by L. L. Muir
Bree looked away, then looked back to see what the guy really looked like. But her mind was stilling messing with her. She laughed again—the only voice in the room—then felt like she’d better apologize to the guy, since he was watching her lose her mind.
“I’m sorry,” she started to say.
“I’m sorry. Ye look familiar. Have we met?” He frowned at her, like Heathcliff used to.
She recoiled in horror, but her mom was there, still holding her arm. There was no time to explain to the woman that her daughter’s sanity was slipping fast and she needed to run away. Because he’d even sounded like Heathcliff.
Bree could only shake her head.
He put a finger to his lips, like he was trying to place her. Then he smiled and held up that finger. “Just a moment,” he said, then started searching the pockets of his jacket.
Charlotte stood behind her. Mother squeezed one arm while Shelly blocked her in on the other side. There was nowhere she could run. Bree could only stand there, like an idiot, while the guy closed the distance between them. She felt the impact of each step in her bones.
He unfolded the black cloth he’d taken from his pocket, then put it over her head! She didn’t dare reach up to see what it was.
Wait a minute.
Out of another pocket, he pulled something neon pink. That, too, he stretched and put over her head. Then something green with little purple flowers.
“Heathcliff,” she breathed. “You can’t be Heathcliff.”
And suddenly the room lost all sound. The murmurs that began when he’d first stepped forward were gone. Charlotte’s breath in her ear. The tinkling of music that had been playing in the background, all gone.
“I kept calling out to ye, love. Beggin’ ye to come play with me upon the moors, but ye never came. So I had to come to ye.”
“But how?” She still didn’t reach out to him, didn’t dare touch him, afraid the illusion would disappear and she’d be standing there making goo-goo eyes at a fat balding man she would recognize from a teacher’s conference.
“I’ll tell ye how,” said another man as he stepped up next to the illusion of Laird Gorgeous. It was The Coachman!
She tried to step back, but the forms of her mom and friends were like stones beside her.
The old man waved his hand. “I’ve taken ye out of time for a moment while we finish things between us.”
She turned to her right. Mom was frozen, staring at the underwear perched on her head, but not moving, not blinking.
“She’s going to be all right, right?”
The old man rolled his eyes. “No worries, no worries.”
It was less than comforting.
“You should know, lass, what kind of man would have yer heart. Laird McKinnon here is a cheat. A blackmailer. And a witch. Ye may wish to wash yer hands of him before he tries to turn your head, lass.”
“Really?” She smiled at Heathcliff, knowing she was probably about to have her heart broken again, but willing to suffer anything to have another minute or two near him. She would relish every second! “What did you do to the poor old Man in the Moon?”
Heathcliff smiled and reached for her.
The old man pushed Heathcliff’s hands aside. “He harassed my child, until she could take it no more. He stood at his window and called to her, night after night, that she’d left her wee doll and her name behind, and she should come and get them.” He shook his head. “But I knew better than to allow the child within arm’s length again. So I waited. I waited until my usual—That is, I waited—”
“Until the New Moon,” Heathcliff said helpfully. “That’s the one night a month when he’s not expected to be in the sky. That’s when he runs around and makes mischief.”
The old man gasped. “I’ll thank ye not to spill me secrets like so much milk if ye please.” Then to Bree he said, “He used his grandmother’s Puttin’ Spell, placing the child’s things on a chair like bait in a trap, and when I came to collect them...”
“He couldn’t take them from the room.”
“Aye! He’d spelled them to stay put! After telling my child they were hers to have, even if she left him, he wouldna let her have them.”
“No. I wouldna let ye have them. Human hands could remove them just fine.” He turned back to Bree. “And I’ll un-spell them, so he can take them to Angeline, just as soon as we’re finished here.”
Bree’s chest twisted, along with the heart inside it. It was time for the rug to be pulled out from under her again. This was just too good to be true. It couldn’t be real!
“Before you go,” she said. “I want you to know you were right. I did miss you. I still do. I’m never going to get over you, Heathcliff McKinnon.”
He pulled her into him then and kissed her as if he’d been waiting hundreds of years for the chance. But before she could pretend, even for a second, that nothing existed beyond that kiss, the old man was clearing his throat.
“I’m sorry, Brianna Catherine Colby,” murmured Heathcliff. “That is not good enough.” Then he kissed her again.
She pulled back and ended the kiss. “How can I do better? What can I do that would be good enough?”
Heathcliff frowned. “Careful, lass. Be makin’ no more deals with the likes of him. He’s just given ye back yer name. He has no power over ye unless you give it.”
She nodded. He was right. Of course he was right. But if there was some way—
The old man laughed.
She looked into Heathcliff’s eyes, trying to memorize this modern version of him to tuck next to the rest of her memories. But if she didn’t try to find a way for them to be together, she’d never forgive herself. “What now? Can’t we think of some way—”
“Come with me, love.” Heathcliff smiled and took her hand, then led her through the maze of unmoving bodies, through the gallery.
