by L. L. Muir
“I...I, uh, I…”
“Yes, he was wondering.” Monty glared at him, but the man was not looking his way, damn him. “And he was goin’ to see to his chores, aye, Ewan?”
Ewan looked at him as if he knew his laird not at all. “Monty? What? Chores. Oh, aye. I’ll see to the ashes first, shall I?” Ewan took one step.
“Don’t bloody move!”
His cousin froze, but could only shrug his shoulders as if to say he couldn’t help himself.
“Could one of you start a fire? I’d like a couple of kettles of boiling water to mix with cold, so if you’ll start it going, I’ll come back down and check on it.”
The two watched her head to the staircase and both bolted after her. Monty got to the arch first and turned to bar the way for his cousin. If the man would have passed him, he’d have died.
“Ye can fetch water, Ewan. I’ll start the fire.”
The way the two of them hopped about, one would think the bloody king was coming to visit. Eventually, there was nothing else with which to fidget and he and Ewan pulled stools beneath their backsides and sat.
His archway had never been so interesting.
For what seemed hours, he and his cousin watched it. Every time Monty ordered his cousin out of the hall, the impudent man laughed and shook his head.
In spite of Monty’s assurance that he would bring her the water once it boiled, she’d been down to check its progress twice. When she returned to the steps, they raced to the archway.
Twice.
It was also the number of times Ewan had cheated death.
Jillian stuffed her “towel” against her face and laughed her ass off. Were all men this gullible? She couldn’t wait to get home and try some things on modern-day males.
Actually, she could wait.
What had he said? He was leaving in the morning?
Not. Bloody. Likely.
She found Monty’s sword propped in the corner of the room. If she was very careful and didn’t cut her fingers off, it would help her make sure the laird remained in his castle until she was good and done with him.
Chapter Thirty
While playing out scenarios in her head the night before, searching for the most poetic justice possible, she remembered what her friend Janna had once asked her.
“What cowboy could ever resist a cute girl in cowboy boots, a tank top, and cut-off jeans?”
Although the cut-off length of the twenty-first century was probably short enough to give a Highlander—or two—a heart attack, she was sure the conservative length she’d chosen would serve her the justice she thirsted for. These men weren’t ever publicly exposed to naked thighs, so it shouldn’t take much to get their attention.
For a moment, when she hit the bottom of the stairs, she thought she may have been wrong about that because both men gave her a fleeting glance, then turned back to their tasks. When she actually heard them swallow, she knew they would be putty in her hands.
“Sorry about the shorts, but I was hot all night. Still am.” She pinched the front of her desecrated Swagger shirt and fanned herself with it. “What are you two up to?”
Both men’s heads turned to her, skimmed her up and down then turned back to the items in their hands. They squirmed on two stools which had made their way back inside the hall.
“We are making toys. For the children.”
Monty’s voice broke on the word children, and it broke her heart.
Don’t you get soft on him. Not today.
Ewan held up a piece to inspect it, but he made a brief inspection of her as he did it.
“Look here. Have I got the ears straight?” He handed the piece to Monty, who also turned a bit toward her while he compared the ears on the carved piece to who-knows-what on her person.
“The ears are fine.”
Jillian sat down in the laird’s chair and both men gasped.
Slowly, both men turned and looked at her bare, crossed legs. She hoped they couldn’t see the stubble from this distance, but if she’d tried to shave with that sword, she’d have lost everything below the knee.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nay.” Ewan shook his head. “Nay.”
“It’s just that none usually sit in the Ross chair, but The Ross.” Monty looked at his cousin. “Isn’t that right, Ewan?”
“Aye.”
Both had forgotten the children entirely.
She uncrossed her legs. “I’m sorry. I should sit somewhere else.”
“Nay. Stay. Stay where ye are.” Monty turned to Ewan. “Cousin, ye should go see to yer sister now.”
Ewan started shaking his head before Monty finished.
“Cousin, ye will go and see to yer sister. Now.”
At the end of a one-on-one basketball game, when the onlookers were whooping and hollering, there was a sound that could be heard in spite of the rest; the sound of the opponents breathing very hard.
Watching these two argue, without words, was kind of like that. And if she didn’t get out of there quick, she was going to laugh her head off.
“Excuse me a minute.” She hurried toward the stairs and scurried to her room, searching for that towel again. Unfortunately, searching with both hands over her mouth was hardly efficient and her laughter leaked out through her fingers.
She bent and peeked over the shallow copper tub which had made her feel like a giant baby while using it—and heard a gasp.
When she straightened so quickly, hands still over her mouth, she lost her balance and landed butt-first in cold water. Her squeal was probably heard by the MacKays. Maybe the Gordons.
Monty’s chest was heaving. His finger pointed at her, his mouth opened and shut a couple of times before his voice showed up. “Ye did it a’ purpose.”
Wasn’t he standing there? Didn’t he see her fall in?
“Of course, I didn’t. The water is freaking cold. Even you would have squealed.”
“I do not refer to the squealin’, Jillian MacKay.” He stepped tentatively over to the tub and looked in. “I’m speak of the skin ye’ve been parading around for my cousin to see.”
