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

by L. L. Muir

  By the time Jillian could get back on the chair, the lone woman was walking away, her nose in the air, her hips rolling, and her feet stomping up dust in her wake.

  “Good riddance.”

  In the quiet of the empty keep, Jillian’s whisper echoed eerily and for a moment she felt as if she were a ghost. The new rebel inside her demanded she jump onto the window sill and holler to prove she could not be ignored. The angel on her shoulder shuddered.

  Laird Ross was nowhere to be found. Jillian hopped to the floor and searched both side views. Ewan was now glaring up at the first window, his companions gone.

  A heavy door slammed.

  “Crap!”

  Jillian looked around for a place to hide, but there was only a small bed, quite low to the floor, and the chair. If there had been a wardrobe, or a large trunk, Jillian wouldn’t have hidden inside anyway. Dark enclosed spaces had seen the last of her.

  Quick heavy steps sounded from the echoing stairwell and she giggled. What else could she do, really? She felt as she had as a child, playing hide and seek at the farm down the road, on the verge of being discovered. Her lungs were incapable of taking in any more air, her excitement made it impossible to let any out.

  She hurried to sit with her back against the wall with the bed between herself and the door. The blue curtain she wadded into a ball and clutched to her chest to stifle the urge to laugh—or scream. Her concentration was split between shallow little breaths and the sounds of the hunter.

  Indistinct curses mixed with the hard “thunk” of furniture being slammed around. She did make out the name MacKay, or Mac-Eye, at least, and she was insane to wish him to come looking for her, but heaven help her, she did. Never mind that his mood had turned murderous again.

  In spite of the fact he had vowed he would not harm her, she still shivered when he began closing the distance down the hall. Her heart stopped when he detoured into the small windowless chamber first. The organ leapt to life once again when he came out.

  It was too much!

  He stomped into the room. His head whipped around and he pinned her to the wall with his glare.

  She whimpered. It was the kind of whimper one made when being tickled unmercifully...right before one breaks out in unashamed laughter.

  Which Jillian did.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Montgomery was quite impressed with himself. His first two steps were gigantic, the third, silent as he planted it in the middle of the bed. His fourth step landed in front of the MacKay woman as three hands covered her mouth—two of hers with one of his on top. Hopefully he’d reached her in time, before her daft laughter could be heard from out of doors.

  He allowed the full force of his wrath to shine from his face as he bent over to cower the woman into silence...

  And she laughed harder.

  Tears streamed onto her fingers from her crinkled green eyes and she shrugged her shoulders. When he noticed the wad of blue cloth in her lap, he squatted, grabbed it, and pushed it against her mouth, careful lest he break her lovely white teeth. She welcomed it, clutching it tightly against her renewed guffaws. Thankfully, the cloth muffled the noise, but it was as if a cloud had covered the sun. Such laughter had not been heard in his home for some time, since his sisters would squeal in similar fits of silliness, and he wished it could have gone on a wee bit longer.

  Now she was shaking her head, holding up a finger. He’d no idea what she’d meant by the gesture, but it was likely not favorable. He thought to frown at her again, but he wouldn’t want to renew her fit.

  The woman was daft as the day was long, and The Ross could never marry a woman who was infirm in mind, faery or no. It had been only chance that he’d dreamed of a woman like her. She was, after all, of the coloring he preferred, and he’d dreamed of a similar looking woman before. Until this day, he’d not remembered the MacKays had such straight black hair, nor bright green eyes. He’d been blind to the fact Ivar MacKay had those same traits, though his hair was blond.

  “It’s not my fault.” She wiped her mouth with the rag.

  “What is not yer fault, MacKay?”

  She blanched at hearing her surname. Odd. Did the MacKays have something to do with her being here? Perhaps she wasn’t a faery after all, but a pawn in a game Ivar wished to play.

  “Can’t you just call me Jillian?” she whined.

  “Does MacKay remind ye who sent ye here, then?”

  She frowned now. Good, then. Frowning was a silent way to pass the time.

