by L. L. Muir
The image of Jock, scrubbing away at that over-polished bar, planted itself firmly in her mind and it brought with it all the weight of responsibility the modern Montgomery must feel.
Correction: would feel.
It wasn’t just Morna and Ivar, Loretta and Lorraine, or their medieval counterparts who needed Jillian to finish her task; an entire generation of East Burnshire-ites needed her to do so without messing with their lives. Usually, Jillian couldn’t stand to let down any one person, let alone a small population.
Falling in love with Montgomery was a notion she could not entertain now. Later, maybe, after being back home for a few months, she would let herself think about him, would allow herself a good cry over him, over what might have been. But she couldn’t afford to yet.
Later, when it was safe, she would think about him…way too much.
Jillian never remembered guiding her horse; the animal must have gone that way regularly, or else there were no other roads to take. North, South, East or West. How simple this life would be. Leave your home and you had only four choices. She traveled East.
Damn her.
How on earth had she done it? After years of kinship and friendship, after naming the bastard his successor should anything happen to him before he had grown sons to replace him, Ewan Ross had turned traitor—in favor of an Englishwoman.
Monty had to give his cousin due respect for his playing, however. If he weren’t so good at it himself, he would never have guessed Ewan was lying through his whiskers.
“I’m sore sorry, Monty. I canna believe I fell to sleep while I was supposed to be a watchin’. It is no’ too late, though. Ye can catch her by sundown, sure.” Ewan was talkin’ so fast, Monty had to ask him to repeat himself three times already. “Ye can have the whole of the Scottish sky to bed down under. With her. If’n ye catch her.”
Monty rubbed his chin thoughtfully. What could Jillian have said to his cousin to get him to help her? How could she possibly pay Ewan enough to turn colors?
“If ye’d rather I went after the lass, Monty, I’ll do it. I don’t want to risk her wee neck by bringin’ her back in the dark, ye ken, but I’ll keep my hands to meself.” Ewan turned toward the stables.
“Hold, Ewan.” Bastard. If ye touched the lass, ye’ll be dead come morning. “I’ll go fetch her.” Monty’s stomach lurched. Betrayal for breakfast never sat well. He’d eaten that meal before.
“Dinna trust that she rides poorly, Monty. A lass like that is capable of anythin’. I’d bend yer head and ride hard, I would, once it’s clear she’s headed East.”
It was small comfort that Ewan looked sick while he spouted his lies. Ill now; pain later.
When Monty emerged from the stable on horseback, he was surprised to find Ewan still standing where he’d left him.
“Laird Ross.” Ewan waved him over, then lowered his voice a mite. “Monty, I want ye to keep yer eyes upon me while I’m talkin’ to ye. Ye ken?”
“I ken.” Monty’s heart lifted. He couldn’t do it. Ewan couldn’t lie to him.
“Yer sister watches us now, from the tower room. Dinna look.”
“I won’t look, Ewan.”
“The lass is waitin’ at the auld abbey for ye to pass, then she’ll be comin’ back, ye ken?”
“I do.”
“I ask that ye not kill Ivar MacKay, nor punish Morna. After all, ‘tis not their fault the faery has come, is it now?” Ewan waved his hands like he was encouraging Monty to ride fast and hard. “‘Twas not their faults they fell in love, or that they cling to any hope of happiness. Mind that.”
“I’ll mind it, my friend.” Monty turned toward the gates.
“Mind also that I’m yer friend first and last,” Ewan whispered, but Monty heard it.
Thank God someone is.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jillian made one last sweep of her temporary bedroom and came running down the steps, pointed boots flying. Grandma would have made her go back upstairs and calmly come down again, to prove some restraint.
She’d pulled her jeans and boots back on for the “ride” home, but had left the plaid dress on for a bit of a souvenir. She looked ridiculous, but she didn’t care.
“I think they’re here.” She skidded into the hall and the stone dais stopped the slide of her boots with a nice clean ‘thwack!’ Better than breaks on skates.
