Going Back for Romeo

by L. L. Muir

  “Not only had Luthias fought at our backs for many a long day, I now ken all too well what drove him to it.” Monty had looked over at Jillian when he’d said it.

  She’d wanted to crawl under a rock and crow at the same time. To discover she held such power over the brawny man was heady indeed. And the warmth in his look told her just what kind of power he’d like to hold over her.

  “If I believed you’d killed my Morna, I’d have done the same, Monty. You know I would have,” Ivar had said.

  “And if Jillian would have been in that cottage…” Monty ran one wide hand over his eyes, then down his cheeks to grasp his chin. “I’d have killed him far slower than he planned to kill me.”

  Jillian had made herself as invisible as possible back in the bushes so the MacKays wouldn’t see her, and just as predicted, a mob of her ancestors came a’ running to find the source of the smoke.

  Ivar then told the MacKays he’d been trying to find Montgomery’s would-be assassin for weeks, and he’d discovered Luthias to be that man. No mention had been made of her, no mention of the men that got away. No one recognized the burned bodies whom Ivar and Montgomery had put out of their misery, and since they were accused of aiding Luthias, were to be buried where they’d fallen.

  One man stepped forward and asked if it were true, what he’d heard about Ivar leaving the clan.

  “I’ve had a rough time of it, Jonas. I need to make a new life for myself, and there are MacKays a’ plenty to fill any holes I leave when I go.”

  When it looked as if the man might argue, Monty stepped forward.

  “I’ve ill-served my friend, and I’ll not begrudge him findin’ happiness where ‘ere he can. If you have sore feelings for him leaving, it is my fault you feel them.” He had everyone’s attention. “I beg forgiveness of the MacKays and invite the end of the feud.”

  “Well said, young Ross,” called an old woman who moved to the front of the crowd. “We’ll tell the tale, but don’t be courtin’ none of ours, sir. The minglin’ of MacKay and Ross bloods may still produce a witch, and no woman would invite such a child to her womb.”

  Even from the bushes fifteen paces away, Jilly’s attention was caught by the crone’s single front tooth that, when no rival was found for the space, had centered itself in her smile. If this were the Clan MacKay’s midwife, babies would be scared back into their mothers’ wombs and need to be dragged out by their heels.

  Jillian would rather believe the woman was so worried about witches because she was regularly called down to the local kirk to be put in a witch line-up.

  The dead men were buried in no time and when Monty came to help Jilly from her hiding place, her thighs were so weak from crouching, she couldn’t stand. He pushed her onto her back and forced her legs straight, then rolled her over in the leaves and pine needles and began massaging the backs of her legs through her skirt.

  She couldn’t help but moan when the stiffness melted faster than Frosty in a hot house, but the sound must have frightened him because his hands froze.

  “Don’t stop. Please,” she asked as nicely as she could. After being tied up, tied to a tree, dragged into the cottage and nearly tied to a soon-to-be-burning bed, she was dying to feel something other than ropes. And Monty’s warm strong hands made her forget the burning sores on her wrists and ankles.

  But then she realized his thumbs were between her thighs and the rest of his hands were wrapped around her legs only about four inches or so from her backside. And the worst part was that fifteenth century people weren’t familiar with professional body massage and for her to beg him not to stop probably made her an instant floozie.

  She rolled over and away from his grasp, but before she could retract her earlier plea, he fell on top of her, having lost his balance when she rolled. At least that is what she blamed it on. “It” being a face plant into her stomach.

  When he finally got his hands under him and pushed himself high enough to hover over her, neither of them had a word to say.

  Then she saw it. That tiny sparkle in the corner of his eye that preceded his laughter.

  And laugh they did. They laughed until they cried. He’d sit up and take a deep breath, only to be sucked back under the waves of hysteria that engulfed them both. It was a mix of silliness, surrendering to the inevitable, and relief they were both alive. By the time Ivar stomped over to find out what could be so funny, they were exhausted, Monty on his back with Jilly’s head on his belly.

