[Highlander Time Travel 01.0 - 03.0] The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

  “What do ye mean, Monty? Forgive my questioning ye, but I do have questions, aye?” Ewan fell silent as they ducked, one after the other, under the eaves of the blacksmith’s roof.

  Caught unawares, like a rabbit, the smithy’s son shivered in the corner, his wide eyes darting about for an escape. Monty’s gut clenched, not because this was the lad whose confession to a priest had led to Isobelle’s trial, but because the lad feared him so. He was sure others still considered him a monster, but were better at hiding it.

  “Yer name is Orie?” He would have softened his voice a wee bit, but the boy would better appreciate being treated like a man. At least he would have at that age.

  The boy’s shaking chin bobbed up and down. “Aye, laird.”

  “Orie, I have a dull blade, can ye fetch me a good stone?”

  “Aye, laird.” Orie straightened away from the wall and skirted around Ewan.

  “And Orie?” Monty stopped the lad with a frown.

  “Aye, laird?”

  “Ye were not to blame for any of that business with me sisters. Do we understand one another?”

  “Aye, laird,” was all he said, and Montgomery wondered if he had the right lad. Did the smithy have other sons?

  A moment later, the smithy strode past his forge and over to his visitors. He was of a size with them both, his arms bulging through torn cloth, his face dark, not from the sun, but from the heat of a lifetime of stoking fires. Those same fires had left the man with white stubble for eyebrows and very little hair on his sweating head. Those sparse brows lowered as he looked over at the corner where Orie had stood a moment before, then back to Monty.

  “What can I do fer ye, yer lairdship?”

  “Orie is seeing to my needs, Ethan.”

  The white eyebrows flew high, the eyes below began to moisten and shine like his forehead. The man stumbled and Monty put a staying hand on his shoulder. Perhaps he’d had the right son after all.

  When everyone was standing unassisted once more, Orie returned with a sharpening stone the size of his own fist. Tears had cut a clean stream through the dirt that resided on the lad’s cheeks, but he didn’t greet, praise be.

  “Thank ye, Orie.” He turned to the father. “Ethan.”

  Cool fresh air filled his lungs as he made his way up the incline to the inner bailey. Beside him, Ewan was whistling, but that wasn’t right; his cousin was supposed to be worried about the MacKay wench.

  “Didn’t ye have some questions, Ewan?”

  “T’is a fact, I do not, Monty.” Ewan’s steps were light as he matched Monty’s pace.

  “But ye wanted to ken, did ye not, why the lass no longer needs guarding?” Monty walked through the gates and slowed, veering to the left before stopping to rest a foot on a bench placed a small distance from the milling of tradesmen and women going about their business.

  “I suppose I am wondering that, cousin.” Ewan dropped his arse carelessly next to Monty’s foot. He was taking all the fun out of it, damn him.

  “T’is simple enough. The lass likes her food too much to risk being seen. She’ll stay out of sight.”

  “Oh? Aye, I suppose she does.”

  Monty leaned his forearms across his bent knee and lowered his voice.

  “But ye were worried for a moment, cousin, that I had slit her throat. Admit it.”

  Ewan’s grin was unsettling.

  “I freely admit it, Monty, darlin’. I thought yer infamous foul temper had been the death of her.” Ewan’s grin widened. “I didn’t wonder for long, though.” He turned and waved at a pair of women who were conspiring across the way.

  Monty was forced to smile and wave as well, but he quickly turned his back before the women thought to join them.

  “And why, pray tell, did ye not worry long?” He let his irritation with his cousin show in the fiercest scowl he could summon, though it would do little good on the man who knew him best.

  “The lad. Orie. Anyone who would care so much about a child’s worries is far too soft to kill a woman.” Ewan chuckled, then burst out laughing.

  “Mayhap I would not be so soft if my weapon were sharper. So I will leave ye to see it remedied.” He shoved the hilt and stone into Ewan’s hands and turned to leave his cousin to his work, but he had nowhere he wished to go and stalked back to sit beside the other man.

  Ewan’s chuckling subsided.

  “Come now, Monty. I’m sorry I called ye soft.”

