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

by L. L. Muir

  He dropped his arm and backed away.

  “How could ye do it, Sorcha? Did ye have no care for my happiness, then?” He knew the answer, but needed the woman to speak freely, to tell him with whom she was conspiring. “Did he make ye promises I couldna make ye?”

  “He promised to kill ye,” she hissed. “Did ye think ye could just forget I lived? Ah, no. Ye will cease to exist for me. For everyone.”

  “Ivar’s man, Luthias. He has yer lass.” The Muir sisters in all their blue glory peeped down from the gallery and for the first time in his life, Monty was glad to see them. Perhaps shooing the pair from his home was a ritual he could dispense with.

  “There is a trap for ye at The Burn, Laird Ross. He is holding her in an empty cottage just to the south and west of there. He hopes to kill Ivar as well.”

  “But why?” Ivar’s voice was strained, high. Betrayal was always painful. “What have we done to the mon?”

  Sorcha tipped her head back to look curiously at him. “Did ye truly not know, then? Could ye have been so smitten that the two of ye never noticed what yer man and Isobelle did whilst they gave ye yer privacy?” Sorcha snorted. “Love makes ye blind, then, to the rest of the world.” To Monty she said, “Luthias was just as smitten with Isobelle and because of the pair of ye, his love is dead. He will see ye suffer as he has suffered, I think. He’d have killed Morna too, if he could have gotten his hands on her.”

  Sorcha looked at Morna and frowned, but her mouth stretched into that smile once again...then she twisted and lunged from Ivar’s hold.

  Monty jumped in front of his sister and sunk his dagger into the widow’s breast at the same time Ivar’s blade pierced her heart from behind. As they both stepped back, her body sagged to the side. Even in death, one of her hands made its way home to her hip. Her sightless eyes sparkled only with a square reflection of light from the high window while a dark red carpet of blood spread beneath her odd pose.

  Ivar stepped around it to gather Morna into his arms.

  “Laird Ross?” One of the Muirs broke the silence, her voice echoing about in the arched ceiling.

  “Yes?”

  “How did she give herself away?”

  Monty shrugged. “I realized she was spending time with a MacKay.”

  “How?” Ivar and Morna asked in unison.

  “She called it The MacKay/Ross Burn. Only a MacKay does that.” He waited for the Muirs to make their way down to the hall. “I assume ye were sneaking around my keep, ladies, and overheard Luthias and Sorcha making plans.”

  “Auch, nay, yer lairdship. We only came to warn the lass that Sorcha was on the prowl. We’d have never intruded if we didn’t believe ye’d welcome it.”

  “No doubt ye often use the same reasoning.” Monty looked back and forth between the two.

  Matching sets of brows rose in mock innocence. “A pair of ne’er-do-wells, at the bidding of Luthias, were foolish enough to chase us away.” Margot grinned.

  “Tell it true, sister. ‘Twas more like they followed where we led them.” Mhairi’s eyes twinkled.

  Margot nodded. “True, sister. True. Though they’re paying dearly for being so bald and bold.”

  “Aye. Bald as a new bairn.” Mhairi snorted.

  “I see,” said Monty. “And they confessed while ye...shaved...them?”

  “Oh, they confessed. But we never shaved them. More like their hair just fell out.”

  “Of its own desire, if ye believe it.”

  “Bald and bold, they chose to be. Their doin’, not ours.”

  “Sisters, please. No more. I beg ye.”

  Margot and Mhairi looked at each other, then back at Monty. “That’s just what those men said.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Luthias, good God, mon, I’m happy ye’re here.”

  If he weren’t so sick with worry for his wee lass, Monty would enjoy watching Ivar playing cat and mouse with Jillian’s captor. Crouching in the MacKay trees to Luthias’s back, he could see the face of Ivar, but not their prey.

  “Montgomery will be here any moment. He thinks I have his new woman.” Ivar grasped his cousin’s arms and shook him, effectively shaking the man’s sword from his grasp. “She’s here somewhere near The Burn and ye’ve got to help me find her before Monty does. The bastard has to pay for what he’s done, and she’s just the bait I need to make that happen.”

  The man was brilliant. He’d scooped up Luthias’ sword and turned with it, as if he were protecting Luthias from the coming threat.

  When the bastard pulled another sword from beneath the log upon which he’d been sitting, the “zing” had Ivar turning back to him in surprise.

  “Bravo, Ivar. Ye should travel with players. So entertaining.”

  The two squared off, and Monty headed to his friend’s aid.

  “Come join us, Laird Ross.” Luthias turned his head to one side. “I do so hate to strain my voice so ye can hear me. Don’t worry. The men behind ye willna harm ye. Yet.”

  Monty turned to find two men grinning at him just beyond the reach of his sword. They were armed, but made no move to attack. Slowly, he seated his sword in his scabbard, since they had not taken it from him, and moved to join Ivar. They were either fools, or very clever, and he worried that their appearances were deceiving. Was the filth on their faces put there to cover their expressions and make it harder to guess their next move? Or were they the pigs they appeared to be?

