visits.” Maggie sobered just a bit. "What could have happened to yer grandmother to make her hate us so?"
Jilly shrugged. Grandma had never said. Even in those last days when she knew she wouldn't last much longer, she hadn't given anything up.
"'Tis almost as if she knew what would happen to ye. Like she had the sight and would have spared ye the pain of it, aye?"
"Yes.”
And here they were, full circle, back to the pain. Perhaps there was still a bit of heat deep in the center of her Christmas Coal.
She'd go back, but not home; calling Wyoming home seemed odd now. She'd pack up what she had and find another state in which to start a life. Washington, perhaps, where there were pines. She would get a house with a fireplace, buy pine logs, and remember.
"And they acted fair oddly when I said as much to them." Maggie was still talking.
Jilly was confused. She'd zoned out of the conversation.
"Who acted oddly?" she asked, focusing once again on Maggie's puzzled expression.
"The sisters. The Muirs. When I said it was almost as if yer grandmother knew what ye would go through if ye came to Scotland. They both shivered as if someone was walking over their graves, they did. Then they skeedaddled."
"Ahh. So you know it? The smell of a Muir rat?"
Maggie nodded slowly, then more vigorously.
"I'd say that was pinnin' the bastard to the wall," she said. She leaned a little closer. "I also didna care for the look that passed between them when Morna gave them a message from their ancestors. Not done yet, they'd said. I'd like to know what they meant by it."
Jilly shook her head.
"Don't ask the Muirs anything. Their answers only lead to trouble.” Jilly gave Maggie a half-hearted smile. "I'm sorry to just leave them behind, but they can get home all right without me. And whatever else they have planned, they can do it without me, too."
Maggie looked uncomfortable.
“As to that, I suppose I should tell ye, so ye’re not taken too much by surprise...”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sitting in his great Ross chair, Montgomery marveled at the strength, the physical effort, needed to do nothing. He’d paced a foot of ground from the tunnel floors below. He’d worn g
rooves into the stone steps, he was sure. Every time he felt no eyes upon him, he’d gone to the witch’s hole—just to check on things—then returned before any knew he’d been gone.
In the midst of his merry-making clan, surrounded by firelight and smoke from roasting meat, Monty was alone. When he was deep in the ground, he was not. Somehow, she was down there—would be down there. And how he prayed for some magic to let him live hundreds of years to come around a corner one day to find her standing there.
To sit here in pain was madness. To pace to the dungeon and back, sanity. But tonight, sanity would need wear the guise of strong drink, if his belly could stand it.
Ewan shoved meat in his gullet every time he opened his mouth. He’d wake every morning to a cheerful lass who would assure him she’d be beaten if he did not eat what she brought him. If Monty did not know his cousin better, he’d accuse Ewan of fattening him for some sacrifice. But he couldn’t be sacrificed; he needed to live for a verra verra long time.
Amid the lilting of dancers kicking up their heels before the dais, a slithering movement caught his eye.
Ewan was sidling along the wall in the direction of the great door. If the man needed to piss, he’d be going out the back, and if he didn’t need to piss, by God he’d stay and suffer through this celebration as well.
“Ewan.” Monty smiled when the man jumped from his skin. Guilty bastard. “Come talk with me, cousin.”
For the barest moment, it looked as if Ewan would actually like to defy him in front of their kin, but the set of his lips softened and he walked the long way round the dancers.
“What would ye care to speak about, yer lairdship?” Ewan’s voice boomed out as the music ended and the pipes groaned out a last honk of air.
“How long?” Monty asked pleasantly, sipping his drink while he waited for heads to turn away.
“How long fer what, Laird?”
“For the cailie to end. How long do ye plan to celebrate the disappearance of...of my sister’s ghost?” Dear Lord, his voice nearly broke. Still, after a sennight, he didn’t have a hold on himself.
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