The Curse of Clan Ross (30 page)

He carried her to the bed.

The sound of her breathing was a reminder that he must not smother her, otherwise he would have pulled her completely into his chest until she was trapped inside his own ribs, his arms wrapped about himself, never to let her go.

Flesh matched flesh and they melded into one body, one soul. Their hearts touched, then buried themselves into one another. Surely they would die from the perfection. Surely the world could not contain the love of Laird Montgomery Ross and his bride.

He showed her a heaven that would cease to be without her and together they brought a drop of it home to pulse through their veins for the rest of their days. When their souls shattered into fragments around them, there was no longer a way to identify and separate them. They would both need be content to share. It was possible, if they held tight until morning, someone would find a single body tangled and lifeless in the sheets that vaguely resembled them both.

He was loath for the night to end, to let it cross the line and become a memory.

The shame was this memory could not include long kisses or looking into each other’s eyes. Such indulgences were sharp as new blades in clumsy hands. Neither could survive them. None of their kisses would ever be repeated, practiced, or perfected, and they were far too poignant to be borne.

After all sense of time had fled, Monty lovingly dressed his wife in the near darkness. While he dressed himself, she looked on like a lost puppy and he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to hear her whimper.

He couldn’t help himself; he kissed her again, hoping against hope that it would be easier now, but it was not. Every kiss said fare thee well, and with but one tender press of his lips he pushed them both back to tears.

Jillian, his Jillian, cried in his embrace while a heavy-hearted moon mourned across the sky, pulling time behind it with leaden, but steady steps, until the sobbing subsided.

He suspected Jilly had not noticed the tremors that wracked his body in unison with hers. If they could barely survive coupling, how would they ever survive parting?

He lied down upon the bed once more, pulling her back against him, wrapping his arms securely around her to wait for the coming of the dawn. But like a bucket of cold water, the truth jolted him. And he realized he truly would survive the morrow, knowing now what he must do.

When he was sure she slumbered, he tucked a plaid under her chin. “I’m sorry wife,” he whispered, “but an army could not take ye from me now.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Slipping out of her husband’s arms was the most painful experience Jillian could ever imagine living through, not that she cared to live through it.

She’d heard him the night before, when he mistakenly thought she’d fallen asleep. How could he think she would snooze away the few hours she’d have in his arms?  And how could he expect her to react any way other than cutting and running before she had a fight on her hands?

Did he not think it was hard enough to leave him behind?

Her leather jacket was half-buried beneath his shoulder and leaving it was just as essential as leaving the man lying on it.

The day before, after Ivar and Montgomery had decided Luthias was far too dangerous to allow to live—let alone turn loose to go looking for Isobelle—Monty had executed the man before Jillian realized they were serious. Mercifully, they’d thought to block her view.

And God bless movie violence that made it possible for her to pretend the man would miraculously recover. She told herself it wouldn’t be long before she’d see him playing a similar role in the next medieval epic, in a theater near her.

The king’s justice, they’d called it. As the head of Clan Ross, it had been within Monty’s right to sentence the man for the crimes he’d committed, and with a MacKay there as witness, it had apparently been legal.

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

“Not only had Luthias fought at our backs for many a long day, I now ken all too well what drove him to it.” Monty had looked over at Jillian when he’d said it.

She’d wanted to crawl under a rock and crow at the same time. To discover she held such power over the brawny man was heady indeed. And the warmth in his look told her just what kind of power he’d like to hold over her.

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

“And if Jillian would have been in that cottage…”  Monty ran one wide hand over his eyes, then down his cheeks to grasp his chin. “I’d have killed him far slower than he planned to kill me.”

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

Ivar then told the MacKays he’d been trying to find Montgomery’s would-be assassin for weeks, 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 Ivar and Montgomery had put out of their misery, and since they were accused of aiding Luthias, 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 paces away, Jilly’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’ wombs and need to be dragged out by their heels.

Jillian would rather believe the woman was so worried about witches because she was regularly called down to the local kirk to be put in a witch line-up.

The dead men were buried in no time and when Monty came to help Jilly from her hiding place, her thighs were so weak from crouching, 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.

She couldn’t help but moan when the stiffness melted faster than Frosty in a hot house, but the sound must have frightened him because his hands froze.

“Don’t stop. Please,” she asked as nicely as she could. After being tied up, tied to a tree, dragged into the cottage and nearly tied to a soon-to-be-burning bed, she was dying to feel something other than ropes. And Monty’s warm strong hands made her forget the burning sores on her wrists and ankles.

But then she realized his thumbs were between her thighs and the rest of his hands were wrapped around her legs only about four inches or so from her backside. And the worst part was that fifteenth century people weren’t familiar with professional body massage and for her to beg him not to stop probably made her an instant floozie.

She rolled over and away from his grasp, but before she could retract her earlier plea, he fell on top of her, having lost his balance when she rolled. At least that is what she blamed it on. “It” being a face plant into her stomach.

When he finally got his hands under him and pushed himself high enough to hover over her, neither of them had a word to say.

Then she saw it. That tiny sparkle in the corner of his eye that preceded his laughter.

