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

by L. L. Muir

  “Oh, hello,” she said and turned back to Monty.

  “Good even,” said Quinn.

  “I’m leaving him some water. And some light. I don’t suppose air would do him any good.”

  “But the other things will?”

  “He’d do it for me.” That was the best she could explain. “Once I’m gone...once I’m gone, I’d appreciate it if you could make sure he has them. Light and water, that is.”

  “Are ye goin’ home, then? To America?” His tone was cautious, like a cop trying to talk someone away from a cliff. He had no idea she’d already flung herself off the edge. “Ye might consider taking some time to...recover first.”

  Recover? She thought about the meaning: to get something back. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Lass... Jillian—”

  “Don’t!” Fire erupted in her belly and she bent over. “Don’t ever call me that. Please,” she begged her bare feet, begged the stone beneath them.

  A heartbeat later, she was hoisted into the strong arms of the wrong Highlander, and she buried her nose against his chest to keep from looking at his face. She would never look at his face. If she found some hint there of the other man, who knew what would happen?

  “Don’t touch me. Let me down. He doesn’t want anyone to touch me!”

  She heard her words being analyzed, but she didn’t care. He wasn’t dead. She wasn’t a widow. Somewhere, stored in the airwaves, bouncing around the hall, was the image of a very much alive Montgomery Constantine Ross. If she just held very still, she may catch a glimpse. Maybe the voice that woke her up consisted of some very old sounds still vibrating through that same magical air.

  Then she looked around at the cold dark hall that held not even a sparkle of dust for the beam of her powerful flashlight. There was no magic here.

  “Let’s get ye up to the manor, then. Ye’re cold as ice, ye are.”

  ”I was there, you know. I really was there.”

  ”Of course, ye were there, lass.” Quinn grunted. “Did ye think we suspected ye of hiring players for the parts of Ivar and Morna? They’re real enough, and sure as it rains in Scotland, they didna come through on their own.”

  He paused for a moment, after they’d stepped out of the hall then changed directions, heading down into the depths of the keep. Maybe he was going to have her try the tomb again, but it wouldn’t work. No sacrifice.

  Besides, she’d already tried while Ivar and Morna had helped the Muirs recover from their faint.

  Quinn passed the workroom and went deeper still, his flashlight beam washed across uneven rocks to light the way, swinging to the rhythm of his gait. When they were both standing in the dungeon, it looked eerily like it had before, without the barred doors.

  He put her on her feet. “Wait here.”

  She watched his back as he fumbled around at the rear of what was once her own cell. When he returned the handle of his light was in his mouth. His hands gripped both sides of a large chunk of stone, which he lowered to her feet.

  He took the light from between his teeth. “This is why ye looked so familiar to me that first day on the tour, aye?” He illuminated the bust of a woman whose head was the only thing protruding a few inches from the rock. It looked eerily like her.

  “This was the green fairy. Old Montgomery must have hired an artist to create this. It didn’t hold up nearly as well as the statue in the hall. Different stone and all that.”

  Quinn shifted his light to her face for a moment and then back at the stone.

  “Sometimes folks tell of the green fairy, or the fairy with the green feet. To this day, down at the pub, ye can buy a drink called the Green-Toed Faery. Most tourists think it was named after a frog, not a faery with green toes. I should have suspected something when ye were wearing those ridiculously colored boots. I should have remembered this stone.”

  Tears rolled freely down Jillian’s cheeks. She’d been there. She hadn’t lost her mind. Now, if she could only convince herself she was back home again…

  “So aye, I ken ye were there lass. I ken just what it is like to live without yer heart.”

  “Without your soul,” she whispered. Perhaps she wasn’t as alone in her pain as she felt.

  “Aye, lass. Without yer soul.” He set the rock against the wall and came back to her. “Carry the torch, Jillian. And ye and I will help each other up out of this tomb we find ourselves wanting to remain in, aye?”

  Jillian forced herself to look up into his face and was both relieved and disappointed to find little of her husband there. She had to admit, however, that he was a handsome bugger.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  That was it. She was all packed.

