by L. L. Muir
Only a day? It was hard to believe. But if she just walked away, played forgive and forget, in a couple more days, she could be home.
Home.
Even if her apartment were only full of boxes, the thought of the worn blue 1980’s carpet nearly made her cry with homesickness. Maybe it was only because she’d decided never to go back. But now, in the light of day, Wyoming didn’t look so bad.
“Laird Ross. Could you please take me to the Muirs? I’d like to go home. Better yet, call me a cab and I’ll fly home without them. No offense, but I’ve had enough of Scotland.”
“Acab? Ye’re called Acab?”
“Funny. But seriously—”
“So ye are not called Acab?”
Jillian huffed out a frustrated breath, hopefully her last for the day. “Look. My name is Jillian MacKay and I’d like to go home. I don’t want to try on any more necklaces or hear any more secrets or prophecies about the Clan Ross or anyone else.”
His eyes had grown bigger with every word out of her mouth so she thought she’d better stop talking before the things exploded. Maybe an apology would get her out of there.
“I don’t mean to be—”
“MacKay,” he whispered. But he’d pronounced it “McEye.”
“No. MacKay,” she corrected.
Once again, he was in her face, but instead of bending to kiss her, he ran his fingers through her hair like it was made of tinsel. When he stopped that, he stared into her eyes for a moment and growled. The sound intensified as he leaped and slid to the window.
“Ewan!” he bellowed. He then lunged to the door and picked up a broadsword like the one she’d seen on a bed of red velvet, under glass. Apparently, he played with the antiques when the tourists weren’t around.
When he turned to her with murder in his eyes, she huffed and gave him her best oh, please look before she stomped over to the bed and sat down. If she had to go through another dramatization before he let her go, he’d better make it quick.
He sure didn’t seem worried about being sued by an American he’d wrongfully detained. But then again, the Muirs were her only witnesses, and they sure wouldn’t speak up for her if they were in on the joke. Maybe she didn’t have the upper hand here after all.
I’d better just play along and get out of this asylum as fast as I can.
A heavy door slammed somewhere below and she and Laird Ross stared each other down as they listened to approaching footfalls. A minute later, through the crude bedroom doorway, strode a lone man who closed the warped wood panel behind him.
“Hello,” she sang cheerfully. “Can you two get on with it so I can get out of here?”
The man looked from her to Laird Ross, but didn’t say a word. He took in the other man’s stance and bravely moved in front of her.
This should be good.
“Ewan?”
“Aye, laird?”
“Take this one back to the hole. If she’s not inside when I return, she’ll be dead before she goes in this time.”
Jillian’s stomach turned, but not because of his words, but because he’d said it all in Gaelic! And what’s more, she’d understood! Grandma, damn her, was right again!
The man he’d called Ewan, bless him, didn’t even flinch, which gave her hope. If he was such a poor actor, maybe they were just putting on a show. She just couldn’t tell anymore.
“When ye return from where, Laird?” he asked. At least Ewan still spoke English for her.
“I’ll be huntin’ down those Muir sisters to put them inside as well. And do as I say, Ewan. She’s a blasted MacKay!”
Quinn opened what posed as the door, but Jillian shot to her feet before he could disappear.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve had enough of your little act. I am getting out of here. You can tell the Muir sisters I didn’t want to play anymore.”
She got past Ewan easily enough, but when she tried to power her way around Quinn, he raised his sword between them. He really shouldn’t be swinging that thing around if the shine on the edge of the blade had anything to do with how sharp it was.
“Look. I hate to point this out, but technically, if you don’t let me leave, it’s kidnapping. I think that may even trump breaking and entering, so if you want to play this thing out in front of the authorities, I’ll take my chances.”
Ewan placed his hand on her arm. “Laird Ross is the highest authority here, lass, except for the king, of course.”