And laugh they did. They laughed until they cried. He’d sit up and take a deep breath, only to be sucked back under the waves of hysteria that engulfed them both. It was a mix of silliness, surrendering to the inevitable, and relief they were both alive. By the time Ivar stomped over to find out what could be so funny, they were exhausted, Monty on his back with Jilly’s head on his belly.

“If the pair of ye are finished with ye’re ticklin’, then, we’d best head back before Ewan finds battle gear for the whole of Clan Ross.”

Jilly would have liked to walk her horse and drag her feet, if it weren’t for Ivar being hell-bent for leather. Monty had worried aloud that the Gordon s might be coming along any moment to tell him of his sister’s death, and he hoped Morna didn’t open the door to them before she thought better of it.

With that worry Ivar hadn’t even needed a horse, he looked that capable of flying to Castle Ross without one.

Obviously feeling guilty for scaring his friend, Montgomery had suggested that Ivar and Morna could marry and remain in Scotland if something unfortunate were to happen to the Gordon Runt. And on the heels of watching him slay Luthias, it took no effort for Jilly to believe he’d do it.

If I don’t take Morna and Ivar away, Montgomery will sell his own soul trying to make amends.

It would have been so easy to look the other way while the man she loved removed the reason for leaving him, but the cost was one man’s life and another man’s soul. How could she let that happen?  How could she live happily ever after in a charming old castle with her own personal Romeo if she were busy trying to wash the blood from her hands?

“Out, out damned spot,” was not written about a woman with OCD, after all.

And so Jilly found herself with no option that morning but to sneak into Morna’s bedchamber unannounced. She turned her head to the side, just in case, but found them both dressed. Ivar was seated on a chair with Morna sitting across his lap tucking his hair behind his ear. The look they exchanged was so close to the one Montgomery had given her when they’d reached his bedchamber, Jilly had to steel her heart against those memories.

For now.

She’d relive every moment after she was home again. Funny, how the word “home” stirred the fragrances of heather, peat moss, and cold stones through her mind. She’d never be home again.

“I hate to interrupt,” Jilly whispered, “but I’m worried Montgomery’s changed his mind about letting us leave. We need to try before he’s awake. You see, I don’t think I can go through with it if he tries to stop us.”

Why weren’t they moving?  Didn’t they understand?

“Jillian Ross, why are ye doing this for us when it is plain ye wish to stay?” Ivar stroked Morna’s arm with his thumb, showing her his happiness had little to do with Jilly’s decision. “We’ll not be parted now, sin or no.”

Jillian Ross. That’s who she was now. If she stayed... She shook her head.

“If we stay, Montgomery will find a way to kill Morna’s husband, to make the way easier for you. He wants to make things up to you and he’d lose his soul to do it.” She felt that steel begin to warm and start to give, but she threw some cold water on it. “And besides, there are a couple of old ladies who just might be accused of my murder if I don’t show up again. I wouldn’t wish those two on other inmates.”

“I dinna understand—” Ivar started to say.

“The Muir sisters. Lorraine and Loretta, if I remember rightly.”

Jilly spun to find the fifteenth century version of the sisters having sneaked in behind her. Thankfully, they’d appreciated the need for stealth.

“We’d best move this discussion to the tunnels, do ye not suppose?” asked either Margot or Mhairi.

An hour and some pulled muscles later, the hole beneath the tomb was once again open. Montgomery, and likely Ewan, had gone to a bit of trouble to discourage anyone from trying to reach it. But with the five of them, they’d been able to make a path in short time with little noise. Thank goodness these Muirs were as wiry as their descendants.

Standing next the barrel they left as a stepping stool, Jilly went over what she knew.

“I had some time to go over what happened before, and I’m pretty sure anything attached to me would have come with me. My clothes came through time, so I’m hoping if the two of you hang on to me really tight, we can go through together.”

All heads nodded in agreement.

“Also, I think I came through as soon as I put on the torque, right when I laid it on my neck.”

“No.” The Muirs were smiling and shaking their heads. What a surprise. “It has naught to do with the necklace, dearie,” one chided.

“She’s right,” said the other. “Isobelle wanted to be sure the torque stayed in the tomb, so we enchanted it; it couldn’t leave. The power to remain is the only power it has.”

Jillian stood still for a moment, waiting for her brain to catch up; it was obviously still upstairs and it took a long minute to make the journey down all those steps.

“If the necklace wasn’t what brought me here, then how the bloody hell did I get here?”

Jilly’s voice had risen with every word, but she couldn’t help it. She needed to do one noble thing here—leave—so she could live with a clear conscience, and they weren’t telling her that the flight was cancelled, they were saying planes could never fly.

“Settle ye down, dearie.” The one to cut the crap had to have been Mhairi. “Ye will still get where ye are going.”

Oh great. Airplanes don’t really fly, but apparently the buses do.

She could hear her grandma’s sarcastic voice asking, “Just how much is this free weekend going to cost me?”

“Ye’ll get there the same way ye came. It’s the tomb, ye know. And it wasn’t Muirs that wrought it. It was Laird Ross himself.”

“Oh, we had a wee hand, sister. Dinna forget the prophecy. Not worth more than a pile of stones without the prophecy.”

“There is no time for this,” Jilly hissed. “Just tell me what to do.”

The sisters looked disappointed. No kidding, they both stuck out their bottom lips.