  As she sat at the end of the far-too-comfortable bed in her far-too-lovely bedroom in Quinn Ross’s manor, she remembered the morning she left for Scotland with the Muirs.

  She hadn’t been able to sleep the night before, she’d been so excited. Her thoughts had been a whirlwind from imagining what might happen to her here, from her foot bursting into flames as it touched upon Scottish asphalt, to being arrested when her passport was closely examined, all thanks to her grandmother’s warnings about the country.

  She’d had her own fantasies, of course, of meeting a handsome guy who thought her a-line haircut anything but Wyoming-ish. He would take a vacation from his medical schooling to trail her and the Muirs around the countryside, trying to win her affection. When it was time for her to leave, he would profess his undying love and beg her to stay in spite of the inheritance she would forfeit by doing so.

  The reality of what happened had been a mixture of the two. She hadn’t been arrested, but she had been locked in a tomb and later, a dungeon. The handsome guy had been more alpha-male than she’d imagined. He hadn’t been a medical student, but from a prominent family, who owned a castle, no less.

  He hadn’t followed her around like a puppy, but had professed his undying love in a mute kind of way. The anguished cry she’d heard at the end would certainly qualify for ‘begging her to stay.’ And finally, it hadn’t been her foot, but her heart that had burst into flame...and now was little more than a Christmas lump of coal making itself a nuisance in her chest.

  She now knew two things—Grandma had been right, and she wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Even as devastated as she would be for the rest of her life, she wouldn’t have missed seeing that face in the flesh, wrapping her arms around the non-stone version of Montgomery Ross.

  That morning was the first time she had started to feel like a widow, waking alone, knowing she would always wake alone.

  She glanced at the carved clock on the mantle. She’d have to wait a whole hour before it was time to leave. She briefly considered spending sixty more minutes with the statue in the great hall, but she’d said goodbye to those gray unmoving features the night before. If she had to do it again, she’d probably have to be committed.

  There was a small apartment with 1980’s blue carpet waiting for her at the end of the day. The landlady, Mrs. Martin, would have taken the boxes to the Salvation Army, revealing more of the teal-ish blue floor—a floor she’d prayed she would see again if only someone could let her out of Isobelle’s tomb.

  Someone knocked softly on her door, then opened it a foot. It was Maggie, Quinn’s sister. She’d been silently pampering Jillian since she’d returned.

  “Looks to be a grand day, it does.” She looked around the door as if worried Jillian might throw something at her, and she might need a shield.

  “Good morning.”

  “And ye’re all packed and at the ready, I see. I’ll have one of the lads come and fetch yer things. Will ye come down for a bit of eggs and kippers?”

  The ends of the woman’s sentences still rose at the end, like questions. It was good to know some things didn’t change.

  “I don’t think so, Maggie.” She looked around the room for a reason to stay put, but she found nothing. She could only shrug her shoulders.

 
; The kind woman frowned at her for a moment, then stepped inside and closed the door. She glanced at the coverlet and lifted an eyebrow.

  “Sure, sit down,” Jillian said.

  “Got a bit of a spoon at the back of yer throat with Morna and her man about?”

  At least she thought it was a question.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Does it gag ye, perhaps, watching those two mooning over one another, as if they invented love and don’t think the rest of us would understand.”

  “Ah, so I’m not the only one, thank goodness.” Having Quinn empathize with her was nice enough. Having another woman understand her feelings was a relief.

  It was impossible not to resent Ivar and Morna now. If they’d been so in love, why had they allowed someone to part them? If they’d just run off together—

  If they’d have run off together, Jillian wouldn’t have ever been needed here.

  Even admitting that, she would not go downstairs and watch them staring into each other’s eyes for the next hour. Every sly glance, every brush of flesh between them raked on her nerves. She should be grateful, though; it made it easier to get the hell out of there.

