by L. L. Muir
Every time he stirred, she’d ask what he needed, until finally he turned his back to her and wrapped a plaid around his ears. Only then had he taken a final deep breath and surrendered to Morpheus.
Jillian hadn’t slept at all. In the morning, he awakened to find dark smudges beneath her still-opened eyes, and after allowing her some privacy, he’d tucked her in bed, shuttered the morning light from the window and ordered her to sleep. When he’d come up the steps to check on her for the third time, she told him to get out and she’d come down to the hall when she was bloody good and ready, wrapped the plaid around her own ears, and slept an entire precious day away.
No one had seen anyone taking food to the hall the night before. With the excuse of wanting to thank the generous cook, he’d spent part of the morning asking about. Although he watched for a guilty glance, or the curious look from the gossips, he found only the clansmen he loved carrying on life as they always had.
Life did indeed go on outside the walls of his hall.
Inside that keep, however, he was left alone with his thoughts. Every now and again, he would stand at the foot of the stairwell, for he knew not how long, wishing for any sound of stirring from above. Once he was rewarded with the most unladylike snort and one would think he’d been given the greatest of gifts. He smiled and whistled until he realized that in reality he had been given such a gift; Jillian’s love.
It was funny how a silly thing like love could change everything. Faeries and witchcraft, Curses and MacKays, sanity and the lack of it, even the threat of war with the Gordons were but a list of worries he felt strong enough to deal with. The one important thing was that he’d decided to keep her.
He grinned broader and whistled louder.
When Ewan walked in on his personal celebration, he shooed the man outside.
“I canna be responsible for sewing yer head back on yer shoulders if ye happen to wake the lass. She’s right mean when she hasn’t slept, ye ken,” Monty had whispered.
“Ye’re in there whistling loud enough to overtake a piper and ye’re afraid I’ll wake her?”
“Was I whistling, then?”
“Aye, ye were. Folks are gonna think ye barmy, Monty.”
He hadn’t whistled for years and now he didn’t know if he could stop, but he’d try.
“I’ll put a quit to the whistling. Just ye rummage up some fine food by suppertime, man.”
The pair of them eased to their usual place at the top of the keep steps, reinforcing the appearance that all was normal. They lowered their voices to share their own events of the day.
“Any idea who brought the meal and the wine?” Ewan asked.
The impulse to whistle whithered.
“No. I’ve none. Whoever wants me dead will show his face eventually. I only hope I’ll recognize that face as my enemy.”
# # #
Jillian woke at gloaming and realized why Scotland would require a more romantic name for dusk. The sun had set but the sky was still lit with low orange clouds, which in turn lit the tips of heather on the hillside with an ethereal glow as they bent to a gentle breeze.
When the breeze blew in her own small town, one either got the fumes from the stockyard, where livestock waited for an East or Westbound train, or the smells from the sugar beet plant when the wind blew south. Worst of all was a Northbound breeze when the garbage dump was warm and pungent.
The city planners had apparently never expected the city’s population to grow past a thousand, which meant the dump and stockyards were determined the day the railroad came through. No use moving them now when all they had to do was wait for a Westbound wind which carried the lure of better, less offensive places to live.
Like Scotland.
Once she was home again, or rather, once she decided where her home would be, she’d have to harass the local florist into ordering heather for her. Scottish heather. She’d have a basket of it in every room.
In about two days, she’d at least be in her home century, if all went as expected. How many days after that would she be unlocking the apartment door...and eating her heart out?
Jilly smelled food, and not just roasted meat and vegetables. There were spices in the air and they tickled her nose like invisible fingers all the way down the stairs until her eyes got a delight of their own.
Torches hung at intervals on every side of the hall. The fire was modest, the table pulled into the middle of the room, although she nearly didn’t recognize it with all its dressing. A fine red cloth ran down the center with silver candelabras decked out in vines and leaves. The silver platters had been polished much better than she’d done the day before. And covered dishes were scattered about the end of the table nearest the laird’s chair, the back of which was also draped in red.
Left of his chair was only one other, a high-backed seat she recognized from a room above. It, too, was draped in red, and behind it stood a man with his own bit of spit and polish.
Laird Ross, for what else could she call him decked out in his formal regalia, lifted his chin proudly above his decadent white ruffles. A brighter plaid draped across his left, and finally covered, shoulder. A shiny broach held it in place. He stepped back and pulled the chair out for her, showing off highly polished boots beneath his kilt. The only flesh showing was on his face, his nearly ruffle-covered hands, and her very favorite set of knees.
She would have thought the man incapable of improving his looks with clothes. She couldn’t be more wrong. She had gotten used to seeing a great deal of bare skin, but this was impressive.
