by L. L. Muir
The great thing about stone steps was they didn’t squeak when you walked on them.
With her boots, jacket, and jeans stuffed into a cool leather pouch, Jillian crept down the stairs and headed in the opposite direction of the hall. She had yet to see it, in the current century, but there had to be a back door somewhere. Hopefully it was as well greased as the massive slab that served as the front entrance.
She bumped into the wall, then edged along until she found the door. Without the later additions to the castle, there really wasn’t much to the back of it, and it was disturbing that the passages through which she’d been creeping with Lorraine and Loretta had disappeared completely.
Days ago?
One day in the tomb. One day out. Two then. Ages…
The back door was well greased. Too bad someone was waiting for her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A hand came down over Jillian’s mouth while another held the back of her head. She didn’t scream, however. It would only make him angrier if she tried.
Only it wasn’t Montgomery who held her.
The outline of a large shaggy mane glowed with moonlight behind it and she was both glad and disappointed it was Ewan standing there. For Heaven’s sake, did she want to get caught? Having Monty’s hands on her did give her a a thrill, but if he’d been the one waiting for her, those hands might have ended up around her neck.
As loveable as Ewan was, he did nothing to make her heart race—except for grabbing her in the dark.
She tapped his hand over her mouth and he released her completely.
“Jillian MacKay, what took ye so bloody long?”
“Wha...what? Are you crazy? How did you know I was sneaking out?”
“Ye have a bit of business to do, do ye no’?” he dropped his head closer to her face. “And ye canna get to it hiding inside the keep.”
If Ewan had anticipated this move, then Monty would as well, wouldn’t he? So she put that question to the shaggy man.
“Nay. He’s muddled for the now. Trusts that ye’ll stay put.”
She’d never broken such a trust before. Did it matter that it came from a man who would be ashes and dust when she was finished here? Apparently, it did, if the burning in her stomach was from her conscience.
“I’m sorry—”
“Ach, dinna fash yersel’. ‘Tis his own fault for not listening to ye, ye ken?” He suddenly pushed her back against the door and pressed himself against her, lowering his head to her ear.
“Someone is coming. Put yer arm about me neck so they won’t wish to interrupt.”
Jillian stuck her arm over his shoulder and wrapped it awkwardly around his neck. Someone passed by, all right, but she only heard their low chuckling, and a few seconds later, she was breathing fresher, less rumpled air.
Ewan grabbed her hand. “Come. Ye’ll want to be speaking with Morna, will ye no’?”
She stumbled along in shock as Ewan pulled her through the main gate and around and between cottages in the outer bailey. The willy-nilly placement of the homes gave the impression that someone had tossed a rock behind his head and wherever it landed, they’d erect the next house.
At last, a window was lit with a welcoming yellow glow, and Ewan led her to the door beside it. He cleared his throat, waited a moment, then let himself and Jillian inside.
“Morna Ross...er Gordon, Jillian Mac-eye.” Ewan pointed to a woman sitting on the edge of a bed, then at Jillian.
“That’s MacKay,” she couldn’t help but correct.
“‘Tisn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Ewan, leave the lass be.” The woman rose and stepped toward Jillian with a regal bearing any queen would envy, and she had the overwhelming urge to curtsy.
Must be the dress. She never wore dresses, except to church, and the only thing she remembered praying for was that her grandmother would not feel like attending, and if she did, that the old woman wouldn’t offend anyone too badly. It was such a chore running around the meetings, smoothing feathers ruffled by her grandmother’s too-honest comments.
“Isn’t honesty what a church is for?” the old woman would argue.
Dresses and Sundays were miserable memories.
Morna smiled pleasantly. “Are ye a witch, then?”
She was tempted to tell Morna that if she were looking for witches she might try the Muir household, but that information was probably told in confidence. And logic followed that pissing off a witch, let alone two, was not the wisest move.
“I’m no witch, but I did come to get you and Ivar back together. That is, if you’re interested.”