  “No, it does not,” she growled. “It’s just that you say it wrong. It’s MacKaaay. Not Mack-eye.”

  “I doubt The MacKay would like it pronounced so, mavournin’.” May it please God she didn’t recognize the endearment. With the mixture of Gaelic and English they used to communicate, who knew how broad her vocabulary.

  “What does mavournin’ mean?” she asked softly. God’s blood, he could melt right off his own bones if she continued to talk to him thusly. When the widow, Sorcha Murray, used that breathy whisper, and especially when she used such an endearment, she wanted something. Perhaps this lass was the same, but he hoped not. He rather liked the way she said just what she thought, even if she had to put her hand over her own mouth to stop the words coming.

  “It is a name for one who vexes another. Ye vex me, mavournin’, like no other.” The taunt brought back the frown. A most charming frown, like she was a child imitating someone older.

  “Well, mavournin’, right back atcha.”

  “Atcha? What is ‘atcha’?” He’d had no idea Ivar MacKay had English relatives, and her language sounded odder each time she spoke. But heaven forbid she should speak Gaelic all the time. He was surprised his ears hadn’t bled.

  Perhaps she felt the same about his English. Admittedly it had been a long time since he’d first learned the language. Perhaps he should keep her around a wee while to renew his fluency.

  “Right back at you. You vex me. That smile vexes me. Your frown vexes—”

  He kissed her quiet. He didn’t want her spouting about how he vexed her; he wanted to hear her call him “mavournin’” again. There was so much he wished to convey to her in that brief embrace, but he pulled back. He was pleased her eyes were closed so she would not see how heartbroken he was she would never be his. That he’d never have a daughter that looked so, even if she got into misdeeds as her mother did.

  If she were neither daft, nor a faery, he still could not marry a MacKay. Their children would always be suspected of witchcraft thanks to his sister’s damned prophecy.

  “And your kisses vex me,” she finished, though her voice was weak enough to lend doubt to her words.

  He stood, held out a hand to her, and as he pulled her to her feet, he remembered how this tipsy-turvy conversation had begun.

  “What is not yer fault, Jillian?” God’s teeth, he hoped she hadn’t noticed the way he’d said her name.

  Her eyes widened. She’d noticed, then. He’d need to stop that if he were ever going to allow her to leave untouched. And what other way could an honorable Scot send an Englishwoman home?

  The two of them cleared their throats in unison. When their eyes met, they both laughed. The cloud was gone. The sun shone. And all from the laughter of an Englishwoman. Maybe it was he who had gone daft.

  “Haud yer wheesht, lass. I’ll not have Widow Murray coming in here to rescue me from Isobelle’s ghostie.” Hell, would he never be able to finish his thoughts? “Which reminds me, lass. Ye vowed ye’d not be seen. Is it because ye’re a MacKay and I a Ross that ye feel no sin in breakin’ a vow given to me?”

  Jillian’s hands flew to her hips and she fairly snorted like a bull. It was so utterly charming, he changed his mind—he could easily stay there and blether with her all day.

  “I did not break my stupid vow. Widow Whats-her-name didn’t see a thing. I was at this window when she screamed. She made it up. If you hadn’t been frowning up at the other window, she would have never thought..
.” Her mouth opened and closed twice before finally snapping shut.

  “She would have never thought...?”

  At least the woman had sense enough to hang her head in shame.

  “If I wouldn’t have laughed, you wouldn’t have been frowning at any window. It was my fault.” She looked up into his eyes. “I’m very sorry if I caused problems for you.”

  There was something wrong here. It sounded like her heart was breaking. Her white teeth worried her bottom lip. She’d broken no vow. She’d not been seen. What did she fear?

  Then it dawned on him and he laughed. “Ye won’t be missing yer supper, Jillian. Not today.”

  She straightened her shoulders and grinned. “Good.” She sighed. “I’m starving.”

  Something was amiss and Montgomery couldn’t put a point on it.