  “Never alone, Miss MacKay.” Maggie’s hand flew to her mouth. “I meant to say, Mrs. Ross. Oh dear, I didna wish to step my foot in the muck here.”

  Jillian smiled and patted the other woman’s shoulder, grateful to not be the one patted for a change. Her shoulders should be bruised now after ten days of “there, there’s.”

  “I’m afraid my husband and I do the same thing to Quinn. He lost his wife just after the two of us married, and it was near impossible for him to remain in the same room with the pair of us. If it weren’t for his love of Castle Ross, he’d have moved away, I reckon, just to keep from—”

  “From always finding a spoon at the back of his throat?” Jillian was pleased to be catching on to the odd phrases that colored Scottish speech. “I’m probably guilty of gagging him a little myself. I’ve been acting like the only person in the world who’s ever lost someone. I need to apologize before I go.”

  “Ye need do no such thing, lass. He’s done the same, ye ken. Only he’s carried on for years now. It has probably been good for him to see what mournin’ looks like from the outside. He seems to be a different man even this morning, a bit of excitement in him. Perhaps that’s what’s done it, then.”

  Jillian suspected that once you had Christmas coal in your chest, it could never beat again, but she was glad for Maggie. She seemed relieved for Quinn’s sake.

  After a moment of silent smiling, Maggie cleared her throat. “So, do ye think ye might come back, then, when yer next year is up?”

  “Maybe.” Though she now believed she’d never step foot out of the United States again. “Did the Muirs tell you about it?”

  “Aye, they did. We had them here for a good two weeks, so we did a fair amount of visitin’.” Maggie frowned. “Do ye mind them tellin’?”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  “Well ‘tis fair strange, if ye don’t mind me saying, tellin’ a lass she can only have her inheritance if she never comes to Scotland.”

  “But she worded it all wrong, didn’t she?” Jillian laughed. “For all the money she spent on lawyers, they should have warned her about the wording.”

  “Giving ye a sum for every year ye didn’t go to Scotland.”

  “So, since I hadn’t gone to Scotland for my first 21 years, I got 21 years’ worth right off.”

  “And when ye need more, all ye need to do is spend 365 days between visits.” Maggie sobered just a bit. “What could have happened to yer grandmother to make her hate us so?”

  Jillian shrugged. Grandma had never said. Even in those last days when she knew she wouldn’t last much longer, she hadn’t given anything up.

  “‘Tis almost as if she knew what would happen to ye. Like she had the sight and would have spared ye the pain of it, aye?”

  “Yes.” And here they were, full circle, back to the pain.

  Jillian would go back to the states, but not home. Calling Wyoming home seemed odd now, when home was clearly about a hundred yards away, up the rise—and through about five hundred years.

  She would pack up what she had and find another state in which to start a life. Washington, maybe, where there were lots of pines. She would get a house with a fireplace, buy pine logs, and remember.

  “And they acted fair oddly when I said as much to them.” Maggie was still talking.

  Jillian was confused. She’d zoned out of the conversation.

  “Who acted oddly?” she asked, focusing once again on Maggie’s puzzled expression.

  “The sisters. The Muirs. When I said it was almost as if yer grandmother knew what ye would go through, if ye came to Scotland. They both shivered as if someone walked over their graves, they did. Then they skeedaddled.”

  “Ahh. So you know it too? The smell of a Muir rat?”

  Maggie nodded slowly, then more vigorously.

  “I’d say that was pinnin’ the bastard to the wall,” she said. She leaned a little closer. “I also didna care for the look that passed between them when Morna gave them a message from their ancestors. Not done yet, they’d said. I’d like to ken what they meant by it.”

  Jillian shook her head. “Don’t ask the Muirs anything. Their answers only lead to trouble.” She gave Maggie a half-hearted smile. “I’m sorry to just leave them behind, but they can get home all right without me. And whatever else they have planned, they can do it without me, too.”