  Monty’s hand batted away the apology.

  “T’is not that, Ewan.”

  “Then what? The lad? I daresay he and his father—”

  “Not the boy, although I should have held out a hand to the lad long before now. He was taught to fear for his soul and it was but his soul he was mindin’ when he went to that priest. Had he gone to Father MacRae, I doubt any of it would have happened. MacRae would never have believed Isobelle bewitched, even if told about the necklace she forced Orie to help her create.”

  Although he suspected his cousin of doing it a’ purpose, the man was likely going to dull his blade rather than sharpen it, so Monty took it away and wrested the stone from Ewan’s other hand. Perhaps they’d while away the entire day, him glaring at Ewan and Ewan grinning insolently back.

  Sliding the rough stone along his favored dragonslayer always soothed him in the past. It was the reason he’d gone in search of a new stone to begin with.

  “If not the boy, then it must be the woman who eats at ye so.”

  “Aye,” he mumbled.

  Swit.

  “I’ve been thinking on it, Ewan, and I’ve decided ye must marry.”

  Swit.

  “Surely ye’re not so angry with me, laird, for callin’ ye soft.” Ewan had suddenly misplaced his grin.

  Better.

  “Dinna be daft. ‘Tis not punishment.” Swit. “After what has happened, I don’t believe any lass will dare marry me.”

  Swit.

  Swit.

  No denial, then. Ewan must have come to the same conclusion.

  Swit.

  “There’s nothing for it, then.” Ewan shifted forward and put his elbows on his knees, then lowered his voice. “Ye’ll have to marry the MacKay wench.”

  Sw—

  “I cannot marry a daft woman.” Monty shook his head. “My bairns wouldn’t be right in the head.”

  Swit.

  “She’s no daft, Monty. She’s perfect.” Ewan’s hands rubbed together. “She kens the truth, that Isobelle’s ghostie did not chase away yer bride. ‘Tis certain she does not fear ye. Much.” Ewan frowned. “Well, often, at least. Wantin’ her is not a problem.”

  “For me, or for ye?” Monty’s belly began filling with fire.

  “Let us say...for ye.” Ewan straightened and grinned again, damn him.

  “Let us say.”

  “Aye.” Ewan’s grin broadened the more Monty damned him, even when it was done silently. “And I believe she prefers ye.”

  “Prefers me?” The fire in Monty’s belly fizzled and his chest swelled. He suppressed a grin of his own. “Prefers me over ye, ye mean. She’s seen no one else, Ewan, and every lass would prefer me to a shaggy horse of a man.”

  “She steals a glance at ye every time ye’re lookin’ away, ye shaggy horse’s arse. Not that ye’re lookin’ away all that oft.”

  A crowd was gathering twenty paces away, but their faces were all smiles, and it occurred to Monty that Ewan and he hadn’t tussled in over a year. Considering how he and Ewan’s voices had risen, it was no surprise his clan was anticipating some long overdue sport.

  Ewan noticed them as well and his smile stretched far into the depths of his beard.

  “Ewan, heed me. ‘Tis for the good of the clan.” Swit. “I think ye should be laird.”

  Swit.

  Swit.

  Swit.

  “I see.” Ewan rubbed his chin. “Ye’re the daft one, then.”

  Swit.

  “Nay, my friend. The only one daft here is the lass.
”

  Swit.

  “‘Tis not true, Monty.” Ewan eyed the blade, then frowned. “Ye aren’t trying to sharpen that blade to actually kill the lass, are ye? Ye can’t do it. She’s as sane as we are. Perhaps more.”

  Swit.

  Swit.

  “Montgomery Constantine Ross, I’ll not let ye do it!”

  The clansmen laughed and leaned their heads together, likely making bets.

  “I sharpen my blade because it wants sharpening.”

  “And I tell ye this, Monty, because it wants telling and not because it will spur this fight along.” Ewan stood and rolled his shoulders. His voice lowered once more. “The lass, as ye well know, is not daft. Ye may as well marry her since ye can’t send her back where she came from, because we don’t ken where she came from, because she’s...Isobelle’s...faery!”

