The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

  Isobelle shrieked and jumped in the air with Morna and Juliet. Lady Ross stood stark still and stared at her husband. Eventually, she ducked through the center of the fence and started toward him, walking slowly, her strange green boots only slightly less disturbing than the fact she wore breeches. Her fingers were tucked into strange little pockets that did not show, and her look of remorse would sway any judge.

  Gaspar clambered to his feet and faced the man quickly, before the woman was close enough to speak.

  “Blame me, Laird Ross. I begged your wife to give me some way to distract you. I would not relent until she gave up the tale. My actions were shameful. I withdraw the victory. Just do not punish the woman, I beseech you.”

  “It’s a lie, Montgomery. Don’t listen to him.”

  Surely it was dangerous to step so close to her angry husband, so Gaspar tried to pull her back and behind him.

  The man growled. “If I will not allow ye to put yer hands on me sister. What makes ye believe I’d allow ye to touch me wife?” His voice had grown louder with each word.

  Gaspar put his offending hand in the air and stepped to the side. Their audience laughed, but Gaspar could not see the reason.

  “Did you hear him?” Ross asked his wife as he reached out and pulled her to him again, her rounded belly notwithstanding. “He was defending ye. And to me. Have ye ever heard such nonsense?”

  The woman’s hands worked their way up the man’s arms and behind his neck, though he had to bend far forward to allow it.

  “I did offer him a little advantage, husband.”

  Monty smiled. Smiled! “Aye, because he was sorely disadvantaged.”

  “As are we all,” she whispered. “As we should be, yer lairdship.”

  It might have been Jillian’s exaggerated brogue, or the fact that she’d called him laird, but the big man lowered his mouth to his wife’s in spite of an attentive audience.

  Since Gaspar was forgotten, he turned to take advantage, and had just enough time to open his arms before Isobelle flew into them.

  “Gaspar, my love! Ye’ve beaten him!”

  He held her tight a long moment, remembering all those days and nights when they’d had a cold metal wall between them. He reveled in the feel of her while he could, before he had to dash her hopes again.

  “No, Isobelle,” he whispered. “Your brother has beaten me.”

  She looked up and her lips parted when she noticed his chin. She shook her head frantically then pressed her head to his chest and wrapped her arms securely around him.

  “What is this?” Montgomery barked. “I’ll not take a victory that isna mine. Yer dragon looks a bit long in the tooth, Sister, but ye can keep him if ye still want him. He tried to defend my guilty wife. He’s a saint for all we ken.”

  Gaspar remembered what Isobelle had told him in the beginning about the men she knew who treated their women well. Isobelle claimed Monty was not one of them, but she’d been wrong.

  He bent to kiss Isobelle again, this time in the dizzying knowledge that they could truly be together. There were no secrets left to bare, no other’s approval to seek. Nothing to separate them—most especially 500 years. Isobelle seemed to be celebrating the same as she met his passion with equal fervor. In the distance, he heard the clearing of a throat or two and dredged up the will to at least pause for a breath.

  He opened his eyes and was a little too pleased to find Isobelle was having a more difficult time opening hers. He also found that Lady Ross had been set aside and her husband was moving toward him. Gaspar had scarcely released his hold on Isobelle before he fell onto his backside. Again.

  “Saint or no,” the man bellowed, “the next time ye kiss my sister will be after ye’re wed and not before.”

  Gaspar got to his feet and fisted his hands, then leaned close to his would-be brother. “How far is the church? For I will be kissing her again, and soon.” He held a hand out to Isobelle and pulled her close again, ignoring her snorting brother. “Will you have me to husband, Isobella—Isobelle?”

  She nodded and rose onto her toes to whispered close to his ear, sending delicious chills up his back. “Perhaps when we’re alone in the night, ye can call me Isobella.”

  He thought that sounded like an exceptional idea and wished to reward such inspiration with a kiss, but he remembered the brother before he laid his lips on Isobelle’s again. He looked at Ross and asked permission with a raised brow. The man rolled his eyes and nodded, and while Gaspar kissed his Isobelle, he realized the laird of the clan, the mighty Montgomery Ross, was all bluster when it came to matters of the heart.