The sudden clutch of a chair was the only outward show of the woman’s emotion when Jillian had carelessly dropped Ivar’s name into the room. The silence that followed was deafening for a long minute.
“I am interested in anything a visitor has to say, of course.”
The lilt in Morna’s speech reminded Jillian of the woman who had shown her the back route into the great hall, where she could catch up with the tour group, and where she’d first met Montgomery’s statue. All her sentences sounded like questions.
“I’m sorry. I should have put it more delicately. It is a long story, how I came here. Maybe I should start at the beginning.”
“Please.” Morna turned the chair she’d been clutching. “Sit ye down.”
Jillian sat while Ewan stood watch at the window, peeking around the curtains every few minutes, undermining his confidence that Montgomery would not also predict this move on her part.
“I am well aware of the prophecy, Jillian. I have lost the three people I love, and the prophecy is the only thing that keeps me from complete despair.” Morna pulled a stool close to her and sat.
And if Jillian hadn’t come? Would it have turned out like the Shakespearean play, with two bodies together only in death? Would they have been driven to that? And how long would they have waited?
Morna looked frankly into her eyes. “Have ye a man?”
She dropped her gaze to her fingers to keep the woman from reading her mind, because the only man who popped into her head was Morna’s brother. But the truth was, there had been no one else, really. A few crushes. A few dates here and there, but those had ended when Grandma got sick.
“Someday I will,” she declared, both to Morna and to herself. She would not be alone. Not like poor Monty was going to be.
“That’s a fine spirit, Jillian. Ivar is my man. My only man. Of course, I have a husband, but if ye’re here to break that bond, I’ll love ye doubly.”
Jillian smiled and nodded. “I have an idea.” If she took Morna through time and into her own century, Cinead Gordon would be long dead. In the sight of God and everyone else, she assumed that would be acceptable.
Morna swallowed hard. Her hands shook as she clasped them over and over again in her lap. Ending her marriage must have been a heavy weight on her shoulders.
“Before we get into that, maybe you could tell me about Ivar.” Jillian tried to sound cheerful, but the truth was, unless Ivar was interested, no one would be travelling anywhere—maybe not even her.
A deep breath and a smile changed the other’s appearance into the young woman she was supposed to be. “Oh, Ivar. Ivar. Ye’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t said his name in the presence of another in so long, it sounds odd to me ears.” Morna sat forward and took Jillian’s hand in both of hers. They had stopped shaking, for the most part. “It has been a long year for the both of us, aye?”
“Has he written to you much?”
“Oh, no. I’ve not heard a word since Montgomery took me to the Gordons. ‘Struth, I’ve not heard his voice since Monty caught us at The Burn and sent Ivar home with a bloody leg and no horse. On my weddin’ day, Ewan told me that Ivar was recoverin’ fine. ‘Twas a wonderful gift.”
Holy, holy crap. Morna had no idea whether Ivar still wanted her or not! How in the world am I going to find out if Ivar is interested?
The gasp f
rom Morna scared Jillian for a second before she realized she had spoken that last out loud.
“Jillian Mac-eye!”
“That’s MacKay.”
Morna shook her head. “Jillian. Ivar is waitin’. I know it as sure as ye’re sitting there.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell the woman just how good the chances were that Jillian MacKay was not sitting there at all, that they both might be part of some nightmare in some drug-induced coma. Maybe she’d been in some accident in Scotland—or before she ever met the Muirs.
But if that were true, there was no option but to play it all out. Hopefully, Morna wouldn’t freak out too badly when she found out the less that scenic route they’d be taking into the future, and the reason she’d be free to marry Ivar was because her husband would be a pile of dust.
“Ye don’t understand love. Not yet.” Morna gave a curt nod, like Grandma used to do when she meant, “and that’s that.”
Jillian had no idea she would miss the old woman so intensely, thinking about her every time she saw something the old woman would appreciate.
“I loved my grandmother, more than I realized,” she said, “but I’m sure that doesn’t count.”
