The Curse of Clan Ross (7 page)

A bit more frantic, a bit less cool, she found the necklace and pulled it back on.

Something happened the first time I put it on; whatever happens now can’t be any worse.

Then, picturing thick blue veins on a frail left hand and enunciating clearly, Jilly screamed the name, “Lorraine!”

CHAPTER SIX

Castle Ross, 1495

Montgomery Constantine Ross stood upon the dais of the Great Hall and gritted his teeth in what he hoped resembled a smile. It was his wedding day, for pity sake, the day his clan would finally stop hounding him to take a wife. In the future, they would only be hounding him for offspring.

Or so he had hoped.

Insisting his wedding be held in his hall, to chase a sad memory away with a happier one, had been truly clever on his part. Hanging festoons of flowers around the tomb was the daft idea of Sorcha, his mistress, and he was beginning to wonder if she were harboring a bitter thought or two when she’d suggested it. Once the boughs were hung and his wedding altar turned into a shrine to his supposedly dead sister, it had been too late to relocate the cursed things.

Father McRae blethered on in Latin, standing bravely with his back to the tomb, which the Gordons eyed nervously as if the structure might well conceal the only portal to Purgatory.

Which, in a way, it did. Life for Montgomery had certainly been Hell just before the dark stones had been gathered for it.

His Gordon bride stood to his left. He’d not been instructed to take her hand yet, and he feared he’d have to do a bit of stretching to reach it if she continued to edge away from him as she was doing. She was a comely thing. Not fragile, thanks to God. And other than an odd whimper when she’d been pushed up next to him, she’d not made a sound.

Quiet. An un-Gordonly quality to be sure. Perhaps in time he’d be able to forget from whence she’d sprung. In a very wee while, she’d be a Ross, by damn. With any luck, by the morrow she’d be on her way to bearing his first son.

Further off to the left stood his sister, Morna. No doubt her wee husband stood beside her, but he was likely lost in the folds of her skirts.

Monty had hoped Morna would have forgotten the events that put her in the arms of The Runt, but since she’d arrived the day before, she’d looked her brother in the eye only once. Today her attention was not upon the ceremony, but upon their sister’s tomb. Unfortunately, her memory was proving to be as good as his own.

After today, however, with or without his sister’s approval, he would take a grand step away from the past. If Morna couldn’t make the best of her life, that would not stop Monty from making the best of his. Even his clan had ceased to see him as a monster, and he’d give them no reason to resurrect the notion.

That was, unless he had to kill someone.

With the sounds coming from the tomb behind Father MacRae, Monty prayed whomever was playing this cruel jest would fall and break his neck on his own. He had heard a muffled voice cry, “Away,” but the holy man had shown no signs of hearing it, and Montgomery did not dare look sideways at his Gordon bride to see if she’d done so.

He’d been rather clever in choosing a Gordon to wife. Since all of the furor Isobelle’s witchery had caused, he’d needed to cool tempers in order to keep that alliance strong. Morna was driving the Gordons to distraction mourning the loss of both her true love, and her sister. This new marriage would draw attention away from her, for a wee while at least. And hopefully, when the Gordons took notice of Morna once more, she’d have weathered the worst.

Montgomery had wrestled with himself over telling Morna that Isobelle was alive and well, but with the current sentiment toward witches in Scotland, he had to let the farce continue, even if Morna suffered for it. Witches did not suffer, he reasoned, therefore Morna proved her innocence with her misery.

Better a living, unhappy sister, than a dead one.
One could say it was the new battle-cry of Clan Ross.
 

Equally unhappy was the Gordon miss. Etha or Ethel, or some such name, stood next to him in abject misery, inching away from him even now as if he were a leper.

Well, good. She had no business being any happier than he. And a certain air of sacrifice seemed...appropriate for Ross weddings of late. Let a Gordon be the one to sacrifice this time.

Monty reached out, took her arm in a gentle hold, and hauled her up against his side. Eda, or Etha, or whatever her name was, shook beneath his fingers, but she at least stayed put.

God’s blood, what was that scratching?  If Ewan thought it amusing to break into the tomb and play ghostie, he was risking all to do it.