  “If the pair of you are finished with you’re ticklin’, then, we’d best head back before Ewan finds battle gear for the whole of Clan Ross.”

  Jilly would have liked to walk her horse and drag her feet, if it weren’t for Ivar being hell-bent for leather. Monty had worried aloud that the Gordon s might be coming along any moment to tell him of his sister’s death, and he hoped Morna didn’t open the door to them before she thought better of it.

  With that worry Ivar hadn’t even needed a horse, he looked that capable of flying to Castle Ross without one.

  Obviously feeling guilty for scaring his friend, Montgomery had suggested that Ivar and Morna could marry and remain in Scotland if something unfortunate were to happen to the Gordon Runt. And on the heels of watching him slay Luthias, it took no effort for Jilly to believe he’d do it.

  If I don’t take Morna and Ivar away, Montgomery will sell his own soul trying to make amends.

  It would have been so easy to look the other way while the man she loved removed the reason for leaving him, but the cost was one man’s life and another man’s soul. How could she let that happen? How could she live happily ever after in a charming old castle with her own personal Romeo if she were busy trying to wash the blood from her hands?

  “Out, out damned spot,” was not written about a woman with OCD, after all.

  And so Jilly found herself with no option that morning but to sneak into Morna’s bedchamber unannounced. She turned her head to the side, just in case, but found them both dressed. Ivar was seated on a chair with Morna sitting across his lap tucking his hair behind his ear. The look they exchanged was so close to the one Montgomery had given her when they’d reached his bedchamber, Jilly had to steel her heart against those memories.

  For now.

  She’d relive every moment after she was home again. Funny, how the word “home” stirred the fragrances of heather, peat moss, and cold stones through her mind. She’d never be home again.

  “I hate to interrupt,” Jilly whispered. “But I’m worried Montgomery’s changed his mind about letting us leave. We need to try before he’s awake. You see, I don’t think I can go through with it if he tries to stop us.”

  Why weren’t they moving? Didn’t they understand?

  “Jillian Ross, why are you doing this for us when it is plain you wish to stay?” Ivar stroked Morna’s arm with his thumb, showing her his happiness had little to do with Jilly’s decision. “We’ll not be parted now, sin or no.”

  Jillian Ross. That’s who she was now. If she stayed... She shook her head.

  “If we stay, Montgomery will find a way to kill Morna’s husband, to make the way easier for you. He wants to make things up to you and he’d lose his soul to do it.” She felt that steel begin to warm and start to give, but she threw some cold water on it. “And besides, there are a couple of old ladies who just might be accused of my murder if I don’t show up again. I wouldn’t wish those two on other inmates.”

  “I dinna understand -- ” Ivar started to say.

  “The Muir sisters. Lorraine and Loretta, if I remember rightly.”

  Jilly spun to find the fifteenth century version of the sisters having sneaked in behind her. Thankfully, they’d appreciated the need for stealth.

  “We’d best move this discussion to the tunnels, do you not suppose?” asked either Margot or Mhairi.

  An hour and some pulled muscles later, the hole beneath the tomb was once again open. Montgomery, and likely Ewan, had gone to a bit of trouble to discou
rage anyone from trying to reach it. But with the five of them, they’d been able to make a path in short time with little noise. Thank goodness these Muirs were as wiry as their descendants.

  Standing next the barrel they left as a stepping stool, Jilly went over what she knew.

  “I had some time to go over what happened before, and I’m pretty sure anything attached to me would have come with me. My clothes came through time, so I’m hoping if the two of you hang on to me really tight, we can go through together.”

  All heads nodded in agreement.

  “Also, I think I came through as soon as I put on the torque, right when I laid it on my neck.”

  “No.” The Muirs were smiling and shaking their heads. What a surprise. “It has naught to do with the necklace, dearie,” one chided.

  “She’s right,” said the other. “Isobelle wanted to be sure the torque stayed in the tomb, so we enchanted it; it couldn’t leave. The power to remain is the only power it has.”

  Jillian stood still for a moment, waiting for her brain to catch up; it was obviously still upstairs and it took a long minute to make the journey down all those steps.