And although she’d taken full advantage of the bath she’d found waiting when she woke, she was hardly dressed well enough to sit next to this man.
“Excuse me.” She turned and fled up a few stairs, then back down again. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Then she turned and fled again to the tune of Montgomery Constantine Ross’s delightful laughter.
Nearly a half hour later, after exhausting every trunk, Jilly felt half-worthy to go to dinner. She walked as Morna-like and composed as possible, considering the yardage around her ankles, even though she was braced for a good lecture about making the man wait for so long.
He stood exactly where she’d left him, holding onto her chair, smiling appreciatively.
“Worth every minute, lass.” He cleared his throat. “Jillian.”
“Laird Ross.” It took a moment to start moving toward him, wanting to remember this moment for the rest of her life.
“Although ye’d look just as lovely without the gown.”
She pretended not to read too much into that, but Ewan barked with laughter as he emerged from the rear doorway.
“Stop that, Ewan. I know exactly what he meant.”
The laird scooted her chair beneath her and bent close to her ear. Her neck rose with goose bumps when his warm breath passed across it.
“Are ye quite sure of that, Jillian?”
Holy crap.
Holy crap, holy crap.
“Here now.” Ewan looked around the edges of the table. “Where’s that stool was just here, then?”
The Ross’s eyebrows rose, then puckered.
“Oh, I believe it is outside, cousin.” He winked at Jilly. “In fact, I’m sure it is. And I’m sure there is food on it as well. If there isn’t enough, mayhap ye could go a beggin’ from Mickey’s table, aye?”
Ewan frowned at Jilly, then back at his laird.
“What, do ye think I can be seduced by mere turnips?”
Holy crap, holy crap.
“I’m sure the man has a cask ye can help him open.”
The cousins were glaring at each other and she was sure her face was as red as the men’s, only they were angry, she was mortified.
“I’ll not open for just anyone, though, Monty, darlin’. Nor do I suggest it for anyone else.”
Holy crap. He couldn’t possibly mean—
He was looking right at her.
“Get out.” The laird still had a hold of the back
of her chair with one hand, his knuckles white, and for a moment she thought he might throw it at his cousin—with or without her on it.
“I’ll go, cousin, but I’ll have a promise from ye first.”
“No promises, Ewan. This is none of yer concern.”
“Ah, but it is. I’ll have it from ye that no matter what our Jillian may do to anger ye, ye’ll not lose yer temper and harm the lass.”
Laird Ross inhaled sharply.
“Ewan? What say ye? Ye think me a monster as weel? Ye?” In all his deflated glory, the laird collapsed in his own chair and stared off at the fire. “If ye believe me capable of harming a woman, then I must be that monster, mustn’t I?”
Jilly looked to Ewan and with her eyes begged him to take it back. The man would suffer too much as it was.
Ewan looked at her, then back at Laird Ross.
Say it, Ewan. Say it. Take it back and make him believe it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Monty. Monty, I was wrong.”
Monty the Monster heard, but felt nothing. He was numb. He’d been slapped about so much since the day Jillian arrived that at last he could feel no more.
But perhaps he’d needed slapping.
He thought about what he’d heard in the tunnels, how convincing Ivar and his sister had sounded, as if they truly believed he had offered Morna’s hand to the Gordons in a fit of anger and jealousy.
And for the first time since those days, he thought it all wanted examining.
He’d not harmed a lass in his life, and yet both his sisters had suffered the worst of heartaches. And sitting here, with a wondrous woman he may not be able to keep, he no longer believed heartache such a minor woman’s weakness.
He looked to Jillian. Was that more than pity in her eyes?
“Monty.” She took his hand. “Monty, you must listen to Ewan. Mavournin’, please.”
His toes tingled. She’d called him Monty. She’d called him mavournin’. He knew, from his role as a dungeon rat, that she knew full well it was an endearment.
He smiled. He should act the martyr more often if it granted him this kind of boon.
“Ye can’t take it back now.” He looked at his cousin. “Tell her she can’t take it back. She’s called me mavournin’ and one can never take that back. Tell her Ewan.”
“He’s right, lass.” Ewan grinned. “None can take back a mavournin’.” He cleared his throat. “And I can see all feelings are mutual and so I’m not needed here, by either of ye.” He turned back as he reached the door. “But if ye need a bit of help, Monty...”
A dinner knife embedded in the door was answer enough and Ewan left without another word.
At his request the lass began uncovering their meal and if her reaction was sincere, she was mightily pleased. She ate daintily and he tried earnestly not to laugh. When he failed, he tried to cover his lapse with a cough into his ruffled sleeve. She pretended not to notice.