  EPILOGUE

  University of Edinburgh library, a year later…

  “Who is that?” A brunette American student, approached her blond English flatmate and slid sideways onto a chair. “Tell me he’s not a professor.”

  “Unfortunately,” said the blond, “he is, alas, a professor.” She was trying not to spend any more time staring at the man at the other end of the table, but failing. His face was pure perfection, except for the minor detail of an angry white scar that slashed across his face. But it simply made him look…perfectly imperfect. “Teaches History, Art History, and Italian. Oh, and some class on the Ottoman Empire.”

  “I’m changing majors,” said the brunette.

  “You cannot,” her friend snapped. “Apparently, there has been a rash of girls trying to get into his classes. They’re full up. And the counsellors are positively snarky to anyone wanting to change any major to History.”

  “I bet Italian’s not full.”

  “Full. I have already tried.” The blond tried to concentrate once more on her book.

  “Ottoman Empire?”

  She shook her head.

  The brunette sighed. “How do you say perfect in Italian?”

  “Perfetto,” said a red-head as she passed their end of the table and headed toward the professor. She leaned down and gave the guy a long, sexy kiss. Then she slid into a chair catty-corner from him and laced her fingers in his.

  “Who does she think she is?”

  “Has to be his wife,” said the blond.

  “Oh? How can you tell?” Her friend glanced casually at the other end of the table again.

  “Because she’s showing us the ring on his finger,” she whispered, then sat forward so her hair would cover her embarrassed face.

  “Oh, wow.” Her friend hunched down in her chair and looked away.

  “What?”

  “Pregnant as a cow.”

  The blond looked up through her bangs at the couple. Mr. Perfection pulled out the chair for his wife who literally appeared to be hiding a basketball beneath her gray sweater. He kissed her hand as she stood, then led her back toward their audience of at least two. He glanced at the blond and gave her a polite smile that lasted a thousandth of a second and she was fairly certain her heart stopped and died happy.

  She and her friend held their breath as the couple passed. The brunette sighed in relief, a bit loudly at that. The wife stuck her head around the bookrack, and the blond gasped.

  To be tediously honest, the woman was as beautiful as her husband. Though she looked a bit odd when she mooed!

  The blond literally died of embarrassment and dropped her head onto her book. After she was sure the couple was gone, she looked up at her friend and grinned.

  “I think she’s a freaking lucky cow.”

  THE END

  *Return to the ALSO BY L.L. MUIR page for links to my other books.

  Or enjoy the following excerpts.

  Excerpt from WHAT ABOUT WICKHAM

  I had seen a kissing booth before.

  Every fall I was allowed to accompany Gay to Douglas, Wyoming where the State Fair was held. Gay’s one vanity was her love of cooking competition, and if she didn’t win a ribbon, it was a damned long ride back to Casper. So of course, I had many reasons for wishing her well.

  There was no chance of running into our family cook, however, in the sma
ll Scottish village of Sillerbirch, so I had no qualms about watching the goings on at the kissing booth. No one was going to walk up behind me and slap me on the back of the head for doing so.

  “Be careful,” said Mary, as she watched alongside me. “See that placard? No MacKays Allowed.”

  Then a saw it. A sign no bigger than a bread box, hanging off the front of the booth.

  “But don’t worry. There’s another on the opposite end of the row with a sign that will read “No Rosses Allowed.” We’ll just go there. They always have the cutest boys anyway.”

  That was all the encouragement I needed to pry my eyes away from the young man leaning into the first booth to kiss the female attendant.

  “He must have bought a lot of tickets,” I said, then realized I’d spoken to myself as Mary was already ten feet away and fading fast.

  I held my sweater to my shoulders and ran after her, only to bump into a young man wearing a black leather jacket.

  “Pardon me,” I said quickly and ran away.

