by L. L. Muir
It had been the most natural thing in the world for her to gravitate to these two. They had a joy about them that was just the opposite of the cantankerous woman who’d raised her, and anything contrary to Jillian’s former dull life was welcome. Grandma had been flannel and overalls; these two were perfume and polyester.
She walked to meet them as the tour resumed. One sister slipped a veiny hand around Jillian’s elbow and held on. Right hand. Loretta. She couldn’t tell which of them was shaking harder; Loretta from age, or herself from excitement.
Along one wall the hearth stretched wide enough to accommodate a dozen men in its dark, but clean maw. Along the opposite wall stood an ornate series of cabinets in which all kinds of weapons and armor winked from behind glass doors, tempting even adults to ignore the signs that insisted they not be touched.
A maze of red velvet cordons led the guests to the far end of the fifty-foot hall where a large pedestal graced the center of a thick stone dais. When the group neared the display, the mood of the room turned somber. No doubt the Curse of Clan Ross was about to be revealed.
Holy crap. This is it.
The sisters, one on each side, squeezed her upper arms as if they were thinking just that.
Quinn began the tale with a combination of respect for the superstition and the disenchantment of a modern man.
“The curse of the Rosses is not unlike the tale of Romeo and Juliet,” he explained. “Imagine the Montagues were the MacKay Clan, the Capulets, the Rosses. But in the year 1494, the duty to one’s clan was far more important than any notion of love. Clan meant survival. Allegiances meant survival. And when our fair Morna’s hand was the price we had to pay for aligning ourselves with the powerful Gordons, Morna did her duty; her Romeo, Ivar MacKay, understood.”
Men’s heads nodded. The women sighed. Apparently, they didn’t see anything wrong with Ivar sitting back and letting someone re-assign the love of his life to another man. Maybe, just maybe, Montgomery hadn’t been the only medieval jerk in this little tragedy.
Quinn leaned forward, weakening knees with eye contact as he continued.
“Isobelle Ross was a witch...and a sister to Morna and Montgomery. She was a strange and opinionated woman for those times, but Isobelle loved her sister dearly. She would have changed places with Morna, but the Gordons would not consider a union with the wilder sibling who was already suspected of not being right in the head. But Isobelle couldn’t bear to see Morna suffer over the loss of her Ivar, so she placed an enchantment on a simple torque.” He indicated the large C-shaped piece of metal displayed upon the pedestal. “This very torque.”
Jillian stretched her neck to catch a glimpse of silver shining on a bed of black velvet. All along its outer edge were Celtic symbols. A bit nondescript for such an important clan heirloom. If not for the multi-faceted spotlights and the plush black velvet, it might have looked a bit dull.
So, that was it. The necklace. Its prophecy had been recited to her so many times since meeting the Muirs, two weeks ago, that she’d dreamt about it every night since. Listening to Quinn Ross tell it yet again made her impatient, but his brogue was a delicious compensation.
“Isobelle promised Morna that one day soon a faery would claim this bit of silver, a faery bearing the immediate blood of both the MacKay and the Ross clans, one who would have the power to reunite our Juliet with her Romeo. They needed only be patient.”
As if to test the endurance of his audience, he paused to drink from a water bottle, long and slow. The crowd, including Jillian, was mesmerized by the dramatic bob of the man’s Adam’s apple.
She needed to get a hold of herself.
The Scotsman handed off the bottle and continued, knowing full well he hadn’t lost anyone’s attention.
“Unfortunately, even in their time, innocent women were burned as witches, let alone strange sisters who spewed prophecy. Instead of Isobelle’s plan easing her sister’s aching heart, it broke the organ entirely. Word spread like the plague, and The Kirk came to put Isobelle to the witch’s test.”
He raised an open hand to the stone Highlander behind his left shoulder.
“Ye’ve no doubt noticed the sculpture behind me. Some of ye likely believe it to be a fantastic rendering of myself, but in truth it is the image of Laird Montgomery Constantine Ross, Isobelle’s and Morna’s brother. The sculpture was done by a young Italian man who was searching the Highlands for inspiration and found it in the sad family tale. His name was Buonarroti. Whether or not it is the work of a young Michelangelo has never been proven, but I have seen with my own eyes some of his pieces in Florence, and they are very similar.”
