by L. L. Muir
Chapter Seventeen
They found them on the border.
Between MacKay and Ross lands ran a burn, slow and sure. It was named The MacKay-Ross burn or The Ross-MacKay burn depending upon which side of the burn one happened to be standing while discussing it. If a fight landed both parties in the creek, then it was just The Burn.
The Burn is where Monty and Ivar had met as boys now and again when they both were able to sneak away from training, chores, and interested eyes. In the shelter of the trees, they’d hidden from large cousins and even larger lassies. Many a time they’d stayed the night through to prove to each other how truly fearless they were, and on nights they did not prove so brave, they would run together from the banshee to a cottage nearby or barn in which to hide.
Later, they wooed their first women to The Burn. And later still, Monty had found Ivar there with Morna.
Aye. That first lapse in loyalty had not come from a Ross, but from a MacKay.
Monty looked down upon the dark head of his enemy and marveled that the man could sit so at ease with his men and his conscience. Had he not anticipated being followed after failing to do the foul deed? That The Ross was able to crawl up into the tree above showed how Ivar MacKay had let his reiving skills dull.
“Disgraceful,” Monty said in full voice.
The four MacKays all leapt to their feet, but not one unsheathed a weapon.
Ewan walked casually in from the MacKay-side trees, braced his feet for battle while his arms hung deceptively at his sides, but only a whisper away from a dagger at his hip and a skean dhu at his knee.
“Monty. Ye’ve come.” Ivar laughed as if he had no suspicion that he may be hanging from that same tree in a moment or two.
The hangman dropped from the tree, landing but two paces from the condemned, and before any could react, the latter hugged the former to him and pounded his old friend on the back.
“Thank God. Or thank Isobelle, I should say.” Ivar stepped back, grinning and looking about. “Where is she, old man? Where is Morna?”
Montgomery rarely suffered a loss of speech, but he’d be damned if he could guess what the other man was thinking.
“Monty, where is Morna?” Ivar’s smile had faded and he now looked about the clearing, noting the number of Ross men now circling the camp. “I don’t understand.” His face and his voice fell. “The prophecy, man. Is it not time?”
Montgomery’s head ached. While he rode toward The Burn he had played out Ivar’s death in various ways; the only thing left to decide was in which manner the MacKay man would die, how much he would suffer. If the whole of the MacKay clan had been waiting on the rise it would not have surprised him more than finding Ivar lounging beneath a tree waiting for a faery to bring Morna back to him.
His old friend was daft...as were many folks these days. Surely it was not Montgomery whose mind rattled about in his head, although the whole of Scotland believed it was so.
“Where is Luthias?” Montgomery asked, finally noting Ivar’s shadow was not among this lot.
“He has no patience for sitting about, hoping for miracles.” Ivar’s voice had completely lost the joy of those first few words. “And where is Ossian?”
Was there suspicion there? Perhaps not. It was a natural question to follow his own.
“Dead.”
Ivar’s eyes stretched wide for a moment, searching his face. Surely he saw nothing.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” the man said. “I was not told.”
Montgomery’s stomach pitched. Of course, Ivar was sincere in his regret. Until only a year ago, the five of them spent much time together; Luthias dogging Ivar, Ewan and Ossian shadowing himself. As the future Laird of his clan, he had need of two protectors. As the third in line for the MacKay lairdship, Ivar needed no such special treatment. The sure start to a good fight had always been for one to say the other was weaker, or himself more important. His knuckles itched now for such a scratching.
“Have ye replaced the man with this dozen, then? Are ye so afraid for yer health?”
Oh, his knuckles would be satisfied, and soon, but he wanted answers first. Either Ivar was taunting him into fulfilling the purpose for his visit, or the knuckles on the other man itched as well. The forced smile on the MacKay man’s face hinted that he was merely frustrated that his miracle had not come to pass, and he wished for Montgomery to join him in his misery.
“Are ye growing soft, as well as frightened, Monty?”