Standing in the center of the great hall Morna laughed at the sound, but then dropped the smile and stood stock-still. To an uninformed observer, she looked calm, patiently waiting, and in that moment, Jillian realized that Morna never cried. Even while sharing all her feelings about Ivar, Montgomery, and Isobelle during their late night tete-a-tete, Morna hadn’t given up a tear.
Juliet, it seemed, was one tough broad.
How many times had Montgomery mentioned how much Morna “greeted” over her separation from Ivar? Just what constituted Montgomery Ross’s version of crying, anyway? It was a good thing Jillian was headed back to the 21st century before PMS had a chance to strike. The man probably couldn’t have handled what the moon did to her.
Ewan had told her how Morna had swooned into his arms when Jillian’s voice came from the tomb, but 21st century women just didn’t swoon over anything. In Jillian’s eyes, that had made Morna a wuss. But then again, Jillian had never been faced with what she honestly believed was a ghost.
The woman standing before her now was no wuss. And she suspected Morna had been just as regal while in her Gordon home. She could not imagine the woman whining—or whingin’, as Montgomery called it—day in and day out. Nor crying so much the Gordons would welcome a break from her. More likely, they needed a break from having a goddess among them who could do nothing but make them feel unworthy.
Yes. Here stood the woman Quinn Ross had described. “Juliet knew her duty, and did it.” Her own happiness be damned for the good of the clan.
A cloaked and hooded man walked out of the arched doorway on the other side of the dais, followed by Ewan.
Jillian’s heart lurched. It couldn’t be Montgomery. It couldn’t!
She hadn’t dared imagine what might happen to her if he were to catch her elbow-deep in the cookie jar. If she were truly in danger, could she sprint to the dungeon and get up into the tomb before he could catch her?
Not a chance.
The towering man quickly disposed of both hood and cloak, flinging the dark covering onto the Ross chair. His hair was blond, but as straight as Jillian’s, his arms perversely swollen with muscles, his build as intimidating as that of the man she had mistaken him for.
Both laughter and tears bubbled up from her chest, but she forced them back down. She was relieved, yes. But she also felt a blast of guilt for imagining Montgomery might harm her. No matter what she’d done, or had to do, he would never pose a true danger to her. Or at least that’s what she wanted to believe.
What she really feared now was seeing the look on his face when he found out what she’d done. “We have to get moving.”
Ivar MacKay’s face beamed while at the same time tears streamed down his cheeks and sparkled as they dangled from his slightly whiskered chin. He held out his arms and walked forward, not waiting for Morna to come to him, not giving her time to decide whether or not she wanted to. His strides were long, measured, confident.
How could the man know Morna’s feelings would not have changed after an entire year, and that year spent married to another man? How could he possibly know? If he’d simply been out of the country, or away at college, he shouldn’t have been able to count on a woman’s feelings to remain constant, especially when they hadn’t even spoken or written each other in all that time.
How did he know she hadn’t fallen in love with her own husband? He shouldn’t know, but he did. And he was right.
In the first display of weakness Jillian had seen from her, Morna drew the side of her wrist up to her mouth in a useless attempt to stifle a sob. A heartbeat later, she was in Ivar’s arms, wordlessly v
erifying the trust he had placed in her.
He turned her head and pressed her ear against his chest, gently, but powerfully crushing her to him, and Jillian yearned to be held so completely. Ivar kissed the top of Morna’s head as if he’d been dreaming of doing so, closing his eyes as if savoring even the smell of her hair.
Morna nuzzled against his chest like she wished she could get closer. Her arms wrapped and then rewrapped around his ribs, seeking a better hold, her grasp only to be shaken loose by her intermittent, but silent, sobbing.
Finally, Ivar pushed her shoulders from him, his eyes roving every inch of her equally-drenched face. Her worshipping hand raised to trace his features as if he were made of the most fragile material.
Jillian felt shame wash over her, urging her to look away, not because the moment was so private, but that she was unworthy to observe such affection, let alone wish for it.