“Oh, Jillian, Of course, it counts. I suspect the time we’re allowed in Heaven will be the same amount of time we’ve spent loving others.”
“If that were true, my grandmother has already been kicked out, I’m afraid.” She tried to laugh, but couldn’t.
“Doona say such things, lass.” Morna gave her a very motherly frown in spite of obviously being younger than she, then she clasped a small pouch that hung from a tether around her neck and murmured something.
Jillian had forgotten what a superstitious people she was dealing with. “Sorry.”
“Not at all, lass. Not at all.” The pouch disappeared behind Morna’s own plaid bib. “Meantime, the love I referred to is the kind of love ye’ll find with yer own young man, if ye be as fortunate as I have been.” Morna turned to look into the fire. Her voice had changed, turning almost...reverent. “The kind of love that tells ye that his heart still beats because ye feel it a’ thumpin’ in yer own chest. Ye feel his thoughts upon ye as ye lie down to sleep, his hands on ye—through the power of his dreams alone.”
This was far too personal, but Jillian didn’t want to interrupt. When she glanced at Ewan, she found him staring at the floor, almost ashamed. And it made her wonder if he’d had some hand in separating the love birds.
“If I were to die,” Morna continued, “Ivar would ken it. When he is anguished, I ken it. I look at the moon and feel the glow of it on his face. I remember the sweat of him sometimes and it makes me weep with hunger to smell him, to taste him again.”
The fire crackled obnoxiously. Ewan cleared his throat.
“When we were together, I wanted to press myself into him so deeply that I’d come out the other side. That’s what it is like, to be one. ‘Tis not the bedding of a wife that binds a husband to her. That is nothing. Nothing.” She frowned for a moment, but her eyes still stared, unblinking, still seeing far beyond the flames. “Do ye ken what makes me very sad for the rest of the world?” She turned away from the fire, her voice back to normal. “For Monty especially?”
Jillian shook her head.
“It is that true love is so rare a creature that it is fierce hard to find when ye look for it. When ye dinna believe in it at all, it could lie down at yer feet and ye’d walk right o’er it.”
Morna’s knowing gaze sent chills up and down her spine like a pinball snapping back and forth between bumpers. Did she see Jillian as that woman who Monty would walk over?
She shifted in her seat.
“Ivar MacKay is the blood in my veins, and without the promise of the faery, I would not have lasted long without him.” Morna looked at her hands. “Who knows if we’d have lasted until winter had ye not come now?”
And just like that, all four Muir sisters were forgiven. And Montgomery Ross could go to Hell.
“So I take it you’re interested, then?” Jillian asked in her best Mrs. Doubtfire brogue.
Morna laughed like a drunkard. Jillian smiled and cried in harmony. And when they were finished, they turned as one to look at Ewan.
It was rather nice for a change, to be on the giving end of the stick. The VMC, The Victims of Muirs Club, was about to get a new member.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Montgomery was finally getting some needed sleep. Amazingly enough, he’d been able to push aside his frustration of having Jillian in his bed without him, trust the MacKay assassin into Ivar’s hands, and leave the rest of the night’s deeds for Ewan to tend.
The man acted masterfully when Monty would have stumbled right upon them at the rear of the keep. Too masterfully. Monty had played the part of a passer-by, but he’d let the bastard know with his low laugh that Ewan would pay dearly for his too-clever improvisation.
“She vexes me as well,” he’d said. Ewan did not yet know the meaning of the word. As soon as he could rouse himself in the morning, Monty would vex his cousin with his fists.
So, with a smile on his face, Montgomery took a deep breath and let sleep take him, trusting the lass would be where she was supposed to be in the morning. If all went as planned, she’d be trusting Ewan to make arrangements to have Morna and Ivar meet with her in a pair of weeks, after she had permission to leave.
At the rate she was going, Jillian would end up an adrenaline junkie. Amazing really. Breaking out of Castle Ross had given her a bigger rush than breaking in.
“He tells me where I should be in the morning? I don’t think so.”
