by L. L. Muir
Jilly stretched her neck to catch a glimpse of silver shining on a bed of black velvet. All along its outer edge were Celtic-looking symbols. A bit nondescript for such an important clan heirloom. If not for the multi-faceted spotlights and the plush black velvet, it might have looked a bit dull.
So, that was it. The necklace. Its prophecy had been recited to her so many times since meeting the Muirs two weeks ago that she’d dreamt about it every night since. Listening to Quinn Ross tell it yet again made her antsy, but his brogue lulled her a bit.
“Isobelle promised Morna that one day soon a faery would claim this bit of silver, a faery bearing the Immediate Blood of both the MacKay and the Ross clans, one who would have the power to reunite our Juliet with her Romeo. They needed only be patient.”
As if to test the patience of his audience, he paused to drink from a water bottle, long and slow. The crowd, including Jillian, was mesmerized by the dramatic bob of the man’s Adam’s apple.
She needed to get a hold of herself.
The Scotsman handed off the bottle and continued, knowing full well he hadn’t lost anyone’s attention.
“Unfortunately, even in their time, innocent women were burned as witches, let alone strange sisters who spewed prophecy. Instead of Isobelle’s plan easing her sister’s aching heart, it broke the organ entirely. Word spread like the plague, and The Kirk came to put Isobelle to the witch’s test.”
He raised an open hand to the stone Highlander behind his left shoulder.
“Ye’ve no doubt noticed the sculpture behind me. Some of ye likely believe it to be a fantastic rendering of myself, but in truth it is the image of Laird Montgomery Constantine Ross, Isobelle’s and Morna’s brother. The sculpture was done by a young Italian man who was searching the Highlands for inspiration and found it in the sad family tale. His name was Buonarroti. Whether or not it is the work of a young Michelangelo has never been proven, but I have seen with my own eyes some of his pieces in Florence, and they are very similar.”
Jilly had never considered going to Italy before, but if there were more gorgeous statues like this one under the Tuscan sun, it would be worth the trip to see them. With her shiny new bank account, she could make just about anything happen.
“Buonarroti offered to create this statue to guard over this structure to my right.” Quinn’s gaze lingered on the dark stone tomb before he turned back to jab a finger toward the statue. “Ye’ll notice the unfinished mass of rock behind the legs. It was said the man refused to complete the piece after being called “Mickey” one too many times, but Michelangelo hardly rrrolls off a Scot’s tongue, aye?”
Right on cue, the troupe laughed. Jilly thought Quinn Ross should try stand-up, but then realized this was his gig. A great routine and a daily paying crowd—the perfect set up.
“Betimes I get ahead of myself. Forgive me. As I was saying, Montgomery was laird here and as such held considerable power. But there was no power to equal that of The Kirk in those times. Thus Laird Ross, my great uncle twenty-one times removed, was unable to spare his sister from condemnation. He was, however, able to change the manner in which she was to die.”
Some of the tourists took a deep breath, likely repeat customers bracing themselves for the finale.
With a gesture, Quinn bid the group step closer.
“The oddly shaped construction ye see at the back of the dais was erected by Montgomery as a tomb for both his sister and the accursed torque, built here so she would always be near him. Ye see, Isobelle was spared from a stranglin’ and a burnin’, but she could not escape her death sentence. Before the last stones were set, his very-much-alive sister and her offensive creation were sealed inside the wall by her brother’s hand.”
The kilt-clad Hercules paused dramatically, no doubt so the tragic image could sink in. He pulled a handkerchief from his sporran and turned aside to wipe the corner of one eye. When he dropped the white cloth back in his pouch, the rest of the women sighed, the men cleared their throats, and Jilly resisted the urge to applaud.
“Montgomery thought only to spare his sister the horror of being burned,” Quinn continued. “He had no idea that he’d sentenced them both to madness. Day after day he sat next to the tomb, listening for any sound from his sister within. Actually, for the rest of his life Montgomery Ross would occasionally be seen with his ear pressed against the stones, listening.”