  The word “faery” came out in a whoosh as Monty tackled his cousin’s middle, and hopefully none could have guessed what Ewan had meant to say. The next quarter of an hour was spent happily pummeling his lifelong opponent because of the truth; that Jillian MacKay must be the one Isobelle had foreseen and she was indeed the only lass for him—hadn’t his dream revealed it?

  But he hit Ewan a little harder for the tragedies his friend did not see; that he could not fall in love with a faery, for pity’s sake, or he would just relive the prior year’s heartache, losing her to a witch’s fire. And if she truly were Isobelle’s faery, that meant his sister really had been bewitched to have conjured her—

  A sound blow to his left jaw necessitated he worry about such things at a later time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jillian paced the cold bedchamber and tried to warm the parts of her anatomy not covered by her jacket. It seemed impossible, however, to chase away the chill of realization. She could well have been gasping her last breath if Montgomery Ross had stuck to his plan. In the dark, it had been easier to convince herself it was only a nightmare; nightmares came with the hope of waking up. Fully alert now, rested and fed, she was horrified again at how close she had come.

  But what really scared her now was the idea of getting back home again. Even with millions of dollars waiting for her in her banking account, would she ever dare go back inside that tomb? How could she risk coming out in some other century? Or worse, being sealed inside for good?

  Then again, how could she possibly stay and risk Montgomery Ross losing his temper and cutting off her head with that big sword before he came back to his senses?

  He’d saved her life. Her one and only life. She should be grateful—she was grateful. When she’d jumped out of the tomb and into his arms she’d shown him how grateful. And then she’d bawled like a lost calf.

  She was in his debt, and if he could name his reward, he’d probably demand that she stay out of his family’s business, stay away from Romeo and Juliet?

  She shook her head. “Ivar and Morna. Ivar and Morna.” Not very romantic names, but their story was the same. The Muirs made it sound like Morna wasn’t searching for a way to be with Ivar, nor was he fighting for her. Either they had given up or they really were waiting for Isobelle’s fairy.

  Waiting for her.

  We need you, Jillian dear, to accompany us to Scotland. There’s a place you’ve just got to see.

  Wow. What a chump she’d been. And now her own future was the price she was going to pay.

  “Yer complainin’ wastes my time.” Her grandma’s voice echoed in her head.

  Right, then. Time to suck it up. The job at hand was to reunite two people and, debt or no debt, she meant to get on with it. But she needed to find them first.

  Jillian leaned against an inside wall and crossed her boots. She felt more in control already, although she tried to ignore the fact that she was being a good girl and staying where Montgomery wanted her.

  She would follow his orders and keep out of sight, but she couldn’t resist observing. As for Monty’s idea of consequences, he already promised he’d never put her back in the tomb, but the threat of “no food” had her toeing the line.

  She slipped a dark blue curtain off the bed pole and wrapped it over her head like a hood before peeking around the edge of the window. The stones of the outer wall made the sill quite deep and she doubted anyone could see her as she peered out of the shadows onto their sunny little world. How hard could life be with only survival to worry about? Eat, cook, sleep. Eat, cook, sleep.

  A long-haired child, no telling if it was a boy or girl, chased a chicken between a couple of women who stood chatting and nodding. The plaid-swathed kid was nearly clear of the two when one woman swung an arm out to knock him or her on the head. The child rubbed his offended noggin and ran on, not nearly as interested in who had abused him as he was in the chicken.

  It took a village, Jillian supposed.

  Another woman, her beauty visible even from a distance, walked by the two and exchanged greetings. When the lone woman had passed, however, they put their heads together and spoke close to each other’s ears. A large man joined them and they jumped apart before smiling up at none other than Ewan. With all that shaggy gold hair, it could be no one else. Maybe it was just the distance, but one of his eyes looked swollen.

  Jillian was tickled at having recognized someone among the strangely clad inhabitants of Castle Ross. Their period costumes were a little brighter in color than she usually saw in the movies. And if she didn’t pay close attention, she would forget she was on the movie set, not watching a screen, and she would get busted if she didn’t stay off camera.