  Maggie suddenly looked uncomfortable. “As to that, I suppose I should tell ye, so ye’re not taken too much by surprise...”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Sitting in his great Ross chair, Montgomery marveled at the strength, the physical effort, needed to do nothing. He’d paced a foot of ground from the tunnel floors below. He’d worn grooves into the stone steps, he was sure. Every time he felt no eyes upon him, he’d gone to the witch’s hole—just to check on things—then returned before any knew he’d been gone.

  In the midst of his merry-making clan, surrounded by firelight and smoke from roasting meat, Monty was alone. When he was deep in the ground, he was not. Somehow, she was down there—would be down there. And how he prayed for some magic to let him live hundreds of years only to come around a corner one day to find her standing there.

  To sit here in pain was madness. To pace to the dungeon and back, sanity. But tonight, sanity would wear the guise of strong drink, if his belly could stand it.

  Ewan shoved meat in Monty’s gullet every time he opened his mouth. Thanks to his cousin, he’d wake every morning to a cheerful lass who would assure him she’d be beaten if he did not eat what she brought him. If Monty did not know his cousin better, he’d accuse Ewan of fattening him for some sacrifice. But he couldn’t be sacrificed; he needed to live for a verra verra long time.

  Amid the lilting of dancers kicking up their heels before the dais, a slithering movement caught his eye. It was Ewan, sidling along the wall in the direction of the outer door. If the man needed to piss, he’d be going out the back, and if he didn’t need to piss, by God he’d stay and suffer through this celebration as well.

  “Ewan.” Monty smiled when the man jumped from his skin. Guilty bastard. “Come talk with me, cousin.”

  For the barest moment, it looked as if Ewan would actually like to defy him in front of their kin, but the set of his lips softened and he walked the long way ‘round the dancers.

  “What would ye care to speak about, yer lairdship?” Ewan’s voice boomed out as the music ended and the pipes groaned out a last honk of air.

  “How long?” Monty asked pleasantly, sipping his drink while he waited for heads to turn away.

  “How long fer what, Laird?”

  “For the ceilidh to end. How long do ye plan to celebrate the disappearance of...of my sister’s ghost?” Lord help him, his voice nearly broke. Still, after a sennight, he didn’t have a firm g
rip on his emotions. Would he ever? “We’ll have no animals left for the winter, man. I must put a stop to it.” Monty rubbed his temples. “Dinna make me ban the pipes for want of a bit of peace.”

  Ewan eyed him like the next carcass for the spit.

  “Ye’re done with yer greetin’, then? Ye’re ready to take down the blasted thing?”

  Monty was the one to jump this time. No choice for it. He’d been guarding the portal from Jillian’s world all these days, and now Ewan suggested he destroy it? His cousin was mad!

  “Ewan, see reason.” He felt the wildness in his eyes and forced a few deep breaths of whiskey-heated air into his lungs.

  How could he sound calm and reasonable and still make the man understand? How could Ewan ever appreciate his grief? He’d never lost his heart and soul to a woman, had never watched in torment while she took both from his life—without looking back.

  Reason. Reason.

  “Ewan. Cousin.” Monty spoke softly, while his feet crossed and re-crossed each other. His grip on the chair’s arms threatened to crush the wood, but with his eyes, he held Ewan’s attention. “If we took down the tomb, we’d have an audience, aye? And how would we explain Isobelle’s missing bones? How would we explain the hole?”

  Ewan saw reason, but he didn’t care for it. The curl to his nose said he was disgusted with either Monty’s argument, or with something he’d just bitten into.

  “Fine,” he said at last. “We canna bring it down, but sure as there’s heather in Scotland, we can find a way to seal it up.” Ewan folded his arms and stood his ground.

  “I see yer in a fine mood.” Monty, ever the player, showed no signs of the fear Ewan just struck inside his gullet. “Perhaps we could discuss that as well if the celebratin’ ever ends.”

  Monty hadn’t slept well.

  To prove he was past the point of continually checking the tunnels, he’d bid his cousin a good rest and gone to his bed. Unfortunately, staying there had been much harder than he’d expected. Mayhap he’d gone mad after all.