by L. L. Muir
It was also rumored that the mistress of Viscount of F has moved out of his grasp as she deemed it unwise to associate with a man who possesses untrustworthy…eyes.
Stay tuned to see if the current fiancée of this poor-sighted creature is also saved from his company. --The Scarlet Plumiere
“Well, Stanley, you can’t very well sue the paper for libel when they did print this in the fiction section.” Ramsey Birmingham, Earl of Northwick kept a straight face, but only just. His friend was not the first to be chastised by the red-penned writer. That he was being so dramatic about it, so early in the day, was an invitation for torment.
“But North! I tell you there was no woman. No wife. No children with my blue eyes and white hair.”
“White hair, even. Not blonde.” The Marquis of Harcourt, the worst tease among them, prodded poor Stanley from behind, then walked around the man and offered him a much needed drink.
“It’s early.” Stanley waited for someone to agree.
“Drink!” Harcourt slapped him on the back, nearly spilling the shot of courage.
Stanley needed no more prompting and emptied the glass, then stared into its empty depths. “Yes, white hair. There are no such creatures, I assure you. I’ve only been to Spain two years ago…oh dear.”
“Well, the vixen got that right at least.” Earnest Meriwether, the unfortunately named Earl of Montpelier, chimed in from the far stacks of North’s immodest library. Oh, his given name was spot-on, as if his mother might have read the sobriety in his eyes the moment he was born, but the family name was far afield. Monty was deadly serious, and deadly otherwise. After having served together in France, North was no longer as dedicated to England as he was to his sober friend; if the Earl of Montpelier decided to turn coats, North would turn his as well rather than face his dark friend in any skirmish. No man did so and lived.
“But Monty, I’m telling you, there is no such woman.” Stanley looked at a chair, but North shook his head, as if to say the morning’s business was so serious he should keep on his toes.
Stanley straightened and lifted his chin, poor man. So easily manipulated. The Scarlet Plumiere really shouldn’t have picked on such a harmless chap. North was of half a mind to hunt her down and tell her so.
“Well, the Scarlet Plumiere has yet to accuse an innocent man, even if she is a bit inaccurate on the specificity of the crime.” Monty joined the rest, eyes fixed on an open volume of Shakespeare--the red leather set. He lowered his dark form into the seat Stanley had been eyeing.
“He’s right, of course. Let’s hear it, Stanley. What have you done?” Harcourt hooked a leg over the corner of a table and leaned forward for the details, his interest and enthusiasm more than making up for Monty’s lack of both.
Of course, Stanley broke.
“I’ve done nothing! Nothing the rest of our lot hasn’t done from time to time.”
North couldn’t bring himself to prod the Viscount further. The poor man had asked his three closest friends to meet that morning to find a solution to his newest problem--as fresh as the morning paper. They really should get to the business of helping the chap.
Harcourt was in no such hurry. He folded his arms and lifted a tan brow.
“Stanley, you’re trying our patience. Spit out the confession now or I don’t see us making much of an attempt to save your sorry hide.”
Stanley flushed from his pinned cravat to the roots of his transparent-like hair. That particular shade of red may well have been the only color that did not become the over-blessed Viscount.
“I set Ursula aside yesterday.”
“You what?” Three baritones in unison sounded almost rehearsed.
North shook his head. “I’m sorry, old boy. You did what?”
“He set her aside.” Harcourt slapped his knee.
North turned to Monty. “He set her aside.”
“Yes, blast you. I set her aside!”
Monty closed the book and set Shakespeare on the overstuffed arm. “Pardon my slow wit, but just how does one put an Ursula aside?”
Monty was right. Stanley--and his Winter-white hair--had enjoyed the pick of females since the four of them were in knee breeches together. Now he had the pick of all mistresses and he’d chosen very well. It was quite possible Stan, old pal, was the first man to actually end an affair with the woman. Ursula did the shopping for a new lover. Ursula let that lover know when he was no longer welcome. But Stanley Winters, Viscount Forsgreen, had set her aside.
“I suppose he picked her up by the shoulders, turned, and set her down again.” Harcourt demonstrated with an invisible model, then dusted his hands. “Out of his way, presumably. Is that accurate, Stanley?”
Stanley’s blush looked to be seeping into his actual hair.
“I let her go.”
“Aah. Like fishing, then? You took the hook from her mouth, so to speak, and put her back in the water.” North couldn’t help but laugh at Harcourt’s miming skills.
“Can she swim, do you suppose?” Monty’s usual sobriety fled. He dissolved into laughter at his own jest, as did they all—all except poor Stanley of course.
The Viscount stood straighter, if possible. “You know perfectly well what I mean. I ended our affair. I told her she was free to do as she pleases.”
North nodded and composed himself. “And you paid her a nice settlement, of course.”
“Actually, she wouldn’t take it. She wasn’t at all pleased that I offered it.”
Harcourt bent over, giggling, and dove onto the davenport like a man gut-shot.