It was the familiar name that slapped him. Ewan was the only one who called him Monty now.
“Leave us. All of ye,” he barked.
The MacKays did not move until Ivar nodded. At least all training had not been forgotten by his enemy.
When even Ewan and his lads had departed, Montgomery stepped forward and gripped Ivar’s shoulders, forcing his former friend to look in his eyes.
“Tell me ye had no hand in sealing the woman in the tomb,” he demanded.
Ivar frowned, then his brows rose.
“Morna,” he choked out, clutching Montgomery’s forearms before his knees gave way. Montgomery’s grasp kept the man upright. “Is she—”
“Nay. Not Morna. The MacKay woman. Did ye have no hand in it, then? Ye did not send Jillian MacKay to stop my wedding?”
Ivar’s gaze was steady. “I did not. The Jillian I ken is only five or six summers. Someone sealed her in a tomb? Isobelle’s tomb?”
Montgomery nodded, satisfied the man had never used Jillian so, but disappointed she was no kin of Ivar’s. The other two alternatives left him sick.
His enemy waited for more.
“Truth to tell, this Jillian is a woman grown, not a bairn. I have yet to find her family, or discover if she is who she claims to be.”
“Have ye considered the Gordon bastards?”
“Aye, I have.”
A moment later, they were sitting on the MacKay side of The Burn as they had for years; Ivar on the ground with his back against a giant felled tree and Montgomery on a large grey boulder with a seat naturally hollowed out, as if by an ancient puddle of water. But now the boulder looked half the size it had when they had first discovered it, and the noble trunk was rotting in pockets of crumbled rusty bark.
Montgomery pushed aside the pain of the last year, and its sources, to enjoy the familiar feeling of not being a man unto himself, to remember what it was like before women and responsibilities changed the size and significance of things. For just a wee while, he was Monty, sitting with Ivar, hiding from the world and planning its conquest. They were going to rise together against The Cock o’ the North and show The Gordon their bare backsides.
No one can take away knowledge, however, and pretending the last year had never happened was a game Monty was too old to accomplish.
“Tell me about the weddin’.” Ivar tossed a pebble over his shoulder and smiled when it made a splash.
Monty shot Ivar a frown. The man held up his hands.
“Aye, everyone has heard. But I’d like to know what really happened. By the time the tale reached my ears, Isobelle had come back, the faery from the prophecy was well on her way, and they only waited for ye to come and fetch me.”
“Ah, so that is why ye were here. Waitin’ for me to take ye to a faery and bring about a war with the Gordons.”
“I kenned not what to think, but I was going to be here on the chance I might have my raison d’être given back to me. And I was not about to cross the MacKay/Ross Burn and give ye leave to run me through.”
“Speakin’ of runnin’ a mon through, and blood channels—”
“Were we speakin’ o’ blood channels, then?”
“Aye. ‘Tis why I’ve come. I mean to see ye hang for yer attempted murder o’ the MacKay lass.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jillian had not hidden in the tunnel as she’d been instructed, but had slipped into the shadowed space between the tomb and the back wall. If the hall filled with people, there was little chance of her b
eing seen if she stayed quiet. And even if Medieval Montgomery didn’t like her interpretation of his order, he should be grateful she’d hidden at all.
He’d used that nonsense about burning her to gain her cooperation, that’s all. They only burned witches, didn’t they?
Hope flashed.
He already believed she was from another time, or a fairy. Why else would he worry she might be hung as a witch? And hadn’t Ewan told her he and the laird already believed her?
“We don’t discuss such things here,” he’d said.
Bullcrap. He didn’t want to admit such things here.
Neither had she, back in the states, when the Muirs had told their romantic tale. It didn’t seem like hundreds of years away, now, but it felt like a modest lifetime.
No. Montgomery Ross was pretending he didn’t believe her, but why?
While Jillian racked her brain for possibilities, she was content to remain in her small space, with escape available to either side, or above her. Although the Highlander had gone outside and left the hall empty, she’d take no chances. Besides, she wanted to show him she had obeyed, albeit to a point.