  “If the necklace wasn’t what brought me here, then how the bloody hell did I get here?”

  Jilly’s voice had risen with every word, but she couldn’t help it. She needed to do one noble thing here -- leave -- so she could live with a clear conscience, and they weren’t telling her that the flight was cancelled, they were saying planes could never fly.

  “Settle ye down, dearie.” The one to cut the crap had to have been Mhairi. “You will still get where you are going.”

  Oh great. Airplanes don’t really fly, but apparently the buses do.

  She could hear her grandma’s sarcastic voice asking, “Just how much is this free weekend going to cost me?”

  “You’ll get there the same way you came. It’s the tomb, you know. And it wasn’t Muirs that wrought it. It was Laird Ross himself.”

  “Oh, we had a wee hand, sister. Dinna forget the prophecy. Not worth more than a pile of stones without the prophecy.”

  “There is no time for this,” Jilly hissed. “Just tell me what to do.”

  The sisters looked disappointed. No kidding, they both stuck out their bottom lips.

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  Bottom lips disappeared.

  “Well, it’s not every day we get to tell it, ye ken?” Excitement was good. Excitement made them talk faster. “The tomb was wrought with Love and Sacrifice. Simple as that.”

  “Yes, you see you only need Love and Sacrifice to make it work for you.” Mhairi, possibly, gave her a pitying look. “Unfortunately, you are the one to make the sacrifice, both last time and this.”

  “The first time,” the other chimed back in, “you had a fear of closed spaces, and yet you went in the tomb to try to help people you had never met. A lovely sacrifice.”

  “And I believe it was the hope of reuniting Ivar and Morna’s love that was the other element,” Margot said.

  “This time, their love will be that same element, but the sacrifice you make will be quite different, we think.”

  As knowing as these two seemed to be, they couldn’t possibly understand what Jilly was giving up or why.

  She turned to the couple.

  “I think you two should go in ahead of me. If I go first, I may be gone before you get inside. If you grab me as soon as I’m through, I shouldn’t leave without you.”

  Ivar nodded and hopped onto the barrel and into the hole. Morna climbed onto the barrel and Jilly handed her the water, axe, and candle she’d thought to bring along.

  Once Morna was inside, Jilly leaned on the barrel but couldn’t manage to lift her leg.

  Dear Lord, this was it. She was really going. Would she be able to come back? If the Muirs were correct, there would need to be some sort of sacrifice, and hers would be all used up. Coming back would be for selfish reasons alone. What would she be sacrificing? Toilet paper and flushing toilets?

  Not too noble.

  “We need you to give this Lorraine and Loretta a message, Jillian. Can you do that for us?”

  Mairi and her sister were looking rather smug. When they neared eighty, Jilly knew just how they’d look. Like Muir rats.

  “What’s the message?” Getting away from those two made scrambling for the hole a lot easier.

  “Tell them they’re not quite finished yet,” one said.

  “They’ll understand,” sang the other.

  As Ivar pulled Jillian into the darkness, Morna’s hands gripped on to one of her arms like an insta-vice.

  From below, the voices of the Muir twins murmured together in what sounded like a chant but there was another noise. Someone large and angry was clamboring down the passage toward the room.

  “Get ye gone, Jillian. He’s coming!”

  Jillian closed her eyes and prayed that she would be gone before Montgomery could order her to come out. She’d not be able to defy him to his face and fearing the resulting damage to his soul, it would kill her to stand by and watch.

  God was watching. He had to be. She believed in the worth of Montgomery’s soul more than anything she’d ever believed in before, and God would make it right. She couldn’t continue to breathe and believe otherwise.

  The workroom door crashed into pieces.

  Forward. Home. Lorraine. Loretta. Please!

  The air shifted around her. And if not for Morna’s hold on her, Jilly’s very soul would have leapt free from her body in answer to the receding echo of an anguished roar...from very, very far away.

  CHAPTER THRITY-SEVEN

  The lit hole at their feet went dark. No one moved.

