The Curse of Clan Ross (2 page)

“I see ye’ve met Montgomery.” Laird Ross, the ancient Highlander’s spitting image, walked up to her. His voice sent a shiver up her spine. It was a deep rumbly voice she imagined his ancestor might have had. “Ye’ll learn more on him in a moment. I’m happy to see we’ve found ye again.”

“I’m sorry. I fell behind. A woman suggested I wait for the rest of the group in here.” Jilly smiled.

The man’s eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Have ye by chance taken our wee tour before, then?” His gaze searched her face, her eyes, and lingered on her hair.

“Nope.” Jilly shivered and hoped her nerves didn’t show. “I think I just have one of those common faces, you know?”

He smiled and shrugged, then walked to the head of the crowd. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Jilly had been thrilled to have Quinn Ross, the token Scottish Laird, giving the tour. He was single, she’d heard one of the other tourists say, a widower. Jilly had listened long enough to learn the self-proclaimed ruler of those ancestral stones supposedly turned to the history of this remarkable building to distract himself from his broken heart.

Before she’d lagged behind, she’d followed the enticing swing of Laird Ross’s kilt through the crumbling maze of his playground. It hadn’t been difficult to catch the purring in the man’s voice as he’d pointed out how incredibly advanced the castle had been for the renovations made in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. For example, he’d explained, the system engineered for cleaning the garderobes was eerily similar to modern day toilet flushing.

Lordy, how the man loved his castle. They were lucky he allowed tourists through it.

In his mid-thirties, Quinn Ross was easily the most glorious creature Jilly’d met on her first trip out of the United States, excepting the literally chiseled Montgomery. Women of all ages blushed near him the duration of the tour; she wondered if it was sorrow or simple humility that made him oblivious to it.

It was just Jilly’s luck to be more attracted to the stone version of him. Though silent as the rock that held him prisoner, Montgomery stole her breath, while she sensed something missing from Quinn. Shouldn’t it be Montgomery who was lacking a certain something?  Like flesh and blood?  The ability to detach himself from his home, for instance?

Maybe she’d just heard the tale one too many times and the medieval man was becoming real to her.

Reminded of her storyteller companions, Jilly looked about the Hall and saw the two standing just inside the doorway with their heads bent together. When they noticed her, their faces lit up.

The Muir sisters, sweet identical ladies far too old to be traveling abroad, filled their immediate area with a blue glow. There was nothing magical about it; their thick knit sweaters were periwinkle, their hair was a respectable bluish-gray, and they each wore their swollen blue veins like a set of jewelry along their necks and hands.

The only thing not identical about them was the pattern of those veins. Lorraine had a large one running down the middle of her left hand; Loretta had one on her right. Through their weeks of planning and traveling together, Jilly needed only to glance at their hands to keep their names straight.

It had been the most natural thing in the world for her to gravitate to these two. They had a joy about them that was just the opposite of the cantankerous woman who’d raised her, and anything contrary to Jilly’s former dull life was welcome. Grandma had been flannel and overalls; these two were perfume and polyester.

Perfect.

She walked to meet them as the tour resumed. One sister slipped a veiny hand around Jilly’s elbow and held on. Right hand. Loretta. She couldn’t tell which of them was shaking harder; Loretta from age, or herself from excitement.

Along one wall the hearth stretched wide enough to accommodate a dozen men in its dark, but clean maw. Along the opposite wall stood an ornate series of cabinets in which all manner of weapons and armor winked from behind glass doors, tempting even adults to ignore the signs requesting they not be touched.

A maze of red velvet cordons led the guests to the far end of the fifty-foot hall where a large pedestal graced the center of a thick stone dais. When the group neared the display, the tone of the presentation turned somber. No doubt the Curse of Clan Ross was about to be revealed.

Holy crap. This is it.

The sisters, one on each side, squeezed her upper arms as if they were thinking just that.

Quinn Ross began the tale with a combination of respect for the superstition and the disenchantment of a modern man.