Okay, she was busted. But really, it had taken him far too long to catch on.
“For Ewan to see?” She crossed her legs. “You mean you never looked? Because I promise I did it for you both. I didn’t sleep at all last night and it was both your faults.”
The water showed no intention of warming, so she uncrossed her legs and held up a hand in a silent request for help.
Monty shook his head. “But Ewan has no right to look on yer legs—yer entire legs, mind ye.”
But Monty did? It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever not said to her.
“Nor yer shoulders, yer back, or whatever may have peeked out from yer towel this morn.” His voice had gotten a bit louder at that last bit. He looked down into the water again and she was grateful she’d cut the jeans a little more 1970ish in length.
If he kept staring, she might be able to warm the water with just her blush!
“Wait a minute.” She pulled hair out of her face and tucked it behind one ear so he wouldn’t miss her frown. “Nothing peeked out from under my towel!”
“Are ye certain?” He lifted his brow.
“Let me up and I’ll show you.”
Monty froze. Hah, let him live in fear.
He finally blinked, took her hand, and pulled her up. She quickly kicked off her boots so they didn’t get wetter, then stood in a puddle, unbuttoned her jeans, and slid the zipper down a few inches.
When she reached into her pants, the man staggered backward and sat on the bed but never took his eyes from her hands.
“Nothing peeked out from under that towel, because I was also wearing these.” She pulled the edge of her pink cotton panties up far enough for him to get a good look. “See? Before you saw anything else, you would have seen these.”
Monty watched her hands as she refastened her shorts. He took a deep breath. “Take them off, lass.�
�
Jillian froze. Well, her butt was already frozen, but the rest of her didn’t move either. She wasn’t sure she was breathing. “I beg your pardon?”
Monty stood and closed the distance, slowly. He lifted her chin and lowered those wonderful lips onto hers. She just stood there, clutching the top of her jeans, not daring to let go.
When another perfectly good kiss ended far too soon, he clutched at her shoulders and looked into the depths of her eyes.
“Take them off, Jillian,” he whispered. “They’re wet.”
He spun her around, smacked her on the bum, and pushed her onto the bed before she ever got her hands in front of her, plowing her face into the blankets.
His laughter filled the room, then the hall, then the stairwell, damn him.
Monty had sensed every step she’d taken into the hall. Now he turned to find her only an arm’s length away.
“I don’t want you to go.” Jillain looked into his eyes, her pride at his feet.
So, she had heard him, then. Ewan clearly hadn’t, or if he had, his mind had been emptied by a MacKay in nothing but a towel.
“I am sorry, lass. I must.” He stood back and looked over her finally appropriate clothing. She’d found Isobelle’s things, then. “A fine improvement, I’d say. I’ll be able to look ye in the eye when ye speak.”
“Um hm.” She looked at him beseechingly. “But can’t you put it off for a couple of days? Maybe go after you’ve reopened the hall?”
“Sorry lass, I canna. I have a clan to feed, aye? Every year I meet with other lairds to plan the harvest exchange, and I must go.”
She and Ewan need not know he’d already sent one of the elders to the gathering in his stead.
The poor thing was going to cry and he nearly pitied her, but not quite. She’d won Ewan’s loyalty long before the towel incident, and he was still wincing from that. Making them pay for another two days should be enough to satisfy him.
“Look around ye, lass. This is not Scotland, it’s the cold inside of a single castle. Life goes on outside, amongst people, in the fields, in the dirt, in the rain, even.” He checked the water level of her eyes. Not quite there, but if he pushed her much harder, he’d be greetin’ alongside her.
He wished he’d never said he was going. What if his plans went awry? What if this truly was their last chance to be together? What if he was handed what he deserved, to lose Jillian as penance for what he’d done to Morna and Ivar? What if he’d never be able to share with her the magic of Scotland in the fields, and dirt, and rain?
Hold. Breathe. For pity’s sake, breathe.
He raised his brows and tried to smile. “We’ve had a lovely time of it, Jillian, but we canna hide here forever. Once the hall is open, and we introduce ye as our English cousin—”
“What? Cousin? What?” She backed away from him with her eyes drying rapidly. “You know why I’m here, Laird Ross—”
“I thought ye preferred to call me Monty.”
“—and as soon as I’m done, I’ll be gone.”
“Oh, that.” He casually walked over to his chair and sat. “I’ve already sent Morna and Ivar to their very separate lives, Jillian. It is over.”
She was bursting to tell him, the way she fidgeted, waving her hands while her lips held in her secrets, her frustrations.
She stopped suddenly to look at him, a look that promised some form of pain, for them both. “When my task is finished here, whether I succeed or fail, I will be going home. I will not be around to be introduced to your clan as your cousin or anything else.” She crossed her arms covered in a pale yellow bliaut and cocked a hip, thankfully concealed by a long full tunic. “Now, do you still want to go? Or do you want to stick around for what may be our last day together?”
She’d hate herself when she realized how much she’d given away. But ever the talented player, Monty pretended a slow wit.
