The Curse of Clan Ross (22 page)

No argument came from the shadows but movement receded far into the dark cell and he gave up trying to distinguish shapes, knowing there would be only one now as the lovers clung to each other. As he would like Jillian to cling to him one day soon.

Now the difficult part.

Reluctantly, he turned to find Jillian also moving deeper into her cell. If he took her with him, she’d not only demonstrate how much she loathed him but she’d find a way to come back to free Ivar and Morna before morning.

And they’d try to escape through the witch’s hole.

Slowly, painfully, he shut Jillian’s barred door. He imagined her flinching, though he could not see her, and his soul flinched with her.

One last task before he could stretch out on his big bed and sleep with both eyes closed for a change.

#  #  #

It had sickened Monty to see Jillian so near the workroom but a wee while ago. Now however, standing inside, alone under the gaping hole, Monty admitted he relished the thought of quitting the place.

The sealing stone lay in pieces below the hole. For his clumsiness, Ewan was going to have to fashion another. Tonight, however, it was convenient not to need to remove the heavy thing with but the hands of one man.

Rolling a cask under the dark maw, Monty was able to reach into the tomb where he set his torch. Swinging himself up into the light was accomplished easily enough. At one end of the oblong space, in a small nook made naturally by a difference in the thickness of the stones, sat Isobelle’s necklace.

“Forgive me, Isobelle. This cannot be left here, where she might use it.”

He lifted the necklace in his hands, but he could not see it well for the light was below it. No matter. He would examine it another day, when the menace was gone.

When Jillian would never wish to leave him again
.
 

He opened his sporran and lowered it in, then lowered himself just as gently onto the barrel. When he reached back inside to collect his torch, he saw something shiny on the wall.

Strange, but he was sure there was naught else but the torque in the tomb. Had Jillian left something behind when she had been inside?

Once more, he swung up into the torch’s light and stood. There, in the same alcove, was the cursed necklace.

The hairs on the backs of his hands rose with every other hair on his body. The prickling around his ears made him want to run howling from his own home, but he remained.

Quickly, he lifted the flap of his sporran. Monty was logical enough to know the necklace would not be inside, but foolish enough to be surprised when it was not.

It may have been his imagination, but if he listened closely he could hear the twin laughter of a couple of sisters. He chose not to listen that closely.

A Ross was not that easily defeated. Perhaps one merely needed to show the thing that it was, indeed, not in charge of its own fate.

Once again, he lifted the oddity from its perch, but this time he held it in his hand. Securely. He carefully lowered himself on to the barrel then reached back inside for the torch. With the aid of his light, he looked at his left fist.

His empty fist.

He had never released the thing, and yet he could not say when it had left his grasp. He had it in his fingers as he was lowering his feet to the barrel, and by the time he lowered his hand, it had vanished.

Just as Jillian would vanish
, he heard himself think even as he fought against that image.
 

Fine then. Ewan would begin working on the stone at first light, and he would not stop until the hole was sealed, the workroom filled to overflowing with the heaviest items he could find...and the door guarded by no less than a wolf.

He couldn’t possibly let her out of that cell until it was done.

A wee while later, Monty tossed and turned, stretched and sighed until he admitted he could not enjoy his rest. Though he sought to fill his mind with other, more pleasant images, he could not manage to lock out the sight of Jillian huddled in the darkness, under his home.

What if the torch did not last?  Was it so much she asked of him?  Air. Light. And water.

Dear Lord, he’d left her no water!  

#  #  #

“Jillian?” came Ivar’s whisper from across the dungeon. “Lass, are ye awake?”

Jillian had tried to give the sweethearts a bit of privacy...by humming. She’d never been much of a voyeur; it had always been too painful to watch lovers kissing or wrapping themselves around each other when she’d never had anyone of her own. The difference now was that she imagined herself doing such things with Montgomery Ross and the frustration was infinitely worse.

She didn’t know if the two would take advantage of what may well be their only time together, but she’d hummed as long as she could. When her voice had finally given out, it had been blessedly quiet.

“Jillian.”