“Oh, of course. The King of Scotland, I presume. Not the Queen of England? Of course, you can’t step out of character for a silly American, can you?” Jillian felt her blood rise to heat her face. “Just how do you think your tourists are going to like hearing that Isobelle Ross escaped her tomb with the help of her idiot brother?”
She raised her chin to show she was serious about spilling their precious beans, then tried to look as mean as a Wyoming rancher on the subject of wolves let loose in Yellowstone. “And if you don’t let me out of here, right this second,” she growled in Gaelic herself, “the tabloids will be digging for Isobelle’s bones while the world watches on TV.”
Laird Ross smiled a surprisingly unpleasant smile. In fact, she’d handily succeeded in forcing him to break character. Ewan held tough, though. He even closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“I suppose we have no choice, then, Jillian. MacKay.” He turned his sword and let the tip pierce the wood at his feet.
Good. It was about time he gave up and let her go.
She took one step only to come up against that chest once more. Too bad she couldn’t take that as a souvenir. Looking up at his face, she bid goodbye to those wonderful lips, then waited for his parting remark.
“Ye’ve tied our hands, lass. We canna let ye go.”
And just that quickly she was once more an expendable movie character who threatened a murderer with no back up whatsoever. How stupid could she be? Everyone who had seen even one horror film knew you shouldn’t go into the basement when the power went out, and you didn’t threaten to expose the bad guy unless you held all the cards.
Stephen King would have been so disappointed in her.
She only put up a token resistance as Ewan dragged her by the wrist down flights of stairs and into the great hall because at least they were headed toward the exit. She totally planned to bolt…until she saw the amazing transformation of the large room—a transformation it couldn’t have undergone in just a day.
She realized the sick feeling spreading through her body was shock. Ready or not...
Her arms turned to ice without her leather jacket and she wanted to ask for it, but the only audible sound she could make was, “Okay. Okay. Okay.”
Her head was light and her legs gave out, forcing Ewan to carry her over his shoulder. He was speaking to her in soothing tones, but she may as well have been underwater. Even upside down, she could not mistake the route he’d taken. The stone steps passed above her head like a medieval escalator…and she was going down.
Medieval Hall. Medieval stairs that had not yet smoothed with the passage of time and thousands of feet. A Scottish laird who had miraculously become younger in a matter of days. He wore no shirt. Wide cloth had been draped over his shoulder, slanted over his heart, and wrapped around his hips and bulging thighs. She’d seen a chiseled version of that navel, the large fists, his belt and sporran. She remembered the ties crisscrossing his calves over thick-looking socks. The square toed boots...
Below her hanging hair, Ewan’s matching boots carried her deeper into the darkness—boots with the look of another century.
How obtuse could she have been? The nightmare, it seemed, would continue.
But how had the sisters come along?
She saw but felt nothing when Ewan propped her in a corner of the workroom and moved beneath the hole. He kicked at the tree trunk wedged against the rock that plugged the stupid hole. She felt as if she’d dropped through it only a minute ago.
Ewan gave a big shove with his shoulder
. The tree trunk flew out of the way. The stone dropped to the ground and broke.
“A shame, that,” Ewan said with a grin, but Jillian didn’t understand why. The only movement she was capable of was shaking. Even her breath rattled as she sucked it in and let it seep out again. With her eyes she soaked up every bit of light from the torch set in the wall.
A memory to save for later.
She was going to die! She was a prop in someone’s sick little play, and she cursed the day she met the sisters. Would they die in the blackness with her, or would they already be dead and she’d be locked in the tomb with their bodies?
She dug deep for some strength so she might fight Ewan when he tried to get her into the tomb, preferring to die beforehand like Laird Whoever-he-was had promised she would.
Whoever he was, he was not the humble and kind Quinn Ross.
Another door slammed and she listened to more footsteps making their way through the keep. She could feel that sharp blade coming with him.
Ewan turned toward the sounds too. Maybe he was fine with letting the laird do the deed himself.