Montgomery turned his frown to his left and saw Ewan standing by Morna, his chin on his chest. His ears and the tip of his nose—the only skin visible in his golden mass of mane and beard—were bright red. He must have heard it, also. When his cousin looked up, Montgomery took one look at the man’s bulging eyes and knew he had no part in the mischief afoot.

Father MacRae faltered when someone pounded on the black stones. He looked around in question, then his gaze settled on Montgomery, who immediately felt as if he were once again a youth sent to confess his sins.

“Away,” cried the muffled voice, definitely from inside the bloody cairn.

He didn’t need to look to know what was happening behind him, and in the wake of his fleeing and surprisingly fleet-footed bride, Monty vowed that whoever had broken his way into that tomb would be sealed inside with the rest of its secrets.

Montgomery took a deep breath and turned in time to see Morna collapse. Gratefully Ewan was there to ease her to the ground.

“It seems, Laird Ross, that Isobelle’s ghost is none too keen on ye taking a Gordon to wife,” said the priest, the long hairs protruding from his nose waving as he huffed in amusement.

The look in the old man’s eye raised the suspicion that the priest knew full well what had happened to Isobelle.

“Send for me if ye ever get a woman willing to fight a spirit for yer hand, son.” The insolent man made him a jaunty bow then walked leisurely out of the emptied hall.

MacRae had the gall to laugh aloud before he was out of hearing. A holy man may not fear ghosts, but he should at the very least feel in jeopardy of a good kick in the arse. Montgomery had little enough love for The Kirk and only a grudging respect for the priest he’d known his life through, but he was the one to see to this auld mon’s bread and the protection of his backside. A wee bit of respect was all he expected, aye?

Intending to remind the clergyman of just that, Montgomery started to follow.

“Monty. Laird. Where do ye go?” called Ewan.

“Get everyone out of the keep, Ewan. None will set foot back inside for a fortnight. Perhaps in the quiet, Isobelle’s ghost will move on.”

Montgomery exited the hall in time to see the Gordons ride off after Emma, or whomever, and realized they intended to leave Morna behind. With her beauty, the Gordon Runt would be back for her in a day or two, but Montgomery couldn’t begrudge the man taking a quiet breath while he could.

Morna had just suffered yet another shock. Perhaps it was her due, to finally be told of Isobelle’s escape, but he did not look forward to his youngest sister’s reaction. In fact, he might just wait and tell her a moment or two before she would ride off with her wee husband.

First, he would seal up the floor well and goodly so Isobelle’s secret would not be shared any further. It was time to move the clan to less pungent quarters at any rate. The soon-to-be ghost could wail in peace until the weather cooled, and hopefully the tomb would contain the smell of the body. Execution was the least the man should pay for wreaking havoc on Montgomery’s hard-won Gordon alliance, let alone costing him a fine-looking bedmate.

Alone. Still
.
 

Would it take another year for the superstition to settle?  Could he wait another year to have a wife and children to fill his home with noise once more?  Or was it only his sisters’ noise he missed?  

Poor Sorcha. She so wanted to marry him, mean man that he was. But a laird needed wee lads, and that required a young and fertile lass, not an older widow with no children to show for her marriage. And although the woman tried, she eased only his body, not his loneliness. Not his soul.

How he would ever convince a lass to be Lady of a haunted castle, only God knew. The Gordons were not yet out of sight, but word had likely reached England by now of Isobelle’s supposed attendance at his wedding, and even if his home were not truly haunted, it would be soon enough.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Wake up. Wake up, wake up,” Jilly chanted into the black air around her. It would be simple enough to pinch herself, but she honestly dreaded finding proof that she was indeed entombed.

She also chose to believe the worst of the Muir sisters. And Laird Ross, or whoever he really was. For all she knew, the entire town was in on this little charade. Maybe there was a curse of some kind and they had needed a virginal sacrifice. A wonderful way to snag one would be to station two of their conspirators in the United States where they could find some orphan whom no one would miss.

Yes. The sisters had completely set her up. The entire night—the break in, the confrontation, even the moment when the sisters told her not to try on the necklace after all—it was all just part of the routine.

