by L. L. Muir
She smiled and put her hands to the sides of his head to sooth him. “I found Paradise, my dragon. It matters not how I found it.” She rose to her toes and kissed him long enough for him to believe her. Then she sighed. “Now. Let us go home, aye?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Monty stood with Ivar in a room his modern wife and her sister had dubbed his Man Cave, though the only stone in the room surrounded the hearth. And if it weren’t for his insisting against it, Jillian might have allowed the contracting man to use false stones. Why would the world have invented false stones when true stones lay on the ground for the taking?
It was one of the symptoms of an ill civilization, he was certain.
He and Ivar turned at the sound of ice tinkling against glasses.
“The Muirs are coming,” Jillian announced as she entered the newly painted room.
Monty rushed to her and took the tray heavy with drinks and gave her a scowl. “Firstly, ye shouldna be toting heavy things about in yer condition, and not in a newly painted house, aye? The fumers—”
“Fumes,” she corrected and rolled her eyes. “And the paint is dry.” She took one of the glasses from the tray and handed it to Ivar.
“And second, ye should never walk into a room and announce that those meddling old women have come to call. Ye should invite us to sit and brace ourselves before ye share the bad news, aye?”
Jillian nodded. “I see your point there.”
“And third.”
Her brows rose in the way they did that warned him about lecturing overmuch. She had issues with being ordered about, whatever that meant. After all the months he’d spent in her century, he was beginning to have issues with the word issues.
“And third,” he said again. “I dinna care to hear ye lie, Jillian. Even when ye’re but jesting with me.”
He set the tray on a chair and took a glass for himself. Lemonade, they called it. He was fair to certain it was puckering his innerds, but he couldn’t seem to quit the stuff.
His wife grinned. “I wasn’t lying, Montgomery. My aunts are here.”
Lemonade spouted from his lips and he fought to keep it from climbing up his nose. He glared at Jillian, then looked around him at the damage done. He’d sprayed the stuff all over the floor and Ivar was wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, his eyes promising some sort of revenge.
“Ye see what happens when ye call them family?” Monty pointed at the wet little circles on the subfloor. “It is good the carpetors have yet to arrive.”
“Carpet layers,” she corrected.
No matter what they were called, Monty worried that once he had his carpets and the wee castle was finished, he might never allow anyone inside for fear of mussing his home.
The twenty-first century was a grand place for keeping clean, and he rather liked the idea of his new home stayin’ that way. If he weren’t clean enough and needed to go indoors, he’d simply walk over to Ivar and Morna’s castle and muddy their floors instead.
His sister’s home would be finished in the next day or two as well. Of course, she’d married a MacKay, so she’d be living on the far side of the burn. Monty and Jillian—and their expected sons—would live on the Ross side. The trees that used to surround the Ross/MacKay burn back in the 15th century were gone long ago, but a peaceful forest still grew. And though the burn itself had turned into a small river, he and Ivar had decided there was not a more appropriate place to build their new homes.
Jillian and her twin sister, Juliet—who now lived beside Castle Ross—mocked Ivar and him for insisting on curtain walls around their modest keeps, but the women would never understand. A man must protect his family the best he knew how, and he and Ivar knew how to defend their homes with curtain walls. They were still working on collecting men at arms, but each time they found a fit man and made an offer, they were laughed at. When next they went to the city, they planned to consider a more sober sort.
There was a fine reason for the curtain wall that he didn’t share with his wife, however—that one day he and Ivar might have another falling out, as they’d once done, and Monty wanted a wall between them in case that day came. And Ivar, being no fool himself, was no doubt preparing for the same. Of course he couldn’t fathom anything that might cause such a rift between them again. But the fact was, it had happened once, so it could happen again. Especially if Monty and Jillian’s boys got into mischief one day with their MacKay cousins and sides needed to be taken.
And just as the mason had said, who’d built those walls, a good fence a good neighbor makes, or something to that effect.