Monty, yer daughter is English!
That’s right! He’d called him Monty! Of course! It was no surprise now that he was the monster who’d broken the hearts of both his sisters. Monty had built the tomb with his own hands and buried Isobelle inside.
Never mind that he’d also gotten her out.
Still, it was this man’s fault Jillian had been sent here. If he would have just let Morna marry Ivar, Jillian would be home now, oblivious of the horrible things people were capable of doing in the fifteenth century, never imagining that little old ladies had blood cold enough to lure a person into her own grave.
When Laird Monster swaggered into the passageway, Jillian’s angry tears flowed traitorously down both cheeks. Blinking through thick walls of salt water, she watched two women emerge from behind him. He must have tricked the sisters into coming. Either that or she couldn’t see their restraints.
Wearing pale blue gowns past their ankles, they picked their way around Ewan’s dusty mess in dainty slippers and bent over Jillian. Their bright blue eyes were familiar, but their hair was long and red, streaked sparingly with white. They didn’t look a day over fifty, and there were no ropes around their still-smooth wrists.
Their new costumes aside, they didn’t seem to know they were in danger.
“Run,” Jillian whispered.
Chapter Twelve
Montgomery Ross had not seen such a potent combination of tears and accusation since the day The Runt had dragged Morna from Isobelle’s quiet tomb. He’d weathered such tears before. He could weather these.
Or could he?
The woman had needed a lesson in humility. Had she not?
Or had he allowed his temper to make a muck of things again?
Refusing to revisit other times when he may have been hasty in his distribution of punishment, he took a steadying breath. Then two more. Smoke and dust assaulted him. Oh, how he hated this place.
Did it matter this lass was a MacKay? Did she deserve to suffer the fright he had forced upon her out of pride? Granted, his foolishness a year before had put the honor of his clan in jeopardy, but he would guard that secret with his life. And his sons would guard it as well.
But would those sons have black straight hair and bright green eyes?
His dream came back to him and he stretched his mind to remember the way his wife had looked upon him. He glanced at the woman in the corner and could not imagine that look of fear and regret ever changing to the adoration for which he longed.
The MacKay woman struggled to stand and with the aid of the sisters, she was able to do so, albeit against the wall. All blood had drained from her face, but she swallowed and raised her chin. Every time she blinked, fresh streams of tears raced down her cheeks to dribble onto her wee shift, but the lass did not weep openly as she’d done the night before.
She thought he was here to kill her, and yet she wouldna greet. She was as proud a MacKay as Ivar ever had been. He could run her through and she likely wouldn’t raise a hand to dissuade him.
He should cut his own tongue out for making her believe him capable of killing a woman. For his temper, it was he who should be sealed inside the tomb with the secrets that were his duty to protect.
Gah! He was a monster.
“Get out,” he spat at the sisters who had been looking at him with disgust, as his own mother would have if she were alive.
The Muirs, too, were a proud lot. Either that or they thought they knew him better than to flee from him. He’d heard the lass warn them to run, but as was always their way, the sisters chose to believe what they chose to believe. Too bad they chose to believe in Isobelle’s charmed torque, else he wouldn’t be needin’ to shoo them away from his home every other sennight.
“Keep a firm control on yer tongues, women, and Ewan can see ye out of the keep. If ye ever meddle in my affairs again, ye will be sent to the Gordons.”
“I beg to differ with ye, Laird Ross, but we’ve no’ had a hand in whate’er is afoot here.” The one to the right patted the lass’s cheek while she spoke. “We ken not this woman, so blame her for no sins o’ ours.”
How was it they could smile while they confessed to having sins? They must make Father MacRae daft.
“Ah, but she kens the two of ye, do ye no’, lass?”
The MacKay woman frowned and caught herself before her legs gave out. Here they were, brayin’ on, while she awaited the bite of his blade.