Absently, she wondered why her shirt was wet, then felt the movement of air cool her own soaked cheeks. Still, she didn’t look away. She caught a hint of concern on Morna’s brow while the woman ran a delicate finger beneath one of Ivar’s shadowed eyes, but her smile remained.
Ivar looked down at Morna’s stomach, then back to her face, asking a silent question to which she shook her head in answer.
And just like that, he’d asked if she were pregnant, she’d told him she was not, and Jillian wondered just how much was being said between the two without a sound from either of them.
It made her feel better. No one could be accused of eavesdropping when they couldn’t hear the conversation.
After a bit, they must have run out of things to say, or the sign language with which to say them. Their mouths came together for a different kind of communication, which this time, Jillian couldn’t bear to watch.
This chat was definitely shorter than expected, and Ivar’s chuckle brought Jillian’s attention back from the floor.
“All right, Faery. What must we do?”
“Ye must get your MacKay hands off Cinead Gordon’s woman,” Montgomery growled as he emerged from the passageway. “Then find a blade to hand.”
No!
Jillian’s blood raced back and forth, between her spinning thoughts and her bursting heart. Perhaps this was the way a woman felt right before swooning—overwhelmed, desperate, hopeless, stupid, and heartbroken all in the same instant. But stress was no mystery to a woman like her.
Then the idea struck.
Before Monty’s blade ever cleared its sheath, she did what any intelligent wuss would do when she couldn’t bear to see disappointment in the eyes of the man she loved.
She swooned.
She was reasonably sure she was just pretending, but she felt terribly relaxed in spite of the thumping her head had taken in her first attempt at method acting.
Be the swooning damsel. I am the swooning damsel.
It was not unlike the time the bald hypnotist had come to her high school. One eye had been shaded bright blue and the other green. His smoking jacket had glittered where sequins still clung to old-fashioned polyester. The man had been daring indeed to wear such shocking fashion—complete with one gypsy-sized earring—in a small Wyoming town.
But the performer had known his stuff. In spite of considering herself too intelligent to ever be hypnotized, Jillian had crumpled like the rest of the audience into complete relaxation. There had even been proof: a photo of her sprawled out across the gorgeous knees of one Gavin Bowden, high school super jock. The picture had only made it into the yearbook because Gavin had been in it, and his smile had been breathtaking as he laughed his head off at the pile of bones on his lap.
That was how Jillian felt, lying there mesmerized by the pounding in her head that matched the beating of her heart. If she’d hypnotized herself into swooning, there would be no one to give her the magic words to bring her out of it…
“Jillian. Mavournin’. I’ll not leave this spot until ye open those beautiful, irritating eyes of yers,” Monty’s voice grumbled far above her. “Stand up and face the consequences.”
Well, it wasn’t a simple ‘popcorn’ or ‘peanuts,’ but those words were magic enough.
She blinked her eyes open and tried to look confused. Her acting sucked. He laughed.
She shot up to a seated position and tipped her head back, only to be slammed by an invisible shovel where the floor had hit the back of her head. She groaned and delicately pressed a hand to her skull.
“Serves ye justice, woman. Ye would never swoon.”
“I’m not so sure I didn’t,” she grumbled.
“Next time fall forward if ye wish to be believed.” He kept his hands behind his back. So much for chivalry.
Another man’s hand, Ivar’s, opened in front of her and all the air was sucked out of the hall, right through Monty’s teeth.
“Touch her and ye will die whimpering, Mac-Eye.”
She looked up to see Ivar shaking his head at The Ross, but he did not remove the hand. There was no way Jillian was going to take it now, however, and she pushed herself to her feet awkwardly. There was a reason no one wore long skirts anymore.
“Thank you just the same, Ivar. He doesn’t need extra reasons to be angry.” She turned to Monty. “It’s my fault. I brought him here. Don’t blame anyone else, please.” As she spoke she reached out a hand to lay it on his chest, but he eyed it as if she were a leper, so she pulled it back.