“Marry me, Jillian. Marry me and stay. I no longer care if ye’re daft, I daresay I saw no faery’s wings on yer near-to-bare back. I have enough of an alliance with the Gordons to ease my mind. We will tell no one ye’re a MacKay, and—”
“And?”
“—and I want ye to stay away from the witch’s hole while I’m gone.”
She looked away as the tide rose and spilled down her cheeks in waves. His work here was finished. She’d defy him, of course, but she’d be miserable doing so. And once it was finished, he’d console her the best way possible.
“I must leave in the wee hours, love, so let us make the most of what is left to us. I shall return to open the hall three days from now.”
The rest of the day raced by even though Jillian tried to slow it down with long drawn out silences. They spoke of his grandfather and father and the table Monty had watched them build together. She told him of some of the renovations he would do and he admitted the ideas had never occurred to him. The garderobe improvements spun his mind.
Ewan brought food, but never ate with them. Monty told him his plans to leave in the morning and Ewan agreed that it was best that Monty attend the gathering in person. The shaggy man was somber and said very little, probably out of guilt, since he’d agreed to help her with Ivar and Morna. The last time she’d seen the big man, he was helping Monty cover the high windows for the night. Then her reluctant conspirator disappeared into the shadows.
“Jillian, stop.” Monty shook his head when she tried to add more wood to the dying fire. “I must at least sleep a wee while before I go, else I shall fall from my horse, aye?”
She could only nod. This daft man had no idea this was the last time they would be together, even though she’d nearly told him her entire plan that morning. What part of “I won’t be here when you get back” didn’t he understand?
He pulled her along behind him all the way to her bedroom; she dragged her feet just as she had when the Muir sisters were escorting her out of the pub.
When she realized he didn’t even plan to kiss her goodnight, she threw herself into his arms and took control, sincerely wishing she hadn’t stopped kissing him since the day she’d arrived.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and snaked that wonderful hand up through her hair to hold her in place, then he did some controlling of his own. He kissed her eyes, her nose, and kissed a trail down her cheek to her chin, as if trying to memorize her face.
As if he were thinking, “Just in case.”
And suddenly, when his lips met hers again, she began to sob. How could a kiss break her heart?
That was it. It had to be. There was no other explanation for the crush she felt in her chest. Her heart was breaking, for real.
So unfair. So ripped off. The thrill of being in love should come with a minimum time allotment, with a clear expiration date stamped on the guy’s forehead so she knew how long she had.
He turned her head then and pressed her ear to his heart, holding her as completely as she’d ever wanted to be held in her life. And then it was over. She was alone, staring at the wall, blank except for the flickering light of her pathetic candle. She brought her arms down and looked at the open doorway, but that kilt had long since disappeared around the corner.
Silly man. They’d be finished when she said they were finished.
Chapter Thirty-One
Montgomery rolled onto his side and groaned. He was a stupid, stupid man for frittering away that last few days. As he’d kissed Jillian’s face, he had a horrifying image of himself, sitting alone in his hall, with no wife and no bairns, not caring that his kinfolk called Ewan “yer lairdship.”
Was this similar to the nightmares he had visited upon Ivar, Morna, and likely Isobelle as well? If so, it was a good thing he’d already decided to remedy it.
The night before had been long in coming. He’d forced his mind back to the day when he’d found Ivar and Morna at the burn. Considering the two were in the throes of passion when he’d found them, he’d tried to push the images from his mind, but he’d pushed away other details as w
ell.
He remembered climbing up into his usual tree, planning on surprising Ivar by arriving early. The man had promised Monty a bit of news if he’d meet him at the nooning hour, and Monty had not been able to hold his curiosity in check.
He’d heard their noisy lovemaking before he saw them, but his amusement died when he caught sight of Morna’s face. Realizing they’d been keeping secrets from him, wondering how long they’d been doing so, drove him mad. How could they both betray him?
Pain. The memory brought so much pain, and not just because of the betrayal.
He’d attacked his friend, wounding him badly without even giving him the chance to dress or defend himself. More pain.
He’d called his sister horrible things while binding her to her horse, things he knew weren’t true, to hurt her as he was hurting. More and more pain.
He forbid his bleeding friend from ever crossing The Burn again. The pain turned his heart inside out when he saw the horror on Morna’s face, when he declared she’d be given in marriage to the Gordon’s runt-of-a-son if it were the last thing he accomplished in this life.
And the meanness overtook him, growing over his wounds like a rough, ugly scar. And he began to forget that day, remembering only that he was betrayed, that Ivar MacKay was to blame.
Even when Isobelle was being led inside her tomb, he blamed his old friend. When Ossian took her from his life, it was Ivar’s doing. How, then, had Ivar survived so long?
Was it because somewhere around those scars there was some hint at the truth beneath?
And when Jillian came and threatened to expose him he hadn’t been able to silence her as he had vowed to do. Was it because he wanted her to find the truth and exonerate his friend? Or was it just because he wanted to prove to the wife of his dreams that he could discard the monster and be a man again?
Perhaps both.
And as Jillian’s arms snaked around him in his bed and soothed him toward sleep, he hoped that in two days’ time, she’d see him as that man again.
