The Curse of Clan Ross (12 page)

“That’s not what I was asking.” Frank beat friendly any day. “I want to know if you go around murdering people for him and if you plan to murder me when his mood changes again.”

Ewan shook his mane. “He would never harm—”

“Leave him be, lass.”

It must take a lot of grease to make such a huge slab of wood open silently.

Laird Ross was well inside with the door closed before Jilly was caught red-handed trying to lead his troops to treason. She almost felt guilty enough to have forgotten about the food. Almost.

She flew to his side and surveyed the bounty he carried and she couldn’t help but smile at him in gratitude. She tried to take the platter away from him, but he held firm.

Please, God, don’t let him make me earn it.

“It’s not all for ye, aye?” he said and moved to the long table that ran parallel to the hearth she’d studied in another century. It had been a little more battered, but cleaner then. Today, whatever day that was, the fireplace was soot-blackened with a variety of empty hooks lurking in its layers of shadow.

Ewan dragged her abandoned stool, along with another, to plop down next to the table. Laird Ross took what looked to be a leg of a giant turkey and swaggered up to the throne chair. The golden one sat and indicated Jilly should do the same before inelegantly diving into the meat on the platter.

Had she not been so hungry, she would have laughed, and she fully intended to do so—after she stuffed her own face.

The meat was dark and moist. A bird of some sort. Large, too. Possibly a goose. A couple of Grandma’s rolls would have been lovely with it, and a couple extra to make sandwiches for later. She’d have to do without Miracle Whip; mayonnaise probably hadn’t even been invented yet. Better to just gorge while she could. Who knew how often those two ate?

Once she caught her breath she looked across at Ewan. He was eyeing her and the last large meat-covered bone on the plate. His greasy hands were twitching and every few breaths he’d suck in his bottom lip and release it with a smack.

Slowly, Jilly reached for the meat, then let her hand hover above it, fingers flexing. Ewan’s brows popped up, but he brought them down again when he realized she was watching.

“I’ll let you have it on one condition,” she whispered.

He answered with only a noncommittal scowl.

“You make sure I get another meal today.”

“Done,” he said, then grabbed, bit and chewed before her hand ever moved.

She laughed aloud when he paused long enough to give her a wink and a hairy grin, and when he sucked in his bottom lip this time, his whiskers even followed. She had thought it odd the way the man’s facial hair was a bit darker under his bottom lip. Now she knew why. It probably never had a chance to dry.

“Stop whisperin’,” commanded the other man.

Jilly turned to find the laird of Clan Ross holding the nearly clean leg bone like a scepter, and she couldn’t help but smile.

“My lord—er,laird—Montgomery.” She shook her head. “If you didn’t insist on sitting on your throne, you could play down here with the little people.”

She could have sworn his bottom lip had protruded from his five o’clock shadow, if only for an instant.

“They’ve taken the benches outside,” he explained. “There was nowhere else to sit.”

“And why were they taken outside?”

“Because just after my wedding was ruint, I ordered everyone out of the castle while we let our damned ghost wail herself dead again, is why.” He glared daggers at both her and Ewan.

What was his problem?  He thought they were whispering?  He couldn’t be jealous. Could he?  Or was he just looking for a little credit for not killing her?

What an ass.

“Forgive me, Laird Ross. I should be groveling at your feet, thanking you up and down for letting me live.” She hurried to kneel before his freaking throne. “Although, had you not lost your temper, I wouldn’t have been in danger.” She stood and put her hands on her hips.

She was on a roll. She’d never been on a roll before.

“I should be thanking you for bringing me food, but you wouldn’t have needed to if you wouldn’t have kept me from going outside.” She began to pace, barely noticing the gaping mouths of both men. “I’d thank you for letting me out of the tomb, but I wouldn’t have been in there if you hadn’t built it. If you hadn’t separated Ivar and Morna, I wouldn’t have needed to come fix your mistake—”

“Ewan, get out.” Montgomery Ross’s mouth wasn’t gaping any more. She’d say he was smiling, but it was more like a sneer.

Ewan looked like he was praying as he trotted to the big door and escaped.

She should thank him for the prayers...but he was probably praying he wouldn’t have a big mess to clean up after his laird was done with her.

She faced His Majesty.

“I’m sorry. I was just tired of being reminded how close I’ve come to dying. For just a little while, I’d like to forget where I am and how I got here.”

Montgomery looked at her for a moment, stroking whiskers that seemed to grow by the minute. His eyes were half closed, dreamy, and then the look was gone.

“I ken just how ye feel, lass.” He stood and followed Ewan’s footsteps to the door, where he paused and turned his head to the side. “I meant what I said. Stay indoors. Don’t be seen. Obey me or ye will be made to regret more than ye already do.”

He was gone before she could argue. Probably before she could get any further down the list of things he’d screwed up. Before she could rip his head off and spit in the hole.

He’d said something before. What was it?

Something about his wedding being ruined...someone in the tomb had ruined his wedding...

She
had ruined his wedding!
 

Holy crap. She’d ruined his wedding. Where was the bride?  Was babysitting Jilly keeping him away from his honeymoon?  Had sparing her pissed off his wife?

At the thought of Montgomery being married, a pang went off in Jilly’s chest like a cannon’s boom. The idea seemed so incredibly wrong. Then she remembered; he’d never married, hadn’t they said?  No children. That’s why his cousin Ewan became laird here.

Was she to blame?  If she hadn’t come, would he have lived happily ever after?  

It shouldn’t matter—at least she hadn’t messed with history—but it did. It mattered a great deal. From the moment she’d laid eyes on his statue, she’d wished he could have been happy. Now she was here, in his life, and if it was the second to last thing she did, she’d find him some happiness.

It was only fair, since the
very
last thing she would do was really going to piss him off.
 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Montgomery stomped for the outer bailey and as expected, Ewan fell into step beside him.

“Where do ye go, Monty?”

“Armory.” He noticed Ewan’s inspection of the grand blade in his hand. No doubt he was looking for traces of MacKay blood.

“Should we be leavin’ the lass alone, do ye suppose?” Ewan moved ahead of him and turned to watch his face while walking quickly backward.

Ewan was in dire need of being put in his place, and Montgomery was more than happy to see the duty done.

“The lass will no longer require watchin’, Cousin.”

Dinna smile. Dinna smile
.
 

Ewan stopped dead, but Monty was prepared and walked smoothly around the suddenly pale man. A moment later, Ewan was at his side again, peering even closer at the blade.

“What do ye mean, Monty?  I don’t mean to question 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 their disdain.

“Yer name is Orie?” He tried to soften 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 straighted 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.”

Those 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 don’t, Monty.” Ewan’s steps were light as he matched Monty’s pace.

“But ye wanted to know, 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, little good it would do 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 it to ye to see it remedied.” He shoved the hilt and stone in 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 would 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’s say...for ye.” Ewan straightened and grinned again, damn him.