“What?”
“
Sorry.
Not
you.
I
’
m
the
loser.
I
shouldn
’
t
be
pissed
that
he
’
s
not
here.
I
should
be
worried…worried
about
why
he
’
s
not
here.
”
She smiled. That was a good sign. Either she didn’t know what they’d done to Ray and Burke, or she wasn’t concerned about it. Then again, she could be a cold brainwashed zombie who didn’t care what had happened to them.
“You’re a good friend to have, I think.” She walked around him and called over her shoulder, “I wouldn’t worry about Ray and Burke if I were you. They’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
He tried not to lean into her as her bulky coat brushed his arm. The fact that he was tempted to do so blew him away. It was like there was a rubber band stretched between them and he automatically relaxed when they were close. As she entered the main doors, he could feel the tension, the stretching, and he knew he’d be spending the rest of the day thinking of a way to stand near her again.
Then her parting words replayed in his head.
He’d never said anything about Burke!
If
you
’
d
like
to
read
more,
go
to
my
website
at
www.llmuir.weebly.com
.
See
the
Young
Adult
section
for
details.
GOING BACK FOR ROMEO
PROLOGUE
Castle Ross, East Burnshire, Scotland 1494
Odd.
The stone closest to Laird Montgomery Ross’s foot looked to be the same shape as the hole remaining in the side of his sister’s tomb, but he refused to reach for it.
“Nay. I’m not ready to be finished.” Monty whispered his complaint to God, for surely it was God’s hand that wrought such an appropriately shaped thing.
Behind him, one of the priests cleared his throat. Monty knew without looking it had been the fat one who could not cease rubbing his hands together, even while Monty’s sister was led inside her would-be grave. The bastard had been rubbing them for a fair two days, since he’d arrived to try Isobelle as a witch. No doubt they were itchy for the feel of a woman’s neck since Monty had cheated them out of wringing his sister’s.
He could let the priest live, or he could be silent, but Monty could not manage both.
“If you canna seem to clean those hands, Father,” he said without turning away from his morbid creation, “I’d be happy to rid you of them before I finish my task here. I’m sure my sister wouldna mind the wait.”
A gasp of outrage was followed by silence, although the Great Hall was filled to the corners with his clan. Those who could not find space inside would soon enough hear of each stone lovingly placed as their laird buried his sister alive within their very hall, upon the stone dais, behind the great Ross Chair. Hopefully they would remember Isobelle’s bravery and not how oft his tears mingled with the mortar.
None breathed, none dared rub their hands. How could he possibly continue? How could he not?
“Nay, I wouldna mind a bit, if you’re quick about it, brother mine.” Isobelle’s voice echoed eerily from the tomb and she smirked at him from within the tiny patch of light the same shape as the odd stone. “In fact, toss the bloody things in here with me and I’ll leave them at the gates of hell. Himself can collect them when he arrives.”
Her unholy laughter no doubt had even the dogs wishing they could cross themselves, but it was music to Monty’s ears. The Kirk’s men allowed her no blanket, but she’d have the image of revenge to keep her warm.
“Isobelle!” Morna screamed. Monty’s other sister stood off to his right, restrained by her puny Gordon husband. “’Tis all my fault. Forgive me.”
Isobelle’s sober face came forward to fill the hole as she searched for Morna, giving Monty one last glimpse of red hair.
“Morna, love. Dinna greet. The faery will come to make it all right again. Watch for the faery…and keep away from your husband!”
“Silence!” the robed bastard roared.
Isobelle laughed again, backing away from the hole. After all, what could the man do to her now?
Monty would not ruin her00 trust in the blasted faery, but if the creature ever placed its magic toe on Ross land, it would be dead before it ever took a breath of heathered air.
‘
Twas time
.
He looked at the stone.
‘Twas meant.
“I love you, sister mine.” His words were quiet, for Isobelle alone.
“And I you, Monty. Blow us a kiss.”
When he raised his crusted fingers to his lips, his palm filled with tears but they washed none of the nightmare away. He blew a kiss that was instantly returned.
“I’m stayin’ right here, pet. Ye’re no’ alone.”
“Get on, then.” The whimper in her voice was slight. “I’ll have a wee nap if ye’ll but douse the light.”
With a final wink she disappeared.
Monty reached for the stone, dipped its edges in muck, and pushed it home, breaking his heart in the doing. After long moments of stillness, his hands slowly opened and dropped away.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Morna swoon, but someone else would have to catch her—someone without mud or blood on his hands. Morna wouldn’t welcome his comfort anyhow. She claimed it was her fault, but he knew both sisters blamed him.
If he’d have known the outcome, would he have acted differently? What kind of bastard would not?
There was no stopping the twisting of his face, the sob from his chest. He turned his head to the side and bellowed, “Out!”