  He and Ewan had moved his Ross chair down to the floor and placed it at the head of the table. His friend sat to his left and the MacKay woman to his right, eating as if they were in a race. He’d never noticed a woman eating so much, but then he’d supped with few, and none at all since his sisters had gone.

  If he would have allowed the hounds inside, Montgomery was sure their hackles would be up, so strong was the smell of danger. If Ewan would emerge from his trencher for but a breath of air, he would sense it as well.

  “Would the two of ye stop yer swillin’?” He had spoken quietly, but there was no mistaking the edge in his voice. She’d probably cry at him.

  She laughed instead. “Sorry. I guess I was being rather piggish. It’s much better than I thought it would be.” She took a long swallow of ale, wiped her mouth with something from her pocket, and gave him her full attention.

  He’d think about that combination of praise and insult later. Right now, his senses were screaming.

  “Ewan. I’ve a feeling.”

  Ewan looked about him, alert. His eating knife spun in his hand to be gripped as a weapon.

  “You have a feeling? A bad feeling?” whispered Jillian.

  At least she was not laughing now. In fact, she looked not to doubt him at all.

  “Move behind me chair, mavournin’.”

  Ewan jumped a bit at hearing the endearment.

  Damn. Of course, his cousin would catch that.

  Ewan glanced between him and the woman. “Just who are ye callin’ mavournin’, Monty dear?”

  Montgomery leaned forward and glared his silent order for Ewan to hold his tongue. “The lass who vexes me, of course.”

  Ewan smiled, damn him.

  “She vexes me some as weel,” his friend confessed.

  Montgomery was going to kill him.

  “I’m sure ye’re mistaken,” he countered, then prayed the woman was daft after all. If she were, the fact he was talking through clenched teeth would mean nothing.

  “You’re both morons,” she muttered as she walked behind his chair. He felt better already. Perhaps it had been the fact her back had been toward the open window, high though it was.

  An arrow shattered against the wall behind and to the side of Ewan. Only after seeing the debris did Monty remember the whirring noise that had preceded the hit. If Jillian had still been in her seat, she would have been struck.

  The blazing fire made them clear targets for whomever hunted them from the outer wall. It was the only place high enough, unless someone foolishly volleyed an arrow up through the window from the bailey below, uncaring of whom he might kill. It was no secret Montgomery and Ewan were the only ones inside the keep, and anyone who wanted one dead would not care if the other were killed as well. Clansmen shared enemies as surely as allies.

  Also, the arrow had struck hard enough to shatter. A straight skilled shot through a narrow window, then.

  As skilled as Ivar MacKay.

  Montgomery did not intentionally leave his seat, but found himself running about by instinct alone. He hoisted the table onto its side and slid it close to the hearth, effectively blocking most of the bright light. Next, he and Ewan grabbed poles and hung the wooden shutters over the windows from whence the attack had come. Ewan ran out the back of the hall, to sound the alarm, but Monty remained with Jillian.

  God’s blood, if she’d been killed there really would have been a ghost to haunt his hall. Although her death would have saddened him, he suspected Jillian MacKay would never rest her tongue, dead or alive. What a sad way to keep her by his side.

  And when had that silly notion become a desire?

  He’d known her one and one half days. No time at all. He’d known his Gordon Bride much longer, and yet he could not say the color of her eyes. They had definitely not been bright green, with a small yellow ring around the center. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the other one’s name.

  Edith? Erma?

  And the Gordon woman had not been plotting against him. Or had she? Had Jillian been sent by the Gordons to ruin his wedding? Granted, The Cock of the North was pleased to have a stronger alliance with Clan Ross. After all, it didn’t look as if their bloods would be mixing through Morna and The Runt. They’d been married over a year and either the small man was unable to do the job, or Morna never ceased her crying long enough for him to do it. With the marriage of The Ross and The Gordon’s daughter, a comely enough maid, there would have been surer success.

  His would-be bride had smiled brightly enough at him when they’d met two days before the wedding. If Jillian had not interrupted the service, he was confident the girl would have gone through with it.