“Get out. All o’ ye,” he roared, then didn’t wait for their footsteps to recede before he fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around the lass’s waist, both to hold her up and hold her close. His impression from his dream, that the woman was already his wife, would not leave him.
He pressed his ear against her middle and closed his eyes, demanding that the vision return. “Forgive me my tongue, lass. Forgive me. I’ll no harm ye, I swear it. Betimes I just go out of sorts with Isobelle’s nonsense. She’s a wicked lass to be sure, for startin’ this Celtic knot.”
“Y...you’re not going to put me back in the tomb?”
“Nay. Never. I so swear. If I should break my oath, may God show me only misery for the rest of my days.”
Her next breaths were fair to steady. “And you said Isobelle is a wicked lass,” she said.
“And she is.”
“You didn’t say Isobelle was a wicked lass.”
“Aye. Wherever she is, she’s up to the same. I know my sister well, ye ken?”
“Your sister.”
Her voice sounded weak again. It was time to get her away from the hole and show the lass some light. She wanted for little more than light. And water. And air. An easy woman to please if ever he met one.
He picked her up and headed back out of the passageway. “Ye were in there. In the tomb. Ye ken Isobelle’s no’ inside, nor what would be left of her. Ye even said ye ken I helped her escape, did ye no’?”
She nodded, but her eyes were wide. Did she not believe she was safe enough with him?
“And who told ye my secret, lass?”
He wouldn’t have believed her eyes could open any wider, but they did. In case he was clutching her blue-clad legs and thinly clad torso too tightly, he relaxed his hold. Instead of being crushed to his chest, she had plenty of space to breathe. But it didn’t help.
She looked up at him with owl’s eyes, serious as the live long day.
“You won’t believe it.”
God’s blood, had she forgotten how to blink?
“Tell me, lass.” He needed to know the man who had the power to ruin his clan. “Jillian, who told the tale?”
She looked down at her belt while he carried her up the last of the steps, but her brows stayed high. She took a deep breath and blew it out quickly. “The same one who helped me into the tomb.”
So, he could silence a wagging tongue and kill the bastard who had buried alive his future wife, all i
n one swing of the blade.
“The same one who handed me Isobelle’s necklace.”
It was fortunate he had moved into the great hall, away from the stairway, for his knees went weak as a sapling in springtime. The Almighty help him but he’d forgotten to ask about the damnable necklace. He’d sworn to his sister the thing would never be removed and now he hardly dared ask its fate.
“And where is the necklace now, Jillian?”
“Oh, it’s still inside. In the dark.”
The hall was also dark with the high windows shuttered and no fire in the hearth, but he easily made his way to the Ross chair on the dais as if the stones beneath his feet had been worn to guide his steps. He collapsed in relief, holding his wee MacKay wench close to his heart.
It was safe—the necklace at least.
“And who was it put ye in there, my sweet lass?”
She smiled and hunched her shoulders up around her ears in the oddest of expressions. Endearing, but odd nevertheless.
“It’s lucky you’re sitting down. His name is, or rather will be...Laird…” she cleared her throat, “Ross.”
Chapter Thirteen
For a moment, Jillian thought the man may just put her back in the hole after all. His head pulled back, his brows scrunched in confusion.
About time she had his attention.
A minute later, he nodded as if he had it all figured out, which more than likely meant he understood she must be out of her mind. Soon after, he frowned as if in pain.
Did it bother him so much that she was insane? For a minute, she thought it was sweet, unless of course, he considered the proper treatment for insanity was to lock someone away in an unpadded, unlit stone cell.
“I am not insane,” she said, just in case she was right about the treatment. “But this is going to sound pretty crazy. I’m here…to help Ivar and Morna—”
His hand clamped gently over her mouth. He looked deep into her eyes and shook his head.
“Have a care, lass. We don’t talk of such things here.”
She lifted her chin and pushed his hand away. “You don’t talk about Isobelle’s prophecy, or you don’t talk about the possibility of someone being insane?”