  Since I’d failed to look him in the eye when I spoke, which was a poor show of manners on my part, I turned back to give him an apologetic smile. The boy didn’t seem to appreciate it at all, however, and only stared at me with startling green eyes.

  I mouthed the word ‘sorry’ and turned away for fear of becoming forever separated from Mary, but not before the young man’s face softened, if only slightly. A chill ran up my spine at the idea that he might yet be watching me as I hurried down the row. I resisted the urge to turn back a second time.

  So distracted by the memory of his face, as I was, I nearly passed Mary before I caught sight of her turquoise headband—the one my mother had purchased for me in New York—the one Mary informed me she was trading me for one of hers covered in genuine Scottish plaid wool. I didn’t bother to inform her that Wyoming was not only on of the biggest supplierd of oil in the United States, but also famous for wool. I let the exchange stand, however, because as soon as I chose to wear my torquoise dress, I’d be borrowing back my headband.

  I first noticed the sign. No Rosses Allowed. Then I noticed the banner. Kissing Booth for Charity. Then I noticed the handsome boy inside the booth and the earth beneath my feet gave a little lurch. I had to grab onto Mary to maintain my balance. The boy bent forward to kiss the girl at the head of the line, but while he did so, he opened his eyes and scanned the crowd. When he’d finished his part of the exchange, he took the girl’s coin and gave her a wink. As she walked away, I felt I should call out and stop her, to tell her she should ask for her money back.

  “Och, now. What have I done, to upset the pretty lassie, I ask ye.” The boy leaned against the frame of the booth while looking straight at me.

  “You did it wrong. You should give her back her money.”

  The boy’s eyes sparkled and his dimples deepened. Only then did I remember why I’d nearly fallen down. He was the same boy I’d bumped into not two minutes ago.

  “Perhaps ye’ll give me a wee lesson on how they perform kisses in America, then.”

  I shook my head. “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “How did you get here before I did?”

  His dimples faded. His eyes turned cold even though he kept his smile.

  “Ah, that. Well. There are two of me, ye see.”

  Excerpt from KILT TRIP

  Book one in the Scavenger Hunting Series, coming soon.

  PROLOGUE

  England, 1704

  “Am I mistaken, or did Flora just invite us all to do something wicked?”

  Bridget was amazed Mallory was able to keep her voice down. Following the Duchess’s clandestine gift of advice for the young female entrants to Society, Mallory had immediately dragged Bridget and their friend Vivianne from the arboretum and into the garden. Dozens of young ladies had flooded out the doors behind them, and their trio of colorful skirts had barely escaped around the corner of the glass structure before her cousin posed the question.

  They weren’t the only ones to have understood what was afoot. All along the softly lit paths, small clutches of ladies were bending their heads together like hungry hens going after the same handful of grain.

  Handful of grain indeed.

  Every young lady knew what every other young lady was discussing, so there was hardly a need for secrecy. But the somber-clad enemy was afoot—men wandering about, wondering why all the youngest dancing partners had disappeared. They eyed the little groups curiously, then the wisest of them fled back through the balcony doors as if they’d sensed danger, which they had, if truth be told.

  Bridget turned to her cousin, satisfied they wouldn’t be overheard. “One would have to be both daft and deaf not to have understood. Grandmother said the duchess has been out of her mind for years, but then again, so is Grandmother.”

  “She was daring us, then.” Mallory’s eyes were crinkled in mischief.

  “To go to...Scotland?” Vivianne whispered ‘Scotland’ as if she were breaking the law to utter the word.

  “To go anywhere, I’m sure, just as long as we play the game.” Bridget watched Vivianne’s teeth worry at her bottom lip. Her friend liked to assume the role of the timid mouse, but deep down, Vivianne loved adventure just as much as she and Mallory. Bridget couldn’t remember climbing out of one window without her cousin and her friend there to catch her if she fell...or push her if she hesitated. Finally, she put a voice to what the others must be thinking. “It’s the best way to punish a man, Flora said. And if ever a man deserved punishing, it would be my fiancée.”