“I’m here. I’m awake.”

“We need to make a plan, lass, before The Ross returns.”

Only one torch remained lit. Funny how, in her wallowing, Jilly had not noticed before how imminent was the arrival of complete darkness. Perhaps it was because she was not totally alone that the fear was held at bay. Perhaps it was because she could imagine worse things, like failing her task.

Or maybe she feared completing it.

“We won’t be able to get to the hole this time. Not with Monty guarding it like he is. We will have to try another day, when he doesn’t know we’re all together.”

“You’re probably right, Ivar. But it took so much to get you both here. I’m afraid we’ll never pull it off again.”

“She’s right, mavournin’,” came Morna’s strong voice. Jilly could only imagine what a strong woman her older sister Isobelle had been. “In but another sennight, the clan will be allowed back inside the hall. Monty will have decided what he is going to do with Jilly by then. After that, I doona like our chances.”

The subject didn’t care for the sound of that. She wanted to know what Morna suspected her brother capable of, but she dared not ask. But there was something else. Something Morna had said earlier.

“What does ‘mavournin’’ mean?”

Morna laughed. “It means ‘my dearest one.’”

Jilly had suspected something of the sort, but knowing he’d called her
his dearest one
didn’t mean she’d ever be able to get around his pride. For it had to be pride holding him back. Monty would never admit he was wrong. Even if she bashed him on the head.
 

Now there was an idea.

“You can’t just overpower him, Ivar?  Tie him up, or something?” She tried not to think about what things she’d like to do to him while he was thusly incapacitated. Just a few hard kisses before they left—

“I cannot best him, lass. I never have. I’d have to have help.”

“What about Ewan?” Morna chimed in.

Something moved down the hall leading from the dungeon and all of them went silent.

The silence stretched out with no further disruption. “Don’t worry, ladies,” Ivar murmured. “The rats will stay away from the light.”

Before the echo of his voice had finished bouncing around the stone room, the orange glow faded to black.

“Are ye all right, Jillian?”

Oh how she wished it were Monty’s voice she’d heard.

“Yes, Ivar. I’m fine.” She hoped she would be. “Maybe if we keep talking, it will keep them away.” He probably thought she was talking about rats; but she was referring to new nightmares—ones about leaving a certain Scottish laird in the past.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

By naming his youngest and smallest son Cinead, no doubt the “Cock of the North,” Laird of the Mighty Gordon Clan, hoped most Scots would see something in his runt resembling the First Scottish King, Cinead Mac Alpin, or at the very least, something noble. But not even the Gordons could summon up such a vision.

Standing just tall enough to suckle at the breast of a typical Scottish lass, The Runt looked like a child as he stomped and paced before The Ross’s Castle steps, waiting for his beautiful but weepy bride to be brought to him.

Monty, looking down upon the miniature man, wondered how he’d ever forced his sister into such a marriage. Perhaps he’d not been thinking clearly a year ago. Perhaps he’d not been
seeing
clearly, or perhaps it was just the height of his steps that made the man seem so much smaller than before.
 

He descended slowly, hoping against hope that Cinead would grow before his eyes. But if anything, the man looked to be even smaller. And with his wee tantrum barely contained, Monty had the urge to take this child over his knee and correct his character.

“Where is she?” the mite demanded.

Monty could not trust himself to speak. He just turned to Ewan, who still stood at the top of the steps, and gestured for his cousin to fetch Morna, who pouted just inside the door. She wouldn’t come out for her brother, but she wouldn’t harry Ewan.

Just as predicted, she came willingly enough and carefully descended the narrow steps. Ignoring both Montgomery and her husband, she walked, head held high, to the riderless horse beside Cinead’s and waited for Ewan to lift her onto the saddle. When he handed her the reins, she turned her mount and urged it majestically through the portcullis as if she were unaware of anyone else being out of doors that day.

Ewan’s smile did not falter as he gestured to the little Gordon prince his offer for a leg up, but the latter ignored him, climbing up a clever series of stirrups and onto his enormous horse’s back. As Cinead rode away, Monty noticed the smug smile on his face and realized, as her husband must have, that Morna was no longer weeping.

