[Highlander Time Travel 01.0 - 03.0] The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

  She couldn’t help but moan when the stiffness melted faster than Frosty in a hot house, but the sound must have frightened him because his hands froze.

  “I’m good, now. I’m sure I can stand up.” After being tied up, kidnapped, tied to a tree, dragged into the cottage and nearly tied to a soon-to-be-burning bed, she was dying to feel something other than ropes. And Monty’s warm strong hands made her forget the burning sores on her wrists and ankles. But he wasn’t familiar with twenty-first century massage, and he’d think she was pretty loose if she begged for more.

  He helped her stand, then held her close to him so he could stare into her eyes. “Ye’ve had a fright,” he said.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  He nodded. “Thankful to be alive, aye?”

  “I am. And you?”

  “More thankful than I’ve ever been since my first breath.”

  “If the pair of ye are finished with ogling each other, we’d best head back before Ewan finds battle gear for the whole of Clan Ross.”

  Jillian would have liked to walk her horse and take her time, if it weren’t for Ivar being hell-bent for leather. Monty had worried aloud that the Gordons might be coming along any moment to tell him of his sister’s death, and he hoped Morna didn’t open the door to them before she thought better of it.

  So, with that new worry, Ivar hadn’t even needed a horse, he looked capable of flying to Castle Ross without one.

  Seated in front of Monty on his horse, she felt his mouth nudge her ear. “If something unfortunate were to happen to The Runt, Ivar and Morna could marry and remain in Scotland.” A minute later, he apologized for suggesting such a thing, but on the heels of killing a man, she worried he was still entertaining the idea.

  If I don’t take Morna and Ivar away, Montgomery will sell his own soul trying to make amends.

  It would have been so easy to look the other way while the man she loved removed the reason for leaving him, but the cost was one man’s life and another man’s soul. How could she let that happen? How could she live happily ever after in a charming old castle with her own personal Romeo if she were busy trying to wash the blood from her hands?

  “Out, out damned spot,” was not written about a woman with OCD, after all.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Thankfully, darkness had fallen by the time they returned to Castle Ross.

  Although impatient to have Jillian tucked safely inside his home, Monty calmly led the troupe around to the back entrance to the keep. One never knew who might be watching the front steps for a bit of entertainment.

  He blessed the grandmother, far in the future, who would insist Jillian take Way Chee lessons, whatever they were. From fragments of conversation not stolen by the whipping wind as they pushed their horses home, he had understood these lessons to have spared the life of the woman he loved.

  Well, lessons and a wee knife.

  Jillian tripped in the uneven turf, bringing his mind home and his heart to a sharp stop. The poor organ couldn’t have been more abused if Luthias, having somehow recovered his head, jumped up before them for another go.

  When had he ever felt so desperate? Either time had mellowed his memory, or losing his best friend and two sisters had been a minor disappointment compared to how he now felt. Every bit of his flesh ached, both with joy that Jillian had been returned to him and the agony of what he was about to allow to happen.

  He had to breathe carefully through his nose; if he opened his mouth for any reason, he could well envision himself screaming for the entire clan to take up arms and man the walls in defense against the invisible army he felt was gathering on the hillside.

  He longed to clutch the lass to his side as they walked, but he dared not give anyone reason to wonder who might be beneath the hooded cloaks making their way through the bailey. The bright green toes of her odd boots popped out from hiding as she walked and he pictured them flung into the corner of his chamber, a fire’s light painting the walls a charming orange, and Jillian warming his linens.

  God save him, her boots!

  A few long strides brought him in front of Jillian and he signaled for the others to surround her before proceeding. Dark or not, her toes fairly glowed in the dark and the last thing he needed this night was for someone to cry witchcraft. Of course, no one would dare. Not after last year. But a whisper might go just as far.

  Finally, they rounded the corner and made for the door. Only steps away now. Doona run.

  Once inside, Monty’s heart stopped and refused to resume its beating until Ewan casually closed the door and placed a beam across it. When he heard the others sigh around him, he realized he had not been alone in his trepidation.

  Suddenly he was pushed roughly against the wall and a body slammed into him. Jillian wrapped her arms around his middle and held firm.

  He laughed.

  She sobbed, although silently.

  Ewan fumbled about and was able to strike flint to a torch and the three of them found Ivar laughing over the head of an equally emotional Morna. Ewan strode to a bench, sat, and rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists.

  For a moment, everyone was content to merely breathe.

  “Ewan,” Monty said softly.

  His cousin jumped back to his feet. Such a friend he did not deserve. Neither did he deserve Jillian, but he could not help himself.

  “Fetch Father MacRae.”

  Morna turned out of Ivar’s arms, but did not let go of him. “I canna marry Ivar, Monty, and well ye ken it.” She straightened and took a deep breath. “Not until—”

  “—not until ye are away from here. Where ye will go, ye will be a widow. I understand.” Oh, how he understood it all.

  Jillian stiffened and pulled away but he could not meet her gaze. Not yet.

  “Ewan, go.”

  A curious but obedient Ewan hurried back out into the night. Thankfully, the priest stayed close to hand; if Ewan fetched him quickly, they wouldn’t return to find their laird sobbing like a child on the floor.