Jillian had never considered going to Italy before, but if there were more gorgeous statues like this one under the Tuscan sun, it would be worth the trip to see them. With her shiny new bank account, she could make just about anything happen.
“Buonarroti offered to create this statue to guard over this structure to my right.” Quinn’s gaze lingered on the dark stone tomb before he turned back to jab a finger toward the statue. “Ye’ll notice the unfinished mass of rock behind the legs. It was said the man refused to complete the piece after being called “Mickey” one too many times, but Michelangelo hardly rrrolls off a Scot’s tongue, aye?”
Right on cue, the troupe laughed. Jillian thought Quinn Ross should try stand-up, but then realized this was his gig. A great routine and a daily paying crowd—the perfect set up.
“Betimes I get ahead of myself. Forgive me. As I was saying, Montgomery was laird here and as such held considerable power. But there was no power to equal that of The Kirk in those times. Thus, Laird Ross, my great uncle twenty-one times removed, was unable to spare his sister from condemnation. He was, however, able to change the manner in which she was to die.”
Some of the tourists took a deep breath, likely repeat customers bracing themselves for the finale.
With a gesture, Quinn bid the group step closer. “The oddly shaped construction ye see at the back of the dais was erected by Montgomery as a tomb for both his sister and the accursed torque, built here so she would always be near him. Ye see, Isobelle was spared from a stranglin’ and a burnin’, but she could not escape her death sentence. Before the last stones were set, his very-much-alive sister and her offensive creation were sealed inside the wall by her brother’s hand.”
The kilt-clad Hercules paused dramatically, no doubt so the tragic image could sink in. He pulled a handkerchief from his sporran and turned aside to wipe the corner of one eye. When he dropped the white cloth back in his pouch, the women sighed, the men cleared their throats, and Jillian resisted the urge to applaud.
“Montgomery thought only to spare his sister the horror of being burned,” Quinn continued. “He had no idea that he’d sentenced them both to madness. Day after day he sat next to the tomb, listening for any sound from his sister within. Actually, for the rest of his life Montgomery Ross would occasionally be seen with his ear pressed against the stones, listening.”
Jillian could not stop herself from leaning toward the edifice, at one with the huddled masses, as if they might be able to hear some of what Montgomery had listened for. You could have heard a pin drop.
Quinn’s voice lowered reverently.
“For days he was tormented, regretting his interference, but The Kirk would not allow him to take back the bargain he’d struck. And during that time, Montgomery would cross and re-cross that invisible line into lunacy, thrilling over every little sound Isobelle made, only to cry to God to end her suffering. More than once, he tried to tear down the stones to put her out of her misery, only to be halted by The Kirk’s henchmen who stood guard until the witch was clearly dead. After ten and two days, the little sounds ceased...and the haunting began.”
The squawk of bagpipes, lurching into life, made Jillian nearly jump out of her skin. It was a moment or two before she could laugh along with the rest. She stood respectfully listening to the set of three tunes that first lured emotion out of her, pulled te
ars from her eyes with a mournful dirge, then prodded her like a racehorse across an open field. By the time the piper’s bag exhaled its final dissonant breath, she was exhausted.
“Gather ye round, gather ye round.” Quinn stood near the pedestal with its over-glamorized, but romantic jewelry. “If any of ye here is believed to have both Ross and MacKay bloods in yer veins, come forth and try the truth of Isobelle’s prophecy.”
Two very excited old women gave her a shaky squeeze before prodding her in the back. After that jolt from the bagpiper, Jillian prayed their dusty hearts would last the day. Hopefully, hers would too.
So. This was it. Time to play the game, Jillybean. Before she took a step, however, a girl about six or seven years old stepped up to Laird Ross.
“I’ll try it on, Uncle Quinn, if’n there’s nay one else.”
Rather than chide the little girl for interrupting his show, Quinn picked her up and chucked her under the chin. “And ye shall, Eileen, ye shall. We all ken ye have the bloodlines to do it, aye? But let’s save the best for last.”