  “Really, Monty, did ye not think I would know yer tactics?” Luthias sneered and motioned Monty closer to Ivar. “I’ve been at yer elbow for years.”

  A small fire burned between them, but it was midday, and a warm day at that. There were no fowl, no rabbits on a spit, just the fire. No remnants of a meal, no smells lingering in the air other than the strong pine taste to the smoke curling around them.

  “I see ye’ve noticed my fire. I’ll explain it in a moment, but first, allow my new friends to tie ye both to that tree. It is a tree ye’re rather fond of, are ye not, Laird Ross? I rather expected to find ye in it, enjoying yer favorite perch, but no matter. Today ye will sit beneath it, if ye please. That is, if ye want to ken where yer MacKay lass is.”

  “And if we don’t care?” Monty intended to hold his ground. He couldn’t find Jillian if he were tied to a bloody tree.

  “Oh, ye care.” Luthias’ laughter was sickening. “And what is more, the wee bitch cares for ye, enough to do whatever I wished.”

  One blade was at Monty’s throat and another against his chest before he could reach Luthias and cut his heart out for suggesting that he’d touched Jillian. He shrugged the blades away and stepped back, unsheathing his sword. Ivar stepped back with him and lifted his own blade.

  “Luthias, ye’re a fool. We’ve already been to the cottage and the woman has escaped.” He’d been waiting for just the right moment to say those words, to watch Luthias lose his composure and strike out.

  But he didn’t. He laughed an annoyingly satisfied laugh. “Did ye think I would trust the widow to keep her mouth shut? She adored ye, aye? I’m sure a bit of tenderness is all it took to break her. She does melt for a word of kindness, does she not?”

  Luthias merely knew how to make him doubt himself, that was all. They’d practiced the tactic on their foes, but Ivar’s cousin had studied a bit on his own, it seemed. And Monty hoped that would be the last time he underestimated the man.

  “Now, ye’ll be submittin’ to the tether or ye’ll never know where she is—what danger she is in—and I assure ye, she is in danger, me dear auld comrades.”

  There was still one last bit of leverage to try. He risked everything in the telling of it, but Jillian’s life meant more than his honor.

  “Luthias,” he said in a low voice. “Isobelle lives.”

  The man before them transformed into a rabid, snarling animal baring its teeth and screaming in rage. “How dare ye speak of her to me! Ye try to appease me with such a tale?” He seemed to double in size with the streng
th of his fury. “Murderer!” Then he whispered it. “Murderer.”

  “Listen to him, Luthias. He tells the truth.” Ivar lowered his blade, inviting the other to believe him, but was ignored. “They carved away the stone beneath the tomb and got yer lass out in time. Ossian took her far away, where she’ll be safe. Ye can go and prove it with yer very eyes, mon.”

  “Tie them to the tree. If they resist, make them bleed, but don’t kill them yet.”

  Monty was so surprised by Luthias’ distrust he was caught up in ropes before he could think to fight. The realization that this former fellow in arms had been trying to kill him was still settling into his mind. But in an instant, he understood.

  “Ye loved her as I love Jillian. I understand that now. I take full blame for yer torture.” Confessions had cleared Monty’s path of late. Mayhap it would work again. “Had I known ye loved her, I would have sent ye with her instead of—”

  One side of his face slammed into the rough bark of the tree while the opposite side stung from Luthias’s blow.

  “Does yer woman know Isobelle is alive?” his tormentor demanded.

  “Yes. She knows,” Monty said. “She has seen inside the tomb, from the hole we dug to get Isobelle out.”

  “Liar!”

  The stinging side of his face now crashed into the bark from an even more powerful blow. If Luthias hit him again, he may just wake up dead.

  “If yer woman believed Isobelle was alive, why would she not have said as much, to save herself?”

  Monty froze. He no longer felt his face. No longer felt the ropes that bit into his arms. No longer heard anything but those words, why would she not have said so, to save herself?

  “Is she dead?” he whispered, unable to demand the answer he dreaded hearing, but needing to know so he could tell his heart to stop its beating.

  “Ah, already I am enjoying myself.” Luthias rubbed his hands together. “Did I kill her? Or how did I kill her?”

  “Bastard.”

  “Auch, now. Be a good laird and ask the right question and I just may answer ye.”

  It was going to be a pleasure to rip this man’s limbs from him before he lost consciousness.

  “Did ye kill her?” he growled, preparing himself for the answer, but the answer never came.

  Luthias started humming, walking around the tree at a safe distance from Monty and Ivar’s legs.

  “How did ye kill her?” Ivar demanded. Monty didn’t know if he could have asked that.

  Still Luthias hummed but moved to circle his fire. Uneasy with their leader’s ever-changing moods, his three filthy friends moved apart, likely to avoid the madman’s nasty notice.

  “Are ye going to kill her?” An easier question, Monty thought, because if he answered yes, Jillian was still alive.

  “Yes, yes. Go on,” Luthias invited.