  Montgomery stood in a little plot of dirt at the edge of her vantage point. When her heart jumped, she realized she’d been watching for him.

  He nodded at Ewan and the women, then hurried to catch up to the pretty one.

  Jillian not only felt as if she’d been punched in the chest, she was frantic when the pair moved out of her line of sight. Was she the bride? She’d looked a bit older than him.

  Stepping back into the room, she approached the opposite side of the window and found them once again. Her chest felt no better when the woman struck a seductive pose, both hands on her hips with a bare shoulder raised in a shy gesture as she swung her elbows forward and back, occasionally rubbing one against Montgomery.

  Flirting apparently was an ancient invention.

  That idea led Jillian to some quick calculations, but even the thought of this woman actually being about five hundred and twenty-five compared to her, that still meant she was around 35, willing, and able to make Laird Ross’s day.

  This Laird Ross could give his twenty-some-odd great-grand-nephew acting lessons. He had managed to get ahead of the woman and turn to face her, which meant he was also facing Jillian. Therefore, it was easy to see every nuance of his little performance. He had a dark red shadow on his cheek.

  His greeting had been cheerful, but quickly deflated. Now his brows were raised and his head tilted in a “woe is me” kind of pose. His chest rose and fell, his heavy sigh nearly audible. The beauty asked him something and he folded his arms protectively across himself before he nodded and answered. Like choreography, she stepped forward and put her hands on his arms in a gesture of pity, reaching up to gently touch his injury.

  Oh, pulease.

  “Poor wittow Montgomwy, weft at the altew. Did that nasty old ghost make you sad?” When his head nodded emphatically as if the woman had asked the same question, Jillian laughed.

  Laird Ross’s head jerked up in the direction of her window and she jumped back before their eyes could meet.

  Her heart raced and she didn’t know if it was from winning his attention away from that woman, or if she was afraid of the consequences. After only a split second’s consideration, she knew it must be the former because she didn’t feel the least bit repentant.

  Dying to see what was happening outside, she raced out of the room and further down the hall until she found another room with a window. Breathing deeply, in through her nose and blowing out her mouth, s
he quieted her gasps and inched toward the window, the blue bed hanging still over her head.

  The couple now stood straight out from the embrasure so she had to stand on a chair further inside the room so she could watch them from the shadows of the low ceiling. The conversation continued, but Montgomery did not look pleased. Gone was his act of the victim. His hands were now on his hips, his frown turning up toward the first window every few minutes. His nods were curt, his attention clearly no longer on the woman before him.

  Hah!

  The woman, on the other hand, had assumed all Montgomery’s mannerisms. Her arms were wrapped around her ribs and her lower lip jutted forward while she spoke.

  Baby talk, Jillian suspected. Nice. She bet Montgomery loved that.

  When the latter moved to step around her, the woman looked over her shoulder toward the first window and screamed.

  “Isobelle,” she cried, her voice cracking. “Caterwalling” is what Grandma would have called it. “Isobelle’s shade,” she wailed. “In the window.”

  It was a fine excuse to throw herself in the laird’s arms, and the beauty took full advantage. If she heaved her bosom many more times against his chest, Jillian might need to look away.

  The poor man, locked as he was in the hysterical woman’s embrace, could only frown back and forth between the woman’s head and the place “Isobelle’s shade” supposedly stood.

  “Laird Ross, ye can’t be thinkin’ of goin’ back in there. Ye’ll have to stay out here with the rest o’ us.” The pretty woman said more, but she no longer played to the crowd; her head rested against her victim’s chest while she whispered little nothings up at him.

  Clansmen’s eyes were still drawn to that other window, but when the woman had insisted the laird stay outside, most had laughed and turned away. Obviously familiar with her tactics, they seemed content to return to their business, but many crossed themselves as they did so.

  To see Ewan’s reaction, Jillian moved once again to the right side of the window. The shaggy man slapped both ladies on the shoulders and the trio enjoyed a hearty but quiet laugh at the pretty woman’s expense, no doubt. But Jillian couldn’t find it in her heart to pity her. The only nervous glance Ewan spared was directed at his laird, not the window, before he turned his attention back to the others.