The three of them took their drinks and went outside to meet the witches. Monty claimed he wished to breathe unpainted air, but what he truly wished was for Loretta and Lorraine to never step foot inside his home. If they stopped to admire a wall, Monty would worry he might one day find a tunnel on the other side of it. The two simply could not be trusted.
Morna’s black SUV pulled through the gate just as the old sisters were climbing out of their small car. Ivar kissed his wife at the bottom of the stairs, then greeted the sisters cheerfully, damn him.
Monty opened his mouth and Jillian reached a hand up to cover it. Then she gave him a stern look. “Be nice,” she said.
Monty rolled his eyes. When was he ever un-nice?
“Welcome,” he said to his sister and assumed the witches would think he was talking to them all. Then he turned to Jillian and smiled innocently.
She rolled her eyes and abandoned him to greet the unwanted ones. He bit his tongue and withheld his aid as she swayed back and forth down the steps. She’d warned him, if he lectured her again on breathing, walking, and the like, she would go live with her sister until the babies were born. And he believed her.
Of course, if the witches hadn’t come visiting, there’d have been no need for her to descend the stairs yet again.
One of the old sisters looked up at him sharply and wrinkled her nose. “One day, you’ll appreciate us, Montgomery Ross.”
“Oh, I do. I do,” he said for Jillian’s benefit. “What do ye think of our new homes? ‘Tis a pity they’re not closer to Castle Ross where ye might pop in whenever ye like, aye?”
The other sister finished hugging his wife and grinned knowingly at him, but he refused to believe the woman kenned something he did not.
“They’re fine houses, both of them. Yer children will find happiness here.”
He snorted, though he was relieved to hear they weren’t predicting otherwise.
“We see just one problem,” said the first sister, grinning like a fool.
“Oh?” Ivar took Morna’s hand and gave the old woman his full attention. Jillian looked equally as concerned. Monty frowned, not happy in the least the sisters would make his delicate wife worry.
“What problem?” he demanded. And though the pair would prefer that he wring his hands and beg for their secrets, that was all the bending he would do.
The sisters smiled at each other, then turned to Morna. “Where will you put the third one?” they asked in unison.
“The third what?” Ivar wrapped a protective arm around his wife and threw a worried glance up at Monty. Monty shook his head to comfort the man, but they were likely both thinking the same thing—triplets for Morna.
“The third house,” said one sister.
“For Isobelle,” said the other.
Isobelle? It was but a whisper he never allowed out of his heart.
Monty would have collapsed on his step beneath him if his legs were not bidding him run. Instead, he moved to the side and started down the steps, leaning on the half-wall—as Jillian should have done—expecting his knees to fail him as he went to Morna and took her from Ivar. Together they faced the witches.
“Where is she?” He asked politely.
“She’s coming,” said the one. “But she doesn’t come alone.”
“Is it James?” Jillian asked.
And though Monty would be grateful if t
he man did indeed bring his sister to them, he couldn’t suppress the brotherly instinct to pummel the man if he had been wooing his sister. Even James, impressive as he was, was not worthy of Isobelle.
The other Muir sister shook her head and smiled. Her entire face was a waterfall of wrinkles. “She is bringing…a dragon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Isobelle’s entire body shook as they neared Castle Ross just after midday. Her horse grew skittish as she could no longer control the trembling that increased with each step that brought her closer.
Home.
She was to see Castle Ross before moving on to where Monty, Morna, and Ivar awaited her. She would have one last chance to touch the place of her nightly dreams before it was tucked back in with the rest of her memories. But that’s all she’d dreamt of for nearly two years—one more chance to see it. A wish about to be granted. She could ask for no more than that.
What would they say at the gate?
“Let me do the speaking, lass.” James gave her a wink and urged his horse to the fore. When they reached the gate, a man waved to James, and before a word was said, the painfully familiar barrier swung open. He looked over his shoulder as they neared the inner bailey. “Ewan must have told them to watch for me, aye?”
Ewan. She was about to see Ewan!