Eileen beamed, and all those women sighed again.
Jillian was pushed forward a bit faster than she was prepared to go, but before she could turn a frown on the wiry sisters, Quinn caught her hand and pulled her closer until she was nearly nose to nose with the child on his hip.
“Considering the company ye keep and that dark MacKay hair, I rather suspected ye’d be stepping up.” He nodded to the Muir sisters and introduced her to Eileen. “I’ve a feeling one of ye may do the deed this very day, aye? And when a Ross gets a feeling, well, we’d best stay on our toes.”
Amen to that, cousin.
This was what she’d come all this way to do, butterflies be damned. Later, when she was finally alone at the B&B, she planned to celebrate how stirring the day had been.
Then maybe she’d puke.
Jillian stepped in front of the pedestal. After a nod from the laird, she picked up the torque and worked it around her neck. Quinn put down his niece and took Jillian by the arm, turning her to face the crowd...
...a crowd that gave a collective “humph” when nothing holy-crappish happened.
“How do ye feel, lass?” He patted her shoulder. “Ye look a mite green. Do I need to fetch a rubbish bin?”
“No. No, I’m all right.” She pulled her face into what she hoped was a smile and turned her back to the group.
She wasn’t all right. She was mortified—standing in the middle of way too many witnesses, trying on a supposedly magical necklace that was supposed to do who-knows-what, and trying not to look disappointed when who-knows-what didn’t happen—it left her a mite angry at herself.
Magic necklace? Are you kidding me?
Eileen smiled hopefully and clapped her hands. Jillian was more than happy to whip off the silly thing and hand it over.
“Looks like you’ll have to save the day, Eileen.” Jillian slung a brief smile in Quinn’s direction, then moved coolly through the crowd to the rear.
She couldn’t say when it had happened, but sometime between packing for the trip and stepping into the Great Hall, she’d forgotten she was only in Scotland to patronize the fragile sisters in their final fantasy. And to prove wrong her grandmother’s life-long conspiracy theory, that Scotland was a dangerous place for their family and that no Scot was to be trusted.
She’d just gotten lost in the role she’d been playing, that was all. She’d begun to pity Ivar and Morna and had spent far too long wishing there was actually something she could have done to help them.
Ridiculous. They’ve been dead so long even their dust had dust. Twenty-one layers of it.
She now had to keep in mind the second reason she’d come...
When her grandmother had died, she’d tried to pass her paranoia on with her estate, but Jillian refused to believe that a mysterious group of Scots had sinister plans for a specific Wyoming gal who’d never before been away from home. And for what? Her DNA? Her immediate blood?
Bull.
In another week she’d be back home, safe and sound, wondering what adventure she might try next while standing over Grandma’s grave, telling her how wrong she’d been.
There. She felt better already.
She couldn’t be disappointed that nothing had happened when she’d put on the necklace. Of course, nothing had happened. She was just disappointed for the sisters. That was all.
Jillian was in no mood to stick around and listen to the wrinkled twins tisk and shake their heads. She was out of there.
But as she zipped up her second-hand leather jacket and headed for the door—and a two-mile walk back to town—she could almost imagine Montgomery Ross’s stony form screaming for her to come back and fight.
But Jillian MacKay was done making a fool of herself.
For the moment.
Chapter Two
Castle Ross, 1495
Montgomery Ross took his leisure in his grand chair and let The Gordon come to him. At his right shoulder stood his braw cousin Ewan, and to his left, the Italian’s statue of himself. It did no harm to let the mighty Clan Gordon see him as a Roman-like god who was ever watching over his own.
Posing all those days for the mood-ridden Southerner had been worth the time after all.
“Monty, please.” Ewan spoke low. “I beg ye not to do this. Ye’ve nay thought this through, mon.”
“Oh?” Monty did not turn but looked steadily at the entrance. “And who else would have me, Ewan? Every lass on the island kens what became of my sisters. None would risk my affections now when the only two women I’ve loved were either buried alive or made to wish she were dead.”