“The curse of the Rosses is not unlike the tale of Romeo and Juliet,” he explained. “Imagine the Montagues were the MacKay Clan, the Capulets, the Rosses. But in the year 1494, the duty to one’s clan was far more important than any notion of love. Clan meant survival. Allegiances meant...survival. And when our fair Morna’s hand was the price we had to pay for aligning ourselves with the powerful Gordons, Morna did her duty; her Romeo, Ivar MacKay, understood.”

Men’s heads nodded. The women sighed. Apparently they didn’t see anything wrong with Ivar sitting back and letting someone re-assign the love of his life to another man. Maybe, just maybe, Montgomery hadn’t been the only medieval jerk in this little tragedy.

Quinn leaned forward, weakening knees with eye contact as he continued.

“Isobelle Ross was a witch...and Morna’s sister. And even though she was a strange and opinionated woman for those times, Isobelle loved her sister dearly. She would have changed places with Morna, but the Gordons would not consider a union with the wilder sibling who was already suspected of not being right in the head. But Isobelle couldn’t bear to see Morna suffer over the loss of her Ivar, so she placed an enchantment on a simple torque.” He indicated the large C-shaped piece of metal displayed upon the pedestal. “This very torque.”

Jilly stretched her neck to catch a glimpse of silver shining on a bed of black velvet. All along its outer edge were Celtic-looking symbols.
A bit nondescript for such an important clan heirloom.
If not for the multi-faceted spotlights and the plush black velvet, it might have looked a bit dull.
 

So, that was it. The necklace. Its prophecy had been recited to her so many times since meeting the Muirs two weeks ago that she’d dreamt about it every night since. Listening to Quinn Ross tell it yet again made her antsy, but his brogue lulled her a bit.

“Isobelle promised Morna that one day soon a faery would claim this bit of silver, a faery bearing the Immediate Blood of both the MacKay and the Ross clans, one who would have the power to reunite our Juliet with her Romeo. They needed only be patient.”

As if to test the patience of his audience, he paused to drink from a water bottle, long and slow. The crowd, including Jillian, was mesmerized by the dramatic bob of the man’s Adam’s apple.

She needed to get a hold of herself.

The Scotsman handed off the bottle and continued, knowing full well he hadn’t lost anyone’s attention.

“Unfortunately, even in their time, innocent women were burned as witches, let alone strange sisters who spewed prophecy. Instead of Isobelle’s plan easing her sister’s aching heart, it broke the organ entirely. Word spread like the plague, and The Kirk came to put Isobelle to the witch’s test.”

He raised an open hand to the stone Highlander behind his left shoulder.

“Ye’ve no doubt noticed the sculpture behind me. Some of ye likely believe it to be a fantastic rendering of myself, but in truth it is the image of Laird Montgomery Constantine Ross, Isobelle’s and Morna’s brother. The sculpture was done by a young Italian man who was searching the Highlands for inspiration and found it in the sad family tale. His name was Buonarroti. Whether or not it is the work of a young Michelangelo has never been proven, but I have seen with my own eyes some of his pieces in Florence, and they are very similar.”

Jilly had never considered going to Italy before, but if there were more gorgeous statues like this one under the Tuscan sun, it would be worth the trip to see them. With her shiny new bank account, she could make just about anything happen.

“Buonarroti offered to create this statue to guard over this structure to my right.” Quinn’s gaze lingered on the dark stone tomb before he turned back to jab a finger toward the statue. “Ye’ll notice the unfinished mass of rock behind the legs. It was said the man refused to complete the piece after being called “Mickey” one too many times, but Michelangelo hardly
rrrolls
off a Scot’s tongue, aye?”
 

Right on cue, the troupe laughed. Jilly thought Quinn Ross should try stand-up, but then realized this was his gig. A great routine and a daily paying crowd—the perfect set up.

“Betimes I get ahead of myself. Forgive me. As I was saying, Montgomery was laird here and as such held considerable power. But there was no power to equal that of The Kirk in those times. Thus Laird Ross, my great uncle twenty-one times removed, was unable to spare his sister from condemnation. He was, however, able to change the manner in which she was to die.”

Some of the tourists took a deep breath, likely repeat customers bracing themselves for the finale.

With a gesture, Quinn bid the group step closer.