  There was one, however, who would spill blood, or entomb an innocent—

  even a clanswoman—in order to keep the Rosses from gaining a better standing with the mighty Gordons. The man who had enough cause was the man Montgomery no longer recognized as the friend of his youth.

  Ivar MacKay.

  If Ivar had sealed Jillian in the tomb, he would die for it.

  The table was heavy, but now that the windows were covered, he moved it away from the hearth to grant more light into the hall. A spark had settled on the massive top and he dowsed it with water. He had watched his da and grandda build that table. It would not be destroyed in his lifetime. Or the lifetime of his sons, he reckoned.

  And they would not be Jillian’s sons if her mind wasn’t sound.

  Once again, he worried for her as she knelt beside the wall using one shard of the arrow to push the other pieces round.

  “It cannot be fixed, lass.”

  She huffed. Exasperation came easily to this one. “Of course, it can’t be fixed, you mavournin’,” she said, rolling her eyes and sitting back on her feet.

  His heart leapt at the near endearment.

  “It’s just mavournin’, Jillian. A name, not a thing.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t say it again, but leaned forward to resume her poking at the floor. He was sorely disappointed.

  “What do ye, there?” He pulled up Ewan’s overturned stool and sat near her. If he had to vex her further to hear it, he would happily do so.

  “Looking for markings. So you can identify the shooter.”

  The shooter? “Ye mean the archer?”

  She looked up and grinned, then drew out an “aye” worthy of any Scot.

  He laughed, but stopped abruptly when she held up the arrow’s point. Only Ivar made such points. Like a miniature Scottish weapon, the sides had wee blood channels in them.

  Blood channels.

  When they were boys, Ivar had been obsessed, making sure his every weapon bore the famous Scottish device. His friend had ever been one to spout on and on about loyalty to king and country. Too bad he hadn’t always proved to be so loyal.

  The familiar burning began in Montgomery’s belly. He would not relive the sins of a year before. Had he not suffered enough? His two sisters were torn from his life. His clan was now the subject of a curse. Safer, since the alliance with the Gordons, but with a wee complication of his sister being found a witch.

  The curse was now insignificant. What did it matter if the MacKays a
nd Rosses were afraid to mix their blood? The Rosses would just have to hunt for brides from distant clans. Any woman was as good as the next. And friends could be replaced just as easily.

  “Enough.” He bellowed to his busy mind, only to find the word echoing about the high-beamed ceiling.

  Someone pounded on the great outer door. “Laird Ross,” a man’s voice cut through the thick wood. Then a woman’s voice. “Laird Ross, are ye dead, then?” she demanded, followed by more pounding.

  Thankfully, he’d thought to lower the bar.

  “Lass. Jillian. Hide ye in the stairwell. Quick now,” he added firmly when she raised her chin. “Do ye want to hang...or burn?”

  That moved her trews-covered arse.

  Stalling for as long as he could, he made his way over to the great wood portal then lifted the heavy cross beam. The door flew open, but he caught it and stepped forward, pushing his would-be rescuers back out into the evening air. Joining them on the steps, he pulled the door closed behind him.

  “I am not dead, Widow Murray. An assassin lurks among us, however, and ye’ve all chosen a poor time to stand up here and give him a clear target.”

  “He’s only after ye, Laird, do ye think?” asked a soldier with a faltering voice. “Perhaps we should go inside, to be sure.”

  “I ordered everyone from the keep for a fortnight, and a fortnight it’ll be.”

  “Monty!” Ewan shouted from the wall. “He’s torn his plaid gettin’ away.” He paused, as did every ear, waiting to hear the colors. “It’s a MacKay.”

  A sad silence dropped like a blanket in the gloaming, as if a child had died.

  “You there,” Montgomery told the soldier. “Saddle my horse and a dozen others.”

  Ewan’s announcement had turned the fire in his belly into iron, and a lucky thing, too.

  He’d need to be cold and hard if he were to kill his old friend.