Jilly could not stop herself from leaning toward the edifice at one with the huddled masses, as if they might be able to hear some of what Montgomery had listened for. You could have heard a pin drop.
Quinn’s voice lowered reverently.
“For days he was tormented, regretting his interference, but The Kirk would not allow him to take back the bargain he’d struck. And during that time, Montgomery would cross and re-cross that invisible line into lunacy, thrilling over every little sound Isobelle made, only to cry to God to end her suffering. More than once, he tried to tear down the stones to put her out of her misery, only to be halted by The Kirk’s henchmen who stood guard until the witch was clearly dead. After ten and two days, the little sounds ceased...and the haunting began.”
The squawk of bagpipes lurching into life made Jilly nearly jump out of her skin. It was a moment or two before she was relieved enough to laugh along with the rest. She stood respectfully listening to the set of three tunes that first lured emotion out of her, pulled tears from her eyes with a mournful dirge, then prodded her like a racehorse across an open field. By the time the piper’s bag exhaled its final dissonant breath, she was exhausted.
“Gather ye round, gather ye round.” Quinn stood near the pedestal with its over-glamorized, but romantic jewelry. “If any of ye here is believed to have both Ross and MacKay bloods in yer veins, come forth and try the truth of Isobelle’s prophesy.”
Two very excited old women gave her a shaky squeeze before prodding her in the back. After that jolt from the bagpiper, Jilly prayed their dusty hearts would last the day. Hopefully, hers would too.
So. This was it. Time to play the game, Jillybean. Before she took a step, however, a girl about six or seven years old stepped up to Laird Ross.
“I’ll try it on, Uncle Quinn, if’n there’s nay one else.”
Rather than chide the little girl for interrupting his show, Quinn picked her up and chucked her under the chin. “And ye shall, Eileen, ye shall. We all ken ye have the bloodlines to do it, aye? But let’s save the best for last.”
Eileen beamed.
And all those silly women sighed again.
Jilly was pushed forward a bit faster than she was prepared to go, but before she could turn a frown on the wiry sisters, Quinn caught her hand and pulled her closer until she was nearly nose to nose with the child on his hip.
“Considering yer company, and that black MacKay hair, I rather suspected ye’d be stepping up.” He nodded to the Muir sisters and introduced her to Eileen. “I’ve a feeling one of ye may do the deed this very day, aye? And when a Ross gets a feeling, well, we’d best stay on our toes.”
Amen to that, cousin.
This was what she’d come all this way to do, butterflies be damned. Later, once she was alone in her B&B room, she planned to celebrate how less-than-dull the day had been.
Then she’d puke.
Jilly stepped in front of the pedestal. After a nod from the laird, she picked up the torque and worked it around her neck. Quinn put down his niece and took Jilly by the arm, turning her to face the crowd...
...a crowd that gave a collective “humph” when nothing holy-crappish happened.
“How do ye feel, lass?” He patted her shoulder. “Ye look a mite green. Do I need to fetch a rubbish bin?”
“No. No, I’m all right.” She pulled her face into what she hoped was a smile and turned her back to the group.
She wasn’t all right. She was mortified. Standing in the middle of way too many witnesses, trying on a supposedly magical necklace that was supposed to do who-knows-what, and tryi
ng not to look disappointed when who-knows-what didn’t happen, left her a wee bit angry at herself.
Magic necklace? Are you kidding me?
Eileen smiled hopefully and clapped her hands. Jillian was more than happy to whip off the silly thing and hand it over.
“Looks like you’ll have to save the day, Eileen.” Jilly slung a brief smile in Quinn’s direction, then moved coolly through the crowd to the rear.
She couldn’t say when it had happened, but sometime between packing for the trip and stepping into the Great Hall, she’d forgotten she was only in Scotland to patronize the fragile sisters in their final fantasy. And to prove wrong her grandmother’s life-long conspiracy theory, that Scotland was a dangerous place for their family and no Scot was to be trusted.
She’d just gotten lost in the role she’d been playing, that was all. She’d begun to pity Ivar and Morna and had spent far too long wishing there was actually something she could have done to help them.
