by L. L. Muir
Well done, Mickey. Poor Italian. He really had hated being called Mickey.
“Welcome, Laird Gordon, to my humble home.” Montgomery inclined his head but did not stand. “Ewan, bring The Gordon a chair.”
“Hold, Ross.” The visiting laird raised a hand and pointed to Isobelle’s tomb. “I’ll no’ take me rest in a graveyard, aye?” He turned his back. “We’ll speak out of doors, or not at all.”
The insult Montgomery felt for his sister lit his belly, and dread filled his chest as his temper jumped free of his control, as it used to do. He’d held it in check for months now. Perhaps he could at least avoid a war. As the words bubbled up, however, hope washed away.
“Then I suppose there will be no speech between us, Gordon.” Monty’s venom got the departing man’s attention. “If I’m to wed your daughter, auld mon, the ceremony will take place here, on ground I consider sacred.”
The Gordon’s entire head turned redder than his hair had once been.
“Your sister’s grave could not be consecrated and you ken it.” Gordon retraced his steps until he was once again standing before the grand Ross chair. “How dare you speak to me—”
“Nay, sir. How dare you?” Monty stood and towered over the man who was too proud to retreat a step or two. “This ground is sacred to me in honor of the sister I lost as the unbearable price for an alliance with you.” Monty paused to catch his breath and capture his tongue with his teeth. Slowly lowering his arse back on his chair, he allowed the other man a fleeting sense of relief before he continued. “And if you’d not see your daughter wed to me here, then you may take her home. But do not neglect to leave Morna and her dowered lands behind.”
Monty pointedly ignored The Gordon’s Runt, Morna’s husband, who now stood fuming at his father’s shoulder—or hip, rather—and instead, looked up at his own stone likeness, searching not only for control, but for a miracle. What could he possibly give The Gordon to stop this wedding from slipping through his fingers as his temper had done?
The answer smirked back at him. He waited for the other laird to follow his notice.
“The pity of it all would be your lack of Ross grandsons, would it no’?” Monty waited patiently while the Cock o’ the North took in the details of Mickey’s work, no doubt imagining lads of a like build sporting ruddy manes.
The Gordon looked for a time and then some.
“Don’t just stand there, Ewan Ross. Fetch me a chair and a drink.” The old laird waved away his small escort, his gaze still admiring the statue.
The Runt narrowed his eyes in a miniature threat before making his way back outside, and Monty hoped his sister would not have to pay for the insult he’d just dealt her wee spouse.
“My condolences, Ross. I heard Isobelle was as great a beauty as my daughter-of-the-law.” The Gordon sat and accepted wine. “I fancy a ceremony on the morn as I wish to be headed North by the nooning hour.”
The meeting could not have gone better, to Monty’s thinking. In but a day’s time, he’d have someone other than his hulking cousin at his side. Surely, after he and his wife spent some time together, the blasted loneliness would be gone, as if it had never been.
Although he was never one to ignore one of Ewan’s foul feelings, surely this time his cousin was allowing his emotions to rule his tongue. Ewan had ever been as loyal to Morna and Isobelle as he’d been to Monty, and the man begrudged the Gordons not making Morna welcome. After a year, the stubborn woman continued to be unhappy, but their cousin refused to believe any fault lay at her feet.
At this time on the morrow, Monty would have a wife, his clan would have a reason to celebrate, and Ewan’s foul feeling would be proved as naught but a foul humor.
Anything less and someone would bleed.
CHAPTER THREE
“The Pub”, East Burnshire, Present-Day Scotland
Jilly really had no choice; she had to break into Castle Ross or start taking schizophrenia meds.
That flight-or-fight voice in her head had been joined by a decidedly masculine set of vocal chords insisting that flight was no longer an option. She kept hearing, “Get back here!”
Thankfully, the imagined summons was cut short by a band of sorts, made up of the Muir sisters’ contemporaries striking up an almost-lively tune. Soon the only tension left in the air was the fiddle player’s bow as it squealed across the strings. One man pounded on a bodhran, another played a small version of bagpipes, pumping air with a bellows under one arm instead of blowing with his mouth. Only a statue could have resisted tapping its toes to the tempo.
During the castle tour, Quinn Ross had plugged The Pub and mentioned he came here “of an evening.” As soon as he showed, if he showed, she planned to borrow one of the dozens of bikes propped up around the village green and do something she’d never done in her life...
Break the law.
If you would like to read more, please visit my website www.llmuir.weebly.com . You’ll find ROMEO in the Time Travel Books section.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I sincerely appreciate the small team that helped me get Lord Fool ready for publication;
Marlin, who gave me a push of encouragement...and shoved the children out the door so I could get it written.
Diane, my enabler, who shares my excitement for all things publishing.
Kelli Ann, who never rolls her eyes at my cover preferences, and if she does, she doesn’t let me see her roll them.
And three uber-gracious emergency beta-readers, Wendy, Clancy, and Jennifer.
Thanks to all my friends and my children who just smile and hang on.
About the Author
L.L. Muir lives with Superman in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains. They are raising numerous super-heroes for society, but none will wear tights. Currently, she writes Regency and Scottish historicals and paranormal fiction for both adult and young adult readers.
She is represented by Three Seas Literary Agency.
Check her website often
— www.llmuir.weebly.com ––
for adventures and romance at your fingertips.
