by L. L. Muir
The Curse of Clan Ross: Volume 1
Ross, Quinn, and Gaspar
L.L. Muir
Green Toed Fairy
To Daddy
…for teaching me
how to tell a great story.
A note from the author…
This first volume contains the first three books of the series, Ross, Quinn, and Gaspar. Original editions were known as Romeo, Juliet, and Isobelle.
Save money by getting the second volume HERE. It contains Wickham, James, and Percy’s stories.
Flanders’ story will release in 2019.
Thank you for playing!
~Lesli
Contents
ROSS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
QUINN
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
GASPAR
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
GET MORE BOOKS written by L.L. Muir
About the Author
License notes…
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 ye canna seem to clean those hands, Father,” he said without turning away from his morbid creation, “I’d be happy to rid ye 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 ye’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 me 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 yer 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 her 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 ye, 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.
Jillian was alone for the moment, poised to enter the Great Hall of Castle Ross with the right heel of her green boots rocking nervously while she waited for the tour group to catch up to her. 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. 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.
The stone Highlander before her was as broad in the shoulder as a football player in full pads. His triceps must have been formed with soft wet clay smoothed and stroked with reverent hands, not chiseled from stone as she’d been told.
According to the stories the Muir sisters told, Jillian had been expecting his face, at least, to show more menace. Now she didn’t know what to believe. Montgomery Ross, Famous Historical Arse? Or Montgomery Ross, victim of an historian’s exaggeration?
She continued to gape at him like a stupid fish and was grateful no one was watching.
His wild hair draped and waved behind his shoulders. Small braids at his temples kept it from his eyes. And those eyes, while hard as stone, were softened by laugh lines. One corner of his mouth quirked a little higher than the other side, and Jillian wished she could have heard the man’s voice, or a snippet of his laugh.
If such a sound still bounced around the chamber, somehow, her ears couldn’t catch it. And her ears were not the only parts of her straining—her hands ached to slide up that chest and around his neck, but a paranoid voice in her head warned her to run away.
If she ignored it, would she turn to stone too?
Ho. Ly. Crap.
She touched her own chin. Thankfully, it was still dry, still soft and fleshy. So she continued her inventory, somehow feeling she might be tested on the details someday.
Wide cloth draped over the figure’s bare shoulder, slanted over his heart, and wrapped around his hips and bulging thighs. Jillian had to ignore his navel outright, even though he certainly couldn’t complain about her peeking wherever she pleased. Of course, she wouldn’t.
She should get points for that.
Large fists rested on his hips along with a belt for his sporran. Another strap crossed his chest under the material and held his scabbard. Ties crisscrossed his calves over thick-looking socks. The too-perfect package ended with square-toed boots.
Jillian whistled. “The Muir sisters didn’t do you justice, laddie.”
Immediately behind him, a rough block of stone held him prisoner, sucking at the backs of his legs, his kilt and boots, demanding he return to the depths of the rock from which he’d sprung.
Jillian had never believed in ghosts, but she couldn’t argue with the feel of a presence in the room with her. She pivoted quickly to look behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck jumped up to squeal in protest, but when she turned back to the statue, they settled down again.
She grinned at the thought—he must not want me to look away.
“Hello, Montgomery,” she murmured, then paused, insanely wishing he would return the greeting.
He smirked on.
Bright lights flickered in the high raftered ceiling, illuminating the Great Hall and inviting the tour group, and their voices, to flood the huge space. The silent spell shattered.
No longer shrouded in shadows, the stone Highlander’s face was lighter, his amusement more pronounced. His kilt was still frozen mid-flutter, but Jillian could now see the slightest hint of lines in the cloth that had looked smooth in the dimmer light from the narrow windows.
“I see ye’ve met Montgomery.” Quinn Ross, the ancient Highlander’s spitting image, walked up to her. His voice sent a shiver up her spine. It was a deep rumbly voice she imagined his ancestor might have had. “Ye’ll learn more on him in a moment. I’m happy to see we’ve found ye again.”
Jillian smiled. “I’m sorry. I fell behind. A woman suggested I wait for the rest of the group in here.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Have ye by chance taken our wee tour before, then?” His gaze searched her face, her eyes, and lingered on her hair.
“Nope.” Jillian shivered and hoped her nerves didn’t show. “I think I just have one of those common faces, you know?”
He smiled and shrugged, then walked to the head of the crowd. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
Jillian had been thrilled to have Quinn Ross, the token Scottish laird, giving the tour. He was single, she’d heard one of the other tourists say. A widower. The self-proclaimed ruler of those ancestral stones supposedly turned to the history of his remarkable castle to distract himself from his broken heart.
Before she’d lagged behind, Jillian had followed the enticing swing of Laird Ross’ kilt through the crumbling maze of his playground. It hadn’t been difficult to catch the purring in the man’s voice as he’d pointed out how incredibly advanced the castle had been for the renovations made in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. For example, he’d explained, the system engineered for cleaning the garderobes was eerily similar to modern day toilet flushing.
Lordy, how the man loved his castle. They were lucky he allowed tourists through it.
In his mid-thirties, Quinn Ross was easily the most glorious creature Jillian’d met on her first trip out of the United States—except for the literally chiseled Montgomery. Women of all ages blushed near him the duration of the tour; she wondered if it was sorrow or simple humility that made him oblivious to it.
It was just Jillian’s luck to be more attracted to the stone version of him. Though silent as the rock that held him prisoner, Montgomery stole her breath, while she sensed something missing from Quinn. Shouldn’t it be Montgomery who was lacking a certain something? Like flesh and blood? The ability to detach himself from his home, for instance?
Maybe she’d just heard the tale one too many times and the medieval man was becoming real to her.
Reminded of her storyteller companions, Jillian looked around the Hall and saw the two standing just inside the doorway with their heads bent together. When they noticed her, their faces lit up.
The Muir sisters, sweet identical ladies far too old to be traveling abroad, filled their immediate area with a blue glow. There was nothing magical about it—their thick knit sweaters were periw
inkle, their hair was a respectable bluish-gray, and they each wore their swollen blue veins like a set of jewelry along their necks and hands.
The only thing not identical about them was the pattern of those veins. Lorraine had a large one running down the middle of her left hand; Loretta had one on her right. Through their weeks of planning and traveling together, Jillian needed only to glance at their hands to keep their names straight.