“The oddly shaped construction ye see at the back of the dais was erected by Montgomery as a tomb for both his sister and the accursed torque, built here so she would always be near him. Ye see, Isobelle was spared from a stranglin’ and a burnin’, but she could not escape her death sentence. Before the last stones were set, his very-much-alive sister and her offensive creation were sealed inside the wall by her brother’s hand.”

The kilt-clad Hercules paused dramatically, no doubt so the tragic image could sink in. He pulled a handkerchief from his sporran and turned aside to wipe the corner of one eye. When he dropped the white cloth back in his pouch, the rest of the women sighed, the men cleared their throats, and Jilly resisted the urge to applaud.

“Montgomery thought only to spare his sister the horror of being burned,” Quinn continued. “He had no idea that he’d sentenced them both to madness. Day after day he sat next to the tomb, listening for any sound from his sister within. Actually, for the rest of his life Montgomery Ross would occasionally be seen with his ear pressed against the stones, listening.”

Jilly could not stop herself from leaning toward the edifice at one with the huddled masses, as if they might be able to hear some of what Montgomery had listened for. You could have heard a pin drop.

Quinn’s voice lowered reverently.

“For days he was tormented, regretting his interference, but The Kirk would not allow him to take back the bargain he’d struck. And during that time, Montgomery would cross and re-cross that invisible line into lunacy, thrilling over every little sound Isobelle made, only to cry to God to end her suffering. More than once, he tried to tear down the stones to put her out of her misery, only to be halted by The Kirk’s henchmen who stood guard until the witch was clearly dead. After ten and two days, the little sounds ceased...and the haunting began.”

The squawk of bagpipes lurching into life made Jilly nearly jump out of her skin. It was a moment or two before she was relieved enough to laugh along with the rest. She stood respectfully listening to the set of three tunes that first lured emotion out of her, pulled tears from her eyes with a mournful dirge, then prodded her like a racehorse across an open field. By the time the piper’s bag exhaled its final dissonant breath, she was exhausted.

“Gather ye round, gather ye round.” Quinn stood near the pedestal with its over-glamorized, but romantic jewelry. “If any of ye here is believed to have both Ross and MacKay bloods in yer veins, come forth and try the truth of Isobelle’s prophesy.”

Two very excited old women gave her a shaky squeeze before prodding her in the back. After that jolt from the bagpiper, Jilly prayed their dusty hearts would last the day. Hopefully, hers would too.

So. This was it.
Time to play the game, Jillybean.
Before she took a step, however, a girl about six or seven years old stepped up to Laird Ross.
 

“I’ll try it on, Uncle Quinn, if’n there’s nay one else.”

Rather than chide the little girl for interrupting his show, Quinn picked her up and chucked her under the chin. “And ye shall, Eileen, ye shall. We all ken ye have the bloodlines to do it, aye?  But let’s save the best for last.”

Eileen beamed.

And all those silly women sighed again.

Jilly was pushed forward a bit faster than she was prepared to go, but before she could turn a frown on the wiry sisters, Quinn caught her hand and pulled her closer until she was nearly nose to nose with the child on his hip.

“Considering yer company, and that black MacKay hair, I rather suspected ye’d be stepping up.” He nodded to the Muir sisters and introduced her to Eileen. “I’ve a feeling one of ye may do the deed this very day, aye?  And when a Ross gets a feeling, well, we’d best stay on our toes.”

Amen to that, cousin.

This was what she’d come all this way to do, butterflies be damned. Later, once she was alone in her B&B room, she planned to celebrate how less-than-dull the day had been.

Then
she’d puke.
 

Jilly stepped in front of the pedestal. After a nod from the laird, she picked up the torque and worked it around her neck. Quinn put down his niece and took Jilly by the arm, turning her to face the crowd...

...a crowd that gave a collective “humph” when nothing holy-crappish happened.

“How do ye feel, lass?” He patted her shoulder. “Ye look a mite green. Do I need to fetch a rubbish bin?”

“No. No, I’m all right.” She pulled her face into what she hoped was a smile and turned her back to the group.

She wasn’t all right. She was mortified. Standing in the middle of way too many witnesses, trying on a supposedly magical necklace that was supposed to do who-knows-what, and trying not to look disappointed when who-knows-what didn’t happen, left her a
wee
bit angry at herself.