Nearly everyone fled or slithered from the hall, all but The Kirk’s henchmen who would stay until they believed his sister dead. Only then did he hear the muffled sobs of Isobelle. She sounded as if she were deep in the ground.
His heart shuddered with cold. Dear God, what had he been thinking? His plan was madness; she would never last. Not enough time. He had to get her out!
He reached for the odd stone…and was struck soundly from behind.
CHAPTER ONE
Castle Ross, Present Day
This wasn’t the first time Jillian MacKay had felt a holy-crap-moment coming on. She wouldn’t worry about it now, except for two things. First, her premonitions of holy-crap-moments were never wrong. And second, she was only minutes away from testing The Curse of the Ross Clan.
Jilly was alone for the moment, poised to enter the Great Hall of Castle Ross, the right heel of her green boots rocking nervously while she waited for the tour group to catch up to her. No sirens sounded. No trumpets announced that a simple girl from Wyoming was about to do anything noteworthy, even though, for the first time in her life, she thought she may actually
be
about to do something noteworthy.
She took a deep breath. Then another. Then tentatively stepped into the dimly lit Hall, turned to her left, and froze.
Holy, holy crap.
Silence stirred from its dreamy corner and rose to fill the Hall, pushing into every nook and cranny. There was no echo of her steps on the wood floor, no muffled voices of the tour group nearing the massive outer door—as if this moment was so pure, so important, that sound could not be allowed to sully it.
And all she’d done was look at his face.
The stone Highlander before her was as broad in the shoulder as a football player in full pads. His
triceps must have been formed with soft wet clay smoothed and stroked with passionate hands, not chiseled from stone as she’d been told.
She wondered if it had been responsibility or defending his misdeeds that had layered muscle upon muscle with no thought for the tailor who must cover those arms. But c
onsidering the stories the Muir sisters told, Jilly’d bet the latter was true.
Montgomery Ross had earned his way into the Historical Arse section of the Scottish Hall of Fame.
Handsome Historical Arse, she amended, and couldn’t help gaping at him like a stupid fish. Good thing she was alone.
His wild hair draped and waved behind his shoulders. Small braids at his temples kept it from his eyes. And those eyes, while hard as stone, were softened by laugh lines. One corner of his mouth quirked a bit higher than the other side and Jilly would have given anything to have heard the man’s voice, or a snippet of his laugh.
If such a sound still bounced around the chamber, somehow, her ears couldn’t catch it. And her ears were not the only parts of her straining—her hands ached to slide up that chest and around his neck, but a voice in her head warned her to resume breathing and run away. If she ignored it, would she turn to stone as well? Was the Hall so silent, not because she didn’t move, but because she couldn’t? Then again, would it be so bad to stand here next to
him
for a couple hundred years?
Ho. Ly. Crap.
She touched her own chin. Still dry, still soft and fleshy. And so she continued her inventory, somehow feeling she might be tested on the details someday.
Wide cloth draped over his bare shoulder, slanted over his heart, and wrapped around his hips and bulging thighs. Jilly had to ignore his navel outright, even though he certainly couldn’t complain about her peeking wherever she pleased. Of course she wouldn’t; she should get points for that.
Large fists rested on his hips along with a belt for his sporran. Another strap crossed his chest under the material and no doubt held his sword to his back; its hilt peaked over his shoulder. Ties crisscrossed his calves over thick-looking socks that must not be trusted to stay up on their own. The too-perfect package ended with square-toed boots.
Jillian whistled. “The Muir sisters didn’t do you justice, laddie.”
Immediately behind him, a rough block of stone held him prisoner, as if the castle itself were trying to absorb him, sucking at the backs of his legs, his kilt and boots, demanding he return to the depths of the rock from which he’d sprung.
Jillian had never believed in ghosts, but she couldn’t argue with the feel of a tangible presence in the room with her. She jerked around to look behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck jumped up to scream in protest, only to still once more when she turned again to face him.
She grinned.
He must not want her to look away.
“Hello, Montgomery,” she murmured, then paused, insanely wishing he would return the greeting.
He smirked on.
Bright lights flickered on in the high raftered ceiling, illuminating the Great Hall and beckoning the tour group, and their voices, to flood the huge space. The silent spell shattered. The Highlander was no longer shrouded in shadows; his face was lighter, his amusement more pronounced. His kilt was still frozen mid-flutter, but Jillian could discern the slightest hint of lines in the cloth that had looked smooth when dimmer light streamed through the narrow windows. The sculptor had at least bestowed a hint of plaid to a man who’d probably lived or died by the pattern in his clothes.
“I see you’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. “You’ll learn more on him in a moment. I’m happy to see we’ve found you 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 you 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.