They spoke of his childhood days with Ivar, his memories of his parents. He avoided speaking about his sisters as much as possible, since he missed them so terribly and suspected that to speak of them tonight would end with him greetin’ on Jillian’s shoulder.
She spoke sparingly of her grandmother, that she’d had no other family and had been trying to track down possible relatives when she’d met a couple of Muir twins. Bad luck, that. But she was glad she’d gotten to meet him, in spite of everything.
One by one the candles gutted, the torches failed, until only one still bore a flame. What food could be saved to break their fast she covered and set aside.
“We’ll clean this up on the morrow, lass. ‘Tis time for bed.”
Walking up the stairs, Jilly felt like she was marching to the guillotine. She tried not to drag her feet, and his steadying grasp on her arm was a bit too firm as she used both her hands to hold up her skirts.
She moved into the bedchamber and stood aside when he held the torch to her candle. He then handed her the light and knelt, in his finery, to lay a fire for her.
“No. That’s all right. I don’t need a fire tonight, I don’t think.”
“Ye’ve not been awake long, lass. I daresay you won’t find sleep for a while yet, and I won’t have you lying in the dark.”
He stood and took the torch from her, his fingers brushing hers for a moment before he turned away.
Holy crap. Maybe she could do this after all.
Fires flared. Everywhere.
He hung the torch near the door and came back to her.
“Goodnight, Jillian.”
His arm went around her and he pulled her to him, cradling her between biceps that strained at his billowy sleeves. She looked up into black sleepy eyes and could almost feel sleepy herself.
“Wish me a good night, Jillian.”
“Goodni—”
Okay then. Apparently “goodnight” means “kiss me.”
He pulled away far too soon, so she tested this vocabulary lesson and again said, “Goodnigh—”
It worked. Hallelujah, it worked. And he got the hint too, not pulling away nearly as quickly.
His lips were firm and smooth, the kind you could kiss for hours and...
He pulled back again, stupid man.
“Goodnight.” She leaned forward and got only a kiss on the forehead and a chuckle.
“Goodnight.” Monty, or so she could call him now, backed away from her. “I have to leave now, lass, or we’ll neither one be able to face my cousin on the morrow.”
Is he kidding?
“Are you kidding?” She put her hands on her hips. “I thought you got over that.”
“Ye canna take back knowledge, lass.”
Whatever the hell that meant. She was left standing alone watching the swing of his kilt disappear around the corner.
Jilly spent a very long night thinking of all kinds of ways to punish both men in the morning. She had two days left with her very own, although rented, Highlander—make that two days and one night—and she was determined to get her money’s worth, so to speak.
# # #
“I’m leaving tomorrow, Jillian.”
Monty had heard her coming down the stairs, though without her boots. He’d also heard her stop at his words, so he turned to face her anger, but if she were frowning at him, he would never have noticed.
Ewan came in behind her and promptly dropped a mug of fresh milk.
Jillian stood before them swathed in a small length of plaid that covered only above her...well, below the pits of her arms to just below her...or rather quite far above her knees.
“That milk will sour if you don’t clean it up, Ewan.” She pointed to his spill. “Would you like me to do it?”
“Thank ye,” Ewan said at the same time Monty shouted, “No!”
He could just imagine how high that wool might go if she were to bend over to clean a spill.
He cleared his throat.
He cleared it again.
“Uh, lass. Jillian. What kind of garment did ye suppose that was?” He blinked. He blinked again.
She looked down at the cloth she thankfully held tightly with one hand.
“I thought it was a towel. You see, I usually bathe every day and when I had that bath yesterday it felt so good I decided I can’t do without.” She walked to the hearth and dipped her fingers in the water, but she’d bent over to do it and if either man had been standing to the right of the mantle... “Did you sleep well, Monty?”
“Sorry?”
“I asked if you slept well.” She turned a smile on Ewan. “You see, we didn’t sleep together, or do anything else together, just in case you were wondering.”
“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 a goin’ to do his chores, isn’t that right, 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, sha
ll 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 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 chuckled and shook his head.
In spite of his 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’d raced to the archway.
Twice.
It was also the number of times Ewan had cheated death.
# # #
Jilly 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 moved to the sword propped in the corner of the room he’d apparently slept in the night before. She’d been confused when he hadn’t had it with him, but maybe he hadn’t slept all that well last night either.
She didn’t dare test the edge; it looked deadly. She scurried back down the hall where her lovely bath was already beginning to cool and bid a less than fond farewell to her infrequently lucky jeans.
But their luck was about to change.
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.