She really loved that smile. It was full of hope. She only hoped she wasn’t imagining that hope. Real or not, it was making it impossible for her to take a deep breath.
At the back, they headed for the doorway that led to the green room. Twice a year, the gallery allowed the school to use that room to display the artwork of the deaf and blind students. The room was dim as most of the lights were focused on the drawings on the wall. Some of them were framed. Others were hung as if they’d just been ripped from a sketch pad.
Most were sketches of Bree’s body parts; hands, lips, half a face. One was of her calf. Some were of her and Angeline. None of them were good enough to be in a real gallery, but it was a sweet surprise anyway. There was a large drawing, a good five feet across, of a nearly life-sized Angeline, dancing with her doll. A Bree-looking woman stood in the background with her hands clasped in front of her chest. A tear hovered at the corner of her eye.
She remembered that day she’d found Heathcliff and Angeline humming and dancing.
“You should have drawn yourself in that one,” she said. “They’re all wonderful. You never mentioned you drew.” Then she noticed, sitting on a display cube, were the doll and a little scroll tied with a yellow ribbon. They hadn’t aged at all.
The old man noticed them too and rushed forward and snatched them up. The glee on his face scared her to death, like he was about to get the best of them again!
When he turned to flee, however, his hands were empty. The items were back where they’d started. Again, he picked up the doll and scroll, but when he turned, they were back on the little tower, sitting exactly as they had been. His white gloves were full of nothing.
“Damned Puttin’ Spell!” He glared at Heathcliff, then came at Bree with one hand clawed. “You! This is your fault.”
Heathcliff put himself between them, but said nothing.
“I’ve been away from me post far too long,” the old man grumbled.
Bree backed away, afraid the man might try to take out her heart again, but Heathcliff just folded his arms and smiled. She wished she could be so calm, but she still didn’t understand
what was going on here.
“Do better,” the old man told her and put his hands behind his back.
“Do better? I don’t understand.”
“The Coachman can’t take Angeline’s things until you love me enough, Brianna.” Heathcliff’s smile faded a little. “I pray you can, for that was the bargain we struck.”
She flung herself at him, wrapped her arms around his torso and held him tight. “Please tell me that’s not all you came for, to find out if I love you. I already told you, before I left. Remember?”
“Yes, I remember. You did say you loved me. But do you love me enough—enough to stay with me for always? Enough to be my wife? Because if you doona, the night will be short one moon until you do. No matter how long it takes.”
She stepped back in shock. “You mean you get to stay until I agree to love you enough? That’s easy, I’ll just take it back—”
“Don’t ye say it!” The old man shook his hands in the air. “Don’t ye dare take it back. I wish to take my child’s gifts and be done with the pair of ye. Say what ye’re supposed to. Release the gifts. The man’s heart is already yours. I’ve done everything he asked to bring him into your time. We’ve been running about for days putting things to rights. I’ve sealed every vow. Just say it.”
She looked at Laird Gorgeous and hardly dared ask. “You mean, you’re here to stay?”
He grinned and nodded. Without looking away from her, he said, “One more thing, Coachman. You’ve removed us from time again. Put us back from whence and when you took us.” Then he whispered. “Time to pledge your troth, lass.”
Since she was pretty sure she knew what that meant, she said, “I do.”
“Brianna Colby, you will remove that underwear from your head this instant,” her mother growled, then seemed to realize that Heathcliff was standing within earshot. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” She held out her hand but instead of shaking it, Heathcliff took it and kissed the back of it while Brianna nonchalantly pulled lace panties from her hair.
“Laird Heathcliff McKinnon at your service, Mrs. Colby. I was just about to donate a new wing to your daughter’s school. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to hold the documents while she and I get reacquainted.”
“Oh, why, of course.” Mom took the thick envelope he’d removed from his inside pocket and held it like a dozen roses across one arm.
Heathcliff turned back to Bree and pulled her gently against him. She fit perfectly, as always, and was able to completely ignore the three gasps behind her when Heathcliff bent to resume that kiss the coachman had interrupted. Her dad’s laughter from across the room made her smile, but it did not break her concentration, as she realized...
...she had a natural talent for smiling and kissing at the same time.
THE END
Bonus Material: GOING BACK FOR ROMEO
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 he
r. 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.
Bonus Material: BLOOD FOR INK
Book One of The Scarlet Plumiere Series
CHAPTER ONE
Capital Journal, Fiction Section, Friday, February the First
A rumor currently circulates among the gentry in The Grand City that the white/blond Viscount of F had a visitor one recent morning, or rather, visitors, as the woman who claimed to be his wife brought with her a pair of identical offspring closely resembling the earl himself. Piercing blue eyes and straight white hair adorned both cherubs whose mother was blessed with the dark hair of her pure Spanish ancestors.
Not believing the woman, or his own eyes it seems, The Viscount of F shooed the little family from his noble steps and into the halls of a certain hotel where they have taken up residence until a higher authority might be able to hear their tale.