Monty rubbed a hand over his face, shook his head, then stiffened. “That has to be it! Ursula found the Scarlet Plumiere and had you punished. Severely punished, it appears; if night follows day, and things play out the way the SP has predicted, you, my dear Viscount of F, are about to be released from your engagement.”
“But that’s why I let her go, you see? It would be poor form to keep one’s mistress while one is preparing for marriage, and honeymoon, and fatherhood, and…”
“And death.” Having solved the mystery, Monty’s nose was back in the book.
“Yes, that too. If Irene Goodfellow breaks it off, Mother will have me fed to the fish, and even though she’s doddering, she’ll find a way to bear another son to replace me.”
“It’s unsettling the way that woman tosses that threat about,” North admitted. “It fairly gives me nightmares thinking about it.”
“Well, thinking about it has put me off seeing Ursula.”
“Quite so. Quite so.” North nodded, thinking. The mystery was solved, but what were they to do about it?
“It would be best to have her put down, Stanley. For your own good,” Harcourt mumbled against a cushion.
“Who? The Scarlet Plumiere? I can’t have a woman murdered, even if she’s essentially ruined my life with her blasted article. I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing.”
“Oh, not her, man. Your mother.” Harcourt rolled onto his back and spoke to the ceiling. “Have your mother put down like the old horse that she is and enjoy the reprieve. Marry in another ten years.”
“Put down my mo...you’re mad!”
“No. Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea a’tall.” Monty closed his book again and tossed it onto the table.
“All right. You’re both mad. I won’t be having my mother...put down, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, Stanley. Do keep up.” Monty folded his hands and grinned. He must have had a grand idea; he didn’t smile easily. “I mean the SP, of course, not your dear saintly horse-of-a-mother.”
“You mean it? You can stand here in front of God and good whisky and talk of having a woman murdered? Because all of London knows it’s a woman writing those articles. Good lord, man. Perhaps I don’t know you at all. Perhaps you could actually do the deed yourself!”
“Oh, I would rather not do the deed myself, of course. But I suppose if I must...”
North couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed
up his hands.
“I surrender as well, Monty. What are you thinking? You can’t be talking about having a woman murdered.”
“Not murdered. Put down. Taken out of the picture--or the Capital Journal at least.” Monty leaned in and lowered his voice. “The only way to control a woman these days, gentlemen, is to marry her off.”
Harcourt rolled back onto his face and mumbled, “I was afraid you would say that.”
Callister stepped into the library with a small white box tied with crimson ribbon. North nodded his butler over and reached for the package, but the old man shook his head.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but this just arrived for Viscount Forsgreen.”
Something yawned and stretched inside North’s breast, something that had been sleeping for years. Usually, when it woke, he drugged it with Brandy until it slept again. He wasn’t sure, but it might have been his soul. And with some sort of premonition which he’d never been known to possess, he suspected that thing within him would somehow be affected by Stanley’s box.
He watched, as did they all, while Stanley slowly pulled a crimson tail, as if they expected a cat to jump out from beneath it.
The ribbon fell away. Nothing happened. Stanley sat the box upon the table, lifted the lid, and set it aside. He frowned, looked at North, then reached into the box. He pulled out a pair of spectacles...and a bubble burst in North’s chest.
He laughed.
Stanley didn’t seem to understand.
“Who did you tell about this meeting, Viscount F?” Monty had to raise his voice to be heard.
North laughed harder. Watching Stanley’s face as realization dawned, struck him as particularly amusing.
“Poor eyesight.” Harcourt’s grin widened further than the confines of his face. “I say, she’s a clever minx.”
North agreed. The Scarlet Plumiere was clever. And had he a heart, she might have just won it over with her wit alone.
For more on this book and series, please visit — www.llmuir.weebly.com.
Excerpt from GOING BACK FOR ROMEO
A Muir Witch Project
~ PROLOGUE ~
Castle Ross, East Burnshire, Scotland 1494
Odd.
The stone closest to Laird Montgomery Ross’s foot looked to be the same shape as the hole remaining in the side of his sister's tomb, but he refused to reach for it.
"Nay. I'm not ready to be finished." Monty whispered his complaint to God, for surely it was God's hand that wrought such an appropriately shaped thing.
Behind him, one of the priests cleared his throat. Monty knew without looking it had been the fat one who could not cease rubbing his hands together, even while Monty’s sister was led inside her would-be grave. The bastard had been rubbing them for a fair two days, since he’d arrived to try Isobelle as a witch. No doubt they were itchy for the feel of a woman’s neck since Monty had cheated them out of wringing his sister’s.
He could let the priest live, or he could be silent, but Monty could not manage both.
"If you canna seem to clean those hands, Father,” he said without turning away from his morbid creation, “I'd be happy to rid you of them before I finish my task here. I'm sure my sister wouldna mind the wait."