They dismounted before the stables and she hurried inside to hide herself in the dimly lit out building. Gaspar joined her. James sent the stable lad to fetch his laird, then stood just inside the wide doorway. She’d kept the hood of her cloak far forward to hide her face, but now pushed it back a bit and peeked through a gap in the boards.
She thought the stable lad looked a great deal like Orie, the Smithy’s son, the one whose confession had been her doom. And she dearly wished she could show herself to the lad and share her secret—that she hadn’t died in the tomb after all—in case he thought himself to blame for her death.
Poor Orie. She’d thought about him often.
The number of men on the walls had been double what she remembered. The bailey was full to bursting with folks she didn’t ken. It was not unlike the crowd when Scots from other clans had come to view her witch trial.
Two large shadows entered the stable, but she looked away before she might be recognized.
“Laird Ross,” James said quietly, “may I present Signore Gaspar Dragotti, and his companion, uh…uh…”
Isobelle turned and found a finer dressed version of the cousin who’d nearly drowned her in spirits when she’d escaped her tomb.
“Ewan!” She rushed forward and jumped into the outstretched arms of the new laird. “Oh, Ewan! Ye look so fine!”
“Isobelle,” he whispered. “Odin kens I would be pleased to see you on any day, but…”
She pushed out of his embrace and gave him a good frown. “Oh? Do tell, cousin.”
He rolled his eyes and scooped her up again. “Doona be frowning at me first thing, Izzy. I was about to say that the chieftains of a dozen clans are in our home just now, and if it were another day, ye could have had free rein of the place. But now, no. The Gordon sent his wee son, Cinead, so there is at least one bastard who will recognize ye, if yer seen.”
He peeked over her shoulder and his eyes flew wide. Then he dropped her like she carried the Black Death and stepped back.
Isobelle turned to find a too-innocent Gaspar standing with his hands behind his back.
“Be nice,” she whispered.
“I am.” Gaspar and Ewan said it in unison and James laughed.
Ewan held out his hand. “Gaspar? Italian, are ye?”
“No. English.” And he folded his arms without looking at Ewan’s open hand.
Ewan turned a nasty look at Isobelle like she’d brought an Englishman just to vex him.
“He’s mine, Ewan. Ye’ll be nice to him. I dinna care if ye must tell yerself he’s The Pope himself. I’m keepin’ him.”
She grabbed her dragon by the arm and dragged him to her, then she pulled his head down until their lips met, giving him a kiss that was sure to make her cousin uncomfortable. Once that was accomplished, she growled against his lips.
“Shake his hand, Dragon. Or I’ll have ye kept in the dungeon for a time, aye?”
Gaspar’s hand shot past her toward the scraggly cousin. Then he grinned while Ewan tried to shut his mouth.
“I’m keeping her. Just so you know it.”
Ewan sighed, then shook the offered hand.
“Just as bossy as e’er ye were, Izzy. And where is our Ossian, then?”
Isobelle opened her mouth to explain, but Gaspar stopped her with a hand on her arm. He took a shaky breath and looked into her eyes. “I hired Ossian as a crossbowman…and sent him to the New World…so I might get my hands on Isobelle.”
Isobelle reacted to the news without much thought. She simply pulled back and threw her fist into the man’s jaw. How dare he wait so long to confess such a thing?
The man stumbled back, but James was there to catch him. Ewan showed a lairdly amount of patience and manners by allowing the man to get his balance before he dealt his own blow to the same abused jaw. Then he turned to Isobelle.
“Instead of shaking his hand, I should have cut it off!”
James stood watch again while Isobelle and Ewan sat in a pile of fresh hay and waited for the dragon to stir.
“I’ll let Monty give ye the particulars, but I will tell ye that yer brother saw the error of his ways, ye might say, and helped Morna get free of her Gordon husband. Cinead believes Morna threw herself into the sea and drowned. But she was verra much alive when last I saw her.”
Gaspar woke with a start and she put a hand to his chest to assure him.
Ewan grinned. “While ye slept, ye English bastard, we cut off those hands ye were speaking about.”
Horrified, Gaspar pulled his hands up to see, then sighed in relief. Ewan got to his feet laughing, then offered to pull the other man to his feet as well.