At the moment, Ewan was riding West for MacKay lands. She felt terrible asking him to go in the middle of the night, but he had to be back before the sun rose in the morning to set the next piece of the plan into motion. They had to get the dragon out of his lair.
Jillian made her way to the stables as stealthily as possible, dragging along a cloak that could have been tailor-made for a New York Giant.
Funny how horses in the fifteenth century smelled exactly the same as in the twenty-first. The fragrance of hay tasted the same, crackled the same under her boots, and for a few seconds, she stood still and closed her eyes, imagining she was home again.
Wyoming. Janna’s barn. Hurrying to saddle their horses before her friend’s mother could think of another chore for them to do.
There would have been the smell of fresh milk squirted on the floor for the kittens to lick up. There would have been the sound of a power hose as Ed, Janna’s uncle, washed down the milking stalls. In fact, there would be little beneath her feet that wasn’t concrete; you could strip-mine germs from concrete.
This is better.
The sweet-but-dusty scents were backed by the taste of heather in the air. The bare earth was...well, earthier. There was nothing of bleach in this barn, no thick plastic gloves necessary to protect one’s hands from harsh chemicals. When a horse stretched out to pee, it frothed and bubbled into the earth. As natural as dust to dust.
And speaking of dust to dust, if she didn’t hurry, she may just miss Ivar MacKay, and her own bones would turn to powder right along with the rest of these folks—along with Montgomery Constantine Ross, whom she’d recently wished to Hell.
Jillian’s gut clenched. It was silly, of course. Here, in his time, he was as alive as she had been in hers. The fact that he would remain just a figure in history wouldn’t mean his life would not be full. Not enjoying the longevity of the 21st century wouldn’t mean he’d feel cheated. Dying in some silly feud with the MacKays would be the real crime. And if she removed the major player in that little battle, at least the laird would get the long life he was supposed to get.
Her gut relaxed slightly, but she couldn’t afford to think about such things or she might be tempted to try to take Montgomery with her!
Conniving hooligan, her grandmother would have called him. Can’t throw him, can’t trust him. But Jillian couldn’t make
herself believe that way. There were plenty of secrets hidden behind Montgomery’s gorgeous coffee-colored eyes, but she also believed there was something in those eyes just for her.
It was crazy, the way he looked at her as if she were special for some reason, and she had been tempted to look behind her, to see who he was looking at. A few times, she had turned, but there was no one there, no other woman, no ghost making his eyes sparkle with interest. Only her.
Tears prickled her nose when she wondered if anyone else would see her that way again. Because after today, Monty certainly wouldn’t.
And so, with that heavy thought weighing on her chest, Jillian rode out through the portcullis in the very wee hours of the morning with the Gordon plaid wrapped over her head, hoping the slump in her shoulders would convince the guards she was forlorn Lady Morna headed for home.
When she was out of sight of the castle, she tried to cheer up. She was in ancient Scotland, for petesake. The air filling her lungs was pure, pristine. And she was headed for the light at the end of the tunnel. She was about to finish what she’d come to do, and all she could think about was how much she missed the inside of her prison. Had she gone over the edge? Contracted some syndrome that made her fall in love with her captor?
Holy, holy crap.
There went her gut again. Clenching. Unclenching. Clenching again. Adrenaline ebbed and flowed in her blood as she alternately accepted, then denied, then accepted again the probability that she could indeed be whipped on Montgomery Ross.
She felt warm inside, like she’d slipped into fuzzy slippers that formed to her feet.
It didn’t matter, though. There was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t take him back with her. She’d screw up that Michael J. Fox rule. Montgomery Ross lived to a ripe, albeit lonely, old age. His cousin, Ewan, would be the great-twenty-some-odd-grandfather of the future version of Montgomery. The Original had improvements to make on that castle of his. If he didn’t, if he didn’t go on, handing down that tale of Morna, Ivar, and Isobelle, the town of East Burnshire, Scotland would not survive off the revenue from the telly-folk.