  “When?” Jillian shook her head. “When did you finally believe I was from the future?”

  “Perhaps it was when I realized there is not a soul even in Normandy who would fashion such hideous boots.”

  Not even a smile.

  “Try again.” She looked too upset yet to be teased. A rainstorm was still brewing in her liquid green eyes. No doubt he’d be flooding his own face before she left off.

  “Or perhaps it was when ye fell out of a sealed tomb and into my arms. I had a dream, ye see, and I thought that somehow ye were my daughter—”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Aye.”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “Thanks to God.”

  “And the priest?” Ivar interrupted.

  Ivar and Morna had to get out of there before Father MacRae arrived. They’d gone to a bit of trouble to lead the Gordon’s astray, but it would be for naught if the priest saw his sister now.

  “He’s my concern. Get the two of ye up the steps and out of hearing before he sees ye.”

  “Yer concern? What mean ye to do, brother?”

  Monty took a deep breath. By not admitting the true depth of his love for Jillian he thought perhaps he could avoid what the fates had in store for him, the pain that would come when she ripped out his heart and disappeared with it. In his mind, the invisible army was now poised for attack, but oddly it was awaiting a signal from him. How he wished he could somehow not give it, but there he was, on the wall, raising his arm...

  And bidding them come.

  Jillian watched the many faces of Montgomery parade across his features while they all waited for his answer. She saw the fierceness of the first day, when he was willing to fight her for the sake of her last name. The sly smile of a boy who thought he could have everything he wanted if he played his cards right, as he had when flirting with the widow. Then she read his sorrow, as if his heart, like hers, were on the verge of shattering beyond t
he help of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.

  And when he finally turned and looked into her soul, she felt the first tremors and the scream of glass as pressure etched the lines where she would shatter.

  “I’ll let ye leave,” he said. “To spare my soul, as ye insist on doing, I must let ye go. To spare the souls of the other two, I’ll allow them to go as well. I had no ken what a religious man I was, aye?” One corner of his lips curled up in a familiar smirk, and he took her hands. “Only God would have known the perfect woman to drive the monster away.” He looked aside, at the floor. “In the morning, ye may climb into the tomb and test its ability to take ye away from here. From me.”

  His voice broke, and he took a minute to clear his throat, holding her hands all the while. Then he looked up again.

  “But I will have this one night with ye.” It was a demand, but she knew he was offering her a choice with the slight lift of his eyebrows, the gentle pucker on his forehead.

  Of course, she wanted to grasp any and all memories she could make with this sad warrior with whom she would leave her entire heart in the morning.

  “I cannot allow it, Monty.” Ivar’s voice rang like a cold bell through the dimly lit room.

  Why hadn’t they run off to hide yet? Why couldn’t he mind his own business? Ivar had already committed adultery, how dare he decide whether or not she and Monty could spend the night together? It was her decision. Not his, not Grandma’s.

  How could Ivar not see that she wanted to get closer to the man she would miss for the rest of her life. Wasn’t that exactly what he and Morna had been doing in the dungeon?

  She wanted Monty and she was going to have him. The realization made her knees wobble. Of course, she’d fantasized about him since they met, but Grandma’s morality kept her in check. Until now.

  Now she could stand here and wonder what she really believed about Heaven or Hell, or she could grasp a bit of the former while it was still in her reach. The latter would come in the morning.

  Knowledge washed over her like a warm shower. Montgomery Constantine Ross loved her. Not because he needed her, or wanted her, though both were probably true. He would die the same death she would when they parted in the morning because he loved her. So, he’d sent Ewan for the priest because...

  “Don’t worry, Ivar,” she said, smiling into Monty’s beautiful expectant face. “He’s going to marry me first.”

  Relief fell across Monty’s handsome face like morning sunshine, and a link of perfect understanding opened between them. No more needed to be said. She would tease him over his notion of a proposal, but that would waste time, and time was short enough already. They had tonight, and that was it. Tomorrow, she and Morna would both be widows, but Jillian would face that only when she must, and not a minute sooner.

  The back door opened a few inches, then stopped. Just outside, Ewan cleared his throat and spoke to someone, presumably, the priest. Ivar and Morna hurried through the nearest doorway and disappeared just before Ewan stuck his head in, looked around, then backed out of the way.

  “Forgive me manners, Father. Go on inside, then.”

  A tall man in simple brown robes shuffled around the door. His dark hair was light and wispy above his head and looked like he hadn’t run a comb or even fingers through it for days. His eyes were wide, his brows high. Then Jillian remembered the clan had been sent outside because of a ghost, and he was the first person invited inside since then.

  “Is someone hurt, yer lairdship?” he asked.

  “Nay, Father. Come in.” Monty grabbed the man’s forearm and pulled him over into the torchlight. His grip and an intense stare prevented the man from having a good look around or a close look at Jillian. The fact that Monty seemed to feel the need to hurry made her blush so bad she was grateful for the poor lighting and the lack of attention on her.

  Except for Ewan. The man frowned her way for a moment, then grinned as he finally figured it all out. He rubbed his hands together and bounced on his toes, probably eager to give Monty a hard time, like a typical Best Man.