Gaspar grinned, then took Ewan’s hand. But instead of Gaspar rising, Ewan was pulled forward and with an Italian boot applied to his middle, he was tossed over, onto his back in the hay.
James joined them and helped Isobelle stand, then rolled his eyes at the other two.
“One of the witches is coming, Laird Ross.”
Gaspar jumped to his feet and crossed himself. Ewan nodded, as if he thought crossing himself was a grand idea, and did so.
Isobelle rolled her eyes, then took Gaspar’s hand in hers. “I havena forgiven ye fer sendin’ Ossian away, mind, but ye look as if ye might faint.”
A figure slipped through the doorway and uncovered its head. It was Mhairi, and Isobelle would have gone to her and given her a hearty greeting if Gaspar’s fingers hadn’t squeezed hers so securely.
Mhairi waited for her eyes to adjust to the shadows, then hurried to join them. She looked worried when she recognized Isobelle.
“We saw a dragon,” she whispered.
Isobelle laughed. “Mhairi Muir, Gaspar Dragotti.” She nodded at each in turn. “My dragon.”
Mhairi smiled broadly. “That’s fine. That’s fine. I didna think we could fit a dragon into the tomb…”
Isobelle stiffened at the mention of the infernal thing. “What do you mean?”
Mhairi looked at James, then at Ewan. Both men looked sheepishly at their boots.
“Weel, now. This is a fine mess. And with no time to explain. The chieftains are restless, Ewan. They’ll not wait on ye much longer. And we canna leave her standing about, aye?”
James frowned, “Why do they wait?”
“For Ewan’s weddin’ to begin, of course.”
Ewan grimaced. “There was hardly time… Ye dinna ken her, Isobelle. And ye canna be introduced, aye?”
“He’s right.” Mhairi tugged on Ewan’s arm. “Go on and get marrit. Then meet us below for a proper fare thee well.”
Ewan kissed Isobelle on the cheek and hurried away.
Then Isobelle turned to Mhairi
, dread filling her limbs until she couldn’t feel them any longer.
“Mhairi? What do ye mean, below?”
“Now, dinna fash. We’ll send ye off to be with Montgomery and Morna in no time at all.” The woman gave her a wink.
“Oh? And will ye promise before God that me brother and sister yet live?”
Mhairi looked taken aback by the question, then smiled. “Oh, aye. They live. And where they live is a wondrous place. Ye’ll be quite happy, I assure ye.”
Gaspar put his arm around Isobelle’s shoulders and gave Mhairi a look he may have given many a woman accused of witchcraft. “Just where does her family reside?”
The woman started to speak, but James waved her off.
“They now live where I call home.”
“And where is that?”
James grinned and gave Isobelle a wink before turning back to Gaspar. “Why, in the New World.”
Gaspar choked and sputtered, but Isobelle wasn’t worried. That wink had given James away. His winks were a bit less frightening than ones from the witches.
Isobelle tilted her head and stared at the big man through narrowed eyes. “Ye must be jesting, James. There is something ye havena told us.”
The big man sighed. “Aye. There is. But I dinna want you to fret as yer bound to do. Ye see, the way to Montgomery and Morna… The way leads through yer tomb, lass.”
That numbness in her limbs came up to fill her head and the stable went dark, as if someone had doused the sun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Gaspar didn’t know these people. There was little reason to trust them, especially when the person that led the rest around by their noses was a self-proclaimed witch. But he trusted James, and the big Scot vowed on his honor that he had, indeed, come to Castle Ross through this passage. And although Gaspar believed there was yet some secret with which they could not entrust him, he would be patient.
In truth, there was little to worry over but the witches. And since the one didn’t seem to be overly concerned with him, he ceased fretting over her. He would remain vigilant, of course, but once they were away from this place where Isobelle might be recognized, they could rest their minds. Besides, it hadn’t mattered where they came to roost, as long as he and Isobelle were together. If her brother’s home did not make Isobelle happy, they would simply move on. Together.