Ridiculous. They’d been dead so long even their dust had dust. Twenty-one layers of it.
She now had to keep in mind the second reason she’d come...
When her grandmother had died, she’d tried to pass her paranoia on with her estate, but Jilly refused to believe that a mysterious group of Scots had sinister plans for a specific Wyoming gal who’d never before been away from home. And for what? Her DNA?
Bull.
In another week she’d be back home, safe and sound, wondering what adventure she might try next while standing over Grandma’s grave, telling her how wrong she’d been.
There. She felt better already.
She couldn’t be disappointed that nothing had happened when she’d put on the necklace. Of course nothing had happened. She was just disappointed for the sisters. That was all.
Jilly was in no mood to stick around and listen to the wrinkled twins tisk and shake their heads. She was out of there.
But as she zipped up her second-hand leather jacket and headed for the door—and a three-mile walk back to town—she could almost imagine Montgomery Ross’s stony form screaming for her to come back and fight.
But Jillian MacKay was done making a fool of herself.
For the moment.
CHAPTER TWO
Castle Ross, 1495
Montgomery Ross took his leisure in his grand chair and let The Gordon come to him. At his right shoulder stood his braw cousin Ewan, and to his left, the Italian’s statue of himself. It did no harm to let the mighty Clan Gordon see him as a Roman-like god who was ever watching over his own.
Posing all those days for the mood-ridden Southerner had been worth the time after all.
“Monty, please.” Ewan spoke low. “I beg ye not to do this. Ye’ve nay thought this through, mon.”
“Oh?” Monty did not turn, but looked steadily at the entrance. “And who else would have me, Ewan? Every lass on the island kens what became of my sisters. None would risk my affections now when the only two women I’ve loved were either buried alive or made to wish she were dead.”
“I won’t argue that, cousin. But why a Gordon?” Ewan grunted his frustration. “Nothing good happens when there’s one about. If ye marry the lass, a Gordon will be about all the time! I’d rather ye married a bloody MacKay!” He dropped a hand onto Monty’s shoulder and dropped his voice as well. “Mayhap ye should look a bit longer. Try the Lowlands. Hell, I’d rather ye kidnap an English lass—”
“Bite yer tongue and swallow yer teeth, Ewan.” Monty shuddered. “Besides, I’m finished with waitin’. I want the past year forgotten. I want sons. And The Gordon is the only man offerin’ up his daughter just now. I’m told she’s comely and quiet—and it wasn’t a Gordon who told me.” Monty wiped the cold sweat from his palms onto his thighs, then quickly returned his hands to their casual pose. “‘Comely’ is welcome, but ‘quiet’ is a true boon.”
“Neither Morna nor Isobelle were quiet.” Ewan snorted and removed his hand from Monty’s shoulder as footsteps sounded on the steps outside.
“Exactly.”
“Oh, cousin.” Ewan pulled his shoulders back and stretched to his full height. “I’ve a foul feelin’ about this...”
The great door opened and The Gordon finally entered looking none too happy, most likely for not being greeted out of doors. When Monty nodded permission for the man to descend the steps into his hall, the laird paused as if he might not wish to accept permission after all.
“Come.” Monty waved the man forward, holding a smile he did not feel. He had to prove his control in all things now, or the other man would never respect him enough to keep him as an ally, let alone a son-of-the-law, especially with all the trouble Morna had been.
The Gordon gradually came forward, all the while eyeing the statue as if it might come to life and draw steel.
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 yer 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.
“Yer sister’s grave could not be consecrated and ye ken it.” Gordon retraced his steps until he was once again standing before the grand Ross chair. “How dare ye 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 ye’d not see yer daughter wed to me here, then ye 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 yer 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.
It was still coming, that holy-crap-moment, and the warning was getting louder in a way she could never explain. Jilly only hoped she wouldn’t be explaining it to a bobbie, or someone from The Yard who wouldn’t have the slightest appreciation for Americans who broke into castles when ordered to do so by the voices in their heads—voices that were fond of whispering, “Here it comes. Here it comes. Ope. Not yet. But it’s coming...”