Remembering the way Quinn had looked at her in front of the statue, she could easily imagine he was assessing her worthiness of the sacrifice. The way he’d accidentally let Isobelle’s secret slip?  Oh, brother!

That was it. The perfect explanation. And convenient too. She would much rather believe her survival centered on whether or not the “Stepford Twins” would come to their senses and let her out—or some James Bond would come to her rescue—than to believe the reason there was no flashlight, no dust, and no hole in the ground was because she had traveled through some black hole in time. She hadn’t had good enough grades in Science to examine that possibility, let alone find a solution.

If she’d traveled to another time, no one would know she was inside, so no one would be racing to get her out, as they had for Isobelle Ross. She would suffocate, or worse, starve and die from dehydration.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up.”

Through her feet, Jilly felt vibrations.

“Thank God.” She knelt on the floor, pounding and screaming, “I’m here. Please. Get me out of here.”

The pounding stopped on the other side.

Maybe they’d left to get the authorities.

Maybe they thought she was Isobelle’s ghost.

Maybe they were making sure she couldn’t get out.

She pounded until her hands felt they would explode like water balloons. She hollered until her ears hurt. Her voice was hoarse and scratchy from what little dust she had loosened from the walls, so she listened until her own breathing was the only proof she hadn’t gone deaf.

Rest. She needed rest. It was at least midnight and she was in shock. If she wanted to wake up from this nightmare, then she would need to sleep first.

It made as much sense as anything else.

She laid her cheek on the cool rock floor, chanting “Sleep, sleep, sleep,” while her tears dripped off the bridge of her nose onto the all-too-clean floor.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Monty stood on the steps shading his eyes from the bright morning sun, watching the procession of wedding guests excitedly departing through his gates, no doubt intent on hurrying home to spread the fantastical story of dead Isobelle Ross chasing the mighty Gordons from her unhallowed home.

It was something fiery Isobelle would have done in life, as well.

He missed his wild sister so dearly, perhaps he should send for her. Isobelle could roam the halls and battlements of her keep now and all would assume she was but a ghost. It had been a good year since her supposed death, nearly to the day, so it was only right she would begin her moaning again on such an auspicious occasion. ‘Twas always Isobelle’s way, to mark such coincidences.

There would be no one willing to work inside, more’s the pity. And with just his sister and himself within the walls, he’d likely go mad and seal her up in the tomb after all.

Nay. She was much safer where she was.

“Ye’ll not believe this, Monty,” said Ewan as he squeezed out through the massive door. The man used his given name far too often, but Monty would never chide him for it. With his sisters gone there were few who remembered Montgomery Ross was more than just the laird of the clan.

“What is it?  Did ye end with killing him?”

“Nay.”

Ewan was never one to dilly-dally. Perhaps his friend had no stomach for executions this day.

“Where is he, then?  I vowed the mon would be sealed inside Isobelle’s tomb and I’ll see it done myself if needs be.”

Ewan rubbed the back of his neck, his face lined with a fierce frown.

“That’s just it, ye ken?  He is in the tomb.”

“Dead?”

“No. No, he’s alive. I heard him cry for help.”

Ewan was going soft, then.

“But ye packed the stones so he canna get out, as I ordered ye to do?”

“Nay.”

Ewan’s head would roll from his shoulders if he did not cease sawing on his neck the way he was. Montgomery was too confused to be angry. Yet.

“So, ye let him out?”

“Nay. I’m sorry, Monty. I don’t ken how he got in there, but...”

“But?”

Ewan looked around, then leaned toward him. “But the floor is sealed as tight as it was after we took Isobelle out,” he whispered. “I doona ken how he got inside.”

“God’s blood,” Montgomery cursed as he flung the door open and started inside. “If he’s made a hole in the side, he’ll be gettin’ away.”

“But Monty—”

“Why did ye not check the walls, mon?”

Ewan sputtered after him through the hall. By the time Monty reached the tomb, he had a torch held high. He rushed to the tight space between it and the back of the hall.

“I tell ye I have, Monty. I looked. The tomb is sound.”

Montgomery had to see for himself. After searching every stone three times, and going to the tunnels below to check the floor, he gave up. There was no possible way anyone was inside.