It would have hurt less if he’d struck her.
The most awful pain shot from the pit of her stomach up her chest and exploded into tears that demanded to be released, but she held her breath and refused to turn them loose—not with him watching. She could never let him know how easily he’d hurt her. If he sensed he had such power, he could crush her, and even Deano at The Body Shop could never get the dents out.
Her eyes filled anyway. She turned her head to the side just in case.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be out of your hair now. I think I can find the way by myself.” It was amazing she could find her voice at all, when she so badly needed to bend over, clutch her stomach, and cry. “Come on,” she said, hoping Ivar and Morna would understand she was talking to them. If she had to speak another word, a whisper was all she had left.
“What do ye mean about my hair?” Monty asked, stopping her with his voice alone.
She wouldn’t face him. She wouldn’t allow him to see the tears splashing off her eyelashes like a water fountain out of control.
“What did ye mean, ‘out of yer hair’?”
There was only curiosity in his voice, not concern. Good.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Later was always the best time to cry. “We’ll be out of your way, won’t be in your hair, we won’t bother you anymore.”
“And how do propose to summon such a miracle?”
She could tell the word miracle had left a bad taste in his mouth. Surely, he knew the source of miracles in his home. It was about 15 feet away from him.
“I’ll take them back with me. That is the way Isobelle intended it, I think. I’m sure you can stop worrying about the faeries after this.”
Monty concentrated on breathing in and out. He wanted to hurt someone, everyone. He wanted to shake this MacKay woman and send her scurrying from his life. He wanted to do everything in his power to keep her near.
How dare she talk of taking his sister away, letting that MacKay have what he wanted, and just leaving him?
He snatched up his sword and headed for Ivar, who was at the very least clever enough to back away, looking for a weapon. The man finally understood the danger he’d been in since he’d crossed The Ross/Mackay Burn. It mattered not who had invited him.
If Monty killed Ivar, there would be no need for either woman to go back through the witch’s hole, but unfortunately the deed would likely run them both off.
His blade shattered the stool his foe used for a shield, and at the same instant he realized it wasn’t so much his sister’s departure that dis
turbed him. She would be off to the Gordon clan on the morrow; he’d see her rarely, as before. But the thought of losing the MacKay wench was far different. When Isobelle had gone away, his heart had ached. The thought of Jillian leaving ripped the organ from his chest and burst it against the wall.
Her betrayal, he could understand. She’d been plain about her purpose. Honesty need never be punished, his father had taught him. Hell, the man had taught the same to his sisters. ‘Twas likely why the two spoke their opinions rather freely, for women. His parents would have liked Jillian. Would have been pleased Monty had chosen to keep such a woman. But could he keep her?
If he allowed Ivar and Morna to be together now, he could have the lass, but there would be many made to suffer. The Cock of the North took personal insults none too lightly. A slight against his runt would cause war.
Better they all just went back to the way things were, Rosses and MacKays fearing the mixing of their blood lest prophecy and witchcraft be their reward. Ivar to the west, Morna to the North, and Jillian with nowhere to go at all.
Good enough.
He dropped the tip of his sword and stepped back. Morna cried out her relief, and as Ivar held open his arms to her, she ran straight for him, damn her.
Monty turned toward the fire and acted as though he cared not what they did.
“Come on,” Jillian said, but she didn’t move. She was waiting, but for what? Him? Did she want him to fall to his knees and plead with her not to go?
Never. Montgomery Ross would not beg. Besides, she was playing right into his hands.
Following the trio through the maze of tunnels below the hall was simple enough. He knew where they were going. Jillian only made a wrong turn once and he had to backtrack quickly to keep from being seen.
She led them, although Ivar had spent half his life here and knew the tunnels as well as Monty did himself. Morna was caught against Ivar’s side and kept her eyes upon his face, her hands upon his arms, obviously caring not where they went. Jillian carried a torch and walked as if her feet were made of stone. If she didn’t walk faster, they might all topple over from lack of speed.