  The fire. He was hinting about the fire. He was going to kill Jillian with fire. But would it be better to let the man tell them, or send him into another rage? Mayhap if he came close to strike him again, Monty could pull him down with his legs.

  “So, ye’re going to burn her as a witch, as Isobelle would have died.”

  The true monster whipped around but did not strike. He took a deep breath, then another, then smiled.

  Not enough?

  “As Isobelle would have died had I not suggested the tomb so I could dig her out and get her out of Scotland?”

  Luthias laughed. “Ye will have a bit of time contemplating yer sins, Ross. Ye will be buried alive as Isobelle was. But that is not all ye’ll be thinking about.” Again, he circled the fire and reached for a bow Monty hadn’t noticed before. He pulled an arrow from his boot, the tip of which was covered in a black cloth.

  “Ye already checked the cottage, did ye?” he asked.

  “Aye, we did,” Ivar said.

  “Did ye notice the bed in the corner?”

  “Aye.”

  Monty was grateful Ivar could answer. Dread stole up Monty’s chest, wrapped its fingers around his heart like a fast-growing vine, then reached up to choke him.

  “After the two of ye left the cottage, my other friends would have brought—Jillian, was it—would have brought Jillian out of the trees and tied her to that bed.” Luthias leaned down and touched the bandaged tip of the arrow to the fire and the flame leapt free from the wood to land upon it. “If ye watch between the sections of that split tree, ye can just see the thatched roof of that very cottage. It’s a very dry roof this year. Here, let me demonstrate.”

  “No!” Monty heard himself shout. “Isobelle is alive, but I’ll not tell ye where unless Jillian is alive and well and standing before me.”

  “Worry not. I am a fine marksman, if ye remember. Ye’ll be able to see just fine. Perhaps ye’ll be able to hear her as well.”

  And true to his word and his aim, the fiery arrow cut loose, flew in a wide arc, and landed in the center of a distant roof that welcomed the flame into its dry arms.

  Monty felt a tugging on the ropes, but he knew Ivar struggled in vain. All he could do was watch the fire spread, knowing the rains would not appear to save the love of his life, hoping she had been mercifully strangled as Isobelle would have been, had they insisted on burning her.

  He was grateful for each second he heard no screaming, hoping she lost consciousness before the flames reached her.

  But then it came.

  Sharp and desperate, the wailing cut through the smoke like the angry cry of a mountain cat before it ricocheted off the trees, making it sound like two women were screaming, not one.

  He blinked the tears from his eyes in time to see the cottage door fly open and two figures—two masculine figures—stumble out of the blackness billowing behind them.

  “Would you mind getting off your arse?” The mocking voice of Jillian MacKay tickled his ear. “I’d like to get the hell out of here.”

  So engrossed was Luthias in watching the fire—and his flailing friends who would never survive long enough to be helped—Monty and Ivar put Luthias’ men out of commission before the mad bastard ever looked behind him. He never had a chance to lift a weapon.

  Monty nodded to the villain whom he’d once called friend. “If ye have a mind to pray to God and ask forgiveness of yer sins—”

  “I do not.” Luthias spit on Monty’s boot.

  “Very well. Since we stand upon Ross land, your sentence falls to me, and I declare ye to be far too dangerous to yer fellow man—and woman—to be allowed to live.” Monty nodded to Ivar, who took a step to the side, to block Jillian’s view, and a heartbeat later, Luthias MacKay’s head left his body.

  Monty took a moment to thank God he’d seen fit to sharpen his blade recently.

  “Wait!” Jillian tried to push around Ivar, but he prevented her. “Please tell me you didn’t just—” She saw the head and frowned, then blinked rapidly. “That’s not real.”

  “Of course it is not real,” Ivar said, and led her away, to the far side of a tall bramble. “Legal, I promise ye, but not real at all.”

  When he returned, Ivar gave him a nod to say Jillian would be all right. Monty hoped he was right.

  “Executing a friend is hard business,” Ivar said after tying Luthias across his horse. “I thank ye, Monty, for doin’ the deed.”

  Jillian was in shock again. It was getting to be a regular thing. But she sat down in a shady spot and took deep breaths. She could still hear the men talking, but thankfully, she couldn’t see what they were doing.

  “We must forgive Luthias, now that we ken what drove him to murder.”

  “We’re all madmen once we’ve found our women, aye?”

  “Aye. Madmen indeed.”

  Jillian wanted to crawl under a rock and crow at the same time. It was intoxicating to think she held some power over the brawny Highlander. But her reaction to his growl made it clear he held some power over her too.

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

  “And if Jillian would have been in that cottage…” There was a long pause. “I’d have killed him far slower than he planned to kill me.”

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

  When the mob had settled around them, Ivar told them he’d been trying to find Montgomery’s would-be assassin, 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 Montgomery’s men had put out of their misery, and since they were accused of aiding Luthias, they 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 ye have sore feelings for him leaving, it is my fault ye 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 yards away, Jillian’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’ bellies and need to be dragged out by their heels.

  The crowd had completely dissipated when Monty came to help her out of the bushes. Her thighs were so weak from crouching, though, 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.