A gasp of outrage was followed by silence, although the Great Hall was filled to the corners with his clan. Those who could not find space inside would soon enough hear of each stone lovingly placed as their laird buried his sister alive within their very hall, upon the stone dais, behind the great Ross Chair. Hopefully they would remember Isobelle’s bravery and not how oft his tears mingled with the mortar.
None breathed, none dared rub their hands. How could he possibly continue? How could he not?
“Nay, I wouldna mind a bit, if you’re quick about it, brother mine.” Isobelle’s voice echoed eerily from the tomb and she smirked at him from within the tiny patch of light the same shape as the odd stone. “In fact, toss the bloody things in here with me and I’ll leave them at the gates of hell. Himself can collect them when he arrives.”
Her unholy laughter no doubt had even the dogs wishing they could cross themselves, but it was music to Monty’s ears. The Kirk’s men allowed her no blanket, but she’d have the image of revenge to keep her warm.
“Isobelle!” Morna screamed. Monty’s other sister stood off to his right, restrained by her puny Gordon husband. “’Tis all my fault. Forgive me.”
Isobelle’s sober face came forward to fill the hole as she searched for Morna, giving Monty one last glimpse of red hair.
“Morna, love. Dinna greet. The faery will come to make it all right again. Watch for the faery...and keep away from your husband!”
“Silence!” the robed bastard roared.
Isobelle laughed again, backing away from the hole. After all, what could the man do to her now?
Monty would not ruin her00 trust in the blasted faery, but if the creature ever placed its magic toe on Ross land, it would be dead before it ever took a breath of heathered air.
‘Twas time.
He looked at the stone.
‘Twas meant.
“I love you, sister mine.” His words were quiet, for Isobelle alone.
“And I you, Monty. Blow us a kiss.”
When he raised his crusted fingers to his lips, his palm filled with tears but they washed none of the nightmare away. He blew a kiss that was instantly returned.
“I’m stayin’ right here, pet. Ye’re no’ alone.”
“Get on, then.” The whimper in her voice was slight. “I’ll have a wee nap if ye’ll but douse the light.”
With a final wink she disappeared.
Monty reached for the stone, dipped its edges in muck, and pushed it home, breaking his heart in the doing. After long moments of stillness, his hands slowly opened and dropped away.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Morna swoon, but someone else would have to catch her—someone without mud or blood on his hands. Morna wouldn’t welcome his comfort anyhow. She claimed it was her fault, but he knew both sisters blamed him.
If he’d have known the outcome, would he have acted differently? What kind of bastard would not?
There was no stopping the twisting of his face, the sob from his chest. He turned his head to the side and bellowed, “Out!”
Nearly everyone fled or slithered from the hall, all but The Kirk’s henchmen who would stay until they believed his sister dead. Only then did he hear the muffled sobs of Isobelle. She sounded as if she were deep in the ground.
His heart shuddered with cold. Dear God, what had he been thinking? His plan was madness; she would never last. Not enough time. He had to get her out!
He reached for the odd stone...and was struck soundly from behind.
CHAPTER ONE
Castle Ross, Present Day
This wasn’t the first time Jillian MacKay had felt a holy-crap-moment coming on. She wouldn’t worry about it now, except for two things. First, her premonitions of holy-crap-moments were never wrong. And second, she was only minutes away from testing The Curse of the Ross Clan.
Jilly was alone for the moment, poised to enter the Great Hall of Castle Ross, the right heel of her green boots rocking nervously while she waited for the tour group to catch up to her. No sirens sounded. No trumpets announced that a simple girl from Wyoming was about to do anything noteworthy, even though, for the first time in her life, she thought she may actually be about to do something noteworthy.
She took a deep breath. Then another. Then tentatively stepped into the dimly lit Hall, turned to her left, and froze.
Holy, holy crap.
Silence stirred from its dreamy corner and rose to fill the Hall, pushing into every nook and cranny. There was no echo of her steps on the wood floor, no muffled voices of the tour group nearing the massive outer door—as if this moment was so pure, so important, that sound could not be allowed to sully it.
And all she’d done was look at his face.
For more on this
book and series, please visit — www.llmuir.weebly.com.
Acknowledgements
Somewhere Over the Freaking Rainbow would not have been possible without a truck-load of faith expressed by my husband and kids every time they brought me an icy drink, washed the pans, and did the laundry so I could stay in the zone.
Thanks to three wonderful beta-readers, Sierra, Lexie, and Keara. Without your honest feedback and dishonest flattery, I would have never dared go on.
Thanks to Diane for igniting the fire currently in my belly. And to Cori...for giving Freaking the old college try!
And finally, thanks to my posse: Kelli Ann for helping me find the perfect wings for the cover, to Annie for not cringing when hearing the title for the one thousand and fourteenth time, Cindy for letting me in when I needed reassurances, and Tiffinie for always being on late at night.
One day, we’ll put you all on a cover!
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 historical romances, both Scottish and Regency, 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 up and coming adventures. There is always something exciting in the works.
Table of Contents
ABOUT THE BOOK
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