“I won’t argue that, cousin. But why a Gordon?” Ewan grunted his frustration. “Nothing good happens when there’s one about. If ye marry the lass, a Gordon will be about all the time! I’d rather ye married a bloody MacKay!” He dropped a hand onto Monty’s shoulder and dropped his voice as well. “Mayhap ye should look a bit longer. Try the Lowlands. Hell, I’d rather ye kidnap an English lass—”
“Bite yer tongue and swallow yer teeth, Ewan.” Monty shuddered. “Besides, I’m finished with waitin’. I want the past year forgotten. I want sons. And The Gordon is the only man offerin’ up his daughter just now. I’m told she’s comely and quiet—and it wasn’t a Gordon who told me.” Monty wiped the cold sweat from his palms onto his thighs, then quickly returned his hands to their casual pose. “‘Comely’ is welcome, but ‘quiet’ is a true boon.”
“Neither Morna nor Isobelle were quiet.” Ewan snorted and removed his hand from Monty’s shoulder as footsteps sounded on the steps outside.
“Exactly.”
“Oh, cousin.” Ewan pulled his shoulders back and stretched to his full height. “I’ve a foul feelin’ about this...”
The great door opened and The Gordon finally entered looking none too happy, most likely for not being greeted out of doors. When Monty nodded permission for the man to descend the steps into his hall, the laird paused as if he might not wish to accept permission after all.
“Come.” Monty waved the man forward, holding a smile he did not feel. He had to prove his control in all things now, or the other man would never respect him enough to keep him as an ally, let alone a son-of-the-law, especially with all the trouble Morna had been.
The Gordon gradually came forward, all the while eyeing the statue as if it might come to life and draw steel.
Well done, Mickey. Poor Italian. He really had hated being called Mickey.
“Welcome, Laird Gordon, to my humble home.” Montgomery inclined his head but did not stand. “Ewan, bring The Gordon a chair.”
“Hold, Ross.” The visiting laird raised a hand and pointed to Isobelle’s tomb. “I’ll no’ take me rest in a graveyard, aye?” He turned his back. “We’ll speak out of doors, or not at all.”
The insult Montgomery felt for his sister lit his belly, and dread filled his chest as his temper jumped free of his control, as it used to do. He’d hel
d it in check for months now, hoping to avoid a war. As the words bubbled up, however, hope washed away.
“Then I suppose there will be no speech between us, Gordon.” Monty’s venom got the departing man’s attention. “If I’m to wed yer daughter, auld mon, the ceremony will take place here, on ground I consider sacred.”
The Gordon’s entire head turned redder than his hair had once been.
“Yer sister’s grave could not be consecrated and ye ken it.” Gordon retraced his steps until he was standing before the grand Ross chair. “How dare ye speak to me—”
“Nay, sir. How dare you?” Monty stood and towered over the man who was too proud to retreat a step or two. “This ground is sacred to me in honor of the sister I lost as the unbearable price for an alliance with you.” Monty paused to catch his breath and capture his tongue with his teeth. Slowly lowering his arse back on his chair, he allowed the other man a fleeting sense of relief before he continued. “And if ye’d not see yer daughter wed to me here, then ye may take her home. But do not neglect to leave Morna and her dowered lands behind.”
Monty pointedly ignored The Gordon’s Runt, Morna’s husband, who now stood fuming at his father’s shoulder—or hip, rather—and instead, looked up at his own stone likeness, searching not only for control, but for a miracle. What could he possibly give The Gordon to stop this wedding from slipping through his fingers as his temper had done?
The answer smirked back at him. He waited for the other laird to follow his notice.
“The pity of it all would be yer lack of Ross grandsons, would it no’?” Monty waited patiently while the Cock o’ the North took in the details of Mickey’s work, no doubt imagining lads of a like build sporting ruddy manes.
The Gordon looked for a time and then some.
“Don’t just stand there, Ewan Ross. Fetch me a chair and a drink.” The old laird waved away his small escort, his gaze still admiring the statue.
The Runt narrowed his eyes in a miniature threat before making his way back outside, and Monty hoped his sister would not have to pay for the insult he’d just dealt her wee spouse.