  “Father, I’ll have a vow from ye now, if ye please,” her husband-to-be was saying. The father nodded dutifully. “I’ll not have anyone ken what happens here this night.”

  “As ye say, yer lairdship.”

  “I’ll not have it written anywhere. Not in a bible, not on a parchment buried in a tomb. No one will know. Ever. Do ye understand?”

  The older man had blanched at the word “tomb.” If he knew Monty well, he probably thought his laird had sealed someone in the tomb for real this time. Maybe the holy man expected a confession, or a blessing that might keep a new ghost from turning up.

  “What is it, Laird Ross?” The priest swallowed loudly. “What is it ye mean to do?”

  Poor man. The book in his hands shook, along with its shadow on the wall.

  “I mean to marry this lass, Father. She must leave in the morning to return to the English, and she will leave here my wife.”

  “The English? But surely the English would not take just her word—”

  “Nay, father. No one will ken. Ewan can be the only witness and that’s the end of it. We will still be marrit in the eyes of God, will we no’? Even without ye writin’ it down?”

  “Aye. Of course, in the eyes of God—”

  “Good enough for us, then. Let’s get it done and ye can heigh home.” Monty swung the priest to face her.

  The man’s smile was genuine as he watched his laird walk over and take her hand. “I suppose this is one way to get a lass to marry ye and not worry about Isobelle’s spirit chasing her away,” the priest said, still in Gaelic. “It may prove a wee bit difficult to have children.”

  Montgomery cleared his throat and avoided eye contact while they all milled around and took their places. Jillian was surprised her knees were holding out.

  Her wedding ceremony was a soup of Gaelic, English and Latin. At least she understood when the priest asked her name.

  “Jillian Rose MacKay.”

  Ewan seemed to be expecting a violent reaction to her pronouncement because when the priest collapsed slightly on his right side, the best man was there to pull him up level again.

  “Yes, Father, she’s a MacKay,” said their shaggy friend. “It will be fine, Father, go on.”

  The ring Montgomery produced from his sporran was probably still there from his last marriage attempt, but Jillian didn’t care.

  “It was my mother’s, Jillian.”

  From outside came the gong of the church bell. She’d gotten used to it ringing every three hours. It had to be midnight—which meant it was tomorrow!

  Montgomery laughed and she realized she was gripping his hands so he couldn’t put the ring on her finger. “It’s all right, lass. We’ll take all the time we need. I never said what time tomorrow, did I?”

  Was she so easy to read? If so, maybe he could see it on her face that she was petrified, but determined, to move on to the next item on the agenda. Maybe he already knew. Maybe that was what he meant when he said they’d take their time.

  He slid the ring on her finger and she wondered if her hands were as bright pink as the rest of her must be.

  Kiss the bride? Oh, please do.

  But he didn’t. He let go of her hand and moved away.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Thank ye, Father MacRae. Ye can go now.”

  There was an edge to Montgomery’s voice that Jillian didn’t like at all. In fact, she instantly doubted everything she’d seen and heard since she jumped down out of that damned tomb. Whatever was going on here, she was about to find out. She just hoped that when he’d sent Ivar out of hearing range, her ancient kinsmen had not gone so far he wouldn’t hear her scream.

  “But yer lairship, will ye no’ kiss yer bride?”

  Observant priest. Could he also observe she was mortified? If someone were playing a joke, at least she could take comfort that not everyone was in on it.

  “Ewan,
see the father home safe, if ye will.”

  “Oh, aye, Monty. I will.” There was a spark in Ewan’s eye and the grin still stretched his whiskers until they piled up at the sides of his face. “Just as soon as I get a kiss from Lady Ross.”

  Monty growled. “No one will be kissing Lady Ross but for me, ye blackheart.”

  “Oh? Why don’t ye then? She’s about to lose her pucker waitin’ on ye?”

  Jillian pulled her lips between her teeth. She had not been puckering—not that Monty deigned to even look. Damn the lot of them. She’d just collect her friends upstairs and be on her way. Why should she stick around to hear the punchline of a joke being played on her?

  She turned slightly, to make her exit, and Monty’s hand shot out and grabbed her forearm, but he still didn’t look at her. Did she look that bad?

  “Father MacRae, I am trying to spare ye, man. Go. Drag Ewan’s pathetic, witless arse out of that door with ye, because,” he dragged in a ragged breath, “when I start kissin’ this woman I will not be stopping for quite some time. If I should happen to consummate my own marriage on this very floor I would assume a man of the cloth would not care to witness it.”

  The last was said to the back of two men’s heads as they bounced into each other, jostling for the door.

  Relief flooded her like a bucket of warm water and she laughed. This was no Twilight Zone, then. The look Monty turned on, however, snuffed out her laughter like a doused candle.

  Monty led his new bride up the stairs, toward his chamber. When new steps had been added to this part of his home, he had no notion, but he was sure there were at least twice as many as ever before.

  Jillian’s hand was warm in his, despite their late ride home from The Burn, and despite the horror she’d been through that day. He only prayed that when she looked upon her wedding day she had better memories to mark it. He’d do his best to make sure of it.