She was just choosing the words she’d use to confront Montgomery when the big door opened and quickly closed. She was about to call out but bit her tongue when the shuffle of feet sounded far more delicate than Montgomery’s or Ewan’s.
Who would chance being caught disobeying the laird? Well, besides her, of course.
“Isobelle?” a woman called, tentatively. “Are ye here, Isobelle?”
Jillian smiled. Widow Murray was a fifteenth-century shade sniffer.
As quiet as a mouse, one tiny movement at a time, Jillian began climbing the back of the tomb. She just had to see what the woman was going to do next.
“Isobelle,” the widow began again, her voice bouncing eerily around the nearly empty cavern, “I wanted to thank ye for chasin’ away the Gordon woman.”
Bless you, Grandma, for the Gaelic lessons.
Movement off to her right side made Jillian freeze as she was reaching for her next handhold. The widow’s voice sounded as if she’d stopped mid-hall, maybe to get warm in front of the fire. If there was someone near the dais with Jillian, it was someone else.
With the top of the tomb only a foot out of reach, she scrambled as quickly as possible to get out of sight. Blood rushed in her ears and made it impossible to say how much noise she had made, but the lack of reaction from the widow was reassuring.
The roof of the tomb was a solid slab of stone, into the center of which Jillian crawled and flattened herself as much as she could. As she pulled her leg away from the edge, the slightest shifting of air raised goose bumps on her calf.
Someone had slipped behind the tomb. Jillian could feel them there. It had to be Ewan. Lord, let it be Ewan.
“Ye’ve done yer work well, Isobelle.” The widow was apparently not finished. If she was looking for some kind of contact, Jillian was tempted to oblige her, but Ewan would rat on her if she gave the older woman a heart attack. “No lass, from any clan, will want to fight the likes o’ ye. But now,” the woman continued, “if ye’d be kind enough to move along, I’d like to have Montgomery back. He willna come to me as long as he believes ye’re here. He’s said as much.”
“Nay yers,” came a whisper from the high ceiling.
Holy, holy crap! Isobelle really was there.
“Nay yers,” the same voice whispered before the first echo had died, only this time from the right side of the tomb. “He’s nay yers,” it said, now more viciously from the left. “Montgomery Ross belongs to a MacKay or to none at all.”
The last was sung clearly from the ceiling, followed by overlapping cackling from all directions. And just as Jillian was about to leap from the tomb and race Widow Murray to the door, her leg was anchored to the rock lid by a firm, bony hand. Her scream mingled with the widow’s and every stone of the castle rang like a bell.
The great door was left ajar, and while Jillian struggled to free her leg, the wood slammed shut on its own.
The cackling continued, in a less menacing tone, but still in stereo.
“Ye nearly had me wetting meself, dearie,” complained the ghost who still held Jillian’s leg. The hearth fire was dying from lack of attention and it was impossible for her to see any form in the shadows behind her.
Suddenly the hand released her, patted her calf then disappeared. Light flared and Jillian looked back to the hearth where a woman with graying red hair stirred it to life. Though the blue-clad woman struggled to keep her lips shut, she was still laughing. A second version of the same woman came into view from the end of the tomb and joined the first at the fire. When their gazes met, they both bent in half, laughing themselves silly.
Muirs.
Jillian had the distinct urge to run for her life.
“Come down, lass,” one of them called to her. “No need to hide from the likes o’ us.”
Unwilling to turn her back on the two, Jillian crawled to the right end and shimmied down the rock in half-light, dividing her attention between her grip and the odd sisters. With every inch closer to them, Jillian’s anger grew, despite the relief she felt at seeing them. If the sisters could travel through time, they could get her home again.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you’d been here?” she demanded, glancing at hands so she could nail them with their names.
There were no veins visible to give her any hints, however. Too young, she realized. Apparently, time travel worked well for them.
The poker reminded her of a certain crow bar and she took a guess. “Loretta, you could have given me a heart attack.”