  Mal and Viv exchanged a look. They understood. They didn’t condone her marrying Baron Braithwaite, even if Bridget insisted on bowing to the man’s blackmail. But since they couldn’t come up with a solution either, they’d stand by her—especially on an escapade that would cause the man severe humiliation.

  Mallory placed her hands on her shimmering blue hips that glowed in the light trickling through the branches in the arboretum. “If you think you’re going on an adventure without me, Bridget Kennison, you’re mistaken.”

  “And I refuse to be left behind.” Viv crossed her arms, her play-acting finished.

  “I wouldn’t think of going without the pair of you. But after tonight, we mustn’t ever say the words ‘scavenger hunt’ aloud, or surely we’ll be stopped before we start. Word of the dare will get out, I promise you. Someone will burst.”

  Looking around the gardens just then, it wasn’t hard to determine who was tempted to play and who was only tempted to rat out the tempt-ees; the rats were watching the fluttering hens with interest.

  Bridget led her friends further into the shadows.

  “And what shall we hunt?” Viv clapped her hands silently.

  “Men.”

  “Mallory!”

  “Well!”

  Bridget held up her hands to stop the bickering. “I know just the souvenir an English Baron would never want his bride to bring home.” Bridget leaned in and lowered her voice. She felt sure she’d scream if she didn’t tell them immediately. “A kilt. From a Highlander.”

  “Oh, that’s delicious!” Mallory grinned. “I’ll take the Highlander.”

  Viv gave a pretty snort. “Don’t be silly, Mallory. You can’t keep a Highlander. It must be something you can retrieve, for a memento of your final act of defiance. What will you do, lock him up in the dungeon? Put a collar on him like a puppy?”

  Mallory raised her brows and smirked.

  “Mallory!”

  Finally her cousin dropped her smile and pouted. “Fine. I’ll steal a sporran.”

  “A sporran. Sounds even more scandalous.” Bridget looked to Viv. “What do you want?”

  “Something…romantic.”

  “Obviously, Vivianne. That’s the point, isn’t it?” Mallory rolled her eyes.

  “I can’t think so quickly.” Her friend frowned at the ground as she slowly circled the others twice, kicking her skirts in leisurely steps. She came bac
k and shrugged. “I’d like a broach, then. A Scotsman’s broach.”

  “They call them brooches. It sounds as if we can all get what we want from a single man.” Bridget suddenly didn’t like the idea, but she couldn’t say why. It wasn’t as if she was after a man’s heart, after all.

  Mallory shook her head. “Come now, we must have some rules. No more than one item from any man.”

  “I agree.” Bridget felt better. “That way one poor fellow won’t awaken to find himself without clothing, purse, or jewelry.”

  They all giggled, but stopped short when they noticed Grandmother Kennison’s form looming on the balcony. In unison, they stepped even further into the darkness.

  Due to the dark shade of her purple gown, Viv became a disembodied head of blond curls. “Do you suppose,” she whispered, “there are any romantic Highlanders to be found?”

  Mallory nodded. “Bridget’s Grandmother Kennison thought so. She said the Scot who kidnapped her was a poet. And he never returned to the Highlands. He waited, just across the border, in case she ever changed her mind.”

  They all sighed in unison, staring at the balcony.

  It was all decided but the details, but the three of them would go.

  To Scotland.

  For a scavenger hunt.

  They’d be safe enough; Bridget had a secret weapon, of sorts. If they found themselves in any trouble, they merely needed to call upon the Scot who owed the Kennison family a substantial favor—the Scot who’d kidnapped her grandmother over four decades earlier—a man named Laird Alistair Graham.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alistair Graham was dead.

  Alistair Rory Macpherson had arrived in time to give his grandsire a good shock, a good laugh, and a good burial. The shock had come when the old man laid eyes on his favorite red-haired grandson from the Highlands. The laugh had come after Rory had confided his purpose for his visit. The burial may or may not have come days later had Old Alistair not laughed quite so hard nor so long.