  Breathing. Morna and Ivar were breathing at least. Jillian never wanted to let out that final fifteenth century bit of air. If she did, she’d die.

  Loud, pounding heartbeats later, it came out with an unholy howl. When it was gone, she dropped to the floor like a sack of Idaho potatoes and waited for the black fire in her veins to burn her up.

  Like a witch.

  Oh, that was good. A fitting finish. “Go ahead,” she whispered to God, “finish me then.”

  Breathing. Nothing more. No one seemed inclined to speak while Jillian waited for God’s response. Hours could have gone by while she waited, thinking nothing at all. Just waiting. Until...

  Ivar was pounding on the wood that plugged the modern day floor, but it sounded odd. She knew they had arrived in her own time; she could smell the dust and decay that had been missing those long hours she’d been entombed, waiting for Montgomery --

  No, she wouldn’t do that now. She wouldn’t go there now. Later was always a better time to cry.

  She stiffly shifted to her feet and realized it wasn’t Ivar pounding on the floor. He and Morna were still breathing, somewhere in the darkness, and very close to each other. The pounding was from the outside.

  “Jillian dear! Are you there?” The muffled squeak of a woman’s voice was familiar enough to make out the words.

  Wonderful. A Muir welcoming committee.

  “Step off the door, dear. Pull it up inside.”

  Ah, yes. She remembered how this worked.

  Her mind and body seemed to be functioning well enough while her soul hemorrhaged. They must not have read the memo yet, the one about her will-to-live account maxing out its overdraft.

  She found the edges of the contraption and got her fingers beneath it. Ivar was there helping her lift it away.

  Lorraine and Loretta were below, fluffing dust out of their blue hair.

  “Did you bring anyone with you, dear? Any luck -- ” A blue veined right hand -- Loretta’s then -- froze mid-fluff.

  Ivar’s blond head popping into the hole must have been answer enough, and Jillian felt a gleeful sense of vengeance when both Muir’s swooned into a blue, decidedly unlady-like heap.

  * * *

  Walking into the Great Hall once more, without the smells of food and pine-flavored wood smoke, Jilly
was cold, no matter what the temperature. She’d never feel warm again and it was not all due to the fact she’d left her leather jacket in the past.

  She stepped around the space that had once been filled with the worn wood table Monty had stroked so solemnly while he told her about watching his father and grandfather build it with their own wonderful hands. All things that had once been a part of living here and breathing this giant cube of air were now encased in glass and velvet, unmoving, beyond her reach.

  She stepped closer to the great cabinet opposite the hearth. The light danced off the corners of silver weapons, gold leafed trinkets, and Windexed glass.

  Bones. She was staring at the bones of lives gone by. And she could only wonder where Monty's bones now lie. She felt like she should lie down with them. With him.

  Awareness pricked the back of her neck. She knew without looking that Quinn stood just inside the doorway behind her, watching and waiting with a patience his ancestor wouldn't have shown.

  But that wasn't it.

  He wasn't the one whispering from her immediate left. No one was there, of course, unless one looked at the wall. Remembering what waited for her attention, she hesitated, not sure she could handle looking at it once again, knowing what she knew.

  She turned and glanced past it, a bit further left, at the tomb from which she'd just been taken. Odd how much one could hate an innate pile of stones, but she did. Such a guilty monstrosity! She wish she had the heart to wrench every rock from its place to make sure it ruined no more lives.

  That was it. That was just the boost of hard emotion she needed to steel herself before looking just six feet to the right of the tomb.

  Amid the ricochets of bright morning light, her eyes sought and found that face she'd left in the past, with her jacket. Although the sculpture had gone from smooth, pale gray to a mottled, pocked slate, the image stood out clearly.

  To the sides of the torso, the stone had been chipped away, but the lower body of the kilted man was still held fast in time, his plaid suspended mid-flutter, and she wondered if a good blast on Highland pipes might break the spell. Hands on hips, Monty seemed to be leaning ever so slightly forward, as if his determination alone would free his lower half. A slightly irritated brow was the only hint the man was not pleased to be posing for such a statue.