The other one turned sharply to stare at her.
“She’s not Loretta, dearie.”
“Lorraine, then.”
“Neither is she Lorraine, lass,” her calf-attacker claimed. “But we’d like to ken who Loretta and Lorraine are.”
As she stared at the matching set of sisters, understanding dawned.
Dear Lord. More Muirs.
Chapter Nineteen
“I’ve no’ been across The Burn. I swear it.”
In days gone by, Montgomery would have believed Ivar without thought, without doubt. Not now.
“The assassin’s plaid was torn when he escaped.” He tossed the wee corner of MacKay plaid at Ivar’s feet.
“My plaid is whole.”
“Easily changed.”
“True.”
He eyed the MacKay man from head to foot. His clothing did not look freshly donned.
“And I suppose ye have a dozen arrows in yer quill?”
“I do.”
Ivar, ever perfect where his weapons were concerned, always kept an even dozen arrows to hand. As he used them he would count, therefore always knowing how many enemies he could still fell before needing to change weapons.
Understanding the seriousness of this meeting now, his former friend sat still while Montgomery fetched the weapons in question. He could feel Ivar’s eyes on his back as he walked away, but the man would not attack. If he were still hopeful the prophecy would come to pass, he would need The Ross’s permission to get to Morna, and as long as he breathed, Montgomery would never allow the man to cross The Burn and live.
He returned to the rock with the quiver in hand, then sat and took the arrows out, two at a time. After the fifth pair was laid across his lap, there was but a lone arrow remaining, and it was hard to tell which of them was the more surprised.
If Ivar truly held faith in Isobelle’s prophecy, would he have tried to kill the woman who might bring it to pass?
“I swear—”
“Save yer oaths, MacKay,” he barked.
Thankfully the man held his wheesht so he could think. If not Jillian, then had Ivar tried to kill him? The pain of that possible betrayal must have shown on his face, for Ivar reached out and put a hand upon his knee.
“Monty. I would as soon kill myself as I would ye, in spite of everything. Ye canno
t believe I would harm ye to get to Morna, for that would only hurt her more. For a poor man’s sake, I could no easier kill ye than ye could kill me.”
But that was exactly why Montgomery had come.
And finally, Ivar’s eyes flared as if Monty had spoken it aloud. “Good God, man. Ye would have killed me? Me?”
How dare he sound betrayed. There was only one traitor here.
“What in Alba has become of ye?” Ivar stood and began pacing from the log to the water and back again before coming to a stop at Monty’s feet. “Has yer year alone been any harsher than mine? Than Morna’s? Has it? Has peace and quiet and the pity of the Murray widow killed the memory of the rest of us?” Ivar paced again, tearing at his mussed hair. “Is that it? Have ye worked so hard to forget what ye’ve done?”
“Forget what I’ve done? I drive myself mad trying to forget what ye did, ye bastard.” Montgomery’s voice was raspy with the anger boiling up from his stomach.
Ivar stopped and stared at him. Good. Mayhap he finally realized what seducing his sister had done. When the other man started laughing, however, Montgomery chided himself for even considering Ivar had any conscience.
“So,” the man chuckled, “Montgomery Ross has convinced himself he had no blame in the war between Ross and MacKay. Righteous Ross remembers nothing.” The last words were spit out with bitterness. “Go home, Monty. Go back to the world the way ye’ve fashioned it. Go back to yer feigned innocence. I’ll not kill ye, or yer woman, and I’ll discover the MacKay who tried. Ye’ll have to be content with the punishment I give him.”
Montgomery allowed MacKay to leave. There was no deceit to be found in his eyes tonight. He had not tried to kill Jillian, or him. And the man had said he would discover which of his clansmen was guilty. Montgomery would be content with that, just as Ivar said he must.
Sadness dogged every step of his short but solitary ride home. If he had held out any hope of ever ending this war with the MacKays, that hope was now gone. His friend refused to believe that his actions with Morna had caused all grief since then.