Good Lord. Even though he knew full well what the trio had planned the night before, The Runt may have a hand in things after all. Three days, and three nights, was a very long time indeed.

#  #  #

Jilly stood next to Ivar in front of the laird’s chair where Ewan had deposited them. Monty stared at Ivar; Jilly stared at a scratch in the wood near Monty’s booted feet. Looking at his actual boot would be far too painful.

When the silence continued, she finally raised her gaze to Monty’s face. He was still staring at his former friend, assessing the man like he was conducting a silent interview. Ivar stared back as they both waited for the verdict.

Surely none of them would get a death sentence. Surely.

But when the confidence in that thought wavered, Jilly’s knees faltered in their duty and she began to sink to the floor.

“There ye are, Jillybean. Stay with me.” Ivar pulled her up against his side and did not release her even when her knees returned from their coffee break. “The man won’t harm ye. And he willna harm me, either.”

She wasn’t so sure. Monty looked murderous at the moment. Apparently he didn’t care for anything close to swooning from her. She would have to toughen up.

“What did ye call her?” The monster’s voice was deceptively smooth.

The stupid MacKay man smiled for a drawn out moment before answering.

“Jillybean. ‘Tis what her friends call her betimes. Where she comes from, there is a sweet food called jelly beans. I suppose it means she’s a sweet lass...”

“Get yer hands off her, Ivar.”

He hadn’t called him MacKay. He hadn’t called him MacKay!  Was the man softening?

“Ye. Up to my chamber with ye.” He looked at her. “Now.”

No softening there. She dared not disobey him. Not yet.

She laid a hand on Ivar’s arm but they’d said everything before Ewan had taken Morna from the dungeon a little while ago. This was not goodbye, but she had to make Monty believe it was.

“Take care of yourself, Ivar.”

“And ye as well, Jillybean.”

A popping sound came from the vicinity of the laird’s jaw and she hurried out of the room. After making some half-hearted footfalls on the steps, she crept back to eavesdrop, again thanking her grandmother’s foresight in teaching her Gaelic.

Monty laughed. “Dinna be daft.”

Laughing was good. Well, usually, unless it sounded like it was coming through nearly-clenched teeth...like that.

“Of course I haven’t changed my mind,” the laird continued. “I was just waiting a bit for The Ru...Cinead Gordon to get over the ridge before I have ye escorted to the MacKay side of The Burn.”

Now Ivar laughed.

“’Tis good to know ye also call him The Runt. I was worried ye had lost yer sight as well as yer mind last year.”

Come on, Ivar. Don’t make things worse by pissing him off.

“Mmmm. I wonder...”

Montgomery’s teasing tone and unsteady moods reminded her of Mufasa on the Lion King. She hoped Ivar recognized the danger crouching on the Ross chair before him.

“I wonder if maybe we should now call him
The Rut
if the look on his face meant what I believe it meant.”
 

“What say ye?” Ivar hissed.

Fine, two lions then. There would be blood soon, she was sure of it. But if she tried to get between them, the blood would be hers.

Jilly’s chest heaved. Ivar’s cool confidence in their plan was her bastion of hope. His upset set off her own. What could have happened to shake him?  He’d always seemed so composed, even in the face of an angry Montgomery. What she wouldn’t give to have been watching from the window when Morna’s husband came for her.

“Morna left happily enough, is what I say.”

Ross was enunciating every word, moving in for the kill while sitting perfectly still. Or so Jilly imagined; she dared not watch but pushed her back flush against the wall behind her.

“I can only imagine what the pair of ye did through the night—with poor Jillian only paces away—but Morna was fair transformed. And
The Rut
noticed it as well.”
 

The crash resounding in the hall made it impossible for Jilly to keep from taking a quick peek. She glimpsed the laird’s chair on its back with its laird still seated in it like a skybound ride at an amusement park. Montgomery even chuckled with glee in spite of the fact he rubbed his jaw while Ivar stood nearby rubbing the knuckles on his right hand.